minutes to Hancock Park.
Since my release from jail, I’d spent every free minute analyzing, researching, watching. Then I’d ruminated some more.
Jane’s message to Tommy was the prodding I needed to do what my gut had been telling me to do since the beginning.
CHAPTER 115
I parked in the driveway of a house with a pediment and Doric columns and underwater lights turning the reflecting pool deep ocean-blue. It was the very picture of over-the-top conspicuous consumption as only Californians could do it.
Lights were on in the house.
I set the brake, climbed the walk, rang the doorbell a couple of times, and when no one came to the door, I let myself into the house.
I found my sister-in-law in the five-hundred-thousand-dollar kitchen, making chocolate pudding and watching Goodfellas on TV. Her back was to me.
I said, not too loud, “Annie. Hey.”
Annie screamed and dropped the spoon. She turned, hands to her cheeks, still screaming.
“It’s me, it’s me. I rang the bell.”
She took a breath, put her arms out, and hugged me. “You’re a menace, Jack,” she said. “Feel my heart racing?”
“I’m sorry.” Maybe she’d lied to give my brother an alibi, but I loved her anyway.
“Are you okay?” she asked me.
I hugged her, patted her back, said, “I’m fine. But I’ve got to see Tommy. Believe it or not, I need his help.”
“He’s in the barn. Go wake up your nephew. He’s worried about you. Take this.”
She took a jug of milk out of the refrigerator, poured a glass, and handed it to me. “You remember where his room is?”
Ned was asleep.
I turned on the lamp and lit up a room lined with posters: military recruitment, dinosaurs, action figures. I sat on the side of the bed, looked at the eight-year-old boy who wasn’t my child but carried half my genes.
I put the milk down, touched Ned’s arm, said, “Hey, buddy. It’s your old uncle Jack.”
His eyelids flew open and he sat up fast, throwing his arms around my chest. I hugged him and kissed his hair.
“How are you, buddy? How’s Ned?”
He pulled back and grinned at me. “I was digging and look what I found. Dad says it’s older than he is.”
I followed his finger, saw the old glass Coke bottle on the night table. I picked it up, and admired it under the light.
“This is fantastic. It’s a real antique.”
“I saw you on TV,” Ned said. I put the bottle down, and Ned was back in my arms, talking into my chest. “They said you killed someone. Colleen.”
“It’s not true, honey. I know what people say, but I didn’t kill her. I’m being framed.”
He looked up at me, questions and tears in his eyes.
“Someone lied about you? But why? ”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not right. That’s whack, Uncle Jack.”
“He’s not going to get away with it. I’m not kidding.”
“Good. Go get him. Bring the dirty dog down.”
I bumped fists with the little guy and hugged him again. Then I left the house with its elaborate coved ceilings, formal furniture, and fireplaces in every room, walked past the Olympic-sized heated pool and out to the six-bay car barn.
Tommy had a classic American car collection, a passion he’d shared with Dad. I found him under a 1948 Buick Roadmaster, a pewter-gray automobile that looked as if it had been blown from a bubble machine. It was a beautiful thing.
I grabbed Tommy’s ankles and pulled him out on the dolly he’d rolled in on.
He stared at me, his expression changing as his initial fear turned to mocking anger.
“What’s your problem, Jack?”
“I know who set me up, Junior. I know who killed Colleen.”
CHAPTER 116
“Take a look at this,” I said to Tommy.
I cued my iPhone to Mo-bot’s video and handed the gadget to my brother. He pushed the “play” button, and I heard the tinny sound of reporters shouting to get my attention outside my office on a day I would never forget.
“This is you being taken to the hoosegow,” my brother said. “That’s a rough crowd.”
“Keep looking. You see someone we know?”
“Huh. Clay Harris. What’s he doing there?”
“He works for you, Tom.”
“Part-time. He’s a charity case, believe me.”
“So you had nothing to do with him being there?”
“Hell, no. What are you saying? That I knew you were going to jail? And that I called Clay? Why would I do that?”
“Let’s go talk to him,” I said.
“Now?”
“No better time than now.”
“If you say so. I’ll tell Annie I’m going out for a while. I’ll meet you at the car.”
A few minutes later, Tommy met me in the driveway. He was wearing a jacket, different shoes. He walked around to the back of my car.
He ran his hand over the Lambo’s left rear haunch and along the crease to the door. His jacket fell open, and I saw the gun stuck in his waistband.
“Christ,” he said. “What the hell happened to your car?”
“I went to the supermarket. When I came out…”
“I’ve got a great body shop guy. I’ll give you his number. But as good as Wayne is, this is never going to look the same again,” Tommy said. “It’s a damned shame.”
“Get in, will you?”
“Are you allowed to drive?”
“Get in. Try not to shoot yourself in the dick.”
Tommy got into the car. I pulled out onto West Sixth, toward the 5 going north. I figured it would be forty-five minutes to Santa Clarita at this time of night.
“Why do you want to talk to Clay?” Tommy asked me.
Clay Harris had worked for my father as an investigator, and when I took over Private, he was on the payroll.
I didn’t like him, but he was great at surveillance. He could stay on a tail or sit in a vehicle for days at a time. He looked like an unemployed factory worker, could blend into a crowd on the street. And he knew his way around
