Текст книги "Flat Spin"

Автор книги: David Freed

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

TWENTY-FIVE

Everyone complains about hospital accommodations, like hospitals are supposed to be the Four Seasons or something. My stay at Cedars-Sinai couldn’t have been more luxurious. Dinner the first night was a Caesar salad with pan-seared ahi, whole grain muffins, and chocolate pudding with real whipped cream. I had a private room with a thirty-two-inch flat-screen TV and a view of the Hollywood Hills, a fine bed that adjusted about a hundred different ways, and sponge baths administered by certified nursing assistants who, if I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough, resembled the kind of scantily clad Nubian princesses one would expect to perform such services. I would’ve stayed a month had they let me – especially considering Gil Carlisle was footing the bill.

“Almost makes getting shot worthwhile,” I said to my menopausal battle-axe of a nurse as she changed the dressing on my wound.

“Almost,” she said, ripping a strip of surgical tape off my skin.

The bullet had shattered my left collarbone and lodged in my shoulder. A fraction of an inch lower, the surgeon had told me almost breathlessly, and it would’ve severed my subclavian artery. I probably would have bled out in the ambulance. As it was, I could expect a full recovery after a few weeks’ rest. The same could not be said for Lamont Royale. Two .357 slugs to the forehead have a tendency to do that to a man.

“By the way,” Czarnek said, standing at the foot of my bed and watching the nurse work, “Royale wasn’t his real name. His real name was London Bridges.”

“Sure it was,” I said. “And I’m the Empire State Building.”

“I’m serious. London Bridges. I mean, who names their kid London Bridges?”

“My husband has a first cousin named April Showers,” Nurse Battle-Axe said.

“I knew a guy in high school named Burt Nurney,” I said.

Nobody laughed. Tough crowd. Czarnek cleared his throat and waited while the nurse finished patching me up.

“I know when I’m not wanted,” she said. “Press the button if you need anything. I probably won’t answer.”

“Big surprise there,” I said.

She gave me a wink and left.

As Czarnek explained it, London Bridges, aka Lamont Royale, was a young man with a past. He’d grown up in Miami, the youngest son of an African-American real estate developer and his Swedish-born wife, and dropped out of the University of Miami his sophomore year to attend culinary school, hitting the links during his off-hours to become a scratch golfer. But apparently he found criminal enterprises more entertaining. With multiple prison stints on priors ranging from burglary to assault, he eventually skipped out on parole and traded the Sunshine State for Las Vegas, there to reinvent himself, as so many others do. London Bridges became Lamont Royale, golf pro. While giving a private lesson one day, he taught my former father-in-law how to nail a fifty-yard bunker shot, then shared his secret recipe for beef bourguignon (applewood smoked bacon, heavy on the Côtes du Rhône). Within a week, Royale had quit his country club gig and moved into the penthouse to work for Carlisle full-time.

Somewhere along the way, Royale had also been recruited by Russian intelligence operative and oil broker Pavel Tarasov.

“Tarasov found out about his criminal record. He knew Royale was on the lam, so he blackmailed him,” Czarnek said. “Anytime Tarasov wanted him to pull some little caper for him, all he had to do was threaten to rat him out and Royale danced like a puppet.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Your new best friend, Richard Smith. Can’t shut the guy up. A regular Chatty Cathy. He’s down on the coronary ward. He feels damn lucky he and his daughter survived the whole thing.”

It was Royale, Czarnek said, who’d introduced Tarasov to my former father-in-law, Gil Carlisle. There was a fortune to be made in the Kashagan oil field. All Tarasov needed was a willing investor with deep pockets. As soon as Carlisle’s check cleared the bank, Tarasov intended to have him die “accidentally,” after which he would take over the entire operation.

“Tarasov gets wind that Echevarria’s doing some investigative work for Carlisle. He worries that Echevarria’ll find out shit that’ll squirrel the deal in Kazakhstan, so he decides to have Echevarria whacked. He sends Royale to Arizona with orders to convince a guy he knows out there who’s on the Russian payroll to do the killing.”

“Robbie Emerson.”

Czarnek nodded. “Royale threatens to turn Emerson in to the FBI unless he agrees to be the triggerman, but Emerson can’t bring himself to take the assignment. Commits suicide instead. So Tarasov orders Royale to do the killing.”

“What about Ortiz, the retired math teacher?”

