Private L.A. (8 page)

“LET ME GET
this straight,” Mayor Wills said, sinking into her desk chair. “He’s killing people to extort the city?”

“This explains it,” Fescoe said, nodding to his assistant again. YouTube disappeared, replaced by high-res photographs of two typed letters. “We got the letter on the left yesterday morning, the one on the right this morning. Both through snail mail.”

I scanned the two letters. Both talked about “senseless killings that could easily be avoided” and suggested that failure to accede to the demands would result in mass terror and damage to the Los Angeles economy. “After all,” the letters read, “who wants to be a tourist in Murder Central, USA?”

The first letter demanded a million dollars to prevent further killings. The second asked for two million and threatened that the price would rise again if No Prisoners was not contacted by ten the following morning. The letters gave instructions for Fescoe to initiate contact by posting a specific term—“tribute”—in an update on the LAPD’s Facebook page.

In turn, the chief would get information about where and how to transfer the money. The letters also warned that failure to make contact and payment within twenty-four hours would cause the daily death toll to increase by one.

“Using social media as one of the levers,” Del Rio commented. “You’re dealing with someone young, educated, a planner.”

I nodded, “And ex-military, I’d expect.”

Cammarata, a former US Army Ranger, snorted. “Why? Just because he uses the handle No Prisoners? He could have played football, as in ‘Take no prisoners.’ Or soccer, for Christ’s sake. Who is this amateur?”

I ignored the barb, said, “Could very well be, Sheriff. That’s just the way it feels to me.”

He nodded coldly. “We pros don’t go on feelings.”

“Well, there you go,” I replied. “But honestly, I’m as confused as you are, Sheriff, as to why Rick and I were asked here.”

All eyes traveled to Chief Fescoe, who cleared his throat. “In my opinion, what we have here is the makings of a first-class career Armageddon, a worse spree killer than the DC Sniper. How we handle this will pretty much determine our political fates, especially if the death count continues to rise. So what I’m about to suggest does not leave this room. Are we agreed?”

Slowly, reluctantly, all those gathered nodded, including me.

“I think Jack’s right in his reaction and so is Del Rio, and that’s part of why I asked them to join us,” Fescoe began. “This ‘pay to stop the killing’ angle. I’ve never seen it before. And there’s something about the way this is being done, call it a feeling if you want, Lou, but this guy is not going to stop. He’s highly trained. And he’s going to kill until we either catch him or we buckle and pay him off.”

“We are not buckling,” Mayor Wills said emphatically. “The City of Los Angeles will not be paying any murderous extortionist on my watch.”

“Exactly my thoughts, Your Honor,” the chief replied with a slow bow of his head. “I never for a moment considered advising you to pay. But we are faced with a double-edged sword. If we don’t pay, we must ask ourselves whether we are also dooming six innocent people to die tomorrow.”

“You don’t know that,” Sheriff Cammarata snapped.

“You want to take the chance?” Fescoe shot back, reddening.

“No,” the mayor said. “What are you suggesting, Mickey?”

Fescoe took a breath, glanced at me. “We could call in the FBI and their profilers and let them take control of this, but then the extortion campaign would leak everywhere, any way you look at it a PR nightmare for us.”

“I sense an ‘or’ coming,” Mayor Wills said.

“
Or
we can bring in Private on a hush-hush basis, as, say, consultants.”

“Why in God’s name would we do that?” Sheriff Cammarata demanded.

I was wondering the same thing. And I could tell Del Rio was too.

“Because they’re not tied to the goddamned Constitution,” Fescoe said. “They can simply do things we can’t legally. They can take risks that we can’t.”

“You mean they can cut corners and break laws?” the mayor said coldly.

“I didn’t say that, Your Honor,” Fescoe soothed. “But consider that six lives are at stake tomorrow, and seven the day after that. Wouldn’t you cut a few corners to save those lives?”

I held up both hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where am I legally here? Where is Private? My firm isn’t going to do your dirty work and then have you turn around and slap us with some Bill of Rights violation.”

“That won’t happen,” Fescoe said.

“How are you going to ensure that?” I demanded.

“The mayor is going to grant you blanket immunity beforehand, Jack. And the district attorney’s going to sign the guarantee of that. And so are the state’s attorney general and the governor.”

