White Lies Page 18

  "That name I do remember." He flipped back a few pages. "Bodyguard for Blaine."

  She held up the note. "Lisa Davis called and said Tognarelli might be the first victim. Is he dead?"

  "I've got him down as a friend of White. Blaine's agent said he crashed his motorcycle." Bledsoe frowned as he accessed accident reports on his computer. "Here it is. Motorcycle versus car...which fled the scene. He was medivaced with massive head trauma." He pointed to the screen. "Three weeks prior to Mitchells' shooting. Seems a bit of a stretch for another buddy of Blaine's to end up in the hospital as a coincidence."

  "So if he was the first victim, what does that add?" Her brows migrated into a scowl. "Another bodyguard? Maybe we should go back and ask the other one about it."

  "Steroids and green tea?"

  Smythe chuckled. "I don't know about the steroids, but I liked the tea."

  A messenger with a full satchel wound his way through the maze of desks over to the detectives. He handed Smythe an envelope. She ripped it open and read through the pages inside. Bledsoe went back to working on a report. Smythe finished her perusal and put the papers back in order.

  "Huh."

  "What'cha got?" Bledsoe asked, surfacing from his reading.

  "I finally heard back from my friend in foster care."

  "For which case?"

  "Blaine again. I was checking on his claim that the Whites grew up on the street." She tapped the stack of papers with her index finger. "According to this, Paul, Scott and Valerie aren't blood kin. They each bounced around for years until they all ended up at the home of Rosa Mados. Where they stayed for 3 years. The longest stint for any of them."

  "Was she Hungarian?"

  "Bingo." Smythe skimmed another page. "Her file said she was especially good with the hard cases."

  "If they stayed, she must have been."

  "When Scott hit 18 and was dumped out of the system, Paul and Valerie supposedly ran away."

  "Got a current address on Mados?"

  Smythe gave him a grim smile. "It gets better."

  "More good news?"

  "She was killed by a hit and run, couple blocks from her house the week after the kids took off."

  "So White took them with him and got rid of the one person who would push for them to be found," Bledsoe said.

  "Since he's the only one still alive, I'll concede he's the schemer." She turned a page. "When Scott was 18, Paul was 16 and Valerie only 15."

  "How old was she when Blaine married her?"

  "Just 21, I think."

  "So she was on the streets with them for five, six years," Bledsoe said, thinking out loud.

  "Probably."

  "From what we've heard of White's handiwork, that can't have been very pleasant."

  Smythe frowned. "He probably had her tricking. What do you think Blaine would say about that?"

  Her partner shook his head. "Blaine's weird enough that it might not matter to him."

  Smythe nodded. She added the papers to a file. "And for her, a dream come true—big money, big house, big parties."

  "Til the overdose," Bledsoe added. "Oh God, do you think—"

  "White took them out, too?" she finished his thought. "Takes a cold heart to kill family. I just wish we knew why."

  "Bigger piece of the pie?"

  The corners of her mouth turned down. "And it would be a junkie's logic to think he'd inherit and not end up in jail."

  * * *

  A dozen phone calls, fifty-three emails and four coffees later, she finally got a free minute to deal with the illegible phone message. She tracked down her colleague and had him translate his scribble.

  "Zsakmany Company?" Bledsoe scowled at the paper Smythe handed him. "How did Blaine get this info?"

  "Accountant. I put in a request for any info on companies with that name." She sat down at her desk. "Were'd you put Simonyi's cell number?"

  "Think that's another Hungarian word?"

  "Can't hurt to give it a try." Smythe flipped through a stack of business cards in her desk drawer.

  Bledsoe handed her a slip of paper with the number. Simonyi answered on the first ring. She rolled her eyes, thanked the lab tech and hung up.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Zsakmany means 'booty,' like in pirate."

  Chapter 44

  Asher jogged down the street till he could flag a cab. Paparazzi scattered to their cars to give chase. He lost a couple in traffic. As the cab approached the hotel, he could see there were more camped out in front. As of today, his life was the flavor of the month. Asher dashed into the lobby and slid to a stop on the shiny tiles in front of the main desk.

