Private: #1 Suspect (23 page)

IT WAS A hell of a send-off for Cody.

The Bazaar was a five-star restaurant on La Cienega, a “movable feast” that called up Spanish fiestas of the kind you only saw in movies.

We had booked the tasting room, called Saam, for our party of thirty. The furnishings were leather and Murano glass, and the food was bizarre and terrific: tapas and cheesy confections and foie gras lollipops wrapped in cotton candy.

People were lit on magic mojitos infused with end-of-the-workday relief. There were silly toasts and drunken laughter, and a couple of girls were crying and laughing at the same time.

As I said, it was a hell of a party.

But some people were missing: Del Rio, Scotty, and Cruz were out working the hotel murder case. Justine had given Cody a cashmere sweater and begged off the festivities.

I wanted to be anyplace but here. But I owed it to Cody to give him a bash worthy of how much we all loved him. He’d stepped into his job after Colleen left six months ago, filling her place without a hitch. Like he was made for it. I’d always be thankful to him for that.

I clinked my glass with a fork, and the whooping only escalated.

“Cody,” I said. “Cody, we’re going to miss you.”

There was whistling and guys yelling Cody’s name. Mo-bot was beaming. Even Sci stood up and gave Cody some applause.

“We’re going to miss your clothing commentary,” I said to my former assistant, “and your impersonations of all of us, especially me.”

I did an impersonation of Cody doing an impersonation of me, running his hand through his hair, giving himself a serious look in the mirror, straightening his tie.

People roared.

I said that I had put a contract out on Ridley Scott for taking Cody away from us, but that I was grateful to Cody for finding Val.

Cody broke in to say, “Val, stand up, girlfriend.”

And she did, laughing too, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the magic mojitos. She was just having fun.

I said, “Cody, you’ve kept us on track and you’ve brought us a lot of happiness too. And if the acting thing disappoints you, I’m going on the record: You’ll always have a home at Private.”

I gave him the gift-wrapped camera and card from everyone at Private, and after the applause had abated, Cody wiped his eyes with a red napkin and used his foie gras lollipop as a microphone. “Jack, I want to thank you,” he said. “Seriously, this has been the best job of my life. You taught me more than this,” he said, grinning as he ran his hand through his hair. “You showed me honorable leadership in action. That’s what I’m going to remember most.”

I didn’t know thirty people could make so much noise with their hands.

DEL RIO EYED the King Eddy Saloon, a bar within an old bootlegging hotel by the same name on Skid Row, East Fifth and Los Angeles Streets. This was a bad section of town, but King Eddy’s attracted all types, from homeless drunks to young people with dreams who owned condos around the corner.

The building was gray with black trim, bars on the three windows around the door, a security gate attached to that, attesting to what could and often did happen in this neighborhood.

Del Rio went through the door, Cruz right behind him, like Samuel Jackson and John Travolta going into that diner in
Pulp Fiction.

“Cold Cold Ground” was playing on the jukebox, and some people were singing along. The circular bar was jam-packed with local characters. A cheap wooden platform held the TVs, which were tuned to a basketball game. At that instant, the Lakers lost by a point.

Customers groaned.

Alongside the wall opposite the bar was a line of tables under decorative neon beer signs. At one of the tables a pair of trannies was getting crazy. From the pitch and volume of the screaming, Del Rio thought it was just a matter of moments before it got physical.

With luck, they’d be out of there before the trannies blew.

Del Rio had seen a picture of the guy they were looking for. It was a couple years old and the guy had been holding a number under his chin, but Del Rio was pretty sure he could recognize him inside his favorite hangout.

He searched the backs of heads and profiles, and then he saw the African American guy with a short beard sitting at the bar. He was eating a free doughnut and talking to the old barfly sitting next to him.

Del Rio got Cruz’s attention, tilted his chin toward the guy with the beard. Cruz squinted, then nodded, and Del Rio pulled his nine.

Del Rio walked over to the guy having his beer and doughnut, put the gun to his spine, and felt the guy stiffen. The guy stared into the mirror over the bar for a second, looked into the faces of the two men who weren’t joking, raised his hands, and held them up.

Del Rio said, “Mr. Keyes, walk with me.”

Keyes said, “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Then don’t do anything stupid.”

This was Tyson Keyes, the badass limo driver who was Karen Ricci’s first husband. According to her second husband, Paul Ricci, Keyes was the man who had tipped Carmelita Gomez that her john had been killed by a limo driver. Maybe he’d done more than that. Maybe Tyson Keyes had killed five businessmen who’d hired party girls for a couple of hours in their hotel rooms.

