BLACK in the Box (6 page)

“Is Roxie
talent
?” Duval asked Carl, as though Roxie wasn’t standing beside him.

“We’re friends,” Roxie said, cutting him off.

“Mmm. I see,” Duval said, her eyes narrowing. “And what do you do, Roxie?”

“Porn, mostly. I’m a fluffer.” She smiled and turned to Carl. “Where’s the bathroom? I need to freshen up.”

“Over there,” Carl stammered, pointing to a far wall.

“Nice meeting you,” Roxie said, giving Duval a finger waggle before setting off to find the ladies’ room. She momentarily regretted her acerbic comment, but figured Carl could deal with it. Duval didn’t know her and wouldn’t touch her music even if she did, so Roxie had nothing to lose by being a brat. Plus she’d been banging her head against the wall in the music scene for six years now, and felt like she’d paid her dues – or at least enough of them to not put up with being talked down to like an object.

She felt the bartender’s eyes on her as she crossed the room and smiled to herself. She’d definitely have to circle around and find a few moments to have a chat. She’d been single now for coming up on a year, and she came from the school of thought that if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

With the way her luck had been going lately, he probably lived with his boyfriend. Who knew it would be so hard to find someone compatible in a city with millions of eligible men? But everyone she’d dated was an imbecile, a freak, or an aspiring actor who wanted a mommy.

Roxie sighed when she entered the bathroom and interrupted three women younger than she was doing lines off a pocket compact mirror. That was so eighties. She waited for a stall to free up and spent the time studying her phone, wondering what the hell she was doing there anyway. The answer was more depressing than the question, so she downed the rest of her drink as the door swung wide. A statuesque blonde in a micromini skirt stepped from inside with a drunken expression and giggled meaninglessly. Roxie let her by and slid her phone back into her pocket, resolved to make the best of things and have a good time no matter what, even if the party and everyone at it totally sucked.

Chapter 9

Los Angeles, California

Bethany’s car eased into a slot in front of a six-story condo building near Robertson Boulevard. She shut off the engine, slid her purse strap over her shoulder, and drew a calming breath.
I can do this.

She stepped from the vehicle and reared back as a gray cat darted from the hedge and took off down the street at a dead run. Her pulse thudded in her ears and she waited for it to calm before proceeding to the building, where she pressed a button on the exterior intercom and waited for someone to respond.

“Yes?” The voice was male and heavily Russian accented even on the single syllable, the intonation unmistakable.

“Rudi? It’s me.”

The door buzzed. She pushed it open and stepped into the marble lobby past the dry wall fountain with streaks of calcium running down the surface like icicles. She walked to the elevator and, when the stainless steel door slid open, stepped in and stabbed the button for the top floor.

Bethany hated elevators – likely a throwback to her childhood, when her mother had instilled a fear of heights in her, passing on her own defect to her daughter. She couldn’t help but envision something going wrong and the contrivance plunging with her inside, a steel coffin dropping at the speed of gravity, carrying her to her death. She understood it was irrational, that she was in far more danger of dying in a car accident within a few blocks of her house than in an elevator or a plane, but the knowledge did little to quiet her anxiety, and she was relieved when it slowed to a jerky stop at the penthouse level and the muted bell chimed to announce her arrival.

She made her way to the far door and knocked. Seconds crawled by, and then came the sound of a bolt sliding open and a chain being unclasped. The door opened and a tall man with a mop of black unruly hair cascading down his white silk shirt glanced at her, lingering for only a moment before roaming the hall to confirm nobody else was there.

“Come in,” he said, and stood aside.

The condo was lavishly furnished, deceptively opulent considering the neighborhood and the building. The odor of cigarette smoke and marijuana permeated the walls, and she waited as the man relocked the door before joining her in the living room.

“Sit,” he said with a wave of his hand.

Bethany did so and cleared her throat. “Rudi, I have another set of numbers for you. But you need to pay me, and not the usual way.”

“I saw the news.”

“Yes, it was awful. But that doesn’t change anything, Rudi.”

