Read Private: #1 Suspect Online
Authors: James Patterson; Maxine Paetro
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #General
DEL RIO GOT out of the passenger seat of the Mercedes fleet car. He walked between the six-foot-high concrete gateposts dripping with flowers and up the crescent-shaped brick drive to the glass front doors of the Beverly Hills Sun.
The doorman opened the door, and when Del Rio got to the desk, he said to the girl in the black suit with the choppy hair, “There’s a package waiting for me. Rick Del Rio.”
The girl, name of Amy Kang pinned to her jacket, said, “May I see your ID?”
Del Rio thought that Cruz could come in here and say the same thing and the girl would pout and hint around for his phone number. If he looked like Cruz, or like Jack, for that matter, he could own the world.
He showed the girl his driver’s license. She ducked under the black marble and came up with a sealed manila envelope with his name on it.
He said, “Thanks, little Amy,” swiped the package off the countertop, and a moment later got back into the car with Cruz.
As the car shot west on Wilshire, Del Rio slid the CD into the tray of the dash ’puter and booted up the twenty-four-hour-long surveillance video of the fifth floor of the Sun.
The video was time dated, so Del Rio fast-reversed to Sunday afternoon, five o’clock, put it in fast-forward, and watched people getting in and out of the elevators, walking woodenly up and down the hallway, taking the one-way exit up to the pool deck.
“Christ,” he said to Cruz as the car took a right onto Westwood Boulevard. “They call this security?”
“Did ya see that?” Cruz said.
“What?”
“I think that was Sandra Bullock shot past me like I was stopped at a light.”
“The exit to the roof. Supposed to be one-way only, but it’s two-way if someone holds the door open for you. Like they all do.”
“Red Jag,” said Cruz. “I’m pretty sure that was her.”
“Room 502 is kinda far from the camera,” Del Rio said, “but I think this is our vic. Gets out of the elevator, walks away from us. Dark pants. White shirt, sport jacket. Yeah, that’s him. He was alive at five-thirty-eight last night.”
“Let me know when you see the hooker,” said Cruz.
“Here she comes,” said Del Rio. He slowed down the fast-forward to normal speed, watched the female come off the elevator. She was wearing a short blue dress, a push-up bra hoisting her ta-tas out of the neckline. Envelope-style purse. Stilettos. Long brown hair.
“I’ll give her a nine,” Del Rio said, his eyes following her as she went to 502 and knocked on the door.
Maurice Bingham opened it. The girl smiled, said something, and went inside. Time: six-thirteen.
“Couldn’t see her face too well,” Del Rio said. “But it matches with the timeline. He made the call to Phi Beta at what time?”
“Five-forty-five.”
“Right. So the girl arrives at six-thirteen. Let’s see how much time he paid for.”
Del Rio cranked up the speed, watched people doing little Charlie Chaplin walks up and down the hallway, taking the exit door up to the roof, coming down from the roof, then at eight-fifteen, the blue-dressed girl left 502 and headed to the elevator.
Del Rio froze the tape at the best shot of the girl’s face, which was not too good. But it was something.
“That’s it,” said Del Rio. He attached the still shot to an e-mail and sent it to Jack, copying himself. “Bingham got his last two hours of bliss,” he said to his partner, “before dollface killed him. Roll credits. Go to black.”
PHI BETA GIRLS operated from a small three-story house on Hilgard Avenue in Westwood, also known as UCLA’s Sorority Row. Cruz pulled the Mercedes up to the curb next to a gatepost where the Greek letters phi beta gamma were screwed into the wood.
Cruz and Del Rio got out of the car and went through the gate and up a path to the front door of the old earth-colored stucco house. Del Rio pressed the buzzer.
A twenty-something Hispanic male answered the door, hair slicked back, eyebrows waxed, wearing flip-flops, spotless white yoga pants, and a white tunic.
Cruz flashed his badge. Gold shield in a leather wallet. Looked like the real official thing.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“We need to see the lady of the house. Susan Burnett. We’re investigating a homicide.”
“Please wait here,” said the guy in white.
Cruz said, “Might be better for us not to stand on your doorstep.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Cruz turned away from the door and stood with his chin tilted up, hands clasped behind his back, taking in the smells of jacaranda and banana trees, while Del Rio stood on one foot, then the other until the guy came back.
“Miss Burnett will see you now.”
The madam or booker or whatever she called herself had a cappuccino complexion and a Pilates build. She was jogging on a treadmill in the gym at the back of the house, jalousie windows overlooking the pool.
Del Rio thought she was smokin’, probably a hooker herself a few years back. He tapped her shoulder and she turned, hit the power button, and got off her Nordic Track. Draped a towel around her neck.
Del Rio held up his badge again, not saying he was with the LAPD but implying it. No crime called “implying,” although impersonating a police officer was a felony.
“I’m Rick Del Rio. This is my partner, Emilio Cruz. We’re investigating a homicide. We’re not here about your business activities. This is all about a homicide last night at the Beverly Hills Sun.”
