Private Dublin

Chapter 6

Detective Salvatore Mattera looked like he was on his way to star in a cologne commercial. He looked stylish and rugged in a fresh-off-the-rack suit. I sat beside him in his black Lincoln Aviator, aware of how rumpled and grubby my tux felt and how disheveled I must look next to him. I rubbed my chin and felt rough stubble.

“I need a shower,” I remarked, and he looked at me and smiled.

“I was on a stakeout once and our suspects got antsy. Me and my partner couldn’t leave our tiny attic in the neighboring building for three days otherwise we’d have broken cover. I was pretty ripe by the time our relief could take over.”

I grinned, warming to the guy. “How many years on the job?”

“Twelve. Six as detective,” he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.

We were heading toward the headquarters of the Big Blue Bus corporation on 7th Street in Santa Monica and were stuck in slow-moving lunchtime traffic. We slowed to a crawl as we passed each exit.

“How did you get into the PI business?” Sal asked.

“My dad started Private. I took it over from him a while back and set up offices internationally,” I replied. “But LA will always be our home.”

“There’s nowhere like it.” He gestured at the eight-lane highway and the endless lines of cars in both directions. “Though this probably isn’t the best place to illustrate that sentiment.”

I started to agree but he turned to look at me, an earnest expression on his face. “I don’t know whether it’s the ley lines or whether the ancient gods spilled some kind of potion here, but this place is special.” He hesitated. “Why else would every other bum on the planet want to live here? Come on, people!” He gestured to the nose-to-tail traffic.

We both laughed, and I was grateful for his easy company.

As we turned off the freeway, I received a message from Mo-bot saying she’d managed to speak to Justine who had said to tell me she was feeling a lot better. The message boosted my spirits and I felt revived as we pulled into the parking lot beside the Big Blue Bus building. The street outside featured a line of vehicles, familiar to anyone who has lived in or visited LA. The security guard on the gate pointed us in the direction of a space, and once Sal had parked, we headed into the two-story glass-and-steel building. On the other side of the lot, I saw buses lined up for cleaning and servicing, a fuel depot and a drivers’ lounge.

Inside, a friendly receptionist took us to the depot manager’s office, where a forty-something man in a white shirt and black pants was waiting for us.

“Detective Mattera?” he asked.

Sal nodded.

“I’m Ray Jenkins,” he said, offering his hand. “Depot manager.”

Sal shook it. “Mr. Jenkins, this is Jack Morgan. He runs Private, a detective agency that’s assisting us with our investigation.”

Ray and I shook hands, and I could tell he was sizing me up, trying to figure out exactly how a scruffy man in a tux was involved with this investigation.

“One of my colleagues was injured in the shooting,” I revealed, and that seemed to put his mind at ease.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ray replied. “One of your colleagues, Detective Landis, called and told me all about what you’re looking for. I pulled the footage from the Route 5 bus you caught on camera last night. It’s all set up.”

He gestured at his PC and we gathered around his desk to get a view of the monitor. The window behind us overlooked the yard, and the walls of the office were lined with photos of buses and groups of employees. I got the sense he was a man who took pride in his work, and the footage he’d cued up reinforced this view.

“Here,” he said, leaning forward to use his mouse.

He clicked a video file, and the interior of one of the buses traveling through LA at night appeared on screen.

I immediately saw the shooter making his way from the back of the bus to the center doors.

“He got off at Santa Monica and Century Park,” Ray said, before scrubbing back through the video.

“He has his mask on,” I remarked to Sal, who frowned and nodded. I could tell he shared my disappointment.

“See stranger things than ski masks when you ride the bus,” Ray said absently as on-screen passengers embarked and disembarked in reverse while he reprised the bus’s journey.

The shooter stayed in the last row of seats for the whole trip. He didn’t talk to anyone and no one went near him, maybe because of the mask.

“He gets on the bus in Santa Monica near the ocean,” Ray said, before switching to another file, “and before that, he rides the Route 9.”

He scrubbed back through footage of another bus, and daylight filled the windows. The landscape in the background was wild and mountainous. I watched the shooter rise from his seat and walk backward before disappearing from the footage. Ray rewound a little further and then allowed it to play again.

On-screen, the shooter boarded the bus, paid the driver and took his seat.

“That’s the stop on Sunset at the edge of Temescal Canyon,” he said. “Route serves the Palisades, but we don’t get many passengers joining it there. I spoke to the driver, Curtis Tucker, and he says the guy was masked when he flagged down the bus. You want to talk to him? It’s his day off, but I can ask him to come in.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Sal replied. “One of my colleagues can go to Mr. Tucker’s home and take his statement. See if he caught anything that might be useful. Can you send that footage to my office?”

“Sure,” Ray said. “I’ll get right on it.”

“Use this email address.” Sal handed him a card.

“What now?” I asked the thoughtful-looking cop.

“How do you feel about another drive?” he replied.