  "Bit of a problem," he said, pointing over his shoulder at the mob of reporters in pursuit.

  A supervisor in a crisp uniform blouse and tight skirt beckoned him behind the desk. "Come with me."

  She led him into an office and out another door into a long, narrow hallway. It was only adequately lit and the paint job wasn't fresh, which meant, to Asher, it was employees only access.

  He followed her through a special labyrinth of generically similar hallways that only large buildings like hospitals and convention centers specialize in. It didn't surprise him when she opened a door into the VIP gym. From here his card key would get him to his room. He gave her his best smile, an autograph and a tip.

  Once in his room, he showered to get the stink of ashes out of his nose. Twice he caught himself grinning, remembering the look on the faces of the paparazzi as he made good on an escape. If he could only channel that kind of bold action toward the other problems in his life. He had played a lot of take-charge people: cops, spies, pirates, warriors, even a demon-killing monk. His mouth stretched in a grin, as if his body knew a secret his brain hadn't figured out, yet. The undercover cop told him to he had to catch the murderer. The demon-killing monk insisted evil must be stopped.

  As he dried off, he thought things through as a couple of different characters and realized he might have more resources than he'd thought. But listening to the voices in his head made him a little nervous. That made him think of Rex, who really did have voices in his head. And suddenly a plan materialized.

  He examined his closet with his various destinations in mind. The pink shirt the bellman had gotten for him hung to one side, segregated from the more conservatively colored clothes. It was not a shirt he would ever buy, not his taste, not his personality. After a moment's thought, he put it on. What he was about to do was very unlike him. He might as well dress the part.

  Asher rode the elevator down to the second floor and took the stairs from there. He peeked into the lobby, only to find the paparazzi lying in wait. Casually, he sauntered over to the restaurant, hoping the pink shirt, sunglasses and a slouch would be camouflage enough.

  "Where's the back door?" he asked the hostess.

  She glanced at the sudden stirring of the mob in the lobby and beckoned to a busboy. "Take him to the loading dock."

  The busboy led Asher through the kitchen and out a long hallway to the back of the hotel. A produce truck was in the loading dock and boxes of vegetables were stacked up everywhere. Jumping down off the loading dock, he chuckled in amazement at the privilege of celebrity. As soon as he was recognized, he received an unreasonable level of trust. He gave the kid a wink and a twenty as he slipped away.

  He flagged another cab and gave the driver the address of the Metropolitan State Hospital in Norwalk.

  * * *

  It had been over two years since Asher had been back, but he didn't expect there to be any obvious changes. Progress in the mental health of the patients wasn't evident in the shiny linoleum or freshly painted walls. It was a quiet transformation, sometimes only evident in clearer eyes or less manic smiles.

  Asher requested, and was permitted a visit with Rex in the dayroom. His luck was holding, Rex was doing well enough to have dayroom privileges. The young African-American man was schizophrenic. He'd lived on the streets most of his life. In a meth-ind
uced frenzy, he'd attacked six people, claiming they'd been possessed by demons. He fought the police nearly killing one officer and head butting everything and anything, which had left him with some brain damage. In that strange mix of restricted socialization that results from forced hospitalization, he had befriended Asher. He was mostly harmless when his meds were carefully managed. Asher was hoping that Rex might give him a lead. He sat down at the table where Rex was flipping thru a comic book.

  "Ash-man, you back again?"

  "Just visiting today, Rex."

  "Huh. Weird. Who you visitin'?"

  "You, Rex." Asher had learned that using his name helped Rex focus.

  "Huh. Why you visitin' me?"

  "Got a favor to ask."

  Rex got a sly smile. "Ash-man need a favor. What does Rex get?"

  Asher pulled a handful of Slim Jims from his pocket and slid them across the table. He hoped Rex was still obsessed with them.

  "This is the real thing," Rex said in a hushed voice. He spread them out on the table and counted them. "Five. Five is the perfect number, you know. That's why you have five fingers."

  Rex's pleasure warmed Asher in a way he hadn't expected. There had been very little kindness in Rex's young life. There would be even less in his institutionalized future.

