was from Phil Nostrant, my friend in Administrative Narcotics.
“Phil. Thanks for returning my call.”
“No sweat,” Nostrant’s voice came back. “What’s up?”
“I’m handling the Palisades multiple homicide that’s been in the news lately. We found coke in the house. It’s a long shot, but there’s an off-chance the murders were drug related. I need information on who was supplying the murdered family. I also want to know if the Larsons were dealing and, if so, whether anyone had a grudge against them.”
“Like somebody who got burned on a deal?”
“Right.”
“That’ll be tough. Coke in the Palisades mostly falls in your so-called ‘recreational use’ category, filtering down a friend-to-friend network. Difficult to trace.”
“Who’s at the top?”
“That’s easy. Antonio Morales. We’ve never been able to make anything stick, but everything on the Westside goes through him.”
“So Morales could find out.”
“Probably, but he’s not gonna-”
“Is he connected?”
“Definitely.”
“I want to talk to him. Tonight. Set it up, will you?”
“It won’t do any good. This guy’s-”
“Do it, okay?”
“I’ll give it a shot,” Nostrant sighed. “Call me later.”
After hanging up, I returned to the table. Graysha was still picking at her salad.
“I believe we were discussing your getting me a list of prospective buyers?” I said.
“ You were talking about it,” Graysha replied.
Look, Ms. Hunt, there are two ways to go about this,” I said patiently. “I’ll be more than happy to do it the easy way. I know you’re nervous about giving out your client list, thinking some heavy-handed cop is going to hassle your buyers and screw up sales. I promise we’ll be discreet, and nobody has to know where we got the names.”
“And the other way?”
“I get a warrant and drag in everybody who ever went near your listing. Unfortunately, the press has a way of finding out about things like a real estate agency refusing to cooperate with authorities in a murder investigation. In fact, I can almost guarantee it.”
Graysha thought a moment. “I’ll speak with my broker, but I’m certain a warrant won’t be necessary. You’ll get your list.”
“Thank you, Graysha.” I passed her my card. “Here’s my number. If I’m not there, they’ll know where to find me.”
Later that night, after returning to the beach house, I sat at the kitchen table gazing out over the deserted beach. To the east, at the foot of the bay, the moon had risen like a skull over the lights of Santa Monica. The tide was out, and clumps of kelp and piles of driftwood and swirls of crab hulls and dead starfish littered the sand to the water’s edge. Far offshore, the outline of a small raft bobbed on the waves.
I took a bite of leftover pizza that Allison and Nate had saved for me. I washed it down with the last of my Coke, setting the empty can on a stack of partially completed VICAP forms. More of the blue sheets lay strewn across the table. Eyeing the FBI profiling questionnaire still to come, I realized I would be up half the night.
Glumly, I picked up my pen and worked uninterrupted on the VICAP forms for the next thirty minutes, pausing when I reached the narcotics section. Idly, I traced a question mark in the blank space, recalling my visit earlier that evening to the home of Antonio Morales, the man purportedly controlling cocaine distribution for the entire Westside. It had gone better than I’d hoped-not that it was likely to help.
That afternoon, after clearing my desk at the West LA station, I had met with Detective Philip Nostrant. As requested, the Ad-Narc detective had somehow managed to arrange a meeting with Antonio Morales. Although doubtful of the outcome, he had also agreed to accompany me to Morales’s Pacific Palisades mansion.
Leaving together from the station house, Phil and I made a twenty-minute drive down Sunset Boulevard to Morales’s estate. Darkness had fallen by the time we turned into Evans Canyon, a dead-end ravine near Will Rogers State Park. “Don’t recall seeing this road before,” I noted as we proceeded up the unlit street.
Nostrant braked as we passed an owners’ register and a “Private Road-No Trespassing” sign. “It’s secluded, all right,” he agreed. Noticing my glance at the register, he added, “Don’t be fooled by the other names on the residents list. Morales bought out all his neighbors a long time back. Owns the whole canyon now.”
A short drive along a narrow streambed brought us to the entrance of Morales’s sprawling estate. Surrounded by live oaks and ornamental fencing, the main house lay past a bridge spanning the creek. Partially hidden in a thicket of hyacinth, a guardhouse sat inside a ten-foot-high gate.
Nostrant pulled up to the barrier and flashed his badge at a TV camera mounted above a speaker. “LAPD to see Mr. Morales.”
A moment later the gate swung open. A guard in a black uniform waved us down the cobbled driveway. Morales, a short, dark man in his early thirties, stood waiting for us on the steps of his three-story mansion. Two powerful-looking men in matching sport coats accompanied him. Another was posted on the landing, a hand inside his jacket.
“What’s this about?” Morales asked bluntly when we arrived, watching with hooded eyes as we climbed from our car.
“Just a friendly visit,” Nostrant answered. “We’re investigating a homicide in the area. Detective Kane here thinks you could help him run down the source of some cocaine found at the scene.”
Morales stared. “I’m a businessman,” he said. “I have nothing to do with illicit drugs. And even if I did,” he added with a wintry smile, “I certainly wouldn’t discuss it with the police.”
I stepped forward. “Maybe it’s time you did.”
The men with Morales stiffened.
“I don’t think so,” said Morales. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-”
“How’s about you and me having a private little conference, Mr. Morales?” I suggested. “Off the record. It’ll take only a couple minutes, and you might learn something interesting. In fact, I guarantee it. What do you say?”
Morales glanced at his bodyguards.
“Come on,” I coaxed, starting down the cobbled driveway. “Leave your boys here. Unless you think you need them.”
Morales hesitated. Then, with a shrug, he turned and followed.
For the next several minutes Morales and I had a heated conversation. When we returned to the front steps, Morales’s dark complexion appeared to have lightened by several shades. I smiled at Nostrant. “Good news, Phil. Mr. Morales says he’ll be glad to do some checking for us. Let’s not take up any more of his valuable time.”
On the way out, Nostrant stopped at Sunset, waiting for a break in traffic. “What did you say to Morales?” he asked. “Make him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”
“Something like that.”
“C’mon, Kane. Give.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime, Phil. Till then, let’s just say I called in a marker and let it go at that.”
Now, as I considered the drug portion of the VICAP form, I reflected on the likelihood of the killings being drug related. Unfortunately, the facts just didn’t fit.
“Goodnight, Dad.”
I turned, finding Nate standing in the doorway. “’Night, kid,” I said, quickly closing the crime files and flipping over several eight-by-ten photos. “Don’t hog all the bedbugs. Save a few for your sister.”
“Sure, Dad. Did you call Mom yet?”
“I tried, squirt. Her cell phone’s off, and her hotel in pastaville said she hasn’t arrived yet. I left a message for her to phone soon as she gets in.”
