The Color of Greed (Raja Williams 1) (12 page)

A call came in from Detective Rafferty.

“We ID’d one Fernando Hierra Lopez as
the killer of Ramona Griggsby,” said Rafferty.

“Any chance you can locate him?” asked
Raja, rubbing the back of his head.

“Not likely. He’s an illegal. We only
got lucky matching his fingerprint from the police files shared by
the Mexican border police. By now he has disappeared into the four
million plus Latino population of LA county, almost a million of
which are illegal. If he doesn’t want to be found, we won’t
find him anytime soon.”

“Niah,” said Raja idly.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“I heard you helped the SFPD bust the local
Triad. Not bad for a civilian. Any luck on finding the judge?”

“We found him, but too late. He was dead from
a heroin overdose. I’m sure it was staged.”

“Don’t think I’m gonna cry over
that news, from what you told me about his habits.”

“No, I don’t suppose you will. But
another dead body isn’t helping our case any.”

“Nasty business, for sure. Any idea who did
it?” asked Rafferty.

“Whoever he is, he’s a ghost. And
whoever he works for is thorough. He is not leaving anything to
chance.”

“Any idea what this mess is all about?”

“Not yet, but—”

“I know, I know. I’ll be the first one
you call.”

“Gotta go, Tommy. Thanks for the data.”

After a steak and a couple glasses of red wine, both
Raja and Vinny relaxed on the couch. They both needed a break from
the case.

When Vinny got up to dutifully return to work at her
computer, Raja said, “Dancing.”

“Say what?”

“Dancing. Let’s go dancing,” he
said. Raja knew how much Vinny loved to dance.

“I didn’t think you even liked dancing.”

“Oh, I like it. I just don’t do it as
well as you. You could dance. I could watch. Or get drunk.”

“Or get laid.”

“I’m not discounting the possibility,
but where I’m proposing we go, that might be less likely.”

“And where’s that?”

“West Hollywood. I hear the dance clubs there
are the best.”

“True dat. There’s no better place for a
girl to dance than a gay club in West LA.”

“Well, let’s get cleaned up and go,”
said Raja. He looked around.

Vinny was already halfway to her room, having
already stripped off her top.

Fifteen minutes later Vinny emerged decked out in a
sequin top and a short hot-pink skirt. Her eye makeup and lipstick
were glitter, and her long legs made her red flats look good, while
the shoes facilitated dancing. Raja didn’t often see her
dressed for a night on the town, and it was easy to forget how
gorgeous she was. He looked her over, trying not to gape.

“Not bad for a geek, eh?” said Vinny,
striking a pose and flashing a smile.

“You’ll do,” said Raja,
suppressing a wow. “What am I supposed to wear to go with that
outfit?”

“Oxford conservative suits you fine. Besides,
I doubt you packed much for the club scene.”

Vinny was right. The button down shirt and loafers
were pretty much a uniform for Raja, a holdover from his days at
university in England.

After a slalom run along Laurel Canyon Boulevard
that Raja thoroughly enjoyed, the Ferrari cruised into West Hollywood
on Santa Monica Boulevard. West Hollywood is a colorful and festive
place that comes to life at night. The two of them drove to the
Factory, a premier dance club that featured DJs and live acts playing
a variety of danceable music. It was a loud and rhythmic scene with a
decidedly gay flavor. You couldn’t find better dancing anywhere
in LA. Vinny dragged Raja inside and onto the dance floor in a
section where the DJ had the music cranked up to a mind-numbing
pulse.

They danced conservatively together for two numbers
until Vinny had warmed up. She was already attracting potential dance
partners when a couple of the club regulars dressed in Caribbean
native costume moved closer. When a Jamaican disco beat started up,
Raja made a graceful exit, leaving Vinny to boogie with the two pros.
And boogie she did, keeping up with the two gay men all night.

Raja tried a drink but it was watered-down junk. He
watched Vinny from one of the stand-up tables along the edges of the
dance floor.

All night Vinny drank Cuban mojitos that she sweated
out on the dance floor. Raja never got tired of watching her dance.
She had a natural grace that money can’t buy. By the time they
finally got home it was three in the morning. Within half an hour
Raja was sound asleep and even Vinny crashed for a rare night of
sleep.

