Private L.A. (Private 6)

“No,” the mayor said. “What are you suggesting, Mickey?”

Fescoe took a breath, glanced at me. “We could call in the FBI and their profilers and let them take control of this, but then the extortion campaign would leak everywhere, any way you look at it a PR nightmare for us.”

“I sense an ‘or’ coming,” Mayor Wills said.

“Or we can bring in Private on a hush-hush basis, as, say, consultants.”

“Why in God’s name would we do that?” Sheriff Cammarata demanded.

I was wondering the same thing. And I could tell Del Rio was too.

“Because they’re not tied to the goddamned Constitution,” Fescoe said. “They can simply do things we can’t legally. They can take risks that we can’t.”

“You mean they can cut corners and break laws?” the mayor said coldly.

“I didn’t say that, Your Honor,” Fescoe soothed. “But consider that six lives are at stake tomorrow, and seven the day after that. Wouldn’t you cut a few corners to save those lives?”

I held up both hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where am I legally here? Where is Private? My firm isn’t going to do your dirty work and then have you turn around and slap us with some Bill of Rights violation.”

“That won’t happen,” Fescoe said.

“How are you going to ensure that?” I demanded.

“The mayor is going to grant you blanket immunity beforehand, Jack. And the district attorney’s going to sign the guarantee of that. And so are the state’s attorney general and the governor.”

Chapter 21

IN THE GARAGE in the City of Commerce, Watson clapped, pointed at the iPad in front of him, and roared, “Thar she blows! ‘Tribute’ on the LAPD Facebook page!”

Cobb set down a cup of hot coffee and hurried to see. There it was: “Tribute to the fallen at CVS.”

“You were right on the money, Mr. Cobb,” Johnson said admiringly.

Cobb glanced at his watch. It was eight thirty in the evening. “An hour before I’d predicted, but we’ll take it.”

He turned to Kelleher, said, “Your ball from here.”

The big man smoothed his red beard and began typing on his keyboard.

“Use the New Delhi and Panama crisscrosses,” Watson said.

Kelleher’s left eye screwed up. “Who taught you about the New Delhi and Panama crisscrosses?”

“Just saying,” Watson said.

“No chance they’re paying us two million tomorrow,” Nickerson said.

“Of course not,” Cobb agreed. “They’ll try some sort of scam. Why?”

Watson muttered, “Because the whole world’s a scam, Mr. Cobb.”

“Damn right it is,” Cobb said, feeling in the groove of a familiar rant. “Everybody’s in a scam or being worked by a scammer. Look at Wall Street. Scam. Medicine? Scam. Politics? Scam. Religion? Bigger scam. Military?”

“Biggest scam,” said Hernandez and Johnson in unison.

“Plunderers,” Nickerson said.

Cobb cracked his knuckles, gestured with his scarred chin to Kelleher. “Time to work them a little harder now. Turn up the voltage.”