Private Vegas (Private 9)

SEPARATED AT BIRTH

Chapter 16

BY 11:20 A.M., two of Private’s top investigators, Emilio Cruz and Christian Scott, had rung fifteen doorbells on both sides of PCH, had talked to as many housekeepers and homeowners, had collected surveillance footage from security cameras, and were now reviewing the footage on their fleet-car computer.

Scotty was blond, lithe, had been a ballet dancer until he ruined his knees. He became a motorcycle cop with CHiPs and was eventually promoted to deputy sheriff. He was bright and motivated, and a very agile athlete.

Jack had brought him in as an investigator last year and was still floating him, pairing him with other investigators until he found him a partner.

Cruz was senior to Scotty.

First thing most people noticed about Cruz was his good looks: the black hair he wore pulled back in a ponytail, and his muscular build. Cruz was a former light-middleweight professional boxer, born and raised in the ’hood, and had highly developed street smarts. At age twenty-eight, after he retired from the ring with his brains intact, Cruz went to work as an investigator for LA’s district attorney, Bobby Petino.

Petino and Cruz were second cousins, and Petino had told Jack about this smart young investigator, saying that he thought Cruz had a dynamite future. Jack thought so too. He hired Cruz and teamed him up with Del Rio.

The partnership had stuck.

Cruz had wanted to be in court for his partner this morning, but he had to get a handle on who had firebombed Jack’s car.

Scotty downloaded the video to their hard drive, opened the file, said, “This is from the house across PCH. Camera one. Faces the road.”

“Roll it,” Cruz said to Scotty.

Scotty pressed Play. The camera was pointed across the highway, right at Jack’s house, and the angle took in the wall and the Lamborghini that Jack had parked outside his gate.

As they watched, cars flashed past on the road. Then, on the screen, a sedan with its high beams on came toward Jack’s house. And stopped.

Scotty reversed the clip, then forwarded it in slow motion.

“Whoa,” said Cruz. “Freeze that.”

It was too dark to see anything about the color or make of the car beyond the fact that it was a dark sedan, probably a Chevy. The time stamp read 4:27 a.m.

“I can’t read the plates at all,” Cruz said. “Not a single number.”

“Going to forward it now,” Scotty said.

The car in the center of the frame didn’t move, but a few other cars passed in the background, both directions. When the road was clear, a figure got out of the backseat and ran toward Jack’s Lambo.

“Here we go,” said Cruz.

Scotty tried to refine the image, but no amount of fine-tuning brought up the shadowy figure’s face. Still, they could see what he was doing: making chiseling motions on the rear flank of the car.

“He’s doing something with the gas tank,” said Scotty.

“I see that. And now where is he?” Cruz said.

Scotty reversed the clip, played it forward, saw the guy linger near the tank, then duck behind the car and disappear; he was out of sight for four seconds.

“I think he’s putting a charge under the chassis. This was planned,” Scotty said. “Well planned.”

“So was this a plan to torch a car?” Cruz mused. “Or a plan to

torch Jack’s car?”

“Look here, Emilio. There’s your fire,” Scotty said as flames flashed from beneath the car.

The dark figure fled from the Lambo and ran to the car waiting for him on the shoulder, which started up before he’d closed the rear door. A moment later, the sedan was gone, and the fire was lapping over the fenders of Jack’s quarter-million-dollar car.