Private: #1 Suspect (15 page)

PIPER WINNICK’S AGENT, Barbara Crowley, came out to the reception area within a minute of being buzzed. She was an attractive woman in her early forties, with short gold-and-silver hair. She was wearing an expensive black suit, gold bangles, and black nail polish.

Justine noted that Crowley had chewed off her lipstick and looked ragged for such a well-put-together woman.

“Have you heard from Danny?” the agent asked Justine.

Justine said, “No. Not yet.”

She introduced Christian Scott, then she and Scotty followed Crowley down a hallway lined with large framed photos of movie stars, the photos signed to Crowley with gratitude and love.

When Justine and Scotty were seated in front of Crowley’s desk, she closed her office door and said, “I’m worried for Piper. That’s not exactly right. I’m frantic.”

“You think Danny would hurt her?” Justine asked.

“Could he? Would he? Is he just a regular kid turned into a movie star or is he something far worse? Danny was hospitalized a while ago. Were you told about that?”

“No one told us,” Justine said.

“Well, let me do it. Danny checked himself into Blue Skies for a ‘tune-up,’ stayed out of sight for a couple of months.”

Justine knew about Blue Skies. Tommy Morgan had spent time there for his gambling addiction.

“Rehab, isn’t it?” Scotty asked. “Exclusive place for the addicted.”

“Not just addiction. Celebrities, others who can afford it, go there for R and R,” said Crowley. “I was told Danny’s problems were stress related, and when he checked out two months later, Merv Koulos assured me that Danny was absolutely fine. He had just needed some rest.

“So I met with Danny,” Crowley continued. “He seemed sober and sane or I never would have let Piper take the job. Then, when Katie Blackwell said she was molested, I told Piper I was going to cancel the contract, but she wanted to work with Danny, and I mean really. Her parents wanted her to make the film.”

Justine said, “Do you remember when Danny was at Blue Skies?”

“About six months ago, I think.”

The phone on her desk rang, and Crowley leaped for it. She turned her body away from her visitors as she said, “Yes, yes, I’ll be happy to. Now is fine.”

She hung up the receiver.

“The police are here,” she said to her visitors. “Piper’s parents called them. I’m sorry about that, but Danny
has
kidnapped Piper. I won’t sleep until we have that child back with her family.”

JUSTINE HAD DROPPED Scotty off at his surveillance assignment in the warehouse district, then forced herself to call Tommy Morgan. It felt a lot like walking over broken glass. At night. In a hailstorm. With a stick in her eye.

He was still in his office and had taken her call.

“Tommy, I’ve got a question.”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“Were you at Blue Skies while Danny Whitman was there?”

Tommy had said, “Ahhh. I can’t talk now, Justine. How about dinner?”

She’d had to say okay, and added that Private would pick up the tab.

Now they were at Providence, one of the top restaurants in the country, a modern place, elegant but not sexy. That’s why Justine had chosen it. She wanted Tommy to feel flattered and well treated, without giving him any false signals. He’d hit on her before.

They were at a table in the corner, candlelight flickering, wineglasses in their hands. Providence was known for its fine seafood. Even red-meat lovers agreed that wild salmon with thin shavings of mushrooms could taste far better than steak.

Tommy was having a sirloin and apparently enjoying it. He sat back in his chair and looked at Justine, smiling as he chewed.

Justine sipped her wine, struck once again that Tommy looked exactly like Jack. He had the same dark blond hair and hazel eyes, identical build and posture—but in all the ways that counted, Tommy was precisely Jack’s opposite.

Where Jack was altruistic, Tommy was craven. Where Jack would give a person his full attention and really listen, Tommy would fix his eyes on you and try to manipulate you, find weaknesses to use against you.

He said, “I don’t know how much I can tell you about Danny Whitman. He was a weird little dude. And we weren’t buddies. Why do you want to know?”

“He’s a client.”

“Does Jack know that we’re having dinner?”

“He will when I put in my expense report.”

Tommy laughed, and Justine waited him out. Then she asked again, “Why was Danny Whitman at Blue Skies?”

“Depression, I think. He looked depressed, but he could have been there for other reasons. He saw his shrink and he kept to himself.”

“But you talked with him?”

“Jeez, Justine. We didn’t open up our hearts,” Tommy said. “Celebrities, you know. They keep to themselves if they’ve had enough experience with people selling their stories to the tabs. And now my turn. How is Jack? I haven’t heard anything since he went off to jail.”

“He’s out now.”

“Why do you think he killed Colleen?”

“Come on, Tommy. You know he didn’t kill her.”

“No, Justine, you come on. I think he did it.”

“He had no reason to do it. None.”

