Private (Private 1)

Mosconi laughed at me. He reached his hand down, and I grabbed it and twisted his wrist until Mosconi shrieked and followed his pain to the ground.

The Beretta clattered to the flagstones. I grabbed it on the second bounce and jammed the muzzle into Mosconi’s temple. Fair is fair.

“Put your guns on the ground,” I shouted to Ricci and Lifeguard. “Guns on the ground and step away.”

Joe Ricci immediately put his gun on the ground. Then so did Lifeguard.

“Morgan,” Mosconi said with a sneer. “It’s over. You win this time.”

“It’s not over yet,” I said.

I didn’t want to be followed and I didn’t want a bullet in the back, so I ordered the three of them into the pool.

Ricci took off his shoes and his watch and walked down the steps at the shallow end like a gentleman. Mosconi shed his jacket and did a cannonball. Del Rio stiff-armed Lifeguard over the side.

“Don’t forget these,” I called to them.

I tossed their guns into the pool.

The call girls began to move in closer. One of them put her hands on her knees and glowered at Mosconi in disgust. She was a little thing with blazing eyes.

“Now how are we supposed to swim in there?” she asked.

“Flap your arms and kick your legs,” Del Rio said to her.

Glenda Treat watched from a vine-draped window as Del Rio and I left her yard. I waved bye-bye, and predictably, she gave me the finger. Unfortunately, that was all I’d gotten at the Benedict Spa.

Chapter 47

“CONSIDER US EVEN,” Del Rio said. He was holding a wad of paper towels to his bloody nose as I drove us back down the road toward the office.

“What are you talking about?”

“You saved my life back there. I’ve been waiting for this day.”

“Not even close. They were just messing with us. You’re delirious.”

“Shit,” Del Rio muttered.

“Why was Shelby working for Glenda Treat?” I said.

“She was your friend, Jack. I barely knew her.”

A muted ring came from my briefcase in the backseat. I asked Del Rio to pass me the phone, and he did. I opened it, saw that I had a dozen missed calls. I said hello to Colleen.

“Where’ve you been, Jack? I’ve been calling and calling.”

“I know that. I was at the spa. What’s going on?” I asked her. My jaw was throbbing, my skull was a ball of pain, my ego was messed up.

“Justine wants to speak with you.”

“Put her on.”

“I’ll warn her that you’re a wee bit cranky.”

“Put Justine on, Colleen. My mood couldn’t be better.”

Justine’s words came in an agitated rush. “The mayor got an e-mail from the son of a bitch,” Justine told me. “He said that he left Marguerite Esperanza’s running shoes in a mailbox on La Brea. The lab is going over the shoes now. Jack, where the hell are you?”