One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (8 page)

"Observe, Mr. Mandel. An objective lesson, yes?"

The truck began to spill cement. Andy realized what was about to happen. He screamed and struggled, but he was too wounded to get away. The huge, grey wave rolled closer. Andy babbled, thrashed, but finally got partially covered, which slowed him down just enough to go under except for his face, bloody arm, and one leg. The truck left and another took over. Andy kept screaming until the cement filled his mouth and he vanished from sight.

Mandel threw up.

The second truck left and was replaced by another.

"Mr. Mandel, do as you are told, and you will prosper." Nicky slapped Mandel lightly on the cheek. "And you do not speak of these matters to anyone, not your policeman father or your hotshot fucking uncle who worked for the government. Yes?"

"Yes," Mandel said, shivering. "Yes, I promise."

Time crawled. Eventually, they filled in the whole area of the parking lot and raked it flat. When the job was done, the trucks drove away into the night. Nicky took the shattered attorney back to his hotel.

No one said another word.

"I've never gotten over it."

"Maybe you don't want to get over it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I shrugged. "A brilliant existential therapist once composed a Mobius strip sentence. It goes like this, 'Mom and Dad, I refuse to grow up until you love me the way I needed to be loved when I am seven.' "

JD was a cop, and a good one, but the concept of holding on to one's childhood in a vain effort to change it seemed to elude him. "Don't you think finding out you're adopted after your parents died would upset you, too?"

"It doesn't matter what would upset
me
. The point is you're going around in circles, JD Booze won't cure hurt feelings, and in fact it exacerbates them. Believe me, I know all about that. Don't wimp out."

His eyes narrowed with anger, but he released it seconds later. JD was powerfully built but on the short side for LAPD. He still looked like he bench pressed three hundred, easy. He leaned forward and hunched those broad shoulders. "I read your bio at the station Web site," he said. "You didn't have it so easy."

Not much point in avoiding disclosure when the information is out there on the Internet. "Okay, I never knew my parents. I was raised by an abusive stepfather. To be candid, I still struggle to come to terms with some of the things that happened."

"Sounds like
you're
not over it." He thought he was being smart.

"Not completely, JD, but I understand better now that I'm an adult. I have forgiven as best I can, because that's the only sane alternative. Holding on to that stuff eats you alive, rots you from the inside out."

His face turned to granite. "I'm not joining AA."

"I don't expect you to, JD. The program's not for everyone. But we both know you're going to have to take a hard look at the drinking."

His eyes went out of focus. He looked out my office window to study a squirrel that was busy tap dancing along the wooden fence. "What's wrong with me?" Just the hint of a little boy.

"Low frustration tolerance, poor impulse control, signs of PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. You have one hell of a difficult job, and losing your partner didn't help."

I reached over the coffee table to get my note pad. JD shrank back, a suspicious look on his face. We still had a ways to go.

"I'm going to write down a couple of books. You can pick them up just about anywhere. I want you to have the information you need to make some good decisions for a change. Then we'll talk again. Sound fair?"

When the session was over, I took a quick bathroom break and splashed water on my face. I looked puffy. I was still weight training, but had slacked off on the running. My job stress demands a pretty consistent exercise regimen. I used my cell to check for messages, and picked one up from Jerry.

* * * * *

Later: "Are you going to return her call?"

Andre sat quietly, head in hands. A balding man in his forties, he wore slacks and an expensive silk shirt, gold chains and watch. His right hand trembled. Andre hadn't spoken to his aged mother in months, ever since he'd come out to her that he was in a gay relationship.

"It's your decision, Andre, but the only thing we know for sure is that not speaking to her is making you miserable."

"What if she attacks me?" he asked softly. "I hate when she does that."

"She probably will."

"Then why bother?"

"It's for your own sake, not hers. Want my suggestion?"

He looked up with wet eyes and nodded.

"If she starts to lecture you on the Bible, or criticize your decision, say 'I love you, Mom. Let's talk again later.' And then just quietly hang up the phone."