“Maybe he just snapped. You don’t know that Jack has a temper? I tell you from firsthand experience, he can throw a punch that cracks your jaw in three places.”

Tommy took off his jacket, made a production of rolling up his right sleeve. He showed Justine an old scar about five inches long, just above his elbow.

“This is from the time he broke my arm,” Tommy said, “over who got to ride in the front seat.”

Tommy was vile. She hated him. She knew to keep her thoughts to herself, but he’d given her an opening, so she took it.

She smiled and said, “I hope that really hurt.”

“Man, you still love the guy.”

Justine signaled to the waiter for the check.

“Anything else I can help you with?” Tommy asked. He was smirking.

“Sure, leave Jack’s clients alone. And confess to the police that you murdered Colleen or that you had her killed.”

“I can’t do that, sweetie. I can’t confess to something I didn’t do, just to make you happy. But I would do a lot of other things to make you happy. How about letting me take you out on what’s referred to as a ‘real date.’ ”

“This was our date, Tommy. First, last, and only.”

I WAS WAITING for Jinx at the bar on the pool deck, having a long, tall Perrier on the rocks. I was enjoying how the sunset was painting pink light on the pool, when she slid into the seat next to mine.

“Hi, Jack. Sorry I’m late. I got stuck at the office.”

“It’s okay. I like it here.”

Jinx smiled. “I’ve heard you’ve been having a rough time in the last few days.”

She smelled sweet, like jasmine. She was wearing midnight blue, a silk tunic, tight pants, gold sandals on adorable feet. Her diamond necklace caught the light.

“Jail is an enriching experience,” I said. “I got to see the other side of the fence. Take it from me, the grass wasn’t greener.”

“You look like you took a beating.”

“Part of the enrichment program.”

I’d meant to get a laugh, but she reached out and touched my bruised jaw. I let her do it.

“I tripped,” I said.

“A bad trip, looks like.”

I smiled at her. She put her elbows on the bar, asked the bartender for a gin and tonic. It was an unguarded gesture, and I saw her through it. She was right there, the woman who had asked for my help because she was being haunted by killings—and because she could lose everything she had.

I said, “We’re working on your case, Jinx, but if you want to take your business elsewhere, I understand. More than that, there’s no charge for the time we’ve clocked.”

“The cops are hopeless,” she said.

“You mean the cops are hopeless
too
.”

“This time last month, there was standing room only at this bar.”

“We’ll keep working if that’s okay, Jinx. If we don’t get results, you don’t owe us anything.”

“You’re making a compelling case for me to stay with Private.”

Finally she smiled. “I should admit something,” she said. “I like you, Jack.”

I had an awkward moment because I wasn’t sure how to respond. Whatever she was thinking, friendship or more, it wasn’t a good time for me. It was the worst.

“Jinx. Listen, I’m checking out of the hotel in the morning.”

Jinx stiffened at what she took to be a rebuff. She said, “Was everything satisfactory?”

“Yes. I just have to get back to my house. My life.”

“Of course.”

She stood up and said, “Iggy, Mr. Morgan’s drinks are on the house. Jack, I’ve got some calls to make. Stay in touch, okay? And take care of yourself.”

I watched her walk across the deck, and when she was inside, I left the bar and went to my room.

I could list four or five reasons why I didn’t need a romantic complication right now. But there was no reasoning with the strong pull I felt toward Jinx. I wanted to help her as much as I wanted to help myself.

If she’d stayed at the bar for another minute, I would have told her that I liked her too.

CRUZ PARKED THE Mercedes fleet car under the one streetlight on North Western, a seedy block in the heart of Hollywood. Metal security doors had been rolled down over the surrounding storefronts: Quality Market, Lupita’s beauty salon, AAA discount mufflers. Iglesia Cristiana Fuente de Salvación, a church housed in what looked like a former appliance store, was also closed for the night.

Across the street, a yellow neon sign showing a cocktail glass turned on its side and the name Havana marked an otherwise nondescript cinder-block building. Cruz undid his ponytail, finger-combed his hair, replaced the band, then got out and set the car alarm. He straightened his jacket.

The muscle at the club’s door was in his thirties, shaved head, small metal-framed glasses, bulked up. Cruz said,
“Buenas noches
.
”

The bouncer said, “You have a reservation?”

“I’m Emilio Cruz, here to meet a lady called Karen Ricci. She told me she was leaving my name at the door.”

The bouncer looked Cruz over, took a long thirty seconds. He said, “You packing?”

“I’m licensed.”

“Doesn’t matter. No guns.”

