Private: #1 Suspect (18 page)

I CHECKED OUT of the Sun and drove to work, keeping the car to ten miles below the speed limit. Tandy tailed me to Figueroa Street, gave me a two-blast salute from his horn when I turned into the underground garage below my office building.

Mitchell Tandy was a hyena.

I walked into my office at half past seven, caught Justine’s second call that morning. She told me that Danny Whitman was in the hospital at TTCF.

I cringed just thinking about that place. It was like an ice-cold hand gripping the back of my neck: a bad feeling, and it was impossible to shake off.

“What do you think, Jack?” Justine said. “Should we cut Danny loose? Or should I work with him and his cast of sidekicks until I know whether or not he killed Piper Winnick?”

“Sounds to me like you think he’s innocent.”

“I’m leaning that way. He thinks someone is screwing with his head. Gaslighting him. Who would do that? What would they get out of it?”

Justine was the heroine of lost causes. When she got it wrong, she’d say, “Princess Do-Good strikes again.” But her instincts
were
good. The worst you could say about Justine was that she put in too much time on her cases and got too emotionally involved.

That said, if she could prove Whitman innocent, that would be a point for Private. A point we needed.

“It’s your call,” I said.

I got into Cruz’s report on his interviews at a Cuban club in Hollywood, and when Val Kenney came in at eight, I asked her to break down the report and flag items for follow-up.

While Cody and Val worked outside my office, I put some time in on
California v. Jack Morgan,
found out a couple of things about Colleen Molloy that she hadn’t told me. I was digging into that when Val came in. “I’ve got something on the woman Cruz met with last night,” she said.

“Carmelita Gomez?”

“Karen Ricci. The woman in the wheelchair.”

“Go on.”

“Before she was Karen Ricci, she was Karen Keyes. She did a five-year stretch at the women’s jail for extortion. There was a riot and she got clubbed. That’s how she ended up in the wheelchair. She’s out early for good behavior.”

Val was putting her time with the Miami PD to good use. I was about to tell her to follow up on Ricci, but she wasn’t done yet.

“I’ve got something else, Jack. The story Carmelita Gomez told Cruz isn’t right. She said that a driver named Billy Moufan tipped her off.”

“He was Gomez’s driver, right?”

“That’s what she said. She told Cruz that after her john was killed at the Seaview, her driver, Billy Moufan, told her that a limo driver might have done it, that this same limo driver may have killed the john at the Moon.

“But no one named Billy or William Moufan has ever been issued a chauffeur’s license in California. I can’t find that name in any database, no matter how I spell it.”

“So you’re saying she lied to Cruz.”

Val said, “At best, she was concealing the name of the driver who tipped her off.”

I asked Val to brief Cruz, then Cody buzzed me, saying Jinx Poole was on line one.

I took the call.

Jinx said, “Can you have dinner with me, tonight, Jack? It’s important.”

AT ONE-FIFTEEN in the afternoon, Del Rio and Cruz were parked inside the big lot under the shadow of the 96th Street bridge. The lot was a mile and a half from LAX, bounded by the eight-lane Sepulveda Boulevard and a loop of the Sky Way. Limos, taxis, and other commercial transport continually streamed in and queued up under alphabetical signs, waiting to enter the airport.

They were watching one guy in particular, Paul Ricci, a bouncer from Havana, married to the tipster in the wheelchair. Ricci was shooting the bull with three other drivers.

Ricci glanced at the Private fleet car, then opened the door to his own car and got a sandwich out of a cooler. He called out to one of the other drivers, “Baxter. You got any Grey Poupon?”

Baxter laughed, said, “I’ll give you a little brown poop-on. How’s that?”

Watching this from inside the Mercedes, Cruz said to Del Rio, “That’s him. Ricci is the one in the cheap suit and the chauffeur’s hat.”

Del Rio put on his jacket, said to Cruz, “Can you see my gun under this?”

Cruz said, “You look like you’re packing even when you’re sleeping.”

Del Rio said, “That’s good, because I want Ricci to freeze in place. I don’t want to chase the guy. I kinda twisted my foot when I was rock climbing.”

