“Do you really believe any of that?” she said. “Working backward hardly explains this coincidence.”
“Caleb Cole told us everything would tie in and look what just happened.”
“And you think it’s not random, the way he picks the cases?”
“I think the guy is writing a script like Hitch said. Then he’s shooting it. None of this is coincidence.”
“It still doesn’t explain how he’s doing it,” she persisted.
“I know, and if we don’t find out fast, we’re all going to be looking for new professions.”
CHAPTER 32
That night at home, as I lay in bed with Alexa asleep beside me, I kept wrestling with the same gloomy feeling I’d had in the V-TV control room. It was a growing certainty that this case wasn’t going to end well for any of us. I felt like I was being led by the nose through a maze that had no back door.
I finally got up and, without waking Alexa, went out to sit in the den. I thought about Lester and Stephanie Madrid and, despite the theory Hitch and I had advanced in Jeb’s office, how improbable it was that the murders of Lita Mendez and Hannah Trumbull each touched one of the Madrids.
I kept looking at the problem and turning it over like a Rubik’s Cube, examining all sides, twisting facets. No matter how I tried to get all the same colors to line up, I couldn’t make it come out right.
A random thought struck me. We’d all assumed that Nix Nash picked Los Angeles as the city he wanted to feature in the show’s third season because this was where he had lost his law license. We’d assumed he hated the LAPD for putting the fraud case on him, which sent him to prison and got him disbarred. It made such perfect sense that he was here seeking revenge against us that we’d never looked at any alternate theories.
What if that wasn’t the reason he chose L.A.? What if the reason was because he’d lived here for years? He’d associated with cops and criminals. He had contacts. He had to already know about the Madrids because Stephanie was chief advocate even back then and she was fielding a lot of his lawsuits against cops. Taking it a step further, it would have been impossible for Nix to miss Lester with all the press coverage he got in the Times for dumping assholes in the street back when he was in SIS.
Maybe it was usable information, and not revenge, that had brought Nix back here for his third TV season.
I would discuss it with Hitch in the morning and see if he could think of a way to twist my cube further and make the colors line up closer.
I was just getting up to head back to bed when a text message signal sounded from my cell phone in the charging dock across the room. I walked over and read it.
YOU ARE INVITED TO JOIN NIX NASH AND THE CAST OF V-TV ABOARD THE HMS BOUNTY FOR BRUNCH AND A CRUISE CELEBRATING THE PREMIERE OF OUR THIRD SEASON. WE’RE LEAVING FROM FISHERMAN’S VILLAGE, MARINA DEL REY, AT 10:00 A.M. TOMORROW. GROG AND HORS D’OEUVRES. DRESS CASUAL.
I stood in my den holding the cell phone, looking down at the improbable invitation. What the hell did this guy take me for?
Even though it was late, I dialed Hitch.
“What up, dawg?” he said as he came on the line, still fully awake.
“Listen to this,” I said, and read him the text message.
When I finished, he said, “I’d view it as an incredible opportunity. We decided to engage. Full contact, remember?”
“So you’d go.”
“Bet your ass.”
“I’d like it better if we were betting yours.”
“Listen, dawg. If it makes you feel better I could go as your date. We could wear matching sailor suits. But you’ll get more if you go alone; it will keep his guard down. This guy is arrogant. Arrogance is his weakness.”
We were both silent for a long minute.
“I’m tempted,” I said. “But my gut tells me it’s a trap.”
“Unless he pushes you overboard, which I doubt, you’ll get back safely, and then you and I will debrief. We can use whatever intel you get to find a way to net this tuna. While you’re on that cruise, you can also try and pump those other sellouts-Marcia Breen, Frank Palgrave, and J. J. Blunt. See what they have to contribute.”
“Okay,” I finally said. “I guess I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER 33
Alexa left before I did the next morning. I hadn’t slept well. When I awoke at eight, my head felt so fuzzy I was mainlining coffee trying to develop some focus and a heartbeat.
By nine o’clock I was struggling with what the hell you’re supposed to wear on an ocean cruise. Should I take my fancy nickel-plated 9mm Kimber automatic with the white bone handle or go unpacked? What should my nautical look be, or should I even try for one? I finally opted for a beige Brioni sport shirt, khaki slacks, and a pair of canvas deck shoes. For bling I added my small ten-ounce Airlight.38 in an ankle holster.
I got in the Acura and was backing out of the driveway when I noticed a gray Navigator with smoked windows parked at the curb at the end of the alley. I figured it was another V-TV mobile unit.
Then the door to the SUV opened and a gaunt six-foot-five giant with a silver-headed cane got out.
Lester Madrid.
He leaned against his front fender and crooked his index finger in my direction, beckoning me over like I was some crack whore on Main Street. I could see no way past him, so I opened the door and reluctantly walked over.
Lester had aged some in the last five years. He still looked nasty enough to eat your children and still didn’t carry an ounce of fat, but now his hair had begun to thin and go gray.
As I got closer, I said, “I don’t want to get into a dustup with you, Lester.”
“I came to deliver a message,” he growled in the ruptured, gravelly whisper that served as his normal speaking voice. “Stop trying to put your fucking Mendez homicide on my wife. If you don’t pay attention to this warning, you’ll be dealing with some critical issues.”
I was assuming he didn’t know yet that his name had become a part of the investigation in the Hannah Trumbull case. But with V-TV covering it, that probably wasn’t going to last long. I was trying to decide whether to lay it on him now to gain some tactical advantage or let it just come out naturally.
As I was pondering this, he said, “When did you turn into such a pussy? The Shane Scully I remember didn’t try and fuck up brother cops. He used to go to the asshole.”
“Go to the asshole” was an old department reference to cops who were so committed to catching criminals they would risk their own lives in the breakneck pursuit of any bad guy. Lester Madrid always went to the asshole. Trouble was, he killed most of them when he got there.
“Lester, this is a mistake,” I told him. “You don’t want to threaten me.”
“I’m not above a mistake,” he rasped. “How you recover is all that matters.”
“I’m sure Captain Madrid told you about the cell-phone video with her and Lita fighting.”
“Lita Mendez was a bleeding hemorrhoid. Somebody finally put that bitch at room temperature, which is exactly what needed to happen. We oughta throw the doer a parade. But either way, my wife isn’t the one who dropped her. You and your bullshit movie-producer partner are gonna get played by Nash like the douche bags you are. I’m here to tell you that will be the mistake you can’t recover from. My wife didn’t kill that chola.”
“Racial slurs?”
“I’m not a cop anymore. I don’t have the faggot PC police telling me what I can and can’t say. I call people exactly what they are now.”
I tried to evaluate this. Lester Madrid was six feet, five inches of gristle and bone, leaning on a cane, glaring, eyes cold and sharp as a box of tacks. He was no less dangerous today than he was ten years ago. This was a cop who had chilled almost a dozen bad guys and then gone home and slept without conscience. Had killing people just become too damn easy? Was that now Lester’s preferred way of solving his problems?