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
