“Good to see you, Jack,” Noccia said to me. “Don’t get up. You too, Rick. Sit.”
Noccia reached for the back of a chair and at the same time turned his head toward the stairs. Looking past his protection, he said, “Oh, here he comes now. I asked Tommy to join us for lunch.”
My brother, Tommy?
My unease turned to dread when I saw my twin coming into the restaurant. Ray Noccia had more notches in his gun belt than Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. Tommy lived to take me down and he had history with Ray Noccia through our father. An alliance between these two could not be good for me.
“Hey, Jack,” Tommy said, closing in on our table. “I’m really glad to see you, bro.”
Tom sat down. Noccia sat down. The waiter came over with menus, and the don ordered Pellegrino for the table.
After the waiter walked away, Noccia said to me, “I really didn’t have to be here, Jack. I just wanted to see your face when Tommy said his piece. Tommy?”
Tommy accepted the handoff with a gracious nod, looked as pleased as if he’d won the trifecta at Santa Anita.
“Let me give you the short version,” he said.
“Take all the time you want,” I said.
“Thanks, Jack. It’s like this,” Tommy said. “And I’m going to use the legal term for it, okay? You ‘improperly influenced’ Dad so that he would leave Private to you. He had long promised Private to me. You duped him and that’s a fact. Now, Jack, I offered to buy you out, and my offer was pretty generous. You blew me off and left me no choice. So I’m taking you to court—”
“Let’s go, Rick,” I said. I stood up, opened my wallet, dropped a few bills on the table. “Lunch is on me,” I said.
“You can run, but you can’t run far,” Tommy said. “I’ve got witnesses who will swear Dad was leaving Private to me until you visited him at Corcoran. He changed his will just before he died. So I’m going to sue you, Jack. And I’m going to win.”
Del Rio and I went out to the car. I said, “He’s full of crap. No jury is going to take the word of Ray Noccia.”
My best bud, Del Rio, agreed.
But I didn’t convince myself. Ray Noccia could buy off any number of jailhouse rats for pocket change. If he got twenty mugs to say that my father was leaving Private to Tommy before I talked to him, that much testimony could add up to a preponderance of evidence.
It might persuade a jury, and if Dad’s last will was overturned, the prior will would be enforced.
Tommy could try, and I knew he would use every angle and maybe come up with a few new ones. But I wasn’t going to let my brother steal Private from me. I couldn’t let that happen.
No fucking way.
EPILOGUE
AT CROSS PURPOSES
Chapter 117
IT WAS CASUAL Friday, Lori’s favorite day of the week, because the office closed at one.
Lori made sure that the boss was good and gone. Then she grabbed her handbag, jogged down the stairs to the underground garage, and got into her platinum-colored Infiniti, her silver bullet, her wonder car.
She strapped in, checked her mirrors, and felt for the timer on the cord around her neck. Then she turned the ignition, and, as the gates rolled up, she gunned the engine and zoomed up the parking-garage ramp. As soon as the front tires hit the street, she pressed the timer’s start button. She drove a speedy half mile through light traffic, then peeled out onto the ramp taking her to the 110.
Lori had a good feeling about the upcoming twelve minutes. Like, maybe she could knock a few seconds off her best time, like she’d been trying to do for a couple of weeks. She was in a wide-open lane now, moving at seventy-three, the roadway rolling out in front of her like a satin ribbon. She spun the steering wheel with her wrist and took the Infiniti into the inside lane, accelerated, and got up to seventy-six, now eighty, easy-breezy.
As Lori sped toward her own personal finish line, a god-damned paneled van up ahead wandered across the center lanes in some kind of trance. She had her rules: no horns allowed, no brakes, so Lori stepped on the gas and kept to the inside lane, flying so close to the van, she brushed its side panels.
She glanced into her mirror, saw with supreme satisfaction that the van was already a dot behind her—and that she’d gained four seconds on her previous best time for this point in the race. OMG.
