A WAITER CAME over and said to Karen Ricci, “Papa’s daiquiri, as usual?” Karen said yes, and the waiter asked Cruz, “You like rum? I recommend you try the Bad Spaniard.’”
Cruz nodded, and when the waiter left them, Karen said, “There’s a whole egg in that drink.”
Cruz shrugged, put on his bashful smile, and said, “I like eggs. Why’d you pick this place to meet?”
“The guy at the door?”
“The bouncer?”
“He’s my husband,” she said.
All that Cruz knew about Karen Ricci was what his source had told him. She had worked at an escort service called Sensational Dates for the past two years. She took calls from johns, arranged the dates, and charged their credit cards.
A john name of Arthur Valentine had been strangled with a wire at the Seaview hotel back in 2010, the second victim in what would become a string of five murdered hotel guests in three California cities.
Karen Ricci had been questioned about Valentine’s death by the LAPD because she had booked the escort who had given Valentine his last ride.
When Cruz had spoken with Ricci two hours ago, she had agreed to tell him everything she knew about the hotel killings for a thousand dollars cash.
Now Cruz tasted his drink, set the glass down on a napkin, and said, “Okay, Karen. What have you got for me?”
“Something the police don’t know. You’ll get your money’s worth, don’t worry, and I’ll save you some time and trouble. The escort didn’t kill the john.”
“She was a suspect?”
“For a while, yes. One of the last known persons to see the victim, whatever. She said she’d had sex with the guy and they didn’t arrest her. They had no evidence of anything but the date, but they harassed her. She couldn’t work without cops tailing her, scaring off business.”
“So do you know who killed the john, Karen? Because if you do, please cut to the chase.”
“Oh, you think I want a grand for saying the hooker didn’t do it?” The woman laughed, took a slug of her daiquiri. She refilled her glass from the shaker.
“Here’s what I think, Mr. Emilio Cruz. You need to talk to the escort, because she knows something that can help you. It’s what you’re paying for. Her name is Carmelita Gomez. Say you know me.”
Cruz took out the envelope, plucked out two hundred-dollar bills, and passed them under the table as the exotic dancer on the little stage took off her top and shimmied her pasties for the crowd. Cruz leaned closer to Karen Ricci. “You get the rest after I meet this woman.”
“You already did,” Ricci said. She tilted her chin toward the staircase.
“Upstairs? At the closet door?”
“That’s her,” Karen said. “She gets off work at four.”
CHAPTER 72
CRUZ SWALLOWED THE Bad Spaniard, including the egg, and said, “I’ll be back.”
He put a twenty under his empty glass and went up the stairs.
Carmelita Gomez was still standing by the armoire when Cruz came through the curtain of shirts. He did all the talking, telling her that Karen Ricci had said to tell her he was okay. That he needed information for cash. And that he’d be waiting for her outside the club at four a.m.
He gave her his cell phone number and said, “No llegues tarde. Don’t be late.”
Cruz got his gun back from the doorman, then got in the car and headed south.
Del Rio and Scotty were in the surveillance van on South Anderson Street near the corner of Artemus. Cruz parked, slapped the van’s door, got in the back.
Cruz briefed the guys on Carmelita Gomez, and they told him that a whole lot of nothing had happened to the thirty million in drugs stolen from the Mob. That the West Coast boss, Carmine Noccia, was paying for the surveillance but was cracking his knuckles and grinding his teeth, making phone calls to Jack, getting crazy.
Del Rio said, “What I think is that this warehouse is a safe house. They’ll move the van when they have a delivery secured. Or else the warehouse has become a drugstore. Those pills could be leaving here a few bottles at a time.”