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  “Not entirely, no. I got Borman’s clothes out of evidence, ran them at our lab. The DNA is good,” Justine said to Cronin. “Two male single-source samples. But no bells went off in the database.”

  “So what do you want from me? I’m a little lost here.”

  “We have reason to believe that another murder is going down in two days.”

  “Oh, really? But you can’t tell me how you know this, right? So, I repeat, what do you want from me?”

  “Christine Castiglia saw a Gateway Prep decal on the kidnap van,” Justine said. She tapped buttons on the dashboard computer and called up the photo of Rudolph Crocker’s face.

  “This is the guy Christine Castiglia ID’d. Name is Rudolph Crocker. He graduated from Gateway in 2006. Now he’s a suit at a brokerage house. Christine is sure he’s the one she saw.”

  “Uh-huh. Now what, Justine?”

  “So, I’ve got a suspect over here,” Justine said, holding up one hand. “And I’ve got a DNA sample over here.” She held up the other hand. “If we can put this hand and this hand together, we might just put a bloody psychopath out of business.”

  “Saying I want to do it, I’d have to know everything you know,” Cronin said. “None of this ‘We have reason to believe’ crap. You hold anything back from me, I quit.”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t answer to you.”

  “No, you don’t. And you can’t bring anyone from LAPD into this without my okay. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” said Nora.

  She was smiling now. It was probably the first time Justine had seen a smile from her. “I’m gonna take a lotta crap for working with you. After all the names I’ve called you.”

  Justine nodded. “Deal?”

  “Deal.” They slapped high fives in the frigid air.

  “We’re going to make a great team,” said Justine.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Nora Cronin. “I still don’t particularly like you.”

  Justine finally smiled. “Oh, you will.”

  Chapter 93

  I WAS HEADING into the office, stuck in a swamp of traffic on Pico, when Mo-bot called me from the tech center.

  “Five minutes ago, our friends at the LAX Marriott made a call to a bottling plant in Reno asking for a donation to the State Troopers’ Widows Fund,” she said, her voice trilling with excitement. “The plant is owned by none other than Anthony Marzullo. Happy, Jack?”

  “Good catch, Mo. That’s excellent. But you know what I really want.”

  “To hear the sound of coins changing hands?” Mo laughed. “After the call to Nevada, Victor Spano called Kenny Owen on his mobile. They’re meeting at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Bungalow four this afternoon.”

  Mo had been tapping into Kenny Owen’s and Lance Richter’s phones since they’d arrived in LA in advance of tomorrow’s game. We already knew that the professional handicappers expected the Titans to crush the Raiders by three touchdowns. And we knew that if the two refs could skew the calls, could make a seventeen-point spread hold up, tens of millions in illegal bets would slide over to the Marzullos’ side of the ledger.

  But Uncle Fred and his associates would want more than idle chitchat and suspicion. They’d need proof.

  I called Del Rio, met him at the garage, and swapped my car for one of our Honda CR-Vs. The Honda was black with tinted windows, outfitted with cutting-edge wireless electronics.

  I drove myself and my wingman to Sunset, pulled the car under the porte cochere at the entrance to the Beverly Hills Hotel, and dropped Del Rio off.

  He pulled down the bill of his cap and adjusted his camera bag as he entered the hotel. Once he was inside, I looped around Sunset and parked on Crescent Drive, a hundred yards and a stucco wall away from the pretty white cottage in the lush garden surrounding the hotel.

  Del Rio kept me posted through his lapel mic as he planted the pin cams, one at the bungalow’s front door and another at the patio, and stuck three more “spider eyes” on windows facing into the three rooms.

  A long twelve minutes later, Del Rio was back in the CR-V, and the microcameras were streaming wireless AV to our laptops.

  The only things moving inside the bungalow were dust motes wafting upward in columns of sunlight.

  For all of his volatility, Del Rio could sit on a tail for ten hours without having to take a leak. I was still suffering mental whiplash from the earthquake and the devastating memory it had dislodged. After a half hour of staring at sunbeams, I had to say something or I was going to explode.

