I no longer slept in the master suite, not since Colleen’s murder. I’d taken over the guest room that faced the front garden and had sliders out to the back deck.
The full moon was perfectly balanced above the ocean, and moonlight came through the glass, bathing the white bedding in a pearly glow. Justine looked ethereal, as if she were made of dreams.
I put my gun on the nightstand and got into bed beside her. She was sleeping soundly, but she turned at my touch and curled against me. I put my arms around her and kissed the part in her hair. She murmured my name and we kissed good night.
I tried to stop thinking, to let myself drift off. But there was too much inside my mind and it all fought for my attention: the men from Sumar; Colleen, dead, with her eyes open, three bullets in her chest.
And I thought about that night in Afghanistan when I was piloting a transport helicopter to Kandahar from base with fourteen Marines in the cargo bay. A ground-to-air missile fired from the back of a pickup hit the aircraft in the belly and took out the tail rotor section.
There was a horrific sound and the CH-46 began its downward spiral through hell. Even though I landed the Phrog on its struts, the missile had done its work.
No amount of time or therapy could erase the afterimages of the events of that night from my mind: the scramble out of the aircraft to the cargo bay, the chunka-chunka-chunka sound of .50-caliber guns going off, the stink of burning aviation fuel, the sight of the dead and dying men.
If Justine had been awake, she would have asked me what I was thinking—and I would have lied.
I had lied to Justine many times, and when I got away with it, I suffered. If she found out that I’d lied, we both suffered.
And that’s why psychologist Dr. Justine Smith couldn’t imagine a future with me.
Chapter 5
THEY WERE HAVING dinner at Spago, Wolfgang Puck’s signature five-star restaurant at Caesars Palace, Vegas. Their table was at the back of the room, giving them a fine view of the dazzling chandeliers and the collection of bright, contemporary works of art on the walls.
But Lester was looking only at Sandra.
Right now, he was feeling an edgy kind of high, thinking how close they were to the jackpot. Sandra was almost ready. She just needed a little extra support.
Lester said, softly, “Hey. Talk to me.”
“I’m thinking,” she said.
Sandra was an angelic-looking twenty-eight-year-old with blunt-cut dark hair to her shoulders and the long, fluid limbs of a dancer. She was dressed in a black Hervé Léger bandage dress with an understated, million-dollar diamond necklace at her throat.
Sandra was perfect; gorgeous, smart, and very cold. She was also the well-cared-for wife of an extremely wealthy man.
Lester Olsen was not that man.
Lester was in his midthirties, of average height and build. His hair was thick, with a mind of its own, and he had a pleasant face of the boy-next-door variety. His fingers were unforgettable. They were misshapen—crippled by disease or a birth defect or some trauma, his dinner partner didn’t know.
Lester never discussed his hands.
Tonight, he and Sandra were having a business dinner, but Olsen cared about her. He was her friend and her coach and sometimes she called him the Big O, which made him laugh out loud. He saw no problem mixing business and pleasure.
But the point of their relationship was business.
Lester was teaching Sandra how to kill.
Right now, Sandra seemed thoughtful. She idly twisted the massive pink Tiffany diamond and matching wedding band on her ring finger.
“Sandra? What’s on your mind?”
She said, “I’m not concerned about going forward. That’s not it. I’m worried about how I’m going to feel afterward.”
Lester sipped his wine, and then, after the waiter had cleared the table, he said, “Sandy, it’s easy for me to say ‘Don’t worry.’ But don’t.”
“Tell me why not.”
“I have some experience in these things.”
She smiled. “Not your first rodeo?”
“Not my second either.”
They both laughed.
He reached for her hand, squeezed her fingers.
“It’s different for everyone,” he said. “You may feel down for a little while, but that feeling won’t last. I’ll be there for you no matter what. We’re partners, right?”
“You bet we are,” she said.
“You can back out, you know.”
“I know.”
“Or—keep your eye on the big fat prize. A year from now, you’ll be happier than you’ve ever been, or ever imagined you could be.”
“Promise?”
She was lightening up, coming back around. Attagirl.
“Would you like coffee? Dessert?” he asked.
“No. You go ahead.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
Olsen smiled his approval, then signaled for the waiter.
“Sir?”
“The hot chocolate cake and coffee. For two.”
Sandra smiled at Lester.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thanks very much.”
Chapter 6
CAPTAIN LUKE WARREN sat in his Hyundai Sonata and watched Gozan Remari leave the Men’s Central Jail and walk through the gate to Bauchet Street at 10:15 p.m.
The diplomat from Sumar was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, a striped shirt, and no tie, because he had used it to bind a naked woman to a table against her will and the tie had been taken into evidence.
Remari’s phone rang.
Warren saw him take his phone from his jacket pocket and talk for a few minutes, looking around him the whole time. When he was done talking, he returned the phone to his pocket and picked up a newspaper from the sidewalk.
After that, he leaned back against the chain-link fence and began to read the front page under the not-so-bright light of the streetlamps.
About then, a late-model black Lincoln pulled up, a type of car not commonly seen around this neighborhood. Remari stooped to the window and spoke to the driver, and then the driver jumped out, went around to the back passenger side, and opened the door.
