Cross Cut (17 page)

“He was outside our beach house, right at the time the FBI left.”

“And you assume he was surveying you, after you hid your friend from the FBI?”

I looked at him curiously, with a cocked eye. “How did you know that?—So, he is yours.”

He laughed. “So much for a detective. Why else would this, how should I refer to him—curious man, wait
after
the FBI left your premises? Probably because he was waiting to see whether or not your
friend
would be arrested.”

His reasoning was sound, I suppose, although I wasn’t entirely convinced he had just ad-libbed it.

“He’s Romanian, I’ve been reliably informed.” I pressed on.

“You should know that doesn’t mean anything. Why, the gentleman who brought you in here is American. We are in the modern era, Mr York. If a Chinese restaurant can employ Americans in the kitchen—if a popular rap artist can be white—if a British man can become a private detective in America—well, you catch my meaning.”

“But you can see my skepticism,” I said. “No one else had motive to frame Melissa but you. No one else wants to get back at us, but you.”

He laughed, pitifully, and then sighed. “You are clutching at straws, I feel. Perhaps you are ignoring the easiest solution to your problem, and that is, Melissa Hart was not framed. If you are capable of throwing around presumptuous accusations, then at least have the capacity to look at it objectively.”

“Bullshit.”

He grinned condescendingly. “Then ask yourself this; why was Mr Lynch killed? I wouldn’t tire myself in trying to prove myself to you, but I can assure you I have never met him before. Now, why would I kill someone I have no association with, to merely incriminate someone? That isn’t my way. I would sooner just kill Miss Ryder and be done with it.”

He had me for a moment. It wasn’t so much the way he said it, although, he sounded one hundred percent certain of what he was saying. I was tempted to believe him. And if that was the case, it meant he had no idea what was going on at Gillham and Mane. Which made two of us.

I took the picture back from the desk and shoved it into my pocket. I looked at him for a while and noticed his stature. He was as sturdy and confident as Ryder. It was apparent that, if he wanted to, he could spin deception without betraying himself, so whatever insight I thought I had gained here could be trivial. But I was also sure there was a lot more in store for Ryder and myself than Erik Cristescu. He would be in our way in times to come, but to what extent remained to be seen.

“You appear to have nothing more to say,” Cristescu said. “I hope I haven’t startled you with my last comment. I did not necessarily mean I wish Miss Ryder dead. But those who cross my path in a negative way usually don’t fare too well.”

At that moment I had that feeling when you know it’s time to leave a room. For some reason, I stood my ground and said, “There’s more to the Danturas than this, isn’t there?” I said, holding out my arms in a gesture. “That guy at our beach house used to belong to you. What is he, head of one of your contingency clans? Another gang entirely?”

He shook his head and chuckled.

“My business is my business, Mr York. I was generous with my previous answer regarding the man in your photograph. Now, perhaps it would be best if we said goodbye. I have business to attend to.”

He called for the henchman, who escorted me out of Cristescu’s office, and out the fire escape of the club as the people playing cards looked on. He pushed me outside, forcefully, into the back alley where all the trash from the club lay beside a dumpster. I used my hands to prevent myself from falling over, and ended up tripping over a storm drain. I managed to get myself together and I looked back toward the fire escape. As the door shut, I said, “asshole,” knowing he wouldn’t hear me.

I got myself together and headed right, which would take me round front to my Lexus, but I didn’t get very far. Three men in leather jackets stood in my way. I didn’t recognize any of them, but I initially guessed they were Dantura workers. People who got their hands dirty.

“Sorry guys, no change,” I said.

“You think you’re funny?” the one on the left said. He was bald, and had broad shoulders. The one in the middle was a few inches smaller, slim and flat jawed. The one to my right was the pretty boy. Perfectly styled brown hair. He didn’t look like a fighter.

“You should stay away, my friend,” the pretty boy said.

“I just wanted a drink,” I said. The guy in the middle took off his jacket and the big guy punched his right hand into his left palm.

“There’s no need for this,” I said.

The pretty boy backed off. “Take this as your warning. Stay away.”

With that, the big guy came running. His steps were heavy and careless. I dodged the right hook with ease. Too much force behind it, with no accuracy or purpose. As his right arm went behind me, I followed up with a shot to the left kidney. I’m no martial artist, and my hand to hand is average compared to my rifle accuracy, but I still know my way around a brawl. The big guy winced a little, stammered forward, then I stamped forcefully with my right foot at the back of his left heel, fracturing the calcaneus and the force passing through to the primary anklebone. He fell to the ground and probably did some damage on the way down. He was writhing in pain and trying to clutch at his ankle.

The slim guy looked hesitant at first but soon retrieved a knife from his pocket. It was a plain pocketknife, about an inch in length. I could state for the record that it is illegal to carry such an item concealed. I often ignore said rule myself, but I have a permit to carry a concealed firearm in the state of California. I could go on to state that I could’ve used my P230 here with good cause, but I saw no reason to.

He came at me with several preliminary lunges. The key to disarming amateur knife wielders is all down to timing and watching their initial attacks. Not long after they’ll make a lunge with more commitment and distance. It’s then when they expose their position for too long.

When the lunge came, I took one step to the side as his right arm missed my own by an inch. I gripped his wrist and pulled his arm back around him. I heard the creak in his shoulder when it wouldn’t budge any further, followed by a scream, then the clattering of the knife on the floor. I picked the knife up and carried it in my hand, waiting for the pretty boy to decide his next move.

