Hollywood Tough (2002) (39 page)

They all slept on the flight back to the West Coast. When the jet touched down in Burbank, it was ten-thirty that same night. They deplaned and headed to their cars. Champagne Dennis Valentine paused by his blue Rolls and looked over at Shane. "That was good. Uncle Carlo is very happy you came."

"I'm very happy he's very happy."

They agreed to talk in the morning.

Shane called Alexa as soon as he pulled away from the airport.

After expressing relief that he was back safely, she shifted to disappointment: "I listened to the tapes at ESD. All they had on them was you and some girl. That's never gonna work in court."

"We have my sworn statement that the Don was there. I witnessed it."

"But Shane--"

"What was I supposed to do? The guy's claiming his tongue and vocal cords are gone."

"I know, but . . . It's just . . . We can't." Her angry broken sentences snapped, like wet laundry on a backyard line.

"I've gotta see you right away," she finally said. "Everything is happening at once; it's all gaining speed an
d t
he chief wants a meeting. He went to Santa Monica tonight--two Crip shooters are being interrogated out there-- but he should be back soon."

"I'll shut down the damn film deal, okay? But I can't go through another meeting with Tony pounding on me."

"It's not just about the film, Shane. Your print runs came back. Farrell is Danny Zelso. The prints on the shoe box top were Nicky's."

"What about the Arizona cowboy?"

"That's where it gets confusing. The matchbox prints belong to General Miguel Fernando Ruiz, a Panamanian drug kingpin who disappeared after Zelso was arrested."

"Alexa, I told you these cases were interlocked."

"Yeah, but I don't know what's holding them together."

"I do," Shane said. "Since Filosiani's in Santa Monica, it's closer if we all meet at our Venice house in twenty minutes."

"Good idea, I'll call him," she said, then hung up.

When Shane opened the door, it was musty inside--the kind of thick atmosphere that only lives in a closed-up beach house. He walked through the place, opening windows and doors. Although he was back where he had once thought he belonged, now, after living in the big house on North Chalon, his little castle in Venice looked small. He had only been gone a few days, but it seemed as if he'd never really lived here at all, like he didn't belong here any longer. He had always seen himself as a dedicated fighter for values he believed in. His goals were modest. He wanted good to prevail over evil; he wanted justice for victims; he longed for a society that valued fairness over profit. But his short stint in Hollywood had begun to convince him that their upside-down value system actually seemed to work better. In its own hedonistic way, it was more efficient. The system he had pledged his life to valued criminals over victims. Murderers were often portrayed as battered children in court, while rape victims were vilified. Tim McVeigh preached his madness from the cover of
Time magazine. Even the Dennis Hopper Rule made sense. Why shouldn't his family live in a house like the one on North Chalon Road? Shane looked around his small, threadbare home in Venice and wondered if these new ambitions were temporary, or if his values forged over a lifetime could change so quickly.

Just then the phone rang.

It was Alexa. "Shane, Nora just called. She's hysterical. I'm going out to Malibu to pick her up."

"What's wrong?"

"I couldn't get much of it. She was sobbing. Something about Farrell missing . . . getting forced into a boat during his nightly swim. I'll get there as quickly as I can."

Tony Filosiani arrived twenty minutes later. He came through the door with his head down and shoulders hunched--a tired man dragging a huge weight. He trudged across the carpet in the entry hall.

"This is nice," he said with no particular enthusiasm. Shane led him out to the lawn, then gave him a beer, a rusting lawn chair, and a moonlit view of some stagnant water.

"You look bushed," Shane said.

"Yeah, this is more frontline detective work than I like at one time."

They quickly ran through Shane's trip to New Jersey. Filosiani hadn't heard the StarTAC tapes, but Alexa had filled him in on what happened.

"If the Don can talk, this is the best piece a mob bullshit since Vinnie 'The Chin' Gigante wandered the streets of New York in his bathrobe, mumbling, singing, and pretending to be insane," Tony sighed.

"He looked pretty cut up. I think it's legit."

The disparate facts Shane had absorbed these last two days were rolling around in his head like marbles in a tin box, driving him crazy. He had a theory that strung them all together in a sequence that was logically possible, although somewhat far-fetched.

"I think Nicky Marcella is at the center of this," Shan
e s
aid. Then he told Filosiani everything he knew about Nicky and his connection to Farrell Champion a
. K. A
. Danny Zelso and his connection to Dennis Valentine a
. K. A
. Dennis Valente. He briefed the chief thoroughly, including Nicky's disappearance the previous day.

"I read his yellow sheet," Filosiani countered after Shane finished. "Marcella's just a street barker . . . did a flat bit in county jail for block hustles on Sunset Boulevard. Guy is strictly a short-timer."

"I'll admit that he's a grifter, but I've been with him a lot this past week, and one thing he's not is stupid."

"If somebody snatched him, then he's probably dust," Tony reasoned. "We should move on. He can't be the focal point of something this complex."

"I don't think he got snatched. I searched his place and his suitcase was gone, along with his cosmetics, his hair dye, and toothbrush. Also, since his prints were on the shoe box, I figure it was Nicky who took the nine outta the closet. I think he packed up and split."

"Who wrecked his place?"

"I think Nicky did. Busted up everything, kicked his silk-screen Japanese art to pieces, turned over the furniture and left."

"Why?" The chief was frustrated, exhausted, and on a short fuse.

"Because that way it looks like he's been kidnapped or murdered. He wants everyone to think he's out of the mix, at least for a few days. I think you may be wrong about Nicky not planning something this complex. I think he might have rigged this whole drug deal, even put Dennis and Farrell together. Now he's sitting back and waiting for his two worst enemies to hit the wall together."

"I don't get it."