Keyes swiveled around, then got off the stool very carefully. “I’m not the guy you’re looking for, man.”

The barfly said to Keyes, “You through with your beer?”

“He’s through,” said Del Rio. “Let’s go.”

A couple of people looked up, then looked away real fast. They would say that they hadn’t seen anything.

With his hands still in the air, a former limousine driver named Tyson Keyes walked slowly through the crowd, escorted out the door by a former US Marine and the former California light-middleweight champion of 2005.

Tom Waits sang his signature song on the jukebox right behind them.

A MESSAGE FROM Justine was waiting for me when I got home.

“Jack. I want to stay at Private. That’s a definite yes. Also, if I was rude the other night, I’m sorry. I’m still feeling…bruised. See you tomorrow.”

I listened to the message a couple more times, strained it for subtext, listened for hidden meanings. All I got for sure was that Justine was staying at Private.

Was there still a chance we could reconcile?

Or were we done for good?

I heard her saying
There is no “us
,
” Jack. I’m not sure there ever was.

I had showered and changed into jeans and a polo shirt when the intercom buzzed. I went to my new security system and checked the gate monitor.

Jinx was there with a tray in her hand, silver covers over the food.

She was right on time.

I buzzed her in, and when she came to the door, I took the tray and put it on the hall table.

Her face was sunny and beautiful, and her glasses were cute, the lenses a girly shade of pink. She was wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt.

Same color blue as her eyes.

Same color blue as the shirt I was wearing.

She said, “Hey, look at you.”

I said, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather look at you.”

“Okay,” she said.

We laughed and I wrapped her in my arms, gave her a long hug.

As I hugged her, she told me what she’d brought for dinner, heirloom tomato salad and crab cakes with mango salsa. She was excited, talking very fast.

I had already had dinner at Cody’s farewell banquet, but Jinx didn’t know, and she wasn’t going to hear it from me.

“I made the salsa myself,” she said, still holding on to me. “Specialty of the house.”

“I have a bottle of Pinot Grigio on ice.”

“I hoped you would,” she said, grinning up at me. She had a very pretty smile.

I got the wine and we took dinner out to the deck, settled into chairs, took a few breaths, and relaxed.

We toasted the setting sun as it did a fan dance with a bank of fat gray clouds. It was all special: the view, the salsa, the wine, and Jinx, who was turning out to be very good company.

She kicked off her sandals, hugged her knees, and asked me to tell her more about myself, something that wasn’t on my corporate bio.

I could give a pretty good tour of my life using the map of scars on my body, but no. Not right now. I was thinking of a football story, something funny, when a musical ringtone came from the living room. Jinx’s phone.

She said, “I’m not answering that.”

“Good.”

When her phone rang the second time, it broke the mood for real. I closed the sliding glass doors, but we could still hear the phone when it called out again.

Jinx said, “It might be…Let me just get it. I’ll be right back.”

I stared out at the surf as Jinx opened the doors. I liked Jinx, was enjoying whatever this was, a date or just getting to know her.

I thought about telling her that I could make her cell phone disappear, that I could demonstrate my famous forward pass and send it into the ocean.

I thought she would laugh.

But then I heard her say in the next room, “Please. Just tell me.” And then, “Oh, no. No. I’ll be right there. Don’t touch anything.”

Jinx returned to the deck, a look of panic on her face.

“Someone else was killed in my hotel, Jack. Another man is dead.”

I STOOD WITH Jinx just outside the Fellini Room on the second floor at the front of the hotel. It wasn’t the best location or the priciest room, but there was easy access by way of the stairs from the lobby.

The distraught young guy standing with us in the hallway was the manager, “Mr. Knowles.” His face was red, his lower lip quivered, and his eyes were swollen.

I looked beyond him into the room and saw a murder scene horrifying enough to shake up a kid with a degree in hotel management. It shook me up too, and I’d been through a war.

A man lay dead, half on the bed, half on the floor. A homemade wire garrote with two wooden handles had been pulled so hard around his neck an artery had been severed. The victim’s blood had splashed onto the unmade bed before he died.

“That’s Mr. Albert Singh,” said Knowles. “He checked in at one a.m. Had the ‘Do Not Disturb’ light on all day. He didn’t put any charges on his bill.”

Mr. Singh looked to be in his twenties, was wearing briefs and a white T-shirt. He had a wedding band on the ring finger of his outstretched hand.

