The Prostitutes Ball

RANCHO SAN DIEGO
Chapter 46.

Ten minutes later Hitch's Porsche flew by the spot where I was parked, his headlights off as I'd instructed. I flashed mine and the Carrera squealed to a stop fifteen yards beyond. He backed up and parked behind me. A minute later he climbed into my passenger seat.

"What's this?" Hitch looked at the ranch protected by the guard shack and arched gate that spanned the lane at the end of the road about three-tenths of a mile up ahead.

I handed him the binoculars. First he panned the farm with the grazing thoroughbreds, then the house on the hill before he focused on the archway over the gate.

"Rancho San Diego," he read aloud.

"I wonder if the guy who owns this place has any Italian poetry in his library," I said.

"You're right. 'San Diego' was written in pencil on the inside cover of The Divine Comedy."

I filled Hitch in on the rest of what had happened at Sheedy's house and how I'd tailed him to Skyline Drive and then here. After I finished, he was silent, a pensive look on his face, chewing it.

"He's worried we found that truck," Hitch said. "That means he was probably in on the gold heist."

"Maybe."

"My money says Sheedy Sr. was the tall, pale, black-haired guy in the Chief of D's office when McKnight and Norris were yanked off the Vulcuna case in eighty-one."

I nodded. "I've been meaning to get a photo six-pack together and have McKnight take a look. See if he can pick Sheedy out. We better get that done now. I'll have somebody downtown to go on the company Web site and download a current picture."

We both pondered it for a moment. Then I turned to face him. "You get anything worthwhile from Russell Meeks?"

"A few things."

Hitch opened his red journal to a page but didn't look down at it. "Meeks is real young for a CEO, only about forty, so he obviously wasn't at Axeis Cargo Insurance in eighty-three. He had to make a phone call to find out about that Brinks truck. He got some guy who lived near the office to go down there and log on the computer. Unlike the department, they actually put their old paper files on disks. He accessed the old insurance report on that stolen Brinks shipment. Apparently, the Latimer Commodities Exchange wasn't the owner of the bullion."

"Then who owned it?"

"Latimer was transporting it on contract for an outfit called…" He consulted his notes. "Farvagny-le-Grand Jewelry Consortium. Back in eighty-three they were a big manufacturer of expensive jewelry located in Switzerland. Apparently, Farvagny-le-Grand traded in large amounts of gold and platinum as well as gemstones. That bullion was heading to the L. A. airport for a transfer flight to their jewelry manufacturing plant outside of Geneva."

"Fifteen million in bullion?" I said. "Thats a hell of a lot of watches and rings."

"Sounded like a lot to Russ Meeks, too. But apparently, this outfit supplied retailers throughout the world with product. Had offices in South Africa, London, Singapore, and Cartagena."

"Cartagena?" I said, looking over at him sharply.

"Looks like some cocaine cowboys just galloped into our movie." Hitch was smiling. "A drug angle could be very cool. Figures too, cause it was snowing pretty good in this town back in the eighties."

"Who at that jewelry manufacturer paid the premium on the insurance and then collected the payment after the truck was lost did you get that?"

"I get everything, dawg. I'm the Roto-Rooter of crime." He thumbed through his notes. "The guy on the insurance form was Manfred Westerling." He spelled it out then added, "Jawohl, mein herr. Westerling was Farvagny-le-Grand's wholesale manager here in L. A."

"Okay. Gives us somebody to look for and question."

"German national," Hitch added. "Hopefully he didn't get transferred back to Switzerland."

Ten minutes later Sheedy's Mercedes came back down the private road and passed the guard shack. He was driving much slower. Hitch and I ducked down as he went past.

When we sat up, Hitch said, "Aren't we gonna follow?"

"No. He's already talked to whoever he needed to. He's driving like a normal person now. My guess is he's going home to pout."

We continued to sit there, both of us running through our options.

"I want you to do me a favor before we leave," 1 said.

"Name it."

"Get in your car but keep the headlights off. Then back up about a hundred yards and drive towards the gate at around sixty miles an hour. Once you get past me, turn your lights back on, then go by that guard shack as if you didn't know Potrero ends at that arch. I want the guard to leave his post and chase you up onto the property."

"Why?"

"I've been sitting here, looking at that fancy mailbox down by the gate. I think I know a quick way to find out who owns this place."

"Forgetting for the moment the illegal search aspect of reading their mail, the gate guard probably collects it every day and delivers it up to the main house, so the box will be empty."

"If this guard is like most of the other plastic badges I've met, he's hijacking a few magazines to read on cold nights. Then he sends them up with the following day's mail. It's not an illegal search if I steal something that's already been stolen."

Hitch smiled. "That's very fine hair you're splitting, dude, but I like it. You've always got some devious shit happening. That's gonna be very good for your character, movie-wise."

Sumner grinned as he got out of the MDX and into his Porsche. A minute later he had backed up and was speeding past me. I watched as he snapped his headlights on, then flew past the guard shack and up the drive.

The uniformed guard came running out, shouting as Hitch's Carrera disappeared up the long lane leading to the ranch house on the top of the hill. The guard got into an electric cart that was parked nearby and gave chase.

I put the MDX in gear, and as soon as he was out of sight, I drove up to the guard shack, stopped, left the motor idling, got out and went inside.

The shack was empty, but as I suspected, there were six or seven magazines with address stickers lying on the counter. 1 took one, got back into my car, hit reverse and backed out of there. Then I turned and reparked in about the same spot I'd been in before.

A minute later Hitch's Porsche came back down the lane followed by the electric cart. He was being escorted off the property. Once he was through the arch he continued down W. Potrero.

Then he switched off his headlights, hung a U-turn, and reparked behind me. A moment later he was again seated in my front seat.

"How'd you do?" he said.

I handed him the sports magazine I'd just lifted.

"Who the hell is Diego San Diego?" he said, reading the label.

"That's what we're going to find out first thing tomorrow."