Lori was flying through the Figueroa tunnels, and now traffic was merging onto I-5 North. She was passing the Glendale exit on her right at a cool eighty-five, heading toward Griffith Park and her exit onto the 134, when it hit her.
Today. Right now, she was going to break her all-time record by more than twenty seconds.
The exit was coming up and Lori was doing beautifully, all open road and smooth sailing, until a big orange-and-white box-store tractor-trailer began edging her out of her lane, mindlessly sending her away from her turnoff to her right and toward the median strip to her left, giving her no room to maneuver and no time to fade back.
This was just wrong.
Lori had no choice. She gunned the engine, shot into the sliver of lane between the sixteen-wheeler and the median strip. Her left rear tire bumped up against the low concrete wall, climbed it, and spun the Infiniti into a right-handed yaw toward the semi.
Instinctively, Lori wrenched the wheel hard left against the turn, felt the car buck, jump the center strip entirely, and clear it, sending her into oncoming traffic at ninety miles an hour. Her elation was gone, replaced by anger, fear, and then horror as the blue Bentley barreled toward her, looming large. She saw the fear on the face of the driver. He turned his wheel and hit the brakes as the distance between them closed.
Rubber burned, and despite Lori standing on the brakes, using every muscle she had to stop her car, there was nowhere to go, no way out.
“Jesus Christ,” she screamed a split second before the cars collided, before the fireball bloomed, before she died.
“Noooooo.”
Chapter 118
KHEZIR COULD HARDLY believe how quickly their lives had changed. Three days ago, he and Gozan were on the verge of deportation to be followed by either summary execution at Sumar International or exile to the wilderness in rags.
Now, thousands of Sumaris were protesting in the streets across their nation, and Khezir and Gozan had become celebrities. There had been an avalanche of press and TV interviews, countless calls and letters of support from their countrymen.
And now this: the cherry on top.
Khezir and Gozan sat together inside the Bentley in the parking lot of Warner Brothers Studios, just grinning at each other, saying in unison, “Can you believe this?”
They laughed as one, then Khezir adjusted the visor, started up the wonderful car, and drove past the guard’s booth to the exit onto Forest Lawn.
As Khezir waited for an opening in the four lanes of traffic, he dialed up the air-conditioning. And he thought about the luncheon meeting Gozan and he had just had in the executive dining room with five serious young people who wanted to know more about them.
Those highly intelligent kids had an idea for a three-part miniseries and had “spitballed” ideas with them over cold potato soup and Kobe beef sandwiches. Khezir was still high on the intelligence and fierce energy of these young movie people. He admired their creativity and their structured ideas.
Gozan said, “You can go,” and Khezir pulled out of the Warner Brothers lot onto Forest Lawn Drive.
The car picked up speed, giving Khezir a lovely feeling of riding on clouds. He was going to buy a car exactly like this one. The latest model. Then he would find a willing young girl, his type, and take a road trip with her, sharing big beds in hotel rooms across America.
Gozan said, “This is the life, right, Khezzy? This is the American life.” Gozan started singing a song from that prewar period of America that he liked so much.
“‘Blue skies, la-la-la-la. Nothing but blue skies, from now onnnnn.’”
Khezir laughed. “This is our them
e song, Uncle.”
Gozan beamed.
“Khezzy, I think they liked us. I know they said they love us, but even if they are only warm on us, I think they will make this TV show.”
“I love them,” Khezir said. “Raiders of the Lost Ark meets David and Goliath. I don’t know exactly what they mean, but I like the way they said it.”
He banged the steering wheel with his fist for emphasis and sped up Forest Lawn, passing the cemetery, heading toward the Ventura Freeway. He hit the ramp for 134 East, and the lovely car zoomed past Griffith Park on their right.
Tonight they would be back in the Beverly Hills Hotel. They had a bungalow in the garden, an even better one than last time. This one had an enclosed private pool.