"It took me some time to 'duce it out, but here's the way I see it now. At first I thought Nicky the Pooh idolized Dennis Valentine, but back in Jersey I learned I was completely wrong about that. According to a capo who knew them all back in high school, Nicky hated him so much h
e u
sed to vibrate when Dennis was nearby. The capo thought Nicky would do anything to give Dennis payback. But Dennis Valente is a goomba prince, heir to the DeCesare family throne. Nicky can't just step up and give him flying lessons. He'd never survive. So instead he sets up a situation where somebody else does it for him."

"Who?"

"I'm not sure yet--La Eme, the Arizona State Police, the feds, us . . . lotta good candidates. I thought Nicky and Champion were in the movie business together, but I was wrong about that, too. Turns out Nicky's got a shitty personal history with Farrell Champion, too, including a four fifty-seven complaint against him for stealing jewelry out of Farrell's house six months ago."

The chief frowned. "What does any of this have to do with anything?"

"Please be patient, Chief, it's essential background. The rest is guesswork, but it kinda fits. I think Nicky found out who Farrell really was. He used to drive Farrell's limo, which means he was probably sitting in the front seat listening to his phone calls. He musta been able to figure out what was going on. Marshals in dark suits with crew cuts checking on Farrell every few days. How hard would it be to figure he was in WITSEC, then pay someone to run that down? Nicky has connections at LAPD; he was always kicking down street info to cops like me. I found out who Farrell was; Nicky could have made that same connection-
-
discovered that Farrell Champion was Danny Zelso. Knowing Nicky, he then sold that info to the highest bidder."

"Who would that be?"

"It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

"I'm tired, so why don't you just tell me?"

"The highest bidder is always the guy with the biggest bankroll and the most to lose. Farrell Champion."

"So Nicky Marcella's blackmailing Farrell Champion."

"You got it. I checked on the way over here, and Farrell dropped the grand-theft jewelry beef against Nicky two weeks ago. Farrell lied to me about that, and I think he als
o l
ied about not knowing Nicky was at his engagement party. That never made any sense to me. If Nicky knew Farrell's real identity, he could force Farrell to invite him. Nicky's a grifter. Grifters love hanging around in expensive crowds. It makes a lot more sense that way. I'm guessing that Nicky talked Farrell into lining up the Mexican heroin, using this missing Panamanian general and all his old drug connections. Then Nicky introduces Farrell to Dennis Valentine, who is setting up shop in L
. A
. Valentine would want to control the drug trade, so he pays for the product and gets rid of Stone, which allows him to organize the Crips and Bloods to distribute it for him. I think Nicky put the two guys he despised most in the world into the same doomed drug deal and intends to push the whole burning mess over a cliff." Shane asked the chief if the two undercover cops he'd left at Valentine's were still following the Mexican in the white Caddy.

"No," Filosiani said sourly. "I was frustrated with all the money we were spending. The prints hadn't come back yet, so I pulled the surveillance."

The chief was angry at himself and biting his lip, so Shane pushed past that and continued: "Nicky's got all these people heading to the same place in Arizona. Crips, Bloods, La Eme, and mobsters. He times it and dimes it. Everybody arrives out in the desert at the same time, loaded with rage, testosterone, and automatic weapons. When they get there they run into a wall of cops instead. It's a recipe for a bloodbath."

The chief rubbed his forehead. He looked like he was actually in pain. "That's a lot of ifs, buts, and maybes," Filosiani finally said.

"I know. But it sorta fits all the facts. I might have one or two pieces out of place, but if I were you, I'd get in touch with your friend at the FBI . . . see if any of the local feds knows what happened to Farrell. If he's one of WIT-SEC's assets, they probably have some kind of ongoing surveillance on him. Nora says he's missing. I'm not s
o s
ure. Whatever happened to him, I'll bet he turns up in the Arizona desert."

Tony sat quietly in the metal chair, rolling the cold can of beer across his forehead. "Shit. I'm so tired I could fall asleep getting a blow job."

"I'm not too interested in watching that," Shane moaned.

Twenty minutes later Alexa showed up with Nora. Her former baby-sitter's face was streaked with tears. Nora told them that Farrell had been doing his evening swim out in the ocean and that she watched through binoculars as a boatful of young Hispanic-looking men motored up, then forced him to get inside.

"You're sure he was forced?" Shane asked.

"He had to be," Nora said, breaking into tears again. "He isn't capable of leaving without telling me. He knows how terrified I'd be."

Alexa squeezed Nora's hand, but Shane wondered if Nora had any idea what Farrell Champion was really capable of.

Chapter
43.

WHERE'S NICKY?

Chooch called to say he was on his way home, so Tony took Nora back to Malibu while Shane and Alexa waited.

An hour later his son walked into the kitchen through the back door, looking tired and dispirited as he slumped down in a chair at the kitchen table and shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets.

"Dad, she doesn't even know I'm there," he said. "She looks right through me. The doctors say it's part of the PTSD, but I'm worried. She's not getting any better."

"Honey, you can't hope for too much, too soon," Alexa counseled.

"I don't know what else to do." Chooch's voice was so low, Shane had to lean forward to hear him.

"You want me to call and talk to the psychiatrist?" Shane offered.

"No. Dr. Sloan's been great. She said exactly what Mom just said . . . that it's going to take time. But I can't stand to see Delfina that way. It's killing me." Chooch told them he was going to spend the night at home, then go back first thing in the morning. He got up and headed toward his room to take a shower.

Shane and Alexa remained in the kitchen, looking after him.

"Hard lessons," Alexa finally said.

Shane nodded. "Life can be a bitch."

"I've got to get back to the office. I'm running a briefing at nine A
. M
. SO I'll probably sleep down there."

Shane reached out and took her hand. "No, you will not," he said. "You're going to leave it alone for eight hours and sleep right here, in our bed, with me."