Cruz said, “Aww. Face it, Rick, you’re getting old.”

Del Rio told Cruz that he wasn’t old and that he could still beat the crap outta anyone his size.

“You don’t have to do that, Rick. I’ll protect you,” said Cruz.

Del Rio gave Cruz an evil look.

Cruz laughed, tightened the band on his ponytail. When it was the way he liked it, he said, “Ready, pardner?”

Together, Cruz and Del Rio walked over to where the four men were standing under the D sign.

Two of them, including Paul Ricci, were limo drivers. The other two wore uniforms of “The Air Shuttle Guys.” The shuttle guys were fat, no problem. But the limo driver standing next to Ricci was ripped and young. Looked like he’d done some time.

Cruz said, “Paul Ricci?”

All conversation stopped.

Ricci puffed himself up. “I’m Ricci. Wha’chu want?”

Cruz said, “Don’t you remember me?”

He opened his jacket and showed the guy his gun, the one he’d had to give up outside the club.

Ricci looked at the gun, pivoted, and, his hat flying off his shaven head, took off toward the exit at a fast run.

Cruz shouted, “We just want to
talk
to you.”

The guy ran pretty fast.

“Shit,” said Del Rio.

PAUL RICCI, LIMO driver by day, bouncer by night, weighed two hundred pounds, a lot of it muscle. He steamed past the small administration building at the entrance to the parking lot, took a hard left on the sidewalk, and got his speed up on the side street.

Cruz took off after him.

Cruz was smaller but faster and was closing in on Ricci, who was running alongside a high vine-covered fence, heading due north toward Sepulveda Boulevard.

Cruz did not want to end up on the boulevard. A foot chase through eight lanes of traffic was a pileup waiting to happen.

Cruz shouted, “Ricci. Stop,” but Ricci ran out into traffic, showing some good open-field moves as he wove between fast-moving cars.

Horns blared, first at Ricci, then because traffic had slowed. A moment later, Cruz had lost sight of him.

Cruz stood in place for a few seconds, taking in nice deep breaths of diesel fumes, trying to see everything at once. Vehicles of every size and shape obscured his view, and now he was getting mad.

What was wrong with the guy, running like that?

Then Cruz saw Ricci’s shiny head. He was across the road at the base of the staircase leading from Sepulveda up to the Sky Way. There was no place to go once he got to the top, but Ricci was going anyway. Asshole.

Cruz waded out into the roaring traffic, holding up his cop-like badge so that cars would slow for him, calling out, “Ricci, for Christ’s sake.
I’m not a cop
.”

Cruz got across Sepulveda as Ricci was climbing the upper section of the switchback. Ricci turned his head, saw Cruz gaining on him—and lost his footing. He grabbed the handrail too late and went down, giving Cruz the chance he needed to close in.

Cruz took the stairs like Rocky and caught up with Ricci. “Okay?” he asked. “Is this enough running for one day?”

He reached to give the guy a hand up, and Ricci took the help. But as soon as he was on his feet, he swung at Cruz’s jaw. The bouncer was off balance, and Cruz easily ducked the punch, then he returned the favor with a punch of his own.

Cruz’s fist connected beautifully with Ricci’s jaw, and Ricci went down again, this time for the count.

“California light-middleweight champ, 2005,” Cruz shouted to Ricci. “That’s who you’re fighting with.”

Right then, Del Rio drove the Mercedes up the sidewalk to the base of the stairs.

He got out and straightened his jacket.

“The relief column has arrived,” he called out to Cruz.

Del Rio joined Cruz and Ricci on the steps, where a couple of people passed them without making eye contact.

Del Rio said to Ricci, “Listen, douchebag. We don’t care about your life story, okay? Just tell us what we want to know and we’re gone.”

Ricci rubbed his jaw. “You’re not cops?”

Cruz said to Del Rio, “You believe him?” Cruz put out his hand and helped the guy up again. “Listen, Paul. We’re not cops. We don’t want to hurt you or anyone. We paid Karen and Carmelita for information about five murdered johns in the LA area. We didn’t get it.”

“What information? What information?”

