Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

Carmine’s expression was cold. No more kiddin’ around with Godfather lines. He interlaced his manicured fingers on my desk.

“I’ll double your take to twenty percent,” he said. “Tax free, six million in cash.”

The bigger the offer, the more I wanted nothing to do with it—or him.

“Thanks, but I’m not interested, Carmine,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’ve got another meeting.” I got to my feet.

Noccia also stood up.

We were the same height.

“You misunderstand me, Jack. You’ve got the job. What you want to tell me is how fast you can recover my merchandise—because very soon those goods will be all over the country and I’ll be out thirty unacceptable million. Call me when you have the van.”

“No, Carmine,” I said again. “No can do.”

“What part of ‘can’t refuse’ don’t you get, Jack? You know where I’m going. ‘Never a better friend.’ I’m calling in my marker. Here’s my number,” he said, writing it across an envelope. “Stay in touch.”

He tossed the pen down and it skidded across my desk as he walked away.

I heard Noccia say to Cody, “I can find my way out.”

I sat back in my chair and looked out at the wide cityscape of downtown LA. If I didn’t take the job, what would happen? Was I prepared to go to war with the Noccia family?

I got Del Rio on the line, kicked it around for a few minutes: what was possible, what was the wisest, safest plan of attack. Rick said his piece. I said mine. And then we kicked it around a little more.

When we had a working plan, I asked Cody to show my nine o’clock appointment into my office.

CHAPTER 14

THE ATTRACTIVE WOMAN sitting in a blue armchair made me think of old black-and-white gumshoe movies adapted from novels by Chandler, Hammett, Spillane.

Amelia Poole looked like Sam Spade’s new client: glamorous white female, late thirties, short brown hair, no bling on her ring finger.

In place of a cigarette holder and a fox fur around her neck, Ms. Poole gripped an iPhone and had a fine necklace of gold chains and diamonds at her throat.

“Looks like you pulled an all-nighter, Mr. Morgan,” Ms. Poole said with a quick grin, stashing her phone in her handbag. “I know because I just pulled an all-nighter myself.”

“I’m sure yours was more interesting than mine,” I said, flashing on Del Rio’s bedroom with its military mattress and plain white walls.

Amelia Poole had a pretty smile, but it was forced. Her eyes were somber.

Why had she come to see me? Was she being sued? Stalked? Did she need me to find a lost child?

I knew from her dossier that Amelia Poole had bought and renovated three old hotels in choice locations into first-rate, five-diamond Poole Hotels. I had been to the rooftop bar at the Sun, stayed a couple of times at the Constellation in San Francisco. I agreed with the ratings.

Also in her dossier was mention of some unsolved robbery-murders in her hotels and a couple others that had sent a shiver through the California Chamber of Commerce.

The cases were still open, but tourist slayings didn’t make the front page in the current political-economic climate.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Poole, but I wasn’t told why you wanted to see me.”

“Jinx,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Call me Jinx. That’s the name I go by.”

“I’m Jack,” I said.