Fair Is Foul and Foul Is Fair (Malone Mystery Novels, #2) E-Book

Larry Darter

• Herausgeber: Fedora Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A gorgeous socialite. A maverick investigator. A deadly connection.

When a drop-dead gorgeous socialite with a wad of cash walks into Ben Malone’s office with a sordid tale to tell, he does what any self-respecting private investigator with rent to pay would do – he takes the case. But soon, he realizes he may have bitten off more than he can chew.

As the body count rises and all signs point to the Ukrainian mob, it becomes increasingly clear that there’s far more at stake than his client’s needs. This mind-boggling case just might hit too close to home for him, and he has no intention of letting it get any worse.

The clock is ticking. Lives are on the line. Will Malone stop this runaway train of destruction and untangle the web of criminal wrongdoing in time, or die trying?

Leseprobe

FAIR IS FOUL AND FOUL IS FAIR

A Malone Mystery Novel (Book 2)

––––––––

By Larry Darter

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Fedora Press

Copyright © 2017 by Larry Darter

Cover copyright © 2017 by Fedora Press

Fedora Press supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and creative artists to produce original works that enrich our culture. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), please contact the author. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Click or visit the author’s website:

LarryDarter.com

This book is available in print at most bookstores.

For Suzanne, No one is so fair nor nearly so delightful

CONTENTS

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Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

A Word from the Author

Read More Malone

Other Books in the Series

About the Author

Epigraph

"Upon the heath.

There to meet with Macbeth.

I come, graymalkin!

Paddock calls.

Anon!

Fair is foul, and foul is fair:

Hover through the fog and filthy air."

Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 1 by William Shakespeare

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Things are not always as they first appear.

Chapter 1

ON AN INTELLECTUAL level, I was sure I'd long understood the meaning of the phrase, drop dead gorgeous. But when my office door opened that Monday morning and she walked in, I gained some real practical insight into the true meaning of the phrase. She was someone who was so stunning at first glance that it was hard to look away. Looking at her for the first time made my heart skip a beat and then beat faster. Time seemed to grind to a halt.

She said, "Mr. Malone?"

I tried to think of a witty reply but failed miserably. My mind had turned temporarily to mush. Instead, I flashed her a goofy grin and said, "Yes. I'm Malone."

Her golden blond hair contrasted perfectly with her cornflower blue eyes and porcelain skin. She was tall, very trim, and carried herself with an air of sophistication. She had on a short dark gray pencil skirt, black stockings, a white sleeveless silk blouse, unbuttoned to display just the right amount of cleavage. She wore black ankle strap heels. Her ears were adorned with small gold hoop earrings and around her neck was an impressive gold statement necklace that looked like it had probably cost three or four times what I'd paid for my car.

I stood up, gestured towards one of the client chairs positioned in front of my desk, and invited her to sit down. She had an elegant heel-to-toe walk that brought to mind a fashion model on a runway. She sat down gracefully in the chair and crossed her legs at the knee. She modestly tugged at the hem of her impressively too short skirt, but the effort didn't quite manage to conceal the darker colored top of the silk stocking covering her right leg. I liked the skirt. I liked it a lot. The skirt and the stockings emphasized her long, shapely legs.

I sat back down in my desk chair, almost missing the seat. I could tell she was giving me the once over, sizing me up. Probably mentally undressing me. I had that effect on women. She looked me over a little more before speaking.

"You're quite tall and muscular," she said. "Physically you appear quite capable."

"You betcha," I said. "Care to see me do a one-arm push-up?"

With a frown, she looked me directly in the eye and shook her head slightly from side to side. I felt a little relieved since I hadn't tried to do a one-arm push-up in quite a long while.

"Are you good at what you do?" she said.

"I am," I said.

"If I share a problem with you can I rely on you to be completely discreet?" she said.

"Of course," I said. "In fact, discreet is my middle name."

She looked dubious. To add emphasis to my claim, I touched my thumb and index finger to my lips and twisted as if turning a key to indicate my lips were sealed. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow, suggesting she wasn't impressed with the pantomime.

"Mr. Malone, it's a very serious matter that brought me here," she said. "I need a private detective, not a stand-up comic. I'd very much like to hear a little evidence of your qualifications before discussing anything with you."

"I'm licensed as a private investigator by the State of California," I said. "I could show you my BSIS-issued photo ID card if you like. In the recent past, I was a Los Angeles police homicide detective."

She seemed satisfied, even without seeing my gun.

"Can you help me with a serious problem?" she said.

"I can't say until I hear what the problem is about," I said.

"I've got to trust you, I suppose," she said. "I'm desperate for help. I have no one else to turn to."

"What is it you want, Mary?" I said. "What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word, and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."

"Please don't make light of my situation with movie quotes, Mr. Malone," she said. "I have a serious problem that I need help with."

"What's the problem?" I said.

"I saw something that I shouldn't have," she said.

"What did you see?" I said.

"A crime," she said. "A serious crime."

"What kind of crime?" I said.

"A murder," she said.

"Murder certainly qualifies as a serious crime," I said. "Perhaps you should be speaking with the police."

"I can't go to the police," she said. "That's part of the problem."

"Why not?" I said. "Were you involved? Are you a fugitive from justice?"

"Of course not, try to be serious," she said. "I'm not a criminal, Mr. Malone."

