city blues 02 - angel city blues (20 page)

I closed my door, and Officer Warren climbed into the front.

We pulled away from the curb and headed west, toward Dome 2. Assuming that Warren and her partner were not a secret hit-squad playing dress-up, I figured I was relatively safe from the Nine-fingers gang for the next few minutes.

I settled back into the industrial-strength vinyl upholstery, and enjoyed the ride.

The address turned out to be small coffee shop on Roscomare Road, in Bel Air. Warren called in our location as we were pulling into the parking lot. A few seconds later, she received instructions to wait.

She punched a button on the dash, and my door unlocked itself and powered open. I climbed out and lit a cigarette, mildly happy that I hadn’t been forced to ask the cops to release me. Apparently, Warren and her unnamed partner really were just providing a police taxi service.

Warren’s window slid down. “Zeto and I have a bet,” she said. “He thinks you’re about to meet our brave and fearless commissioner. I’ve got fifty marks says it’s some high-level ass hat from the mayor’s office.”

“But not the
mayor
,” said the other cop, who was presumably Zeto. “Just somebody from his office.”

“Screw
that
,” said Warren. “The mayor counts. He
definitely
qualifies as a high-level ass hat. And—last I checked—he works in the mayor’s office.”

“That’s bullshit!” Officer Zeto grumbled. “I get
one
guy, and you get every brown-noser in the mayor’s office,
including
the mayor? How is that fair?”

Warren gave her partner a malicious grin. “Not my problem. I picked my side of the bet, and you picked yours. Didn’t your mama teach you not to gamble with somebody who’s smarter than you are?”

“Yeah, well she also taught me not to trust weasel-assed cops who try to cheat their partners.”

Warren was about to fire a counter-broadside when two cones of light swept across the patrol car and centered on the doors of the closed coffee shop. A limousine was pulling into the parking lot. A Dornier hover-model, long and silvery-gray in color. The side stream from its blowers tugged and snapped at the fabric of my lower pant legs.

“Looks like we both lose,” Warren said. “I don’t think that’s the mayor’s office
or
the commissioner.”

The limo slid to a halt about ten meters away, and settled onto its apron. It sat there, doors and windows closed, and I knew instantly what I was supposed to do next. I had been summoned by some unnamed member of the wealthy elite, and I was now expected to trot over to the big shiny car, and present myself to the Great and Powerful Oz.

Screw that. I hadn’t asked for this meeting, and I didn’t particularly care who was behind the dark-tinted windows of the limo. I took a leisurely hit off the Marlboro and exhaled slowly.

Warren slipped me a discrete smile, low wattage, but definitely there. She clearly understood that I wasn’t following the script, and the idea seemed to amuse her.

I gave her a raised eyebrow. “How long do you think Mr. Big will wait before he sends a flunky over to fetch me?”

“I give it about ten more seconds,” she said.

Her guess wasn’t far off. About eight seconds later, the left rear door of the limo powered itself quietly open. A blandly-handsome man in a business suit climbed out and made his way over, straightening his necktie and shirt cuffs as he walked. He had the sort of clean and ineffectual air about him that you usually find in mid-level functionaries who overestimate their own importance.

His glare was probably calculated to put me in my place. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

I took another drag off my cigarette and shook my head. “Not as far as I know.”

He waited for me to say something else.

I didn’t.

His expression wavered between condescension and exasperation. “Well…”

“Well
what
?”

“The senator is
waiting
…”

I finished the Marlboro and ground out the butt with the toe of my shoe. “Waiting for
what
?”

“For
you
,” the flunky said.

I glanced toward the limousine. “Do we have an appointment? I don’t remember any senators on my calendar.”

“He’s your employer,” the flunky said. “Senator Elden Forsyth. He pays your salary, in case you weren’t aware. And you’re keeping him
waiting
...”

“I don’t work for Senator Forsyth,” I said. “I work for his wife. And unless the financial columns have got their numbers twisted, Ms. Forsyth’s personal fortune is considerably larger than the senator’s. So I’m pretty sure that
she
pays my salary.”

The flunky looked at his watch, the limousine, his watch again, and then back to me. He was clearly accustomed to playing by the unspoken rules of power and intimidation. I was refusing to go along with the game, and he had no idea how to proceed.

He opened his mouth; closed it, and then tried again. “I… That is… Senator Forsyth would like to talk with you, Mr. Stalin. If you’re available…”

“Sure,” I said. “I can spare a few minutes.”

I closed the back door of the patrol car, and nodded toward Officer Warren. “Thanks for the lift.”

“All part of that serve-and-protect thing,” she said. “Do you want us to wait around and give you a ride back into town?”

“I’ll call a taxi,” I said.

“We’ll see that Mr. Stalin gets wherever he wants to go,” the flunky said.

“I’ll call a taxi,” I said again.

The flunky bristled at this, but didn’t say anything. He began walking toward the limo and I followed.

The patrol car pulled away as the flunky was opening a door for me. I waved at the departing cops, but I couldn’t see if either of them returned the gesture.

I slid onto a silvery couch of tucked leather, facing the back of the limo. The flunky closed the door behind me, walked around, and climbed into the car on the opposite side. He settled onto his end of the couch, touched the control to close the door, and immediately busied himself with the contents of a briefcase.

On the equally-opulent couch across from me, the senator was talking quietly on his phone and pointedly ignoring me.

Cosmetically, he seemed to be a couple of decades older than his wife. Craggy good looks, silver hair within a shade or two of his fine leather upholstery, and a flawlessly-tailored suit in blue-black cashmere.

His hushed phone conversation dragged on for about five minutes, and didn’t show any signs of wrapping up in the near future.