He retreated two steps and fumbled at the back of his pants, and I knew exactly what for. Before he could even make his arm straight, I threw the knife at his leg and got him in the thigh. He immediately dropped his Glock and fell backwards, wincing and handling the knife half buried in his thigh muscle.

I looked behind me to make sure the other two weren’t going anywhere. They looked preoccupied so I walked over to the pretty boy, who was most likely the leader of this pathetic threesome. Funny how those who fight last are not only the worst, but are also the ones calling the shots.

I looked down at him and said, “It’ll be fine, just go see a doctor. Now, who are you? Do you work for Cristescu?” I said while half looking back to the fire escape. If Cristescu had sent these guys, no one was watching them or backing them up.

The pretty boy said nothing. I’m not a man for cruelty and please don’t think less of me, but just mildly tapping the knife stuck in his leg didn’t seem like torture to me. Seemed more like an incentive.

“Who are you?” I asked.

He cursed at me some more and gave no real answer. I pressed the knife again.

“Dantura?” I said.

“No—”

“Then who?”

“No one.”

“I don’t believe you.” I got out the picture of the mystery man. “You work for him?”

“That’s—”

“He sent you?”

“We just got paid to do this. We don’t belong to anyone.”

“Who paid you then, this guy?”

“No—”

“Who then? And where?”

“In Mid-City—we followed you here. Nothing personal.”

“It never is till you have a knife in your leg. Who paid you?”

He squirmed a little and said, “That guy you were with—in the bar.”

I looked at him straight, trying to see if it was a dodge, but it seemed too strange to be one. It was then I looked back and recognized the slim guy. He was sitting by the counter when I walked into the bar. Goddamn Midge the Vulture. He had paid these morons to come after me—but why? Was he talking crap all along? Was it all just a set-up? I felt a little enraged, but also a little stupid. Never trust a CI, Flores had told me that.

“How much did he pay you and how did it happen?” I asked.

“Couple a hundred bucks. Before you even came in he set the deal, then he paid us after.”

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing to us, but he was talking to another guy. I think he was talking about it too.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know, but, he sounded European.”

“European—you mean, Romanian?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

A voice came from behind me. The slim guy was still writhing on the floor. He muttered in a low tone. “Ah—”

“What?” I said.

“Armenian. The guy was Armenian.”

With that, things were making sense. Midge the Vulture had sold me down the river before I’d even met him. No doubt he had spun an amazing tale just to string me along. But then I got to wondering whether it was a tale at all. As he said, he had no allegiance. Perhaps he really was just feeding legitimate information while watching from afar—half truths, perhaps. Not that I would ever trust him again, and Flores would never hear the end of it.

To make sure, I took the wallets from all three of them. In the slim guy’s crusty leather wallet there were a bunch of twenty dollar bills, one of which I recognized because the corner was missing—I had given it Midge. Midge had paid these goons with my money, and he in turn had been paid by the Armenian
buddy
of his.

The small schoolyard fight may have hurt my feelings, but at least now I knew I was after not one, but two mystery men.

If they were together, we had double trouble. But, at the same time, we had two people to run at.

23

I had no qualms about leaving the goons out in the alley. I told them I’d call an ambulance, but my memory isn’t what it used to be.

I arrived back at the beach house at 2.45PM. Regardless of events and the dilemma we were in, Ryder had still gone down to the pier. I can’t fault her and I won’t. We all need our own place. But for God’s sake, she could at least do some visible work.

It crossed my mind that I was sore. It most likely had something to do with the fact I had spent the day being stabbed in the back by a snitch; being intimidated by a gang boss; and being attacked by a bunch of thugs. All in a day’s work for me, while Ryder had sat on her backside, pondering things over with no visible results like her damn slow pressure cooker.

My brooding was all very well, but perhaps I should have reserved judgment until she got back. Besides, I had a few phone calls to make.

Phone call number one was to Flores. His desk phone rang out for a while and the second time I called someone else answered saying he was out for the rest of the day. It wasn’t important; I just wanted to give him hell for not warning me about Midge the Vulture.

Phone call number two was to my buddy, the one whose cabin was keeping Melissa. He’s a licensed private investigator and works security from time to time when firms need special input. He’s also a great guy, the only person outside the beach house I would ever leave a dollar to in my will. His name is Sullivan Groves. Sully to us. We use him occasionally when there’s too much legwork, or things look too hot to handle. Now was definitely one of those times, on both accounts, and I didn’t seek Ryder’s approval.

He has a strong, cheery voice. He answered, “Hey, Ader, what’s happening?”

“Where do I start?” I laughed.

“Oh, that’s how it is. How’s Mel holding up?”

“Not sure, I’ve not paid a visit yet. I could use a hand, you busy?”

He paused. “Well, I’m on a job at the moment, but it doesn’t have a time stamp.”

“Good. When can you get here?”

“I’m out at Hollywood, be an hour at least. Damn, my FasTrak is seeing some action on the tolls.”

“You know we’re good for it. See you in an hour.”

He hung up. I spent the remaining ten minutes washing my face in the kitchen and drinking orange juice.

I was on the sofa when Ryder came through the French doors. She seemed startled at first but soon regained her calm.

“This is becoming a habit,” she said. “Surely you haven’t been able to interview all the past victims of the—killer.”

“You kidding? Forget all that, something else has come up and I didn’t know how to play it. It needed a bigger brain than mine, so here I am.”

“Indeed,” she said. She was wearing a summer yellow button-down shirt and navy blue jean shorts. No fishing hat this time and her hair looked greasy. “I will be down in ten minutes.”

It was actually fifteen. In any case, she sat at her desk without her blazer. She looked at me and said, “You appear to have been rough housing. What happened?”