Cicero's Dead Read online

  I decided against the oblique approach, as I was increasingly convinced that both she and Richie were in danger. I described my meetings with Ron Cera, naturally omitting any description of her sexual escapades. Her eyes were alternately amused and concerned, tough and tender, and I had a sense of being dragged deeper into those liquid pools.

  When I got to Ron’s encounter with Richard and Arnold, she reached out and took my arm. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Crane, and it’s not true. I usually try to avoid purely sexual encounters, no matter how hot the guy is. I don’t like to hurt people. This time, though, I went too far. Ron had that devil-may-care, I don’t care if you fuck me or not quality, that really turns me on.”

  ‘He’s not too turned on now,’ I thought, but instead asked, “What I don’t understand, is why didn’t you contact Ron after Richie disappeared? You knew they were friends.”

  “I did call him a couple of times, and left messages, but he never got back to me. I was reluctant to go over there because I knew he was mad at me. When he didn’t call, I figured he hadn’t seen him. I didn’t really start to get worried until ten days ago, when I hadn’t heard from Richard for two weeks.”

  “Who recommended me to you?”

  “James Halladay. He said you were good, and so far you haven’t proven him wrong.”

  “He doesn’t know me from Adam.”

  Jade shrugged and thought it over. “He and my father were very close. Mr. Halladay, as the administrator, is very protective of our interests.”

  “Interests being money, I assume.”

  Jade frowned. “It always gets back to that, doesn’t it? The money. The whole world wants it but then when you’ve got it, it just makes things more complicated.” She released my arm. “Look, it’s actually pretty simple; Richard and I have trust funds and most of the money is invested. Last I looked, the combined trusts were worth in excess of 300 million dollars. When my father died, most of the money went to Mother. When she died, it turned out she had no will, so now the money’s in probate. It’s expected to be released soon. My brother and I will inherit the entire amount, and split it 50/50.”

  I tried to conceive of that much money, not as a number, which was easy, but as a force that changed lives and influenced decisions. “Where would the money go if you and Richard weren’t around to receive it?”

  For the first time, Jade looked rattled. Confusion creased her face in ripples. Then it was smooth again. “I don’t know. How does that work? Doesn’t it go to the grandparents and siblings of the deceased parents?”

  “Only if there are no direct heirs.”

  Jade was silent for a long time. Her long manicured fingers played uneasily at the hem of her skirt. I wanted to take her hands and give her some form of comfort, but I restrained myself. Finally, she spoke. “Do you think we’re in danger, Richie and me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She blanched. For a moment she looked twenty years older. Then she regained control, but the frantic look in her eyes remained. “It doesn’t end, does it? My father’s gone. My mother’s gone, and now Richard’s gone. I’m all that’s left.”

  “Let’s not bury him yet and keep in mind, there are happy endings.”

  “I’m not sure I believe in them anymore.”

  I recounted Ron’s description of the night Richard and Arnold Clipper came to call. Jade listened, her expression resigned. I had the sense that I was telling her something she had already known for some time. Not in so many words, perhaps, but in essence.

  “My brother,” said Jade, “is very troubled. Sometimes bad things happen to people and they’re never the same.” She reached into her purse for some Kleenex and dabbed at her eyes. A tall, red-haired homeless guy, wearing dirty chinos and a striped pullover shirt, wandered past us and sat down at a nearby bench. He leaned back, his mouth half-open and stared at the sky.

  “When we were young, Richard and I were very close. Maybe it was because Cicero was never home, and Mother liked art openings and nice restaurants. Anyway, Richard and I were raised by our maid, Sofia. There was the four-year stretch when Cicero was in Soledad. I was six and Richard was four when that happened and, of course, we didn’t know why. He never let us visit him. After that, Mother tried harder. She enrolled me in soccer, and Richard in tee-ball and even came to our games. She fit right in with the other mothers in her ultra-chic jogging outfits, but her heart wasn’t really in it and pretty soon she let Sofia take over completely.”

