Three Shirt Deal (2008) (19 page)

No reaction.

"Is that the big wow?" he finally said. "Let's see, how's this supposed to track? My dad's worth hundreds of millions of dollars. I have unlimited credit and a Black AMEX card. But despite all this, you're suggesting I was so desperate for cash that I ripped off my own family's business with some brain-dead, West Valley car mechanic as my accomplice. Perhaps you could tell me why on earth I would ever do such a stupid thing."

"Maybe it's just because you just couldn't help yourself," I said pleasantly.

Wyatt stood looking at me, not taking any of this very seriously. It was almost as if he was deciding if I was going to be enough of an intellectual challenge to even waste ten minutes on. Then he turned and walked back to the McLaren, opened the trunk, and pulled out his tennis racket. He held it firmly in his right hand and began taking vicious practice swings.

"If you try to hit me with that I'll delaminate it over your fuzzy head."

"Don't be ridiculous. I just remembered it was in the car. Didn't want the gut strings to cook in the heat." He carried it back to where I was standing.

"Once we finish talking about the prize contest, I also have a few questions I want to ask you about Tru Hickman," I continued.

"Tru Hickman? That name's supposed to mean something to me?"

"Yeah, he was a tweaker friend of Mike Church's that you guys recruited to buy the Bud Light prize package that you knew was being sold out of a Valley mini-mart on Sepulveda."

Wade Wyatt stood looking at me, the smile still locked firmly in place. But I had his interest now. I could see some rapid eye movement.

"I never heard of Tru Hickman. Don't know him."

"Sure you do."

Then he got his confidence back. His smile widened like somebody who knew he was having his leg pulled and was still trying to figure out why. He wasn't used to being baited and his sense of entitlement convinced him he was far above my feeble grasp.

"You're a very funny man," he remarked.

"I get that a lot."

"Okay, Mister Policeman. Since I can't help you with any of that, we're concluded. I've got a busy afternoon."

"We're not concluded. I intend to get the answers to all of my questions before I leave."

"I can make one or two calls and Chief Filosiani, who I believe signs your paychecks, will make you go away."

"The Chief doesn't sign my checks. The city payroll clerk does."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't try matching wits with me," he said softly.

Now it was my turn to stand my ground and smile at him.

"Okay, if you have something so important on your mind. Let's hear it," he said.

"Olivia Hickman. We need to talk about her, too."

For the first time, I hit a soft spot. I saw it mostly in his body language--a slight dimming of the smile, a slumping of his shoulders. But he recovered nicely.

"Olivia Hickman. And let me guess. She's somehow related, or married to this Tru Hickman person."

"His mom. Past tense. She was murdered."

"And I know something about it?"

I just let his question simmer.

Wade stood with his expensive briefcase in one hand and the titanium racket in the other, dressed in snappy white shorts, ready to serve America's container needs worldwide. Then he said, "If I could prove to you I don't know about any of this, about this Tru

Hickman person buying that beer, or his mother's murder, what then?

"That would certainly be a huge help," I responded, pleasantly.

"Then follow me."

He led me inside the large, expensively designed, Business Center and Administration building.

This building was obviously where the bigwigs worked. All the really expensive art was in the lobby. The carpet was seventy
-
ounce plush pile and stretched wall to wall. I followed Wade down a hallway to a private office where he had his own private secretary. She was a good ornament. A nine or ten on the office fantasy scale. If she could type, God knows who she'd be working for--maybe even the great Roger Dahl.

"Cindy, bring me the Promo Safe folder on the August Bud Light contest," Wade snapped as he passed by her desk into his office.

She jumped up and exited.

The office was medium-size, but furnished with expensive antiques. There were law books everywhere. I picked up a thick one entitled Torts, Pleadings and Judicial Reviews that was marked with what looked like fifty or more yellow Post-It Notes.

"You want to leave my stuff alone?"

"Right." I put it down.

Half a minute later Cindy returned and handed Wade the file. He opened it and went through it like he knew exactly what he was looking for. Then he pulled out a single sheet of paper.

"This is an affidavit attesting to the winner of the West Valley Rare you were talking about." He handed it to me. "As you can see, it wasn't won by anybody named Tru."

The Promo Safe form was signed by one of their senior investigators named Ron Torgason. The affidavit plainly stated that Tito Alonzo Morales, of 4955 Bellingham Avenue in Valley Villag
e h
ad bought the Bud Light at four-fifteen on August 10 at a 7
-
Eleven in the 6000 block of Sepulveda. Two days later he had claimed the million-dollar prize.

"As you can see, Mister Morales was the winner. The agents from Promo Safe go out and stand in the store and--"

"Yeah, I know how it works," I interrupted.

"Then you can see this is exactly what I said. It's proof positive that Tito Morales bought and cashed in the rare, not this other guy, this Tru what's-his-face."

I stared down at the affidavit.

"Are we done now?" he asked, arrogance again framing every word. "I have to get through three chapters before my bar review class at six."

"Afraid we're not quite done yet, Wade."

"We're not?" Now he seemed frustrated, the smile long gone. "Why the hell not?"

"Because your buddy since the seventh grade, Mike Church, is a longtime associate of Tru Hickman, and because Tito Morales happens to be the D
. A
. who filed the murder charge against Tru for killing his mom and then did the plea bargain sending the kid away for life." I did my endearing little smile again. "This is the same Tito Morales who bought a contest rare and won a million dollars from a company that you're involved with, and whose campaign office you visited yesterday, completing a nice little circle of facts. In some crowds, this might be viewed as a scam. But any way you cut it, it's way too cozy, contest-wise."

