Private jm-1 Read online

  “Tommy. Tom,” I shouted after him. “Talk to me, okay? Let’s talk. Tom.”

  He pulled up short and turned, a frown on his face, clenched fists at his sides. I’d been toe-to-toe with my brother before, but this seemed more serious.

  “Stay out of my business, Jack. I said I can handle it. I know these guys.”

  “You have the money to pay off your debt? Because what I hear is the Mob is going to start breaking bones, your bones, Tom. That’s just before they wire up your ignition and take over your business.”

  “If they kill me, they won’t get paid, will they?” Tommy said with a smirk. “Stay out of it, Jack. Don’t make me tell you again.”

  “As much fun as this is, I’m butting in because of what this is going to do to Annie and Ned.”

  “Yeah, I see your halo twinkling now. Doesn’t that get a little old?”

  “So rather than let me help you, you’d rather be a selfish, out-of-control son of a bitch with a colossal death wish, and destroy your family in the process. That’s it, right?”

  Tommy gave me a sour grin. “So what are you offering? A bridge loan if I never call my bookie again? You’re out of your mind.”

  He turned and strode away from me, but I caught up with him and put my hand on his shoulder.

  I had fought with Tommy so many times that I saw the roundhouse punch coming almost before he threw it.

  I ducked, put my shoulder into his gut, and knocked him down. We both hit the pavement, but my fall was cushioned by the paunchy body of my well-fed twin.

  He got an arm free and tried to get me into a headlock, but I rolled him over and hiked his right arm behind his back. Then I got his wrist up between his shoulder blades.

  “Owww. Listen, stupid,” he grunted. “Any of my guys see you doing this, they’ll pound your head to a pulp. I won’t stop ’em either.”

  “I’m taking you somewhere,” I said. “And you’re going to come with me and be a good sport about it.”

  “You’re crazy. Owww.”

  “I’m the best chance you have, asshole. Always have been.”

  “Bastard,” he grunted. “I wish you were dead.”

  It came to me in a flash. How had I not seen this-or had I just blocked out the obvious? “You’ve been calling me, haven’t you, Tommy? Day and night, calling me and wishing me dead.”

  “What? Ow, damn it. Never. I never fucking call you, you fuck.” And then the starch went out of him and he started to cry. “The bastards killed my dog.”

  “Who? Who did that? Your dog? Ned’s dog?”

  “Boys from the Mob.”

  I said, “Okay. I’m sorry, Tom. I’m letting you up now. Don’t fight me, okay?”

  “You want me to say thank you? Don’t hold your breath.”

  “I want you to come with me-and don’t give me any trouble.”

  “Fine. Whatever you want.”

  I didn’t let him up just yet.

  “Pinkie swear?” I said, looping my left pinkie around his. It took a couple of seconds, but then he squeezed my finger.

  “Pinkie fucking swear,” he said.

  Chapter 35

  Marguerite Esperanza told her grandmama she’d be back in a few minutes, all right? She let the screen door slam behind her as she left the small brown stucco house with the red tile roof on St. George Street, a five-minute walk to the video store, where she’d gone a hundred thousand times before.

  She was listening to her iPod as she turned onto Rowena. The four-laner was bright with storefronts: Pizza Hut, Blockbuster, Sushi-to-Go. Busy and totally safe.

  No problems on the horizon. Besides-Marguerite could handle problems. For sure.

  Marguerite waved to a couple of kids she knew and kept going toward the Best Buy sign blinking at the end of the next block. Her phone buzzed, signaling that she had a text message.

  She didn’t recognize the number, but only one person called her Tigerpuss. That would be Lamar Rindell. Lamar was a supercute senior, a basketball player who’d been flirting with Marg both in person and on the phone. She’d hung out with him and a bunch of other kids after school, but Marg was hoping for more.

  Lam: Wassup Tigerpuss.

  Marg: getting a video. New Moon. I vampires.

  Lam: Video World?

  Marg: yeh. it’s close, right?

  Lam: want to get pizza after?