“I have to say, you pegged that one right, Logan. Royale told Smith he messed up on the address. Got the two streets confused. Went to the right house number but the wrong house. He shoots Ortiz thinking it’s Echevarria, realizes later that he’s screwed the pooch, goes to the right address a few days later, and this time does the job right.”

“You told me the two murders weren’t linked. Two guns, different calibers.”

“I stand corrected. We found both guns in Smith’s garage, where Royale had stashed ’em: The .45 he used on Ortiz and the Glock .40-caliber he shot Echevarria with – which, by the way, he also shot you with. We also found the Domino’s shirt he was wearing the night he killed Echevarria. He hid that in the garage, too, including his receipt from the thrift store where he bought it. Not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

The LAPD, he noted, had gone back to Echevarria’s neighbors and run a photo lineup past them. Everyone picked Royale out of the six-pack.

“We showed the same six-pack to witnesses in the Ortiz homicide,” Czarnek said. “They picked out Royale as well. The thing I couldn’t figure out, though, was how Echevarria’s neighbors could all say the shooter was dark-complected, when witnesses in the Ortiz homicide all said he was white.”

“Helps if your killer’s biracial,” I said.

“Two for the price of one,” Czarnek said.

Royale denied any involvement in the murder of Gennady Bondarenko, according to Czarnek, even though the bullet recovered from Bondareko’s crispy critter remains matched the gun Royale had used on Echevarria and me. The story he told Smith before he died was that Tarasov had attempted to get Bondarenko to invest in the oil deal, and that he intended to have Gil Carlisle “permanently removed” as soon as the deal was finalized, thereby upping both Tarasov’s and Bondarenko’s potential shares. Bondarenko declined the offer.

“He told Tarasov he was done with that life,” Czarnek said, “so Tarasov threatened to blackmail him. Bondarenko said if he tried anything like that, he’d drop a dime on Tarasov’s plan to kill Carlisle. So Tarasov shot him. He cuts off Bondarenko’s hands with the power saw he has Royale buy for him out in Arizona, steals a Winnebago, sets it on fire with Bondarenko’s body inside, and tells Royale to stash the murder weapon. Royale hides it in Smith’s garage.”

“Like you said. Not the smartest tool in the shed.”

The detective peeled the plastic off a fresh wad of nicotine gum.

“Where’s Tarasov now?” I asked.

“On the wind. Possibly back in Russia. Arrest warrants were issued last night.”

“What about for me?”

“What’d you mean, what about you?”

“I mean, prosecutors tend to frown on civilians who go around shooting other civilians with non-permitted concealed weapons, even in self-defense.”

Even if by some miracle I got probation, I was certain that the FAA would pull my pilot’s license permanently given all the trouble I was already in having violated the Vice President’s airspace.

Czarnek assured me I had nothing to worry about.

“We take this to the DA, it gets leaked, pretty soon we got Washington stepping on our necks, calling every ten minutes. That’s all this city needs right now. Besides, you did us a favor, Logan. You cleared three homicides and saved the taxpayers the expense of a murder trial. And I don’t think you need to worry too much about your pilot’s license. Some buddy of yours called me. Salty son of a bitch. Said he’d already talked to the FAA. Told ‘em you were working some secret squirrel case. They’re dropping their investigation in the name of national security.”

“His name, by any chance, wouldn’t be Buzz, would it?”

“How’d you know that?”

I smiled.

Czarnek patted my ankle and told me to get some rest. “You did OK, Logan. I apologize for every shitty thing I ever said about you.”

He walked out. I closed my eyes for what I thought was a few seconds. When I opened them again, three hours had gone by.

Savannah was sitting in the chair beside my bed.

“Go back to sleep.”

“I’m awake.”

She studied my face.

“What?”

“I still don’t know what exactly it was you did when we were together, your real job. But I do know what you did for Arlo, and my father. You saved his life, Logan.”

She got up, leaned over and kissed me softly. Her lips, as the old expression goes, left something to be desired – the rest of her.

My gut roiled with warring emotions. I felt fulfilled and empty, like a million bucks and penniless. I remembered a literature class I took my senior year at the academy. We studied e.e. cummings: Kisses are a better fate than wisdom. I had no idea what e.e. was talking about back then, but I did at that moment. I turned and gazed out the window.

The sky was azure. Savannah was with me. More than anything, I realized, I was happy.

* * *

“You’re ready.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

My one and only student, Eugen Dragomir, was grinning the way I would’ve grinned had Publisher’s Clearing House ever delivered on that million bucks like they’d said they were going to in their letter.