Khezir took the exit to I-5 South, the Golden State Freeway. Khezir leaned down to adjust the air-conditioning controls, and when he looked up, he saw something unimaginable.
A silver vehicle had jumped the barrier between the two lanes and was hurtling toward them. The car was out of control.
“Uncle,” he screamed. He jammed on the brakes, twisted the wheel as the silver vehicle filled his windshield.
There was an unfathomable clash of metal and plastics exploding together, and Khezir was thrown violently against the seat. Glass fired on him like an ice storm, and horns blew like the wind roaring through the rocky clefts of Sumar.
Chapter 119
JUSTINE WAS RUNNING with Rocky, her five-year-old rescue who was part dachshund, part beagle, part comedian, and all-around best pooch in the world.
Rocky was giving her the happy-dog grin, letting her know that he had been waiting forever for this run, and that he wasn’t going to forget a minute of it, and that he really loved the guy who was running with them.
The best-looking guy in the world was also enjoying their run on the wide grassy divider between the lanes of traffic on Burton Way. All three of them had been running for a half hour at a nice even pace, although it was becoming harder for Justine to keep up because she was laughing so much.
“Pick it up, Justine,” he said. “Try this. It’s good for your calves.”
And then he did sideways leaps over Rocky as the dog ran on the leash ahead of them, unaware or uncaring that he’d become exercise equipment.
“Now you try it.”
“No, sir, no way,” Justine shouted. “Look,” she called out. “I think we should go out for dinner.”
“You’re crazy,” he said. “I’ve already marinated the fish. You saw me, Justine. I made my special marinade.”
“We can freeze the marinade,” she said.
“Really? Not where I come from. Listen to me. You’ll chop a few vegetables, throw them in a bowl, make a salad. After that, all you have to do is open the wine and pour me a glass. Sound okay? Still with me?”
“Yes, I’m with you.”
She was. She was so with him, it was ridiculous.
They passed Il Cielo, a place she loved that wouldn’t require her to make a salad or wash dishes. Instead, she could put on this really lovely dress she’d just bought, black, gauzy, deeeep neckline, short very flirty skirt.
There would be air-conditioning in the restaurant, no sweat, and after dinner, they could go back to her house and sip wine out by the pool and listen to music. For a little while.
“I’m gonna grill the fish that I’ve been marinating, thank you, and it’s going to be the very best snapper you’ve ever tasted. And then, Justine, I’m going to clean the grill. How long has it been since that grill got a good shine?”
“I don’t know. Never?”
“That’s what I thought. So, after dinner, after I clean the grill, I’m going to show you a couple of moves you’ve never seen before.”
Justine laughed loud and long. He was making a good case for staying home, that’s for sure.
“Here’s a preview of one of them,” he said.
He stopped running and she pulled up short, put her hands on his chest. He looked right into her eyes. Then he got a grip on her waist and brought her close.
Justine’s insides fired up and heat flashed through her body, making her want to get naked, right then and right there, with the cars honking at them—she was that damp and hot and hungry for him.
She looped her arms around his neck and pressed up against him, and he kissed her, softly at first, then got into it really good as the dog ran around their legs, corralling them, tying them together with his leash.
“Good one,” she said when they broke from the kiss.
“I’ve got a few more of those I’ve been saving up for you,” he said with a grin. He kept his eyes on her, looked as messed up as she was, his mouth still soft from their kiss.
He said, “But you’re going to have to wait. Until after I clean the grill.”
Chapter 120
THIS WAS ONE of those times when the news was too big to text or e-mail or even say on the phone. I wanted to tell Justine, and I wanted to see her face when I told her.
I drove to Wetherly, a neat little street in the flats, and parked outside Justine’s three-bedroom 1930s house that was just as solid and sweet as a house could be.
A lot of cars were parked along her block. School was out and it was a pretty summer night. Kids rode by on bikes, sprinklers slapped at the lawns; TVs turned the windows blue and added a cool glow to a nice domestic scene.