  Marg: I can’t.

  Lam: ok. Never mind.

  Marguerite leaned against a mailbox while she weighed her options. It was Grandmama versus Lamar, and she shouldn’t have to choose. Pizza Hut was only one block down. It wasn’t even dark out yet.

  She typed to Lamar: “OK. C U soon.”

  Then she called home, said, “I’m stopping for a slice and a Coke. You can practically see the place from the kitchen window. I’ll have Lamar walk me home, okay?”

  Marg rehearsed her attitude, her mind focused on how she’d remember everything she and Lamar said to each other so she could tell her BFF Tonya all about it when she got home. She grinned to herself just thinking about that.

  She headed to get her vampire movie. She started off walking, but then she began to skip.

  Chapter 36

  A black Hyundai van with a cable TV logo on the side cruised the streets of Los Feliz.

  “I’ve got your pigeon on the grid,” Morbid said to the guy sitting next to him in the back. “She just left her house. She’s going to bite. She’s going down.”

  “I’m ready,” said Jason Pilser in his role as Scylla. A freakin’ Greek monster. Six heads. “Let me do this. She’s all mine, right?”

  Morbid gave the keyboard to Scylla, who watched the tracking icon that stood for Marguerite Esperanza as it traveled across the GPS map.

  Scylla tapped on the keys, sending a text message to Marguerite using the name of this guy, Lamar, who’d been texting Marguerite for a couple of weeks.

  And Marguerite was answering.

  After some dialogue and a change of mind, she said yes. She’d meet “Lamar” at Pizza Hut.

  Scylla felt the sweat gather at his hairline. He patted his jacket pocket, put on his fresh gloves.

  He listened in on Marguerite’s call to her grandma over the speaker, and when she’d told her good-bye, Steemcleena parked the van on Rowena. Maybe twenty yards from the pizzeria. No more than that.

  Scylla watched Marguerite’s icon on the GPS grid close in on the icon for the van. He looked through the dark glass of the side window as the girl came up the sidewalk past the stationery store.

  “She’s a babe,” he said.

  “And she’s all yours, Scylla. She’s your babe. Think you can handle her?”

  For a few seconds Marguerite would be between the dry cleaner and the van, like an eclipse of the moon.

  “Scylla. Go,” Morbid said. “Go now.”

  Scylla pulled open the van door and got his first good look at the target. The girl was bigger than he’d thought.

  She was at least five ten and looked ripped. With only seconds to make his decision, Scylla leaped to the sidewalk, came up behind her, and threw a cloth bag over her head, cinching the drawstring.

  She screamed incredibly loud, and she fought back too.

  Scylla clapped his hand over her mouth. He was so filled with adrenaline, it took nothing for him and Morbid to lift her off the sidewalk and throw her into the back of the van.

  Morbid slammed the doors closed and slapped the divider to signal Steem to go, go. Then he and Scylla threw their bodies on top of the struggling girl.

  “Gotcha,” Scylla said. “Now be a good girl.”

  Morbid yelled at her, “If you shut the hell up, we’ll give you a chance to win.”

  Scylla’s mouth was dry. He was so pumped. Even if he wanted to, there was no backing out now.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “Give me a chance to win what?”

  Chapter 37

  There was a screech of brakes as the black van jerked to a halt. The doors gro
und open, and Scylla and Morbid hoisted the girl out by her long arms and legs. They carried her quickly away from the street and tossed her to the ground.

  Suddenly she was a blur as she pulled off the hood and got to her feet in one startlingly fast movement. She lashed out to clear the space around her and faced Scylla, who was in a wrestling crouch only a body’s length away.

  He grinned, a ski mask covering most of his face. She was nothing like the combatants he’d faced on Commandos of Doom. Her reality was startling and exciting, but most of all, it was a challenge.

  “Hey, Tigerpuss. Here, kitty kitty,” he said to the girl.

  “Who are you?” Marguerite screamed back at him.

  “I’m the one who’s going to test you,” Scylla said. “It’s me against you, Marguerite.”

