Blond Cargo (28 page)

His heart sank. The first time this beautiful, intelligent, strong woman proclaimed her love for him, and he knew it would probably be the last.

“But I don’t see there being a
you
,” she went on. “If you don’t change. And I think change might kill you . . . tell me I’m wrong, Jack.”

For the first time since the attack, Leslie’s eyes welled up, and she pulled her robe tighter around her neck trying to keep herself from unraveling.

Jack’s silence told Leslie everything she needed to know.

40

South Coast Plaza was the jewel in the crown of luxury mall shopping in Southern California. It dressed and pampered and catered to the 1 percent of the world’s population that could afford the high-end retail and boutique merchandise. Though its reputation was international, for day-to-day business it strained the credit cards and egos of the men and women who aspired to a Newport Beach lifestyle.

Jack’s loafers clicked sharply on the polished white marble floors of Nordstrom. He had been lagging twenty feet behind Malic al-Yasiri’s wife and daughter, waiting for an opportunity to engage, when the pair stepped into the Marketplace Café.

Saarah was fully engrossed with her iPad, working studiously on a coloring app, while Kayla rearranged her recent acquisitions and then picked up the lunch menu.

Jack advanced to the table, and Kayla ordered the wedge salad without looking up. When it became clear Jack wasn’t the waiter, Kayla was both amused and startled.

“Can I help you?” she said, trying to recover.

“Mrs. al-Yasiri?”

“Do I know you?”

“My name is Jack Bertolino,” he said, flashing his most benign smile, trying not to intimidate.

Kayla was getting uncomfortable, and he quickly followed up. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but I was wondering if you could give me a moment of your time.”

Jack pulled out a picture of Angelica Cardona before she said no and placed it on the table next to her menu. “Do you recognize this woman, Mrs. al-Yasiri?”

Kayla’s eye twitched, and she grew very still. Jack knew in his gut that she recognized Angelica. She glanced down to the left before looking up. A “tell.” Jack knew when someone was preparing to lie.

Her daughter looked at the headshot and said, “She’s pretty, Mommy. She looks just like you.”

It was true. An uncomfortable, disturbing likeness, Jack thought.

“She does,” he said. “She’s a beautiful woman.”

“Did you follow us here?” was Kayla’s answer to the question, not acknowledging the flattery.

Jack knew he had to make his pitch.

“Mrs. al-Yasiri, I work for the distraught father of this young woman. She’s been missing for five weeks now, and he’s very worried she’s come to harm. You would be doing my client and myself a great favor if you would take another look at her picture.”

“I’ve never seen her before,” Kayla said without shifting her gaze, “and I’d appreciate it if you would leave us now. We’re about to order lunch.”

“What about this woman?” Jack placed a picture of the OD victim, who was in her early teens when the picture was taken, on the table. The photo had been faxed to the States by her grieving parents, who were en route to escort their daughter’s body home for burial.

Jack stepped to Kayla’s side and lowered his voice to protect her daughter.

“She washed up onshore around the time that Angelica Cardona went missing,” he said. “I really need your help. I’m afraid for Angelica’s life. Your daughter’s correct, she does look remarkably similar to you. Her father loves his daughter and is desperate for any help you could provide.”

“Mr. Bertolino, are you the police?”

“No, ma’am. Retired NYPD inspector. I do private investigations now. We have every reason to believe this young girl is in grave danger.”

“Her eyes, Mommy. Like yours.”

From the mouth of babes, Jack thought. Yet the momentary thaw in Kayla’s demeanor had hardened. She turned in her seat and motioned angrily for the maître d’.

Jack slid his card toward Kayla and picked up the photographs.

“If you can think of anything at all that might help, please call. Anytime. Day or night. It could save this young woman’s life.”

Jack showed Angelica’s photograph again to both Kayla and her daughter before turning to the officious maître d’ who had arrived to run interference.

“Beautiful place,” Jack said. He flashed a menacing smile and took a step toward the maître d’, who backpedaled. Jack wasn’t going lightly. After dodging her husband’s bullets, meant for him and the woman he loved, Jack wasn’t going down politely.

“So, how about that Sheik Ibrahim?” he asked over his shoulder.

