Chapter 29

WE WERE WORKING late, Colleen and I, sorting though Andy Cushman's files and financial statements, many of them red-flagged for further investigation.

Colleen was wearing a blue silk cardigan over a lacy camisole and man-tailored pants. Her black hair swung around her face when she bent to put another stack of papers on the coffee table.

"Why don't you go home?" I said. "It's almost nine. I can do this."

"Let's get it done, Jack. It'll just be worse tomorrow."

"Sit down," I said, patting the cushion next to me on the couch.

She dropped onto the couch, threw herself against the back of it, and yawned. "Another hour should do it," she said.

I put my arm around her and drew her close to me.

"Don't be messing about, Jack. There'll be caps on the green and no one to fetch them."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Trouble."

She was telling me "hands off," but without much conviction. Finally, she rested her head on my chest. She smelled like rosewater, her favorite. I put my hand in her hair, and she lifted her face.

I kissed her and she kissed me back. "Okay, Jack. Have your way with me. Please."

"Hang on," I said. I got up and locked my office door, turned off the overhead lights, went back to the sofa. I said, "Stand up, Molloy. Please."

"I can do that."

I unbuttoned her sweater, unzipped her pants, and when she was in her underwear, I returned her to the sofa and undressed myself.

She watched me take off my clothes, then covered her face with her arm as I touched her and made her moan. Colleen cried out as I made love to her… but then she cried tears when we were done.

I wrapped her in my arms, held her between my body and the back of the couch so that she wouldn't get chilled. "What is it, sweetie? What's wrong?"

"I'm twenty-five," she said in a whisper.

"You don't mean-today?"

She nodded, sang, "Happy birthday to me."

"Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?"

"I did," she said.

"No. I forgot."

"It doesn't mean anything, really. I'm not a birthday person."

"It does," I said. I tilted up her chin. "It does. I'll make it up to you."

She shrugged, then pushed me aside, swung her bare legs over the side of the couch, and picked her clothes up off the floor.

"I shouldn't say this, Jack, so I won't."

I already knew. No birthday present, no flowers, no dinner. Sex on the couch. I said, "Go ahead and say it. You deserve better than this."

"Anyone would," said Colleen.

Chapter 30

NOT ONE, but two celebrity couples were waiting for me in reception as I came through on the way to my office that morning. Their money manager had called ahead for them.

The most visually arresting of the four was Jane Hawke, the rock idol who was pierced, tattooed, and dressed in five shades of purple. Her husband, action movie star Ethan Tau, sat to her right. He was wearing cowboy garb down to his Lucchese boots.

Sitting across from them were tennis stars Jeanette Colton and Lars Lundstrom: fair-haired, tanned and toned, Euro-LA all the way.

When I got settled, Colleen showed the couples into my office, asked if they'd like coffee or tea. Then she gave me a tepid smile and said, "Is there anything else, Jack?"

"We're good," I said. But were we?

She closed the door behind her. It made an almost imperceptible click.

"How can I help you?" I said. Then I sat back to listen.

Jeanette Colton spoke first. "It's a little difficult to talk about," she said. Her stolid-looking husband, the Swedish tennis champ, folded his hands in his lap.

Jane Hawke sugared her coffee and said, "Go ahead, Jeanette. Of all of us, you're the one who'll get the story straight the first time out."

A look of pain flashed across Jeanette Colton's face. For the life of me, I couldn't imagine what she was going to say. What were the four of them doing at Private?

"Ethan and I are in love," she said of Jane Hawke's husband.

I looked at the rock star, who was sipping her coffee with a steady hand. I tried to avoid divorce cases. There were plenty of private investigators who liked them and were much better at snooping than I was.

Lars Lundstrom spoke next. "That's only part of the story, Mr. Morgan. Here's where it gets interesting. Jane and I want to be together as well." His accent was strong, but I was pretty sure I'd gotten it right.

Jane Hawke's eyes sparkled under purple shadow. "We've been neighbors for years. Now we want to switch."

Ethan Tau hadn't spoken yet. He smiled broadly, then said, "You don't shock easily, Mr. Morgan. I like that."

"Not often, anyway."

Tau continued. "We're all on board with changing partners," he said. "Jane will go live with Lars, and Jeanette will come live with me. But we're not as stupid as this might sound to you. We want you to investigate all four of us. We want everything out in the open. No surprises. Kids are involved."

"I see," I said. "I'm sorry to have to say this, but our caseload is so full we wouldn't be able to help you for weeks, if then. I'm sorry."

I was sorry. I would've loved to take on a plum job like this: no blood, no guts, no gunfire, just background checks and surveillance. A lot of surveillance. Could keep four operatives busy and on the meter 24/7.

I gave the interesting foursome Haywood Prentiss's phone number and told them that I'd not only worked for Prentiss, he'd taught me everything I knew. Then I showed them out.

I had another appointment, and I didn't want to be late.

Chapter 31

I WALKED SIX blocks to an address in downtown LA that Uncle Fred had given me. The building was three stories high, pink paint flaking off the stucco and a sun-bleached green awning over the front door.

To the left was a bike shop and to the right was a bodega. There was a locked metal gate barring the stairs to the second floor.

I spoke into an intercom, said my name, a code number, and that Fred Kreutzer had sent me. A voice told me to hang on, he'd be right down.

A minute later, a wiry man with dark skin and a face shaped like a weasel's opened the gate and said, "Barney Sapok. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan."

I followed Sapok up the stairs to the third floor, where he opened a freshly painted door and showed me into a space filled with cubicles, about twenty of them, each occupied by a man or woman with a telephone headset, a scratch pad, and a computer.

They were taking bets.

The place looked like a police command center or a telemarketing office, but in fact it was a bookmaking operation that brought in tens of millions a year. Just this branch.

Sports wagering is illegal in every state but Nevada. As a result, it's become a cash cow for organized crime. Barney Sapok was either a family associate or he was forking over a substantial amount of money to the Mob for collection and enforcement and writing it off as a cost of doing business.

Sapok's office was in a corner, overlooking the street. He said, "Mr. Kreutzer told me to trust you. He told me to show you some things. But nothing can leave this office."

"I understand," I said.

He opened a drawer, removed a spreadsheet from a file, and put it on his desk.

"I pulled this data off the encrypted network. Bettors have code names and numbers, so I spent last night decoding it for you."

"I'm sure that will help, Barney. Thank you."

I dragged a chair up to the desk and began to scan the list. Familiar names jumped out at me immediately, players on a dozen teams in both leagues.

"These are their bets over the past year," Sapok said, running his finger down the columns under the names. "Notice something?" he asked.