“Hi. Is that Hazel Lustig?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“My name is Daniel Shelton. I’m calling from the Historical Novel Society. I understand from Friedstein and Bellingham Literary Management that Miss Chaykin is staying with you at the moment?”
It was a gamble that Chaykin had left her aunt’s number with her agent, but if she was there for a month and the cell reception was bad, then the odds were surely stacked in his favor.
“I’m afraid she’s not here. Can I pass on a message?”
Her tone was defensive. Protective. Too late to change tack now though.
“Oh, that’s a shame. We’re running a review of her latest book—and, well, it’s a rave. I just got it, and the reviewer really, really loved it. And I thought it would be great to get an interview to go alongside it, do a little feature on her, but I’m playing catch-up here with a lot of people off on vacation and I’ve got a deadline coming up fast. Do you know when she’ll be back? We could do it over the phone, or even by email.”
The woman went quiet for a moment, then said, “The thing is, I’m really not sure she’s got much time to spare right now, she’s—she’s tied up on a family matter.” Her tone had softened at the mention of a rave review. Seemingly an appeal to vanity by proxy was almost as effective as direct praise.
“I’m real sorry to hear that. We’re all huge fans of her books here. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Perrini waited for the reply, but Hazel wasn’t biting.
“No,” she said, “nothing major, thank you. If you give me your number, I’ll be sure to pass on your message.”
He gave her the number of his fresh throwaway plus an email address he’d created while sitting in the car digesting the double-patty delights of his recent fix. Then he thanked her politely and ended the call.
Miss Chaykin was playing hard to get. And although Perrini enjoyed twisting sixty-year-old women around his little finger—a feat he still couldn’t achieve when it came to his mother, who always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking—it was clearly time to apply a more straightforward approach.
He wondered about what the woman had told him. Tess Chaykin was “tied up with a family matter.” Her aunt would “pass on” his message. Perrini wondered about that, and it sounded to him like Chaykin was out of town. He thought about Guerra’s request and about Chaykin’s boyfriend being out in San Diego and what Perrini had found out about him, and he wondered if that was the family matter she was dealing with.
Problem was, Guerra had no interest in probabilities. He demanded facts. Which left Perrini with little choice but to spend a bigger chunk of his fee than he would have liked on a third party, an option he avoided as much as he could—not just due to the expense involved, but also because it involved using people he didn’t know and required them to do something that could land them with federal-level problems if they were found out.
He took out his phone and called Lina. She answered immediately.
“I need a fix on a cell phone. The full workout.”
“Ouch.”
Lina knew the ramifications, too.
“I need it. I’ll text you the number.”
“Okay,” she relented. “Ship it over.”
Perrini knew the drill. It would take anything between thirty minutes and five hours for Lina to come back with a location. There were several variables involved: the make and model of Chaykin’s handset, what carrier she was with, the cell coverage at her location, the number of masts there, and whether her phone was GPS enabled or not. On the plus side, Lina had a few tricks of her own. A combination of geek-level expertise in using the data at her disposal, plus contacts she’d nurtured at three of the big cell phone carriers, meant that Lina had not once failed to provide an accurate lock on any number he’d given her.
Perrini decided to have a quick nap before he returned to the station house. By the end of the day, there was a good chance he’d know exactly where Tess Chaykin was, and so would Guerra.
What the Mexican chose to do then was no concern of his, though Perrini was pretty sure that, given the kind of clients Guerra usually worked for, her best days were now probably behind her.
36
We left the La Mesa station house in Munro’s Yukon, taking Spring Street to the South Bay Freeway, then heading south.
Villaverde had opted to go back to Aero Drive and brief his team on everything we’d learned to date. He said he’d include Jules on the briefing, via speakerphone. Also, one of his guys had volunteered to drive my LaCrosse back to HQ so that I wouldn’t be without a vehicle later in the day, which was something I don’t think anyone in the New York office would’ve thought of offering.
The run down to Chula Vista was a breeze, with the early evening traffic still several hours away and Munro driving with the urgency that we both felt. La Mesa PD had done a great job locating Dani Namour, and they’d sent us the name of the store where she worked. I’d asked them not to tip her off that we were headed down there, since although it was clear that she’d severed her ties with the Eagles, we didn’t know what else was going on in her life and I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t bolt at the first sign of law enforcement. So they’d had one of their female officers call the boutique from her cell phone and ask what days Dani worked because she’d been “so helpful” on the last visit. Not only was Dani working today, but she was mid-shift.
Maybe we had finally caught a break. I was feeling optimistic, thinking it would be pretty unlikely that whoever had all but wiped out the Babylon Eagles knew about her.
A few blocks out from our destination, Dani’s rap sheet came through on Munro’s handset. From the looks of it, and against all odds, she’d managed to keep her nose clean. Apart from a couple of minor traffic violations, she seemed like a model citizen. Which boded well for her daughter.
We parked in the lot outside Macy’s and walked over to the main entrance, which was marked by an octagonal tower sporting a faux cupola, a far cry from the domes of Vatican City that had probably inspired it. A quick glance at the store locator had Vanessa—the boutique where Dani worked—on the south side of the mall facing a CVS, and we headed there after Munro had stopped to grab a couple of sodas, reminding me that I’d been running on empty since that morning.
The store was one of those up-market fashion outlets that sold a small selection of items, all from big-name designers. There was an elegantly dressed and heavily made-up woman somewhere in her forties serving a customer, and a younger blonde in her mid-twenties standing farther back, at the cashier’s desk, leafing through a glossy magazine—Dani. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t look anything like what I imagined, given the image I had of her as a biker chick. Her clothes, hair, and makeup were all immaculate. She’d clearly left the biker life well behind, although I was hoping just a little link to that world remained, a link that was as thick as blood in this case.
Munro waited by the entrance while I went inside.
“Miss Namour?”
She had already looked up when I walked in and was now gazing straight at me. She knew there was no way I was there to buy a dress.
“Yes?”
She was scrutinizing me and starting to show the unmistakable signs of someone who knows that their day is about to take a turn for the worse. I flashed my creds discreetly at her, making sure the older woman wasn’t looking over.
“Could we step outside for a minute?”
Dani smoothed down her jacket and glanced over to her boss. “Suzie, I need to go out for a sec and help this gentleman out with something.”
Suzie nodded uncertainly, then got back to her customer. Dani gestured me through the door and followed me out of the shop.
“There’s a food court on the next level up. We can talk there.”
I tilted my head for Munro to follow and the three of us headed for the escalator, Dani leading the way.
She obviously had a steady job and had successfully moved on after her time around the Eagles went sour,