  “Rick. Did you take a look at Danny Young when I brought him out of the helicopter?”

  “Huh? Yeah. Why?”

  My voice was flat as I told him about my morning. I was a dead man talking, but I got to the point. I didn’t need to add color commentary. Del Rio had been there.

  “So let me get this straight,” Del Rio said when I’d finished. “You’re beating yourself up for leaving Jeff Albert in the Phrog and trying to save Danny Young? What about the other guys? We took a missile, Jack. And you landed the goddamn aircraft.”

  “Do you remember Albert?”

  “Sure. He was a good kid. They were all good kids. Jack, you were just a kid yourself.”

  “I think Danny Young was dead when I pulled him out.”

  Del Rio stared at me for a few seconds before he said, “Danny’s blood was still pumping out of his chest when I got to you. He died on the ground. The helicopter blew up, Jack. If you’d gone back in, Danny Young, Jeff Albert, and you would have died.

  “And nobody could’ve brought you back.”

  Del Rio was right. Danny’s blood had been splashing on my shoes. He had been alive. I had brought him out alive.

  I almost felt fully alive myself.

  Neither of us spoke again until two men came up the bungalow’s front walk.

  One was Victor Spano. The other was a short man in a good suit. The guy in the suit put a key card into the slot and opened the door to Bungalow 4.

  I put my arms up like a football referee.

  “Touchdown!”

  Chapter 94

  I HAD BIG NEWS, but not necessarily good news, to tell.

  It was dark when I pulled up to my uncle’s huge Italianate manse in Oakland. I parked at the top of the circular drive and trotted up the walkway.

  Fred’s second wife, Lois, came to the door and was joined by my boisterous eleven-year-old cousin, Brian, who tackled my thighs like the All-American linebacker for Southern Cal he was sure he was going to be one day.

  I rolled around and groaned in fake pain as Brian whooped and did a white-boy sack dance in the foyer. My little cousin Jackie stooped down and patted my head as if I were a golden retriever.

  “Brian is a big fat brat, Jack. Are you hurt bad?”

  I winked at her and told her I was okay, and she pulled my nose.

  “Did you eat, Jack?” Uncle Fred asked, giving me a hand up, then throwing an arm across my shoulders.

  “I wouldn’t say no to coffee,” I said.

  “How about coffee and a slice of banana cream pie?”

  “Sold.”

  I grabbed a chair at the dining table, and the kids pelted me with questions—about the earthquake, if I’d nailed any bad guys lately, the fastest I’d ever driven my car.

  As soon as I answered one question, they loaded up and fired again.

  Normally, I’d have grabbed one kid under each arm, taken them into the media room, and watched a Spider-Man or a Batman movie, but tonight I was thinking of the time, how little of it was left before the Sunday schedule of games, one game in particular.

  I caught my uncle’s eye and patted my breast pocket. He nodded and said to Lois, “I’m going to steal Jack for a few minutes.”

  I followed Fred to his study, a beautiful mahogany-paneled room with two walls of trophy cases and a sixty-eight-inch flat-screen hung like a trophy over the fireplace.

  “I’m going to drink,” Fred said.
<
br />   “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  Fred poured J&B over rocks, and I shoved the flash drive into his video setup. I gave him the desk chair so he could have the better angle. Fred Kreutzer was a complicated man. I couldn’t guess at how he would react to the unfortunate movie I had to show him.

  His high-def screen was first-rate, a perfect match for our NASA-grade cameras.

  We began to see images captured from outside the Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow, looking in.

  A red light winked on a telephone.

  A man in a suit, his back to the camera, picked up the receiver, punched in some numbers, and collected a message.

  Behind him, Victor Spano took a Heineken out of the fridge and turned on the television.

  I took the remote control off Fred’s desk and sped the action forward, then slowed it as the man in the suit turned his face for his close-up.

  It was Anthony Marzullo, the third-generation boss of the Chicago Mob bearing his family name.

  On camera, he said to Spano, “Get the door.”

