Private: #1 Suspect (16 page)

CRUZ SWALLOWED THE Bad Spaniard, including the egg, and said, “I’ll be back.”

He put a twenty under his empty glass and went up the stairs.

Carmelita Gomez was still standing by the armoire when Cruz came through the curtain of shirts. He did all the talking, telling her that Karen Ricci had said to tell her he was okay. That he needed information for cash. And that he’d be waiting for her outside the club at four a.m.

He gave her his cell phone number and said, “
No llegues tarde.
Don’t be late.”

Cruz got his gun back from the doorman, then got in the car and headed south.

Del Rio and Scotty were in the surveillance van on South Anderson Street near the corner of Artemus. Cruz parked, slapped the van’s door, got in the back.

Cruz briefed the guys on Carmelita Gomez, and they told him that a whole lot of nothing had happened to the thirty million in drugs stolen from the Mob. That the West Coast boss, Carmine Noccia, was paying for the surveillance but was cracking his knuckles and grinding his teeth, making phone calls to Jack, getting crazy.

Del Rio said, “What I think is that this warehouse is a safe house. They’ll move the van when they have a delivery secured. Or else the warehouse has become a drugstore. Those pills could be leaving here a few bottles at a time.”

Cruz let Del Rio and Scotty sleep, took a shift watching the warehouse. He, Scotty, Del Rio, and Justine were working their major cases while Jack spent all day and all night trying to get his ass out of the bad case against him.

Cruz would be happier when Jack was free, when he was back working with them, and he hoped it would happen before the top guys at Private burned out.

Cruz shook Del Rio awake at 3:35 and got back into his fleet car. At four on the nose, he parked again on North Western under the light, across the street from the sign reading Havana.

The street was emptier and more desolate than it had been six hours before, except for a bunch of rowdies having after-drinks fast food at the Tacos El Patio.

Cruz was thinking maybe he’d go in there and use the bathroom, when the door to Havana opened and a woman in jeans, black cardigan, and black Converse lace-ups came out to the street. He flashed his headlights, and Carmelita Gomez crossed to the car. She glanced up and down the street as she slipped in the passenger side and closed the door.

CARMELITA GOMEZ SMELLED like flowers and cigar smoke. She turned her dark eyes on Cruz. It was like looking at the business end of a couple of nines.

“Karen just told me you wanted to talk about that dead john last year. She’s got a big mouth,” Carmelita said.

“You told her about it, right?”

“The guy was dead. I’m the last one who partied with him. Cops wanted to know. Everyone wanted to know.”

“And now I want to know, but I’m paying for the information. I’ll keep you out of it.”

“Give me the money first.”

“That’s not how it works,” Cruz replied.

The girl opened the door and had one sneakered foot on the pavement when Cruz said, “Wait.”

She got back in and looked at him, not saying anything.

“Here’s three hundred,” Cruz said. “With the two I gave your friend, that’s a total of five hundred. Half down. Now, Carmelita, you have to talk if you want the rest.”

The girl put the money inside the neckline of her top and said, “The killer is a limo driver. He drives the girls to their dates. Then he comes back and kills the johns.”

“Do you
think
that? Or
know
that?”

“When I was at Sensational Dates, I was friends with one of the drivers.”

“Name?”

“Joe Blow.”

Cruz’s hand moved fast, like a snake, to the girl’s neckline. He had his hand on the money when she grabbed his wrist and said, “It doesn’t matter what is his name. He’s dead, okay? He OD’d.”

Cruz pulled out the rest of the money, held it in front of her eyes.

Carmelita sighed.

“These drivers. They are a bad group. Ex-cons. Illegals. They make their own hours. Many times, they use their own cars. When the calls go out for a driver to take an escort somewhere, they hear over the radio where the girls are going and they choose the jobs they take.”

“I need a name.”

“The driver who took me to the Seaview the night Arthur Valentine was killed? He was a guy called Billy Moufan. He and I told each other our secrets.”

“For instance.”

“Billy told me one of our drivers had killed the john at the Moon. He didn’t name the name. Just said to be careful.

“Then my date was found dead. Later, Billy OD’d. I didn’t tell the police anything. They don’t protect party girls, you understand? Maybe Billy OD’d. Maybe someone did it to him. All I know is what Billy told me. The killer was a driver who worked for Sensational Dates in the summer of 2010. Did you know that? No. If you are a good detective, maybe you can find this driver.”

“I’m going to try.”

“
Bueno.
Now give me the rest of the money.”

JUSTINE GRABBED AT the ringing phone on her nightstand, fumbled it, dropped it, scrambled for it under the bed.