“Four Charlie Lima, cleared for the option,” the tower controller said through our headsets.

“Let’s make this landing a full-stop,” I said to Eugen.

He keyed the radio. “Rancho Bonita Tower, Four Charlie Lima, this one’s a full-stop.”

“Skyhawk Four Charlie Lima, Runway One-Seven left, cleared to land. Wind one-five-zero at six.”

“Cleared to land, One-Seven left. Four Charlie Lima.”

Eugen painted it on. Easily his best landing of the day. After clearing the runway, we taxied over to Larry’s hangar. I told him to keep the engine running.

“Three touch-and-go’s,” I said, taking off my headset and unplugging it from the instrument panel. “Just remember everything we’ve practiced and have fun up there – and don’t forget, do a run-up before you take off, OK?”

“OK!”

Eugen gave me a ridiculously enthusiastic two thumbs-up like he was John Glenn about to blast off into orbit or something. I exited the Ruptured Duck and made sure the copilot’s door was latched, stooping to avoid the wing and turning my head to avoid the prop wash as he taxied back toward the active runway with too much throttle.

“Slow down,” I said under my breath but it was a little too late for that.

Larry walked over, wiping the grime from his hands with a rag.

“Kid’s first solo?”

I nodded.

Larry rubbed his knee. “Humidity’s killing me. Your shoulder must feel like shit.”

Worse than shit, but I kept it to myself. If the FAA found out, they’d probably ground me. Six weeks had passed since the shooting. The money I’d received from Savannah’s father was more than half gone. I needed to continue earning a living.

“The shoulder’s feeling great,” I said.

We watched Eugen in the run-up area. The kid cycled the Duck’s control surfaces to make sure they were all working. Then he advanced the throttle to 1700 rpms, checking that the engine, gauges and instruments all functioned properly. He retarded the throttle and advanced the airplane to the hold-short line for One – Seven left. Though I couldn’t hear him, I knew he’d changed frequencies and contacted the control tower to say he was ready to go.

I held my breath as the airplane rolled down the runway, past us. I always held my breath whenever I soloed a student. But I needn’t have worried about Eugen Dragomir. He lifted off like he’d been flying forever. His pattern work was precise, his touch-and-go’s solid. After he landed, I dumped water on him from a bucket that Larry let me borrow. Dumping water on a pilot after their first solo is one of aviation’s most cherished rituals. Don’t ask me why. An alternative ritual is cutting off the new pilot’s shirttail (another “don’t ask me why”). But, considering that Eugen Dragomir wore only T-shirts with surfboard logos on them, the shirttail option was a no-go. So I doused him but good. He declared it the greatest moment of his life, with the exception of when he lost his virginity.

“Flying all by yourself, just you, up there in a freaking airplane, it’s like sex, but without the sex,” Eugen said. “You know what I mean?”

“Sadly, all too well.”

He said his father was wiring more money so he could continue taking flying lessons. Given that Eugen Dragomir was my only source of income – aside from my government pension check – I said I thought that was an excellent plan.

* * *

Kiddiot and I were sharing a studio apartment in lower downtown, close enough to the train tracks that I could look out my bathroom window and observe what the Amtrak passengers were having for breakfast. Neither of us was happy with our new digs. The passing trains kept us up all night and forced me to keep Kiddiot inside all day for fear he might get run over. For this, I was rewarded with mournful yowling that went on sometimes for hours. He was a cat unused to an existence of restriction. He missed hanging out in Mrs. Schmulowitz’s oak tree. I missed her cooking.

A contractor was finalizing plans for rebuilding her firebombed garage. It would be better than ever, “a regular Taj Mahal,” as Mrs. Schmulowitz described it, with a real kitchen and a Jacuzzi tub for me, and some sort of multi-level, super-duper cat jungle gym for Kiddiot. She wanted us to move back in as soon as construction was finished. Given Kiddiot’s dissatisfaction with our current living arrangements, resettlement could not come soon enough.

She insisted I impart my blessings on the blueprints. I did so three days after soloing Eugen Dragomir, and was driving back to my railroad-convenient apartment when I glanced up in the mirror and there was a white Honda. Two door. No front license plate, tinted windows, rear spoiler. It was five lengths behind me.

There are a million white Hondas in America, Czarnek had said. Make that a million and one.

