“I know this is going somewhere, Sci, or you wouldn’t have called me at five thirty in the morning.”
“Hang in, okay, Jack? I haven’t slept at all.”
“I’m with you. I’m here.”
“Okay. Imagine a player whose screen name is Scylla bragging about playing a real live combat game called Freek Night. He describes it as ‘warriors versus sluts.’ ”
“In real life.”
“Bravo, Jack. And the night Marguerite Esperanza was killed, Scylla—who’s actual name is Jason—took a swan dive off his terrace. I found a story in the Times online. A man named Jason Pilser suicided that night.”
“To review,” I said, “a programmer using the name Morbid created a wireless clone program to get into people’s cell phones.”
“Evidence suggests.”
“And he is also a player in this offline combat game called Freek Night?”
“Offline. Very good,” said Sci.
I picked up the cinnamon shaker and said, “And a guy going by the name of Scylla, actually Jason Pilser, the PR guy, was a player in this game. And he killed himself Saturday night—”
“That’s what I’ve got, Jack. It hasn’t all come together yet, but it’s jellin’. There are too many connections to be coincidental. Even dead, Jason Pilser is a lead with legs. I think we’re getting very close.”
“So—be careful?”
“Be extremely careful.”
Chapter 64
BEING EXTREMELY CAREFUL started right here, at Jason Pilser’s apartment building on Burton Way in Beverly Hills. It’s uncommon to find rows of high-end apartment buildings in Beverly Hills but this block was an exception.
The buildings on this side of Burton had terraces and extraordinary views of the hills.
I counted up to the sixth-floor balcony. The sliding doors were closed behind the terrace wall. I said to Sci, “Why would Jason Pilser jump?”
“Remorse, maybe? Nah, I doubt that.”
I’d gathered some information about Pilser in the past few hours. He was twenty-four, an account executive in a notable public relations firm. He had probably earned fifty thousand a year, not bad for a young guy in these tough times, but not the kind of income that would make this address affordable. I smelled “trust fund” or maybe rich, divorced parents.
There was a whoosh of tires as Bobby Petino’s car pulled up to the curb. He got out in his three-thousand-dollar black silk suit and put a card saying that he was here on official business under the windshield wiper.
He said hello to Sci and me, set the car alarm, and said, “A spanking-hot lead at long last. Nice work, Sci. Jack, what did Justine say about this?”
“She’s working the case from another angle. We’re covering it any way we can.”
“Okay. I’m starting to feel cautiously optimistic,” said Petino. “Getting a prickling sensation in my oversized ears.”
We followed Bobby’s ears through the lobby doors and across the black marble floor toward the security desk with its huge and twisted bouquet of exotic flowers. Petino introduced us all to the doorman, Sam Williams, an elderly man in uniform, and showed him the search warrant.
“Has anyone been inside Mr. Pilser’s apartment except the police?” Petino asked Williams.
“Mrs. Costella in six-A took back her ficus tree. I was told to keep the door locked after that and to wait for Mr. Pilser’s mother to arrive from Vancouver.”
I asked, “Did you happen to see Jason Pilser the night he died?”
“Never did. He was home when I came on. I sent up a delivery guy from the drugstore, and at around eleven, Mr. Pilser called down to say he was expecting a few friends.”
“Pilser’s friends,” I said. “Did he mention any names? Did you see them?”
“Nope. Just ‘friends.’ And they must’ve come after my shift ended at midnight. No one is on duty until Ralph comes on at six in the a.m.”
“You have security cameras?” I asked.
“That one there. It’s on a forty-eight-hour loop. It’s already recorded over Saturday night. What’s this about, you mind telling me? You think it wasn’t a suicide?”
“Thanks for your help,” Bobby said to Williams. “We might want to talk to you again when we come back down.”
The doorman nodded. “You know where to find me.”
I thought of one more question. “Mr. Williams, what did you think of Jason Pilser? Just between us.”
