Cross Cut (16 page)

I could have kissed him, but I was still working some things in my head. Could it be a coincidence? Like hell. Ryder had always told me it only takes so many of them before you revert to a singular truth, or at least the beginning of a singular truth. If this so called operation was linked to Gillham and Mane, and they in turn were linked to the Danturas, we had turned over a big stone.

“Can’t you remember the name of the company? Or what the operation is?” I asked nonchalantly, trying to hide my interest just in case he was twitchy about giving away too much information on his buddy’s operation. I figured that if he didn’t know Ryder and I were involved directly with Lynch or Gillham and Mane, he’d have no reason to stonewall me.

“I don’t remember the name. Not too sure I should be telling you about the operation.”

“I just want to know for myself if there was another reason for Lynch’s death, that’s all.”

He turned his head for a second and seemed to be chewing something in his mouth. Considering he hadn’t put anything inside his mouth, I assumed he had the filthy habit of biting the inside of his cheeks.

“Well, alright,” Midge said. “Guess it can’t hurt any. Not like anyone will know it came from me.”

I decided to play along by questioning his change of heart mildly. I think of it as reverse psychology when it’s not needed. “Well, I don’t want to get you into trouble with your Armenian friend.”

He laughed. “He’s a buddy, not a friend. Buddies don’t owe each other anything. At least, that’s how I view it. Buddies aren’t against exchanging money for information, and I see you as a buddy now, if you catch my drift.”

I grinned at him and held out my wallet. He took all the bills, which I never counted, although I usually keep two hundred bucks on my person.

“From what I heard, it involved the production of methamphetamine,” he said. He pronounced the last word perfectly, as if he were trying to sound intellectual.

“There’s a meth lab in—” I stopped before I said Gillham and Mane. That would’ve been dumb. “—that perfume company?”

“That’s what I said. I don’t know anything else. Sorry, but no refunds.” He smiled.

I smiled back and casually took another sip of beer. “Why a meth lab?” I mumbled.

“It’s a good cover,” Midge said. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, but it probably is. Mass production of the stuff requires a few things to keep it under wraps, the main being the fumes and the toxicity. I’m pretty sure a place like that already has decent ventilation, and has certain equipment to aid the process. And if anybody walks past the factory, they’re not gonna think twice smelling something like ammonia and ether. Then there’s distribution. Again, it’s company property. People won’t think twice about it.”

“So the Danturas are involved in this, and Guy Lynch is dead—somehow that doesn’t sound like a coincidence. Sounds more like a link.”

“It does,” he said. “But that ain’t it. You see, I know for a fact the Danturas
aren’t
involved with it. Not directly. But maybe their sister clan is…”

“So what you said earlier is probably right. Guy in the photo is the leader of this—” I trailed off as soon as I realized it didn’t warrant much of an explanation. Sure, there were many reasons why Guy Lynch might have been killed, but none of them came close to explaining Melissa’s predicament. It seemed a good theory, to me at least, that the guy outside the beach house was checking to see what would happen to Melissa. When he saw the FBI go away empty handed, he probably didn’t like it.

“Could be,” Midge said with a yawn. “These sister gangs like to help each other out. Wouldn’t surprise me if your mystery friend was running the operation jointly with the Armenians. All to prove themselves worthy to their original clans, and establish credibility.”

“Hmm. If this guy wants to prove himself, maybe it’s just him acting alone. But I can’t be sure.” I rose from my seat and gestured firmly with my hand. “How would I find this guy? Do the sister gangs keep to the same places as the Danturas?”

Midge didn’t stand. He remained seated and shrugged, finishing the last of his beer. “Not really, that would defeat the point. But they’ll still be in contact. And before you ask, I’ve no idea where else they’d be. I’m not even sure such a gang exists. But I can ask around.”

I shook my head. “Nah, forget it. I’ll just go ask the big cheese himself.”

Midge laughed cynically. “You’re one crazy ass son of a bitch. I like that.”

I turned my back to him and said, “Thanks for the information.”

“Do you know why I do what I do?” he said.

I didn’t turn around. For some reason, I didn’t want to look at him anymore. “I don’t really know what you do.”

“Precisely.” He chortled. “Most people see me as a rat, which is just dumb. I’ve never been one to pick a side. Why bother? No one’s gunning for me, and I’m not gunning for them. I sit on the side, more like a vulture. I see everything from afar and take what I can when no one’s looking. And no one’s looking because they know what I am. Predators can see a vulture in the distance as they go about their business and they don’t care. They know we have no say in their own struggle. When the vulture picks up the pieces, the predators don’t look back in anger.”

I really didn’t understand what this babble meant until a little later. Maybe I should have paid more attention.

I grunted and began to walk away. I didn’t really have anything to say. He certainly didn’t look the type to spout philosophical stuff.

If he was a vulture, I had no doubt he’d be finishing up my beer by the time I left the bar.

22

I took the same road west and made a little detour into Century City for a decent change of scenery and a bite to eat. After reaching the center of West LA I turned off Pico Boulevard and made my way south, to Cristescu’s lair.

I wasn’t stalling, not really. It’s not as if I feared Erik Cristescu, it was more the fact I had no idea how I was going to approach the situation, and how I’d obtain the information I wanted from my visit.

Nothing I had learned from Midge the Vulture was set in stone. Part of being a detective is to know one man’s opinion is another man’s bullshit. But I must admit I was taking to it. Sometimes it’s worth taking a lead, even if it leads you nowhere, or worse, somewhere you don’t want to be.

