James Patterson - Private

I put the car in drive and almost immediately heard an impossible rush of water. We drove across a bridge over a man-made river, past tennis courts and stables, then we arrived in the forecourt of a Spanish-style house fronted by up-lit date palms.

It was a little hard to believe that this over-the-top oasis had been constructed on barren sand, but that’s what had happened.

A man in jeans and an open-necked red shirt opened the massive front door, showed us into the foyer, and told us to put our hands on the walls. He took our guns and frisked us for listening devices.

I saw Del Rio ’s face darken. He was cranking up his anger, but I warned him with my eyes.

The mutt in the red shirt said, “This way,” and led us through a series of archways and high-ceilinged rooms, past wiseguys shooting billiards, to a great room with glass doors leading out to a pool.

Carmine Noccia was sitting in a chair in front of a fireplace, reading a hardback book.

He was of medium build, and although he was only forty-six, his hair was going gray. He wore a gray silk sweater and slacks, casual but excellent fabric and cut. He certainly looked the part of a wealthy capo, scion of the last significant Mafia family on the West Coast, a man taking in several illegal millions a week.

I knew quite a lot about Carmine Noccia. He had graduated with honors from Stanford and got his master’s in marketing at UCLA. After graduation, he’d proven himself to his father, and over the past ten years he’d run prostitution, and probably drugs, for the family business. The don’s son had never been charged with murder, but prostitutes had been found in Dumpsters. A middleman who’d imported girls from the former Soviet Bloc had disappeared. And my gun and Del Rio ’s were on top of an antique cabinet in the foyer.

We crossed the threshold, and Noccia immediately got to his feet, putting his hands in his pockets. He asked us to have a seat, and Del Rio and I plopped onto the leather sofa at an angle to his chair.

Noccia said, “Did you bring the money to bail out your brother? I hope so. Otherwise, you understand, this is a waste of my time.”

I patted a pocket of my jacket and said, “I need your help on something else. Someone killed Shelby Cushman. It looks professional, and that’s how LAPD is taking it. If you know who shot her, I’d like to know. She was a friend of mine.”

As I was talking, Del Rio got up and began strolling around the great room, examining photographs and the rifles hanging from hooks on the walls. He asked Noccia, “You ride those horses in the stable out there?”

“I don’t know who killed Shelby,” Noccia said, following Rick with his eyes. “I can tell you that we liked her. She was a good lady. Very smart, very funny.”

I took the thin envelope out of my jacket and handed it to Noccia. He opened the flap, peered in at the cashier’s check for $600,000.

Tommy’s gambling debt was now paid in full.

“I’ll get this to the right people,” Noccia said. He put the envelope between the pages of the book he’d been reading: The Audacity of Hope. Interesting. I wondered if he was pro or con on Barack Obama.

“If I hear anything about Shelby, I’ll give you a call,” he said. “You impressed me tonight, Jack. You did the right thing by your brother.”

The next morning at Private, Andy Cushman sat in the chair across from my desk. His face was very red, with bright white circles where his shades had been, evidence of too much time spent out by the pool. His hair was combed. He had shaved, and his clothes were neat and clean. It didn’t look as though Andy had hit absolute bottom, but I knew in the next few minutes, he’d be there.

“You’ve got news for me,” he said.

Colleen brought in my Red Bull and Andy’s espresso. We both thanked her.

“Andy, I have something to tell you. You’re not going to like it.”

“Don’t worry, Jack. Whatever it is, I can take it. That’s why I’m here.”

I nodded as if I agreed. Then I told my old friend that we had found out where Shelby had been working before she was killed: the Benedict Spa.

Andy jumped up, shouting as he stabbed the air with a forefinger. “What the fuck are you telling me? She worked there? That’s a hundred percent horseshit. It’s a lie! Somebody’s jerking your chain, Jack!”

I waited for Andy to finish his rant and sit back down. I understood why he was upset. “I wouldn’t tell you if we hadn’t checked it out, Andy. I’m sorry. But it’s true.”

Andy’s face was nearly purple with rage. His breathing was fast and shallow. I worried that he might have a heart attack in my office, maybe a fatal one.

“Then tell me why, Jack. Tell me why. She had everything she wanted. Jesus, we had a very active sex life.” He pushed away from the desk. “I want proof; I need it. That’s your business, isn’t it? Proving things? Proof, Jack, proof.”

“ Del Rio and I went to Las Vegas last night and met with Carmine Noccia.”

Andy did a double take. “What’s he got to do with it? This doesn’t make any sense, Jack. None at all.”

“He owns the Benedict Spa. He knew Shelby, and doesn’t dispute that she worked for him. But he has no information on who killed her. So he says.”

“You’re telling me that my wife was a whore and a liar, and on top of that, she was working for the Mob? Why, Jack? She didn’t need money.”

I said again, “I’m very sorry, Andy.”

“So any crummy dick with a gun could’ve killed her? Is that what you’ve found out?”

“We’re working on it right now. We’re all working on it. We’re going to find the guy who did this.”

Andy slammed his fist down on my desk. “Guess what? I no longer care who killed her,” he said. “I don’t want to spend another nickel on her. Fuck it, Jack. Fuck it.”

I shook my head. “Please think this through. If we don’t find Shelby ’s killer, the police will continue to focus on you.”

“Let them. They have nothing on me and they’ll get nothing. You just put yourself out of a job, Jack. You’re fired.”

Andy knocked his chair over as he got to his feet, then he steamed out of my office. He almost ran Colleen down as she came through the door.

“Did I hear right?” Colleen asked, putting a hand on her hip. I saw that she was wearing her new watch. “He fired us?”

“No. Well, yeah. He’s upset, but he’s my friend. I’m moving the Cushman case to the pro bono list,” I said. “We’re still working it. Only now we’re doing it for free.”

“I’ll take care of it, Jack,” Colleen said. Then she shut the door to my office. “Am I still your friend, Jack?”

Cruz parked his car outside the Benedict Spa and watched as an absolutely stunning young blond woman came out the front gates and strolled down the hill toward where he sat watching her promenade.

She was about five-foot-one, small boned, with a short boyish haircut, wearing black bicycle pants, a green spandex top, and flat shoes. She disarmed her Lexus convertible alarm as Cruz approached.

“Hi, could you wait up a second?” he said, walking toward her. She got into her car and locked the door.

Cruz took his badge out of his back pocket. He flashed it and made the universal motion to ask her to roll down her window.

“What are you?” she asked. “FBI?”

“Private investigator,” he said, smiling at her. “I just need a moment. You work at the spa, right? This won’t be hard, I promise.”

“I can’t talk to you. Please step back so I don’t run over your toes.”

“My name is Emilio Cruz. What’s yours?”

“I’m Carla. Make an appointment, okay? I can talk to you at the spa all you want. For hours, if you like.”