"You've gotta be yankin' my goddamn chain." Rink was standing with his knuckles on the hood of Cheryl Barker's squad car. His bowed head emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, equally emphasizing his dismay. I wasn't feeling much better. I was thinking much the same thing as he was. We'd both caught the TV news earlier. A man with a hangdog expression related the disaster that had struck an exclusive yachting club only minutes earlier. The camera cut from the studio to an on-scene reporter who was standing amid crowds of stunned onlookers as a huge pall of black smoke breached the heavens behind them. I'd grimaced at the screen. The world was full of doom and gloom. Even, I'd decided, in exclusive rich men's playgrounds like Marina del Rey. Uninterested, I'd switched channels. Then we'd driven out here to meet with Cheryl Barker. We were parked on the ridge of a shale embankment at the head of a valley in which we could glimpse the roofs of houses amid lush greenery. Palms and peppertrees dominated. Birds called and flapped in the skies above us.
Cheryl had chosen this place for an impromptu meeting simply because it was a halfway point for us all. I could hear the disjointed chatter and squeals of children and guessed it was playtime at some park hidden in the trees. It was a surreal moment, us talking about death and destruction while dozens of kids laughed and whooped with delight below us.
Barker, an attractive woman with light freckles and short but unruly red hair, shook her head. "I ain't the one yankin' chains, Jared. It's just come over the air. The?reball in Marina del Rey is down to your good buddy John Telfer."
Rink glanced my way, and I lifted my shoulders in a noncommittal way. Since the nonsense I'd read on Harvey's computer, not to mention the subsequent newscasts I'd caught on TV and our rental car radio, it didn't surprise me that this latest atrocity was being laid at John's door. It seemed that John had superseded Osama bin Laden as the most notorious felon in the western hemisphere.
Barker was almost as tall as Rink but she was much leaner, and that made her appear diminutive next to my friend's bulk. She stood with her thumbs hooked in her belt like some Wild West gunslinger. Annie Oakley in the?esh.
Rink turned from bracing himself on the hood of the LAPD mobile. He looked Barker up and down. He took in the of?cer's pristine uniform.
"You ain't made detective yet?"
"Nope," Barker said.
"Someone has to see sense soon," Rink offered.
"Tell the truth, I'm in no great hurry. I'm as happy swanning around in a squad car as steering a desk. If I get the promotion, all well and good. If not, well, I'm as happy busting the balls of gangbangers and writing misdemeanor tickets for little old ladies driving the wrong way up the freeway." Barker glanced down, brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her black shirt. "Anyways, I'm partial to the uniform. Can't see why there's such a big deal about getting into civilian duds."
Rink gave Barker a tight-lipped grin. "Plus you get to drive a cool car, huh?"
"Yep, beats the hell outta the pool cars the detectives limp around in. More power under the hood, for one thing."
"You'll need it when you're chasing all those rogue grandmothers in golf carts." The small talk out of the way, Rink asked, "You putting much credence in it?"
"What? The?reball? No doubt about it, Jared. Eyewitness testimony places your boy at the scene."
"They sure it was John Telfer?" I asked, stepping into their circle.
Barker turned and squinted at me.
"Joe Hunter," I said, introducing myself. I stuck out a hand and Barker accepted it, shaking it languidly. "John is my brother."
Barker frowned and glanced at Rink, who said, "It's cool, Cheryl."
Rink's word was enough for Barker.
"Your boy's been on every network and newspaper in the country. Witness swears that Telfer was the one who brought hell to that boat."
I still wasn't convinced and it obviously showed in my face.
"Before the boat went supernova, the witness managed to get off it unscathed. She says that John Telfer must've brought a bomb on board with him. He was carrying some kinda backpack when he arrived." Barker sucked air through her teeth. "Mind you, we ain't giving the bomb part much weight. More than likely, something on the boat went bang. Apparently there were a lot of guns going off prior to the explosion."
"It's not like John," I said, thinking aloud.
Barker lifted her knobby shoulders. "Just telling you what's been said."
"Was there any mention of why John was on this boat in the?rst place?"
"Nothing the witness will admit to."
"Who is the witness?"
Barker said, "A hottie Rhet Carson picked up over on Catalina Island. You know how these old rich guys are. They like a touch of eye candy draped over the rails of their yachts when they pull into dock. Gives them, whaddaya call it, self-esteem?"
"Are you saying your eyewitness is a hooker?"
"Hookers have eyes the same as anyone," Barker replied. "She says that Telfer wasn't the only one to come on board. Two guys in sharp suits turned up. Then some other guy. She seems to think that the last guy on board was with Telfer. The shooting started just after he got there."
Rink and I looked at each other. "Did she give a description of any of the three that turned up after John? The two guys in suits, for instance?"
"Let me see." Barker pulled a notebook from her shirt pocket and thumbed through to a page marked with an elastic band. I doubted she needed the prompt. "Yeah, here we are. An APB was put out for them. Both guys are in their thirties, medium build, dark haired. Kinda swarthy-looking. Dressed in designer suits by all accounts."
"The Mambo Kings." I nodded to Rink.
Barker lifted the corner of a lip at my remark. "You know these two?" "Not personally," I said. "But I intend to." Barker looked off across the valley. "Whatever your intentions, you can scratch one of them from your 'to-do' list. Got another dispatch not ten minutes ago saying one of them was among the dead found in the burned-out wreckage. The other could be at the bottom of the harbor for all we know. They're sending divers down as we speak."
"What about the third man? The one she thought was with John?"
Again Barker scanned her notebook. She made an exasperated noise as she puffed out her cheeks. "White guy. Late thirties to early forties. Cold eyes. That's about it."
