Private L.A. (Private 6)

RICK DEL RIO was born into a family of hunters who lived in southern Arizona. His grandfather often took him out into the desert and taught him how to track deer, javelina, and quail. One of the most important things Del Rio learned from his grandfather was to move swiftly through country where there were no new tracks or old ones; and to slow to a crawl when he found fresh sign, as it usually indicated the animal was about to bed.

Standing close to where Chief Fescoe would drop the money at the far end of the pier, Del Rio felt like he was in his prey’s bedroom somehow, but he couldn’t understand exactly why it had intentionally cornered itself, or at least exposed itself so blatantly to capture.

At the same time, there was no doubt in Del Rio’s mind that the killer or killers felt comfortable, confident, even, that a pickup of two million dollars could be made as well as a daring escape. But were they actually going to have Fescoe make the drop at the end of the pier, or did they plan to take him on some kind of long runaround like in those old Dirty Harry movies he loved so much?

Since Jack had left for his brother’s arraignment, Del Rio had walked all around the drop zone from above, studied it from the beach, both north and south aspects, imagining a boat, a Jet Ski, a scuba man. He realized that in a few hours the underside of the pier would be black and shadowed. No Prisoners might approach underwater, but someone smart enough would spot the bubble lines, right? But what about a rebreathing apparatus? And what about the issue of a watcher, someone looking for signs of police presence?

Del Rio picked up his cell and hit a number he’d called almost an hour ago. “Mentone,” came the reply.

“Anything, Kid?”

“No one I can peg yet,” said the Kid.

Del Rio then called Bud Rankin, a former LAPD cop Jack had hired the year before. Rankin was sixty-two, a virtual chameleon and an expert at surveillance. He was working the pier.

“Maybe they’re not on site yet,” said Rankin, who’d also come up with nothing.

“No way,” Del Rio said. “If it was me extorting that kind of money, I’d definitely have someone making damn sure the cops weren’t all over the place.”

“I’d best keep looking, then,” Rankin said, and hung up.

Del Rio’s attention returned over the rail, down to the water and the pickup spot. The ocean was turning grayer and white-capped. It could be dangerous to be down there, so close to the pier’s pylons, if the wind really got roaring. But Del Rio couldn’t see any other way to handle it. This time he called Jack.

Chapter 37

I FELT MY cell phone vibrate in my pocket but ignored it, every bit of me focused on Carmine Noccia the way a mongoose might focus on a particularly mesmerizing cobra. In too many ways, Carmine was the epitome of the New Age mobster. He came from a long line of organized criminals, stretching back generations through Vegas to Chicago to New York to Palermo.

But he personally exhibited none of the old Mob’s more stereotypical traits, the “deze and doze” accent, the cultured attire of a die-hard strip club fan, the spontaneous and ruthless acts of violence against all debtors and perceived traitors. Carmine had gone to Dartmouth, had done a stint in the marines as a commissioned officer, mustered out as a captain, and had even attended Harvard Business School for a semester. He’d studied the ways of the elite and wore their fashions, manners, dialect, and affectations as an almost flawless persona.

“It’s been a long time, Jack,” Carmine said, his dark agate eyes betraying nothing, the muscles in his exfoliated cheeks betraying nothing. His hand reached for mine. “Always a genuine pleasure.”

“Why would you post bail for Tommy, Carmine?” I asked, shaking his hand with zero enthusiasm.

His grip firmed as he smiled. “Tommy and I go way back, remember?”

“I remember you wanting his legs and arms broken for welshing on bets.”

“You always buy into such dramatic nonsense, Jack,” Carmine replied, releasing his grip and making a dismissive gesture. “Be that as it may, regarding Tommy, stuff happens, and allegiances change when circumstances warrant it. That’s the mark of a pragmatic leader. And I very much consider myself a pragmatic leader, able to deal with changing circumstances.”

I made every effort to show no reaction, but I got the subtext of his reply as if he’d tattooed it on my skin. Earlier that year, Carmine had used leverage that I resented to force me and Private to track down a hijacked truck full of contraband prescription painkillers with a street value of thirty million dollars. We found the oxycodone shipment but used a remote third party to report its whereabouts to the local DEA office. They’d seized the stash before Carmine’s men could get to it. I knew Carmine suspected me of a double cross, but I also knew he had no proof of it. Or at least, that was what I believed.

I’d regrettably come to know the mobster when Tommy was mainlining his gambling addiction and into Carmine for six large. I’d gone to Vegas and paid my brother’s debt, doing it for the benefit of my long-suffering sister-in-law and nephew, not Tommy. I hadn’t been free of Carmine since.

And now he had coughed up Tommy’s bail. Why? The mob

ster was all about leverage, so that was what this was at some level. But designed to lift what? Or move whom? And for what reason? Revenge? Against me?

“You honestly think you’re getting that bail money back?” I asked.

Carmine adjusted the French cuff of his custom shirt. “The difference between you and me, Jack, is that I rarely bet unless I know what horse is going to win. Emotion plays no part in it. Anyway, I have to be going, give Tommy a ride home. Great seeing you. Let’s catch up real soon, shall we?”

Before I could reply, my cell phone vibrated again in my pocket and Carmine moved by me as if I were now some stranger on the street. I checked caller ID, hit ANSWER, and watched Carmine disappear toward the elevators.

“What do you know?” I asked.

Del Rio said, “Come to the pier. I want to run my plan by you.”

“I’m on my way.”