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  Chapter 20

  “DON’T GET COMFORTABLE,” I said to my twin.

  Tommy went over to the seating area of my office, threw himself onto the blue couch, put his feet on the coffee table.

  He sighed contentedly as he took in the wide view through my windows. Then: “How long does it take you to make twenty million, bro? A few years, at least, right?”

  I picked up the phone, called security.

  “Charles, I need assistance in my office,” I said. “Right now.” I hung up, said to my brother, “You have ten seconds.”

  “What happened to your eyebrows?”

  “Maybe you’ll tell me.”

  “Me?”

  My subconscious had spoken. Yes, Tommy could have done it. Could have blown up cars, set it up the way Detective Ziegler had said. Five cars in my neighborhood, then mine. Made it look like a serial arsonist, but maybe my car was the target all along.

  “Oh, are my ten seconds almost over?” he said. “Let me make this fast. I want to buy you out of Private, Jack. Twenty million, cash, before this case against Del Rio drives all your clients away. I’ll combine Private Investigations and Private Security and give you a piece of the whole company.

  “I think this could be called equity preservation,” he added.

  “Let me think about it. No.”

  “It’s win-win for you, Jack. So, okay. How much do you want?”

  The security team showed up. I told them that Mr. Morgan needed an escort out. Charles looked at Tom, looked at me, looked back at Tom, both of us with the same sandy-brown hair, the same features—except for my lack of eyebrows.

  Tommy laughed, said, “Throw the bum out.”

  I said, “It’s your choice, Tom. You can leave by the door or go out through the window.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, grinning, putting up his hands, getting to his feet. “You’re making a mistake.”

  In a minute, he was gone, with four security guys behind him to make sure that he didn’t loiter in the hallways.

  Tommy had stirred me up. As he always does. And as he has done since we were about seven. My brother hates me enough to set me up to take a murder rap.

  He’s done that, and he’s done worse.

  I just can’t prove it.

  I called Val back into my office.

  “Val, I apologize for my brother.”

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Thanks, though.”

  Val said she’d put together a list of all the high schools within five miles of my house with names and contact numbers, the theory being the list might help Cruz and Scotty find car-bombing teens, if they existed.

  Then she said, “It’s none of my business, but…”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You think Rick is going to be convicted?”

  “Could happen.”

  If Rick went away for aggravated assault, the raccoons would have a good time picking Private apart. That would be bad for business. Just as Tommy had said.

  My brother was sick, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Chapter 21

  THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE at the core of our building is beautiful, like a cross section of a nautilus shell. It rises from the center of our reception area and expands outward as it winds to the top floor. The staircase ends just outside my office, where it is capped by a skylight that brightens the stairs all the way down.

  Tommy was being escorted out by way of the elevator, so I left my office, paused at the railing, and looked down through the staircase to the ground floor. Once security had hustled Tommy to the street, I walked down one flight, to the fourth floor, where Justine’s office is right under mine.

  I knocked, stepped through the open doorway. Justine’s office is a lot like her: tailored, witty, easy on the eyes. She was putting on her jacket, getting ready to leave for the day.

  I said, “I think that Tommy set fire to my car.”

  “Ummm. He’s capable of it, but what about all those other cars that were torched in your neighborhood?”

  “That was Tommy. He was practicing,” I said.

  Justine laughed, straightened her collar, packed up her laptop. She turned off her art-glass desk lamp depicting two fish doing the samba.

  She said, “So why did he do it?”

  I said, “He needs a special reason?”

  My brother’s company, Private Security, provided bodyguards for Hollywood’s entertainment elite. He had a client list that looked like it had been ripped from the pages of Variety, and that list was like gold.

  Private Security got lucrative, repeat business, and Tommy knew the rich and famous intimately: where they lived, where they were going, where they got their drugs—their weaknesses and vulnerabilities—and where they went when they didn’t want to be seen.

  These A-list connections overflowed with perks for Tommy, including insider deals and young women who Velcroed themselves to him when he was attending to his clients in person.