  “Sadly, that’s not an unusual rich kid story.”

  She nodded and looked around thoughtfully. “This is a nice place. I need to come here more often, as it’s not far from my job.” She turned her gaze on me. “I don’t want you to take this wrong. Mother loved us in her own way, and when she was in the mood, she would tuck us in bed and sing lullabies. Richard spent a lot of time sitting on her lap, but she was just too young and L.A. was too big and exciting.”

  “What about when your dad got outta the joint?”

  “He looked ten years older and to his credit, I guess, he went right back to work like he hadn’t missed a day. By then, Richard was eight, just the age when a boy needs to bond with his father, but Cicero had bigger fish to fry. He’d discovered that there was a fortune to be made in refrigeration, and worked day and night to build his empire. Once or twice a year we would take a Sunday afternoon drive, the four of us, to Wilmington and Long Beach and Carson. Drab places that were nothing like our beautiful Westside neighborhoods. We would drive by his warehouses, and Cicero would tell us that they all belonged to the family and that one day, they would belong to Richard and me. Mother was always a bit distracted on those drives, and I had the feeling she would much rather be shopping or lunching with her girlfriends.”

  “Who were they?”

  “You know, mostly the wives of successful Beverly Hills Jewish guys. Ladies with plenty of money and old world manners.” For a moment Jade seemed far away like she was remembering things better left forgotten.

  “I’ve worked for a few of ‘em,” I smiled.

  “Richard and I really only had each other, so we spent a lot of time together. Then for a while I had a girlfriend and felt guilty for abandoning my brother. Then her family moved back east and once again it was just Richard and me.” She stopped and looked at me, her pretty lips trembling. “We’d watch movies, just the two of us, trying to make the world go away. He was the age where he should have been playing basketball with his friends, and instead he was watching Pretty in Pink and The Breakfast Club with his big sister.”

  She smiled ruefully and I wanted to comfort her.

  “It’s a lot to take in, I know, Mr. Crane.”

  “Nick.”

  “Nick,” she repeated, rolling my name around her tongue.

  I glanced over at the red-haired homeless guy. He was still staring into space, his breath ragged as if he had a respiratory problem.

  “Nick,” she said reaching out and taking my arm, “when I hired you I just knew that you were a good investigator because James Halladay recommended you, but now, based on what you’ve told me, I’m in your hands. If you can’t help me, who can?” She leaned over; her scent, like tropical fruit, intoxicated me as she brushed her lips across my cheek.

  The moment passed and I felt as needy as any junkie.

  She sat back and tugged at her skirt again, knees pressed together. “For a long time I did everything I could to help my brother, at least I thought I did, but the world was just too powerful. When Richard was 15, we moved from Brentwood to the Hollywood Hills. He started hanging out with a group of rich delinquents, and one night they broke into the house of an elderly lady and tied her up, just for kicks. They drank her liquor and got wasted. Two of them passed out, but Richard woke up, snuck out and came back home. He woke me up at three in the morning, terrified. He knew he’d really messed up.” Jade shook her head. “Somehow the old woman managed to untie herself and called the police, who got there just in time to arres
t Richard’s friends. Naturally, they rolled over on him and daddy just about had a heart attack. I’d never seen him that mad. I don’t think it was so much what Richard had done; they didn’t hurt the lady, just scared her half to death, but rather the fact he was so damned stupid. The prosecutors took this very seriously and he was lucky to only get two years in Youth Camp. There was talk of trying him as an adult, which would have been disastrous. Nonetheless, when he got out, he was different. He never talked about it, but I could see it in his eyes. He went back to school and even did pretty well for a while; he’s far from dumb. As we got older we started going out together on the weekends. I went to USC and took pre-law but after graduating from high school, Richard didn’t do much, just waited for life to come to him.”

  “I suppose that’s when he got interested in knives.”

  Jade thought for a moment. “Actually, that was earlier. Cicero used to always say that a knife was a great equalizer. Richard apparently took that to heart.”

