T. Parker - Red Light

At the end of the hall were fake wood double doors meant to look impressive. Holding one open was a powerful looking, middle-aged man with dark curly hair, a big mustache and a big smile.

“I am Goren,” he said. “Please come in and be seated.”

Zamorra sat and Merci stood. Merci watched Moladan move behind his desk and sit down with his back to the gray December sky. He was wearing a tight black polo shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. He moved lightly for a thick man in boots.

There were framed travel posters of Italy on the walls. A sign photograph of the Italian soccer team for 1997. A string of black and white shots of race cars going down a track. The featured car in each was an Alfa Romeo.

Moladan pushed aside a computer monitor. “Police usually like coffee,” he said.

“I don’t,” said Merci.

Zamorra shook his head no.

“Then how can I help you?”

He smiled in a practiced way, teeth showing behind the mustache, his eyes were hard and alert. His accent was thick but his diction was good.

“Tell me about Aubrey Whittaker,” said Merci.

“Aubrey, she is one of my contractors.”

He pronounced her name Obrey.

“One of your girls.”

“I do not use that term. No. Women, perhaps. Never girls.”

“She’s nineteen.”

“Yes, an adult American woman. Something has happened?”

“The cards your receptionist gave you said Homicide Detail. What do you think?”

“Then I think yes.”

“You’ve got a bright future.”

Moladan sighed and sat back. Merci watched him hard. He crossed his thick arms over his thick chest. He had a vertical scar on the left of his forehead.

She stared straight at him and said nothing.

He said, “What am I to do, read your minds?”

“She was murdered Tuesday night. Surprised?”

In a first interview Merci liked to crowd the facts and the questions get the guy answering with his emotions.

“I am... I am absolutely surprised, yes.”

Merci nodded and pulled out her notebook. Zamorra set his recorder on the desk.

“This helps us keep things straight. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why... no. Not at all. I will join you.”

Moladan produced a black mini recorder, turned it on and set it on the desk.

“You make a lot of tapes, Mr. Moladan?”

“When detectives accuse me of murder, I tape.”

“If we were accusing you of murder you’d be downtown right now. In fact, that’s where we’re going if you don’t turn that thing off and put it back.”

She could see the anger in his eyes. Without the smile, his face looked worn and hard.

Moladan clicked off the recorder, then set it back in his desk drawer.

“We know she worked for you,” Merci said. “We know she was visited Tuesday night by someone she knew and trusted. We know he was a big man, thick and strong. We know he was a man with some manners and some means — not a transient, not a burglar, not a psycho. And we know from two of the neighbors that this man spoke with an Eastern European accent. We put all that together and guess what — we thought of you.”

“I did not see her Tuesday night. I was at home. In the lounge. Listening to the band.”

“What, you’ve got your own lounge musicians at home?”

“Where I live, I mean to say. I live at the Lido Bay Club in Newport Beach.”

Moladan was proud of his address. Merci knew it as a rich man’s hangout in Newport. Yachts, booze and fun. Nixon hid there when the Watergate heat was on. The decades had seen it go from young and glamorous to aged. Now it had Goren Moladan. It struck Merci as the perfect place for a guy in his line of work because it was full of rich old men.

“Selling girls must pay you pretty good.”

“I sell companionship. Of the highest morals and quality. It is expensive. I make an honest profit.”

“How expensive?”

“One thousand for the consultation, introduction and first hour and two hundred per hour after this. These are minimums. There are travel and overnight premiums. There are increased premiums for exotic activities or destinations. It is written into the agreement that no escort is to be touched or spoken to in a suggestive manner. It is written in the agreement that she is to be treated according to her wishes at all times. It is understood by my clients that fine dining, fine wine and liquors, fine automobiles are expected by my escorts. They may accept or reject any offers whatsoever, from alcohol to body contact beyond arm-walking.”

“Quaint,” said Merci. “How do you find such gentlemen?”

“They are screened carefully.”

“By the airheads on the phones out there?”

“The women place advertising and they interview potential clients and escorts. There is much preliminary work to be done.”

“How many girls do you have?”

“Many women. All ages, all cultures, all personalities. But no girls, I’m sorry.”

“What I asked was how many.”

“On call to me at any time, approximately eighty.”

Merci thought about this. Eighty Aubreys out there, plying the night in their big quiet cars. Tending to the lonely rich of Orange County. Dispatched by one Goren Moladan, Italianate pimp and entrepreneur.

“So you were in the Lido Bay Club lounge Tuesday night. What hours, exactly?”

“Nine o’clock until two. The employees and my companions will prove me innocent. I will give you names and numbers.”

“I’ll get those myself. What I need from you are the names and numbers of all your clients who used Aubrey Whittaker.”

“Oh, Sergeant Rayborn. This I cannot do. The heart of my business is confidentiality. Without it I am nothing.”

He sat back and raised his hands like a man fresh out of options.

“Without confidentiality, Sergeant Ray—”

“Even with it you’re still nothing. Nothing but a fake Italian with a lot of rich johns.”

“This is absolutely not true. I am Serbian, and proud of it. From now on, Sergeant, I will require my attorney. You have taken this conversation beyond civilized limits.”

“Listen carefully to me, meatball. We know about you and del Viggio. We know about you and Assistant Pastor Spartas. We know about you and Collins, the defensive line coach at the J.C. We know about you and the drug whiz making cheap Viagra tea for the ladies, you and the slam dunker from Laguna.”

“Fucka you. Fuck you police.”

Moladan was up in an instant.

Zamorra was, too. His sport coat slid off him and onto the seat of his chair, though Merci never really saw his hands move.

Moladan glared at her, then at Zamorra. Something there brought him up short, got him thinking.

“Sit down, loser,” Merci said. “And don’t spit on that nice shirt. The little guy on the horse will have to be dry-cleaned.”

Moladan slammed his body back into the chair. His face was red and his dark eyes had turned brighter with anger.

Zamorra was sitting again, coat folded across his lap.

Merci leaned forward. “This is what you’re going to do. You’re going to call up Aubrey’s guys on the computer and print them out on the printer. When I interview them I’ll say I got their names from Aubrey’s little black book. I’ll keep my newspaper and television friends out of here, when they want to know what the victim did for a living. I won’t whisper Epicure Services in anyone’s ear. You’ll lose Aubrey’s business for a few weeks, because her guys might become a little shy. But then, she’s dead, so you’ve lost her business anyway. When her friends get hungry again, you’ll have someone else tall, young and eager for all the hot crap their money can buy. Right?”

Moladan looked at Zamorra again, then back to Merci.