Cicero's Dead (4 page)

Brad had brewed coffee in the kitchenette, and was
staring at the whiteboard. “Any conclusions?”

“No, it’s foggy and I’m worried because if Jade
and Richard are not involved in the deaths of their parents, and I certainly
don’t believe they are, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that
they could be next.”

“What do we do?”

“Find Richie, and figure out who killed his dad.”

“How?”

“We shake the trees.”

He nodded.

“Let’s go.”

We sat in our usual booth on the lower level of
Philippe’s.

“Tony, this is Brad.”

Tony grinned as he looked Brad over. “Doesn’t surprise
me. Another one of Nick’s weird-ass friends. I don’t know why I hang out with
you.”

Brad took it in stride and as they shook hands, I
replied, “’Cause you love me and you love my friends.”

“That must be it.”

“Tony collects weapons. He’s got the best collection
of obscure instruments of destruction in all of Southern California.”

“Yeah, but I’m getting worried about Mary; I
couldn’t get her off me this morning.”

“That worries you? Give it time. You won’t be able
to get her on you.”

“I’m not kinky, like you fools.” He made spanking
motions and looked pained. “I don’t want that kind of responsibility. I don’t
even want a serious relationship.” He turned to Brad as if for sympathy. “What
do you think? You look like a lady’s man.”

Brad took a swallow of coffee, shrugged and
thought about it.

“Brad’s depressed,” I said. “His ol’ lady gave him
the boot.”

“She did, yeah? Why?” asked Tony, all ears.

“I developed a little drinking problem.”

“No wonder you look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Just kidding, but you do look a little ragged
out.”

“So,” I interjected, “in your email, you said
something stank.”

“Beyond rancid.”

“You gonna tell me or do I have to bribe you?”

Tony grinned. “I checked out Cicero Lamont and you
were right, he was into weight. Heroin. He did a four year bid in Soledad, back
in the early 90s. Didn’t seem to phase him. He came out the same swinging dick
as he went in, but with one big difference; he was a whole lot smarter. He got
involved in legitimate business. Warehousing for the produce industry, refrigeration
and had warehouse facilities all over the South Bay. Word is that while he was
cooling his nuts in stir, he studied refrigeration. You know, big industrial
refrigeration units?”

“Yeah and?”

“Imagine you walk in and there’s a mountain of
cabbage crates. It’s a good place to stash drugs or bodies. Problem is, we
could never get probable cause. His lieutenants would do 20 and not even think
about rolling. What made it even harder was that Cicero had connections with
the spooks. They’d help him fly shit in from Afghanistan and take a hefty
slice. If I could do one single thing, it would be to bust those fuckers. How
can we make real inroads into the narcotics trade, when the goddamned CIA is
bringing it in? Pisses me off.”

“Yeah, but proving it’s another matter.”

“And people that poke their noses into government
shit, usually get ‘em cut off,” added Brad.

Tony nodded as anger flashed across his eyes. “To
make it worse, Cicero had a real smart lawyer, James Halladay. I’d like to
garrote the son of a bitch. Anyway, in the summer of 2002, Cicero sold Lamont
Refrigeration to an investment group out of Atlanta.”

“What did he do with the money?” asked Brad.

“You tell me.”

I said, “You would have got Cicero, if you hadn’t
been stuck busting meth dealers.”

Tony shook his head. “Nice thought but truth is he
was ironclad. I’m sure we’ll pop some of his lieutenants, although it’s almost
a waste of time, as most of ‘em have moved on. It wouldn’t be the same as if
we’d put the blade to Cicero at the height of his operation.”

Brad chewed absently at a hangnail.

I sipped my coffee. “I don’t see how anything can
be rancid when it’s refrigerated.”

“You’re a real wit,” said Tony. “Anybody ever tell
you that?”

“Never.”

“Why are you interested in him?”

“I’ve been hired by his daughter to find her
missing brother, who just might be using daddy’s product.”

“Sounds like a genius,” said Tony. “Anyway, there
was an unsolved hit-and-run on Sepulveda, on August 16th. Only problem is the
victim wasn’t Lamont.”