I nearly laughed. The senator was playing the same power games that his flunky had tried on me. The man had just proven that he could use the entire Los Angeles Police Department as his personal courier service, and he had driven up in a car that cost more than my entire neighborhood. But that wasn’t enough to demonstrate his importance. Now, he was showing me how busy and in-demand he was. The subtext was unmistakable. I had been summoned into the presence of royalty, and I would have to wait until the mighty prince stooped to grace me with his attention.

I took out my own phone, ran a quick search for local taxi service. After some fumbling around with the interface, I found the menu to request immediate pickup. I punched in the address of the coffee shop, and authorized a twenty-mark bonus if the cab arrived within fifteen minutes. This spawned a small popup window with the estimated time of arrival. Fourteen minutes, twenty-nine seconds, and counting down.

My immediate dealings complete, I returned the phone to my pocket. The senator was still too busy ruling the world to acknowledge my presence, so I figured it was time to throw a wildcard on the table.

I reached over, thumbed the door control button, and got out of the car. The senator looked up in surprise as I was making my exit.

The flunky’s voice came through the open door. “Mr. Stalin! What are you doing?”

I fished out my Marlboros and lit one. “I agreed to give Senator Bigshot a few minutes of my time. He’s had them. We’re done now.”

“You can’t be serious,” the flunky said.

I walked away from the limo, toward the entrance to the parking lot. There was so much room here. So much open space and greenery. I wondered if old Bel Air had been like this, before the domes.

I enjoyed a long pull from the cigarette and checked my phone. The taxi’s estimated arrival was now thirteen minutes and counting.

I heard the flunky’s scurrying footsteps behind me. “The senator wants to talk to you,” he said breathlessly.

“He had his chance,” I said. “Tell him to call during business hours and make an appointment. I have an opening a week from Thursday. But he should call soon. My calendar stacks up fast.”

The flunky made one more try to regain the power position. “Do you have any
idea
who you’re dealing with?”

“I’m not dealing with anyone,” I said. “If your boss makes an appointment, then maybe I’ll deal with him. Or, maybe not…”

I checked my phone again. “Tell you what… My cab is due to arrive in just over twelve minutes. Your boss has got until then to talk to me.”

The flunky was aghast. “You’re not serious…”

“You just wasted five seconds.”

“Let’s go then,” the flunky said, taking a step toward the limo. “Hurry.”

I took a hit off the Marlboro. “Here,” I said. “And he can take his time. Because I frankly don’t give a damn whether we talk or not.”

With a look of mingled dread and consternation, the flunky scurried away to deliver the bad news to the big man.

I’d have paid a hundred marks to hear the conversation that transpired when he got back to the car. I don’t know what he said to his boss, but it must have worked, because the anointed-one came striding across the parking lot a minute or so later, looking distinctly put out.

“I don’t know what you hoped to accomplish with this little show of machismo,” he said. “But this charade ends
now
. You’re fired, Mr. Stalin. Your services are no longer required, or wanted.”

Instead of responding, I touched the softkey for Vivien’s phone number. She answered on the second ring.

“Good evening, Ms. Forsyth,” I said. “I’m having a nice chat with your husband. He informs me that I’ve been fired.”

I could hear her sigh. “Are you really talking to my husband?”

“Yes, I am. He’s standing about two meters away, giving me the death stare. Would you like to say hi?”

Another sigh on her end. “No. I
don’t
want to talk to him. I assume you’re calling because he’s throwing his weight around.”

“That’s a fair assessment,” I said.

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Elden has been trying to convince me to leave the investigation to the police. He’s afraid that you’ll muddy the waters, and interfere with the work of the professionals.”

“Does that mean I’m fired?”

“Of course not. You work for me, and I’m
not
firing you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s all I need for now.”

Vivien sighed again, and hung up.

I looked at the senator. “Apparently, I’m not fired. But it was nice of you to try.”

I could practically hear his teeth grinding.

I glanced at my phone. “We’ve got about nine minutes. What would you like to talk about?”

He paused and made a visible effort to quell his rising temper. Like his flunky, he wasn’t accustomed to people who refused to play the game by his rules. But unlike the flunky, the senator had the mental fortitude to shift strategies when the situation demanded. He swallowed his frustration and changed his demeanor.

When he spoke again, his voice had lost the haughty tone of authority. He spoke calmly, with tired resignation. “As you’ve just proven, I don’t have the power to fire you, Mr. Stalin. So I’m going to try a different tact instead. I’m asking you to give up this case. I’m speaking, not as a senator, but as a grieving father. Please, leave the investigation of Leanda’s disappearance to the police.”

His newfound courtesy deserved a bit of courtesy in return, so I throttled my own attitude back into the reasonable zone. “Do you mind if I ask why you think that’s a good idea? If you’ll forgive me for speaking bluntly, I see two possibilities… Either your daughter is still alive, in which case we need to find her as quickly as possible. Or she’s dead, and the best we can do is to bring the perpetrators to justice.”

“It’s the latter possibility that I’m thinking about,” Senator Forsyth said. “I’ve given up hoping that my daughter is alive. Too much time has passed. There have been no ransom demands. No communication. No contact from anyone. It breaks my heart to even think about it, Mr. Stalin, but I have to face the fact that my daughter is dead. We’re not looking for kidnappers. We’re looking for murderers.”

“You could be right,” I said. “But I don’t understand why you want to close off another route of investigation. I’ve read the files. The police have been extremely thorough, but they’re getting nowhere. There hasn’t been a new lead in weeks, and I think they’re out of ideas. What this case needs is someone who’s
not
out of ideas. Another set of eyes, and a mindset that hasn’t been conditioned to operate within the boundaries of established police procedure.”