  But although he loved himself and the business he was in, what really turned Tommy on was springing traps and perpetrating dirty-dog schemes on his enemies—of which I was enemy number one.

  Last year he framed me for murder. He tried to destroy me—and almost did.

  Justine said, “I’m not saying you’re paranoid, Jack, but I don’t think Tommy, as low as he is, would stoop to torching your car. It’s too juvenile for him. Too small.”

  “Maybe I am paranoid. But maybe firebombing my car is Tommy’s idea of lighting a fuse. Could be he’s just getting started.”

  “Okay.” She shook her head, laughed, said, “I don’t see it. I’m going to work on Sci’s angle. But if you think it’s Tommy, get a lease car, Jack.”

  I said, “Good idea. Want to have dinner?”

  “Since I’m the one with the wheels, I guess I get to choose the venue,” she said, shooting me a grin, snapping her briefcase closed.

  I talked Justine out of the keys and drove her Jag to one of our favorite places, the Water Grill.

  I thought about what she’d said about Tommy.

  It was true that Tommy was complex and devious and that a car fire, even a quarter-of-a-million-dollar-car fire, was small spuds. But he’d made his twenty-million-dollar offer just hours after this morning’s explosion.

  Maybe I was wrong to connect the two events.

  But Tommy and I both love sports cars. The big-bang wake-up call had Tommy’s warped sense of humor all over it.

  Chapter 22

  THE WATER GRILL is appointed in brass and leather, has marble columns and vaulted aquamarine ceilings that give the restaurant an airy feel. I ordered an amaretto sour for Justine and Ellie’s Brown Ale for myself, and by the time the drinks arrived, the aromas from the kitchen had driven me half crazy with hunger.

  Our waiter announced the specials and we ran the table, ordering Nantucket bay scallops, line-caught swordfish, and the risotto du jour.

  Justine was telling me about one of our clients, a woman who’d been caught stealing from her mother, and she was giving the story a hilarious spin.

  “Rita’s mom is ninety-four,” Justine was saying. “Jack, Rita wrote herself a check for two hundred dollars, and her mom hired Krauss and Maber to sue her for damages. I think Sandy Krauss bills his time at twelve hundred dollars an hour—”

  Justine’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, said, “Sorry, I need a second, Jack.”

  Justine typed a text, received one, typed a reply, and by then, my thoughts had gone to Bobby Petino.

  Bobby looked like a tough guy from Central Casting; he was handsome, smooth, and had been LA’s district attorney for about a decade. A while ago, Petino hired Private to work a particularly gruesome series of killings. A dozen high-school girls had been murdered by assorted methods, baffling the cops, leaving them frustrated and clueless for two years.

  Justine had asked to be Private’s lead investigator on the case. I called her Princess Do-Good and said, “Don’t get emotionally involved.” She said, “Shut
up, Jack,” then did nothing but work the case until she nailed it shut. It was heroic. It was historic.

  Justine and I were going through one of our off-seasons at the time, and she was dating Bobby Petino. Bobby used the closed-schoolgirl case as a political springboard to run for governor and tried to mend his broken marriage at the same time.

  Petino didn’t get what he wanted. He lost the election, his divorce was finalized, and now he was back as our city’s DA. I’d heard that Bobby was working on Justine, had told her that things would be different for them this time. That this time, he wouldn’t break her heart.

  Same kinds of things I told her.

  Bastards. Both of us.

  Justine said my name. I came back to the moment, said to her, “Sorry. I was thinking about Tommy.”

  “Well, stop doing that,” she said.

  We talked, we joked, we savored the chocolate cherry devil’s food cake, and I wondered if Justine had made plans with Bobby for later that night.

  The check came. I put my card down, looked up at Justine, who was looking at me.

  She’d said that as far as our relationship went, we were both free agents. Since I’d been unfaithful to her, it was fair for Justine to set the rules.

  No matter how much it killed me.