The earth shifted and a cold flush ran through my
body.

“The victim was a gangbanger out of Sun Valley,
Mario Cantrell. The blood trail was over 200 feet, making him, as you can
imagine, very hard to ID. However, they matched him because most of his teeth
were still in what was left of his mouth.”

“Were there any other hit-and-runs on Sepulveda
that night?”

Tony shook his head. “No.”

“Damn.”

“Mysterious, ‘eh?” He stood up and looked at Brad.
“Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

“Don’t let this guy talk you into anything I
wouldn’t do.”

Brad and I stepped outside, and braced ourselves
against the wind that was blowing even harder. We drove toward City Terrace, in
East Los Angeles, which is where Bobby Moore had chosen to make his last stand,
in a ramshackle house built into the side of a hill. He keeps goats and has
secured his property with an electrified, eight foot high, cyclone fence. Woe
to the foolish man who wanders onto his land without an invitation.

I met Bobby in 1986 in a Criminology class at S.F.
State. 225 pounds of rock-hard Vietnam vet, with an in-your-face attitude, who
wears shorts 300 days a year showing off thick hairy thighs, and a titanium
prosthesis, courtesy of a Vietcong Dole pineapple mine. When he really wants to
scare people, he wears a lime green muscle tee with the word FEAR emblazoned
across the front, and a baseball cap bearing with the words, LONG RIFLES. He
keeps his bullet head shaved clean, and speaks in a soft southern drawl.

A few days before his 1970 tour of duty was up,
he’d subbed in for another paratrooper who had the flu. That was the day the
mine blew up at his feet, and his life became a nightmare. Before that, he
might have made the Big Leagues. Now PTSD fueled rage become the monkey on his
back. Years melted into one another, and Bobby roamed the country in a black
Dodge Daytona which he’d bought with his military disability money. He also
smoked crack and meth, which only increased his paranoid anger. Between 1968
and the present, he’d had any number of psychotic breakdowns. I try not to count
the number of times I had to go out and rescue him during those lost years.
Like a lot of PTSD vets, he’s a news junkie, has a satellite dish and can even
pick up Al-Jazeera. He’s on a batch of psychiatric drugs now which keep him
halfway stable, but the pain is never completely gone from his sad brown eyes.
To this day, he sometimes asks me if I think the CIA was really after him. I
tell him,
‘you never know for sure.’

Bobby met us out front and I introduced Brad. He
gave him his meaty grip, and we climbed his hillside, parting his goats who
nuzzled our sides. We sat in his living room on thrift store furniture, amongst
stacks of newspapers. CNN was on the huge flat screen T.V. that Bobby kept
staring at.

He wrenched himself away and scrutinized Brad.
“Where’d you meet homeboy?”

“Same place I met you,” I replied.

“How come I never met him?”

“I was too busy drinking,” said Brad dryly.

“Brad’s staying with Cassady and me, for the time
being.”

“Same as me when I first moved here. Cassady’s a
saint and I love that woman. Don’t know how she put up with me, ‘cause man, I
was delusional. I’ve been getting so bored I’ve been thinking about eating my
goats, and that’s not me. Not really.”

Brad had this mesmerized half-smile.

“So what,” asked Bobby, “is our plan? I assume
you’re here for a reason.”

I ran down the basics while Bobby listened
carefully.

He asked, “How we gonna find this kid who
apparently has been bewitched by this Arnold psycho?”

“We’ve gotta hit the bars in West Hollywood and
the clubs on Sunset.”

“In the event I find them, do I have your
permission to impale Arnold?” asked Bobby earnestly.

“We need to keep him alive, at least until we find
Richie.”

Bobby looked crestfallen. “Okay, tell you what, I
won’t hurt the asshole unless you give me the green light. What I do get,
however, is to have sex with Boytoy’s sister.”

“In your dreams. She’s the one paying us.”

Bobby sighed. “What do I get then?”

“Money.”

“I’m in.
 
Just one rule. You,” pointing at Brad, “kick my ass if I show any signs
of getting a hankering for any nose candy, and I kick your ass if you start
reaching for the bottle.”

