Blues in the Night (15 page)

‘OK,' Mace said. ‘So this is plastic and it looks real enough, but it's still a prop.'

‘It's real, Mace. It kills just like a gun made of metal. The plastic is so fucking hard you can make a missile out of it. A warhead. An airplane, if you want. It's as strong as steel.'

Mace cocked a skeptical eyebrow. He worked one of the bullets from the magazine. ‘This isn't fake,' he said.

‘Neither is the gun. I ran out of the plastic bullets doing the tests.'

‘Plastic gun, plastic bullets,' Mace said.

‘There's never a depression where weapons are concerned, and right now there's maybe four companies in the US draggin' down nearly forty billion a year selling arms overseas. Wasn't long ago, everybody was going nuts over the new Howitzer because the manufacturer was able to bring the weight down to nine thousand eight hundred pounds. That's because it was made of high-tensile titanium. This plastic could cut that weight by two-thirds, Mace. It'll make titanium all but fucking obsolete. Not only that, it's cheap to manufacture. And the beauty part is that it can't be detected by any existing defense gear.

‘Before I could board a plane two weeks ago, they made me take my shoes off. And my car keys set off a buzz, but they still don't know I walked through their metal detector with that weapon, armed and ready, in an ankle holster.'

Mace placed the gun on Lacotta's desk.

‘And it's all legit. This is gonna help us kick Al-Qaeda's butt. Or anybody else's.'

‘So what's the problem?'

Paulie gave him a wry smile. ‘You know me, Mace. If there's a way to miss a slam dunk, I'll find it.'

Mace wasn't sure he wanted to hear Paulie's tale of woe. Billion-dollar deals. Plastic guns. It meant about as much to him as a Hollywood starlet's cocaine habit. But there was one point of interest. ‘Where does Angela Lowell fit in?' he asked.

Paulie blinked as if the question caught him off-guard. ‘Angie?' he said. ‘That's a long story.'

‘Highlight it for me,' Mace said.

TWENTY-FIVE

‘
A
ngie's story is another example of me reverting to form,' Paulie said. ‘One of the guys who was just here – the one in the tailor-made suit . . . '

Mace frowned.

‘Blue pinstripe. Gabardine. Nipped in the waist. High armholes.'

‘Yeah,' Mace said. ‘The first thing I notice about a guy is the way his clothes fit.'

‘Sorry,' Paulie said. ‘So I started out in the shmata business . . .'

‘Stealing shmata,' Mace said. ‘But I know the guy you mean. Gray hair. Stone face. Had a bodyguard waiting in reception.'

‘His name's Corrigan. Ex-CIA. He set up the auction for the formula a while back. Mount Olympus was the high bidder. We wired the loot to his offshore account. The transfer of the formula was a little trickier. Corrigan brokers his deals from an art gallery in Paris. It's a front, but he knows one painting from another. Does a lot of legit business in Europe and here in the States. So I get this idea.'

‘Angela Lowell is an art appraiser,' Mace said.

‘Bingo!' Paulie said. ‘She's gone over there on buying trips before. I figure I'll send her to Corrigan's to pick out some art for my place. Corrigan can put the formula in with the canvasses for Angie to mule here.'

Mace casually slid his hand into his pocket and touched the coin. He was surprised that it comforted him, like a talisman. ‘Why so complicated?' he asked. ‘The deal was all above board, right?'

‘It was and it wasn't. See, the CEO of Commingore started hemming and hawing, so we had to find another partner. I can't get into the specifics, but our new associate is . . . well, the government has used him to supply weapons and armament in Iraq and Afghanistan, but . . .'

‘But it's been on the QT, because he's not a good guy,' Mace said, ‘and the public probably would not approve this country being in bed with him.'

‘Right. The idea was to keep the whole thing on the down low. At least until we get into production.'

‘OK, you wired the money to Corrigan. Why didn't he just wire the formula to you?'

‘Well, in the first place, the genius who came up with the formula used it to make a coin and then engraved the formula on it. Not so easy to wire.'

Mace shook his head. ‘This genius sounds like he's on the weed. The world isn't fucked up enough, he's got to make it even more complicated? And Corrigan. Why didn't he just copy the formula off the coin and wire that to you?'

