He took her hand, stood, and then leaned against the wall. He still hugged the briefcase as though it was a baby.
“Listen, I’ve got to get to my office. Is there someone I can call to pick you up?”
He shook his head.
“You going to be okay?”
He nodded.
She gave him a once-over and then smiled. “I have to go. You can come with me to my office. We have a nurse there who could check you out.”
The man shook his head again.
Janet pressed her lips together and walked away. She glanced back over a shoulder and smiled at the man.
The man watched the woman walk away. He moved to the top of the alley and looked left, the way his attackers had gone. He breathed a sigh of relief; they were nowhere in sight. He wondered if they’d been sent to find him. A vein of ice seemed to hit his backbone and he shuddered at the thought that they’d finally tracked him down. But then he pushed away the thought. The attackers were nothing but teenagers, not hardcore muscle.
He looked to the right and saw the woman, now half-a-block away. She said she had to get to her office. It must be close, he thought. After all, she’s walking.
He set off after her, the briefcase cradled in his arms. It would be good to know where she worked.
It took Johnny Casale four hours on I-15 to make the trip from Las Vegas to Los Angeles. He arrived at 10 p.m. and took a room at the Beverly Hilton. After a room service burger, fries, and a glass of merlot, he went to bed, and dreamed about money and women.
DAY 2
CHAPTER 6
Casale knew that the financial markets opened in New York City at 9:30 eastern time, which meant that investment houses on the west coast probably opened at 6:30 a.m. He parked in the lot on the side of the Forsythe Investment building on North Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills and approached the unoccupied reception desk. Behind it were two rows of glass cubicles, six on either side of a central aisle that ran to the back. Two private offices were visible at the rear of each row of cubicles. He spied a twenty-something woman in a glass-enclosed room that was obviously a kitchen/break room at the back, beyond the private offices. She waved at him and raised a finger to signal that she would be with him momentarily.
The woman came forward and greeted him with a big smile. “Sorry,” she said, “I was making coffee. Would you like a cup?”
Casale shook his head. “No, thanks.” He stared into her eyes and took some satisfaction when she seemed to cringe and looked away. He handed her a card. “I’d like to speak with one of the partners.”
The woman glanced down at the card and said, “Private Investigator? New York?”
He smiled and said, “Yeah. Have gun, will travel.”
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
Casale guessed the young woman had never heard of the old television show. Ah well, he thought.
“Sweetie, how ‘bout you tell one of the partners I’d like to talk with him about an urgent matter?”
The woman scrunched up her face and seemed to be about to say something, when Casale squinted, gave her his “street cred” predator look, and barked, “Now!”
Her eyes went wide. She mouthed a couple silent words, turned, and marched down the central aisle. Fifteen seconds later, a distinguished-looking, white-haired man of about the same age as Casale, stepped out of the far right-hand office and peered at him. The receptionist stood behind him and pointed at Casale. The guy said something to the woman, after which she scurried back toward the kitchen. Then the man came forward. He stopped a few feet from Casale, looked down at the business card the woman had given him, and then glared at Casale.
“You got a problem with my receptionist, Mr. Casale?”
Casale was surprised the guy not only pronounced his name correctly—Ca-sal-eh, but he spoke with the traces of a New York accent, and he eyeballed him as though he might take a swing at him. He smiled and answered, “No, I don’t have a problem with her. I told her I wanted to talk to you and here you are.”
“New York, huh?”
“Yeah. Queens, to be exact.”
The guy now wore a humorless grin.
“You, too?” Casale asked.
“Brooklyn.”
“I didn’t get your name,” Casale said.
The guy showed a toothy grin and said, “I didn’t give it to you.”
Casale waited.
Finally, the man said, “Forsythe. Charles Forsythe.”
“You don’t look like a Forsythe.”
It was Forsythe’s turn to not respond.
Casale scoffed. “Probably wanted to fit in out here.”
Again, there was no response from Forsythe.
“You got ten minutes for me?” Casale asked.
Forsythe waved a hand. “Let’s go back to my office.”
The office was large, spacious enough to accommodate a credenza, desk chair, and desk, with two more chairs and a tray table in front of the desk, and a three-seat couch and coffee table at the opposite end of the room from the desk. It was richly appointed, with a Persian carpet and what appeared to be original paintings of California landscapes.
After Casale sat in a chair in front of the desk, Forsythe stared at him for a couple of seconds, then said, “So, what brings you to California?”
Casale made a production of pulling a small note pad from an inside jacket pocket. He flipped open the cover and turned to a page. He then made eye contact with Forsythe. “You ever heard the name, Bruno Pedace?”
He looked for some sort of tell from Forsythe, but caught nothing.
“Why?”
Casale shrugged. “He took something that belonged to my client.”
“Musta been something valuable for you to come this far.”
The P.I. looked toward the open door and waved in the direction of the hallway. “I see you got a number of people working for you. Maybe one of them heard of Pedace.”
“That’s possible.”
“Maybe you could ask them if they did a transaction for him. Cashed in a one hundred-thousand-dollar bond.”
Forsythe’s right eyelid twitched.
Casale leaned forward and, in a lowered voice, said, “Let’s not jerk each other around, Forsythe. I suspect no one cashes in a one hundred-thousand-dollar bond around here without a partner signing off on it. All I want to know is where the guy who cashed in that bond lives. I know it was Pedace. I walk outta here with that information and I’ll be indebted to you. Maybe I do you a favor one day. But if I leave here empty-handed, you’ll have a new enemy.”
Forsythe’s face colored momentarily and his eyes narrowed. But there was no fear in his expression. Casale was convinced the guy was no white-collar softie.
“If this Pedace is a client of this firm, there’s no way I’ll give you any information about him. But since I’ve never heard of him, I can’t help you.”
Casale groaned, then stood. “That’s too bad. You’re making a big mistake.”
Forsythe said, “Mr. Casale, I’m asking you real nicely to leave my office. If you don’t do so in the next few seconds, however, I’ll throw your ass out.”
Casale pointed a finger at Forsythe and opened his mouth to say something, when Forsythe leaped from his chair. “If you think I’ll be pushed around by some chooch from Queens, you’re badly mistaken. Hai capito? Now get the hell out of my office.”