  Spano did, and two men walked in: Kenny Owen, referee and crew chief with twenty-five years of experience on the field, and Lance Richter, a sharp young line judge who clearly saw that his financial future lay in queering the game, not playing by the rules.

  My uncle Fred drew in a breath, then let out a string of curses.

  Onscreen, hands were shaken, and the refs filled seats opposite a man who had taken on the heretofore impossible task of corrupting modern-day pro football.

  “There can be no mistakes,” said Marzullo. He smiled without moving the top of his face. “As per usual, here’s twenty percent down. The rest you get tomorrow night. No more than seventeen points. Understand? If you have to call the game on account of the sun’s in your eyes, that’s good enough. Whatever it takes to hold the spread.”

  Richter said, “We understand, and we know what’s at stake.” He reached for a fat stack of banded hundreds.

  “Do you?” Marzullo said, putting his hand over Richter’s.

  “Yes, sir. It’ll happen just like you want. It’s not a problem. Whatever it takes.”

  Owen slapped his packet against his thigh before pocketing the cash.

  I stopped the video and turned to my uncle.

  The poor guy looked as though he’d taken a wrecking ball to the gut. Actually, I remembered the look from my father’s trial, a combination of terrible shame and sadness.

  “It’s pretty bold,” I said. “This isn’t just a case of one ambitious mobster and a couple of crooked refs. It’s much bigger. The Marzullos are moving in on the Noccias’ territory.”

  “I never thought Kenny Owen would take a nickel that didn’t belong to him,” said Fred. “I know his wife and I’ve met his kids. One plays ball at Ohio State.”

  “The tape is good,” I said. “It’ll hold up in court.”

  “I’ve got some calls to make,” Fred said. “I’ll get back to you in the morning, let you know what we’re going to do. You did a good job for us, Jack.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry, Uncle Fred. I couldn’t be sorrier.”

  “Yeah,” Fred said. “Tomorrow’ll be worse.”

  Chapter 95

  IT WAS PAST midnight when I finally got to Colleen’s house.

  I was wrung out, and I needed Colleen’s cool hand on my forehead. I wanted to listen to the musical sound of her brogue and fall asleep with her body curled around mine.

  She came to the door in a camisole and a pair of panties the size of an afterthought. Her hair was bunched loosely on top of her head. She smelled wonderful, like pink roses with sugar on top.

  “I’m sorry, but the inn is closed,” she said. “There’s a Days Inn down the road a piece.”

  “Colleen, I should have called first.”

  “Come in, Jack.”

  She opened the door and stood on her toes to kiss me. Then she leaned in and pressed her hips against me for the couple of seconds it took to get me hard.

  She ran her hand across the front of my pants, then took my hand in hers and led me to her bedroom. Filtered moonlight was coming through the curtains as Colleen stepped into a pair of high-heeled shoes.

  “Want to watch the telly?” she asked. “Or is it something else you have in mind?”

  “What’s on?” I said, and grinned.

  So did Colleen.

  Chapter 96

  I PUT MY hands on the straps of her camisole and pulled them down onto her shoulders. No farther than that. Just a tease.

  Colleen kept smiling as she unbuckled my belt and stripped off my clothes. Then she sat me down, took off my shoes and socks, and pushed me back onto her bed.

  “God, I do love that body,” she said. “I do. God save me.”

  This wasn’t what I had expected when I rang her doorbell, but there I was, naked on flowered sheets, watching Colleen tug the clips out of her hair. That curtain of fragrant black silk fell around her shoulders, covering, then revealing her breasts.

  She bent over me, hair tickling my face, and she kissed me deeply and for a long time. It was glorious. She slid into the bed and wriggled against me, her cool skin sliding across mine, pulling away, then pressing against me.

  I had my hands around her narrow hips—felt a prick of high heels at the small of my back—and then I was inside her.

  My mind emptied, thoughts of sleep having burned away completely. Love poured in and filled my heart, love and gratitude and ecstasy and then, after maybe ten minutes of this, release—for both of us. I moved off Colleen’s body and sank into the bed.