Cruz sighed, took his gun out of his shoulder holster, shook out the ammo, and handed the gun to the bouncer. The bouncer put the gun in a box attached to the top of a pedestal, handed Cruz a ticket with a number, and opened the door.

Cruz entered a vestibule. There was a narrow flight of stairs and he climbed it, thinking about his gun. The stairway opened into a small room featuring one piece of furniture, what looked to be a hand-carved wardrobe, an armoire.

A hostess was standing beside the wardrobe. She was in her late twenties, Hispanic, big brown eyes, very trim, and wearing a tight pink satin dress. Definitely his type. Although she barely looked at him. Most women at least
looked
.

She opened the wardrobe door, said, “You go through here and then down the stairs.”

Cruz asked, “I go through the closet?”

The woman nodded.
“Si
.
”

Cuban shirts were hanging on the pole, making a curtain.

Cruz pushed the guayaberas aside and saw that the closet was a cleverly concealed doorway that led directly to the top landing of a spiral staircase. Latin music and loud chatter came up from the bar below.

As Cruz headed down, he took in the dark saloon, richly colored in red and gold, and had the feeling of being sent back in time to a Cuban rum bar, circa the 1920s.

Electric-candle chandeliers lit the place with soft, flattering light. Small tables at the perimeter of the room were occupied, but most of the customers were packed around the white-marble-topped bar, the back of it stacked with rum bottles, maybe seventy different brands.

As Cruz reached the bottom step, he saw that behind the bar was a hallway leading to a cigar bar, designed to look like a back alley in Havana.

Just then, raucous applause broke out.

A dancer came onto a small stage, the spotlight right on her, making gold sequins glitter. She tossed her hair and began to move sensually to a Caribbean beat.

Cruz stood at the sidelines, searching the crowd until he saw one woman drinking alone at a table near the fire exit. He worked his way through the mob, and when he got to her table, he said, “Karen Ricci? I’m Emilio Cruz.”

She said, “Have a seat.”

Cruz pulled out a chair and sat down. Karen Ricci was dark haired, a natural beauty wearing no makeup. It took Cruz a moment to realize that she was in a wheelchair.

“You have my package?” she asked.

Cruz opened his jacket so she could see the edge of the envelope peeking out from his inside breast pocket.

He closed his jacket and said, “May I buy you another drink?”

A WAITER CAME over and said to Karen Ricci, “Papa’s daiquiri, as usual?” Karen said yes, and the waiter asked Cruz, “You like rum? I recommend you try the Bad Spaniard.’”

Cruz nodded, and when the waiter left them, Karen said, “There’s a whole egg in that drink.”

Cruz shrugged, put on his bashful smile, and said, “I like eggs. Why’d you pick this place to meet?”

“The guy at the door?”

“The bouncer?”

“He’s my husband,” she said.

All that Cruz knew about Karen Ricci was what his source had told him. She had worked at an escort service called Sensational Dates for the past two years. She took calls from johns, arranged the dates, and charged their credit cards.

A john name of Arthur Valentine had been strangled with a wire at the Seaview hotel back in 2010, the second victim in what would become a string of five murdered hotel guests in three California cities.

Karen Ricci had been questioned about Valentine’s death by the LAPD because she had booked the escort who had given Valentine his last ride.

When Cruz had spoken with Ricci two hours ago, she had agreed to tell him everything she knew about the hotel killings for a thousand dollars cash.

Now Cruz tasted his drink, set the glass down on a napkin, and said, “Okay, Karen. What have you got for me?”

“Something the police don’t know. You’ll get your money’s worth, don’t worry, and I’ll save you some time and trouble. The escort didn’t kill the john.”

“She was a suspect?”

“For a while, yes. One of the last known persons to see the victim, whatever. She said she’d had sex with the guy and they didn’t arrest her. They had no evidence of anything but the date, but they harassed her. She couldn’t work without cops tailing her, scaring off business.”

“So do you know who killed the john, Karen? Because if you do, please cut to the chase.”

“Oh, you think I want a grand for saying the hooker didn’t do it?” The woman laughed, took a slug of her daiquiri. She refilled her glass from the shaker.

“Here’s what I think, Mr. Emilio Cruz. You need to talk to the escort, because she knows something that can help you. It’s what you’re paying for. Her name is Carmelita Gomez. Say you know me.”

Cruz took out the envelope, plucked out two hundred-dollar bills, and passed them under the table as the exotic dancer on the little stage took off her top and shimmied her pasties for the crowd. Cruz leaned closer to Karen Ricci. “You get the rest after I meet this woman.”

“You already did,” Ricci said. She tilted her chin toward the staircase.

“Upstairs? At the closet door?”

“That’s her,” Karen said. “She gets off work at four.”