When her hand was around the phone, she squinted at the caller ID. It said only, “Incoming call,” and she didn’t recognize the caller’s number. She glanced at the clock. It was just after four a.m.

Justine said into the phone, “Hello? Hello?”

She heard sobbing. “Hello, who
is
this?”

“It’s Danny.”

“Danny. Where are you? What’s wrong?”

The crying continued, and between the sobs, Danny gave Justine an address in Topanga Canyon.

“Please come fast,” he said.

Justine said she’d be there in twenty minutes. She disconnected the line, then called Del Rio. He picked up on the first ring, said he’d meet her at the Topanga Canyon address and that he needed coffee bad.

Justine said, “Get two. Black for me.”

She dressed quickly, got into her Jag, and sped away from her house.

She followed Old Topanga Canyon Road, eventually taking a left onto a small road that fed into even smaller roads, her headlights barely piercing the black of that early moonless morning.

When she found Portage Circle Drive, Justine slowed the car and looked for house numbers until she saw 98 on a mailbox.

She turned at the rutted driveway, her headlights lighting the tree trunks crowding it on both sides until the driveway emptied into a clearing. There was a rustic cabin set back into the wooded lot and a blue Ferrari parked in front.

Justine braked her car and buzzed down the windows. She heard nothing but insects chirping, saw one light shining through the front windows, coming from a room toward the back of the house.

Justine retrieved a flashlight from the door pocket, then got out of her car. She touched the hood of the Ferrari. It was cold. She went up a path of broken stone to the front door, which had been painted a bloodred color and had a brass knocker under a peephole.

Justine knocked, calling Danny’s name.

There was no answer.

She knocked louder and called again, with no response. She was about to walk around to the back of the cabin when a car pulled up to hers and stopped. Rick Del Rio got out.

It was more than a little spooky here, and she was very glad to see him. And his gun.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Damned if I know,” said Justine. “The car is here, but I don’t think anyone is home.”

DEL RIO SAID to Justine, “Go around back. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

Del Rio tried the doorknob, which turned easily in his hand. The door swung open, and with his light shining into the house, he crossed the threshold.

He shone his beam around the main room and took stock. The house was one of those magazine-type decorated cabins with Native American rugs on the terra-cotta floor, bright blankets and pillows on the leather couches in front of the fireplace.

Embers glowed in the grate. He saw empty wine bottles on the floor and jars of wildflowers on the windowsills.

Del Rio called out, “Is anyone here?”

There was no answer.

There was a light on in the hacienda-style kitchen, another designer-inspired room, bright with Mexican tiles. Iron hooks hung from the beamed ceiling, holding pots and pans. There were dishes in the sink and plates with remains of chocolate cake sitting on the counter.

He could almost see Danny and Piper cutting up right here.

Del Rio found the bedroom down a short hallway. The bed was king-size, made of birch saplings, and took up most of the room. He noted the rumpled sheets, the pillows that had fallen between the mattress and the wall, and the calico quilt in a heap on the floor.

Piper’s sundress, the one that she had worn for her scene that day, was over the back of a chair. Feminine underthings were on the seat and a pair of flat shoes was underneath it.

Didn’t need to be a genius to see that sex had happened here. In fact, the entire place had the look of a nonstop party. Too bad Piper was sixteen and Danny was twenty-four.

Del Rio continued his quick tour of the cabin. The bathroom was empty. Damp towels were hanging over the shower curtain rod. He opened closets, found men’s casual clothes and shoes.

Relieved not to find bloodstains or any other signs of violence, Del Rio returned to the kitchen and exited by way of the back door.

The deck cantilevered out over the canyon. It was furnished with a grill and comfortable chairs. Beyond the deck, a spot of light bobbed along a trail and then was blocked from view by a thicket of trees.

Del Rio went down the steps to the path through the scrub dotted with trees. He walked fast, ducking under branches, and caught up with Justine.

She spun, startled by his touch on her shoulder. “Find anything, Rick?”

“Looks like the kids were having a good time. That’s it.”

“How could Danny be so stupid?”

“Call him. Now,” Del Rio said.

Justine did. “Danny.
Danny,
where are you? It’s Justine.”

Her voice echoed across the canyon. Del Rio said, “Listen.”

He heard a man’s voice saying, “I’m
here,
” coming from far along the path. And then there was the sound of car doors slamming behind them, back at the cabin.

THERE WAS ZERO visibility.

Del Rio thought that the night was so black, even dawn couldn’t break through the moonless and overcast sky.