"I see, just don't get drawn into a fight." He nodded. "I can do that."

I leaned forward. "Send me an E-mail. Let me know if it works. If not, we'll come up with something else."

He left happier. Andre was my last client; it was a short day. I gathered up my notes, reviewed them, and then ran them through the shredder. No written notes means less risk of having to respond in detail to a subpoena. I locked up my office and went out into the early-afternoon sunshine.

It was time to switch gears and see what I could do for Bud Stone.

Jerry's message encapsulated the credit card trail for Mr. J. Faber, who had rented a vehicle from an Enterprise outlet on Oxnard Street in Van Nuys on the very same day he'd disappeared. I jumped on it; called the business directly and drove over straight from work. When I got to the address, the girl behind the counter had an enormous grin, red gums, and a name plate that said TINA. It seemed safe to assume that she was the same Tina I'd just spoken to on the phone.

"I'm such a fan. Mick Callahan, I can't believe it." Tina rested her ample bosom on the counter, like someone putting ripe melons on display. "What can we do for you?"

I showed her a photograph of Joey Faber, and one of Frank Toole. "Like I said on the phone, this is kind of off the record. It's for a TV pilot I'm working on. I think you may have rented a car to these men a couple of weeks ago, on the fifteenth. Mr. Faber signed for it. Do you happen to remember them, Tina?"

She blushed as if I'd said something forward. "Let me look Mr. Callahan, maybe I can help you out here. Give me a few minutes."

I went outside to wait. A large family returned a van. I watched some jittery squirrels square dance atop a cement wall festooned with graffiti, walked a few feet away and called Jerry on my cell. "How's it going?"

Jerry's voice was brittle, cutting in and out. "We're leaving Laurel Canyon, heading down the hill. The lady seems to be on a shopping binge."

Probably with the Bone's money,
I thought. "Okay, just keep an eye out without scaring her. Stay on her tail."

"Hey, no sweat. It's a very nice tail. You coming over?"

"Soon."

"How soon? I'm hungry."

"Don't wait to eat. When I'm done here, I'll try and catch up with you. First, I'll call her and try to meet face to face. Right now, just see if anyone else is following and stay out of trouble. Jerry? Thanks for the help."

"No sweat, I kind of like doing this stuff."

I closed the phone and paced the parking lot. The sun burned my neck. Two young guys in shorts started washing the van that had been returned. A plane came in low, heading northeast to land at the Burbank airport. The squirrels scattered.

"Mr. Callahan? Mick?"

It was Tina with the expansive gums. I went back over to the counter, and she stepped away from her station. A small man in a dark suit gave me a foul look. Tina whispered in my ear, "By the way, Mr. Callahan, how did you know to ask for me?"

I wasn't about to tell her that Jerry was the smartest hacker on the planet. "I can't tell you that," I whispered back. "Part of the TV pilot."

She nodded vigorously. "Oh, I see, sure. Well, anyway, you were right. Mr. Joseph Faber rented a black Range Rover. Here is the license number. I didn't remember at first, but I do know that car because it was in an accident just after."

"Just after?"

"After they turned it in. Well, maybe before, we're not sure."

"Can you clarify that for me, Tina?"

"Mr. Faber rented the car and drove it to Las Vegas. He turned it in there, later on the fifteenth, but it sat in the lot for another day. The report shows some minor damage to the driver side and the front fender, but we don't know when that happened exactly."

"Because it sat in the lot?"

"Yeah. Anyway, he came back and rented it again."

"The same car?"

"Apparently he asked for the same car. And they hadn't had a chance to fix anything. He said he was bringing it back to this outlet, but he never showed up."

"So the car is still missing?"

"Yes, it is overdue and missing, but people are a day or two late all the time. I'm sure he'll turn it in soon."

"Oh, I'm sure, too."

"Anyway, I ran you a copy of the rental form, but don't tell anyone or I'll get fired." She slid it across the counter and winked.