He nodded, then spoke in a low voice. “Asshole. Major.”
I talked to Bobby as we walked to the elevator. “I suggest you clear the way for Private to search Pilser’s place. If I turn Sci and his crew loose, we’ll have everything processed by this time tomorrow, and you’ll have a report in your hands by the end of the day.”
“Consider it done,” Bobby said. “Let’s find out what this asshole was up to.”
Chapter 65
I WAS TRAINED to have a sharp eye as a Marine helicopter pilot and I still had it. I snapped wide-angle and close-up pictures of Jason Pilser’s apartment from the foyer, staying out of Sci’s way and out of the evidence, in case a murder had been committed here.
Dr. Sci was quiet as he worked, he and his crew speaking to one another in shorthand as they used our state-of-the-art forensic equipment, worth every penny of the fortune it had cost. From where I stood, nothing looked disturbed—which might mean something.
When Sci told me it was okay, I followed him from room to room through the spare, modernly furnished one-bedroom apartment.
The sofa and armchair cushions were neat, there were no glasses in the sink, the bed was made, the bedroom closet in fastidious order. And I didn’t see a suicide note.
I did make note of a suit jacket on a valet stand in the bedroom. A roll of bandages and iodine on the bathroom sink.
“The ME said he had mixed nuts, a couple of martinis, and painkillers in his stomach,” Sci said. “Maybe he was going out to dinner with his friends. Or his killers,” Sci said. “The scrape marks on his belly were consistent with the blood and skin on the terrace wall. He slid himself over the wall—which is improbable, or at least unusual.”
“Or he was shoved across it in increments until he was airborne,” I said. “Seems more likely to me.”
“We’ve got some prints,” lab assistant Karen Pasquale said to Sci from the hallway. “Three sets so far.”
“Excellent,” Sci said. “Now. Where’s his computer?”
“What’s that?” I said, pointing to the briefcase almost invisible in the shadows, wedged between the desk chair and the wall.
Sci picked up the case with his gloved hands, set it down on the desk, and unsnapped the locks.
The case sprang open.
There was a tie on top of a laptop. A sheaf of papers in the side pocket.
And a cell phone.
“This’ll keep me busy,” Sci said. “Another no-sleep night.”
“Mind taking a look at the phone now?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
Sci opened the phone and said, “His battery’s almost gone, but I’ll give it a shot.”
I stood behind Sci, looking over his shoulder as he scrolled through messages. Suddenly he stopped as if he’d been turned to stone.
“Sci?”
He showed me a text message on Pilser’s phone that had been sent last Wednesday. It was short and to the point.
“Freek Night is on, Scylla. Get ready. You’re IT.”
It was signed by someone using the name Steemcleena.
I said to Sci, “Wait. Shouldn’t this be from Morbid? He’s the connection, right? Who is Steemcleena?”
Sci worked his jaw soundlessly a few times, then he said, “Who is Steemcleena? As brilliant as I am, I’m going to have to get back to you on that.”
Chapter 66
THE EXCLUSIVE AND astronomically expensive rehab center where Tommy was staying was called Blue Skies—some marketing person’s concept of hope, I guess.
> The facility was in Brentwood, north of Sunset, spread out over a dozen acres and sited so it had a flat-out awesome view of the Santa Monica Mountains. You could stand at the administration office and look down into the canyon, see people trotting their horses on trails through their woodsy backyards.
I hadn’t seen Tommy since I’d checked him in to Blue Skies, and now I felt duty bound to make sure he was doing okay there.
I found Tommy in a lounge chair at poolside. He was wearing peacock blue swim trunks under a fluffy white robe.
He looked healthy and tan. Somewhat at peace. The rest was doing him good. I hoped so, anyway.
When my shadow crossed him, he squinted up at me, made a visor with his hand, and said, “Don’t think I’m thanking you for this, bro. I was just wondering how the hell to escape in a bathrobe.”
