Cross Cut (15 page)

“Yeah—”

“Well?”

I got up from the booth and gave her a smile. “Not a lot you can do.”

“I could check up on the Danturas. Look into it, see if there’s any proof they’ve been near Melissa.”

I shook my head. “Wouldn’t bother. I’m seeing some guys in the LAPD tomorrow. I trust their street knowledge more than the FBI’s surveillance capabilities.”

“What about me, you trust me, right?”

“Sure,” I said firmly. I tapped her on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

We returned to the beach house just before midnight. I was at the door when I watched Kacie walk over to her unkempt Mustang.

“You sure you don’t want to come over?” she said.

“Nah, I couldn’t. You can always stay here, though,” I said with a wry smile.

“I think that would be awkward.” She opened her car door, turned her head numerous times and said, “I could go check on her, you know. You can trust me.”

“You’d lose your job.”

She shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever.”

“I think we’ll manage. She can take care of herself.”

Kacie smiled nervously. “You’ll call me if you need help, right?”

“Got you on speed dial. G’night.”

She nodded and I watched her drive away before going inside.

Inside, the office was empty and the lights were out. Ryder had either gone to bed or seen sense and fled the state. I decided the latter was unlikely and I could hardly be bothered to check. One of the house rules is to stay clear of her bedroom.

I took my jacket off and threw it on the sofa. For a while I took to sitting on the stool by the middle aquarium and simply gazed inside, just like Ryder. I wondered if I would see as she did.

Here at this stool she keeps her deepest thoughts close by. Sometimes she would see herself in the reflection in the glass, but that reflection was not for anyone else.

When I look I see nothing but the seahorses.

Sometimes what you see depends on how far you’re willing to look.

21

At 10AM the day after, I sat awkwardly on a cheap steel chair at a desk on the third floor of the building on 251 East Sixth Street, which, among other sections, hosts the Gangs and Narcotics division of the LAPD. The room is full of officers coming and going, not paying any semblance of attention to me. Some in uniform, some in civilian clothing.

Luis Flores was in plain clothing, apparently readying himself for an undercover sting downtown. He said he had ten minutes, and by the way he talked, I knew he meant it.

“It’s nice to see you, amigo, but make it quick, I gotta be somewhere,” Flores said, putting on a plain blue baseball cap.

“Okay, I’ll put it straight. I think Cristescu is after us.”

“No shit. I tried telling you.”

“Not in that way—not yet at least.”

“Yeah, I heard it from a friend in the FBI. Seems like they’re convinced your girl did it.”

“She isn’t my girl. But if I don’t stop this, she’ll never be anyone’s girl.”

Flores leaned back on two chair legs, casually slinging his arms behind his head. “Stop what exactly? We’ve been after the Danturas for years. Your boss didn’t shut them down intentionally, and they kept going. Hell, Cristescu was running things from inside. Just how exactly do you expect to
stop
them?”

“First I want to get proof they set Melissa up. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

Flores laughed. “Well, nothing’s impossible.”

I gave him a copy of the capture from our surveillance camera, showing the guy outside our beach house yesterday. Flores looked at it for a second and shook his head.

“Don’t recognize him.”

“What about the tattoo?”

“Ain’t a gang tat, none that I know of. I guess he looks the part, but who’s to say.”

“Well, I don’t think he was eying up our place as a potential client. I want to find this guy.”

Flores returned the picture and sighed reluctantly.

I held out my palms inquisitively and tilted my head a little. “Gotta say, you’ve changed your tune. Monday you were practically begging to help us.”

“To help protect you, sure. Not to wage a war with the Danturas. It’s one thing to shoot back, quite another to shoot first.”

“I just want to fish something out. I’m not planning a goddamn coup.”

Flores sighed and landed back on four legs. He folded his arms and started to whisper. “If all you want is information, you’re better off talking to one of my CIs in Mid-City, he might be able to give you something. He’s not much to look at. Bit of a scrawny ñango, but he’s one of those charmers, and I don’t mean with the ladies. Doesn’t matter who comes up to him; white, black, Asian, Russian, neo-Nazi—he seems to get along with them.”

He handed me a torn piece of paper with an address. I looked at it, smirked, and said, “Cops as well by the looks. Can I trust him?”

Flores laughed. “Never trust a CI. Buy him enough booze and tell him I sent you and he’ll put out. He still owes me. I’ll give him a call and tell him to expect you.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Has Cristescu gone back to his old digs yet?”

“Not sure—” he leaned forward. “Why? Planning on going down there?” He let out a small, throaty roar of laughter. I said nothing and kept a straight face. His broad smile went neutral and he said, “No mames… you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?”

“Last time I heard it was a bar. Nothing wrong with me showing up for a drink.”

I got up and put the horrid steel chair to one side and gave him a farewell salute. “Ryder says to come for dinner sometime. Bring your wife.”

“Sure thing. Be careful, amigo.”

The address Flores gave me was a bar on Pico Boulevard, which is interesting enough, because this very road leads into West LA, where I would find Erik Cristescu. I had half a mind to go straight there, but figured it would be a missed opportunity to do some recon first.

The bar sits on the corner of an intersection, next to a small, abandoned theater. Inside a few of the locals sit at the counter and mumble among themselves. There was a time this place was a dangerous place to be, but those times have faded with some minor exceptions. I guess sometimes even the crack dealers and gangbangers decide to move on.

I stood alone and no one raised an eyebrow. It was a curious situation being here. For one, how was Flores so damn sure his CI would be here, in a single bar? Why not just give me his address?

I had little time to ponder this, as the scrawny guy that Flores had described signaled me over to a small section of the bar in the corner, near the fire exit.