  She pulled the clip out of her hair and tossed her mane. My heart rate ticked up by twenty beats a minute. All these years of knowing her, and I still got a rush when I smelled her hair.

  “Where to, Jack?” Justine said. “Beach house or my house?”

  Chapter 23

  LESTER OLSEN SAT alone at the exclusive Club Privé in the Bellagio Hotel. The private casino was richly appointed in art deco style: black lacquer, dark wood, veiled with silver screens and textured glass. The air smelled like freshly mown money.

  Olsen had been banned from the card tables, but that didn’t matter. He was still in the game. From where he sat in the plush armchair, he could see Tule.

  Tule was twenty-two, petite, with skin as smooth as Baileys Irish Cream. He’d met her when she was serving drinks in the VIP lounge at the Black Diamond Hotel and Casino. Right now, this adorable woman wore a Reem Acra gold-sequined dress that cost around three thousand dollars, Cartier’s wrapped citrine earrings, and strappy Manolo Blahnik sandals, all of which he’d paid for.

  Les heard Tule say to the dealer, “Hit me,” then saw her peek at her cards. The guy sitting next to her was an industrialist with a heart of stone. He looked very good for seventy-eight, wore an Armani tux and a big diamond-studded Rolex that matched his silver hair. He whispered to the young Filipino woman.

  Tule nodded, then said with confidence, “I’ll see you and raise you—this much.”

  She pushed towers of chips toward the pot with both hands.

  A waiter walked into Olsen’s view, replaced his empty glass with a new tumbler of Woodford Reserve. When Olsen could see the card table again, Tule was dancing around her date, kissing his face, crying out, “Wowee. Honeyyyy. We did it.”

  Nice sound of chips stacking on their side of the table. Looked like they were having a good time.

  Tule moved away from the table, and his phone buzzed.

  He picked up, saw Tule’s face on his screen.

  “Hey,” she said, grinning. Les had paid to have her teeth straightened and veneered. The guy had done a very good job. Perfect, actually.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “I just made ten grand in two minutes.”

  He laughed. “I know. Good for you.”

  She said, “Could you meet me near the little girls’ room?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He left his drink on the table, walked past the bar, caught up with her when she stopped in the alcove. She stretched up her arms, put them around his neck, and, getting up on tiptoes, kissed him on the mouth.

  “I adore you,” she said.

  He squeezed her, swayed with her a little bit, kissed her neck like she was a baby, making her giggle. Then he straightened them both up and looked into her eyes.

  “Tell me, Tule. I really want to know.”

  “We’re getting married,” she said. She was keyed up, trying to keep her excitement in check.

  “Seriously? That is awesome,” said the brown-eyed man. “When?”

  “Tonight,” said Tule. “In a chapel up the street.”

  “No way.” Then: “You’re phenomenal.”

  “I owe it all to you,” she said.

  “Not all of it.”

  She grabbed his hand and laughed. They both did.

  “I’ll call you from Cannes. France. That’s where we’re going on our honeymoon.”

  “Wow. Give me another hug. Stay in touch. I mean it.”

  They hugged and he patted her bouncy little behind “for luck.”

  Then Olsen went to the elevator, stabbed the button with one twisted finger. He whistled as the car took him down silently, smoothly to the main floor, and from there, he walked out into the timeless neon life of the Strip.

  Chapter 24

  THE NEXT MORNING, my iPhone was clogged with alerts and e-mail from friends and clients letting me know that Private was in the headlines again. Rick’s past was being dragged through the muck, and Private was dirtied by association.

  It made me sick. All of it. And I was particularly worried for Rick. The man had saved my life. And there was no way I could help him with this.

  Justine and I arrived at the Criminal Courthouse before nine, sidestepped all but the most aggressive of the reporters who were clumped around the entrance to the building. One of the swamp suckers ran up to Justine, said, “Dr. Smith, what’s your opinion of Rick Del Rio’s personality? Borderline or full-blown psychopath?”