  The sweat began to dry on my skin, and unbelievably, Colleen began to cry.

  I felt a flash of regret. I couldn’t take any more this day, not another thing, but the feeling dissolved, replaced by shame and then compassion for Colleen.

  I gathered her into my arms and held her as she sobbed quietly against my chest. “Colleen, what is it?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Sweetie, tell me what it is. I want to hear it. I’m right here.”

  Colleen struggled out of my arms. Shoes flew, banged into the corner. The bathroom door opened, and I heard water running. Minutes later, Colleen came out in a long sleep shirt and got into the bed.

  “I’ve made a right fool of meself,” she said.

  “Talk to me. Please.”

  She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. I put my hand across her belly.

  “It’s hard, Jack. This—leaves me so sad sometimes. I see you at midnight some random nights. I work with you at the office. And in between?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I couldn’t say that things would change. We were smack up against the wall, and I had to tell the truth.

  “This is all I’ve got, Colleen. I can’t move in. I can’t marry you. This has to stop.”

  “You don’t love me, do you, Jack?”

  I sighed. Colleen hugged me as I stroked her hair. “I do. But not the way you need.”

  I felt as heartsick as she felt, and then I had to disengage from her embrace.

  “Stay, Jack. I’m okay now. It’s Sunday morning. A bright new day.”

  “I’ve got to go home and get some sleep. I’m working today…. This NFL thing is about to blow. My uncle is depending on me. I gave him my promise.”

  “I see.”

  I gathered my clothes from the floor and dressed in the dark. Colleen was staring at the ceiling when I kissed her good-bye.

  “You’re not a bad person, Jack. You’ve always been honest with me. You’re always straight. Have a good day for yourself, now.”

  Chapter 97

  COLLEEN WAS STILL on my mind when Del Rio and I met Fred in the stadium parking lot at noon.

  Horns blared without mercy. Motorcycles sputtered and roared as they came through the gates. Cars and trucks streamed across asphalt. Fans of all ages wearing Raiders T-shirts—some with their faces painted silver and black, a select few in Darth Raider costumes—w
ere having tailgate parties, cooking burgers and steaks and getting bombed.

  The home team was going to play, and the fans always dared to hope that by some miracle their glory days would return, that the Raiders would triumph—and if they didn’t, it was still a good day for a party.

  I looked across to the owners’ lot, saw Fred lock his car and start toward the entrance. He was wearing his favorite warm-up jacket, Dockers, and orthopedic shoes. His thinning hair was neatly combed. I thought that he looked older than he had a week ago, like he’d suffered a great loss, which I guess he had.

  I called Fred’s name, and he looked up, changed course.

  He shook hands with Del Rio, clapped my shoulder, and led us through the crowd toward a side door beyond the lines.

  “Thanks for coming, Jack, Rick. I appreciate it.”

  He flashed his ID at one of the security guards, said, “They’re with me,” and a door opened into a tunnel fit for a remake of the Mean Joe Greene commercial.

  For one bright green instant, I saw the field, the stands filling on all sides, and then we took a sharp left and headed down beneath the stadium.

  Doors opened and closed along the underground hallway. Stadium personnel called out to Fred, and he acknowledged them with a wave and a smile—but my stomach clenched thinking about what was going to happen in the next few minutes.

  “Let’s get it over with,” Fred said. “This is going to be tough, really bad, Jack.”

  He put his key into a lock and stood back to let me and Del Rio pass in front of him into his office.

  I was surprised to see Evan Newman and David Dix sitting around Fred’s desk. Two men I didn’t recognize sat on a sofa at the rear of the room. They were wearing black-and-white stripes. Their expressions were grim.

  Fred introduced the men as Skip Stefero and Marty Matlaga, then said, “Jack, you got the pictures? You and Rick, come with me. Everyone else, we’ll be back in a couple of minutes. If we’re not, bust in.”

  Rick and I followed Fred a short distance to a door marked “Officials.”