IN THE GARAGE
in the City of Commerce, Watson clapped, pointed at the iPad in front of him, and roared, “Thar she blows! ‘Tribute’ on the LAPD Facebook page!”

Cobb set down a cup of hot coffee and hurried to see. There it was: “Tribute to the fallen at CVS.”

“You were right on the money, Mr. Cobb,” Johnson said admiringly.

Cobb glanced at his watch. It was eight thirty in the evening. “An hour before I’d predicted, but we’ll take it.”

He turned to Kelleher, said, “Your ball from here.”

The big man smoothed his red beard and began typing on his keyboard.

“Use the New Delhi and Panama crisscrosses,” Watson said.

Kelleher’s left eye screwed up. “Who taught you about the New Delhi and Panama crisscrosses?”

“Just saying,” Watson said.

“No chance they’re paying us two million tomorrow,” Nickerson said.

“Of course not,” Cobb agreed. “They’ll try some sort of scam. Why?”

Watson muttered, “Because the whole world’s a scam, Mr. Cobb.”

“Damn right it is,” Cobb said, feeling in the groove of a familiar rant. “Everybody’s in a scam or being worked by a scammer. Look at Wall Street. Scam. Medicine? Scam. Politics? Scam. Religion? Bigger scam. Military?”

“Biggest scam,” said Hernandez and Johnson in unison.

“Plunderers,” Nickerson said.

Cobb cracked his knuckles, gestured with his scarred chin to Kelleher. “Time to work them a little harder now. Turn up the voltage.”

I GOT BACK
to my house around ten. I’d been up for forty-two straight hours, running on fumes, desperately in need of rest. The following day was shaping up to be a brute and I wanted to have my wits about me, rather than stumbling around foggy, maybe making a mistake that might cost six innocent people their lives.

Justine called while I was brushing my teeth after a well-deserved shower.

“I just got home,” she said.

“Join the club,” I said, and yawned.

“What was the emergency meeting about?”

“Can’t talk about it. Anything new up at the Harlows’?”

“Not at the ranch, no. Or at least nothing until Sci and Mo-bot can run tests on the samples they brought back. I don’t like Sanders and the other two.”

“I could tell. They’re playing us somehow.”

In the background I could hear dogs barking. “How’s the bulldog?”

“Better,” Justine said. “Settling in.”

“You took her with you?”

“You think I was going to let the dog be taken hostage by Camilla Bronson and locked in some hideaway along with the Harlows’ help?”

“Locked? That’s a little strong.”

“Is it?”

I knew better than to argue any further. “Listen, I’ve got to sleep.”

“One more thing,” she said. “When I went online, I saw a story the AP picked up from a newspaper in Guadalajara.”

I rubbed my head, which was pounding. “Okay?”

“It says that Thom and Jennifer Harlow were spotted stumbling around one of the more notorious sections of that city last night,” she said. “Witnesses claimed they looked past the point of drunkenness.”

“Guadalajara?”

“Yes.”

I rubbed my temples. “Looks like you’re going to Mexico in the morning. Take Cruz with you.”

“But the dogs …” she began.

A beep sounded. Call waiting. I looked, closed my eyes, and swore my head was being split in two. My dear brother, Tommy, was calling.

“You’re one of the most competent people I know,” I said to Justine. “Figure it out. Get to Guadalajara. Find the Harlows.”

I hit
ANSWER
, said, “Tommy?”

“Heh,” Tommy said, laughed.

He’d been drinking. My brother always laughs with a “heh” when he’s been drinking, another shitty trait Junior picked up from our late father. “Didn’t think you were gonna answer there, bro,” he said. “Long time no see.”

“What do you want?”

We hadn’t spoken in months, certainly not since Clay Harris died.

“My mouthpiece called a couple of hours ago,” Tommy said. “That son of a bitch Billy Blaze
is
indicting me.”

I flashed on District Attorney Blaze during the meeting in the mayor’s office. He hadn’t said a word to me about my brother. But then, why would he?

Tommy kept grumbling drunkenly. “Fucking murder one on circumstantial evidence. Can you believe that, Jack? They got no gun. No forensic evidence.”

“Other than the fact that you were picked up drunk and driving the dead man’s car.”

“No powder blast on my coat or hands,” Tommy said.