“What?” It came out like a choke.

“Mommy?” Saarah asked, concerned.

“Keep painting, sweetie.”

The young maître d’ took a half step closer to Jack and had to look up to feign menace as Kayla smiled tightly and waved him off. He looked relieved but walked to his station at the front of the café and picked up a house phone.

“He’s the reason I’m here,” Jack said. “His eight-year-old son posted a video of Angelica Cardona on YouTube.”

She was rattled by this new revelation. “What are you saying?”

“Your husband and the sheik went to college together. They’re in business together. Thick as thieves. You’re a smart woman. We believe the sheik and your husband are responsible for the disappearance of Angelica Cardona.”

“But I don’t know—”

“The sheik’s a collector. Horses, cars, and women. Think about your daughter, Kayla. You can help me save this young woman’s life.”

“I’ve never seen her before.”

He added some police grit to his voice. “Help me or else you will go down with the evil.” He pointed meaningfully with a finger. “Hold on to my card and call me. You can still get out of this.”

Jack passed two intent mall cops on his way out the door. He blended with the well-dressed, upscale patrons. His message had been delivered.

Malic sat in his thirty-eighth-floor office with the killer view, waiting on the meeting with Philippe Vargas and Raul to go over the agenda for tomorrow night’s gala, being held at the Bonaventure Hotel. Philippe wanted everyone representing the Vargas Development Group to be on the same page. A uniform front, he had said. A dog-and-pony show, Malic had thought. But he’d be politic and his wife would be dazzling, and he would cement his place in the Los Angles political hierarchy.

His stomach was a little off, though, and Malic couldn’t really remember the last time he’d felt at ease.

It wasn’t the act of killing another woman that weighed on him. It was the number three that had become worrisome. Not because of any guilt. No, the proliferation of young women was proof of mistakes made, and it correlated to a diminishing bottom line. If the money continued to dry up, so would the salaries of his men and so in turn would his power.

Malic had learned through the years that a man would only sacrifice his own life and kill when ordered out of fear, greed, or religious fervor, which was the world’s greatest decimator. He knew he could only control
his
men with the almighty dollar.

Malic was pulled out of his contemplation by angry voices in the hallway. They were moving closer, and getting louder, until they stopped directly outside his door. He pulled open the upper drawer of his desk and slid his hand around the mother-of-pearl grip of his Beretta. The door was knocked open and in walked Nick Aprea with Halle, the receptionist, hot on his heels.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. al-Yasiri, I tried to stop him.”

“Nick Aprea, sir. LAPD. I just need a few moments of your time.”

Nick was talking fast, but his right hand had already flipped the leather strap off his revolver and his eyes never left the drawer with Malic’s pistol in it.

“Pull out the weapon, Malic, and put it handle-first on top of the desk.”

Malic complied.

“You have a permit?”

“And license to carry concealed.”

Nick let loose an engaging smile. “Then this is the first day of the rest of your life.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If that gun had made it out of the drawer, your brainpan would have been splattered all over the white wall behind you.” Nick came over, looking down pointedly at the gun. “Now let’s start again. I need to ask you a few questions. Are you all right with that? The caveat being if you’re not, we’ll continue this at headquarters. Your call, Malic.”

“Here’s fine. Thank you, Halle. I’ll call if I need anything.”

“Are you sure, Mr. al-Yasiri?”

Nick did a slow turn and the look in his eyes was all the response needed as Halle retreated rapidly back down the hallway.

“That’s better,” Nick said, closing the door. He pulled out his ID and badge just to keep things by the book. “Lemme see the paperwork,” he said, referring to the gun.

Malic went through his wallet, found the correct card, and handed it to Nick, who gave it the once-over.

“Fine, now stow it.”

Malic carefully picked up the gun and placed it back into his drawer and closed it.

“Lotta men get killed with the same weapon they buy for protection.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” Malic said, not enjoying the scrutiny or having to follow this cop’s orders.

“Speaking of accidents, your friend had a doozy. Surprised I didn’t see you at the hospital. He’s pretty knocked up.”

“I’m not sure who you’re referring to.”

“I had an in-depth discussion with your bud Mustafa this morning.”

“My bud?”