"Nothing about his clothing? His hair coloring?"
"Nope. The witness said she only got a quick glance at him. Something about the way he looked at her was enough to send her scuttling for cover, she said." It was apparent Barker didn't like what she was reading. "Not to mention the fact he'd just gutted one of Carson's bodyguards with a knife."
It was my turn to puff out my cheeks. I looked at Rink and saw him staring back. Turning back to Barker, I asked, "Did the witness say anything else about him or John? Did they make it off the boat before it blew?"
"She says they jumped in the harbor just before the boat went up. She didn't see them after that. Chances of them surviving that kind of explosion would be pretty slim."
"John can't swim," I said, a feeling of dread gnawing at my insides. Burned or drowned, neither would be pretty. I had the feeling impression of John's bloated face peering up at me from some in?nitely deep place. Shaking off the disturbing vision wasn't easy, but I had to remain optimistic. I wasn't prepared to admit defeat just yet. Neither was I ready to give up looking for him until the police divers dragged his corpse from the murky water.
"He could've made it out," Rink offered. "Boats are generally moored closely together. Its likely he made it to another one and climbed out of the water."
"I hope so," I said.
"Funny thing is," Barker said, "this other guy, the one who was with Telfer, apparently he did something extremely odd while he was on the yacht."
"Apart from gutting someone with a knife?" I asked.
"Yeah. One of Carson's bodyguards survived the explosion. He was pretty mangled up and not making much sense. He was off his head with pain and blood loss, but he kept on saying, 'He stole my thumb.' "
I glanced sharply at Barker, who gave me a wry smile in return. "Apart from burns over much of his body, his wrist was cut open and he was missing a thumb. Of course, his injuries could've been caused by flying shrapnel from the explosion. Thing is, he was adamant that this mystery man picked his thumb up off the deck."
"Jumpin' Jesus," Rink said, and I could only agree with him.
My theory about John crossing paths with this Harvestman was beginning to take greater shape. Only thing I couldn't fathom was what that meeting meant to them. What was John doing going there with a murderer? Were they acting as allies, on some mad spree where they were working together? Or was John being compelled to work with this beast? I could only hope it was the latter. For everyone's sake.
I didn't realize I'd fallen silent, caught up in my own thoughts, until Rink nudged me. "You hear that, Hunter?"
"Uh? Hear what?"
"Rhet Carson? The guy who owned the yacht?"
I squinted at Rink in miscomprehension.
"I knew we'd lost you there," Rink said.
"Sorry," I said. "I was just thinking."
"Yeah," Rink said. "I could hear the cogs turning from here."
I shook myself into the here and now. "So what did I miss?"
"Rhet Carson's a major player. Head man of one of the outfits out here." "What? Like the Mafia?" Barker gave a little laugh. "The Mafia doesn't hold much sway any longer. Not if you're looking for the old-time Godfather type. But you could say he was a key player in the local underworld. Nowadays your most successful mobsters shun the old-style Cosa Nostra methods. Carson's a top-fight business executive. Runs his business from a downtown commercial center, even advertises on the cable networks."
"His business being?" I asked.
"Banking," Barker said. "But more specifically, moneylending."
I said, "You telling me he was money laundering? What better front than to use your own bank?"
Barker snapped her fingers. "You've got it, my friend. There have been a number of high-profile investigations into his business, lots of supposition, but nothing that would stick. There was the rumor that he was laundering counterfeit dollars for some out?t from the East Coast, but the case never really got off the ground. He's laid low for the last coupla years, kept his nose clean, spent more time on his boat. I'm thinking Carson was maybe about to get back in the business again."
I'd had my suspicions since our last talk with Louise Blake. What the something big was that she'd referred to.
Forged money has never been a big problem in the U.S., obtaining decent paper being just about impossible. But I also knew that it was a ploy of some terrorist groups to?ood countries with fake currency. Kind of destabilized the value of the dollar, bringing down the almighty American Dream. What they couldn't achieve with bombs, they made up for in Mickey Mouse money. Petoskey and Hendrickson would have been making top dollar, selling to the enemies of the USA.
And Rhet Carson had wanted in on the action.
To Cheryl Barker, I said, "But without the drawback of being the middleman this time?"
"It's a fair assumption," Barker said.
"This out?t he was working with, do you know who runs it?" I asked.
"Not personally," Barker said. "I suppose I can?nd out."
"I might be able to give you a couple of names."
"You already have your suspicions?" "Yeah. A couple. Could be a guy called Sigmund Petoskey. He has his base in Little Rock, Arkansas." Barker shook her head at that. "Nah. The mob I'm talking about was rumored to be up in Virginia, maybe Georgia, I can't recall."
"How about Hendrickson?" I asked.
"Like I said, I don't know the names personally. Hendrickson? Sounds familiar. I'll?nd out." Rink gave Barker his cell phone number. Barker, looking every bit the cowgirl, tipped the brim of an imagi nary Stetson our way. "I'd best be on my way. Dallied a little too long. Dispatcher's probably wondering if I've got myself shot dead and is already planning a search party."
I shook hands with Barker, wondering if we'd ever cross paths again. Probably not. Then Barker and Rink hugged as if they'd been intimate once. I didn't ask. Barker then turned to her car and slid behind the wheel. She gave us both an exaggerated wink. "I'll be in touch."
We watched her drive off, her vehicle almost concealed by the plume of road dust churned up by her wheels. After she was gone, we stood kicking our heels.
"So what's the plan of action?" Rink?nally asked. "Marina del Rey's about as good a place as any to start," I suggested.