'I know you think that's funny, but Mr. Lubick is a genius. His visions have creative magnitude. I didn't come to Hollywood to work on scams like Boots and Bikinis. Paul is actually trying to make a meaningful film here, so if you say one more smartass thing about him, I'll be forced to report it.'
'As well you should.' Shane shook his head; this wasn't getting him anywhere. 'Look, Daphne, I apologize. You're right, of course. Paul Lubick is the best. He's tits. But right now I need to talk to Nicky. Think you could hook me up?'
'I'm not supposed to handle anything but Mr. Lubick's business. I'm his personal assistant.'
'Could you make an exception just this once? Can you please just transfer me?'
'Nicky went home. He's at his apartment.'
'Thanks. And congratulations on the promotion.'
She didn't respond; instead she hung up on him. Shane dialed Nicky's apartment three times but kept getting a busy signal. The Hollywood Towers were only five minutes away, so he drove there, parked on the street out front, then went into the building. It was five-thirty, so he left the pizza box prop in the trunk. He was going to find the manager this time and just badge him. But his timing was perfect. Somebody was just getting off the elevator as he walked into the lobby. He sped up and caught the door before it closed. If he'd been a home invasion specialist, this building would be high up on his target list.
Shane exited on the twenty-fifth floor and walked down the hall to Nicky's apartment.
He pulled up a few feet away.
The door was ajar, the lock splintered.
Somebody had left a big, black boot mark up by the brass knob. This B amp;E was about as subtle as a gay pride parade.
Shane was still packing Alexa's Double Eagle in his belt, at the small of his back. He pulled the piece, chambered it, touched the door with his toe, and pushed it open. Then he dove into the apartment.
It wasn't pretty.
The place had been completely trashed. Tables and furniture were tipped over. The Japanese prints had been pulled off the wall and kicked to shreds. Shane rolled to his feet, and, not hearing any movement, began to creep carefully through the rooms. Just minutes ago, the phone had been busy, so he took no chances.
He slowly cleared the apartment. The destruction seemed gratuitous. This had been more than a search; there was anger here. It looked like whoever had done this came specifically to destroy things.
Nicky's personal effects were gone. The bathroom had been emptied.
Shane opened the closet door. Nicky's suits were all off the hangers and thrown on the floor. His jewelry box was crushed, his watches stomped on. The little grifter's tan Louis Vuitton overnight bag was missing. Shane reached up and found the shoe box that had contained the 9mm pistol and two clips. The minute he put his hand on it, he could tell the box was empty. He pulled it down anyway, carefully removing the top, using his thumbs to push it up and off.
He found a baggie in the kitchen and secured the box top for prints.
Nicky's trick book with all the girls' pictures in glassine envelopes had been removed from his sock drawer.
Then Shane's eyes fell on the telephone. It had been knocked off the hook, which explained the busy signal. This could have happened any time since Nicky left the apartment this morning.
Shane stood in the center of the ransacked living room trying to add this piece to the puzzle. Nicky was a smalltime crook, a petty criminal. He was a, well, to be honest, a Pooh. Nicky the Pooh was the kind of guy you slapped around but probably didn't hit. This angry trashing of his apartment was a troubling, discordant note in the whimsical life of the little con man. So who had tossed this place? Who could get this mad at Little Nicky? It didn't figure. But either way, Nicky was in the wind.
Shane looked at his watch: six o'clock. He needed to be at the Jonathan Club in Santa Monica in an hour for Farrell's bachelor party. He decided he would try to piece it together on the drive there.
Chapter 38
The Santa Monica Freeway was a parking lot full of rush-hour hostility. Shane was cut off, flipped off, and pissed off. He tried to calm himself while averaging a snail-like six miles an hour. He inched along past Hoover, then La Brea. His car was creeping, but his mind was racing.
Despite the fact that many crimes appear to be disorganized and chaotic, inside that chaos is usually some kind of, twisted criminal logic. If an investigator can adopt the right mind-set, he can often spot a pattern.
As Shane smogged along in a sea of potential violence, he let his mind zigzag across Nicky Marcella's involvement in this case. He could easily understand Nicky hanging out with Champagne Dennis Valentine, running his errands, even getting Shane to find Carol White for him. All of that fit into some kind of logical equation.
What didn't make sense was Nicky's relationship with a Hollywood heavy-hitter like Farrell Champion. Why would Farrell hang out and do deals with a small-time bullshit artist like Nicky the Pooh? Yet there he was at the famous producer's engagement party, in his two-tone suit and Cuban heels, bragging about the projects they had in development together. Savages in the Midst, a film about a girl destroyed by Hollywood… the Carol White Story.
Nicky was a pretender. So why would Farrell Champion, a. K. A. Daniel Zelso, have anything to do with him? With his WITSEC status, the last thing the producer or the U. S. Marshals' office would want was for him to befriend a criminal loser like Nicky Marcella. It just didn't track.
Now Nicky was missing. He'd either been snatched or, as his missing suitcase suggested, had packed up and left in a hurry. Somebody had gotten pissed and trashed his place either during the snatch or after Nicky left. Shane didn't think whoever did it was searching for anything. They were sending a message.
After leaving the vomitorium this afternoon, Nicky had scurried along, looking over his shoulder as if somebody was after him. Now Shane wondered who that might be.
At seven-fifteen he finally arrived at the luxurious, private Jonathan Club. The massive brown building sat on the sand at Santa Monica Beach, with one windowless wall backing up against the four-lane Coast Highway. The sun was hovering just above the ocean, tinging everything with orange light. Shane made a left through the arch and drove toward the entrance. A man in a red jacket was valet-parking cars. As Shane pulled up and got out, he looked at the nearby parking area, trying to spot Nicky's maroon Bentley-it wasn't there. He gave up the Acura and headed inside the private club, where he was met by a tall, good-looking man about thirty, wearing a dark suit.
'I'm here for Farrell Champion's. Bachelor party.' 'Yes, sir. Take a right down the stairs. It's in the Grill's private dining room.'
Shane turned and walked across the magnificent wood-paneled lobby, down a few steps to ground level, then followed the corridor to the Beach Grill, where he found a set of green louvered doors fronting a small, private room that overlooked the sandy Santa Monica Beach. Several beach volleyball courts were in use. Very athletic games of mixed doubles were being played by tanned twenty-year-olds. Their hard, muscular bodies glistened as they leaped and spiked, giving high-fives after every winning point.
The room was only half full with about twenty well-dressed male guests. Shane stepped up to the small five- seat bar and started looking around for Farrell.
'Hey, bud, way to go, you made it,' the handsome producer said as he made his way over and gave Shane a bear hug. It seemed they were 'buds' now. Shane was again struck by the animal magnetism of the man. He was also struck by the fact that Farrell looked nothing like the faxed picture of Daniel Zelso, which was locked inside his briefcase in the Acura's trunk. Shane tried to spot surgical scars. He checked under Farrell's chin and behind the ears. Nothing.
Could it be that he'd been wrong? That somebody else's prints had been on that lighter?
'Nora said the bridal shower was amazing,' Farrell said. 'You guys really are the best.'
'Well, you know how close Alexa and Nora are.'