“How,” said Brad, “am I going to kick your ass?”

“Easy.
 
You just sneak up behind me with a sledgehammer.”

Chapter III – James Halladay

Like a lot of people,
Audrey is scared of Bobby. The fact that he’s been in therapy off and on for
three decades, and has shown no signs of improvement, disillusions her. He’s
indifferent to her, but not her boobs, which he stares at like they were CNN.
With Audrey and Brad, however, it was a different story. When we walked in,
they both perked up immediately at the sight of one another.

We kicked around various possibilities and came up
with a plan. Bobby and Brad would work together. They would comb West Hollywood
and Sunset, hit the bars and clubs and ask questions. Audrey would concentrate
solely on the West Hollywood clubs, places like I Candy and Mickey’s. These
joints have become more preference-mixed in recent years.

I gave them cash for expenses and they hit the
street. I phoned Jade and set up a meeting at 1:00 p.m. at Rubio’s, next to the
downtown library. Then I got on the internet and brought up Vital Chek, which
contracts with the California Department of Public Health Office of Vital
Records. In California, like most states, you cannot be buried or cremated
without a death certificate. In cases of foul play or traffic accidents, the
coroner’s office does its investigation and signs the death certificate, but,
if death is by natural causes, all that is required is that a physician, or in
some cases a peace officer, sign the death certificate. Everybody who’s died
since 1905 is theoretically on record.

I ordered an informational death certificate for
Cicero Lamont. Vital Chek will usually spit one out in four or five days. Then I
phoned the coroner’s office just to make sure. They put me through the usual
interminable robot menu but eventually directed me to the right person who
assured me that they had no record of Cicero Lamont.

I studied the time line. Nearly everything about this
case bothered me. I’d been hired to find Richard Lamont, but was obsessed with
the death of Cicero Lamont. Killers may appear to be smart because they have
endless time to plan and execute their crimes, but still they often leave
clues. The tough part for the guy trying to put the pieces together is working
against the clock, because he has only days, and sometimes only hours to
recreate what happened.

At a crime scene, the homicide squad secures the
area and goes over everything with a fine-toothed comb. The coroner does the
same with the body. A victim can have a big hole in their forehead, but the
coroner checks everything, and often performs internal tests. And things are
not always what they seem. I still had very little to go on, though the death certificate
could change that dramatically and in the interim, I kept coming back to the
same question: ‘
Why had James Halladay
contacted Jade with the news of Cicero’s death, and
why had he waited three days?’
In this era of modern communication,
Jade could surely have been found more quickly, and it shouldn’t have taken
more than 24 hours to locate her. It would not be so suspicious if the cause of
death had really been hit-and-run. But if Cicero had been killed by other
means, it could signal that the killers had been buying time to get their ducks
in order.

I slapped myself gently. James Halladay was a
giant, and a legend in the legal field. He would never risk his career and
freedom to cover up a murder, so I was barking up the wrong tree.
 
Still, I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

I called Tony who was in no mood to talk. “Make it
quick. I’m tailing a banger in Sun Valley. A six pound deal is about to go
down.”

“Good work. I need you to run a check on two LAPD
officers out of Mission Hills. I think they might be dirty.”

“What if I were to tell you I don’t give a fuck?”

“I happen to know you
do
give a fuck.”

“Damn. The perp just walked out of a liquor store
carrying a monster energy drink. This guy’s gonna be caffeinated from here to
Venice Beach.”

“Wonderful. Listen, their names are Jim Fishburne
and Stanley Koncak.”

“You’re an idiot. I know both those guys. They
happen to play in our Saturday afternoon football league. I’ve even ridden dirt
bikes with them a few times. They’re good people.”

“Lots of guys seem like good people. Doesn’t mean
a thing.”

“I’m getting pissed, the Perp is heading toward
Pocoima. Fucker’s leading me in circles. I’ve been made.”

“What do Jim and Stanley look like?”

“Jim’s a tall black guy who has never gotten over
the fact the Raiders moved back to Oakland. He thinks Tim Brown was the most
underrated receiver of all time. Stanley is stocky, has one of those lame spiky
haircuts white guys have these days. I always tell him to put his hat on.”