"Then I don't understand your reluctance to go to the police and tell them what you saw," I said.

"Because the police would ask all sorts of questions about how I happened to be at the location where I witnessed the murder," she said. "They would inquire about my involvement with the victim. The press might get a hold of it. That would all be terribly inconvenient. I just can't afford to take the risk."

"If you're worried the killer would come after you, the police will protect you," I said.

"That's not my chief concern," she said.

"Then what is it?" I said.

"You said you were a policeman, Mr. Malone," she said. "I assume you're familiar with the term 'escort' and what that term entails."

"I assume you aren't referring to that awful Ford automobile model from several years back," I said.

Another raised eyebrow suggested she wasn't talking cars.

"Then if you mean escort in the sense of an upscale call girl, then yes, I am knowledgeable and conversant on that subject," I said.

"Being an escort entails a great deal more than just sex for money, Mr. Malone," she said. "But yes, essentially that is what I'm referring to. I'm employed part-time by an escort service. I don't do it to support myself financially. It's more that I'm pursuing a personal interest you might say."

"Always nice to have a hobby," I said.

She responded by raising another eyebrow. I found myself trying to mimic her. But I couldn't feel my eyebrows moving, certainly not one independently of the other. Instead, the effort only opened my eyes wider. I figured that probably made me look wild-eyed, like Charlie Manson, so I stopped.

"I take it your part-time employment explains your reluctance to go to the police," I said. "I'm quite certain they wouldn't be interested in prosecuting you for indulging your personal interest, as you phrased it. I also don't see much risk of you being exposed by the media."

"There is a little more to it than what I've told you thus far," she said. "There is another complicating factor."

"Which is what?" I said.

"I'm married to a rather wealthy and prominent man who is widely known in Southern California," she said. "I'm quite certain the revelation that his wife is employed by an escort service is something the tabloids would find newsworthy. If it got out, it would not only be a huge personal embarrassment for my husband and me, it could ruin him professionally. I'm not prepared to risk that."

"I assume your husband is unaware of your hobby," I said.

"Don't be foolish, Mr. Malone. Of course, he is unaware. While I feel no obligation to justify myself to you, I will explain to clarify things. My husband is quite older than I am. I am what some term a trophy wife. His work requires that he travel extensively. We spend a great deal of time apart. We haven't any children together. His children from his first marriage are grown. I didn't work until recently. I simply got sick of staying home all the time, spending all my time alone for the most part. I found something that interests me and that occupies my time. I find it satisfying."

"So what is it you expect I can do for you?" I said.

"I thought perhaps I could tell you everything I saw and that you could then go to the police in my stead with the information," she said.

"Sort of like a surrogate murder witness?" I said. "Sorry sweetheart, it doesn't work that way. Me telling the police what you witnessed wouldn't be very useful to them. It would be secondhand information, in legal terms, it's called hearsay. It isn't admissible in court. If I went to the police and told them your story, they would immediately press me to identify you so that they could speak with you directly."

"Couldn't you just refuse to identify me?" she said.

"No, I couldn't," I said. "Not legally. I'm not an attorney, journalist, or your priest. I have no legal exemption that would allow me to withhold your identity from the police. If I refused to identify you voluntarily, they would get a court order to force me to do so. If I continued to refuse, a judge would find me in contempt and have me thrown in jail until I decided to play ball."

"I see," she said. "So there is nothing you can do?"

"I didn't say that," I said. "I just can't go to the police as your emissary and tell them what you witnessed without identifying you. Tell me, if you don't want to risk exposure and embarrassment why do anything? Maybe you should just try to forget about it."

"I don't think I can," she said. "It seems unethical, for one thing. It doesn't seem right to let a murder go unpunished. Besides I don't believe I could choose to do that anyway."

"Why not," I said.

"Because the killers saw me after I saw one of them shoot a client of mine," she said. "I'm afraid they will search for me. They might eventually find me."

"Are you certain you were seen?" I said.

"Yes, quite certain. They pursued me. I was fortunate to escape."

"And you're sure the victim is dead?" I said. "If he was shot but survived, you just witnessed an assault. Maybe they won't be concerned enough to come after you."

"Yes, I am quite sure he is dead," she said. "The murder was reported on the news this morning."

"That is a problem then," I said.

"Can you help me or not?" she said.

Suddenly she seemed terribly frightened and vulnerable like she might burst into tears at any moment. I wasn't sure I could help her but decided I had to try.

"I can't just go to the police and tell them what you saw," I said. "But perhaps there is something I can do."

"Like what?" she said.

"Maybe I can find another way to bring the men you saw to the attention of the police and can implicate them in the murder," I said. "Maybe in a way that leaves you out of it."

"Could you really do that?" she said.

"I could try," I said.

"Please, would you try for me?" she said. "I'm so desperate."

The more I looked at her, those cornflower eyes, her full ruby-red lips, her pretty face looking so vulnerable, the more desperate I was starting to feel the need for a little help of my own.

"Okay," I said. "But you need to tell me everything, where you were and exactly what you saw."

"It was last evening," she said. "It was a little before eight o'clock. I was at the Castillo Colina on Sunset Boulevard to meet a client. Are you familiar with the hotel?"

"Yes, the place where Belushi died of an overdose," I said. "I'm familiar with it."

