Michael Connelly - The Gods of Guilt

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Shouldn’t those guys be hungover or asleep? I know I wish I was still in bed.”

“I’ll go up,” Lorna said. “This makes me really angry.”

“No. Cisco, you go up. You already know the update. I want Lorna to hear it and you might get better results up there.”

“On it.”

Cisco left the room and headed upstairs. It was one of the few times I was pleased that he had worn a T-shirt to work, exposing his impressive biceps and intimidating tattoos. The T-shirt celebrated the one hundred tenth anniversary of Harley-Davidson motorcycles. I thought that might help get the message across as well.

To the rhythm of a bass drum from above, I began updating the others, starting with the subpoena Valenzuela laid on me the morning before and then moving through the happenings of the rest of the day. About halfway through, a terrific crash was heard from above as Cisco put an end to band practice. I finished my story by recounting the late-night meeting with Trina Trixxx and the conclusion prompted by Fulgoni’s call from prison that I was under surveillance.

Nobody asked any questions along the way, though Jennifer took some notes. I didn’t know if the silence was a testament to the early hour, the implied threat that surveillance meant to all of us, or my fully engaging skill as a storyteller. There was also the possibility that I had simply lost everyone on one of the turns of the convoluted tale I was spinning.

Cisco reentered the room, looking none the worse for wear. He took his seat and nodded to me. Problem solved.

I looked at the others.

“Questions?”

Jennifer raised her pen as though she were still in school.

“I actually have a few,” she said. “First of all, you said that Sylvester Fulgoni Sr. called you from the prison in Victorville at two in the morning. How is that possible? I don’t think they give inmates access to—”

“They don’t,” I said. “The number was blocked but I’m sure it was a cell phone. Smuggled in to him or given to him by a guard.”

“Couldn’t that be traced?”

“Not really. Not if it was a burner.”

“A burner?”

“A throwaway phone—bought with no names attached. Look, we’re getting off the subject here. Suffice it to say it was Fulgoni and he called me from prison, where someone had obviously reached out to him to inform him that I was speaking at that moment to his star witness Trina Trixxx. That’s the salient point. Not that Sly Fulgoni has a phone up there, but that he knows the moves we’re making. What’s your next question?”

She checked her notes before asking it.

“Well, before yesterday we had two separate things going. We had the La Cosse case and then we had this other thing with Moya that we thought was separate but might be useful to bring in as part of a possible straw man defense for La Cosse. But now, if I’m following you correctly, we’re talking about these two things being one case.”

I nodded.

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. This is all one case now. What links it for us is obviously Gloria Dayton. But the key thing here is Lankford. He was following Gloria the night of the murder.”

“So La Cosse, he was set up all along,” Earl said.

I nodded again.

“Right.”

“And this isn’t just an angle we’re playing or a strategy,” Jennifer said. “We’re saying this is now our case.”

“Right again.”

I looked around. Three walls of the boardroom were glass. But there was one wall of old Chicago brick.

“Lorna, we need a whiteboard for that wall. I wish we could diagram this. It would make it easier.”

“I’ll get one,” Lorna said.

“And get the locks changed on this place. Also I want two cameras. One on the door, one on this room. When we go to trial, this is going to be ground zero, and I want it safe and secure.”

“I can put a guy on the place—twenty-four-seven,” Cisco said. “Might be worth it.”

“And what money do we use to pay for all of this?” Lorna asked.

“Hold off on the guy, Cisco,” I said. “Maybe when we get to trial. For now we’ll go with just locks and cameras.”

I then leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“It’s all one case now,” I said again. “And so we need to take it apart and look at all of the pieces. Eight years ago I was manipulated. I handled a case and made moves I believed were of my own design. But they weren’t, and I’m not going to let that happen again here.”

I sat back and waited for comment but I got only silent stares. I saw Cisco look over my shoulder and through the glass door behind me. He started to get up. I turned around. Across the loft there was a man standing by the front door. He was actually bigger than Cisco.

“One of my guys,” Cisco said as he left the boardroom.

I turned and looked back at the others.

“If this was a movie, that guy’s name would be Tiny.”

The others laughed. I got up to refill my coffee and by the time I returned, Cisco was coming back to the boardroom. I stayed standing and awaited the verdict. Cisco poked his head through the door but didn’t come in.

“The Lincoln’s been jacked,” he said. “Do you want them to take it out? We could find a place for it. Maybe a FedEx truck would be good—keep them running around.”

By “jacked” he meant LoJacked, a reference to an anti-theft tracking system. But in this case he was telling me somebody had crawled underneath my car and attached a GPS tracker.

“What does that mean?” Aronson asked.

While Cisco explained what I already knew, I thought about the question of whether to remove the device or leave it in place and possibly find a way of making it work to my advantage against whoever was monitoring my movements. A FedEx truck would keep them running in circles but it would also tip our hand and let them know we were onto them.

“Leave it in place,” I said when Cisco finished his explanation to the others. “For now, at least. It might come in handy.”

“Keep in mind it could be just a backup,” Cisco cautioned. “You still could have a live tail. I’ll keep the Indians up on the cliffs a couple days, just to see.”

“Sounds good.”

He turned in the doorway and signaled to his man with a flat hand, as if running it along the surface of a table. Status quo, leave the tracker in place. The man pointed at Cisco—message understood—and walked through the door. Cisco returned to the table, pointing to the Paquin 7000 as he went.

“Sorry. He couldn’t get a call in to me because of the blocker.”

I nodded.

“What’s that guy’s name?” I asked.

“Who, Little Guy? I actually don’t know his real name. I just know him as Little Guy.”

I snapped my fingers. I’d been close. The others muffled their laughter and Cisco looked at all of us like he knew there was some kind of joke and it was on him.

“Are there any bikers out there who don’t have nicknames?” Jennifer asked.

“Oh, you mean a nickname like Bullocks? No, I don’t think there are, to tell you the truth.”

There was more laughter, and then I turned it serious again.

“Okay, let’s look at this thing. We now know what’s on the surface. Let’s go below. First off, there’s the question why. Why the manipulation eight years ago? If we believe what we have been told, then Marco goes to Gloria and tells her to plant a gun in Moya’s hotel room so that when he gets busted he gets the firearms enhancement, making him eligible for a life sentence. Okay, we get that. But then comes the hard part.”

“Why didn’t Marco just bust him once the gun was in place?” Cisco asked.

I pointed at him.

“Exactly. Instead of the easy and direct route, he sets forth a strategy in which Gloria allows herself to get busted by the locals and then comes to me. She drops enough information on me for my eyes to light up and think there is a deal to be made. I go see the DA and make that deal. Moya gets busted, the gun is found, and the rest is history. It still begs the question why go to all that trouble?”