James Patterson - #1 Suspect

The college girl who was moonlighting as an escort still looked afraid, but she was getting her stuff together, Del Rio thought. In fact, she was getting huffy.

“So, are you going to charge me with prostitution? Because look,” Jillian said to Del Rio. “I’m putting myself through medical school. That’s not an insignificant achievement. In a couple of years, I’ll be saving lives. You really want to get in the way of that?”

“We’re not here to bust you for your extracurricular activities,” Del Rio said. “Tell us about the guy last night.”

“Maurice? He was nice enough. No rough stuff. Nothing weird. He just wanted a good time. The kind he doesn’t get at home.”

“What happened after the good time?”

“Nothing. All the financials are handled through the service.”

“And how did he seem to you when you were leaving?”

“He was happy. He said maybe he’d see me again next time he was in town. I said good-bye. The limo was waiting for me out front.”

“There’s not going to be a next time for Bingham,” Del Rio said. “He’s dead. He was murdered.”

“But how could that…? Oh, no. After I left?”

“Did he get any phone calls while you were there?” Cruz asked. “Did he say he was worried about anything? Did anything about him seem unusual?”

“Nothing at all. Clean guy. Wore tighty-whities and a wedding ring. A normal date in every way.”

Back in the car, Del Rio put the CD into the player and ran it through all the way to the end once more.

There were long stretches of emptiness, interspersed with individuals going to their rooms. And there were crowds of people who got off the fifth-floor elevator on their way to the roof, their bodies blocking the camera’s view of 502.

Someone in one of those crowds had to have gone down the hallway, gained access to 502, and killed Bingham. But Del Rio never saw the door to 502 open after Jillian Delaney left.

“You think that girl could have killed the john?” Del Rio said to Cruz.

“I don’t see it.”

“Me neither. Someone came to his door and Bingham let him in. I’m calling this lead a dead end,” Del Rio said.

“Maurice Bingham’s last ride,” said Cruz.

Cruz spoke into his phone to someone named Sammy as he headed the car toward the Hollenbeck area of East LA. When he hung up, he said to Del Rio, “I’ve known Sammy his whole life. I didn’t expect to know him this long. I thought by now he’d be just a memory in his grandmother’s mind.”

Cruz knew a lot of Sammys. He could have become a Sammy himself. He had grown up in Aliso Village, a notorious, crime-ridden housing project in the Flats. He became a boxer, went pro, was a middleweight on his way up until a bad concussion made him see double for a while. Maybe it cleared his mind enough for him to look for a way out.

He joined the LAPD for a year, then Bobby Petino-DA Petino-his second cousin twice removed, gave Cruz a job in the investigative branch of his office. A hard-ass ex-cop named Franco became his boss, and Cruz learned. He saw a lot of dead bodies, got to know people, learned what to look for to help the DA make a case. In three years, Franco was working for him.

Two years back, Jack Morgan told Bobby Petino he needed another investigator, and Petino gave Cruz another break of a lifetime. Sent him to meet Jack.

It was a good fit.

Working at Private, teaming up with Del Rio, a genuine war hero, was the greatest job Cruz ever had. The only thing better would be to head up Private, LA-if or when Jack promoted himself off the line.

Del Rio asked, “So, this Sammy. He’s on our payroll?”

“No. Strictly freelance.”

Whittier Boulevard was a four-lane strip through a broken neighborhood. In daylight, vendors stood outside their shops, hawking T-shirts and tube socks, and families shopped with their little kids. At night, drug dealers worked the dark places. Hookers worked their strolls.

But there was no time of day or night when a Mercedes looked right on Whittier. Right now, it was sticking out like patent leather shoes at a hoedown.

Cruz would have liked to be driving a Ford. A gray one. Like he had when he was working for the DA. But Jack had a weakness for good-looking cars.

Cruz said to Del Rio, “I want to park the showboat in the Kinney on South Soto. Two blocks up.”

After the car was stowed, Cruz and Del Rio walked past a minimall with run-down shops and barred windows. Crossing the street at Johnny’s Shrimp Boat, Cruz saw Sammy waiting outside La Mascota Bakery.

Sammy was thirty, white, shaggy black hair, goatee, turquoise boots with pointy toes, enough metal piercing his face to start a hardware store.

Sammy said, “Who’s this?” indicating Del Rio.

“This is Rick. He’s my partner. He’s cool,” Cruz said.

Sammy was high, eyes dilated, agitated, but ready to do a transaction.

Cruz said, “You hear anything about a big shipment of Oxy and shit, came into town last night?” He took a twenty out of his pocket, held it out with two fingers.

“A ’frigerated van?”

Cruz nodded. “What do you know about it?”

Sammy snatched the twenty, flashed a gappy smile, said, “I know that the van is locked up, off the street. There’s a lot of chatter ’bout how to get in on the score.”

Cruz said, “That tip wasn’t worth twenty cents, Sam.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, man. Hey, you know Siggy O?”

Cruz said, “I know Sig. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Another twenty and I can text him for you,” said Sammy.

Siggy O was a black kid, six-foot-plus, two hundred pounds, Rasta hair tied back with string. A third-generation druggie, the kid was hooked before he was born.

“Duuude,” Siggy called out to Cruz. “Been so long, man. How you shaking?”

They clasped hands, patted each other’s backs, Siggy going into boxing stance, doing some feints and jabs and footwork, Cruz catching the jabs with the flats of his hands. Siggy said, “I saw you on the TV, man. On Sports Classics, you know? The MGM Grand. You and Michael Alvarez. He put you down so hard in the eighth round.”

“I know,” said Cruz, laughing. “I was there.”

“You good now?”

“I’m good. How ’bout you?”

“I’ve been straight for thirty-eight days,” Siggy told Cruz. “I’m in a program. I don’t miss a meeting,” he said. “Very cute women there. They want to take care of me. But that’s cool. I want to be taken care of.”

More laughing, and then Siggy said, “So, whatchoo need, ’Milio?”

“We’re looking for a van that was jacked last night. Shitload of pharmaceuticals inside.”

“It’s air-conditioned? With vegetables and shit on the outside?”

“That’s right,” Cruz said.

“I gotta live, bro. What’s in it for me?”

“Fifty for the location. Two hundred more if we recover the goods.”

“Two fifty? ’Milio. There’s millions in that truck, homes. Millions.”

Siggy worked Cruz up to a hundred in advance, and when Cruz gave him the money, he said, “Warehouse on South Anderson. A flowerpot company, or, more like, looks like a flowerpot company. High-tech security all around. I hear the van is parked inside, and ’Milio, if you cut me in, I’ll cut you in.”

“We’re not going into the drug business, Sig. Thanks anyway. What else have you heard?”

“I heard the van was stolen from the Eye-talians and it’s not going to stay in that warehouse too long.”

Cruz said, “Thanks, Siggy.”

“Good seeing you, bro. You got my number now?”

“Give it to me.”