Built in 1929, Castillo Colina was a very popular boutique hotel in Hollywood. Nestled in the hills above Sunset Boulevard like the mansion in "The Secret Garden" the posh hotel offered guests both privacy and exclusivity. It was a magnet for the rich and famous. It was a place where Led Zeppelin band members once rode their Harley motorcycles through the lobby and the place where Jim Morrison hurt his back dangling from a drain pipe while attempting to swing from the roof into his hotel room.

Hollywood legend had it that Humphrey Bogart once tended the gardens there before he made it big as an actor. Adjacent to the hotel, the Bar Colina was one of the hottest spots in Tinseltown, frequented by the likes of Johnny Depp, Winona Ryder, and Leonardo DiCaprio.

"My client had reserved one of the bungalows above the pool," she said. "I arrived a few minutes before eight last evening. I was walking to the bungalow from the patio side. The lights were on, and the drapes behind the patio doors were partially open. I saw three men inside just beyond the doors, my client and two other men I didn't recognize. They seemed to be having a heated discussion."

"Since you recognized the client I assume there is some history there," I said.

"Yes," she said. "He had engaged me on previous occasions while in LA on business."

"Please continue," I said.

"I paused outside the patio doors," she said. "I assumed it was a business meeting that had gone longer than my client had expected since he had set our appointment for eight o'clock."

"What made you think it was an argument?" I said.

"The body language and the fact that voices were raised," she said. "I couldn't make out exactly what was being said, but the tone was definitely not conversational."

"What did the two men look like?" I said.

"One of them was very large," she said. "Not heavyset, but tall and muscular. Like you. The man was I suppose mid-thirties, also like you. Short hair, a buzz cut. The other man was older. He was also shorter, under six foot, and thin. He had gray hair, about collar length, combed straight back. They both appeared to be foreigners, Slavic perhaps."

"Then what happened," I said.

"My client said something to the men and then pointed toward the patio doors," she said. "It seemed he was telling the other two men to get out. Suddenly the large man pulled a gun from inside his jacket. It happened so fast. It seemed as if one moment his hands were at his side, and the next he held a gun pointed at my client. He shot my client directly in the face. I saw it, and I screamed. It was involuntary. It just came out. The men both whirled toward the patio doors and looked directly at me."

"What did you do then?" I said.

"I ran," she said. "I was wearing heels. I kicked them off, grabbed them up, and I ran for dear life towards the hotel lobby. I heard the patio doors open and heard behind me the footfalls of someone chasing me. I entered the hotel through the doors beside the pool. I ran through the lobby and out the front doors. I made it to the car, jumped into the back, and told Jackie to drive away immediately."

"Car?" I said. "And who pray tell is Jackie, your pimp?"

"Don't be crude, Mr. Malone. Jackie is one of the drivers for the service. The drivers take us to our appointments. They wait outside until we call them after meeting a client and tell them everything is fine. It's a safety measure. We are required to follow the procedure even with clients we have been with before."

"So the car belonged to your employer?" I said.

"Yes," she said. "We're picked up at home and driven to appointments. The driver returns and picks us up afterward."

"Did the killer see you get into the car?" I said.

"Yes," she said. "I turned and looked out the rear glass while Jackie drove away. The large man who shot Trevor, my client, was standing in the driveway of the hotel watching us drive away."

"That could be a problem," I said. "If he got the license plate number he may be able to trace you through your service."

"I thought only the police could get license plate information," she said.

"The information is out there," I said. "It's available to anyone willing to pay for it."

"Oh, dear," she said.

"Do you happen to know Trevor's last name?" I said. "And for that matter whether Trevor was a real name or an alias, considering the circumstances of your acquaintance."

"Yes, Trevor is or was his real name. His last name was Gladstone," she said. "Once when we were together he left his wallet on a table in the hotel room while showering. Out of curiosity I looked inside and saw his identification, a New York driver's license."

"Did you tell your employer about what happened?"

"No, I haven't told anyone but you," she said. "When I hurriedly returned to the car, Jackie asked what happened. I just told him there had been a problem but didn't give him any of the details."

"What's the name of your service?" I said.

"I won't reveal that," she said. "I don't want to involve them."

"They are probably already involved, assuming the shooter got the license plate number," I said. "They are entitled to know about this. The men you saw could show up there and ask how to get in touch with you."

"They would never disclose my private information," she said.

"Under ordinary circumstances perhaps," I said. "But these guys don't sound like nice men. It sounds to me like what you saw was a mob hit. Men like that won't ask your employer nicely for your information. Anyone can be made to talk if the pain gets bad enough."

"Oh my god," she said. "I never considered that. All right, the agency I work for is Discreet Encounters. The office is at 6311 Hollywood Boulevard."

"They have an actual office?" I said.

"Yes, it's where they do applicant interviews, answer the phone, and coordinate the appointments," she said. "Elle is the office manager."

"Cars all the same?" I said.

"Yes, black Lincoln Town Cars," she said. "It's part of the brand."

"I've heard your story, and you know my name, but I don't know yours," I said.

"I'd rather keep that confidential for now," she said. "This is a very sensitive situation as I told you."

"I've got to know where to send the bill when this is all over," I said. "I sort of expect to be paid for my time."

"Are you expensive?" she said.

