Smooth as cream.
For the next hundred minutes I flew the plane as if it were a part of my body. Flying is procedure, procedure, procedure, and I knew it all by heart. I listened to the radio chatter in my headset, and it erased my tormenting thoughts.
I forgot the dream and lost myself in the wonder of flight.
Chapter 23
JUST AFTER NOON, we landed at Metropolitan Airport on San Francisco Bay.
We rented a car and hit some heavy traffic on the Harbor Bay Parkway, arriving at the Oakland Raiders’ practice field half an hour late for our appointment with Fred.
I gave my card to the security guard at the main gate, and Del Rio and I were waved through to the natural-grass practice field where professional football players were running pass patterns and pursuit drills. On the far end, two placekickers took turns booting field goal tries from the forty-yard line.
Fred was standing on the sideline at midfield and came over to greet us. I introduced Del Rio, saying that he would be working with me on the case.
My uncle waved in a few of the Raiders’ high-profile players — Brancusi, Lipscomb, and tailback Muhammed Ruggins — guys who were earning millions a year. Jeez, were they big. We talked about the upcoming game with Seattle and then turned our attention to the Raiders’ talented quarterback Jermayne Jarvis, who was out there taking snaps.
I said, “I can’t get over his timing on those square outs. It’s like he knows precisely when the receiver will turn.”
Fred said, “You did good at Brown, Jack. You could throw it on a rope. You’re better off that you didn’t try and go pro, though.”
I couldn’t have. I didn’t have the size for it, or probably the arm. Plus the Ivy League isn’t exactly the Big Ten or the SEC.
I saw a light go on behind Fred’s eyes. “So, Jack, maybe you and Rick want to toss the ball around with some of my guys?”
I protested, said, “Are you crazy? I thought you cared about me.” But Del Rio looked like a kid who’d just won a video store sweepstakes.
He and I went out to the field and took turns running ten-yard crossing patterns as Jermayne Jarvis fired strikes at us.
Having warmed up, I found myself getting into it. But as I reached for one of Jarvis’s precision darts, I ran into Del Rio, knocking us both down. Fred trotted over, put his hands on his knees, and while laughing at me, said, “That was beautiful, Jack. Poetry in motion. Now I’ve got something to show you that’s not so funny.”
We walked off the field through a long concrete hallway and a series of locked doors until we got to Fred’s office. He opened a locked cabinet and took out a banker’s box full of what he said were DVDs of the past twenty-eight months of NFL games.
“I flagged those eleven games that raised real questions. Check them out, and let’s compare notes.”
Then he told me where I should start looking for the crooks who were threatening to shut down professional football.
“I’ve never asked you for anything before, Jack, but this time I’m asking. I need your help.”
Chapter 24
IT WAS DARK when I got back to my house. A waxing moon spotlighted the roof, which was just visible over the high steel-reinforced gate.
I was pulling the Lamborghini into my garage when I saw headlights in the rearview mirror.
The lights followed right on my tail, flashing, someone signaling to me. I braked, turned off the engine, and got out. I saw a black sedan easing into my driveway. Who the hell was it?
I waited by the side of my car until a front door of the sedan opened. The driver got out. He unbuttoned his jacket as he came striding toward me. “Mr. Jack Morgan?”
When I said that I was, he said, “Mr. Noccia wants to speak to you. It’s important.”
“I don’t want to talk to anybody right now,” I said without pause. “Please be careful backing out. You don’t want to get T-boned on the highway.”
“You’re sure that’s what you want me to tell him?”
I was pretty sure. I stood my ground as the driver went back to the Town Car. I waited for it to leave, but instead the passenger-side door opened. A second man got out, and he opened the rear door for a third man. And then the three of them closed the distance between us.
I recognized Ray Noccia.
He was wearing a gray sport jacket and had gray hair, gray skin, and a nose that cast a shadow on his cheek. Reality hit me. A Mafia don, a made man who had ordered dozens of executions, was standing in my driveway. It was nighttime. Nobody had seen him come. Nobody would see him leave.
He stuck out his hand. “Ray Noccia,” he said. “Good to meet you.”
I kept my hand in my jacket until he put his down. A dark look passed over his face, as though I’d slapped him or pissed on his shoes.
Then Noccia smiled. “Your father and I did some business,” he said. “That’s why I sent my attorneys to talk with you. Apparently they offended you in some way. I owe you an apology, and I make my apologies in person.”
“No apology needed,” I said.
There was no humor in his smile.
“Good. So you’ll look for Beth for me? I understand the rules. No quote. No ceiling. I’ll pay your rate plus a bonus when you find her. That’s because you’re the best.”
It was time that I ended this, now and for the future.
“Your men know where they buried her. Save your money. Drill down on them.”
There was a leaden pause. Noccia didn’t take his eyes away from mine, and when he spoke, his words were almost drowned out by the rush of traffic and the Pacific surf.
“You’re much better educated than your father, but you’re not half as smart,” said Noccia. “And look how he ended up.” He turned and walked back to his car.
I had probably gone beyond the realm of bravado, but I didn’t care. Ray Noccia had already said the worst thing he could to me — that he and my father had worked together.
My hand was shaking when I put my key in the lock of the front door. I hoped I’d never see or hear from Ray Noccia again.
Fat chance.
Part Two. NUMBER THIRTEEN
Chapter 25
MORNING LIGHT FLATTERED the trash dunes with a rosy glow, and seagulls screamed bloody murder as they swooped over the acres of garbage at the Sunshine Canyon landfill. Breakfast was served.
Justine pulled her Jag over to the side of the road and stared out at the landscape. I twirled the dial on her police band radio until the signal was clear. She opened her thermos, passed it over to me. I took a sip.
The coffee was black, unsugared. That’s the way Justine liked just about everything: straight up, no bullshit.
We hadn’t exchanged an intimate touch in more than two years, but sitting next to her in the close confines of the car, I found it tough not to reach over and take her hand. It had always been confusing, even when we were together.
“How’s it going?” she asked me.
Cops were picking over the dump across the road. We could hear them talking to base over the police band.
I said, “Andy Cushman has about twenty pissed-off former clients, any one of whom has the means, the opportunity, and especially the motive to kill him. So why kill Shelby instead? I’m not getting anywhere on it.”
“Sorry to hear that, Jack. But what I meant was, how’s it going for you?”
Actually, what she meant was, how was it going for me and Colleen — and I didn’t want to get into that with her. Instead I said, “I have a new case to work on. It’s heavy-duty and personal. You remember me telling you about my uncle Fred.”