  "The Ash-man provides." Rex patted his plastic wrapped treasures.

  Asher put a photo of Scott on the table. "Do you know him, Rex?"

  "Clear out. Clear-out-man. Always running me off."

  "Where?"

  "All over. Clear-out-man' s all over. He's got stuff, and he gets stuff. All kinda stuff. But not for me. Not for Rex."

  "Is there some place that he goes a lot?"

  "Ya gotta have the money first, y'know. I don't always have the money."

  Asher dug into his characters for someone with more patience than the undercover cop. That's when he realized that most of the roles he'd played were bold and reckless with an overdose of testosterone. There wasn't a doctor, teacher, or any kind of mentor to be had. It was a curious revelation, and he wasn't sure what to do with it. He would have to find the patience in himself.

  "OK. Rex, see this guy?" Asher tapped the photo. "Where does he sleep?"

  "Sleep? You mean like, put your head down sleep? I sleep here."

  Asher nodded. "Yes, you sleep here, but where does he sleep?"

  "Oh. Huh. He like to sleep at siren, sireen, Sarena's place."

  "Do you know the address?"

  Rex laughed "Everybody know Sarena's place."

  Asher knew that Rex had grown up in Venice Beach. It was as good a place to start as any. "Is it by the beach?"

  "Nah. Long walk to the beach."

  Asher tried to think of landmarks in Venice, but it wasn't a place he'd hung around. "Is it near a store?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, by Flavio's. You get these in Flavio's?" Rex poked the Slim Jims into a pentagon.

  Asher tried to narrow it down a little, but accepted that he was at an impasse. Rex's spatial recognition had never been normal. He took too long to ask the next question, and Rex lost their connection. Humming to himself, Rex gathered his loot and wandered off. Asher sat at the table staring at Scott's picture, mulling over the next step. He wasn't even sure that Sarena's was in Venice Beach.

  "Asher?"

  He looked up to find one of his favorite nurses watching him. "Hey, Julie." He stood to greet her.

  "You look good. How are you doing?"

  "I'm good." He met her careful scrutiny with a proud smile. "Two years and counting."

  "Congratulations!" Her heartfelt sentiment made him blush. "Were you talking to Rex? Did you forgive him?"

  Asher shifted gears backwards trying to puzzle out her meaning.

  "Oh, my thumb?" He stared at the scar that marked the turning point his life. "Water under the bridge. Listen, I gave him five Slim Jims, in case," he gestured to the busy dayroom, "stuff happens."

  Julie laughed. "Five's the perfect number."

  Asher held up his hand showing her five fingers and turned it into a wave. Then he headed out of the madhouse, to track down a truly mad man.

  Chapter 45

  The 45-minute cab ride to Venice Beach wasn't long enough, despite the traffic. Asher went through one scenario after another, discarding them as quickly as he formed them. Too many things were hanging by a thread. Rex had been off the streets for years. There wasn't any reason to believe that his information was still good or even based in reality. Although wandering around on Scott's turf was sure to draw some attention. And that led him to the hardest question of all: what was he going to do when he found Scott?

  The driver didn't know where Flavio's or Sarena's was. He kept glancing at Asher in the mirror.

  "You got any last names?"

  Asher shook his head. "Flavio's is a store."

  The drive's eyes slid away from the mirror. "Uh huh."

  Asher had him go down random streets while he searched the neighborhoods for a bordello and a bodega. Venice Beach was eclectic in the extreme. Any street could be a dividing point. One block was safe, and the next was gang territory. This block was gentrified. The next was a micro-ghetto of any one of a handful of ethnicities. Run-down duplexes and boarded-up shops on this street. Around the corner, a security wall surrounded a macmansion that squatted between an old boarding house and a beautifully kept Arts and Crafts cottage.

  "Look, buddy, you don't want to be down here," the driver said when he stopped at a light on Lincoln Boulevard. "Whatever you're looking for, I can help you find it someplace else." He took the next right and headed into a worn out residential area.

  "It's not a what. It's a who."

  "Then unless it's your daughter, you'd better just walk away."