  The girl looked around, and Scylla saw her take in the scene. They were on Rowena, past the strip malls and stores, right on the bank of the reservoir, a place as desolate as the dark side of the moon. Cars zoomed by beyond the fence that walled off the reservoir from the road.

  Morbid and Steem danced around Marguerite, executing martial feints that Scylla had used innumerable times on Commandos of Doom. It not only kept the target off balance, it blocked her escape.

  But where some girls would have begged and cried, this one lunged. She shot out the heel of her hand and connected with a cracking sound, square on Scylla’s nose.

  He fell back with a howl of agony and held his face with both hands. He saw the girl turn to run, dodging the others as if she were weaving through defenders for a layup in a playground basketball game.

  Steem reached out with a long arm, grabbed the girl’s hair, and yanked her right off her feet.

  Then he let go of her and stepped back. This wasn’t his turn.

  Scylla thought he knew what to do now. He went straight for the girl, visualizing throwing her to the ground and choking her with a headlock-but she was much faster than he was.

  She spun around, chopped at him in some kind of judo move, then followed the chop with a kick to his groin. He saw the kick coming and deflected it so that it connected with his thigh, but it still hurt like hell. Another hard blow landed on his forearm. Had she cracked a bone?

  He dodged several more of her blows, and when she connected, he didn’t go down. The pain was actually feeding him now, real pain, a real life-and-death game. It stoked his fury as he danced around her. Morbid and Steem were taunting her, crowding her, waving their arms.

  “I’ll remember you,” she shouted at them, a fierce warrior and opponent. “You. You. And especially you, asshole!”

  As Scylla watched, Marguerite spun and missed. He saw his chance and chopped the back of her neck with the side of his hand. Then he kicked her legs out from under her.

  She was down, crying now, “Why… why?” But then she bounced right up again.

  She went at Scylla and smashed a foot into his throat. He went down-and the girl saw a hole to run through, to get away from them.

  Steem called to Morbid, “She’s too good for him.” Then he started to laugh. She was getting away, though. So he pulled a gun from his waistband. He shot her in the chest. That knocked her straight back, and she fell over Scylla.

  She lay there, and Steem stood over her.

  “You were great,” he said. Then he shot her in the face. Twice to be sure.

  Morbid stepped up beside him over the dead girl. “That was kind of cool. She was great.”

  Chapter 38

  Jason Pilser-Scylla-wanted to lift his chin and howl. The pain started at his nose, radiated out and along every nerve in his body, pounded in his left thigh and right forearm, which was probably broken. If pain could be seen, he would have been blazing like a fucking light show.

  But there was justice too. The bitch was dead. Now he was in charge of staging the body.

  He taped the free end of an electric cord to her hand and positioned it over her head; the other end, he tightly knotted around her neck, so it looked as though she had hanged herself.

  Gallows humor-and the original plan before Steem had had to shoot her.

  If he hadn’t been in such agony, it would actually have been pretty damn funny. He took off the bitch’s athletic shoes and threw them into the van. His trophy. The shoes were so big, he could probably wear them himself. That would be a hell of a thing, wouldn’t it?

  He was about to say so as he looked up at Morbid and Steem. Objectively, they were savages. He was sure they killed for the same reason he had. For the unparalleled thrill. It was like a drug. And they were smart enough, disciplined enough, to pull it off in populated areas, like here.

  Shit. He’d just killed a woman with traffic racing by on the other side of a fence.

  Steemcleena finally spoke. “Scylla. That was a very poor showing, man.”

  Jason didn’t like the expression on Steem’s face. Getting injured had cost him points. Hell, she had knocked him down. Jason said, “You’re kidding, right? She’s some kind of judo expert.”

  “You guys, get into the van,” Steemcleena said. “Scylla, you’ll get another shot at this. Maybe next time you’ll even win.”

  Chapter 39

  Del Rio and Cruz left the fleet Mercedes with the valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel and headed through the lobby to the Polo Lounge. The maitre d’ said that Ms. Rollins was on the patio. Cruz rolled up his jacket sleeves and followed Del Rio out into the bright sunshine.

