Private Vegas (Private 9)

“Do you know where the Stanleys are staying?”

“They never said.”

“I need a copy of their sales receipt.”

Captain Warren knew there was little he could do to put the blocks to Remari and Mazul. Even if they were caught with the stolen jacket in their possession, even if they were positively identified by Brian Finnerty, it would still be swept under the diplomatic-immunity rug.

The captain got the name of the Stanley women’s hotel from the credit card company and he called their room. No one answered, so he left a message on voice mail asking them to get back to him immediately and not to go anywhere with the men they had met at Mariah Koo.

Then he called Jack Morgan.

Chapter 33

I HAD BEEN following Tommy’s car since the end of the business day. He left his office alone, drove to his house in Hancock Park by the shortest route, and not long after that, he got back into his car and headed west.

Sure, I might be wasting time and energy, but while my eyelashes grew back, and before something else blew up in my front yard, I really couldn’t have too much information about what my brother was up to.

I was driving my loaner car, a black Mercedes like a hundred thousand identical cars in LA, and Tommy didn’t know that I had it. I was sure that he hadn’t noticed me weaving in traffic behind him, staying on his tail, but suddenly, I lost him. Tommy had made a red Ferrari disappear.

With luck, I’d be able to put a GPS tracker on his car, save me tailing him in the future.

The sun was going down as I headed east on Beverly Boulevard, passing the Wilshire Country Club on my left, looking for the Ferrari in all directions at once. That’s when I got the call from Captain Warren saying that Khezir Mazul had almost killed a couple of salesclerks on Rodeo Drive and he and Gozan Remari were planning to take two women tourists out for dinner that evening.

“Drug them, you mean. No dinner.”

“Jack, I don’t know where to look for them. I can’t even put out a BOLO, since as far as the chief is concerned, these guys are off-limits.”

“I’ll get back to you,” I said.

I was passing through estate country, an area of expensive homes and grounds manicured to the quick. I called my hotelier friend Amelia Poole, known to her

friends as Jinx. She made a few calls to her inner circle and then let me know that two men had checked into Shutters, in Santa Monica, under the name Remari.

I called Cruz and then I got back to Captain Warren, told him what I was doing. I was saying I’d check in later when Tommy’s car suddenly appeared. It took a right onto Melrose, then, a short distance later, another right onto the 101 South to LA. Then the car crossed the 110.

I was three cars back, and then I was right on Tommy’s tail. I thought for a second that the Ferrari had slowed so that he could check me out, but I was wrong. Tommy was taking the Broadway exit. Then he made a sharp right. And I stayed behind him.

Tommy’s brake lights flashed and I saw the club up ahead.

Was that Tommy’s destination?

A club?

Tommy pulled into a parking spot and I drove past him, watched him get out of his car. If he’d seen me, he’d have given me the finger. I kept him in my rearview mirror, and when he crossed the street on foot, I parked.

A minute or two later, I stuck a tracker under his bumper. Then I went toward the entrance of the homely cement block building that had once been a lightbulb factory and was now a club called the Socket.

Chapter 34

PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS EMILIO Cruz and Rick Del Rio were sitting in loungers on the deck overlooking the canal outside Del Rio’s house. It was a nice house and a nice view and a pretty sunset, but both men were wired as tight as guitar strings.

They were drinking beer and throwing bread to the ducks, and when Del Rio spoke at all, it was only to say some version of “Maybe this is the last time we’ll get to do this.”

And Cruz would say, “Don’t be crazy, Rick. You’re innocent.”

Del Rio had told Cruz that he hadn’t beaten Vicky Carmody, and Cruz believed his partner, but he was afraid for him. No one knew what a jury would do, and Del Rio didn’t look like a choirboy.

Cruz felt awful for Rick, but after sitting with his partner for hours, there was nothing left for him to say that he hadn’t already said.