Justine’s car was in her driveway and I was glad that she was home. I took the walk to her front door. Rapped on it. Rang the doorbell. Called her name.
There was no answer, so I went around back to her yard that is fenced in for Rocky and curtained with shrubbery. There’s a patio back there and also a pool.
As I approached the backyard, I saw Justine picking up some glasses and a wine bottle from a table by the pool. Her hair was wet, and she was wearing a white terrycloth robe. Cool jazz came over the speakers, which explained why Justine hadn’t heard me at the door.
Before I got to the chain-link fence, I called out so I wouldn’t startle her.
“Justine, it’s me.”
But she jumped anyway and grabbed her robe at her throat. Then she saw me through the leaves and said, “Jack, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve got news,” I said. “Why don’t you go around front and let me in?”
“What’s the news? What happened?”
“Nothing much. Maybe just proof that God exists. Or that there’s justice in the world.” I laughed, opened my arms expansively. I couldn’t wait to tell her.
“This had better be good,” she said. She put down the glassware and came closer to the fence.
“The Sumaris,” I said. “A car going about ninety the wrong way on I-5 slammed into them. Khezir and Gozan are dead.”
“Oh my God,” Justine said. “So much for diplomatic immunity.”
“You want to say, ‘Jack, come in’?”
She shook her head no.
I tried to read her expression and that’s when I put the wineglasses and the music together. I looked past her and saw someone hauling himself out of the water at the far side of the pool.
He called out to her, “Justine? Is everything okay?”
Cruz hooked a towel around his waist. His long hair dripped water down his chest as he came across the yard toward us. “Jack?”
I grabbed the fence, rattled it hard, and shouted, “What the hell is this, Emilio? What the hell?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Our gratitude to these top professionals who were so generous with their time and expertise during the writing of this book: Captain Rich Conklin of the Stamford, Connecticut, Police Department; Attorney Philip R. Hoffman of New York City; Dr. Humphrey Germaniuk, medical examiner and coroner of Trumbull County, Ohio; C. Peter Colomello, pilot, of Tillson, New York; and Chuck Hanni, IAAI-CFI, of Youngstown, Ohio.
As always, we are grateful to our excellent researchers, Ingrid Taylar and Lynn Colomello, and to Mary Jordan, who keeps it all together.
NINE NIGHTS.
/> NINE BODIES.
IT’S THE SEASON FOR
MURDER IN MUMBAI.
FOR AN EXCERPT, TURN THE PAGE.
Chapter 1
FOURTEEN MINUTES PER room was all she had.
Whether it was tidy or left smeared with chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and telltale buttmarks on the recliner, fourteen minutes was what she had to clean each room. Start in the bathroom, change the towels, change the bed, clean the cups, dust and vacuum, and then on to the next room.
And though she would never have admitted it to her colleagues at the Marine Bay Plaza, Sunita Kadam took a pride in meeting (and especially beating) that fourteen-minute time limit. In fact, on her housekeeping cart was a stopwatch she carried for that very purpose. She picked it up as she arrived at room number 1121 and knocked smartly—maid’s knock, loud but gentle—then began the stopwatch.
Twenty seconds. No answer. With a deliberate jangle of master keys she let herself in.
“Hello? Housekeeping.”
Again no answer. Good. And what’s more, the room was tidy. Though an evening dress hung from a handle of the closet, the bed looked as if it hadn’t been slept in. Nets at the window billowed beneath a blast of air conditioning, giving the room a clean, aired feel. Six minutes to service this room, thought Sunita. Maybe seven.
Unless, of course, there was a nasty surprise in the bathroom.
From her cart she collected towels and toiletries and went there now, clicking on the light at the same time as she reached for the door handle and pushed.
She came up short. The door would only budge an inch or so. Something on the other side—probably a wet towel that had slipped off a rail—was preventing it from opening.