"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."

"Football guy."

"Yeah. He's worried that some of the games are being fixed. Could result in a huge scandal, the biggest since the Black Sox in baseball."

"Wow," Justine said.

"I'm having dreams again," I said.

Justine's eyebrows lifted. I had wanted to talk to her, but now I was going to have to really talk. Tell a shrink you're having dreams, it's like dangling string for a kitten.

"Dreams about what?" she asked. "The same ones?"

So I told her. I described the vivid explosions, running across the field with someone I love over my shoulder, never making it to safety.

"Could be survivor's guilt, I guess. What do you think, Jack?"

"I wish the dreams would stop."

"You're still funny," she said, "with the one-liners."

I opened the folder I had wedged under the armrest and looked at the photo that Bobby Petino had e-mailed to Justine this morning. It was a school portrait of a pretty sixteen-year-old girl named Serena Moses. She'd been reported missing last night. Serena lived in Echo Park, a section of East LA that Justine called "the red zone," the Schoolgirl killing field.

Two hours after Serena's parents called the police, an anonymous and untraceable call had come in to 911 saying that Serena's body was here in the landfill.

Just then, voices came over the police radio, one sharper and louder than the others.

"I've got something. Could be human. Oh, Christ…"

"Let's go," I said, opening the car door on my side.

"No, Jack. I've got to do this alone. If you come with me, I'll lose my street creds. Just hang tight."

I said okay. Then I watched Justine cross the empty street and head toward where the police were already taping off a section of the stinking terrain.

Chapter 26

JUSTINE LIFTED HER hand in a wave to Lieutenant Nora Cronin, who gave her the customary dirty look before turning back to the black construction-grade trash bag lying like a crashed balloon at her feet.

Justine's chest tightened as she remembered another schoolgirl who'd been dumped here a year ago encased in a similar black plastic bag. Her name was Laura Lee Branco, and she had been knifed through the heart.

Cronin cut the tie with a pocketknife, and the bag fell open.

An arm tumbled out, almost in slow motion, the palm and fingers outstretched. It took Justine a long, heart-stopping moment to understand what she was seeing.

"What the hell?" Cronin said, pulling back the edges of the bag to reveal a department store dummy. Two other cops tugged the mannequin out of the bag.

Cronin turned over the female form and inspected it. There was no writing on the dummy, no note inside the black bag.

"So what's the big message?" Cronin asked the air. "You're the shrink, right?"

"The medium is the message," Justine said. "It's a dummy, get it? The implication is that we're being played."