Tommy was having a sirloin and apparently enjoying it. He sat back in his chair and looked at Justine, smiling as he chewed.
Justine sipped her wine, struck once again that Tommy looked exactly like Jack. He had the same dark blond hair and hazel eyes, identical build and posture-but in all the ways that counted, Tommy was precisely Jack’s opposite.
Where Jack was altruistic, Tommy was craven. Where Jack would give a person his full attention and really listen, Tommy would fix his eyes on you and try to manipulate you, find weaknesses to use against you.
He said, “I don’t know how much I can tell you about Danny Whitman. He was a weird little dude. And we weren’t buddies. Why do you want to know?”
“He’s a client.”
“Does Jack know that we’re having dinner?”
“He will when I put in my expense report.”
Tommy laughed, and Justine waited him out. Then she asked again, “Why was Danny Whitman at Blue Skies?”
“Depression, I think. He looked depressed, but he could have been there for other reasons. He saw his shrink and he kept to himself.”
“But you talked with him?”
“Jeez, Justine. We didn’t open up our hearts,” Tommy said. “Celebrities, you know. They keep to themselves if they’ve had enough experience with people selling their stories to the tabs. And now my turn. How is Jack? I haven’t heard anything since he went off to jail.”
“He’s out now.”
“Why do you think he killed Colleen?”
“Come on, Tommy. You know he didn’t kill her.”
“No, Justine, you come on. I think he did it.”
“He had no reason to do it. None.”
“Maybe he just snapped. You don’t know that Jack has a temper? I tell you from firsthand experience, he can throw a punch that cracks your jaw in three places.”
Tommy took off his jacket, made a production of rolling up his right sleeve. He showed Justine an old scar about five inches long, just above his elbow.
“This is from the time he broke my arm,” Tommy said, “over who got to ride in the front seat.”
Tommy was vile. She hated him. She knew to keep her thoughts to herself, but he’d given her an opening, so she took it.
She smiled and said, “I hope that really hurt.”
“Man, you still love the guy.”
Justine signaled to the waiter for the check.
“Anything else I can help you with?” Tommy asked. He was smirking.
“Sure, leave Jack’s clients alone. And confess to the police that you murdered Colleen or that you had her killed.”
“I can’t do that, sweetie. I can’t confess to something I didn’t do, just to make you happy. But I would do a lot of other things to make you happy. How about letting me take you out on what’s referred to as a ‘real date.’ ”
“This was our date, Tommy. First, last, and only.”
CHAPTER 69
I was waiting for Jinx at the bar on the pool deck, having a long, tall Perrier on the rocks. I was enjoying how the sunset was painting pink light on the pool, when she slid into the seat next to mine.
“Hi, Jack. Sorry I’m late. I got stuck at the office.”
“It’s okay. I like it here.”
Jinx smiled. “I’ve heard you’ve been having a rough time in the last few days.”
She smelled sweet, like jasmine. She was wearing midnight blue, a silk tunic, tight pants, gold sandals on adorable feet. Her diamond necklace caught the light.
“Jail is an enriching experience,” I said. “I got to see the other side of the fence. Take it from me, the grass wasn’t greener.”
“You look like you took a beating.”
“Part of the enrichment program.”
I’d meant to get a laugh, but she reached out and touched my bruised jaw. I let her do it.
“I tripped,” I said.
“A bad trip, looks like.”
I smiled at her. She put her elbows on the bar, asked the bartender for a gin and tonic. It was an unguarded gesture, and I saw her through it. She was right there, the woman who had asked for my help because she was being haunted by killings-and because she could lose everything she had.
I said, “We’re working on your case, Jinx, but if you want to take your business elsewhere, I understand. More than that, there’s no charge for the time we’ve clocked.”
“The cops are hopeless,” she said.
“You mean the cops are hopeless too.”
“This time last month, there was standing room only at this bar.”
“We’ll keep working if that’s okay, Jinx. If we don’t get results, you don’t owe us anything.”
“You’re making a compelling case for me to stay with Private.”
Finally she smiled. “I should admit something,” she said. “I like you, Jack.”
I had an awkward moment because I wasn’t sure how to respond. Whatever she was thinking, friendship or more, it wasn’t a good time for me. It was the worst.
“Jinx. Listen, I’m checking out of the hotel in the morning.”
Jinx stiffened at what she took to be a rebuff. She said, “Was everything satisfactory?”
“Yes. I just have to get back to my house. My life.”
“Of course.”
She stood up and said, “Iggy, Mr. Morgan’s drinks are on the house. Jack, I’ve got some calls to make. Stay in touch, okay? And take care of yourself.”
I watched her walk across the deck, and when she was inside, I left the bar and went to my room.
I could list four or five reasons why I didn’t need a romantic complication right now. But there was no reasoning with the strong pull I felt toward Jinx. I wanted to help her as much as I wanted to help myself.
If she’d stayed at the bar for another minute, I would have told her that I liked her too.
CHAPTER 70
Cruz parked the Mercedes fleet car under the one streetlight on North Western, a seedy block in the heart of Hollywood. Metal security doors had been rolled down over the surrounding storefronts: Quality Market, Lupita’s beauty salon, AAA discount mufflers. Iglesia Cristiana Fuente de Salvacion, a church housed in what looked like a former appliance store, was also closed for the night.
Across the street, a yellow neon sign showing a cocktail glass turned on its side and the name Havana marked an otherwise nondescript cinder-block building. Cruz undid his ponytail, finger-combed his hair, replaced the band, then got out and set the car alarm. He straightened his jacket.
The muscle at the club’s door was in his thirties, shaved head, small metal-framed glasses, bulked up. Cruz said, “Buenas noches.”
The bouncer said, “You have a reservation?”
“I’m Emilio Cruz, here to meet a lady called Karen Ricci. She told me she was leaving my name at the door.”
The bouncer looked Cruz over, took a long thirty seconds. He said, “You packing?”
“I’m licensed.”
“Doesn’t matter. No guns.”
Cruz sighed, took his gun out of his shoulder holster, shook out the ammo, and handed the gun to the bouncer. The bouncer put the gun in a box attached to the top of a pedestal, handed Cruz a ticket with a number, and opened the door.
Cruz entered a vestibule. There was a narrow flight of stairs and he climbed it, thinking about his gun. The stairway opened into a small room featuring one piece of furniture, what looked to be a hand-carved wardrobe, an armoire.
A hostess was standing beside the wardrobe. She was in her late twenties, Hispanic, big brown eyes, very trim, and wearing a tight pink satin dress. Definitely his type. Although she barely looked at him. Most women at least looked.
She opened the wardrobe door, said, “You go through here and then down the stairs.”
Cruz asked, “I go through the closet?”
The woman nodded. “Si.”
Cuban shirts were hanging on the pole, making a curtain.
Cruz pushed the guayaberas aside and saw that the closet was a cleverly concealed doorway that led directly to the top landing of a spiral staircase. Latin music and loud chatter came up from the bar below.