"Not nearly as expensive as you, I suspect," I said.

That remark provoked another eyebrow raise.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I need help. The cost is not a primary consideration. I'll give you a retainer up front."

She reached into her handbag and produced a bundle of currency enclosed in a mustard-colored paper currency band. She tossed the bundle onto my desktop. I saw that the bank notes were hundreds. I did a quick calculation. I knew that the ABA standard for currency bundles was one hundred bills.

The packet on my desk, while small enough to comfortably slip into my jacket pocket, represented ten thousand dollars. Probably enough for an evening or two of shamefully decadent fun with a woman like her, but a princely sum to a simple gumshoe like me. Minutes ago I had been wondering how I was going to pay my office rent at the end of the month. Now I was bucks up.

"Is that sufficient to start?" she said.

I played it casual. "Yes, it's adequate," I said. "But I expect you will want an accounting of my expenses, so I still need a name and address for statements."

"My name is Evania," she said. "That's all the name I'm willing to give for now. When I require an accounting or progress report, I'll visit you here in your office."

I had a feeling Evania was her real name. While her English was impeccable, the lack of any detectable California accent and her features suggested that she might be of Eastern European extraction. I knew Evania was a common Czech, Russian, and Ukrainian female name. It was not so common a name for females born in the United States.

"I guess that will have to do," I said.

"Unless you have other questions, I suppose I should be going," she said. "I'll be in touch."

We both stood. She offered her hand, and I took it. It was a surprisingly firm handshake for a female, but her skin was soft belying the fact she wasn't a woman accustomed to hard physical labor. At least not the kind that produced rough hands. I tried hard not to think about the kind of physical labor she was accustomed to doing. I was already feeling randy enough.

When she reached the door, she stopped and turned to look at me. "Will you get started right away?" she said.

"Right away," I said.

She smiled for the first time since she had walked in. She turned and walked out of my office, closing the door quietly behind her.

I stood at the window of my second-floor office, looking out on Cahuenga. I watched Evania get into a candy apple red BMW Z4 parked at the curb. She started the car and squealed away. The car rounded the corner at Hollywood Boulevard in a blur and then disappeared from view.

I turned and looked at the framed photograph of Sara Bernstein on the corner of my desk. It had been taken during our recent vacation to Hawaii.

"No worries babe," I said to the photo. "I have eyes only for you."

Sara Bernstein, the girl of my dreams, was in San Francisco at a psychiatric conference. We had met the previous year while I was still with the cops. I'd been sent to her by the department for psychiatric evaluation after a third officer-involved shooting in less than a year. My supervisors were concerned that I might be a homicidal maniac.

In the middle of the shrink sessions, I'd pressed her to go out with me. She had resisted at first on ethical grounds, but eventually, my rugged good looks and boyish charm had won her over. Or maybe it was my culinary skills. Or maybe it was because I wouldn't take no for an answer. At any rate, we started dating. We still were. I missed her a lot and anxiously awaited her return the coming Friday afternoon.

I'd promised Evania that I'd start on the case right away and I would. Right after I had coffee and some donuts from the shop down the block. After all, I was bucks up.

Chapter 2

AT THE DONUT SHOP, the coffee was fresh and strong just the way I liked it. The deep fried sweet pastries were also delicious. Ordinarily, I'd have consumed a half dozen, but thanks to my amazing willpower I stopped after eating a pair of glazed and a couple of chocolate covered.

Technically, I wasn't slacking on the new case. While I partook of the coffee and donuts, I started mentally formulating my investigative plan. Years before I'd learned in the army that a failure to plan was a plan to fail, so I took planning seriously.

It also learned, as once sagely noted by German military strategist Helmuth von Moltke, no battle plan survives contact with the enemy. I'd learned the truth of his observation through bitter experience, also during my army days. But a plan was necessary at the outset to have a place to start from. I could then adjust on the fly once the initial plan crashed and burned as all plans invariably did.

The first order of business was to call my old friend and former L.A.P.D. partner Jaime Reyes. I first met Reyes when he and I had been temporarily assigned together to the L.A.P.D. cold case homicide unit. Together we cleared an old murder case that had gone unsolved for more than twenty years.

As a reward for our triumph, Reyes had been bumped up the ladder to the distinguished and prestigious L.A.P.D. RHD Homicide Section. While I might have been offered the same deal, some of the things that happened while we were working the old murder case left a bad taste in my mouth. I lost my enthusiasm for a career with L.A.P.D. I had resigned and opened my own private investigations shop.

I took out my cell phone and punched in Reyes' mobile number. He answered after several rings.

“Reyes,” he said.

“Reyes, you in the office?” I said. “I need some info.”

“Malone, what a surprise,” Reyes said sarcastically. “You only call when you want something.”

“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” I said.

“Har, har, har, hardy har har,” Reyes said, in his best but not great Ralph Kramden imitation. “I'm not in the office. I'm on a murder scene.”

“Really?” I said. “Where at?”

“One of the bungalows at Castillo Colina,” he said.

“Wow,” I said. “Must be an important victim if robbery-homicide got the case instead of the Hollywood Division dicks.”

“Yeah, a prominent businessman from New York,” Reyes said.

“I'm just ten minutes away,” I said. “Mind if I swing by?”

“Only on the condition you don't touch anything. I don't want my scene contaminated. “We just got here, and we're still waiting for the crime scene unit.”

