City of Strangers (Luis Chavez Book 2) (25 page)

“Whose father did he insult?” Oscar asked.

“It’s not important,” replied Billy.

Both gunmen drew pistols and shot Tony in the back of the head. His dead body flopped forward, dust rising as he hit the ground. Oscar stared at the corpse in grim bewilderment. Helen put a hand to her mouth but said nothing.

“We would like to continue our partnership,” Billy said as the gunmen returned to their car. “In the short time it was operational, it proved fruitful. Mr. Qi was a man of vision in this respect.”

Three other men now moved to the body with blades, and a fourth unloaded what looked like fifty-pound bags of lye from the back of one of the other trucks.

“I agree,” Oscar said. “We are plugged into the city in ways you are not, and vice versa. I see no reason for the expansion of our cooperation to be temporary.”

“Excellent, then I—”

“I would like to add something, however,” Oscar interrupted.

“Anything, please,” Billy said, though his subtly clenched jaw suggested he meant the opposite.

“I’ve been looking to expand my business away from simply mechanic’s shops and custom parts and into dealerships,” Oscar said. “The cars sell themselves, but visibility and location are everything. I would like three large parcels of commercial real estate in the wealthiest areas of San Gabriel and financial backing for this venture.”

Oscar felt Helen’s hand tighten around his own. He knew the first question she’d ask when they were alone:
How long had you been keeping
that
idea from me?
But the truth was, as usual, he’d simply reacted to the opportunity and made it up on the fly. It seemed reasonable enough, given they’d just made him and his woman bear witness to a capital crime so their complicity and silence would bind them together.

“Agreed,” Billy said. “But it’s not a loan. It’s a partnership. Will you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Oscar said, realizing he might have just signed his death warrant.

“More importantly, is there a place for Ms. Story in this venture?” Billy asked.

“Of course,” Helen announced. “I’ll be the general manager of all three and liaise directly with you and your brethren.”

It was Oscar’s turn to squeeze Helen’s hand. He relaxed into this vision of the future, the two of them tied together in something that might actually add up to something else, and he was happy. Then he caught sight of the men with the blades carrying the pieces of Tony to an open grave and reminded himself how easily that could have been him and Helen.

Going to have to kill all these bastards one of these days.

Though Susan wanted to be driven back to Good Samaritan, Luis told her she should go home. After a couple of rounds of protest, she finally agreed, as if realizing she was in shock. By the time they got to Luis’s car, she was almost paralyzed, and he had to buckle her into her seat like a child. Before they were even out of the parking lot, she was in tears. Luis tried to speak to her, but she shook him off. They drove together in near silence, her sniffles and occasional cry the only things breaking the quiet.

“What’s going to happen now?” she finally asked as Luis pulled up in front of her house.

“I don’t know,” Luis admitted. “They’re going to keep making arrests and building cases against the triad leaders based on the evidence that’s been discovered, I guess. Once it comes out about Nan, public anger will turn to him and away from the triad, but that doesn’t mean the cases won’t lead to indictments. There’s too much evidence for it all to go away.”

“But without righteous indignation fueling things, they’re guilty of what? Counterfeiting generic pharmaceuticals?” Susan asked. “That’s a fine at best. A big one, but so what? They’ll never get anyone for Benny’s murder now. Heck, the public might even celebrate the dead triad gunmen who killed Nan as the real heroes who stopped the outbreak and got revenge for the victims. And the triad won’t stop making cheap counterfeit pharmaceuticals. They’ll just take it back offshore, and sooner or later they’ll taint another batch with industrial solvents or chromium or even hydrogen cyanide like they found in Tianjin, and more people will die. So what was it all for?”

Luis thought about this. Sadly, Susan’s words didn’t ring so untrue.

“That deputy DA Michael Story is a real bastard,” Luis said. “He’s a careerist and a liar and a self-aggrandizing weasel. He loves power more than justice and likes seeing himself in the paper. And through this case, he just got enough evidence to subpoena the financial records of every last one of those people identified as members of the triad. He will go after them not because of what they’ve done, but because of what going after them can do for him and his career. It may be an odd thing to have faith in the corrupted, but Michael will make them hurt. I guarantee it.”

As soon as he said the words, Luis realized he believed them. He hoped Susan did, too. She exited the car with a nod and moved up to her house. Luis was about to pull away from the curb when she turned back to him.

“I hope you’re right.”

Luis took his own leisurely time getting back to St. Augustine’s. The radio was nothing but reports on the shooting at USC, so he turned it off and went for a drive. He hit Sunset, wound it up through Hollywood, and took Laurel Canyon high up to Mulholland Drive, from which he could see all the way to the ocean in one direction and out to the desert in the other. He drove west, finally stopping when the road ended at a grassy trail. He parked the car and walked it until he was overlooking the ocean over an hour later.

When he finally returned to his car, his cell phone, long out of reception range, showed several voice mails. He picked the first, from Bridgette, and listened.

“He’s gone, Luis,” she said between sobs. “He’s gone.”

Luis didn’t listen to any more of the message. He tossed the phone into the car, climbed onto the hood, stared out toward the sun, and screamed as loud and as long as he could. There were no people around, and the sound didn’t even seem to warrant a glance from the passing birds.