While Justine went back to the cabin, Del Rio pushed ahead, following the narrow path through oak and sycamore and chest-high scrub in the direction of Danny’s intermittent cries, until the trail ended in a clearing.

He flashed his light around, and there was Danny, just ahead. The kid was wearing only his boxers, lying facedown on the ground, pretty much hysterical.

Del Rio went to him, stooped down, shook his shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Nooo,” Danny cried.

His voice was slurred and he stank of booze. Del Rio saw that he was clutching a shoe, like a ballet slipper. Danny’s flashlight was turned off or dead, lying an arm’s length away.

“Where’s Piper?”

Danny rolled onto his side and pointed to where the trail ended and the steep drop into the canyon began.

“What? She’s down
there?
”

Del Rio walked a few yards to the edge, pointed his light straight down, and saw a patch of white. He was pretty sure that he was looking at Piper Winnick’s splayed and broken body, a hundred yards down in the canyon.

Del Rio stared for a long moment, hoping he was wrong. The girl looked dead, but maybe she was unconscious. It was a slim possibility, but he
had
to check.

He went back to Danny, grabbed him by his hair, forced the blubbering kid to look him in the eye. “What happened, Danny? What did you do to her?”

“I can’t…carry her out of there,” Danny wailed. “I want to die.”

Del Rio said, “What did you do, you piece of shit?”

The kid kept crying. Del Rio stood up and walked back to the lip of the canyon.

The canyon wall was at a treacherous forty-five degree angle to the floor. Del Rio looked for footholds, saw jutting boulders, some ledges running parallel to the ground, flat places where he could put his weight. If he watched where he was stepping, he could maybe get all the way down.

Pressing his left hand to the hill, gripping his light with the other, Del Rio started his descent, doing a good job of being a mountain goat even though his heart was slamming hard against his rib cage. He was about halfway to the bottom when, without any warning, his feet slipped across the smooth surface of a rock and shot out from under him.

Del Rio twisted his body, grabbed at the branches of a manzanita with both hands. His flashlight jumped away from him, bounced, and rolled downhill—and then Del Rio lost his tenuous hold and began skidding downward, his whole body sliding over rocks and dirt and grasses until, forty or fifty feet later, the ground came up and dumped him hard on his ass.

DEL RIO WAS scraped and shaken, but he hadn’t slammed into anything on the way down. He rested for a moment, then got to his feet and made for his flashlight, which was, miraculously, still throwing light. Huffing, he picked his way across the rough terrain and closed in on young Piper Winnick.

She was on her back, her arms flung out like broken wings. Her white cotton nightgown was ripped and dirty, hiked up to her breasts, exposing her panties. She was wearing one shoe, a match to the slipper Danny had been holding in his hand.

Del Rio knew Piper was gone, but he hunched down beside the girl and put his hand to her neck.

He couldn’t find a pulse. He listened to her chest. No heartbeat. Her body was still warm to his touch. He didn’t want to accept it, but Piper was dead and that was a sin. No other word for it.

Del Rio wanted to straighten her limbs, cover her body, close her eyes—acts that would destroy the crime scene, which this almost certainly was.

He flashed his light over Piper’s face, tracked the dried blood to a wound at her temple—and saw that her skull was crushed there, caved in.

He used his light and his camera phone to catalogue the skull wound, the bruise on her arm, scrapes on her thighs, the blood trailing down her pale skin, indications that Piper had been alive when she’d gone over the cliff.

Playing his light up the canyon wall, Del Rio saw dozens of big rocks, any one of which could have cracked Piper’s skull.

Danny. That fucking kid.

Screwing young girls wasn’t enough. He’d moved up a few levels to physical aggression. Had Piper tried to get away from him, made a misstep, and fallen? Or had Danny shoved her over the edge on purpose?

Del Rio remembered the way Piper had looked yesterday morning, giddy with life. He could still see her in that yellow dress, holding on to her hat, saying her lines in a girlish voice with an Italian accent. He remembered the look of joy on her face when she got into that fast car with Danny.

He tried to remember what Danny had looked like when he’d floored the accelerator, but he couldn’t picture him. Del Rio had been looking at the girl.

Del Rio imagined getting his hands on Danny, knocking his teeth out, breaking the bones in that too-pretty face. He was twenty years older than Danny, but he could still do some damage to a wimpy piece-of-crap kid like that.

Del Rio stood up. He had tears in his eyes as he looked at Piper’s body. Her last minutes had been filled with fear and pain. A nice young girl like that.

“You were having a good day, Piper. A good life. I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Del Rio opened his cell phone and dialed Justine.