“No worries, Reyes,” I said. “You know me, ever the consummate professional.”

“Whatever, dude,” Reyes said.

“See you in a few pal,” I said and then disconnected the call.

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FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I dumped my Camry behind a black unmarked police Crown Vic parked in the drive of Castillo Colina. A valet approached apprehensively eying my ride. He seemed relieved when I told him I didn't need it parked.

“I'm a detective,” I said. “I'm here on the investigation up at the bungalow. Keep an eye on my car will you?”

“Sure, detective,” he said.

I didn’t miss the slight eye roll. He was probably getting his eyes warmed up so that he could be especially vigilant in watching my car.

I hadn't really lied. I had just strategically omitted the fact that I was a private detective, not the L.A.P.D. variety. I found that usually made people a little more cooperative.

I walked through the lobby of the hotel, out the door to the pool area, and then across the spacious expanse of perfectly manicured green grass toward the bungalows above the pool. I felt a little cheated that I hadn't run into Kim Kardashian or any other celebrity on the trip through the lobby. Kardashian’s popularity was on the decline. She was probably in the Colina Bar scheming her comeback.

About fifty feet from the patio of the bungalow I encountered the first strip of yellow "Police Line Do Not Cross" tape and a burly blue uniformed patrol guy wearing mirrored Ray Bans. Even with the sunglasses, it was obvious from his demeanor that he was eying me with suspicion. I confidently strode right up to the crime scene tape and just as confidently made my announcement.

“Detective Malone,” I said. “Detective Reyes requested that I come out to consult on the case.”

Reyes, who had been standing a few yards on the other side of the tape turned at the sound of my voice. I was rewarded with my second eye roll of the morning. But he told the patrol cop to let me pass.

“What have we got?” I said.

“We don't have anything, Malone,” Reyes said. “You're not a cop anymore. Remember?”

“That's not entirely true, Reyes,” I said. “I'm still a cop, just a private one now. Making the big bucks and living the dream.”

Reyes sighed but evidently decided he wasn’t in the mood for a debate.

“White male, in his fifties, with a single gunshot wound to the face,” Reyes said. “The bullet went in through his left eye and apparently lodged inside his skull given that there is no exit wound.”

“Sounds like it could have been a professional hit,” I said.

“Oh, thank you, Detective Malone,” Reyes said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’d never have guessed that on my own. I'm so glad I called you out here for a consultation.”

“Don't mention it,” I said. “I'm always available to support the L.A.P.D. I back the blue.”

“So what are you really here for, Malone?” Reyes said.

“I caught the news report about the dead guy this morning,” I said. “They didn't have much in the way of details, and I was just curious.”

Reyes seemed unconvinced.

“Looks like the guy was shot sometime last night,” he said. “Probably dead when he hit the floor. We'll know more about that when the coroner’s investigator gets here. A maid discovered the body this morning when she let herself inside to clean the room.”

“You said when we spoke on the phone he was from New York?” I said.

“Yeah, New York City,” Reyes said. “Apparently he owned a large international import-export business headquartered in Manhattan.”

“Know his name?” I said.

“Trevor Gladstone, according to a New York license we found in his wallet,” Reyes said. “But we’ll confirm that when the medical examiner prints him.”

“Got a motive?” I said.

“A motive?” Reyes said. “Like I said, I just got here, Malone. He’s wearing a Rolex Submariner that looks like the real deal. He had a wad of cash and a fistful of credit cards in his wallet. So I guess we can rule out robbery. At the moment that’s about all I can say about motive.”

“The plot thickens,” I said. “Probably pissed off a client or a competitor. I’d stick with the professional hit theory.”

“You think?” Reyes said. “So, you going to tell me why you are really here and why you are interested in this murder?”

“Honestly, Reyes, I just needed some information for a case I thought you could help me with,” I said. “I’m not interested in this murder.”

“What information?” he said.

“It’s not important,” I said. “I can see you’re busy this morning and have more important things on your plate. I’ll get back to you in a couple of days about it when things calm down.”

“Malone, if it turns out you’re withholding information on this murder, I won’t be able to save your sorry ass from the wrath of Lieutenant Dixon. If he doesn’t arrest you for obstruction, he will at the very least get your PI license pulled.”

“I’m not withholding information, Reyes,” I said. “I don’t know anything about this murder. I haven’t any interest in it beyond mere curiosity.”

“Okay, whatever, Malone,” he said. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“All I know is what I learn from the press, detective,” I said. “Of course the streets of LA are rife with my legions of informants and confidants. I'll certainly keep an ear to the ground on your behalf. If I hear anything useful, you, of course, will be the first to know.”

The crime scene technicians arrived carrying their digital cameras and bulky cases of forensic evidence collection equipment.

“If there is nothing else I can do for you I have work to do, Malone,” Reyes said.

“Nothing that won't keep Detective Reyes,” I said. “Please carry on. I'll see myself out.”

Reyes nodded. “See you around, bro,” he said.

He turned and walked away towards the bungalow in the wake of the crime scene technicians.

Chapter 3

I HEADED BACK TO MY car. I needed more information on the dead guy, information that Reyes hadn't had time to develop yet so early in the investigation. If I knew more about who the guy was and about his business, I might be able to work out who might have wanted him dead. While the killing hadn’t seemed to involve a robbery, my gut still told me the murder was about money. Probably a lot of money. If I could find out the nature of the money involved, I could probably follow the money right to the killers.