The guy was still panicky, and now Cruz was thinking that one of the people walking up to the Sky Way might have called the police.

He said, “Carmelita said a driver named Billy Moufan had told her that one of their drivers was the killer. She said that Billy OD’d. But there’s no such person as Billy Moufan and there never was. The thing she didn’t say is that you drive a limo. Big oversight. Are you ‘Billy Moufan’? Do you know who killed those johns?”

“No, no, no. It wasn’t me. I’ve only had my chauffeur’s license for six months. Let me show you my license. Lookit.”

Del Rio looked.

Ricci said, “If I tell you the guy’s name, we’re done, right? And you gotta keep us out of it. I don’t want Karen or Carmelita to get hurt.”

“That’s the deal. You never told us the name or where to find the guy.”

“Okay,” Ricci said. “Listen, he’s Karen’s first husband. Tyson Keyes. He’s the driver who tipped off Carmelita about the killings. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t want to know.”

Paul Ricci refused a ride back to the lot, so Del Rio and Cruz got into the car and headed downtown to Private.

“Tyson Keyes. Does he
know
who did the killings? Or did he
do
the killings?” Cruz asked Del Rio.

I DIDN’T WANT to have dinner with anyone.

I wanted to tail my brother from his office, see where he went, with whom, what he was up to.

But Jinx was a client, a nice person, and if I had to dine with anyone, she topped the very short list.

I said, “Would an early dinner work for you?”

She said early would be fine, and I guessed that if we met at six, I could be watching Tommy’s house by eight.

I drove to the Red O, just opened in 2010 by award-winning chef Rick Bayless. The place was visually dramatic, starting with the huge wooden doors that led from Melrose into a glass-covered courtyard.

Inside was a blend of design and architecture evoking South Beach and a hot resort town in Mexico. There was a communal table up front, hand-wrought chandeliers overhead, a curving glass tequila display tunnel, and huge pots of palms everywhere.

I’d read that the Mexican nouvelle cuisine here was incredible even in a town noted for its Mexican food. At six, I could smell the spicy chocolate aroma of mole and I realized I was hungry for a really good meal.

Jinx was waiting for me in one of the small eating spaces tucked into an alcove off the main room. The ottomans, couches, and deep chairs were all covered in black leather. As much as I liked the decor, though, Jinx was the real attraction.

We kissed cheeks, ordered drinks, and as soon as the waiter brought the tequila cocktails, Jinx said, “Tell me something good, Jack. I’m counting sheep at night, and last night I got into the hundreds of thousands.”

I smiled.

She said, “I mean it. Two hundred thousand.”

I smiled again and we both laughed.

It had been almost a week since I’d taken on Jinx Poole as a client, and Cruz and Del Rio had put a lot of time on her tab.

“I think we’re getting somewhere,” I said to Jinx.

The waiter took our order, and when he left, I told Jinx about Cruz’s night at Havana and about Del Rio and Cruz confronting a limo driver under the Sky Way earlier today.

“We have a pretty good idea how to find this Tyson Keyes. If he knows who killed the johns, we’re going to find out.”

“Why were Karen Ricci and Carmelita Gomez holding back his name?”

“Ricci was afraid of him,” I told her. “Apparently Keyes is abusive. I don’t know why women marry men like that. And I don’t understand why they stay with them.”

“My husband was abusive,” Jinx told me. “It’s complicated. I’ve been wanting to tell you about it.”

“Tell me,” I said.

Jinx sipped her drink. She had said she wanted to tell me, but I could see from her expression that it wasn’t an easy story to relate. I sat next to her and waited her out.

“I killed him,” she said. “I want you to know that I killed my husband.”

NOTHING ABOUT JINX Poole said “killer” to me. She was smart, cool, a respected businesswoman, and her admission sounded literally, factually, unbelievable.

Yet I believed her.

Still, I was just about shocked out of my shoes—and I didn’t hide it.

“Jinx, you can’t tell me that you committed a felony. I’m not a lawyer and I’m not a priest. I can be subpoenaed. Forced to testify.”