“Do me a favor, ask Jim and Stanley if they were
the officers who informed Jade Lamont that her father had been creamed in that
hit-and-run.”

“I guarantee you they weren’t for the simple fact
he wasn’t killed in a hit-and-run.”

“That’s why I want you to verify it for me.”

“Buddy, you got way too much time on your hands.
Get a real job.”

“Like yours?”

“Yo’ momma.”

I still had an hour before my meeting with Jade,
so I ran a Merlin check on Arnold Clipper. Bingo! Two Arnold Clippers came up
in southern California, both in the Los Angeles area. One was 60 and lived in
Orange County, but the other was 35 and lived in the Hollywood Hills. I copied
down both addresses and phone numbers on separate sheets of paper and attached
them to the whiteboard.

I left the office, drove downtown and parked under
the library. Five minutes later I met Jade in front of Rubio’s. She was wearing
some kind of dress-for-success business suit with a lavender blouse and some
sexy high heels. She was still stunning, even with no visible butterflies.

“Let’s talk outside in the library garden. I think
it’s a bit more discreet.”

She gave just the slightest shrug. The downtown
branch of the Los Angeles Public Library is surrounded on three sides by
idyllic gardens where stately oaks and wrought iron benches afford a resting
place to both the homeless and the literary. We found a secluded area and as we
sat down, I tried to ignore her knees and the three inches of fishnet encased
thigh displayed above them. Problem is, she kept crossing and uncrossing her
legs, which only made it worse.

I decided against the oblique approach, as I was
increasingly convinced that both she and Richie were in danger. I described my
meetings with Ron Cera, naturally omitting any description of her sexual
escapades. Her eyes were alternately amused and concerned, tough and tender,
and I had a sense of being dragged deeper into those liquid pools.

When I got to Ron’s encounter with Richard and
Arnold, she reached out and took my arm. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr.
Crane, and it’s not true. I usually try to avoid purely sexual encounters, no
matter how hot the guy is. I don’t like to hurt people. This time, though, I
went too far. Ron had that devil-may-care, I don’t care if you fuck me or not
quality, that really turns me on.”

‘He’s not
too turned on now,’
I thought, but instead asked, “What I don’t understand,
is why didn’t you contact Ron after Richie disappeared? You knew they were
friends.”

“I did call him a couple of times, and left
messages, but he never got back to me. I was reluctant to go over there because
I knew he was mad at me. When he didn’t call, I figured he hadn’t seen him. I
didn’t really start to get worried until ten days ago, when I hadn’t heard from
Richard for two weeks.”

“Who recommended me to you?”

“James Halladay. He said you were good, and so far
you haven’t proven him wrong.”

“He doesn’t know me from Adam.”

Jade shrugged and thought it over. “He and my
father were very close. Mr. Halladay, as the administrator, is very protective
of our interests.”

“Interests being money, I assume.”

Jade frowned. “It always gets back to that,
doesn’t it? The money. The whole world wants it but then when you’ve got it, it
just makes things more complicated.” She released my arm.
 
“Look, it’s actually pretty simple;
Richard and I have trust funds and most of the money is invested. Last I
looked, the combined trusts were worth in excess of 300 million dollars. When
my father died, most of the money went to Mother. When she died, it turned out
she had no will, so now the money’s in probate. It’s expected to be released
soon. My brother and I will inherit the entire amount, and split it 50/50.”

I tried to conceive of that much money, not as a
number, which was easy, but as a force that changed lives and influenced
decisions. “Where would the money go if you and Richard weren’t around to
receive it?”

For the first time, Jade looked rattled. Confusion
creased her face in ripples. Then it was smooth again. “I don’t know. How does
that work? Doesn’t it go to the grandparents and siblings of the deceased
parents?”

“Only if there are no direct heirs.”

Jade was silent for a long time.
 
Her long manicured fingers played
uneasily at the hem of her skirt. I wanted to take her hands and give her some
form of comfort, but I restrained myself.
 
