Not the sorts to be behind this thing, Frankie thought as she verified Lightman’s analysis of the members’ ages. She flipped through the list and saw no reason to lower the threshold he had set. “A mortician’s dream. Some of these people are past ninety. A couple even—” Wait. Back up. “Hal. Look.”
Lightman looked to the spot that Frankie’s finger indicated. “C. C. Royce.” His eyes came up, peering over the bifocals he used for reading. “Royce.”
Frankie opened the appropriate drawer and removed a file that held the breadth of the information they had gathered on Monte Royce. The bastard, she thought, one of his statements made during their interview of him coming to mind. ‘You can imagine she is quite old….’ It didn’t take her long to find confirmation of her supposition. “Here. Canadia Conyers Royce.” She handed the pertinent page from the CEO’s biography in his company’s annual report. “Mother of Monte.”
“Son of a bitch,” Lightman commented, removing his glasses. “It looks like Mommy Dearest was doing a little recruiting of tenants for her little boy.”
“It looks that way,” Frankie agreed without enthusiasm. There was still the nagging question as to why Monte Royce would be involved in this. This new information only solidified a link between Royce and Kostin. It provided no connection to the man they believed was actually running the show: John Barrish. He was safe — “Hold on.”
Lightman saw his fellow agent sit bolt upright. “What is it?”
“Barrish,” Frankie said. “He was cleaned out in that suit a couple of years back, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Frankie set the Royce file aside and paged back through the list of properties owned by the Green Hills Trust, finding what they had all been looking for on the last page. “Yes!” she exclaimed, bringing her fist joyously down on the folded printout. “We have them.”
“Who?”
“Look here,” Frankie said. “Green Hills not only owns Kostin’s house and the office he leased, they also own the house John Barrish is living in. Art and I were up there last week.”
“Shit. You were right.”
“This is it,” Frankie proclaimed with satisfaction. But there was no time for celebration. They had to move now. “Hal, get Omar in here and get to Barrish’s attorney. We’re going to do this right. No legal snafus. Tell his attorney — Mankowitz is his name — that we’re bringing his client in for questioning. That’s all. Also tell Lou to get a tactical team ready to move on Barrish’s house. Make sure he alerts Captain Orwell.”
“Do you think the stuff is up there?”
“If it is we’ll be ready. I’ll go pick up Royce for questioning. Once we have everybody in our hands we’ll get Horner to bless an arrest warrant for Barrish and Royce.”
“Royce may crack now,” Lightman surmised.
“What? Use his mother as leverage?” Frankie stood and grabbed her jacket. “What makes you think I’d use such an underhanded method?”
“Just guessing,” Lightman said, his face plastered with a knowing smile.
Frankie reached the elevator just as Art was stepping off. He saw the look immediately. “What?”
“Come on,” she said, herding him back into the elevator. “We’ve got Barrish. Direct link to Royce.”
Art thumped the elevator door as it closed. “Dammit, yes!”
“I’ll give you all the details in the car,” Frankie promised.
“Where are we going?”
She smiled. “To nail one Monte Royce’s ass.”
Art nodded, joining the smile. It was good to start the morning on a high note. Taking Royce down was only slightly below the highest. But he could wait to nail John Barrish…for a while.
THIRTEEN
Body Count
“Your nine o’clock canceled,” Lena told Anne Preston as she walked through the door of her outer office. A devilish grin accompanied the revelation.
“Hmmm.” Anne shook her head, and headed for the door to her office. “I’ve got work to catch up on.”
“Go see him,” Lena said, stopping her boss in her tracks. “You know you want to. It’s only an hour.”
Anne looked to her secretary and smiled. “I knew I hired you for some reason.”
“Go.”
One billable hour down the drain, but the standard cancellation fee and the chance to see Art was the flip side. It was a fair exchange. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Say hi for me, too,” Lena told her.
“I will,” Anne assured her, then headed back the same way she had come. Five minutes later she was driving west on Wilshire on her way to surprise her man.
The drive north on the 405 took Art and Frankie a little longer than they’d anticipated, thanks to a fender bender that was clearing on the right shoulder, but the northbound 101 — actually heading in a westerly direction for that stretch — was free and clear, allowing them to reach Monte Royce’s Westlake Village place of residence in less than thirty minutes. But arrival only presented a fresh problem.
“Excuse me,” Frankie said as she pulled the Bureau Chevy up on the wrong side of the street, blocking the gated driveway to the Royce home. The uniformed woman looking inward through the wrought-iron bars turned toward her voice. “Do you live here?”
The woman eyed the stranger suspiciously, a reaction Frankie noticed and alleviated by showing her shield. “No, I’m the nurse for Mrs. Conyers Royce. But no one is answering the gate phone.”
Frankie put the car in park and got out. Art did also and walked over to the woman. “How often do you come here?”
“Every day about this time,” the nurse explained nervously. “Mr. Royce leaves once I’m here. He never leaves until I’m here.”
Art looked toward the house. It was barely visible from the street, the abundance of well-tended foliage acting as a natural privacy shield. He switched his attention to the gate, particularly its locking mechanism, which operated on a simple hook-and-post principle. Press a button, the post drops, and the hook is released, letting the gate open with the aid of a hydraulic pusher. Of course one could ram the gate, but there were less dramatic ways of gaining entry. “Do you have a key to the house?”
“Yes.” The nurse held out a ring with four keys on it, which Art took. “This one here is for the doors.”
“Let the police know, partner,” Art directed. As Frankie went to the car, he turned his attention back to the anxious nurse. “Are you concerned about the Royces?”
“Very much so. I’ve been trying to get Mr. Royce on the phone for twenty minutes.” She glanced through the gate. “I hope nothing is wrong.”
I hope the bastard hasn’t skipped out on us, Art thought alternately. “We’re going to go in and check. The police will be here in a few minutes.”
“I hope everything is all right.”
“So do we,” Art agreed, though his definition of “all right” was vastly different from that of the nurse. He looked at the wall on either side of the gate, deciding quickly that an eight-footer was a little too much. But at the north corner of the property there was the shorter fence belonging to the neighbors. Frankie came back up as Art gestured to the barrier. “Let’s do some climbing.”
They went to that wall — a six-footer — and used it as a step to clear the adjoining barrier. Once over they crossed the lawn and walked up the driveway, following its sweep to the front entrance. They pounded on the front door and yelled the familiar “FBI!”, but there was no response. A check of several windows along the front yielded nothing, as the shades were fully drawn, so they skirted the perimeter to the north, passing the closed garage doors, and headed toward the back of the…