  I shoved the reporter out of our way, almost knocking him to the ground, saying, “Excuse me,” and as he howled for the police, we entered the judicial building.

  We found two seats together in courtroom 7B, three rows behind the defense table. Across the aisle and about four seats down, my brother lounged in a chair, one sockless, snakeskin-loafer-shod foot crossed over his thigh. He lifted his hand in an exaggerated, brassy wave. Why the hell was Tommy loitering in this courtroom? Was he here to aggravate me? To gather information? If so, what information, and why?

  Del Rio must have sensed the tension arcing across the aisle, because he turned for an instant, saw Justine and me. He smiled sadly. I gave him a thumbs-up, hoping it would give him a lift. He nudged Caine, who also turned, nodded, then turned back to face the bench.

  Within the next few minutes, the room filled and court convened. The bailiff asked everyone to rise, and Judge Johnson entered from the door behind the bench and took her seat. The clicking of little-dog toenails on the floor meant that her Chihuahua was under the bench.

  There was a sudden, muted flurry of conversation between the prosecutor and Eric Caine. I couldn’t hear them, but both attorneys turned and looked at me. Why?

  Lewis said, “Your Honor, we need a word.”

  The judge asked the lawyers to approach, and Lewis quickly got to the point. He pointed at me.

  “Jack Morgan is a witness for the defense,” Lewis said loudly. “He should be barred from the courtroom until he testifies.”

  I heard some of what Caine said in response: that I was a character witness, that my testimony was not material to the charges. And after some back-and-forth, the judge went along with Caine.

  This was good. I needed to be here for Rick.

  The jury filed in. ADA Lewis introduced his first witness.

  “The People call Ms. Geralyn Brodeski,” he said.

  I didn’t know the name, and I wondered who Dexter Lewis had put at the top of his witness lineup.

  A woman in her early fifties came through the double doors. She had short, streaked hair, wore a calf-length skirt and a ruffled print blouse. If I had to characterize her by her looks, I would say that she was a mild person, maybe a good citizen.

  She headed for t
he witness stand, said “Hello, Your Honor,” to the judge, then swore on the Bible to tell the truth.

  Chapter 25

  I WATCHED DEXTER Lewis leave the prosecution table, walk over to where Ms. Brodeski was fluffing her ruffles and preparing for her fifteen minutes of fame.

  At Lewis’s questioning, Ms. Brodeski said that she was a postmistress and established that she lived directly next door to Victoria Carmody.

  Lewis asked his witness, “Would you say that you and Ms. Carmody are good friends?”

  “Good neighbors, anyway. Both of us are divorced, and sometimes we talk about men.”

  “All right, Ms. Brodeski. Now. Did you see Ms. Carmody on the thirteenth of June, the day before the assault Mr. Del Rio is charged with committing?”

  “Yes. I just got home from work, and Vicky was watering her lawn. We exchanged a few words.”

  “What was the gist of this conversation?”

  “Vicky said that an ex-boyfriend was coming over the next night to return her camera. She was glad to have it back, because she had a photo on it that she took of Sylvester Stallone.”

  “And did Ms. Carmody mention the name of the man who was going to be coming over the next night?”

  “Yes. Rick Del Rio.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Brodeski. Your witness,” Lewis said to Eric Caine.

  But Brodeski kept talking, explaining to Dexter Lewis’s back and everyone in the room, “I didn’t like Rick. I told Vicky from the beginning that he was troubled and angry. And I was right. That’s why she broke up with him.”

  Eric Caine stood and spoke angrily from the defense table.

  “Objection, Your Honor. Let me count the ways. The witness’s uncalled-for remarks are her opinion as well as irrelevant and prejudicial. Then she topped it all off with a little hearsay, and I object to that as well.”

  The judge said, “Quite right, Mr. Caine. Ms. Brodeski, don’t volunteer opinions. Mrs. Gray, please strike the testimony from the record. Jurors, please disregard the witness’s remark. It may not be considered during your deliberations. Any questions? Mr. Caine?”