“We may have a witness, a girl who works for you,” Cruz said. “If I can put my CD into your player.”
“Oh, my. You’re very forward, Mr. Cruz,” said Susan Burnett, giving him a dry smile. “Let me see that badge again?”
Cruz took it out of his jacket pocket, preempting her indignation by saying, “We’re investigators with Private. We’re not going to talk to the cops. If we don’t have to.”
Burnett said, “I should call the cops just to see what you would do.”
“You want to turn this little inquiry into an official case, go ahead,” said Del Rio. “The tabloids will love it.”
Burnett thought for a second. “I wouldn’t want to play cards with you, Mr. Arroyo,” she said. “Follow me.” She went up a spiral staircase ahead of Cruz and Del Rio.
THE ROOM WHERE the business was done had once been a bedroom but was now outfitted with a conference table. Three women over thirty, and in one case over fifty, sat around it wearing headsets, each with a Sony workstation.
Travel posters were on the wall. St. Barts. Cozumel.
The older woman was making flight arrangements, saying, “I’ve got you two first-class bulkhead seats on the fifteenth, Mr. Oliver.”
Decent cover for an escort service, Del Rio thought.
The two other women just stared back at him.
Burnett was saying, “So, let’s have that CD.”
Del Rio handed it over and went to stand behind Burnett as she brought up the video.
“What am I looking at?”
“May I?” Del Rio asked.
He leaned over Burnett’s shoulder and reversed the CD to the time and date just before the hooker got off the elevator.
He hit “pause” and said, “We have Mr. Maurice Bingham entering room 502 of the Sun at five-thirty-eight last night. He called Phi Beta seven minutes later, at five-forty-five. Call lasted three minutes. Credit card transaction at five-forty-eight for twelve hundred dollars plus tax, payable to Phi Beta Girls.”
“I don’t know that Mr. Bingham was a client,” Burnett said. “Our clients don’t always use their real names.”
“Bingham used his real name and a real MasterCard. We checked. What you’re looking at is the fifth floor at six-thirteen p.m. last night. This is Mr. Bingham’s ‘date,’” Del Rio said, hitting “forward,” showing the girl walking to the room.
“Miss Cutie Patootie was in 502 for two hours on the nose, and now”—he sped up the action—“we see her leaving. Bingham was never seen alive again.”
Del Rio froze the image of the six-hundred-dollar-an-hour escort, then ejected the CD and handed it to Cruz.
Del Rio said, “We need to talk to this girl. If she didn’t do it, you’re done with us.
“I want to remind you that if you don’t help us, we will turn this disk over to the cops. So let’s play nice, okay, Susan? Who is the girl in the blue dress? And how do we find her?”
“PARTY GIRL AT two o’clock,” Cruz said to Del Rio. They were parked illegally on Charles E. Young Drive, right outside the UCLA Geffen School of Medicine.
“You go first,” Del Rio said. “I’ll bring up the rear.”
The escort’s name was Jillian Delaney and she was between classes, coming up a path between the brick buildings and geometric-shaped greens of the campus.
Cruz walked up to the pretty young woman, brunette, slim, walking by herself, books in her arms, knapsack on her back. He showed her his badge and the girl backed up a couple steps, looked around for a way out, but by then Del Rio was behind her, his badge in his hand.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“Last night. Room 502 at the Beverly Hills Sun,” said Cruz.
“Oh, my
God,
” she said.
Talk about a deer in the headlights. But, Del Rio thought, here again was where playacting got tricky. You couldn’t say to the girl, “Get into the squad car. Let’s discuss this downtown.” Just had to bluff and hope for the best.
He and Cruz walked Jillian Delaney toward a bench, and Cruz introduced them as “investigators.” They all sat down.
The girl was petite without the five-inch heels and looked much smaller sitting between them than she had on the surveillance tape. She weighed maybe a hundred and ten pounds with her clothes and shoes on.
Cruz said, “Let me hold your books, okay, Jillian?”
The girl looked at him. “Are you arresting me?” When Cruz didn’t answer, she handed them over.
Del Rio said, “Please hold out your hands.”
Jillian did as instructed, and Del Rio checked out her perfect nails, pale pink polish, no chips, no breaks. She turned her hands over, palms up.
There were no cuts or bruises on her baby-soft hands.
Even if she’d been wearing gloves, there should have been some physical signs from strangling a man to death with a wire.
“What classes are you taking?” Cruz asked.
“I’m studying emergency medicine,” said Delaney. She folded her arms and furrowed her brow as she looked at Del Rio.
“What were you doing at the Sun?” Cruz asked. “Don’t bother to lie, Jillian. We have a record of the phone calls from the john to Phi Beta. And we have you on time-dated surveillance tape. So how about it? Tell us about your date last night.”
THE COLLEGE GIRL who was moonlighting as an escort still looked afraid, but she was getting her stuff together, Del Rio thought. In fact, she was getting huffy.
