“I didn’t do this to you. I’m trying to help you.”
“Yuh-huh.”
“Like you helped me in school. When that girl I was seeing turned out to be doing Artie Deville behind my back.”
“Laurel… something.”
“Right. You got me through Laurel Welky and kept me from killing that guy. Killing him, Andy. And how about when I ran my car through a phone booth in downtown Providence? You placated the dean and my old man.”
Andy laughed. “Har-har. Your old man.”
It was weak, but it was laughter. And I kind of recognized my friend Andy again.
“I’m going to nail this guy, Andy.”
“I know. You’re good, Jack. Private is good, better than it ever was under your father.”
“I’ll take you out to dinner tonight,” I said. “Cool place. Up the coast.”
“Thanks.” His eyes watered up.
We hugged at the doorway, thumped each other’s backs a couple of times.
“I fucking feel sorry for her,” he said, and started to cry. “She was in hell, and she couldn’t tell me. Why couldn’t she tell me? I was her husband. I was her husband, Jack.”
Chapter 78
ACCORDING TO HER movie star client and maybe her lover, Shelby’s dealer was an ex-con by the name of Orlando Perez.
I’d read his rap sheet. He was a violent prick who’d had arrests for domestic abuse and various assault convictions on a number of occasions, ending with a three-year stretch at Chino for possession with intent. He’d been smart or lucky enough to stay out of jail since he’d graduated from that hellhole in 2008.
These days, Perez lived with his wife and kids in a two-million-dollar faux Greek revival on Woodrow Wilson Drive. There were two cars in his driveway: a late-model Beemer and a black Escalade with gold-chain rims.
Del Rio had been shadowing Perez for the past forty-eight hours, monitoring his conversations with a parabolic dish the size of half a grapefruit and a Sennheiser MKE 2 lavalier mic. I didn’t care about Private’s expenses on this case.
According to Del Rio, Perez used a succession of boost phones to set up his impromptu drug deals, which took place in parking lots and on roadsides. His customers were executive types as well as models and starlets, who in all likelihood got discounts for favors provided in the front seat of Perez’s SUV.
The front door of the house opened, and a pretty brunette carrying a baby and holding the hand of a toddler came out, got into the Beemer, and then drove right past us.
“The wifey-poo,” said Del Rio with a smirk.
He put on his headset and told me that Perez was alone. He was on the phone with a disgruntled client named Butterfly, telling her to take a deep breath. He’d be there soon. He’d bring her what she needed.
“Okay, he’s meeting Butterfly in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn on Cahuenga in twenty minutes,” Rick said.
“No, he’s not. Let’s go.”
We got out of the fleet car and walked up to the front door of the house. I rang the bell. Rang it again. Then I yelled, “Open up, Perez. You won ten million dollars from the Publishers Clearing House.”
I’d just told Del Rio to go stand by the Escalade, when Perez suddenly opened the door.
He was barefoot, his shoulder-length bleached-white hair contrasting with his tanned skin and dark Fu Manchu mustache. A scar ran through the mustache, enhancing the frig-you look on his face.
Was his the last face Shelby Cushman had ever seen? It wouldn’t have surprised me at all.
Had this son of a bitch killed her for getting behind in her payments? I showed Perez my badge, and mistaking us for cops, the scumbag hesitated.
“You need a fug-geen warrant, yo,” said Orlando Perez, his face balling up like a fist, the scar going white.