I'd check in with Reyes in a day or two to see what he had learned. But now my next stop was Discreet Encounters. Like I’d told Evania, chances were good the bad guys had got the license plate number from the escort service’s car and would use it to track her to the service. The people there deserved a warning that some very bad men might be showing up to ask questions, and not in a nice way. Maybe they would be so appreciative that they would fill in some of the missing blanks about my client. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Evania, but I just liked to know more about a client I was working for then she had been willing to reveal.

I backtracked on Sunset Boulevard towards Cahuenga and then drove north on Vine to 6311 Hollywood Boulevard. I parked at the curb in a loading zone a couple of doors down. There wasn't any sign identifying the escort service. I wasn't surprised. I hadn’t expected "Whores R Us" flashing in neon out front.

The front of the business was innocuous. It could have just as easily been the front of a law firm or the office of a CPA as that of an escort service. These businesses didn't advertise openly because they didn’t operate on a walk-in traffic basis. Such would attract the attention of the L.A.P.D. vice cops and lead to the inconvenience of prostitution arrests and business interruptions.

It had been my experience that most all of the business for escort services came from phone calls generated from Internet traffic and word of mouth advertisement from satisfied clients. As Evania had explained, the office was just the administrative hub of the business. Even on closer inspection, there was nothing about the office front to indicate the nature of the business occupying the space behind the impressive brass-clad wooden door with the number "6311" in large brass numerals affixed to it. I tried the handle, and the door opened easily.

––––––––

I WALKED INSIDE AND found myself in a reception area with a large mahogany desk straight ahead at the far end of the room. No one was sitting at it. The floor was covered in a plush, luxurious feeling beige carpet. The walls were painted in trendy muted tones. Several armchairs, upholstered in dark leather and a matching sofa completed the furnishings. There was an inner door to the left of the desk, probably leading to a hallway or private office.

Having heard a door chime when I opened and entered the front door, I thought perhaps the receptionist was in the back and would appear momentarily to greet me. I waited for several moments, my eyes gradually adjusting to the relatively dim lighting in comparison to the bright LA sunshine outside. I could hear multiple telephones ringing somewhere in the back beyond the inner door. It sounded as if they must be doing a land office business. After several minutes had passed and no receptionist, I decided to investigate the door behind the desk. As I walked around the edge of the desk to get to the door, I found the first body.

A young woman, probably early twenties was lying slumped on the floor where she had apparently fallen from the desk chair. The back of her head rested against the wooden baseboard at the bottom of the wall. Standing at an angle where it was no longer obscured by a computer monitor on the desk, I saw something else. Higher up on the wall above the woman’s head, about the height of where her head would have been had she been sitting at the desk, was high-velocity blood spatter mixed with what I guessed was brain matter. She stared upward through sightless eyes at the ceiling. There was a third eye-like hole in the center of her forehead. I didn't bother to check for a pulse. I'd seen enough dead people. I knew what I was looking at.

Placing an ear against the inner door, I listened but heard nothing but phones ringing. I pulled my Glock 23 semi-automatic from the holster. Cautiously I turned the doorknob with my left hand, opened the door a crack, and peered inside. There was a short hallway with another door at the far end of it. Halfway down the hall were two doors across from each other, evidently offices. Both office doors were open. Both offices were dark inside. The sound of the ringing phones was louder. I could now tell the ringing was coming from beyond the closed door at the end of the hallway.

Slowly with the pistol out in front like a searchlight, I cautiously made my way down the carpeted hallway to the intermediate doorways. I stopped at the near edge of the door frame on the right. I could see only a little way into the office on the left. There were some file cabinets and a desk but no people that I could see. I then turned to face the wall beside the door to the office on the right. I shuffled forward a little and did a quick peek inside. That's when I saw the second body, a male in a black suit, sprawled face down on the floor. I could guess from the nasty exit wound at the back of his head that if I could see his face, I'd find an entry wound near the center of his forehead similar to that of the receptionist.

I shuffled sideways into the office, keeping my back against the door frame so that I could watch for threats from the office across the hall. There wasn't anyone else inside the office, living or dead. There was a desk with a computer terminal on it and a phone. On the wall beside the door was a wooden board with hooks that held four sets of car keys. I assumed the office must be the place the drivers hung out while waiting to drive one of the escort girls. There was a leather couch against another wall. Just above the couch on the beige wall was more blood splatter and brain matter. The guy on the floor had apparently been sitting on the couch when he was shot in the head. I wanted to check the guy for identification, but I needed to clear the rest of the building first.

I walked across the hall and cautiously entered the office on the left side of the hallway after doing another quick peek inside, first to the left and then to the right. When looking right I saw a third body, an attractive woman sharply dressed in a navy blue skirt and matching jacket, probably in her mid-forties. She was slumped in a sitting position in one corner of the room, leaning back into the corner where the adjacent walls met. Her legs were drawn up together beneath her. Her ankles were bound with gray duct tape. Her arms were pulled back behind her body, evidently bound at the wrists like her ankles. She had blood on her face from a jagged laceration above her left eye. She had also bled from the nose and mouth. There was significant bruising evident on both sides of her face around the cheekbones. Obviously, someone had beaten her, probably in the course of extracting information. Like the other two victims, she had a bullet hole in the center of her forehead and was dead as dead gets.