“My dear, of course it does. The police are now involved. There are possibilities of trails leading back to me from the payments. I think it’s best if we suspend our arrangement until things settle down.”

“But I have these. Exactly like usual,” she protested, tapping her purse.

“I’m no longer a buyer.”

“But…but Rudi, I need the money.”

“Yes, well, I’m sorry to hear it, but business is business.” He looked her up and down and reached for a bong. “Consolation prize. You want some?”

“Can’t you do something to help me out?” Bethany asked.

Rudi shook his head. “If it was me…but it’s not. I have to answer to people, and they want nothing to do with you until things cool off. Hit?”

Bethany shrugged. Rudi always had the best weed. Even if he was stonewalling her, she could at least get that out of him. “Sure.”

He tamped down a bud into the bowl and lit it; the bong burbled as he drew in a long pull and handed it to her. He held the lighter in place as she inhaled deeply, and within moments she felt the familiar welcome calm flood through her. They exhaled together and repeated the ritual until she’d had enough.

“You always have awesome chronic, Rudi.”

“It is to be expected.”

And it was. A full member of the Russian mob, Rudi had been in the country for eight years. Tattoos adorned both arms as well as his chest, she knew from prior visits, each symbolizing a key milestone in a career of crime – his first kill, his first stint in prison, his ascension up the mafia hierarchy.

Bethany had met him at a club in Manhattan Beach a year ago, and while they’d never slept together, he’d shown an interest in her job at Home World. Most men only wanted one thing from her, so she’d been surprised, but willing to come over and get high. Over time he’d made a suggestion to her about an easy way to subsidize her income, and once she heard it, she immediately realized that it would be the simplest way to put some quick cash in her pocket with the least effort. When she’d been made supervisor over the night shift, the final piece had fallen into place, and she’d been able to talk Alec into helping.

Alec was a sleazeball, but she’d recognized instantly a kindred spirit in the darting eyes and quick wit. He was always on the make, trying to work an angle, and it had been child’s play to suck him into the scheme. The only part she hadn’t liked was that he’d insisted on controlling the payment system, but she’d agreed, and he’d always given her the right cut like clockwork every month.

But now Alec was dead. And Rudi was wise to it.

She’d hoped to get one final slug of money before the holidays, but that was clearly a no-go. She debated appealing to Rudi’s generosity, but knew better. The man was charming, but had the soul of a moray eel. He lived in a world of predators and prey, and in that environment there was no pity, only opportunity.

And she had to stay on his good side.

“Now, is there anything else?” he asked with a lupine grin.

“No. I guess I’ll try to find someone else to take these.”

“That would be best. Again, sorry. We’ll do business again in the New Year. It’s just too hot right now.”

“I understand, although there’s really no danger. I didn’t kill him. They can’t prove I did something I’m innocent of. I don’t even think they suspect me.”

“Yes, well, the jails are full of the innocent. But I’m sure you’ll come through fine.” He appraised her with a nod. “You’re like me. A survivor.” He paused. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

She shook her head. “None at all. It makes no sense.”

Rudi showed her to the door, and she rode the elevator back down, fuming at the dismissal. He was like all the rest, just using her and discarding her when he was through. But she’d have the last laugh. For all his arrogance, he had no idea what she was capable of, what she’d put into play. Like everyone, he’d badly underestimated her, thinking her a bimbo, an airheaded Barbie with a D-cup and size one jeans. Men never saw past that, which she’d been using to her advantage since she was a teen.

Ol’ Rudi would get the surprise of his life one day soon, and when he did, he’d lose his smug superiority – along with his freedom.

She’d see to that.

Like he said, business was business.

And like him, she was doing what she had to do to survive. He was right about that part.

Like the song said, she would survive.

Chapter 10

Long Beach, California

Black read Alec’s file with interest. Twenty-five, Caucasian, decent-looking clean-cut kid, based on his employee identification photo. Born in Anaheim, community college graduate, veteran, no arrest record. Working at the store for four months. IT manager. An address twenty minutes south listed as current. Black made careful notes for future consideration, even though the gig was only one evening – you never knew, and he didn’t want to have to repeat the reading experience, which wasn’t his forte. Roxie generally handled that sort of thing for him, but there was no way he could call her at ten on a Thursday night and ask her to come to work.

