Private (Private 1)

Now he had to have a drink with pesky Franklin Dale.

At seven p.m., Crocker locked his office door and met Dale at the elevator bank. They took the car downstairs together, and Crocker wondered if maybe the old fuck was gay and going to make a move on him.

Two drinks and a bowl of cashews later, Crocker had been told that he was doing extremely well, and that dinosaur Franklin Dale was highly impressed with his work. Dale said that he thought Crocker was an outlier, a guy with hidden talents who would be rewarded the longer he stayed at this fine old firm.

As if that would bake his fucking cake. As if he cared what Franklin Dale thought about him or his work.

By the time Crocker got home, it was half past nine. The rest of the night was his, and this was going to be great.

He dressed for his run, and ten minutes later he was jogging around the Marina del Rey, his mind on the recent outing when his group had taken Connie Yu down for the count.

Sweating and panting, Crocker slowed outside one of the slips in the marina. He put his hands on his knees and caught his breath.

When he was sure he was alone, he took a pint-sized ziplock bag out of his pocket and began to bury it under a heavy coil of rope.

When he was done, he calmly finished his run. He came through the entrance to his apartment building, waved to the doorman, and went upstairs.

After his shower he took a prepaid phone from the charger base.

He texted a message to LA’s mayor, Thomas Hefferon, telling him where he could find Connie Yu’s ear.

He signed it “Steemcleena.”

Chapter 15

THREE DAYS HAD passed since Shelby Cushman had been murdered. Still no charges had been filed, and I couldn’t get a peep one way or the other out of the DA’s office.

I had breakfast with Andy in his office, a corner in a smart new office building on Avenue of the Stars.

Andy told his assistant not to put through any calls. Then he eased shut his office door. I could barely recognize his drawn face. There were bags under his eyes, and he’d obviously stopped shaving.

“I’m not sleeping,” he said. “In case you missed that, Jack.”

He gulped down his coffee as he unlocked his file cabinets, pulled folders, and explained to me what a very successful hedge fund manager did to keep his edge in Los Angeles.

“These people out here, actors, agents, studio heads, lawyers to the stars,” he said, waving his arm so it took in the whole of Hollywood, “they make tens of millions. They don’t know what to do with it, so they give it to me. I invest it for them. I get a percentage of whatever I invest for my clients,” he said. “Five percent, usually.”

“And if the investments tank?” I said, thinking of the housing meltdown, the credit crunch, money swirling down the drain, taking with it the well-heeled and struggling alike.

“People hold it against you if you lose their money, even if it’s not your fault.”

“So you’ve got disgruntled clients.”

Andy sighed.

“You want the truth, Jack?”

“No, for Christ’s sake. Please lie to me, Andy. The more you lie, the more likely it is that you’re going to go to trial. I know the DA. He’s going to sic one of his young sharks on you, and they’re going to tear you into great bloody chunks—”

“Stop,” he said.

“If someone wants to hurt you, I have to know about it. C’mon, Andy. You have to tell me everything. This is Jack.”

“I was skimming,” Andy said. It came out just like that—with no preface or warning. “I’m no Bernie Madoff, so don’t look at me like that. I’d charge a fee, then I’d take a little of the principal off the top and ride the investment for myself. I was careful. But shit happens, and you can’t let the clients know, of course.”

“I’m listening.”

“My investments dove in the first wave. You remember when Lehman went under? I doubled down, tried to recoup my losses, and lost even more. A couple of my clients got burned to the ground.”