Finally, she spoke. “Do you think we’re in danger, Richie and me?”

“Perhaps.”

She blanched. For a moment she looked twenty years
older. Then she regained control, but the frantic look in her eyes remained.
“It doesn’t end, does it? My father’s gone. My mother’s gone, and now Richard’s
gone. I’m all that’s left.”

“Let’s not bury him yet and keep in mind, there
are happy endings.”

“I’m not sure I believe in them anymore.”

I recounted Ron’s description of the night Richard
and Arnold Clipper came to call. Jade listened, her expression resigned. I had
the sense that I was telling her something she had already known for some time.
Not in so many words, perhaps, but in essence.

“My brother,” said Jade, “is very troubled.
Sometimes bad things happen to people and they’re never the same.” She reached
into her purse for some Kleenex and dabbed at her eyes. A tall, red-haired
homeless guy, wearing dirty chinos and a striped pullover shirt, wandered past
us and sat down at a nearby bench. He leaned back, his mouth half-open and
stared at the sky.

“When we were young, Richard and I were very
close. Maybe it was because Cicero was never home, and Mother liked art
openings and nice restaurants. Anyway, Richard and I were raised by our maid,
Sofia. There was the four-year stretch when Cicero was in Soledad. I was six
and Richard was four when that happened and, of course, we didn’t know why. He
never let us visit him. After that, Mother tried harder. She enrolled me in
soccer, and Richard in tee-ball and even came to our games. She fit right in
with the other mothers in her ultra-chic jogging outfits, but her heart wasn’t
really in it and pretty soon she let Sofia take over completely.”

“Sadly, that’s not an unusual rich kid story.”

She nodded and looked around thoughtfully. “This
is a nice place. I need to come here more often, as it’s not far from my job.”
She turned her gaze on me. “I don’t want you to take this wrong. Mother loved
us in her own way, and when she was in the mood, she would tuck us in bed and
sing lullabies. Richard spent a lot of time sitting on her lap, but she was
just too young and L.A. was too big and exciting.”

“What about when your dad got outta the joint?”

“He looked ten years older and to his credit, I
guess, he went right back to work like he hadn’t missed a day. By then, Richard
was eight, just the age when a boy needs to bond with his father, but Cicero
had bigger fish to fry. He’d discovered that there was a fortune to be made in
refrigeration, and worked day and night to build his empire. Once or twice a
year we would take a Sunday afternoon drive, the four of us, to Wilmington and
Long Beach and Carson. Drab places that were nothing like our beautiful
Westside neighborhoods. We would drive by his warehouses, and Cicero would tell
us that they all belonged to the family and that one day, they would belong to
Richard and me. Mother was always a bit distracted on those drives, and I had
the feeling she would much rather be shopping or lunching with her
girlfriends.”

“Who were they?”

“You know, mostly the wives of successful Beverly
Hills Jewish guys. Ladies with plenty of money and old world manners.” For a
moment Jade seemed far away like she was remembering things better left
forgotten.

“I’ve worked for a few of ‘em,” I smiled.

“Richard and I really only had each other, so we spent
a lot of time together. Then for a while I had a girlfriend and felt guilty for
abandoning my brother. Then her family moved back east and once again it was
just Richard and me.” She stopped and looked at me, her pretty lips trembling.
“We’d watch movies, just the two of us, trying to make the world go away. He
was the age where he should have been playing basketball with his friends, and
instead he was watching Pretty in Pink and The Breakfast Club with his big
sister.”

She smiled ruefully and I wanted to comfort her.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know, Mr. Crane.”

“Nick.”

“Nick,” she repeated, rolling my name around her
tongue.

I glanced over at the red-haired homeless guy. He
was still staring into space, his breath ragged as if he had a respiratory problem.

“Nick,” she said reaching out and taking my arm,
“when I hired you I just knew that you were a good investigator because James
Halladay recommended you, but now, based on what you’ve told me, I’m in your
hands. If you can’t help me, who can?” She leaned over; her scent, like
tropical fruit, intoxicated me as she brushed her lips across my cheek.

The moment passed and I felt as needy as any
junkie.