“Mustafa belongs to your club.”

“I’m at a loss.”

“That’s one hell of an understatement.”

“Can we get down to what you want, Detective Aprea? I’ve got work to do, and you didn’t make an appointment.”

Nick was pleased by this piece of officiousness. “That’s one of the great things about being a detective in the U.S. of A. When I’m working a murder investigation, I don’t need no stinking appointment,” he said like a bad Al Pacino. And then continued in his own voice.

“I’ve got pictures of you entering the club around six p.m. two nights ago. Mustafa entered the club twenty minutes later. And then two women. A blonde and a dark-haired beauty. And then, same night, we have you exiting the club around nine with a shit-eating grin on your face. You and your butt-boy, Raul Vargas. We got the dark-haired broad in custody, but you already know that, right? You set Mustafa and her up with a lawyer your group keeps on retainer.”

Malic contained his rage. “It’s a social club with an extensive membership. It’s a place for Iraqi nationals to get together and enjoy the camaraderie of the old country. I’m not on a first-name basis with all of the members, nor am I responsible for their actions.”

“An important man like yourself? Here’s his mug, might shake your memory.”

Nick handed off his cell phone, featuring the photo of a bruised but very much awake Mustafa sitting up in his hospital bed.

“The pain meds, they loosen the tongue like crazy,” he observed mildly.

“I’ve seen him, never to talk. And as you inferred, I was otherwise engaged that evening. Is it now a crime to have an extramarital affair in America?”

Nick gave the contrite man his wolf grin. “You just buried yourself, Malic. We’ll get an age on our black beauty, and if she turns up underage, you just confessed to an officer of the law that you had relations with a minor. If she’s underage and illegal, then yeah, it’s a fucking crime.”

“I prefer blondes.” Malic delivered it as if he’d said
checkmate
.

He handed the cell phone over to Nick, who stepped back and snapped a few shots of Malic and the gold idol that appeared to be sitting on Malic’s left shoulder, staring down on the proceedings.

“You don’t know him? I’ll take your word for it. That’s good news for you. He wasn’t very talkative at first. He hit his pumpkin head and couldn’t remember too good, until I reminded him about his attempted murder of a police officer, aiding and abetting a drug distributor, and transporting an illegal minor across state lines for the purposes of sex. His memory came back like . . .” Nick snapped his fingers for punctuation.

Keeping Malic off balance, he took a verbal left turn.

“Beautiful statue, that.” Nick snapped another picture of the idol. “Looks like the real thing.”

“Don’t I wish.”

“I guess. Something that valuable could bring a person a lot of grief. But hey, I’ve got a bud over at UCLA got his doctorate in the lost treasures of Iraq post-Saddam. He’s gonna be all over that thing. Sumerian, isn’t it?” Nick walked behind Malic and picked up the statuette. “They do some great knockoffs these days; this has got some heft,” Nick said, almost dropping the sculpture for effect. He handed the idol back to Malic, who remained icy calm.

“You’re having quite a string of bad luck, Malic.”

“How so?” Malic answered smugly as he gestured to the view beyond the window.

“World’s your oyster, huh?”

Malic didn’t dignify the question with a response.

“Well, you’re operating in the right town.”

“Explain.”

Malic expected Nick to shake him down, ask for money. It was how business was conducted at home, and he would pay to grease the wheels if needed.

“You’re a good actor,” Nick said, “I’ll give you that. You lose three fifty in dope, value of your house tanks, you tried to take out a friend of mine and failed, and here you sit, like, ‘Made it, Ma, top of the world.’ ”

Nick started for the door.

“That’s all I got right now. Enjoy the rest of the day.” And Nick was gone.

Malic sat perfectly still, staring at the pure-gold idol. He rose from his seat, and the only clue to his mental state was the slight tremor in his hands as he placed the priceless artifact back up on its pedestal. He’d melt it down for scrap if it came to that.

Jack stepped off the elevator at the lobby of police headquarters in downtown Los Angeles. Leslie was nursing a Starbucks, having finished her own interview and deposition about the attack the previous night. She shot him a look usually reserved for defense witnesses. Cool. “They’re sure the Mexican Mafia is good for the gunplay,” Leslie chided.