As Cruz headed down, he took in the dark saloon, richly colored in red and gold, and had the feeling of being sent back in time to a Cuban rum bar, circa the 1920s.
Electric-candle chandeliers lit the place with soft, flattering light. Small tables at the perimeter of the room were occupied, but most of the customers were packed around the white-marble-topped bar, the back of it stacked with rum bottles, maybe seventy different brands.
As Cruz reached the bottom step, he saw that behind the bar was a hallway leading to a cigar bar, designed to look like a back alley in Havana.
Just then, raucous applause broke out.
A dancer came onto a small stage, the spotlight right on her, making gold sequins glitter. She tossed her hair and began to move sensually to a Caribbean beat.
Cruz stood at the sidelines, searching the crowd until he saw one woman drinking alone at a table near the fire exit. He worked his way through the mob, and when he got to her table, he said, “Karen Ricci? I’m Emilio Cruz.”
She said, “Have a seat.”
Cruz pulled out a chair and sat down. Karen Ricci was dark haired, a natural beauty wearing no makeup. It took Cruz a moment to realize that she was in a wheelchair.
“You have my package?” she asked.
Cruz opened his jacket so she could see the edge of the envelope peeking out from his inside breast pocket.
He closed his jacket and said, “May I buy you another drink?”
CHAPTER 71
A waiter came over and said to Karen Ricci, “Papa’s daiquiri, as usual?” Karen said yes, and the waiter asked Cruz, “You like rum? I recommend you try the Bad Spaniard.’”
Cruz nodded, and when the waiter left them, Karen said, “There’s a whole egg in that drink.”
Cruz shrugged, put on his bashful smile, and said, “I like eggs. Why’d you pick this place to meet?”
“The guy at the door?”
“The bouncer?”
“He’s my husband,” she said.
All that Cruz knew about Karen Ricci was what his source had told him. She had worked at an escort service called Sensational Dates for the past two years. She took calls from johns, arranged the dates, and charged their credit cards.
A john name of Arthur Valentine had been strangled with a wire at the Seaview hotel back in 2010, the second victim in what would become a string of five murdered hotel guests in three California cities.
Karen Ricci had been questioned about Valentine’s death by the LAPD because she had booked the escort who had given Valentine his last ride.
When Cruz had spoken with Ricci two hours ago, she had agreed to tell him everything she knew about the hotel killings for a thousand dollars cash.
Now Cruz tasted his drink, set the glass down on a napkin, and said, “Okay, Karen. What have you got for me?”
“Something the police don’t know. You’ll get your money’s worth, don’t worry, and I’ll save you some time and trouble. The escort didn’t kill the john.”
“She was a suspect?”
“For a while, yes. One of the last known persons to see the victim, whatever. She said she’d had sex with the guy and they didn’t arrest her. They had no evidence of anything but the date, but they harassed her. She couldn’t work without cops tailing her, scaring off business.”
“So do you know who killed the john, Karen? Because if you do, please cut to the chase.”
“Oh, you think I want a grand for saying the hooker didn’t do it?” The woman laughed, took a slug of her daiquiri. She refilled her glass from the shaker.
“Here’s what I think, Mr. Emilio Cruz. You need to talk to the escort, because she knows something that can help you. It’s what you’re paying for. Her name is Carmelita Gomez. Say you know me.”
Cruz took out the envelope, plucked out two hundred-dollar bills, and passed them under the table as the exotic dancer on the little stage took off her top and shimmied her pasties for the crowd. Cruz leaned closer to Karen Ricci. “You get the rest after I meet this woman.”
“You already did,” Ricci said. She tilted her chin toward the staircase.
“Upstairs? At the closet door?”
“That’s her,” Karen said. “She gets off work at four.”
CHAPTER 72
Cruz swallowed the Bad Spaniard, including the egg, and said, “I’ll be back.”
He put a twenty under his empty glass and went up the stairs.
Carmelita Gomez was still standing by the armoire when Cruz came through the curtain of shirts. He did all the talking, telling her that Karen Ricci had said to tell her he was okay. That he needed information for cash. And that he’d be waiting for her outside the club at four a.m.
He gave her his cell phone number and said, “ No llegues tarde. Don’t be late.”
Cruz got his gun back from the doorman, then got in the car and headed south.
Del Rio and Scotty were in the surveillance van on South Anderson Street near the corner of Artemus. Cruz parked, slapped the van’s door, got in the back.
Cruz briefed the guys on Carmelita Gomez, and they told him that a whole lot of nothing had happened to the thirty million in drugs stolen from the Mob. That the West Coast boss, Carmine Noccia, was paying for the surveillance but was cracking his knuckles and grinding his teeth, making phone calls to Jack, getting crazy.
Del Rio said, “What I think is that this warehouse is a safe house. They’ll move the van when they have a delivery secured. Or else the warehouse has become a drugstore. Those pills could be leaving here a few bottles at a time.”
Cruz let Del Rio and Scotty sleep, took a shift watching the warehouse. He, Scotty, Del Rio, and Justine were working their major cases while Jack spent all day and all night trying to get his ass out of the bad case against him.
Cruz would be happier when Jack was free, when he was back working with them, and he hoped it would happen before the top guys at Private burned out.
Cruz shook Del Rio awake at 3:35 and got back into his fleet car. At four on the nose, he parked again on North Western under the light, across the street from the sign reading Havana.
The street was emptier and more desolate than it had been six hours before, except for a bunch of rowdies having after-drinks fast food at the Tacos El Patio.
Cruz was thinking maybe he’d go in there and use the bathroom, when the door to Havana opened and a woman in jeans, black cardigan, and black Converse lace-ups came out to the street. He flashed his headlights, and Carmelita Gomez crossed to the car. She glanced up and down the street as she slipped in the passenger side and closed the door.
CHAPTER 73
Carmelita Gomez smelled like flowers and cigar smoke. She turned her dark eyes on Cruz. It was like looking at the business end of a couple of nines.
“Karen just told me you wanted to talk about that dead john last year. She’s got a big mouth,” Carmelita said.
“You told her about it, right?”
“The guy was dead. I’m the last one who partied with him. Cops wanted to know. Everyone wanted to know.”
“And now I want to know, but I’m paying for the information. I’ll keep you out of it.”
“Give me the money first.”
“That’s not how it works,” Cruz replied.
The girl opened the door and had one sneakered foot on the pavement when Cruz said, “Wait.”
She got back in and looked at him, not saying anything.
“Here’s three hundred,” Cruz said. “With the two I gave your friend, that’s a total of five hundred. Half down. Now, Carmelita, you have to talk if you want the rest.”
The girl put the money inside the neckline of her top and said, “The killer is a limo driver. He drives the girls to their dates. Then he comes back and kills the johns.”
“Do you think that? Or know that?”