Wade's smile suddenly reappeared. I was beginning to suspect that it was just camouflage, that he used it when he was in trouble. Either that, or this kid had more chutzpah than the ten best murderers I'd ever worked.

"That is all just a coincidence," he offered. "I was at his office because after he won our prize I got to know him, and I'm now working on his campaign. Besides, why would I give a damn on
e w
ay or the other if Tito Morales won a million dollars? How does that affect my life?"

"Maybe Mike Church is still stealing your toys. Or maybe we just haven't located the reason, yet."

"I see."

"Do you?"

For a moment it seemed he was regarding me almost with affection. He was so sure of himself that he was actually beginning to enjoy this. I decided right then that his giant ego was his biggest weakness. He thought he was simply brilliant. A good technique when you've got a suspect in play is to be exactly what the guy wants you to be. He thought I was a moron and no match for his rapid repartee. The dumber he thought I was, the more careless he would become and the more mistakes he was bound to make. I let fifty IQ points I couldn't spare drop out of my head and hit the floor, then fixed him with a smile as dull as my razor.

"Since you obviously are not going to leave me alone until I figure this out for you, let me see if I can help," he said.

"That would be excellent."

He looked at his watch. "You had lunch yet?"

"No, sir."

"I know a spot near here. Let's go get something and we'll see what I can come up with."

As we crossed toward the office door, I couldn't resist taking one last shot. "Guess this means you owe me the hundred dollars."

Chapter
25.

WE WENT TO A STEAKHOUSE TEN BLOCKS FROM CARTCO. THE decor was plush. Dark green carpets, dark wood paneling, hunting prints everywhere.

He ordered a beer and a rib eye. I had coffee and a Chinese chicken salad. When the waiter left, Wade's BlackBerry rang. He pulled it out and looked at a text message. I pulled out mine, showed it to him proudly.

"Hey, look at this. We got the same damn phone," grinning stupidly, as if I thought we could bond over owning identical BlackBerries.

"Phone rocks," he said distractedly, and started instant messaging.

" 'Cept I can never get the hang of all the new features on this thing," I complained.

"Read the manual," still working on his IM.

"Well, I would, but even then I get kinda lost. I'm from the old rotary dial age of communications."

He looked up over the BlackBerry with a shit-eating grin. "What are you, about ten years older than me?"

"Little more."

He held up his BlackBerry. "This shit's Y-Gen weaponry. Computers, digital information, it's all moving at warp speed. Unless you were born with a PC on your nursery table, you're bound to fall behind. Don't let it haunt you, dude."

"That's comforting."

His cell rang again and he answered it. Another text message, but this time I reached over and covered his phone with my hand. "I think we need to turn that off," I said gently.

"I'm not used to being told what to do." He scowled.

"Then I'll try and keep these moments to a minimum."

He heaved a sigh, turned off the phone, then looked up and said, "Better?"

"Much."

What came next was so utterly ridiculous it was hard for me to believe this guy was actually trying to sell it to me.

He leaned forward in his seat and fixed me with a professorial stare. "Okay, so as long as we're waiting for our food, why don't I put the time to good use and just go ahead and solve your little problem. Explain how people, who have no real connection to one another, could appear in the same numerical sample."

"Okay." I smiled. "But remember, winning this contest in Los Angeles is, by my estimate, about a ten-million-to-one shot."

"Then this will be a good lesson for you in statistical analysis. In order for you to understand, I'm going to have to start by giving you a short course in probability curves."

"Hang on a minute. I don't want to miss anything." I figured this was going to be rich, so I played it for all it was worth. I reached for my notebook, took out my pen, and held it at the ready, looking stupidly down at a blank page. The only thing I didn't do was lick the ink tip.

"A Y-Gen would carry a little DAT recorder for moments like these," Wade sneered.

"Got one. Can't work it."

"Okay, so where does Tito Morales live?" he asked.

"Valley Village."

"The East Valley. But where does he work?"

"Van Nuys Courthouse."

"West Valley, good. That courthouse, if I recall, is within blocks of where this prize-winning rare was placed out on Sepulveda. Correct?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, now follow me here. In that West Valley section of town there are what, maybe ten thousand people?"

"Ten, probably less."

"Exactly. Probably less. But let's keep it to round numbers and say ten so you won't get lost in the math."

"Good, 'cause I'm horrible with fractions."

"I kinda knew that." He smiled condesendingly. "Okay, ten thousand people. And how many of those ten thousand people in the West Valley would even shop for beer at a 7-Eleven instead of, say, a supermarket or liquor store?"

"Boy, Wade, I just don't know. Don't have a clue."

"Let's estimate on the high side to keep our sample safe. Let's say half. Say five thousand. You think half the West Valley might shop at a 7-Eleven-type mini-market? Sound fair?"

"Okay."

"And how many of those five thousand people do you think buy Bud Light beer instead of some other brand?"

"How many? I have no idea." I tried to sound confused and hopelessly lost.

"It so happens, I can help us there, because as part of my job, I know the company's local market share. It's twenty-two point six. But let's shit-can the two point six and round it off to twenty so it doesn't get too complicated."

"Good." I dutifully wrote it down.

"So twenty percent of five thousand is one thousand peopl
e w
ho conceivably might buy Bud Light at that particular market in a month. So now we're down from your original, but incorrect, ten million to one figure to a more realistic and vastly more manageable figure of one thousand to one. Still with me?"