XXV

Michael sat alone in his empty house, reading the newspaper from his iPad. A week had gone by since the shooting at USC and things had moved quickly. Coordinating with the FBI and the US Marshals Service, LAPD had descended on the LA triad in force. There had been over 120 arrests, a vast amount of material seized, and, in the coup to end all coups, two cargo containers filled with over a hundred pounds of heroin, one of the largest busts in Southern California history, went down in San Pedro. It linked the SARS outbreak to narcotics in the public imagination, and at least some of the attention that had been diverted toward Nan Tiu was suddenly back on the big, bad dragon syndicate.

Michael knew the truth—or at least a version of it. There was somebody in authority down there, whether it was customs, TSA, DHS, or even the local sheriff’s department, who’d likely been taking bribes to look the other way on the narco stuff. When everything began to crumble, they staged a bust to come out clean. Of course, the triad wasn’t stupid, and Michael figured this particular member of law enforcement would be knocking on his door asking for protective custody soon enough once they realized they were marked men or women. Then his case would only grow stronger.

He was riding one of these highs when he called Deborah Rebenold at home and told her he’d had a change of heart. She was effusive in her gratitude and understood Michael’s concern that if she ran for office the matter might come out. Chastened, she agreed to step away from public life. She’d already been made several offers in the private sector and was considering university positions in several states. She’d known that Michael had sent Naomi after her financial records and asked if there would need to be any remuneration. Michael told her that would only arouse suspicion. She was grateful all over again.

The truth was, neither Michael nor Naomi had found much that was actionable in Deborah’s financials. The triad knew what they were doing and funneled money to her in ways that were difficult to track, likely with cash. While Deborah’s bank accounts and credit cards revealed a very routine series of transactions, Michael knew of various vacations, cars, household renovations, items of jewelry, and so on that didn’t appear on any statements. It would take half a department six months to get anywhere with it, and he didn’t have that.

Better to avoid the scandal altogether, particularly given the one already on the boil for him at home.

Helen was gone. The kids, too. Though he had seen them during the week, the triad business had kept him at work late each night. So the children had been in the care of babysitters for a couple of days before Helen offered to take them in the short term to the place she was sharing with her new boyfriend. Michael had protested, figuring it was some gangster’s hovel, but when he learned of its address he consented. When he talked to the kids, they told him how much they loved the new place. They didn’t mention Oscar once, clearly by design.

Michael thought he’d miss Helen, or at the very least be jealous. He conjured the most depraved sexual images he could muster of his wife copulating with her new lover, but it didn’t affect him at all. He just didn’t care that much. Yeah, it would hit him in the bank account and couldn’t help but affect his political ambitions, but beyond that? He was still young, reasonably well-off, and rising in esteem. He had a
future
. If that didn’t result in primo tail, he didn’t know what would.

Of course, he’d have to be careful. He couldn’t exactly pick up a UCLA cheerleader at a Westwood bar and think she wouldn’t raise a few eyebrows the next time he was on the red carpet at a charity event or political function. He had to find the right woman—smart, ambitious, beautiful, just cunning enough, and, he hoped, fun.

Like Helen,
he thought.

His cell phone buzzed, and he checked the caller ID. It was Jeff Lambert. The two of them had been in almost constant contact over the past week as a decision neared on when exactly Michael should announce his candidacy. It couldn’t look like he was using the triad busts for political gain, but he also couldn’t wait until they’d faded in the public memory.

As of the night before they’d decided it should be leaked that Deborah wouldn’t be running for reelection. The press would hem and haw over who her replacement should be, and with a little help Michael would look like the front-runner. They’d let a few days go by, as if the reports had taken Michael completely by surprise, as he was so buried in casework. Then he’d allow a reporter to ask him about it so that he could deflect attention. This would be all the loose thread they’d need, as they’d start asking him about it every time he gave an interview.

Finally, he’d give in, as if only to stop the questions in order to focus on his cases. It would almost be a joke.

Me? District attorney? Yeah, okay. Go with that. I’m in. See what happens. The voters are smarter than that.

And that’s when Jeff’s team would go into overdrive and sweep poor, unsuspecting, aw-shucks civil servant Michael Story into the district attorney’s office.

“Good morning, Jeff. How are you?”

“I’m at your front door,” Jeff said. “Can you come out for a second?”

Michael froze. This couldn’t be anything but bad news. Had they found out about Helen and Oscar? That had to be it.

Goddammit.

Michael rose and moved to the door, checking himself out in a hall mirror as he went. He hadn’t shaved yet and looked slightly disheveled.
Not
a politically viable candidate.

“Hey, you should’ve let me know you were on your way over,” Michael said, opening the door. “Could’ve met for breakfast somewhere.”

But Jeff, the king of pleasantries, wasn’t having it. He handed Michael a large envelope.

“The Ramos campaign sent this over this morning,” Jeff said. “They knew we were planning a run and wanted us to have this as a ‘courtesy.’”