The only part of the building remaining was beyond the last door at the end of the hallway. I crept up to it quietly and placed an ear against it. I couldn't hear anything but the phones still ringing. The door opened inward. After turning the knob, I turned sideways with my back against the wall of the hallway so that I was bladed toward the doorway, making myself a smaller target. I gave the door a healthy push, and it slammed open against a wall. I took a step forward and sneak peeked around the door frame.

The room was empty except for two long tables butted together. Every few feet along the tables was an open laptop computer and a telephone. There was a chair in front of every computer. Some were pushed back from the table as if the occupants had just gotten up and others were turned over on the floor. Most of the half dozen phones were ringing, but there was no one there to answer them. The room reminded me of the inside of a telemarketing boiler room on a much smaller scale. I was relieved that I hadn't found a stack of bodies on the floor as it appeared that at least a half-dozen people were usually inside the room working the phones.

At the far end of the room on the back wall was a steel exterior door standing ajar suggesting that someone had recently used the door to make a hasty exit. The door was probably left open when the room occupants had heard gunfire from the front of the suite and had fled the room.

I walked to the door and found that it opened into an alleyway behind the building. I walked outside and looked up and down the alley. Thankfully there were no bodies and no blood trails. At least those working the phones had seemingly escaped unharmed.

I went back inside and returned to the first interior office where the guy was face down on the floor. I holstered the Glock and grabbed a handful of his right jacket sleeve and rolled him up to the left to get a look at his face. He too had obviously been beaten and presumably interrogated before being shot. I lowered the body back to its original position.

I patted the back of his pants and felt a wallet in his right-hand back pocket. I took a handkerchief from my pocket and used it to extract the wallet to avoid leaving any prints. I carried it to the desk and again using the handkerchief flipped it open. Inside the wallet behind a clear plastic window was a California driver's license issued to Jackie Wayne Wilson. No doubt Jackie had known where Evania lived. No way to know whether he had given up the information to the person interrogating him before he was killed.

Using the handkerchief, I closed the wallet and returned it to Wilson's back pocket. I had to alert the cops, but I couldn't identify myself or hang around and answer a bunch of questions if I intended to keep my promise to my client. I walked to the desk and picked up the phone. I figured I'd just dial 911 and then put the phone receiver down leaving an open line. I knew the procedure. The emergency operator would dispatch patrol units to the scene to check the 911 open line call, and the murders would be discovered. I had just punched in the last digit and started to lay the receiver on the desk when everything went black.

Chapter 4

SOMEONE HAD KILLED the power. Inside the interior office with no access to ambient light, it wasn’t just dark. It was pitch black as a coal mine. It reminded me of the time my parents had taken me to tour Carlsbad National Caverns on a vacation when I was a child. At one point during the tour, while we were inside a large room inside the cave, deep underground, the lights were turned off to illustrate just how utterly dark it was inside the caverns. I remembered holding a hand in front of my face until it touched my nose and I still couldn’t see it. This was the same.

The hair on the back of my neck was standing on end now. My heart had started to race, and my palms were growing sweaty as I again pulled the Glock from its holster. Someone was in the building with me. The problem was I didn’t know who. I believed I had cleared the interior and determined the killers were gone. Maybe they weren’t. Somehow I had missed something, or else someone had entered the building after I’d walked through it.

The only consolation was if the killers were inside the building with me, they couldn’t see anything in the darkness either. That considerably lowered the odds that I was going to get a bullet between the eyes the way the other victims had. Still, I felt an almost overwhelming urge to get out of the office and out of the building, out of the inky blackness, as quickly as possible.

Chances were, I was safe enough at the moment I thought. The power had obviously been shut off at the main electrical panel. The logical location of that panel was in the room at the rear of the suite where the phones were. I had two choices. Neither of them good. I could try to find my way out through the darkness to the front of the building where I had entered, or I could take my chances and try to feel my way through the back room to the door that exited onto the alley at the rear of the building.

Several minutes had passed, and I knew that the cops were probably already responding to the 911 open line call. By the time I could get to the front of the building, depending on how far away the police units were when dispatched, I might run right into the arms of the responding officers. I really didn’t want that. I’d be tied up for hours answering questions that I didn’t want to answer. I also had to find Evania and fast. Based on what I had seen, I had to assume the killers knew where she lived now. I couldn’t afford a delay likely to last for several hours.

The other option was just as bad, maybe worse from the standpoint that I had to pass through the same room where someone had accessed the electrical panel to kill the power. If it was the killers, they could be waiting there. The only explanation for why the power had been shut off was because whoever was in the suite of offices with me now was aware of my presence. I made a decision. While it was the more dangerous option, I decided to try to get out through the back.

Gripping the semi-automatic tightly in my right hand and holding it close to the front of my body pointing outward, I used my left hand to slowly feel my way around the desk to a wall. I had to be quiet.

