Private: #1 Suspect

CHAPTER 85

Paul Ricci, limo driver by day, bouncer by night, weighed two hundred pounds, a lot of it muscle. He steamed past the small administration building at the entrance to the parking lot, took a hard left on the sidewalk, and got his speed up on the side street.

Cruz took off after him.

Cruz was smaller but faster and was closing in on Ricci, who was running alongside a high vine-covered fence, heading due north toward Sepulveda Boulevard.

Cruz did not want to end up on the boulevard. A foot chase through eight lanes of traffic was a pileup waiting to happen.

Cruz shouted, “Ricci. Stop,” but Ricci ran out into traffic, showing some good open-field moves as he wove between fast-moving cars.

Horns blared, first at Ricci, then because traffic had slowed. A moment later, Cruz had lost sight of him.

Cruz stood in place for a few seconds, taking in nice deep breaths of diesel fumes, trying to see everything at once. Vehicles of every size and shape obscured his view, and now he was getting mad.

What was wrong with the guy, running like that?

Then Cruz saw Ricci’s shiny head. He was across the road at the base of the staircase leading from Sepulveda up to the Sky Way. There was no place to go once he got to the top, but Ricci was going anyway. Asshole.

Cruz waded out into the roaring traffic, holding up his cop-like badge so that cars would slow for him, calling out, “Ricci, for Christ’s sake. I’m not a cop.”

Cruz got across Sepulveda as Ricci was climbing the upper section of the switchback. Ricci turned his head, saw Cruz gaining on him-and lost his footing. He grabbed the handrail too late and went down, giving Cruz the chance he needed to close in.

Cruz took the stairs like Rocky and caught up with Ricci. “Okay?” he asked. “Is this enough running for one day?”

He reached to give the guy a hand up, and Ricci took the help. But as soon as he was on his feet, he swung at Cruz’s jaw. The bouncer was off balance, and Cruz easily ducked the punch, then he returned the favor with a punch of his own.

Cruz’s fist connected beautifully with Ricci’s jaw, and Ricci went down again, this time for the count.

“California light-middleweight champ, 2005,” Cruz shouted to Ricci. “That’s who you’re fighting with.”

Right then, Del Rio drove the Mercedes up the sidewalk to the base of the stairs.

He got out and straightened his jacket.

“The relief column has arrived,” he called out to Cruz.

Del Rio joined Cruz and Ricci on the steps, where a couple of people passed them without making eye contact.

Del Rio said to Ricci, “Listen, douchebag. We don’t care about your life story, okay? Just tell us what we want to know and we’re gone.”

Ricci rubbed his jaw. “You’re not cops?”

Cruz said to Del Rio, “You believe him?” Cruz put out his hand and helped the guy up again. “Listen, Paul. We’re not cops. We don’t want to hurt you or anyone. We paid Karen and Carmelita for information about five murdered johns in the LA area. We didn’t get it.”

“What information? What information?”

The guy was still panicky, and now Cruz was thinking that one of the people walking up to the Sky Way might have called the police.

He said, “Carmelita said a driver named Billy Moufan had told her that one of their drivers was the killer. She said that Billy OD’d. But there’s no such person as Billy Moufan and there never was. The thing she didn’t say is that you drive a limo. Big oversight. Are you ‘Billy Moufan’? Do you know who killed those johns?”

“No, no, no. It wasn’t me. I’ve only had my chauffeur’s license for six months. Let me show you my license. Lookit.”

Del Rio looked.

Ricci said, “If I tell you the guy’s name, we’re done, right? And you gotta keep us out of it. I don’t want Karen or Carmelita to get hurt.”

“That’s the deal. You never told us the name or where to find the guy.”

“Okay,” Ricci said. “Listen, he’s Karen’s first husband. Tyson Keyes. He’s the driver who tipped off Carmelita about the killings. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t want to know.”

Paul Ricci refused a ride back to the lot, so Del Rio and Cruz got into the car and headed downtown to Private.

“Tyson Keyes. Does he know who did the killings? Or did he do the killings?” Cruz asked Del Rio.