I could forget about Gillham and Mane for a while. That would be easy enough to investigate. It seemed a snap to imagine whatever was going on there was related to Lynch’s death. Linking it to my mystery man wouldn’t be too difficult either, once I found him. But figuring out what it all had to do with the Cross Cutter was anyone’s guess. And I still couldn’t shake the feeling I was blind to something. Like there was a motive for everything that just wasn’t apparent yet.

I stood outside the elegant gentlemen’s club called Averea with my hands in my pockets. At this time of day there aren’t many people about, either on the streets or inside places like this. It seemed to me like it was in an odd location. The majority of clubs and nightlife attractions were a mile or two east. The club was well hidden, too. From the outside, your average tourist would hardly distinguish it from something like a gym or a library. Small, pyramidal bushes shielded all the ground floor windows. Entry required a trip down a set of stairs. I straightened up my jacket and evened out my collar, and walked in.

Inside, the bar was mostly empty. It possessed a dark atmosphere and the lights varied in color. The waitresses scantily clothed, and appeared idle among the clientele. Some were talking at the tables and behind the bar. One of them was playing cards with three burly men at a table to the far end of the room. As I made my way to the bar and ordered a scotch, no one batted an eye. The waitress gave me a smile and served me my drink.

“You’re new,” she said. Her voice was European, that much I could tell. “I never see you before.”

“I’ve never seen me before neither.”

“Ha. Is that joke?”

“Dunno, was it funny?”

“Not really.”

“Then it was probably a joke.” I took a small sip. In all honesty, it was too early in the day, and I’d just had a beer. And I kind of hate beer. “Seems a bit slow in here.”

“Always slow in the day. Come back at night, and we have a party.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, then I lowered my voice. “Is the boss man in?”

“Boss man?” she said, confused.

“Erik.”

She took a step back and lowered her head and whispered. “Why you want to see Erik?”

“Business.”

“You don’t look like business. You can’t just see him.”

“Sure I can, just tell me where he is.”

She shook her head lazily. “No. I get into trouble.”

Behind me I heard a gruff voice. It belonged to a cue ball, wearing a black suit and shirt. Big muscles and a thick neck. Probably one of the henchmen.

“You’re asking about the boss,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I want to ask him a question.”

“Go ask your question somewhere else. This place ain’t for the likes of you.”

The cue ball obviously wasn’t Romanian. In fact, he was probably just plain American. It was nice of Cristescu to follow the equality regulations when hiring his staff.

“It sells scotch, trust me, this place is for me. Now, where is your boss?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

I looked him in the eye and tried to look impatient and menacing. “Tell him Miss Ryder sent me. He’ll see me.”

His eyes screwed up a little and I could see his teeth. I half thought he was going to clobber me there and then, but to my surprise he turned around and disappeared to the back of the room. He returned soon after, and took me by the shoulder.

“The boss will see you,” he said.

I let him lead me through the centre of the room as the men playing cards shot me a gaze. The girl at the bar smiled at me and turned away quickly. The cue ball opened a black wooden door and pushed me inside, closing the door behind him.

The room was small and luxurious. The walls painted red with wooden borders. A single, yet large majestic desk stood in front of me, made of teak, most likely handcrafted. Two framed pictures hanging on the left and right wall, both oil paintings, possessing a brown texture that bolstered the atmosphere of the room. The painting on the right was of a woman playing a stringed instrument. The top of the instrument was missing. On the left wall, the same woman was bent over, her profile facing away from view, the stringed instrument on the floor, complete this time.

Behind the desk stood Erik Cristescu. He wore a white suit with a black shirt, the top button undone. His hair was black and slicked back. He was in his late forties and he looked good for it. A scar on his top lip glimmered when he spoke.

“Mr Adrian York, please, come in.” He looked past me and nodded to the henchman. “Leave us.”

The door slammed behind me and an awkward silence overcame the room. He remained standing and a small chuckle came from the back of his throat. “You were admiring the paintings. They’re by a fellow countryman. Quite modern, but relevant nonetheless.”

“Yes,” I said. “There’s a woman—and—she’s playing a violin…”

He laughed. “One man’s treasure is another man’s—rubbish. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m guessing you already know.”

“Oh? I’m afraid you would be wrong.”

“So if I accused you of harassing us, you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about?”

“Us?” He smiled. “I assume by that you mean your boss, Kendra Ryder. How is she, by the way?”

“She was fine until you got out.”

“And I was fine until she put me in. Nevertheless, I owe Miss Ryder a great deal of thanks. One must learn by their mistakes.”

“What about revenge?” I said firmly.

He laughed again. “For being in prison for two years? Hardly anything to lose sleep over.”

“So you’re saying you had nothing to do with this?”

“I’m afraid you’re being a little vague. What is
this,
exactly?”

I swallowed and mustered up some courage to give it to him straight. “Our friend, Melissa Hart, was framed for murdering someone on Monday. Which is curious, considering you just got out of prison. What’s also curious is the fact one of your people is watching our house.” I knew that wasn’t quite true, of course. Not by Midge’s reckoning.

“Ah, yes, I saw the murder on the news.” He paused and continued casually— “Tell me, surely you aren’t stupid enough to think this involves me? For one thing, the Cross Cutter was active during my stay in prison.”

“The last murder wasn’t the Cross Cutter. It was staged in a pitiful attempt to frame someone—my friend—as the Cross Cutter.”

“Yes,” he said with a dark smile. “It does sound quite pitiful. All the more reason for you to believe I had no part in it.”

I got out the picture of the mystery man and put it on his desk, facing him.

“Is he one of yours?” I asked.

He took a careful look at the photo. He squinted once and snorted.

“No, not one of
mine
.” He paused for thought. “Why are you showing me this?”