Paulie looked uncomfortable. ‘He says it's too easy to compromise digital formats. He's old school. Like you, Mace. He still uses couriers, for Christ's sake.'

‘Why didn't he use one of his couriers?'

Paulie winced in embarrassment. ‘He wanted to. That's where I screwed the pooch. I . . . thought Angie might like a couple days in Paris.'

Mace stared at him. If Paulie was being straight, which was always doubtful, he'd put an incredibly valuable item at risk just to send his girlfriend on a trip. This was business in America? No wonder the economy was in such fucking bad shape.

‘Did she know the real reason for her trip?' he asked.

‘Not from me.'

‘What went wrong?'

Lacotta shrugged and showed Mace his palms. ‘I sent a limo to LAX for Angie and a truck for the crates. She got back to her place OK, but the truck just disappeared. The coin. The paintings. My three guys. All gone. Never to be heard from again.'

‘What did she have to say about it?'

‘She made sure the crates got through customs. Waited till my guys rolled 'em into their truck. Then she took the limo home.'

‘But you don't quite trust her.'

‘I put one of my guys on her,' Paulie said. ‘That's how I found out she was spending time at Tiny's beach house. She said it was business. He hired her to appraise his art collection.'

Mace remembered the paintings, worth twenty million. He also remembered a dead pretty boy whom Lowell had called Carlos and wondered if she might have been appraising more than the art.

‘Before you ask,' Paulie said, ‘she claimed she didn't see any of the missing paintings out there.'

‘Who knew the formula – the coin – was coming in with the paintings?'

‘Just me.'

‘And Corrigan,' Mace said.

‘He's straight.'

‘He's a former spook who sells weapons,' Mace said. ‘Not exactly a candidate for sainthood.'

‘Maybe not. But he's solid.'

‘Why doesn't he get the inventor to scribble out the formula again?'

‘Well, that's the thing,' Paulie said. ‘Corrigan says the inventor isn't around anymore. He's pretty pissed about the whole thing. That's why he and his leg-breaker are here.'

‘Why should he care? He got paid.'

‘I . . . to make sure that the auction went our way, I cut him in for profit points. And he's on the warpath.' He shook his head. ‘I'm so fucked.'

‘Why'd you drag me into this mess?' Mace asked.

‘I was hoping you'd be able to figure out if Angie set me up. Then maybe I could get her to tell me what happened to the coin. As soon as Uncle Sal comes back from his business trip down south, he's gonna want a report. His first move will be to drag Angie in and start cutting her fingers off until she talks. I'd sincerely like to avoid that.'

‘You in love with her, or what?'

‘I don't know. Maybe. Probably not.'

‘You're hopeless,' Mace said.

‘Tell me something new.'

‘OK. Since nobody sends a hit man to steal a coin, I think we can assume that whoever sent the Brit wasn't just after the formula; he wanted Tiny dead.'

‘So?'

‘So Thomas's employer was miffed with Tiny. Sound like anyone we know?'

‘You think it's me? Christ! I don't do murder. And the first I heard of this guy Thomas was when you mentioned him. You said he was with the guy who tried to kill
me
.'

Mace nodded. ‘Who else might have had it in for Tiny?'

‘You knew him. The guy was a sewer rat. Nobody likes sewer rats.' He leaned his head back in his chair. ‘I put Angie in the sewer with him.'

‘How do you figure?'

‘If I hadn't been hot for her, Tiny wouldn't have gone after her.'

Mace wasn't sure if it had been the nuns who'd done a state-of-the-art guilt trip on Paulie or if it was middle-age paranoia, the belief that the whole world revolved around him. ‘You ought to be more concerned about yourself,' Mace said. ‘Montdrago might figure
you
for the sell-out.'

‘Thanks for keeping it optimistic,' Paulie said. ‘Maybe we grab this Thomas, we get the coin.'

‘I don't think he had time to find it,' Mace said. ‘The shooting couldn't have taken place too long before I got there. The bodies were still warm. Tiny's socks were off, which suggests Thomas might have been getting ready for a little torture to find the coin. But something happened and he wound up shooting everybody instead. Something – probably the arrival of the security guards – distracted him. And when he'd finished with them, I showed up. And he ran.'