I slowed down to see if this one was following me. The driver backed off. I turned right onto Hendricks Boulevard and headed east. The Honda did as well. I accelerated, changed lanes. So did the Honda, still five car lengths back. He was definitely tailing me.

I reached instinctively for my revolver. Bad habits are hard to break. Then I remembered: the LAPD was still holding the gun as evidence. It would be returned, Czarnek assured me, after such time as the DA’s office concluded officially that no charges were to be filed against me in the death of Lamont Royale.

A lot of good that did me now.

I turned onto the freeway, southbound, doing sixty-five. The Honda did likewise. I didn’t care at that moment that I’d already received a traffic ticket for driving without a hands-free device. I dug out my phone and made a call.

“Rancho Bonita Police Department. How may I direct your call?”

“Detective Ostrow, please.”

“One moment.”

The Honda was now four lengths behind my truck.

“Detective Ostrow. How may I help you?”

“Detective, Cordell Logan. We spoke a few weeks back. You were investigating the firebombing of my garage apartment.”

“Still am. How can I help you, Mr. Logan?”

“I believe the perpetrator may be following me as we speak.”

“Seriously?”

I gave Ostrow my location and a detailed description of the Honda. He put me on hold. My pursuer was now five feet behind me. The driver wanted me to run. I slowed down even more instead. Sixty-five, fifty-five, forty-five, thirty-five. At twenty-five, he laid on his horn and began tapping my bumper like some New York cabbie gone berserk. Someone, I thought, needs to work on their anger management skills.

No more than a minute elapsed before a California Highway Patrol cruiser streaked into view behind me with his emergency lights on. A second CHP unit joined him, followed by three black and whites from the Rancho Bonita PD. I slowed to less than twenty mph as the cops formed a flying wedge of sorts across all three lanes of the freeway. With me leading the way and the police on his rear, the guy was boxed in.

“You, in the white Honda,” an electronically amplified voice boomed from one of the highway patrol cars, “pull over now!”

The driver steered to the right shoulder and stopped. I did, too, careful to stay in front of him so he couldn’t bolt. With pistols and assault rifles drawn, the cops took cover behind their open doors, ignoring traffic that was now stopping on both sides of the freeway.

“Driver, turn off your engine and throw your keys onto the road surface!”

A set of keys flew out from the driver’s window of the Honda.

“Now show me your hands!”

Two empty hands thrust out the window. Male hands. A white, long-sleeved dress shirt, crisply laundered, with gold cuff links.

“Driver, open the door from the outside and slowly step out of the vehicle!”

The driver exited as ordered.

Khakis, Ray-Bans, and a yellow ball cap with the image of a bull on it – the Lamborghini logo. I didn’t recognize him until he opened his big, self-important mouth.

“I’m a lawyer! I know my rights! And that son of a bitch,” he said, pointing angrily toward me, “has been trying to fuck my fiancée for months!”

His fiancée. Charise MacInerny. My former student. From an innocent kiss goodbye at the airport the day she’d decided to quit flying lessons, her lawyer boyfriend, Louis, had somehow gotten it into his insanely jealous head that I’d been jonesing for his lady. He’d chased me repeatedly in his tricked-out Honda – among the lesser members of his vast automobile fleet – torched Mrs. Schmulowitz’s garage, and forced my cat to live in substandard housing down by the tracks. Felons in Texas get the needle for less.

The cops ordered him out felony-style, face-down on the pavement, and handcuffed him with his wrists pulled behind his back. He screamed police brutality. They were fucking with the wrong man, he warned them; he’d see all their asses in court.

I walked over.

“There’s never been anything between Charise and me,” I said as two CHP officers yanked him to his feet.

“You’re a liar!” Louis seethed. “You took her to Paris!”

“I what?”

“You wrote it in that pilot book you gave her—‘We’ll always have Paris!’”

I started laughing.

“What, you think this is funny? Wait’ll I get outta jail. I’m suing your ass, too, you miserable piece of shit!”

“Louie,” I said in my best Bogie imitation which, truth be told, pretty much sucks, “this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I turned without answering and strode back to my truck.

The police dragged him kicking and screaming to a patrol car. They hog-tied his ankles when he continued to resist, and tossed him in like a bale of cotton. One of the cops told me I could give my statement at police headquarters at my convenience and said I was free to go.

I debated going home. I drove to the airport instead.

The Duck was waiting for me on the tarmac like a reliable old friend. We flew until day turned to dusk and dusk to dark.

The air was glass.