Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

He kicked my feet off the table and put the tray down. He’d made sandwiches out of that leftover half chicken, spread some tapenade and honey mustard between the long slices of a baguette, thrown in a few leaves of romaine. And he’d brought two bottles of beer and a church key.

“Eat, Jack,” my wingman said. “You take the room upstairs. Don’t fight me on this. It’s dark up there, and if you try, you can sleep for nine hours.”

“I can’t take your room.”

“Look,” he said. He opened the lid of an ottoman. It folded out into a bed. “Take the bedroom. You’ve got a full day tomorrow.”

“Colleen.”

“Colleen for sure. And you got my text? You’ve got an appointment first thing. Carmine Noccia is coming to see you.”

CHAPTER 11

MY ASSISTANT, CODY Dawes, stopped me at his desk, said, “Morning, Jack. We need to go over some things—”

“Just the red flags, Cody. I’m still dragging my tailpipe.”

“Sure, okay, uh. I’m giving you my notice.”

“What? What’s the problem? I thought you were happy here.”

“I got a speaking part in a Ridley Scott film. I’ve got lines.”

He grinned broadly, clasped his hands together, and maybe jumped off the ground. I stuck out my hand, shook his, and said, “Good for you, Cody. Congratulations.”

“I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I’ve lined up people for you to see. I screened them all myself.”

I sighed. “Okay. What’s next?” It was half past eight a.m. in Los Angeles, meaning it was half past five p.m. in Stockholm. My circadian rhythms were still on Central European time.

“Mr. Noccia is here. I had to put him in your office.”

“I thought I’d have a little time before he got here.”

“He was waiting at the curb, Jack. Inside a Mercedes with three other guys you wouldn’t want to marry your sister. I opened the front door. He said he wanted to come in, so I brought him upstairs. Judgment call.”

“Do you still do coffee?”

“Yes, I do,” Cody said with a grin.

I went into my office.

It’s got two sections; my work space at one end, a seating and meeting space at the other. Carmine Noccia was sitting in a chair by my desk.

“Carmine,” I said. I shook his hand, went around my desk, took my seat. All the phone lines were flashing. A three-inch-high pile of paper was stacked to my right. My schedule was up on my computer monitor, just waiting for me.

“You’re looking good, Jack. Like you spent the night in a gym locker.”

“Jet lag,” I said, “feels just like that.”

Noccia smiled. He was a handsome guy, midforties, perfect teeth, salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a custom-made suit and hand-stitched Italian loafers.

Carmine was what a modern-day Mafia rock star looked like. You looked at him and saw the Ivy League–educated businessman, not the son of a sitting don, the Mafia capo and killer.

Cody brought in a large silver thermos of coffee and a plate of biscuits, and when he left, I said, “Del Rio told me you had to see me urgently.”

I tried to keep it out of my voice, but what I was saying was, What the eff do you want?

CHAPTER 12