Warren had never seen a car with a liveried driver making a pickup at the jail. This was a first.
Remari folded the newspaper under his arm and got into the Lincoln, and the captain started his engine and watched as the Lincoln continued to idle at the curb.
The captain was trying to understand Remari. He wore good clothing, had excellent grooming, spoke with a trace of an English accent of the upper-class kind. He contrasted all that with the crude, criminal assaults on the Grove ladies and the six other brutal, sexual assaults he and his friend were suspected of committing.
Why pick up rich women and torture them? Why draw attention to himself with this pricey car?
Another ten minutes passed and Warren sat there watching. He slugged down the dregs of his cold coffee, and then the other donkey turd came through the chain-link gate.
Khezir Mazul had put bruises on Adrianna Grove’s thighs, had very likely raped her, and had definitely perpetrated an ear-to-ear slash across the front of her neck.
The word cutthroat suited this guy to a T.
Now Khezir Mazul looked around, saw the black car. A grin crossed his face. He got into the backseat next to his buddy, and as the door closed, the car shot away from the curb.
Captain Warren turned on his headlights; he let a couple of old cars get behind the Lincoln, then he got into line three cars back. It was sickening that these guys were protected by some international law that kept diplomats from persecution and prosecution while they were on a diplomatic mission. Maybe that covered them back east, but that had nothing to do with LA, and shouldn’t have anything to do with LA.
He was working on his own time, fairly certain that he would be able to explain this to his chief later. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have to tail these goons for long. From the wa
y the Sumaris used their diplomatic privileges, Warren was pretty sure they would commit another outrageous crime.
And maybe their next victim would not only survive but also have the guts to press charges.
“So where are you goons going?” Luke Warren said to the Lincoln’s taillights up ahead. “What’s the plan for tonight?”
Chapter 7
GOZAN AND KHEZIR had returned to the Beverly Hills Hotel after their long day as guests of the LA Pig D. They found their bungalow locked, their luggage in the baggage room in the main building, and a few bulked-up security guards loitering near the front desk.
Gozan paid the bill, noting the charges for damages, which made him smile. If they’d had more time, they could have really trashed the place.
The two men had already booked the Presidential Suite at the Beverly Hilton, and as they went outside to their rental car, Khezir peed into a potted palm. The bellhop screamed as Khezir laughed and jumped into the car.
It was funny. Khezir was really funny.
Gozan drove them to their new hotel, and after they showered and changed, they were ready to party.
At present, Khezir was half drunk, but Gozan was largely sober and he was behind the wheel of their rented Bentley GT convertible, an absolutely astounding car.
The light changed at the intersection of Merv Griffin and Wilshire, and Gozan stepped on the accelerator. The tires squealed, the car jumped forward, and the Sumaris headed toward the heart of Beverly Hills.
What Gozan liked enormously was the splendor and history of this town. He thought about all the silent-movie stars who’d lived here in the 1920s, when his father’s father was driving goats through the rocky hills of Sumar.
And he thought with affection about his nephew Khezir.
Khezir played “crude” perfectly, but he was extremely smart. He was demonstrating his theatricality now, shouting out the names of the famous places as they passed them, the bars and shops and roads, and he yelled out insults at the other drivers. “You drive like you are a thumb up my ass.”
Gozan laughed.
The streets were bright with beautiful people in their exotic cars. Gozan took a right turn onto Elevado, another right onto North Rodeo Drive, which was, at this point, a residential, tree-lined avenue with two lanes in each direction divided by a low, grassy median.
There were magnificent houses here, but too close together, like fancy ladies at the fence of a racetrack. The money, the opulence, the fair-haired people living on a fault line. These Americans always amused him.
He sped up, letting the car out at eighty, edging up to eighty-five, Khezir screaming his delight. There was a stoplight up ahead and a convertible was in the next lane over, a blue Ferrari with two honey-blond girls in the front seat. Gozan pulled up next to it.
Khezir called across the gap between the cars, “Hello, sweeties. You are so beautiful. Come with us to dinner. We are very rich. We have money to burn.”
The girls turned, looked with amusement at the passengers in the Bentley, possibly took in the decal Gozan had slapped on the windshield: Diplomat. Kingdom of Sumar.
The blond girls laughed together, and then the girl who was driving said, “Not interested. At all.”
The light changed, and the women in the blue sports car took a left turn toward West Hollywood. Khezir said to Gozan, “These sweeties are a good omen of things to come. However, I most liked that girl driver. I could see her under me.”
He broke into Sumarin and described to Gozan in explicit terms what he would do to her. These were not completely fantasies, as Khezir was practiced in the art of performing sex while delivering pain. It was what turned him on.
Gozan switched on the music and it drowned out Khezir’s words. There was a strategy, of course. And Khezir was ingenious, but he was young and could sometimes be a loose rocket.
Gozan had to make sure he didn’t blow up the plan.
Chapter 8
I AWOKE WITH a start, as if violently jerked out of a bad dream, the remains of a sharp sound in my head—but it was gone. A bright yellow light danced around me and licked at the darkness. Something was burning.