I took a seat in the chaise longue next to him. “Want to thank me for going to Carmine Noccia and handing him a cashier’s check for six hundred grand?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“It’s a loan, Tommy. Just so you know. And I didn’t tell Annie that the Mob was about to turn your car into a bomb. Or maybe blow up your house.”
“Don’t you ever get a headache? That halo up around your ears all the time.”
“I do, actually. You ought to let me be the evil twin for once. I’d like that.”
“Uncle Fred was here,” Tommy said. “He told me there’s something big waiting for me—if I clean up my act.”
“So what’s your problem with Fred? I never knew.”
“He put his hand down my shorts when I was a kid. Rubbed my little joint.”
“Fuck you, Tom.”
“He did. I swear to God, Jack. On our mother’s eyes.”
I stood up, grabbed Tommy by the lapels of his robe, and gave him a shot to the jaw that made my hand bones grind. The chair flipped over as Tommy went down hard.
A husky dude in a white jumpsuit looked up from across the pool and started running toward us.
Tommy raised a hand, indicating the situation was over. He picked himself up, choking on his own laughter.
“You’re so goddamn easy, Jack. It’s like, dangle the bait and you jump out of the water, right into the boat. Get off me. You’ll get your wings all dirty.”
“Take back what you said.”
“O-kay. I take it back. Maybe it was Dad who molested me. Or was it you?”
“How can you stand yourself?” I asked him.
“It was Fat Fred who told you about my debt, though, am I right?”
My knuckles were throbbing.
“It’s always good to see you, Tommy. Take care of yourself.”
“Buh-bye, Jacko.”
He was still laughing as he righted his chair.
I went back into the administration office and paid Tommy’s bill for the rest of the month. The girl behind the desk was very nice, and she asked how my brother was doing. I couldn’t say a word to her. Just gave her my credit card, and after she ran it through, I got the hell out of there.
It’s a hard thing—hating your own brother.
Chapter 67
I STOPPED AT home to change my wings and buff my halo, then I drove to Beverly Hills.
I needed some quality time to myself, so I went to Mastro’s, one of the best steak houses west of Kansas City. The vibe at Mastro’s was retro crooner, and not just because someone was singing “My Way” at the piano.
I saw Joseph Ricci in the corner getting into something with Frank Mosconi. They didn’t see me. I told the maître d’ I wanted a quiet table on the second floor, and after I was seated, I ordered a highball and studied the menu of gonzo prime beef that the place is justly known for.
The liquor, also first-class, was settling me down. I had brought a book with me, a well-worn paperback of Me Talk Pretty One Day, by the humorist David Sedaris. He’s brutally honest and laugh-out-loud funny, and his family life seems to have been almost as messy as mine.
I got a call from the head of our office in London. I told him my pick for deputy manager, then went back to my book.
I was starting to feel like a prince, one of the chosen few in LA. I didn’t lift my eyes from the pages until the bone-in rib eye and broccoli rabe showed up at the table.
Once I put the book down, my mind started circling back to the real world.
I thought about my brother, older than me by three minutes, so much like my father that I disliked him just because of that. Tommy was easily as narcissistic as Dad had been, just as arrogant, felt just as entitled to have what he wanted his way; but I didn’t think he had always been like that.
We’d been inseparable from pre-K through ninth grade. I remember we even had hand signals and secret words. We were total confidants, we stuck up for each other, we got our black belts the same day. And then our father started to pit us against each other. We got competitive, and everything changed.
Clearly, Dad had favored the son with his name and the same cynical view of the world. I gravitated to Uncle Fred. Tom became cruel to my mother, like my father was. I tried to protect her, and Tom and I became real enemies after that.
The waiter broke into my thoughts to ask if I wanted another drink, and I said that I did.
A couple came in and sat at the table next to mine. It was a first date; I could just tell. The two exchanged one long look that said everything they saw in each other was fascinating and that they were probably going to end the evening in bed.