  “Apparently.” She looked at me quizzically, but I didn’t comment further.

  “Part of the reason I prolonged my relationship with Ron was because I thought he might be good for Richard. They seemed to like each other and I thought Ron was a pretty stable, normal guy. The truth is I was grasping at straws. I’ve been doing that for a long time with Richard.”

  “Jade, unfortunately Ron is a little too normal. He said no when Richard wanted him to say yes.”

  “That’s Ron,” she replied ruefully, “just an average guy.” She brightened momentarily. “You know, he’s really a very good actor. I don’t know about the movies, but he’s excellent on the stage. I saw him last fall in a local production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, put on by a Culver City theater workshop. He played the alcoholic husband, the character Paul Newman played in the movie version. He got a standing ovation.”

  Her cell phone rang and she looked at the screen. “I have to take this.”

  I smiled, ‘sure.’

  “Hello, James…yes, he’s right here.”

  She handed me the phone. I could smell her perfume on it and wondered if, just for a moment, if this was as close as I was ever going to get to her lips. The thought evaporated when I heard his voice. “Nick,” barked Halladay in what is best described as hard, authoritative. “I need to talk to you right away at my office. Something’s come up that you should know about.”

  “I can be there in 30.”

  “Sooner if you can. You know where we are and don’t say anything to Jade.”

  I stood up and walked away out of earshot, passing in front of the homeless guy. Perhaps disturbed by my presence, he pulled his head down out of the clouds, watching me vaguely as if there were an invisible film between us.

  “About what?”

  “Her father. I assume you’ve figured it out by this point.”

  “Correct.”

  “We’ll tell her, of course, but before we do, we need to be sure what the fuck we’re talking about.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “Agreed.”

  “Tell her to lay low and be careful. She’s kind of like a daughter to me and it would kill me if anything happened to her.”

  “On my way.” I handed her the phone. “Jade, you have to stay alert. I’ll see you after work in the lobby at Waldrop & Hemsley, and we’ll decide what to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a very good chance we’re being followed right now.”

  Her eyes widened and I saw the fear in them.

  I flicked my eyes toward the homeless guy who had been contemplating his naval. She looked at him and frowned. He stood up, gave us a quizzical look, and wandered off across the garden.

  Jade’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh shit, that’s Officer Koncak.”

  We took a cab to her office, which was a few blocks away in California Plaza, on Grand Avenue, and I escorted her clear to the 32nd floor. We paused for a moment in front of the glass doors.

  “I trust you. Please don’t let me down.” The doors opened inward and it was tough to watch her go. I headed back down the elevator and hit the street.

  Halladay, Reynolds, Tosh & Mukaskey takes up several floors of the old Southern California Edison Building at One Bunker Hill. The status of a pricey white collar law firm is measured by how much empty space they can afford to waste. The receptionist’s desk stood alone in the middle of a huge expanse of gleaming hardwood floor. I squinted at the meaningless art that was so distant, I would’ve needed binoculars to make it out. These are the trappings of power, a sense of entitlement so profound that wasted space becomes a virtue and mediocre art simply the shrug of indifference.

  The pretty blonde receptionist smiled. “How can I help you?”

  “Nick Crane to see Mr. Halladay.”

  She nodded, dialed and purred quietly down the line. A few moments later, another young, pretty secretary came out.

  “This way please, Mr. Crane.”

  She led me across the endless hardwood, through glass doors, up escalators, around a good-sized gymnasium, down a hallway and up a private elevator that opened into a high-ceilinged anteroom, with busts of noted legal figures of yesteryear mounted on the walls. Finally, we passed through an open door into James Halladay’s expensively furnished office suite. A smile played across his mouth as she smiled at him. He nodded at her, fixed his gaze on me and came forward, hand outstretched.

  “Good to finally meet you, Nick.”

  His handshake was crisply efficient. Thick chested, his iron-grey hair rumpled just enough to indicate that this was a man with the confidence not to care. I was in the presence of a powerhouse. He knew it and knew that I knew it.