“Ms. Poole, I said I’d wait for you,” Knowles was saying to Jinx, “and now you’re here. I’ve had enough, Ms. Poole. Here are my keys and my pass. I’ll send back my uniform, but I have to go home—”

I touched his arm, interrupting his exit speech.

“Mr. Knowles. I’m Jack Morgan, Private Investigations. I work for Ms. Poole. Talk to me for a minute. Tell me what happened.”

His voice was a screech. “Like I know? Housekeeping knocked on the door. There was no answer. The housekeeper came in and saw
this
.”

Old hotels, even those renovated in high style, weren’t designed with modern security in mind. If the killer was running true to form, he’d ducked the cameras. It might actually be impossible to secure this hotel and still keep it open for business.

If Mr. Singh was like the five other men killed in this manner, my theory was that he had hired a hooker. Sometime after she’d left, he’d let the killer into his room. Maybe a limo driver pretending that he was a hotel engineer investigating a leak, or hotel security. Most guests would let the guy in.

The LAPD was working the case, and we hadn’t gotten in their way. But we hadn’t helped them either. We had an unproven theory.

That was pretty much all we had.

Like Knowles, I felt like calling it quits. I was sorry I had taken the job. Sorry I had let Jinx down.

“Jinx, we have to call the police,” I said.

She had her fist to her mouth. I wasn’t sure she even heard me. I took out my cell phone and called it in.

Then I called Del Rio.

“I was just calling
you,
” he said. “We’ve got breaking news on the hotel john killer. Come quick. We need you to talk to someone, Jack. Someone who needs convincing.”

I HAD A clear view of the hotel’s entrance through the windows of the late Albert Singh’s room. Cops streamed into the Sun’s driveway, and sirens wailed as more sped up South Santa Monica Boulevard.

I put my hands on Jinx’s shoulders and made eye contact with her. I said, “I’ll call you as soon as I can. You’re going to be all right.”

I didn’t want to leave her, but Del Rio said he needed me urgently. I had to go.

I left the hotel by the rear exit, got my car out of the lot, and drove to Fifth Street. I found Del Rio and Cruz in a garbage-strewn alley called Werdin Place. A half block from King Eddy’s, Werdin ran between buildings and served as a parking place for owners of the businesses on the block. The shops were closed for the night, and Werdin was deserted.

Cruz greeted me at the top of the alley. Behind him, Del Rio held his gun on a forty-ish black man who was sitting on the ground, his fingers interlaced behind his neck. He was in what we called “Private custody.”

Del Rio said, “Jack, I’d like you to meet Mr. Tyson Keyes.”

Keyes didn’t look at me, kept his eyes on the heap of trash bags ten feet away.

Del Rio had filed a report after he’d talked to the bouncer from Havana. The bouncer had told Del Rio that Keyes was a felon of the violent kind and that he knew the name of the hotel john killer.

Del Rio said, “Mr. Morgan, Mr. Keyes doesn’t want to talk to us. I told him if he didn’t tell us who killed those johns, I would blow his head off, but that corporate policy dictates I get your permission first.”

I stooped down to Keyes’s level. “Mr. Keyes,” I said, “no one will call in shots coming from this location. You know that. And here’s something you don’t know. Mr. Del Rio has nothing to lose. He has cancer. He’ll be dead before he ever sees jail again.”

I looked past Cruz’s startled expression, said, “It’s metastasized, isn’t that right, Rick?”

“Right you are, Jack. I’ve made peace with my maker. I’m ready to go at any time.”

Keyes said, “That’s what you want? The
name
of who killed those johns? I thought you wanted me to say
I
did it. Yo, I
want
you to get that crazy bitch off the street.”

“Wait,” I said. “A woman killed those johns?”

“You deaf, man?” Keyes asked me. “Yeah, she’s a she, all right. I was banging her while my old lady was in prison. I thought we had something going, but she doesn’t like men, yo. She fuckin’
hates
them.

“One night, I was sleeping, she put a
coat hanger
around my neck. I put my gun in her ear. Told her she had to the count of three to get the hell out of my life. Then I heard one of her tricks died by a wire. See, I picked Candy up from the Seaview the night that trick was killed, yo. She called me up without going through her service. She used me as her wheelman, you hear me? That’s not right.”

“What’s Candy’s full name?” Del Rio said.

“You let me go if I tell you?”

Del Rio lowered his gun.

“Carmelita Gomez. She works at that Cuban club from ten to four, so, like, she can still squeeze in a few tricks on the side—”

Cruz leaned in so that his eyes were only inches from Keyes’s face.

“Where can we find Ms. Gomez now?”