The Gods of Guilt(53)

“What about the Lincoln?”

“I have some guys looking at it out back right now. They were waiting for you to arrive. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

I reached into my pocket for the keys.

“They don’t need your keys,” Cisco said.

Of course not, I realized. They’re pros. I took the keys out anyway, put them on the table and slid them down to Earl. He’d be driving the rest of the day.

“Okay, well, let’s get started. I’m sorry I’m late. Long night. I know that’s not an excuse but . . .”

I braced myself with another slug of coffee and this time it went down easier and I began to feel it take hold of my bloodstream. I looked at the faces around the table and got down to it.

Pointing to the Paquin 7000, I said, “Sorry for all the secret-agent stuff but I think precautions are necessary. We had some significant developments yesterday and last night and I wanted everybody to be here and to be made aware of what’s happening.”

As if to underline the seriousness of my opening statement, a power chord from an electric guitar echoed through the ceiling and stopped me cold. All of us looked up at the ceiling. It had sounded like the opening chord tab of A Hard Day’s Night—the coincidence was not lost on me.

“I thought the Beatles were broken up,” I said.

“They are,” Lorna said. “And we were promised no band practice in the mornings.”

Another chord was strummed and then followed by some improvisational noodling. Somebody pumped a hi-hat on a drum kit and the clash of cymbals almost loosened my fillings.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Shouldn’t those guys be hungover or asleep? I know I wish I was still in bed.”

“I’ll go up,” Lorna said. “This makes me really angry.”

“No. Cisco, you go up. You already know the update. I want Lorna to hear it and you might get better results up there.”

“On it.”

Cisco left the room and headed upstairs. It was one of the few times I was pleased that he had worn a T-shirt to work, exposing his impressive biceps and intimidating tattoos. The T-shirt celebrated the one hundred tenth anniversary of Harley-Davidson motorcycles. I thought that might help get the message across as well.

To the rhythm of a bass drum from above, I began updating the others, starting with the subpoena Valenzuela laid on me the morning before and then moving through the happenings of the rest of the day. About halfway through, a terrific crash was heard from above as Cisco put an end to band practice. I finished my story by recounting the late-night meeting with Trina Trixxx and the conclusion prompted by Fulgoni’s call from prison that I was under surveillance.

Nobody asked any questions along the way, though Jennifer took some notes. I didn’t know if the silence was a testament to the early hour, the implied threat that surveillance meant to all of us, or my fully engaging skill as a storyteller. There was also the possibility that I had simply lost everyone on one of the turns of the convoluted tale I was spinning.

Cisco reentered the room, looking none the worse for wear. He took his seat and nodded to me. Problem solved.

I looked at the others.

“Questions?”

Jennifer raised her pen as though she were still in school.

“I actually have a few,” she said. “First of all, you said that Sylvester Fulgoni Sr. called you from the prison in Victorville at two in the morning. How is that possible? I don’t think they give inmates access to—”

“They don’t,” I said. “The number was blocked but I’m sure it was a cell phone. Smuggled in to him or given to him by a guard.”

“Couldn’t that be traced?”

“Not really. Not if it was a burner.”

“A burner?”

“A throwaway phone—bought with no names attached. Look, we’re getting off the subject here. Suffice it to say it was Fulgoni and he called me from prison, where someone had obviously reached out to him to inform him that I was speaking at that moment to his star witness Trina Trixxx. That’s the salient point. Not that Sly Fulgoni has a phone up there, but that he knows the moves we’re making. What’s your next question?”

She checked her notes before asking it.

“Well, before yesterday we had two separate things going. We had the La Cosse case and then we had this other thing with Moya that we thought was separate but might be useful to bring in as part of a possible straw man defense for La Cosse. But now, if I’m following you correctly, we’re talking about these two things being one case.”

I nodded.

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. This is all one case now. What links it for us is obviously Gloria Dayton. But the key thing here is Lankford. He was following Gloria the night of the murder.”