Michael opened the envelope. Inside he found several pieces of paper, photographs that had been printed off a computer. They were all of him and the late Annie Whittaker, the woman who’d been killed after recruiting whistle-blowers against the Marshak family. They were the same pictures the late Jason Marshak had tried to blackmail him with. After Jason was killed, the blackmail attempts had stopped.

Michael hadn’t given much thought as to where the images might’ve ended up.

“What is this?” Michael asked.

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Come on, Michael. That’s Anne Whittaker. And there’s a time and date stamp. This comes out, the case you built your newfound stardom on is suddenly tainted, and you with it. You’re out.”

“Jeff, I don’t understand. So I had an affair.”

“
Michael
. You had an affair with a murder victim and never bothered to disclose that fact even as you brought down the people who killed her. I mean, go you. Way to get revenge. But wow, that’s
 . . .
that’s an ethical quagmire a political candidate does not emerge from. The party had an emergency call this morning. We’re going to beg Deborah to stay on and see what happens. But that’s it for you. Keep those, by the way. I’d imagine there are plenty of copies out there in the world.”

Jeff turned to walk away. Michael, his heart pounding, reached out to grab him. Jeff yanked away and looked at Michael as if he might bite.

“What the hell could you have to say to me?” Jeff asked.

“Did they tell you where they got them? Or from whom?”

Jeff scowled. “They didn’t say. But it was Jing Saifai.”

“How do you know?”

“You think anything that happens in your office is a secret?” Jeff shot back. “If I were you, I’d keep my head down for the next few months and then start looking for another job. Your name is going to mean jack in the City of Los Angeles.”

With that, Jeff returned to his car. Michael walked back into the house, tossed the pictures and key drive onto the kitchen table, and sank into a dining room chair. He stared into space even as his cell phone buzzed and dinged and the house phone rang off the hook.

Pastor Whillans’s funeral was on the Wednesday morning after he died. Luis had attended, hadn’t said a word despite being asked to by several of his colleagues and friends of the pastor, and didn’t remember a moment of it. He’d taken the week off from teaching, as had a couple of the other priests, and had spent much of his time off in his room on his knees and in prayer.

He’d prepared for this moment for months, ever since he’d heard Whillans’s diagnosis. It was inevitable. He’d watched the pastor weaken and fall, but now he was gone. He went over and over their last interaction together, their jokey pre-sermon chat about nothing with Bridgette in the pastor’s office. Luis had envisioned what their last interaction would be like—the pastor in bed, Luis praying by his side, a few words, a few last bits of wisdom imparted, and then a farewell.

But even as he’d stood in that office that Sunday morning, Luis had known and, he believed, Pastor Whillans had known it was to be their last meeting. So why hadn’t they said more? Why hadn’t that wisdom come? Why had they treated it as if it was nothing, that the more important moment was the sermon and who was coming to attend?

And if they’d known the night before, why hadn’t they spoken of important things instead of this ridiculous murder case, the ins and outs of which were already escaping Luis’s thoughts?

Because we didn’t need to,
came the thought.
Because we’d said it all already.

Luis allowed this phrase to repeat in his head hour after hour, day after day, until he realized it was true.

Though the archbishop had flown back from the Vatican to attend Pastor Whillans’s funeral, something Luis noted he hadn’t done for Father Chang, he had barely had time to greet Luis before having to move on to the several other members of the diocese waiting for an audience. So when the archbishop arrived at St. Augustine’s on Saturday morning, Luis was surprised that he was there to see him.

“Father Chavez,” the archbishop said, embracing Luis. “How are you doing?”

“I’m all right, Your Eminence,” Luis said. “I know that Father Whillans was suffering and was glad to soon be in the presence of God. That is a great comfort.”

“Of course,” the archbishop replied. “And amen to that. Will you come with me to the altar?”

Luis obliged as the archbishop guided him to the chapel. There, the archbishop knelt and indicated for Luis to do similarly.

“A few months ago Father Whillans made a request of me. It was something I knew right away I could not grant. It asked too much. I prayed on it, but the answer remained elusive. I didn’t understand but do now.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Father,” the archbishop said. “Father Whillans told me of how the spirit moves within you. What a true instrument of God you’ve proven to be. And following his death, he wanted you to succeed him as the parish pastor of St. Augustine’s. I told him that was quite impossible, that you were far too young and inexperienced. That the congregation wouldn’t have it. But by all accounts I’ve been proven very wrong indeed and am humbled to be in your presence.”

Luis was stunned. He had never considered himself pastor material and even thought the diocese might reassign him to a different parish following Whillans’s death. This was a bolt from the blue.

“Pastor?” Luis managed to say. “Your Eminence, I don’t—”

“I know what you’re going to say and I agree with you a hundred percent. But I ask you to do what Father Whillans asked of me.
Pray.
God will then tell you what he told me. Then I will have your answer.”

Luis froze up. He had no idea how to respond. That’s when he noticed what time it was.

“Um, I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but I have an appointment. Can we revisit this topic?”

“Of course, Father. But don’t keep me waiting.”

“Pastor?”
Susan laughed. “You’re going to be the guy in charge? Do they
know
you? Better yet, does their God know what you get up to, running around the city busting gangsters and all? They’re nuts if they think you’re suddenly going to be this choirboy for them.”