Now back where he started, Perrini pulled in about a hundred yards short of the Chaykin house and parked behind a blue Prius. He then called Chaykin’s home number again—he’d programmed it into the throwaway he’d bought with cash a few hours earlier. He let it ring for the maximum time allowed by the network, then re-pocketed the phone once the line had gone dead. It was just as he had called it.
No one home.
He fished out a clipboard and a Phillips screwdriver from the stakeout detritus on the backseat and loosened the laces on one of his patent leather shoes, then he climbed out of the car and set off. He walked casually down the street, straightening his tie and sweeping his fingers through his mane of onyx-black hair, a feature that had served him well over the years with both female interview subjects and the still-delectable Louise, who’d been barely twenty when they’d first hooked up.
As he approached the front of Chaykin’s property he looked down, noticed his shoelace was undone, and knelt beside the rhododendron bush as if to retie it. He laid down the clipboard, took out the Phillips head, and quickly loosened the screws holding the street number to the gatepost on the near side of Chaykin’s driveway. When he had them sufficiently free of the wood, he angled the Phillips head down behind the screw heads, pried off the faux-iron plaque, and quickly put it and the screws in his pocket. Then he tied his shoelace, picked up his clipboard, and continued on his way.
He walked confidently across the driveway of the retired couple, past their immaculate Lexus, and rang the doorbell, holding his clipboard in that officious manner that filled most ordinary citizens with preprogrammed discomfort.
A woman in her sixties opened the door, wearing a well-cut pantsuit and a string of real pearls. A ripple of satisfaction ran through Perrini’s chest. This was almost going to be too easy.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Perrini said in the tone he normally reserved for Rachel’s mother and the precinct captain’s wife. “I’m from the Fire Prevention Office down on Weaver Street. We’re currently going around making sure everyone has their house number clearly displayed from the street, as stipulated by town law.”
The woman immediately looked over Perrini’s shoulder at the painted china disc stuck to her low picket fence. It was still there. She swung her eyes back to Perrini with a quizzical look.
He smiled.
“You are of course within regulations yourself, ma’am. And a very pretty sign, I might add. Looks lovely against your mimosa.”
It was the woman’s turn to smile.
Perrini cast his eyes onto his clipboard, on which rather incongruously sat that week’s roster for the Ninth Precinct’s narcotics squad.
“No, ma’am. I am inquiring with regard to the house number of your neighbor”—Perrini tapped his clipboard with a pencil—“a Tess Chaykin?” He gestured over to the gate post from which he had only just removed the number and gave her an apologetic wince. “No number visible.”
The woman gave her pearls a small, anxious tug. Clearly, the thought of anyone on her street being in contravention of town laws was somewhat troubling.
Perrini had to suppress his smirk.
“We’ve already written to Miss Chaykin regarding this matter, but so far we haven’t heard back. Now, we don’t like to fine people unless we absolutely have to. Maybe Miss Chaykin is away for the summer and there’s no one to check her mail?”
The woman nodded. “She’s out of town. But her boyfriend’s here,” she added, with a pointed little grimace of disapproval to go with boyfriend, of course, “though I haven’t seen him since Saturday morning. Maybe he hasn’t been opening her mail?”
Guerra had told Perrini that Sean Reilly was in San Diego, so no surprise there.
“Is there any way you could reach her?” said Perrini, in such a way as not to suggest the slightest note of aggression. “I can hold off on the fine, but I can’t do it forever.”
“Well, I’m not sure I can,” she said, apologetically. “She’s in Arizona with her daughter. They’re out at her aunt’s place. Can’t it wait till she gets back? I think she’s only there for a couple of weeks.”
And with that Perrini had got exactly what he’d come for, so he decided to ease off and leave the Town of Mamaroneck’s laws where he’d found them. He held up the pencil, then wrote a meaningless scribble on the top sheet of the clipboard. “I think I can hold off till then. I’ll make a note to come around again in a couple of weeks. Thank you so much for your time.”
The woman smiled at him and retreated into her house.
Perrini went back to his car and called Guerra’s secure line from his own cell phone. He knew Guerra wouldn’t answer unless the Mexican fixer’s firewall could identify exactly who was calling and authorize the call.
Guerra picked up immediately.
“Did you find her?”
Guerra’s military-like bluntness always grated on Perrini, though he knew that the man had at one point been a full colonel in the Mexican army, before he had retired under something of a cloud.
“She’s not here. She’s in Arizona, at her aunt’s place.”
Guerra paused for a second, then he said, “I need confirmation that she’s there. Call me when you have it.” Then the line went dead.
Perrini had to admire Guerra’s brutal efficiency, if nothing else.
He pulled out of the side street and headed back to the city. As he turned onto the thruway, he called Lina Dawetta, a clerk at the Ninth Precinct with whom he had his own brutally effective relationship. She did whatever he asked her to, in order for him not to report her cocaine habit to her boss—a habit he had done everything to encourage and now fed.
He knew she wouldn’t cross him. The last person to do that had been dragged out of the East River with half a face. And that backstabbing scumbag had been a cop.
“I need something,” he told her, before telling her what it was and agreeing on a time and place to meet.
33
By midday, we were firing on all cylinders.
The three of us were still at the police station in La Mesa, finishing up our interviews with the prospects. Villaverde had as many bodies as he could muster out at the bureau’s office working on tracking down Pennebaker. Munro was doing the same with his people in LA. ATF was also in on the act, which was where I was putting my money, but the breakthrough I was waiting for was playing hard to get.
The prospects didn’t have much to say. In more mundane circumstances, that wouldn’t have surprised me. Biker clubs prized loyalty and commitment more than anything. In outlaw gangs, it was like a blood oath. Patch holders did not discuss club business with anyone outside the club, ever. So, normally, I would have put the prospects’ lack of chattiness down to them seeing it as an opportunity to showcase their worthiness to the club they were trying to join, but in this case, there was no club. Not anymore. Everyone in its mother chapter had been wiped out. So I didn’t see why the prospects would still want to protect their sponsors, given that they were all dead. Which told me that what they were telling us was the truth. Walker and his crew knew how to keep things quiet.
None of the local missing persons reports coming in threw up anyone whose profile matched the previous kidnap victims—scientists, chemists, pharmacologists. We were spreading the net up to San Francisco and beyond, across the whole state, but so far, nothing.