He next pulled up Bethany’s records. Employed for a year, attractive even in the clinical employee ID shot, twenty-three, promoted six months ago to customer relations supervisor, whatever that meant on the night shift when the store was closed. Black smiled – he was willing to bet that old Larry’s romance with the youngster had begun roughly six months earlier, hence the promotion. He wondered whether it could have created any ill will, and made a note to probe for that – it was a long shot, but perhaps she’d been set up in some manner? Although murdering someone with an axe was a trifle drastic, no matter how disgruntled you might be over an unfair promotion for the boss’s new squeeze.

He read the rest of the staff’s resumes without much interest – a total of a dozen workers on the night shift, most in their twenties, without any better options than toiling away while the rest of the world slept. Mary Allenston was the exception, in that she also had a college degree. At twenty-nine, she was one of the oldest of the lot, and had been the shift manager and bookkeeper for two years, hired away from a competitive outfit a quarter mile away. Intelligent eyes in a drawn face stared back at Black from the screen – the look of the working poor, earning enough so they didn’t qualify for overtime pay but not enough to leave the night shift for a better life.

The oldest member of the shift was Kyle Holmes, another Army veteran, who’d been with the company for four years. At thirty-two his position as an ordinary stocker made no sense until Black saw that he only had a GED. His photo showed an imposing man with a chocolate complexion, his head shaved clean and a nose that had obviously been broken several times.

The rest were unremarkable – Henry Heung, the security man; Nancy Goldman, the woman who’d found Bethany with the axe in hand; Tabitha Roth, Kristen Cho, Paulina Lopez, Lee Tran, and Tanika Abbot, stocking clerks; Tom Lo, janitor; Brent Carter, maintenance man; and Matt Dresslin, another supervisor. Three Asians, one Latina, two African-Americans, and the rest white as snow.

Black paused at ten fifteen and called his friend Stan’s cell, hopeful that the homicide detective would still be up. Stan answered on the second ring, the sound of conversation in the background.

“You still at work?” Black asked.

“Yeah. It’s been a brutal week. Lot of drug shootings. What’s up?”

“You know a homicide inspector named Sean McCarthy?”

“Yeah. Down south. Older than dirt. Why?”

“I picked up a case. I’m investigating a murder that he’s lead on.”

“You?”

“It happened last night. Perp hasn’t been caught yet.”

“So it’s active?”

“Yup. Crime scene tape’s still up. Whole nine yards.”

Stan’s tone hardened. “What do you want, Black?”

“Can’t this be a social call?”

“Right. Come on, spit it out. I’ve got bad guys to catch. Don’t you watch the news?”

“It’s an axe murder in Long Beach.”

“Oh, yeah. I saw that this morning.”

“McCarthy caught it…”

“You mentioned that,” Stan said impatiently.

“What’s your impression of him? Is he thorough?”

“That’s why you’re calling?” Stan sighed. “He’s at the end of his runway. I heard he’ll retire next year, so he might not have the energy a younger guy might.”

“Are you telling me he’s sloppy?”

“I’m telling you that he’s not a whippersnapper. Why, did he miss something?”

“I heard through the grapevine he’s looking to pin this on a young girl who works at my client’s store. The client says no way.”

“He banging her?”

“I’m not going to justify that with a response.”

“So he is. Doesn’t matter. You got any reason to think she’s innocent?”

“I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“What else are you angling for, Black?”

“I was hoping you might know someone in Long Beach PD you could ask about the case. Or maybe your computers are linked up or something, and you could give it a glance.”

“Why?”

“Just to eyeball it and see if it all makes sense.”

“You going through the motions here, or do you actually give a shit?”

“Half and half.”

“I can make a call or two, but it’ll cost you.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing says Christmas like a bottle of Chivas.”