  Cruz thought that Sherry Rollins looked about thirty, although it was getting harder to tell women’s ages in this town. She was wearing a floppy hat and a skinny black dress with white detailing; she looked like a young executive at one of the studios.

  Both men shook hands with her, said their names, and the blond-haired woman moved her dog from a chair and invited them to sit down.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “The lobster salad is quite good.”

  “Something to drink, maybe,” Del Rio said.

  The waitress trotted over and took an order of beer for Del Rio, tea for Cruz. Then Cruz took the lead.

  “Ms. Rollins.”

  “Sherry,” she said.

  “Sherry. We’re investigating the death of Shelby Cushman. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”

  “A break-in, wasn’t it? A burglar broke into the house and shot her.”

  “Actually, that’s not right,” Del Rio said. “All the indications are that Shelby Cushman was murdered with premeditation. Nothing was taken. Not a thing.”

  “That’s insane,” said the woman. “I’m sure I heard it was a robbery. Why else would someone kill Shelby?”

  “How well did you know her?” Cruz asked.

  “I’ve known her a few years,” she said. “I wouldn’t say I was a close friend.”

  “But she used to work for you, didn’t she? She was one of your escorts.”

  Sherry Rollins didn’t miss a beat. “Not since she got married. Last few months, she was working for someone else. That’s what I heard, anyway. I’m sorry-this is very upsetting.”

  “It would really help if you’d tell us all about it,” said Cruz. “And don’t leave anything out. Try to hold in your grief.”

  “I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you.”

  “You do, Sherry,” said Del Rio, his voice all business, no kidding around now. “You know a lot more. And I’ll tell you what. Help us out here, and we won’t go to the police. We won’t tell them why we think you’re a suspect in Shelby Cushman’s murder.”

  “Suspect? That is absurd. Why would I want to kill Shelby?”

  “I don’t know why, but the police might like to question you about that-and any number of other things.”

  The woman in the hat gave him an icy look, but he had her, and he knew it.

  Sometimes Del Rio really liked his job.

  So far, he was giving this day five stars.

  Chapter 40

  At just after four, the sun was a dull white disk glowing in a pewter gray sky
. The reservoir was covered with algae, and the trees were large humps, massed like woolly mammoths, making the whole place seem prehistoric.

  If you squinted, you couldn’t see the city of Los Angeles at all. You could pretend the rush of traffic on Rowena was just a bitter wind.

  Justine Smith’s heels sank into the ground as she walked down the slope toward the cordon of crime scene tape that stretched from tree to tree, a bright yellow ring in the smog and the gloom.

  Lieutenant Nora Cronin lifted the tape for Justine, but instead of making a snarky remark, she just said hi. Something had changed, and Justine had an idea what it might be. Cronin now felt so desperate about the case, she would accept any help.

  Even from Private. Even from Justine.

  “Chief Fescoe has been looking for you,” Cronin said. “He’s here.”

  Justine nodded, then continued on toward the scrum of cops huddled around the body. At six-foot-three, Mickey Fescoe stood a bit above the others. It was rare to see the chief of police at a crime scene, but she guessed that Fescoe too was feeling the heat.

  Thirteen girls had died in just over two years. Fescoe had been promoted in the middle of this murder spree, but now the bad news had caught up with him and threatened to swamp him. The parents of the murdered girls had formed an action committee and were on the television news every night. The public was scared and inflamed.

  Justine put her hand on the police chief’s arm.

  Fescoe turned and said, “Justine. I’m glad you’re here. Take a look.” He handed her a pair of latex gloves. “It’s escalating, getting worse.”

  Justine stooped beside the body of Marguerite Esperanza. There was an extension cord knotted into a noose and pulled tightly around the seventeen-year-old girl’s neck.

  The loose end of the cord was taped to her left hand, which was positioned at an odd angle above her head. The really weird part was that the girl had been shot at least twice-in the chest and in the face.