"How often do you check in, Tony?"
"Not gonna tell you."
"Sure you are. Come on, how often?"
"Every hour,” he mumbled. Wonderful pills, truly.
Cyn glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes after three. So had he checked in at three? Or was he due to check in soon? She had no way of knowing, but let's assume the worst.
Standing on the back bumper of her truck, she could barely see out the long narrow window at the top of the door. No one around. With the engine running, she hit the opener, backed out, then closed the door again as soon as her hood cleared the threshold. She didn't know where she was going, but she wanted to be long gone before Tony woke up and found out she really wasn't a bad person. After all, she'd left him his cell phone.
Chapter Thirty
Cyn drove south on Pacific Coast Highway with no destination in mind. She'd considered and dismissed the idea of stopping at her office. If Raphael had thought to put a man on her condo, the next place he'd look for her would be the office. On the other hand, she really needed a shower and some rest. She picked up her phone to call the local hotels, then noticed she had two messages, both from her friend Benita. She played back the first message.
"Hey, chica. I'm calling you back."
Cyn paged forward to the next message. “Lemme esplain,” her friend said in an exaggerated Ricky Ricardo accent, “You called. I called you back. Then you call me back."
Cyn was still laughing when she hit the 10 freeway on her way to Benita's.
Benita Carballo lived in a small fifties era bungalow west of downtown L.A. The house was one of hundreds, if not thousands, built after World War II to accommodate the workers flooding into Southern California's burgeoning military-industrial complex. They were small, usually two bedroom structures, with a single bath and modest yard. The original construction had been wood siding, although many of them had been upgraded to stucco over the years. Benita's was one of those. Her house was neat and well-cared for, pale yellow with white trim. When Cyn pulled up at the curb, all the shades were drawn and the morning paper still sat on the front step. Her friend's car was parked in the short driveway, in front of a detached garage which Cyn happened to know was used as storage space by a variety of friends and family.
Cynthia picked up her cell phone and punched in Benita's number. It rang several times before the machine picked up.
"Benita, it's Cyn,” she said loudly. “Pick up, pick up, pick up."
Someone picked up the phone, then dropped it with a loud thunk. Cynthia jerked her ear away, then back in time to hear Benita's sleep-roughened voice say, “Chica, you better have a very good reason for waking me up."
"Hey, this is me calling back. Besides, it's almost rush hour ... and I mean afternoon rush hour."
Benita snorted. “It's rush hour twenty-four hours a day in this town. What's up?"
"I can't call to say “hi” to an old friend? I've gotta have an up?"
"Tell it to the rich boys, baby. I know you better."
Cyn sighed dramatically. “Eckhoff told me you might have answers to some questions."
"Eckhoff? Did you know that old man's pounding Jennifer down in records?"
"No shit? He told me he had someone; I thought he meant his dog."
Benita coughed a surprised laugh. “That's the Cyn I know. So where are you?"
"Right in front of your house. See what a polite person I am? Did I ring the doorbell? No. I called first."
"Dios mio. Come on in. I'll make coffee."
By the time Cyn reached the door, Benita had opened it and disappeared again. Cyn scooped up the paper and opened the old-fashioned, wood-framed screen door, letting herself in. The house was neat and tidy, with shiny wooden floors. Nothing was out of place, not even a magazine or a book. It barely looking lived in. She figured Benita had a cleaning service, because the girl Cyn remembered was not that neat. She could hear her friend puttering around the kitchen and made her way in that direction.
Benita glanced over her shoulder when Cynthia entered the tiny kitchen, arching one eyebrow as she took in Cyn's battered and bruised face. “I see we've got some catching up to do.” She pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard and set them on the tiled counter. “I've been gone a few days, so the best I can offer is coffee and a reheated bolillo from the freezer. You want anything else, you're going to the store."
"Coffee's fine. What're you working on for the department these days?"
She shrugged off the question. “The usual,” she said.
Cyn covered her surprise by walking over and sitting on one of two bar stools that stood against the wall. It wasn't like Benita to be coy. Even after Cyn had left the department, Benita had always been eager to share pretty much everything about her assignments. “Eckhoff says you're working the Russians."
Benita turned sharply, her dark eyes suspicious. “Why'd he tell you that?"
"Jesus, Benita, what's the problem? I asked him a few questions, and he said you could probably answer them better than he could."
