Private

He nodded, then spoke in a low voice. “Asshole. Major.”

I talked to Bobby as we walked to the elevator. “I suggest you clear the way for Private to search Pilser’s place. If I turn Sci and his crew loose, we’ll have everything processed by this time tomorrow, and you’ll have a report in your hands by the end of the day.”

“Consider it done,” Bobby said. “Let’s find out what this asshole was up to.”

Chapter 65

I WAS TRAINED to have a sharp eye as a Marine helicopter pilot and I still had it. I snapped wide-angle and close-up pictures of Jason Pilser’s apartment from the foyer, staying out of Sci’s way and out of the evidence, in case a murder had been committed here.

Dr. Sci was quiet as he worked, he and his crew speaking to one another in shorthand as they used our state-of-the-art forensic equipment, worth every penny of the fortune it had cost. From where I stood, nothing looked disturbed-which might mean something.

When Sci told me it was okay, I followed him from room to room through the spare, modernly furnished one-bedroom apartment.

The sofa and armchair cushions were neat, there were no glasses in the sink, the bed was made, the bedroom closet in fastidious order. And I didn’t see a suicide note.

I did make note of a suit jacket on a valet stand in the bedroom. A roll of bandages and iodine on the bathroom sink.

“The ME said he had mixed nuts, a couple of martinis, and painkillers in his stomach,” Sci said. “Maybe he was going out to dinner with his friends. Or his killers,” Sci said. “The scrape marks on his belly were consistent with the blood and skin on the terrace wall. He slid himself over the wall-which is improbable, or at least unusual.”

“Or he was shoved across it in increments until he was airborne,” I said. “Seems more likely to me.”

“We’ve got some prints,” lab assistant Karen Pasquale said to Sci from the hallway. “Three sets so far.”

“Excellent,” Sci said. “Now. Where’s his computer?”

“What’s that?” I said, pointing to the briefcase almost invisible in the shadows, wedged between the desk chair and the wall.

Sci picked up the case with his gloved hands, set it down on the desk, and unsnapped the locks.

The case sprang open.

There was a tie on top of a laptop. A sheaf of papers in the side pocket.

And a cell phone.

“This’ll keep me busy,” Sci said. “Another no-sleep night.”

“Mind taking a look at the phone now?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

Sci opened the phone and said, “His battery’s almost gone, but I’ll give it a shot.”

I stood behind Sci, looking over his shoulder as he scrolled through messages. Suddenly he stopped as if he’d been turned to stone.

“Sci?”

He showed me a text message on Pilser’s phone that had been sent last Wednesday. It was short and to the point.

“Freek Night is on, Scylla. Get ready. You’re IT.”

It was signed by someone using the name Steemcleena.

I said to Sci, “Wait. Shouldn’t this be from Morbid? He’s the connection, right? Who is Steemcleena?”

Sci worked his jaw soundlessly a few times, then he said, “Who is Steemcleena? As brilliant as I am, I’m going to have to get back to you on that.”

Chapter 66

THE EXCLUSIVE AND astronomically expensive rehab center where Tommy was staying was called Blue Skies-some marketing person’s concept of hope, I guess.

The facility was in Brentwood, north of Sunset, spread out over a dozen acres and sited so it had a flat-out awesome view of the Santa Monica Mountains. You could stand at the administration office and look down into the canyon, see people trotting their horses on trails through their woodsy backyards.

I hadn’t seen Tommy since I’d checked him in to Blue Skies, and now I felt duty bound to make sure he was doing okay there.

I found Tommy in a lounge chair at poolside. He was wearing peacock blue swim trunks under a fluffy white robe.

He looked healthy and tan. Somewhat at peace. The rest was doing him good. I hoped so, anyway.

When my shadow crossed him, he squinted up at me, made a visor with his hand, and said, “Don’t think I’m thanking you for this, bro. I was just wondering how the hell to escape in a bathrobe.”

I took a seat in the chaise longue next to him. “Want to thank me for going to Carmine Noccia and handing him a cashier’s check for six hundred grand?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“It’s a loan, Tommy. Just so you know. And I didn’t tell Annie that the Mob was about to turn your car into a bomb. Or maybe blow up your house.”

“Don’t you ever get a headache? That halo up around your ears all the time.”

“I do, actually. You ought to let me be the evil twin for once. I’d like that.”

“Uncle Fred was here,” Tommy said. “He told me there’s something big waiting for me-if I clean up my act.”

“So what’s your problem with Fred? I never knew.”

“He put his hand down my shorts when I was a kid. Rubbed my little joint.”

“Fuck you, Tom.”

“He did. I swear to God, Jack. On our mother’s eyes.”

I stood up, grabbed Tommy by the lapels of his robe, and gave him a shot to the jaw that made my hand bones grind. The chair flipped over as Tommy went down hard.