“I don’t even understand why I want to tell you,” Jinx said to me. “But I feel I must. I want you to know about my husband’s death from
me
.”

I didn’t like this setup. I hardly knew Jinx Poole. Why was she confiding in me? The question jumped into my mind for the first time: Did she have something to do with the hotel murders?

“My husband was Clark Langston,” she said. “You’ve heard of him?”

“He owned some TV stations in the nineties?”

“Yes, that was him.”

Despite my warning, Jinx began to tell me her story. She described meeting Clark Langston twenty years before, during the summer between her freshman and sophomore years at Berkeley. She was waiting tables at the Lodge at Pebble Beach.

“Clark had a boat, a plane, vacation homes in Napa, Austin, and Chamonix. He was so charming, like George Clooney, maybe. Rich and handsome and funny—and he always had friends around him. He was
magnetic,
you know what I mean? I was a kid. And I fell for him, Jack. I fell very hard.”

Jinx kind of lit up as she described what she had thought was only a fantastic summer romance. Then Langston told her that his divorce had gone through. He proposed, offered her a big diamond ring and a big life to go with it.

“I married him that September,” Jinx said. “My parents told me to wait, but I was nineteen. I thought I knew everything. I knew nothing. I left school and became Mrs. Clark Langston and got all that came with that.”

Jinx stopped talking. She swallowed, made a few halting starts. She was having trouble going on, but after a moment, she did.

“A few months into our marriage, he started putting me down in public, flirting with other women, telling me to fetch things for him. Actually, it was worse when we were alone. He drank every day. Until he was stupefied.

“I had never known a real drinker, Jack, and Clark was an angry drunk, a violent drunk. He’d wrench my arms behind my back, shove me against a wall, and rape me. Soon the only kind of sex we had was rape. That’s how he liked it.

“One time, he had his hands around my throat, had me bent back over the sink and was screaming in my face about how worthless I was. There was a knife on the drainboard, and suddenly it was in my hand, pointed at his back—I didn’t realize that I had grabbed it. It was the first time murder actually occurred to me.”

“Did you tell anyone about him? What he was doing?”

“No. You didn’t do that in his circle, and I no longer had a circle of my own. No one would have believed me anyway. And sometimes, this is the crazy part, I saw the man I loved—and I still loved him. Imagine that.”

“I’m sorry to hear this, Jinx. It’s a bad story.”

The waiter brought our meal, asked if we needed anything else. I told him we were fine, but my appetite was gone.

Jinx said to me, “When we’d been married for about two years, we went to a wedding far off the beaten track, if there’s ever been a track to Willow Creek Golf and Country Club.

“Clark was in his element. He gave a toast and he also gave the new couple a car as a wedding gift.

“When the bride danced with Clark, I saw embarrassment and fear on her face. I’d worn that look myself. Hell, I’m wearing it now. I realized that the bride had also been victimized by my husband, but she’d been luckier. She’d gotten away.

“We were driving home when Clark got lost. We had a GPS, one of the first, but I didn’t know how to work it, and Clark was crazy hammered, taking hard turns at high speeds, driving up on the shoulder of the road. It was at the end of the day in a remote rural area.

“Clark said, ‘Get out the map, Fluffy. Can’t you do anything?’ I got the map out of the glove box and started to read him the directions back to the freeway—and that gave him a big idea. He told me to give him the directions in the electronic voice of the GPS. To do an imitation.”

I nodded, told Jinx to go on.

“There was a sign for Whiskeytown Lake. Clark said, ‘Whiskeytown. Sounds like my kind of place.’ I started talking like the GPS. ‘Turn right. In one. Mile. Turn right. In one half. Mile.’”

Jinx turned to me, looking small and young and vulnerable.

“I’ve never told this much of the story to anyone before. I’m sorry, Jack. I think I’ve made a mistake.”

I thought she
had
made a mistake, but now I was with her on that twisting road and I couldn’t see around the corner.

Had Jinx stabbed her husband?

Had she strangled him with a wire garrote?

“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re safe with me.”

That was when I realized that my point of view had shifted.

I wanted to hear Jinx’s story.

And I wanted her to be okay.