I already had the form, thanks to Jerry. I shook my head. "That won't be necessary, Tina, thanks anyway. If we get this off the ground, I'll have my people be sure and get you tickets to the first taping."

"That would be cool! And can I have your autograph?"

Some days things are just
too
easy.

The day was turning hot. I drove over Coldwater, then turned on Sunset and doubled back. As I drove down the strip I had a bit of a scare. I thought I saw the same white Toyota I'd seen by the radio station, with the identical dark-haired young woman driving. I flashed on a girl named Frisco, who'd once followed me in disguise and led me into a trap. The sun blinded me for a second. I blinked and looked again, but the car, if it had ever actually been there, was gone.
Sure. Someone following you following Jerry following Brandi to see if she's being followed?

During my conversation with Tina, Jerry had tailed Brandi DeLillo to the posh Beverly Center, where he planned to turn the function over to an off-duty detective named Dave Lopez. Lopez was moonlighting for Larry Donato, the ex-cop cousin of Darlene Hernandez.

I parked in the loud garage, blended into the crowd and rode up the escalator behind two young women in black Goth clothing. One was Hispanic and skinny, the other white and heavily muscled. They were engaged in a fierce argument about the quality of some rapper's new CD.

I flipped my cell open, hit auto. "Where are you now?"

"She just went into the Pizza Kitchen. Dave Lopez is here, and he's going to pick her up when she leaves. Like I said, I'm kind of liking this cloak and dagger stuff . . . except for the feeling like a pervert part."

"Why start regretting that now?"

"Funny."

"Okay, you can take off. Give Lopez my cell. I'll call you later."

I paused at the top of the escalator, stepped to one side, and dialed Brandi DeLillo's cell phone number. I pictured her groping through a large purse, looking for the instrument. She answered after four rings. There was a brief silence, perhaps as she checked for a Caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Brandi, my name is Mick Callahan. Bud Stone may have mentioned me somewhere along the way."

She didn't answer. I heard her take a deep breath. I turned away from the mall and towards the busy street. "Hello?"

"I'm here. Did he give you this number?"

"Yes."

"Because he really shouldn't even have it."

I looked back at her. From a distance, she seemed genuinely angry. "To be honest, I'm a little confused. Bud asked me to call you, Brandi. He wanted me to see if there was anything I could do."

"About what?"

"I guess there's been some trouble."

"Is he okay?"

"As far as I know."

"Then I don't know what Bud led you to believe about me, but it's over. Bud and me, we're finished."

"I understand that part. Look, can you spare me just a few minutes?"

"I don't even know you."

"I'm harmless, I promise. I often walk old ladies across the street. Dogs never bark. Cats love me and generally purr."

I looked up, watched her sit back, saw her smile. "Why should I meet you?"

"You can help me understand. Maybe I got fed a line of crap. I'd like to sit down with you, and tell you what Bud said. About the trouble."

"Well . . ."

I took a risk. "I'm in Beverly Hills right now, about to go down Santa Monica. Can I ask where you are?"

She pondered. "Oh, I'm down around the Beverly Center. Why?"

"I can be there in no time. Just let me meet you, somewhere very public is fine. I'll buy you a coffee since I'm sober. I'll fill you in, and then you can tell me your side of the story."

"I'm sober, too." Brandi turned in circles for a minute. She told me where she was and that she could only spare a few minutes. "Okay, how will I know you?"

"Like I said, my name is Mick Callahan. I'm the radio guy. Or maybe you caught my television show?"
Oh, for Christ's sake, Callahan, that sounded pretty arrogant.

"Actually, no. Never heard of you."

That'll teach ya
. I described myself and told Brandi that Bud had shown me a photograph. Then I killed a few minutes looking at puppies in a pet store. Maybe fifteen minutes later, I walked right by Lopez, who was waiting outside, but didn't acknowledge him. I opened the door and strolled into the restaurant. Brandi was worrying the hell out of a paper napkin. My size threw her for a second, and she edged back. I sat down across from her, leaned my elbows on the round glass table and shook her hand. Her palm felt damp.