"What questions?"
"I'm looking for a Russian. All I have is a name. Kolinsky.” She was watching the other woman closely, and so she caught the slight tightening of her expression at the name.
"Sure,” Benita said with forced ease. “Kolinsky's local, but you might be too late. He got hit pretty hard last night. What's this about?"
"Who hit him?” Cyn asked, wondering how much had gotten out about their raid. She didn't know for sure, couldn't remember anything after the fire fight, but she thought they'd taken Kolinsky alive, and maybe a couple of others, as well.
"I don't know any details yet, but if he's who you're looking for, you may have to look somewhere else. What's your interest anyway?"
"I think he kidnapped someone close to my client. And my client wants that someone back."
"Kidnapping? Not your usual bag, chica."
"So Eckhoff has told me. What about somebody named Pushkin? Eckhoff never heard of the guy, and my source was a little shaky."
"Pushkin?” Benita run a shaky hand through her short hair before answering. “No,” she said. “Never heard that one.” She jumped up, suddenly hyper. “Those bolillos are sounding good, after all. You want one?” She pulled a plastic bag from the freezer.
"No, I'm good, thanks. So, how's the job?"
"Sucks, but it's gotta be better than doing dirty work for vampires, right?"
"Okay.” Cyn stood, hurt and insulted. “Clearly I've made a mistake here. You go back to sleep, maybe wake up sweeter, and I'll get my information somewhere else."
She was halfway to the front door when Benita called her back. “Look, I'm sorry, Cyn. Come back. This assignment's gone on too long and it's getting to me, that's all. Come back. Please."
Cyn turned around and studied her doubtfully. Then she shrugged. “All right. Let's start over. So, what's up, Benita?"
"They've got me working the Russians is what. It's not my territory; it's not what I'm used to. I don't know these people, I don't know their culture, their customs, and it's stringing me out like crazy."
"Why you? I mean, you're a great cop, but...” Cyn gestured. “You don't exactly blend.” Benita was a pretty Latina with dark eyes and curly black hair that she kept painfully short.
Benita blew out an exasperated breath. “Tell me about it. Unfortunately, one of the targets likes his meat nicely browned, so here I am."
"No accounting for taste, huh?"
She laughed. “That's what I keep telling him.” Her face sobered before she turned to pour the coffee. She walked over and handed Cyn one of two mugs, gesturing at the sugar on the bar behind Cyn. Opening the refrigerator, she poured half and half right from the carton into her own cup. Cynthia shook her head at the raised carton and spooned some sugar into her coffee while Benita put the cream away and joined her on the bar stools.
"So, where'd you get Kolinsky?” Benita asked.
"From a dying man."
"Who was he and how'd he die?"
"I didn't know him, and as for how ... too young and unexpectedly."
"How do you know his information's any good?"
"Let's say this guy was motivated to tell the truth."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"Bad luck about that hit last night,” Benita said too casually, taking a sip of her coffee. “Might be bad luck for me, too."
"Wait, he wasn't your guy, was he?"
"What? Oh. No. No, my guy's a lot higher than that.” She lifted her gaze, taking inventory of Cyn's battered face. “You look like you've hit some bad luck, too."
"What, this?” Cyn waved away her friend's concern with one hand. “A stake out gone bad. Guy cheating on his wife didn't want his picture taken."
"Imagine that."
"Yeah. Listen, Benita, you be careful with this Russian. Eckhoff tells me those are some bad people."
"Yeah.” She looked away, then back. “You know, I think it might be too late for careful. Look,” she continued, suddenly full of enthusiasm. “If you really want to know what's going on with these guys, why don't you come with me tonight? There's a big to-do, some fucking Russian thing, I don't know. But they're all going to be there. It's a crown performance. Should be a good party if nothing else.” She reached out and tugged the ends of Cynthia's stylishly ragged hair over the cut on her forehead. “They'll love you, girl. A little makeup and you'll be fine as always."
Cynthia thought it over. Something odd was going on. Benita was acting strangely, full of secrets one minute, then all happy and “Hey come to the party” the next. On the other hand, if Cyn could get inside even for a night, chat up a few of the bad guys, flirt a little. She didn't think much about her own looks, but that didn't mean she wasn't aware of them. Men generally liked her, at least until they found out she had a brain.