Was the CH-46 about to blow? Was I there?
Justine grabbed my arm.
“Jack. What’s happening?”
“Get dressed, Justine. We may have to leave.”
I turned on the light, grabbed the phone from the nightstand, called 911. I gave my name and address as I walked to the east-facing window of the bedroom.
I saw the pale light of the morning sun—and smoke curling through the bars of the gate. The fire was real, and it was burning outside between my front yard and the highway.
I said to the 911 operator, “There’s a fire, big one. I don’t know what’s on fire.”
“Fire department is on the way.”
I pulled on my jeans, grabbed my gun, jammed it into my waistband, stepped into a pair of moccasins.
“Jack!”
“I’ll be right back.”
I smelled smoke in the house, but the front door was cool. I opened it and walked outside into the stench of burning rubber and plastic that set off little explosions like land mines along the neural pathways of my brain.
I had no doubt that I was in Malibu standing in front of my house, and at the same time, I was back there, carrying Marine Corporal Danny Young over my shoulder and away from the burning aircraft.
Danny was a spectacular young man, funny and brave and filled with hope. I had talked to Danny as I carried him, told him that he was going to make it.
I thought I was telling him the truth.
But the truth was that we both died that night. I was the lucky one. Del Rio brought me back.
Now Justine shouted to me from the doorway.
“Jack! Be careful.”
“I will,” I said. “Just, please, go inside.”
I walked through the gate toward the fire that was being fanned by the sea breeze, gaining strength and momentum, starting to roam and consume new ground. It was alive, leaping up the trunks of palm trees, catching the husks and fronds as it burned.
I was so transfixed by the blaze, I stopped and stared. The concussive wave of the explosion blew me off my feet and dropped me down hard.
I was back there again.
Chapter 9
I WAS ON my belly, my cheek flat on the grass.
Justine was patting my face, calling my name. I looked past her to the fireball, what was left of my Lamborghini. It crackled with flames and the roiling smoke obscured everything downwind from the fire.
Justine hugged me. “Oh God, Jack. Get up, get up now.”
I groaned, said, “Ah, shit. My damned car.”
Justine gripped my arm. She helped me up and now she was crying. “Your eyebrows are gone. Eyelashes too.”
“They’ll grow back.”
“I don’t care about your eyebrows, Jack. Your car exploded. You could have been killed.”
She was panting as she looked at me, eyes wide with terror. I reached out, enfolded her in my arms. “I’m okay, sweetheart.”
“Come on,” she said. “Come with me.”
We walked back toward the house, Justine saying, “You don’t take care of yourself, Jack. Do you want to die? Do you?”
I was wondering what the hell had just happened. Cars don’t normally spontaneously combust. So what had caused the fire? Had it been deliberately set?
Sirens screamed in the distance, got louder as they closed in on my stretch of highway. Three fire rigs appeared out of the gloom, pulled up on the roadside. Firefighters bailed out of the trucks and trained lines on the burning car.
Steam sizzled, and as the fire died, police cruisers arrived from north and south. Car doors slammed. Police radios chattered. Cops set out markers and closed the highway down.
An unmarked car pulled alongside Justine and me as we walked toward my front gate. Then the car surged ahead, crossed, and braked in front of us, bringing us to a stop.
r /> Two cops got out of the gray Ford sedan.
They were detectives, Mitchell Tandy and Al Ziegler, and I welcomed them as warmly as I would the stomach flu.
Tandy and Ziegler were dogged career detectives who had taken a special dislike to me.
Tandy was freshly spray-tanned, his teeth bleached to a blinding white. He had put on ten pounds since last year when he’d tagged me for Colleen’s murder. Even though I hadn’t killed her, Tandy still believed in his black heart of hearts that I had.
“Morning, Jack. What do you know about this?”
“I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”
“Sure. I’m glad you’re okay. So, now, Jack. What do you know about this?”
I said, “I parked my car outside my gate last night so that Justine could get out in the morning without dinging her car. It was a dumb decision, Mitch, but that’s all I know.”
“You have any explosives in the car?”
“No, I did not.”
“You were insured?”
“Yes. But come on. I set fire to my car for the insurance money?”
Tandy didn’t smile, just said, “Anyone got it in for you, Jack?”
“Hell no.” It was one of those lies that was so transparent, it was a joke.
Ziegler had been observing the firefighters. Now he came over to us, his hands jammed in his Windbreaker pockets. He was tall with broad shoulders, muscular. Had sleepy eyes that didn’t miss anything. Ziegler and I also had a little history that he would prefer to forget.
“Well, Jack, the arson investigator is on the way. Yours is the sixth car that’s been torched around here in the last two months. And no, we have no idea if the fires were set by one person or more, if they’re protests against the richy-rich, or even if they’re linked.”
“In other words, you’ve got nothing,” I said.
“We’re going to impound what’s left of your vehicle and give the arson investigator a crack at it,” Ziegler said. “But this much I know: The other car fires weren’t accidental. Maybe the first five were misdirection. Maybe you were the real target all along.”