“Jinx. Listen, I’m checking out of the hotel in the morning.”
Jinx stiffened at what she took to be a rebuff. She said, “Was everything satisfactory?”
“Yes. I just have to get back to my house. My life.”
“Of course.”
She stood up and said, “Iggy, Mr. Morgan’s drinks are on the house. Jack, I’ve got some calls to make. Stay in touch, okay? And take care of yourself.”
I watched her walk across the deck, and when she was inside, I left the bar and went to my room.
I could list four or five reasons why I didn’t need a romantic complication right now. But there was no reasoning with the strong pull I felt toward Jinx. I wanted to help her as much as I wanted to help myself.
If she’d stayed at the bar for another minute, I would have told her that I liked her too.
CHAPTER 70
Cruz parked the Mercedes fleet car under the one streetlight on North Western, a seedy block in the heart of Hollywood. Metal security doors had been rolled down over the surrounding storefronts: Quality Market, Lupita’s beauty salon, AAA discount mufflers. Iglesia Cristiana Fuente de Salvacion, a church housed in what looked like a former appliance store, was also closed for the night.
Across the street, a yellow neon sign showing a cocktail glass turned on its side and the name Havana marked an otherwise nondescript cinder-block building. Cruz undid his ponytail, finger-combed his hair, replaced the band, then got out and set the car alarm. He straightened his jacket.
The muscle at the club’s door was in his thirties, shaved head, small metal-framed glasses, bulked up. Cruz said, “Buenas noches.”
The bouncer said, “You have a reservation?”
“I’m Emilio Cruz, here to meet a lady called Karen Ricci. She told me she was leaving my name at the door.”
The bouncer looked Cruz over, took a long thirty seconds. He said, “You packing?”
“I’m licensed.”
“Doesn’t matter. No guns.”
Cruz sighed, took his gun out of his shoulder holster, shook out the ammo, and handed the gun to the bouncer. The bouncer put the gun in a box attached to the top of a pedestal, handed Cruz a ticket with a number, and opened the door.
Cruz entered a vestibule. There was a narrow flight of stairs and he climbed it, thinking about his gun. The stairway opened into a small room featuring one piece of furniture, what looked to be a hand-carved wardrobe, an armoire.
A hostess was standing beside the wardrobe. She was in her late twenties, Hispanic, big brown eyes, very trim, and wearing a tight pink satin dress. Definitely his type. Although she barely looked at him. Most women at least looked.
She opened the wardrobe door, said, “You go through here and then down the stairs.”
Cruz asked, “I go through the closet?”
The woman nodded. “Si.”
Cuban shirts were hanging on the pole, making a curtain.
Cruz pushed the guayaberas aside and saw that the closet was a cleverly concealed doorway that led directly to the top landing of a spiral staircase. Latin music and loud chatter came up from the bar below.
As Cruz headed down, he took in the dark saloon, richly colored in red and gold, and had the feeling of being sent back in time to a Cuban rum bar, circa the 1920s.
Electric-candle chandeliers lit the place with soft, flattering light. Small tables at the perimeter of the room were occupied, but most of the customers were packed around the white-marble-topped bar, the back of it stacked with rum bottles, maybe seventy different brands.
As Cruz reached the bottom step, he saw that behind the bar was a hallway leading to a cigar bar, designed to look like a back alley in Havana.
Just then, raucous applause broke out.
A dancer came onto a small stage, the spotlight right on her, making gold sequins glitter. She tossed her hair and began to move sensually to a Caribbean beat.
Cruz stood at the sidelines, searching the crowd until he saw one woman drinking alone at a table near the fire exit. He worked his way through the mob, and when he got to her table, he said, “Karen Ricci? I’m Emilio Cruz.”
She said, “Have a seat.”
Cruz pulled out a chair and sat down. Karen Ricci was dark haired, a natural beauty wearing no makeup. It took Cruz a moment to realize that she was in a wheelchair.
“You have my package?” she asked.
Cruz opened his jacket so she could see the edge of the envelope peeking out from his inside breast pocket.
He closed his jacket and said, “May I buy you another drink?”
CHAPTER 71
A waiter came over and said to Karen Ricci, “Papa’s daiquiri, as usual?” Karen said yes, and the waiter asked Cruz, “You like rum? I recommend you try the Bad Spaniard.’”
Cruz nodded, and when the waiter left them, Karen said, “There’s a whole egg in that drink.”
Cruz shrugged, put on his bashful smile, and said, “I like eggs. Why’d you pick this place to meet?”
“The guy at the door?”
“The bouncer?”
“He’s my husband,” she said.
All that Cruz knew about Karen Ricci was what his source had told him. She had worked at an escort service called Sensational Dates for the past two years. She took calls from johns, arranged the dates, and charged their credit cards.
A john name of Arthur Valentine had been strangled with a wire at the Seaview hotel back in 2010, the second victim in what would become a string of five murdered hotel guests in three California cities.
Karen Ricci had been questioned about Valentine’s death by the LAPD because she had booked the escort who had given Valentine his last ride.
When Cruz had spoken with Ricci two hours ago, she had agreed to tell him everything she knew about the hotel killings for a thousand dollars cash.
Now Cruz tasted his drink, set the glass down on a napkin, and said, “Okay, Karen. What have you got for me?”
“Something the police don’t know. You’ll get your money’s worth, don’t worry, and I’ll save you some time and trouble. The escort didn’t kill the john.”
“She was a suspect?”
“For a while, yes. One of the last known persons to see the victim, whatever. She said she’d had sex with the guy and they didn’t arrest her. They had no evidence of anything but the date, but they harassed her. She couldn’t work without cops tailing her, scaring off business.”
“So do you know who killed the john, Karen? Because if you do, please cut to the chase.”
“Oh, you think I want a grand for saying the hooker didn’t do it?” The woman laughed, took a slug of her daiquiri. She refilled her glass from the shaker.
“Here’s what I think, Mr. Emilio Cruz. You need to talk to the escort, because she knows something that can help you. It’s what you’re paying for. Her name is Carmelita Gomez. Say you know me.”