  “What can I get you to drink? Perrier, Evian, iced coffee?” He crossed to a refrigerator set against the wall under a photograph of Chief Justice Cardoza.

  “Iced coffee.”

  Halladay handed me a Starbucks Frappuccino. He had gripped an Evian, and motioned me to a brace of white leather armchairs, facing a mahogany grandfather clock, which struck 3:00 as we sat down. The leather was cold and I stifled an impulse to shiver. I took a long swallow of my Frappuccino.

  Sipping his drink, Halladay looked at me thoughtfully. “When I brought you into this case, I had no idea it was going to turn out to be so complicated. I’m sure you have questions. I know mistakes have been made, but I don’t believe they’re fatal. At least I hope not.”

  He paused as if expecting a reassuring reply. I took another sip and waited.

  The moment was not lost on him. He half-smirked and continued, “I was friends with Cicero for a long time, and have represented him since the beginning. Because of my long-standing career, I was able to keep his sentence down when he went to Soledad and after his release, I represented him through all his business ventures. Of course, he wouldn’t always take my advice.”

  “You knew about his narcotics dealing?”

  “I’ve heard you’re the soul of discretion. That must not change.” He locked eyes with me. His were like cannons staring out through portholes, ready to fire at the slightest provocation.

  “I understand.”

  “Good. The world operates in peculiar ways. Did you know that George W. Bush’s grandfather was Adolf Hitler’s American banker?”

  “Uh--”

  “--Or that Joe Kennedy was a rum-runner? Our 19th century shipping magnates ran opium. Citibank is sitting on 80 billion dollars worth of bad paper. Why does this happen? Why is it allowed? It happens because powerful people are greedy and really don’t care who gets hurt.”

  “Are you justifying Lamont’s dealing?”

  “All nations operate in a nexus of power that has little, if anything, to do with common notions of ethics and morality. What is nonetheless important is loyalty and that loyalty must be absolute. Do I make myself clear?”

  I nodded slowly. “Absolutely.”

  “Good. Then we can go forward. I’m sure you have questions.”

  “Just tw
o, or rather one with two parts. How and when did you become aware that Cicero Lamont was not actually killed in a hit-and-run?”

  “That’s the rub. I should have been on to it earlier. I found out two hours ago when the death certificate arrived in the mail. Here, let me show you.” He rose, crossed to his desk, picked up a piece of paper and handed it to me, shaking his head.

  It was signed by a Dr. Joseph Tarkanian. Cicero had died at home on August 16, 2007. Myocardial infarction. The document seemed entirely unremarkable.

  “It was the birthday of a Spanish diplomat, whom I represent in his American business interests and I was in Ibiza, staying with mutual friends. I was pursuing a 28 year old woman who didn’t care that I’m old enough to be her grandfather. One thing led to another, and when it became clear that she was mine for the taking, I turned off my phone and bedded her.”

  “Expensive?”

  He ignored me. “My staff have instructions not to contact me when I’m on vacation, unless it’s an emergency. When it became obvious that my young beauty was not going to wake up, I got out of bed and checked my voicemail. Lindsay had apparently thought that the death of one of my oldest clients was sufficient cause to leave a message.”

  “Efficient.”

  “You’re the master of understatement.”

  I smiled. He didn’t.

  “Anyway, it was Saturday morning, which meant it was around midnight, Friday, in California. I had to wait ‘til evening to contact anyone. Cicero was dead, so as it really made no difference, my young lady and I spent the day swimming and sunbathing.”

  I tried hard not to envision Halladay in a speedo, tan and leathery, an old satyr cavorting on crystalline beaches with his youthful trophy, but the horror of it was already etching its way into my memory.

  “I called Lindsay at home at 9:00 a.m. California time. She informed me that an Officer Fishburne had phoned Friday afternoon with the news that Cicero had been killed, and the Department had been unable to contact his next of kin. Although his body had been badly mangled, his face was largely intact.”