If it was the killers inside with me, there was no guarantee they would be content to simply wait in the back room on the chance that I’d choose to try and get out that way. I could just as easily try to get out through the front. They couldn’t know about my intent to avoid the police so attempting to exit the front door might likely seem the more logical choice from their perspective. Even now, maybe they were silently moving along the interior hallway towards the office I was in, listening intently in the darkness for me to make a sound that would betray my general location. Like me, they too might be tightly gripping a gun in a sweaty palm, ready to fire blindly in the direction of any sound that gave away my location.

My stomach was in knots as I gingerly felt my way along the perimeter of the walls, working my way toward the doorway. To me, the sound of my own breathing sounded like a freight train. I lightly shuffled my feet to avoid tripping over something or bumping into something that would make noise. I was pretty sure I was moving clockwise around the room, but I couldn’t be certain. The first thing that happens when you’re suddenly thrust into sight depriving blackness is you lose orientation. If I were following the wall in the other direction, I’d have to be careful not to trip over Wilson’s corpse.

Finally, I felt the door frame. I couldn’t see the opening. Everything was pitch black. I struggled to force myself to continue moving slowly because chances were I was rapidly moving into more danger. I felt my way out the open door into the short hallway. There was a faint line of light showing beneath the door that entered into the front of the building, evidently from the sunlight coming in through the front windows of the reception area. That allowed me to get my bearings. Glancing in the other direction I couldn’t see anything but blackness. I paused for a few moments and listened, straining to hear the slightest sound that might reveal the presence of someone else.

Hearing nothing. I crossed the hallway until I had my left hand on the opposite wall and then slowly and blindly groped my way down the hallway towards the rear door, the pistol still out in front. It seemed like time was standing still and eternity had passed before I finally found myself in front of the door leading into the phone room. It was still closed which made me feel a little better. I gingerly felt for the doorknob. I twisted it carefully and then very slowly and cautiously started to push outward to open the door. I couldn’t remember if the hinges squeaked when I had opened the door earlier while checking the backroom. I still couldn’t see anything once I had the door open. It could have just as well still be closed. Silently I cursed myself for shutting the exit door earlier after checking the alley.

Totally deprived of sight, I felt more anxious by the minute. I grew more impatient to get out of the building. It started to feel like the room was moving beneath me. I recalled a scientific experiment I’d read about once back when I was in the Army. A group of volunteers was placed inside a pitch black, soundproof chamber for just 15 minutes. At the end of it, they were interviewed. The researchers discovered that after just 15 minutes of sensory deprivation a majority of the subjects had experienced psychosis-like hallucinations similar to experiences associated with recreational drug use.

After passing through the doorway, I stood in the phone room for several moments again straining to hear anything that might reveal the presence of someone else. The total absence of light felt palatable, almost like a weight on my body. I didn’t exactly hear it, but somehow I sensed something rushing toward me and instinctively I raised my hands like a boxer to protect my head. Something hard and heavy struck my forearms with enough force that I lost my grip on the Glock, and it clattered to the floor.

In the Army, I’d learned that if you found yourself suddenly in the kill zone of an ambush, your best chance of survival lay in immediately and violently counterattacking the aggressors. Without pausing to think about it, that’s what I did. I sprang forward toward the threat. One hand found the object that had almost taken my head off, a fire extinguisher, and my other hand found an arm. My attacker immediately lost hold of the fire extinguisher at the start, and it crashed to the floor with a loud metallic clang and skittered away. By that time I had a firm grip on an arm with one hand and a throat with the other. I took a couple of ineffective punches to the face but then launched myself forward into the person. The law of gravity took over, and we both fell heavily to the floor. The attacker rolled over, struggling to escape my grasp to scramble away. I countered by leaping onto their back and got an arm around their neck in a chokehold. Just as I started to squeeze, she screamed.

The sound of a female scream caught me off guard. It was the last thing I’d expected. I thought I was grappling with a thin, wiry, and strong guy, not fighting with a woman. But I didn’t know who the woman was so I didn’t release the hold. I eased the pressure just enough so that she wouldn’t be rendered unconscious.

“Who are you?” I said.

The woman didn’t answer right away, so I repeated the question, squeezing a little harder for emphasis.

“Malone?” she said.

“Evania?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

I let her go and climbed off her. I grabbed an arm and pulled her to her feet as I stood up.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “You nearly took my head off with that fire extinguisher.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“You killed the power?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “I heard noises, and I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. Then I saw the electrical panel. I opened it and turned off the main switch.”

“Are you okay?” I said. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “It just knocked the breath out of me when you threw me on the floor.”

“Look, Evania, we have to get out of here,” I said. “The cops will be here any minute. If they find us here, you are going to be telling them your story like it or not.”

“Okay,” she said. “But I’m disoriented now. I have no idea where the door is.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Just stand right here. I’m going to try and find the panel and turn the lights back on. Where is it exactly?”

“It’s on the wall right next to the door,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

I too was disoriented after wrestling with Evania. I put my hands out in and front of me and shuffled forward until my hands found a wall. I followed the wall a few feet and then found the door frame. Most electrical panels were installed somewhere around eye level. I felt around the wall at that height on one side of the door but didn’t find it. I moved over to the other side of the door frame and had just started sweeping my hands across the wall on that side when I touched the cool metal frame. In every panel box, I’d ever seen the main breaker was at the top. I explored the inside of the panel with my hands until I found it. I shoved upward on the switch with my thumb and was nearly blinded when the power was restored, and the lights inside the room suddenly came on.