Private: #1 Suspect

CHAPTER 72

Cruz swallowed the Bad Spaniard, including the egg, and said, “I’ll be back.”

He put a twenty under his empty glass and went up the stairs.

Carmelita Gomez was still standing by the armoire when Cruz came through the curtain of shirts. He did all the talking, telling her that Karen Ricci had said to tell her he was okay. That he needed information for cash. And that he’d be waiting for her outside the club at four a.m.

He gave her his cell phone number and said, “ No llegues tarde. Don’t be late.”

Cruz got his gun back from the doorman, then got in the car and headed south.

Del Rio and Scotty were in the surveillance van on South Anderson Street near the corner of Artemus. Cruz parked, slapped the van’s door, got in the back.

Cruz briefed the guys on Carmelita Gomez, and they told him that a whole lot of nothing had happened to the thirty million in drugs stolen from the Mob. That the West Coast boss, Carmine Noccia, was paying for the surveillance but was cracking his knuckles and grinding his teeth, making phone calls to Jack, getting crazy.

Del Rio said, “What I think is that this warehouse is a safe house. They’ll move the van when they have a delivery secured. Or else the warehouse has become a drugstore. Those pills could be leaving here a few bottles at a time.”

Cruz let Del Rio and Scotty sleep, took a shift watching the warehouse. He, Scotty, Del Rio, and Justine were working their major cases while Jack spent all day and all night trying to get his ass out of the bad case against him.

Cruz would be happier when Jack was free, when he was back working with them, and he hoped it would happen before the top guys at Private burned out.

Cruz shook Del Rio awake at 3:35 and got back into his fleet car. At four on the nose, he parked again on North Western under the light, across the street from the sign reading Havana.

The street was emptier and more desolate than it had been six hours before, except for a bunch of rowdies having after-drinks fast food at the Tacos El Patio.

Cruz was thinking maybe he’d go in there and use the bathroom, when the door to Havana opened and a woman in jeans, black cardigan, and black Converse lace-ups came out to the street. He flashed his headlights, and Carmelita Gomez crossed to the car. She glanced up and down the street as she slipped in the passenger side and closed the door.