I drank some more, and my thoughts turned to Colleen. She would have liked this place. I thought about taking her home to the house that I’d once owned with Justine. I’d never brought Colleen there for the night. It just confused me too much. I liked Colleen an awful lot, and I didn’t want to hurt her, though I knew I sometimes did.
I had told her that my place wasn’t entirely safe, that I found it more relaxing to spend the night in her arms in her sweet nest of a house. She knew I was keeping her at arm’s length, but she was taking what she could get, hoping I would change, which only multiplied my guilt and confusion about what should happen with the two of us.
My hand was on my phone. I started to dial Colleen’s number, then I closed the phone gently and slugged down the rest of my drink. I wasn’t being fair to her. I was going to have to end it, but I couldn’t imagine causing her all that pain, and losing her too.
I paid the check, left a big tip, and took to the road, thinking, Fuck you, Jack.
Chapter 68
JUSTINE COULDN’T GET the Schoolgirl case out of her head, even when she desperately wanted to.
She walked down a long, cool corridor hung with fluorescent fixtures and pushed open the door marked 301. Detective Sergeant Charlotte Murphy’s desk was one of four in the large water-stained room in a hidden wing of the police station, the place where cold cases lived and died.
“Charlotte,” the detective introduced herself, shaking Justine’s hand.
Charlotte Murphy was wearing navy blue man-tailored pants and a button-down collared shirt. A gold badge hung from a chain around her neck. Her expression was guarded, but its severity was offset by exceptionally pretty blue eyes and a welcoming smile.
Murphy introduced Justine to her colleagues, then offered her a chair. She said, “I had a few hours to get Wendy Borman’s effects out of archives. Want to look at the murder book first? Take your time. I’ve got plenty of other hopeless work to do.”
Detective Murphy pushed a thick three-hole-punched notebook toward Justine.
Justine couldn’t open the notebook quickly enough, and then she wanted to pore over it slowly so that she didn’t miss a thing.
The pages were glassine sleeves, the contents catalogued and in chronological order.
The first several pages were photos of Wendy Borman lying dead in the alley off Hyperion, yards from where Connie Yu’s body had been found. She was fully dressed, her hair soaking wet, her left arm hidden under a pile of trash bags.
Following the photos were sket
ches of the crime scene and a photocopy of a seven-page report from the ME. Cause of death: manual strangulation.
Copies of Detective Bruno’s case notes followed, the pages stapled together and stuffed into a single sleeve. After the notes were transcripts of the interview with the only witness, Christine Castiglia, eleven years old.
Next, Justine looked over the list of stolen property, an itemized account of the contents of Wendy Borman’s backpack. A piece of handmade jewelry had also been taken, a gold chain necklace with a gold charm in the shape of a star.
Toward the back of the book was a photograph of Wendy Borman wearing that necklace while she was alive. She was posed standing between her parents. She was already taller than they were, and she had looped her arms over both their shoulders. Wendy had been a grinning, blond-haired girl with an athletic build. She didn’t look like she should ever die. How sad was that?
“I’m ready for the contents of the evidence box,” Justine said. “I think so, anyway.”
Detective Murphy offered Justine latex gloves from a dispenser, then used a pocketknife to slit the red tape around a plain cardboard box. She removed the lid, lifted out a large paper bag, and sliced the seal on that.
Justine was hit with an adrenaline high, a rush of bright anticipation she couldn’t control. This was precisely the feeling that had gotten her into forensics and made her good at it. Something here might open a window into the Schoolgirl case.
Maybe it would even reveal a killer.
She reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of stretch jeans, size six, and a baby blue jersey-knit top with a scoop neckline.
She plunged her hands into the bag again and brought out a pair of Nike cross-trainers and baby blue socks.
She spread out the clothing, examining where samples had been cut out of the fabric by the LA crime lab.
“I take it the blood belonged to the victim.”