  Asher stared out the window. All the shop signs were in Spanish. "This is fine. Let me out here."

  The driver gave him a stern look. "I ain't waitin'."

  Asher fished out the cab fare and a healthy tip. He'd stopped at an ATM by the hospital and tucked away a goodly sum in various pockets as he had no idea how the evening would proceed. He'd deal with Fred's wrath later.

  The light changed, and the cab took off. Asher felt exposed being on the sidewalk. Every head that turned, screamed that he didn't belong. The air smelled of strange spices, Latino, Asian, maybe some Creole. Silent people gathered at a bus stop cast curious glances his way. A car, low-slung with tinted windows, went by slowly. All the hair on the back of his neck stood up as his imagination filled in the weapons behind that dark glass. Forcing himself to move, he sifted through his pseudo-lives: cop, spy, FBI, pirate. Which persona would get him through this alive? He settled for the panache of the pirate and the street smarts of the spy.

  He knew better than to approach the women with children or the toughs on the corner. After a sweaty ten minutes of forced meandering, he found a curious kid on a bike and dredged up some high school Spanish.

  "Por favor, yo miro...." Was that right? And then he could clearly hear in his head, Mrs. Martin leading a chorus of grade school children in Donde está la escuela. Fighting down a grin he asked, "Donde está Flavio's?"

  The kid rattled off a response that was definitely beyond what Mrs. Martin had covered. Luckily, charades are recognized internationally. He found the store two blocks away. He didn't think he was in Venice Beach any more. The shops had night gates, and the houses had bars on the doors and windows. Graffiti covered every vertical surface including a large swath of curbing. The only eyes that met his held a flat, hostile stare. Fully immersed in his cobbled persona, he bustled into Flavio's, grabbed a blue can out of the cooler and went to the register.

  "Is Serena's this block or two more?"he asked, tossing a twenty on the counter.

  The cashier, a scrawny Latino who looked exhausted, shook his head. "Bad idea, anglo," he grumbled as he counted out the change.

  "Gotta meet a guy and do a thang," Asher said with a sudden southern accent. He added another few bills and slid the change ba
ck toward the cashier.

  The man frowned at him a moment, then his eyes widened. "No way!"

  Asher winked. "Research. One block or two?"

  The man blinked at him for a second. Asher wondered if he'd overplayed his hand.

  "Two. 1385 Sheila Way," he said pocketing the money.

  Asher popped open the can and took a gulp. Apricot nectar globbed into his mouth nearly choking him. He dropped the can into the trash just outside the door, then took out his fancy new phone, and texted a short message to Detective Bledsoe.

  Chapter 46

  The back of his neck prickled. Asher was careful to look up with a neutral expression. Three men leaned against a black SUV with the lethal insouciance of predators. Shaved heads, designer sunglasses and tattoos were all the introduction Asher needed. He'd trespassed into gang territory, and he was in big trouble.

  The man in the middle folded thickly muscled arms across a broad chest. The men on either side of him stepped onto the sidewalk, in a flanking move. The one on the left had a scar that crossed his mouth, twisting it. The one on the right had tattoos on his scalp. Asher's brain went into overdrive. There was more than arrogance and anger in these men. There was a level of malevolence that made his hackles rise, his muscles quiver and his skin tingle.

  Freeze? Run? Fight?

  He had no doubt they were armed, so fighting was out of the question. Not to mention the odds, three against one was definitely out of his league. Running wouldn't get him far, even if he knew the neighborhood. That only left him with the option of talking his way out. Bluster or bluff? Neither felt right. His intuition was telling him that any challenge would be dealt with brutally. On the other hand, groveling could pique any sadistic tendencies. Then a character came to mind. It wasn't one he'd played, but it was memorable.

  "You don't belong here." The beefy man spoke in a low growl.

  Asher slouched, pushed his hands into his pockets and pouted. "Oh, man, don't I know it! But, Scott, ya know, he said I hadda come down here..." He kept his eyes down and waved a hand in what he hoped was the direction of Sarena's. "I just want what he owes me, man." He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.