“You’ve always been clever,” I replied. “But anyway, sorry to hear you’re going to trial. I’m beat-up tired, heading to bed.”

“Heh,” Tommy said, laughed with more bitterness. “My liar says Billy Blaze will be there for the arraignment. Up for reelection next month, you know.”

“Tommy,” I began before my brother’s voice changed, became arch and knowing.

“I get to speak, Jack,” he said. “Did you know that? At the arraignment? I have the right to speak my piece, even against the advice of counsel and all. You should be there to hear what I have to say, brother. You really, really should.”

And then the line clicked dead.

A few minutes later, I lay in bed in the darkness, thinking,
What is there to stop Tommy from bringing me down with him? Implicating me in a murder I was in no way part of just to see me fall into the void after him? Just to see me ruined at last?

Nothing
, I thought as I plunged into sleep.
Nothing at all.

AT FIVE MINUTES
to six the next morning, Justine sipped the last of her espresso and then groaned as she got out of her car and shuffled across the street toward the Crossfit box. She’d had barely four hours’ sleep. Stella, the Harlows’ bulldog, had whimpered until Justine had let her up on the bed. The dog had proceeded to snore and fart all night long.

But she really is a sweetheart
, Justine thought as she entered the gym. What had happened to frighten her so badly? What had happened to the—?

“Justine? Hi.”

Justine startled and looked over to see Paul, the guy with the nice smile, nice eyes, and no wedding ring. He was stretching his hip flexors against the wall.

“Hi,” she said, realizing that she must look like hell. She hadn’t even had time to run a brush through her hair before she’d run out the door.

But Paul didn’t seem to mind. He just grinned, said, “Trying to keep up with you yesterday put me in a coma at work.”

She flashed to the grueling workout they’d endured the day before. “Sorry,” she said, moving to get a jump rope to warm up. “What do you do?”

“I teach English.”

“UCLA?” she asked. It was the closest university she could think of.

“No,” Paul said, his face falling slightly. “Bonaventure. Charter school.”

Justine felt like she’d slighted him somehow. Instead of starting to skip rope, she said, “Teaching is a noble calling. A way to change lives.”

Paul brightened again. “I like to think so. My students. They’re everything.”

“That’s really nice,” Justine said, smiling as she started skipping. “You make a difference.”

“I like to think so,” he said. “What do you—?”

Before he could finish, the coach called the class into the group warm-up, three rounds of Russian kettle bell swings, lunges, and inchworm push-ups.

Ten minutes later, sweating, feeling her muscles burning to life, Justine prepared to start the actual workout, a twenty-minute AMRAP, or As Many Rounds As Possible in twenty minutes, of five handstand push-ups, ten wall balls, and fifteen box jumps.

“Handstand push-ups?” Paul moaned. “Is that even possible?”

“Took me five months,” Justine said, kneeling on the floor, getting ready to kip herself up against the wall.

“You’re bionic,” Paul said, and moved off to another part of the gym.

Justine watched him go, thinking how nice it was that he really seemed to love his job, saw it as a calling. It was rare these days to meet a guy who wasn’t chasing money or power or whatever, a guy who—

“Go!”

She threw her feet overhead, balanced against the wall, and started to grind out the workout.
One, little sister. Four more now
.

When it was over, she’d done twelve rounds in the allotted twenty minutes. Not the best in the gym, but a perfectly respectable showing given the lack of sleep. She peeled herself off the floor as Paul staggered up and said, “This is bad. I’m supposed to give a lecture on
Moby-Dick
in my AP class, and I feel like the harpooned whale.”

Justine laughed. It was an absurd line, but she liked it. A funny guy too.

“So,” Paul said. “That guy who picked you up yesterday?”

Justine hesitated, then said, “My boss.”

“Oh,” Paul said, looking relieved. “What do you do?”

As a rule Justine didn’t like talking about what she did, especially with single men. When they found out she worked for Private, many of them were intimidated. One guy had recently told her he couldn’t date a woman who was capable of discovering his deepest secrets.

“Actuarial,” she said. “Boring.”

“Sounds fascinating, actually,” Paul said, glanced at his watch. “Feel like grabbing a cup of coffee before work? It’s only seven.”

For a second Justine was tempted, but then she shook her head. “Can’t. Sorry, I have to be on a flight to Mexico at eight.”