Bull neck, biceps, and all, Padgett is going to get his ass kicked when Ortiz gets him outside.
“Have you ever heard of a woman named Laura?” says Ortiz.
“In what connection?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a business associate. Perhaps a friend of Mr. Rush?”
“Just Laura, no last name?” I say.
“No. Just Laura.”
I think for a moment. The envelope in Nick’s pocket with the name written on it, with the four thousand in cash inside. This would set the embers of curiosity glowing at Homicide downtown. But the way Ortiz asks the question allows me to sidestep it without lying.
“You say a woman named Laura? Sorry I don’t. Can’t help you.”
“You’re just overflowing with information,” says Padgett.
“If there’s anything else, can we get back in touch with you?” says Ortiz.
“You’ve got my card.”
Ortiz gets on his feet and they head for the door. Padgett is out ahead of him. At the moment I suspect he’d rather stay here, maybe hide under my desk.
“There is one more thing,” says Ortiz. He’s almost to the door, turned, looking at me. “Did you know that Mr. Rush and Mr. Metz were in business together?”
He can tell by the vacant expression on my face, whether true or not, that this thought has never crossed my mind.
I shake my head.
He looks at a piece of paper he has been palming in his hand. “Something called Jamaile Enterprises?” There’s a little uptilt in his voice as he says the word “enterprises.” He looks at me, waiting for a reply.
“Nothing? Nothing?” he says.
I am speechless.
“I was just wondering,” he says, “whether Mr. Rush, being a friend, might have mentioned it to you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Though I cannot recall Nick ever having darkened the door of any church, his funeral is held at the old Mission San Luis Rey, a few miles from the coast near Oceanside.
It has been ornately choreographed with three gleaming black funeral trucks hauling enough floral arrangements to look like the Rose Parade behind Nick’s flag-draped coffin in the hearse. No one has explained to me what the flag is doing on the coffin, since Nick was never a veteran, though he was clearly shot in the line of duty. No doubt this is a touch demanded by Dana, who will have it folded and handed to her at the gravesite.
It is a large and hushed crowd that gathers under the hand-hewn beams of the old Spanish baroque church, its thick adobe walls magnifying every cough and the shuffling of shoes on the Spanish tile floor.
We go through the calisthenics of a Catholic service, from the pews to the kneelers and up on our feet again as the priest intones a final blessing over the coffin, sprinkles it with holy water, and swings a giant brass incense burner from a chain as it issues clouds of gray smoke.
The information from the cops has been running through my head like a ticker tape since our meeting-the name Jamaile Enterprises and the assertion that Metz and Nick were in business together.
It is possible they were simply trying to get a rise. If Ortiz and his partner failed in that regard, they did manage to plant a seed that is now sprouting suspicion. The question being: If Nick knew Metz from some prior dealings, why wouldn’t he tell me? I have thought about little else for the past two nights. I have no hard answer, and this is troubling. Was Jamaile a criminal enterprise? It is possible, though knowing Nick he would never be so thick as to put his own name on the documents of formation-unless perhaps he discovered the nature of the business after the fact. This would explain why he wanted to shed Metz as a client. Which leads to another question: Did Nick see the situation as dangerous? I saw no signs of it that morning when we talked in the restaurant. I find it hard to believe he would use me in that way. I am convinced that whatever happened, Nick never saw it coming.
His coffin rests on a rolling gurney centered before the gilded altar above which plaster saints stand like stone guards in their alcoves. A large wooden crucifix bearing the figure of Christ dominates this picture. The odor of incense and burning candle wax hangs thick in the air as if suspended from the rafters.
Harry and I have arrived late and stand in one of the pews near the rear of the church. There are a few political figures here, people Nick knew and worked with over the years, two judges from the federal courts and a city councilman. A few pews up, there is a former state legislator for whom Nick beat a narcotics rap years ago. Nick was sufficiently slick that even the voters acquitted the man at election time, leaving him in office until term limits finally tapped him out.
Senior partners from Nick’s firm take up two rows in the front, right behind Dana, who is decked out in black complete with a veil and flanked by friends handing her Kleenex.
I have looked for Margaret, Nick’s first wife, but if she is present I don’t see her. It is one of those things you think about, even with all the acrimony of the divorce, would she make an appearance? If she has, she has burrowed into the crowd quietly.
The wheels of the gurney, one of them squeaking as if in protest, rumble over the ancient Spanish tiles, as the pallbearers slowly roll the coffin down the aisle toward the door and the waiting hearse. Interment is to be at Eternal Hills a few miles away, a private affair for family and close friends.
The casket rolls by, followed by Dana, her face covered by the veil. By her side is the tall gentleman I had seen on the television news driving her to and from the house-austere and slender, dark hair with just enough gray around the temples to offer the image of authority. He steadies her, a hand on her elbow, the other around her shoulder. An older blond woman is on the other side, probably a sister as there is a clear family resemblance.
The mourners file out behind them from the front of the church, so Harry and I are almost the last to leave. As we make our way to the great plaza in front of the mission, the hearse is already loaded. The undertaker’s staff scurries about trying to get the family into the limos and the floral arrangements back onto the trucks for the ride to the cemetery.
The limo carrying Dana is pulled up tight behind the last gleaming black truck, its windows darkened, its rear door on the other side open.
“Mr. Madriani.” I hear my name before I can see where the voice is coming from. When I turn, standing in front of me is the man who had been holding up Dana as she walked down the aisle.
“We’ve not met,” he says and extends a hand. “I’m Nathan Fittipaldi, a friend of Mrs. Rush.”
We shake.
He wears a dark striped Italian suit and silk tie, an expensive linen shirt, and hand-burnished calf-leather black loafers with tassels poking from beneath pant legs pressed to the sharpness of a knife’s edge. Everything has the sartorial pedigree of being worn once and discarded.
“She’s asked me if I would talk to you. She’s not really in any shape right now.”
“I understand.”
“She would like you to stop by her house. She would like to talk with you. I told her I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course not. When?”
“Whenever it’s convenient. I wouldn’t do it today,” he says.
“Sure.”
“You might call before you drive out, just to make sure she’s in. I’ll give you the number.”
I tell him I have it. He tells me it’s been changed. It seems Dana has been getting phone calls from the press.
“Mr. Rush had given it out to some clients,” says Fittipaldi. “We suspect one of them was probably the source for the press. These people have no sense of respect for those in grief.” It is unclear whether Fittipaldi is talking about Nick’s criminal clients or the fourth estate, though I suspect he would lump them both in the same social set. I suspect that Dana was not alone in her low opinion of Nick’s clientele.