“So, are you going to charge me with prostitution? Because look,” Jillian said to Del Rio. “I’m putting myself through medical school. That’s not an insignificant achievement. In a couple of years, I’ll be saving lives. You really want to get in the way of that?”
“We’re not here to bust you for your extracurricular activities,” Del Rio said. “Tell us about the guy last night.”
“Maurice? He was nice enough. No rough stuff. Nothing weird. He just wanted a good time. The kind he doesn’t get at home.”
“What happened after the good time?”
“Nothing. All the financials are handled through the service.”
“And how did he seem to you when you were leaving?”
“He was happy. He said maybe he’d see me again next time he was in town. I said good-bye. The limo was waiting for me out front.”
“There’s not going to be a next time for Bingham,” Del Rio said. “He’s dead. He was murdered.”
“But how could that…? Oh, no. After I left?”
“Did he get any phone calls while you were there?” Cruz asked. “Did he say he was worried about anything? Did anything about him seem unusual?”
“Nothing at all. Clean guy. Wore tighty-whities and a wedding ring. A normal date in every way.”
Back in the car, Del Rio put the CD into the player and ran it through all the way to the end once more.
There were long stretches of emptiness, interspersed with individuals going to their rooms. And there were crowds of people who got off the fifth-floor elevator on their way to the roof, their bodies blocking the camera’s view of 502.
Someone in one of those crowds had to have gone down the hallway, gained access to 502, and killed Bingham. But Del Rio never saw the door to 502 open after Jillian Delaney left.
“You think that girl could have killed the john?” Del Rio said to Cruz.
“I don’t see it.”
“Me neither. Someone came to his door and Bingham let him in. I’m calling this lead a dead end,” Del Rio said.
“Maurice Bingham’s last ride,” said Cruz.
CRUZ SPOKE INTO his phone to someone named Sammy as he headed the car toward the Hollenbeck area of East LA. When he hung up, he said to Del Rio, “I’ve known Sammy his whole life. I didn’t expect to know him this long. I thought by now he’d be just a memory in his grandmother’s mind.”
Cruz knew a lot of Sammys. He could have become a Sammy himself. He had grown up in Aliso Village, a notorious, crime-ridden housing project in the Flats. He became a boxer, went pro, was a middleweight on his way up until a bad concussion made him see double for a while. Maybe it cleared his mind enough for him to look for a way out.
He joined the LAPD for a year, then Bobby Petino—DA Petino—his second cousin twice removed, gave Cruz a job in the investigative branch of his office. A hard-ass ex-cop named Franco became his boss, and Cruz learned. He saw a lot of dead bodies, got to know people, learned what to look for to help the DA make a case. In three years, Franco was working for him.
Two years back, Jack Morgan told Bobby Petino he needed another investigator, and Petino gave Cruz another break of a lifetime. Sent him to meet Jack.
It was a good fit.
Working at Private, teaming up with Del Rio, a genuine war hero, was the greatest job Cruz ever had. The only thing better would be to head up Private, LA—if or when Jack promoted himself off the line.
Del Rio asked, “So, this Sammy. He’s on our payroll?”
“No. Strictly freelance.”
Whittier Boulevard was a four-lane strip through a broken neighborhood. In daylight, vendors stood outside their shops, hawking T-shirts and tube socks, and families shopped with their little kids. At night, drug dealers worked the dark places. Hookers worked their strolls.
But there was no time of day or night when a Mercedes looked right on Whittier. Right now, it was sticking out like patent leather shoes at a hoedown.
Cruz would have liked to be driving a Ford. A gray one. Like he had when he was working for the DA. But Jack had a weakness for good-looking cars.
Cruz said to Del Rio, “I want to park the showboat in the Kinney on South Soto. Two blocks up.”
After the car was stowed, Cruz and Del Rio walked past a minimall with run-down shops and barred windows. Crossing the street at Johnny’s Shrimp Boat, Cruz saw Sammy waiting outside La Mascota Bakery.
Sammy was thirty, white, shaggy black hair, goatee, turquoise boots with pointy toes, enough metal piercing his face to start a hardware store.
Sammy said, “Who’s this?” indicating Del Rio.
“This is Rick. He’s my partner. He’s cool,” Cruz said.
Sammy was high, eyes dilated, agitated, but ready to do a transaction.
Cruz said, “You hear anything about a big shipment of Oxy and shit, came into town last night?” He took a twenty out of his pocket, held it out with two fingers.
“A ’frigerated van?”
Cruz nodded. “What do you know about it?”
Sammy snatched the twenty, flashed a gappy smile, said, “I know that the van is locked up, off the street. There’s a lot of chatter ’bout how to get in on the score.”
Cruz said, “That tip wasn’t worth twenty cents, Sam.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, man. Hey, you know Siggy O?”
Cruz said, “I know Sig. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Another twenty and I can text him for you,” said Sammy.