I held out my hand and said hello. He nodded, and simply said, “Drinks on you, pal.”

I obeyed the request, as Flores had suggested, and introduced myself once we had two bottles of Bud on the table.

“Name’s Ader,” I said. “A friend of mine said you might be able to help me.”

“Any friend of Luis is a friend of mine. Good guy, I like the Mexicans.”

I nodded. “I heard you like a lot of people.”

“What can I say, I’m a people person. I have a—what do you call it, a listening ear.”

I nodded again and took a sip of my beer, squirming at the taste I’m not really fond of. I spared no time in displaying the picture of the mystery man. “Any idea who this is?”

He squinted at the picture and slowly shook his head, and then took a swig of his own beer. “Don’t know him, man. And I know a lot of people.”

“The tattoo—do you recognize that?”

“Nuh-uh. If you mean is it a gang tat, it ain’t.”

I sighed and couldn’t control my disappointment. “Shit.”

He took another swig and grinned. “Now hold on there, I didn’t say I didn’t know anything. The tattoo might not be anything, but there’s something else.” He squinted some more and tapped the picture with his middle finger. “What he’s smoking. They look like Kent’s, I recognize the filter.”

“So what? He can’t be the only guy who smokes them.”

He shook his head. “You call yourself a detective? They’re a popular enough brand, but not out here. But given what Luis told me, I’d say it’s too much of a coincidence—he said you thought the Romanians were after you, well, Kent’s are their preferred brand. They all smoke ‘em.”

I leaned forward for a moment, but then realized my excitement was premature. “That’s nice and all, but I could have guessed what he was without all that. What I’m after is a name.”

He held the picture up to the ceiling, like he was trying an obscure angle, but then he gave me it back and lifted his shoulders and took another swig of beer.

“Sorry, man, I don’t know him. But that’s saying something right there. I know most of the players in the Danturas. That’s who you’re after, right?”

I nodded. “Well, the other way around. They’re after us.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled. “Like I say, I know the Danturas. I’ve met most of Cristescu’s workers and I don’t recognize him.”

“So what you’re saying is—he’s Romanian, but not one of Cristescu’s?”

“Pretty much. He might belong to one of the sister gangs. The European syndicates or clans work differently, they sort of work on a hierarchy. You got your leaders at the top. Then you got the middle and ground floor, consisting of the workers that do all the dirty work of the operation. When the operation gets bigger, the leader of the original clan will allow someone from the middle ground to form a separate, sister clan, still answerable to them, but still separate. After several decades, the Dantura clan has probably formed several.

“The guy in your picture don’t look like no worker. He’s got the suit. He’s trying to look the part with his buffed up Lincoln without a single scratch on it. If you want a final opinion, I’d say this guy is a leader of a new sister clan. It would explain why I’ve never seen him around.”

I understood what he was trying to say. Either way it made no difference. The logistical workings of the Danturas didn’t mean squat to me. What I wanted to know was why he was outside our house and why Cristescu would even delegate such action to a secondary outfit.

“Can I ask for another opinion?” I said.

“Shoot,” he said. “But if it needs a long answer, I might need to wet my whistle, as you British say.”

I sighed and signaled over to the counter. It dawned on me then that I still hadn’t learned this guy’s name. When I asked, he said people call him Midge. Sounded like an alias rather than a nickname. Not that I cared.

“So—” I continued. “Would someone like Cristescu really order someone to carry out revenge? That’s pretty much what this is—payback for putting him behind bars.”

Midge leaned back against the wall and put the rim of the beer bottle up to his chin. Moments later he shook his head. “Well, you’ve not told me exactly what you think he’s done, but, no. If you’re talking revenge—they take business personally.” He took a sip and gasped. “Maybe he’d give it to one of his right hand men. You know, for deniability purposes. I mean, seen as he just got out of—” he stopped. His eyes screwed up a little, as if he were trying to force something out of them.

“What?” I asked.

“No, it’s just—well, that seals it. People like Cristescu have patience. Part of the job description, you see. He wouldn’t have been dumb enough to organize something so soon. It would be too obvious.”

It took me a while to take this in, considering it wasn’t really an opinion I wanted to acknowledge. If Cristescu didn’t organize Melissa’s frame up—who did? Who was the guy with the Lincoln at our beach house?

“I don’t believe it. If he isn’t behind it all, then nothing makes sense. The guy in the picture is one of them, I know it.”

Midge shrugged like he didn’t care. “Cops and detectives—you’re all the same. When it comes to it, you prefer to ignore what you don’t wanna hear. What have they done to you anyway?”

“They framed a friend of mine for murder.”

“Maybe they didn’t.”

I shook my head.

“Who was murdered?”

“Someone called Guy Lynch.”

Midge looked at me curiously. “That’s the Cross Cutter thing—shit, man.” He took another sip of his beer and then put it down heavily. “Sounds dumb. How would they even set that up?” He paused and lifted his head. “Hold on—didn’t the newspapers say he was a perfume man?”

“Perfume man? Well, he worked for a company that sells it. Why?”

“It could be coincidence, but—” he paused. “I’ll have to check it out.”

“Check what out?”

He sighed. “Like I said, it could be coincidence.”

“I don’t care. We’re knee deep in them already.”

He sighed again and put the beer to one side. “Well, this is third party talk. I heard it from an Armenian buddy of mine. Their gang is pretty tight with the Russians, who I get along with, who in turn are tight with the Danturas. Contrary to popular belief, not all gangs are at each other’s balls. Anyway, he was telling me about an operation they had going. Big earner, decent size production with a nice cover. It involved a perfume company, or something like that. Now a guy from a perfume company is dead—you see where I’m going?”