Chapter Seventeen: Bloodhounds

The next morning, a good breakfast put both Raja and
Vinny in a working frame of mind. One thing was for sure, the judge
had been eliminated for a good reason. Killing a federal judge brings
a lot of heat. Vinny went to work sorting information on the judge.
Raja took the project of figuring out what the judge’s key
opened.

After an hour, Raja said, “I’ve been
thinking.”

“You should have warned me.”

“Very funny. As I was saying, I’ve been
thinking. The whole man-boy scene had to be more trouble for Judge
Griggsby than his wife’s cavalier attitude led me to believe.
What did she really know? Besides, she’s dead too.”

“Seems like a good place to start.”

“The man-boy community is an underground part
of the LGBT movement—a black sheep, crazy sister you keep in
the basement part—but part of it, nonetheless. If you listen to
the GLAAD spokespeople, it is an unsanctioned part, although
advocating for alternative lifestyles while excluding one is a narrow
fence to walk.”

“Tracking down the man-boy scene and its
connections won’t be easy,” said Vinny. “I found
several remote blogs on the area, with mention of what’s
referred to as the Lavender Mafia, a powerful group of gays primarily
in the entertainment industry. That led to blogs on legislation about
LGBT marriage in California, and the Proposition 8 ban on gay
marriage.”

“Aren’t there Prop 8 court cases still
pending?”

“Yes, in federal court.” Vinny had found
a connection with Judge Griggsby and his position as a federal review
judge in California. She was excited. “I found several
editorial blogs talking against the use of threats to out prominent
people as a form of political pressure. One even called it
blackmail.”

“But, I thought the judge was retiring,”
said Raja. “And, if he was being blackmailed to vote to
overturn Prop 8, who had the motive to kill him?”

“Maybe he had a change of heart,” said
Vinny.

“You saw what I saw in San Francisco. Not the
setting for a spiritual revival. In any event, how about you follow
up on the Lavender Mafia line? You know that’s not my deal.”

“I can do that,” said Vinny.

“Another thing I’ve been meaning to ask,
did you ever find out who owned the estate where the governor had his
party?”

“Yes. It was a Chinese investment bank working
through an offshore holding company.”

“Aren’t those—”

“State owned,” finished Vinny. “Most
definitely.”

“Why would they sponsor the governor’s
party?”

“No idea. The Chinese have been quietly buying
up real estate and businesses. As long as they stay under fifty
percent ownership, they can run under the radar. Any support to an
American politician would be taking a big chance of raising red
flags.”

“So, what’s the connection?”

“It must be big. Sounds like you have a line
to follow up,” said Vinny.

“I think you are right. But before I do, I
have an idea on the key we found.”

“What you mean we, white man?
You
stole
that key.”

“And now it might pay off. Come on, let’s
go for a ride.”

“That’s what she said.”

On Raja’s hunch, they drove to the Hillcrest
Country Club.

“Why here?” asked Vinny.

“The judge was in the middle of some nasty
business. He must have kept something to protect himself. He wouldn’t
keep it at his office or house. Where better than the private club?”

“Not that it did him any good.”

“It can’t hurt to look.”

The host was very accommodating due to the VIP
status Vinny had created for Raja. “How may I service you
today, sir?” asked an attractive young woman of perhaps
twenty-five.

Raja raised a finger in Vinny’s direction
knowing she was about to spit out one of her snappy answers. It
stopped her with her mouth already open.

“I am interested in any private storage you
might provide here at the club,” asked Raja. “Besides the
public lockers.”

“We do have individually numbered security
lockers in the back of the VIP lounge. Those are issued only on
special request. Would you like one, Mr. Williams?”

“Could you show us first?”

“Follow me.” The host led them through a
lounge with an over-abundance of mahogany wood, red leather and
crystal glass. In the rear was a coat closet and a bank of boxes in
the wall that looked like the larger safety deposit boxes at a bank.
The host opened one with a key she carried. “They are
double-walled titanium alloy for extra security. Suitable for jewelry
or any valuable, really.”