‘Then where's the fucking coin?' Paulie asked. ‘I need the damn thing. I paid for it.'

‘Have your toy gun analyzed,' Mace said.

‘I tried. They can break down the elements, but not the process.'

Mace looked at his old pal slumped in the chair and thought about reaching into his pocket and handing Paulie the precious coin. But that was always an option. There was too much Paulie wasn't telling him. The more pressure, the more truth.

‘Who were the other two buttoned-down types in your meeting with Corrigan?'

‘They're, ah, with Tideland Security.'

Mace shook his head. ‘Mercs? The same Special Forces dropouts who were paid a fortune to fuck up in Iraq?'

‘They're working for our other business partner—'

‘The one you won't name.'

‘Yeah. It's better you don't know. He hired Tideland to check
me
out, for Christ's sake.'

‘When exactly did Corrigan blow into town?' Mace asked.

‘A couple hours ago. He and his shadow came to the meeting directly from the airport.'

‘What does that tell you, Paulie?'

Lacotta looked at him blankly.

‘He's not here because you were ripped off,' Mace explained. ‘That happened weeks ago. He's here because Tiny was killed and the coin's gone south.'

‘You could be right,' Paulie said. ‘But that still leaves us with the question of who sent the hitman to kill Tiny and get the coin?'

A name suddenly popped into Mace's head. He'd been hearing it ever since he arrived and it had been on the pill bottle in Angela Lowell's bag. ‘What do you know about a Jerry Monte?' he asked Paulie.

‘
A
Jerry Monte? Like he's not the current king of show biz and if not king maybe a crown prince on Wall Street. I love you, Mace.'

‘Other than the hype what do you know about him?'

‘A Jersey guy. Everybody likes him. Women love him. A real talent and he's smart as hell. A genius, really. Computers. Electronics. He's into all that shit. Why do you ask?'

‘He was at Abe's. They were lined up around the block to see him. Olympus own a piece of him?'

In spite of his mood, Lacotta smiled. ‘He could own a piece of us,' he said. ‘You don't get it, do you? This guy is big. He's up there with Oprah and Spielberg. But, as a matter of fact, we are investors in that exercise environment thing I showed you. Simureal. That's his company.'

‘Would Angela Lowell know him?' Mace asked.

‘I don't know. Maybe. A lot of people do. The guy's pretty accessible. Throws these weekend parties at his place in Cabrillo Canyon. My uncle's been to a couple.'

‘You know the address?'

‘Not offhand. You're not thinking Monte is mixed—'

He was interrupted by a buzzing sound. His desk phone. He picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah?'

He listened for a beat and said, ‘Shit. Keep her on hold for a minute.' To Mace, he said, ‘It's Wylie's mother and she's all fucked up. I gotta take it.'

Mace stood. ‘Good luck with that. When you're finished, maybe you can get somebody to book me a hotel room. Any place but the Florian.'

‘Stay at my place,' Paulie said.

‘Sure. Why not?'

‘You think Jerry Monte's fucking around with my deal?' Paulie asked.

‘I'll let you know,' Mace said.

TWENTY-SIX

M
ace decided the best way of getting a fix on Jerry Monte was through Angela Lowell. At least that's the rationale that found him parking down the road a bit past the Florian. He got out of the car and walked back to the apartment hotel, probably the last place in the LA area where he'd want the police to find him. Well, maybe the second to last place, next to Tiny Daniels' bloodstained beach house.

He walked only as far as the garage. If Angela Lowell's yellow Mustang was there, he'd hang out parked on the street, keeping his eye on the driveway from a safe distance until she left the hot area.

But the Mustang was gone.

He was annoyed with himself for not having bothered to figure out how to use the tracking device that had been planted in the Mustang. Maybe he could get Paulie . . . no, bad idea. Paulie would pimp him about being too old school to use a computer. And then he'd start quizzing him about the Angela-Monte connection.

There was an easier way to locate Monte. And probably Angela Lowell.

As he walked back to his Camry, a black van zoomed past him and screeched to a stop, parking across the street from the Florian. The guy behind the wheel had shoulders like a linebacker. He was wearing a black T-shirt, Ray-Bans and a blinking blue beetle in his ear. The name on the van was Beverlywood Cleaners.