“Do you have the form to apply for one?”
asked Raja.

“I can get one at the front desk if you’d
like.”

“Would you?”

“Certainly.” The girl hurried off.

Raja pulled out the key he had removed from the
judge’s keyring. The number matched a box on the second row.

“Should we do this?” asked Vinny,
glancing over her shoulder.

“We have a key, don’t we?”

“One you took from a dead man.”

“He certainly can’t object, now can he?”

“True dat, bro. Hurry up.”

Raja opened the box and stared inside. Empty.
Someone had gotten there first. He closed the box and turned as the
girl returned from the front with a form ready for Raja to sign.

“Just out of curiosity, has anyone been here
to ask about these boxes recently?” asked Raja.

“Why, yes, how did you know?” she asked.

“Who was it?”

“Two government agents asked us to open a
locker and confiscated the contents. One of our patrons recently
died. I guess it was part of their investigation.”

“Who died?” asked Raja, already knowing
the answer.

“Judge Griggsby. I heard it was a nasty drug
overdose. You never really know about people, do you?”

“Did you get their names?”

“Who?”

“The agents.”

“No, but I think they were FBI.” The
girl gazed blankly for a few seconds. “They had badges, but I
didn’t get a close look at them.”

It was amazing what flashing a badge could do to a
civilian. You could shove a Mickey Mouse club badge in front of most
people and they would nod and do whatever you said. It was nearly
hypnotism. Raja didn’t say so, but he was sure the federal
agents were anything but. There was no point in mentioning it now.
Whatever had been in that locker was long gone.

Chapter Eighteen: Tinseltown

As they cruised along Santa Monica Boulevard in the
Ferrari Spider, Raja attempted to make small talk.

Vinny knew right away something was up. “Where
are we going, Raj?”

Raja refused to say, and had that goofy smirk he
always had when he was up to something fun. When he turned into the
Dream Cars West rental lot, he said, “Vinny, I didn’t
want to cramp your style, so I rented a car for you to use in LA.
With all the directions this case is taking, it may be helpful if we
split up on occasion.” He drove slowly along a row of high-end
cars, stopping in front of a blue BMW X6. “I thought one of
these would work.”

Vinny got out and peered into the driver side
window.

“I know you don’t like stick shifts, so,
of course, the one they are prepping for you is automatic.”

The manager pointed to a metallic silver coupe
pulling out of the detailing bay into the driveway.

“There it is,” said Raja. “Go
ahead. I’ll finish the paperwork.”

Vinny hurried over and walked around the car twice
before climbing inside. She looked like a kid in the candy store, and
that made Raja smile. He signed the rental agreement and walked to
the car.

“Smoking hot,” said Vinny. “Thanks.”
She looked good behind the wheel.

“The X6 is a deceptively fast car, so ease
into it until you get used to it, will you?” said Raja.

Vinny had already rolled up the window and pealed
out of the lot by the time Raja finished his sentence.

A ride through Griffith Park up to the Observatory
was enough to satisfy Vinny’s excitement over the new car. She
parked in a spot looking out over the city while continuing to
research on her iPad.

Vinny started a dialogue with one of the bloggers
who had mentioned the Lavender Mafia in his blog. Although the LGBT
community denied such an organization formally existed, no one could
deny the influence they had in Hollywood. Anyone looking at recent
television and movie content could see it plain as day. It was the
eight hundred pound gorilla no one talked about in Hollywood. The
blogger had pointed Vinny in the direction of the studios, and to one
executive in particular.

Vinny took a public tour of the studio lot, and then
used her computer skills to set an appointment for herself to see the
studio executive.

“Name?” asked the receptionist in the
outer office.

“Livinia Moore.”

“I don’t recall—wait—here it
is. Livinia Moore, with Caribbean Pictures. You are his two o’clock.
Have a seat.”

Vinny nodded and sat down. She was dressed in a grey
woman’s power skirt suit to match her pretense for being there.
The horn-rimmed glasses completed the look.

At quarter after two the receptionist made a call. A
young man came out to escort Vinny into the studio exec’s
office.