“He came to me a few weeks ago. A Hollywood producer with a long list of credits. Said I was perfect for the project he had in mind. He promised me, if I could help him, I would star in his next documentary.”
“Help him with what?”
“Uncle Cho.”
Terry froze. Every muscle and nerve on high alert. “Uncle Cho.” He looked Ava up and down as if he’d never seen her before. “What about Uncle Cho?”
“He asked me to rekindle my relationship with you to learn more about some case your uncle has in court. Something about insurance conflicts related to his filmmaking.”
Insurance. Alarm bells were going off so loud in his ears, he could barely hear his own voice. “And you agreed?”
“I said maybe. But Terry, you’ve got to believe me. When I showed up at your apartment that first night, I knew I couldn’t do it. I knew I still loved you, that it was time, finally, for us to give forever a try. And I do love you, Terry. You know I do.”
Terry knew Ava well enough to know she was genuinely upset. A tear trickled down her beautifully chiseled cheek bone and rested at the edge of the mouth he’d kissed so many times. He didn’t want to look at her, but he couldn’t look away, either. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to keep his temper in check. “What’s his name?”
“Censkey, Joshua Censkey. But I haven’t seen him since the day you and I got back together. I swear. I’ve ignored all his calls and messages. But, just the same, I feel guilty. And I was going to tell you. Really! I tried and tried so many times.”
“I’ve got to go.” Terry placed her cellphone on the table, face down, and stood.
She looked up at him, more tears spilling over from those eyes he could no longer bear to look at. “Right now? Terry, we need to talk about this. I said I’m sorry.”
“No, Ava, I don’t believe you did say that.” He set his napkin on his empty plate—entrees still hadn’t arrived—then turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 47
At midnight, Two made his move. It was pitch black. Good conditions. Two hadn’t seen the lights go on in the fifth-floor apartment since he’d staked out the place and he hadn’t seen the lawyer arrive, either. He was sure no one was home. His plan now was to enter, perhaps kill the cat, and then tear the place apart, leaving blood-red lipstick on every mirror: “Bury the Damn Case. Or You’re Next.” That should scare the shit out of ’em, he thought, and make this whole goddamn thing go away. He’d finally be the hero Hess wanted.
Two attacked from the rear again. With the equipment he’d stolen from the alarm company, he spliced into the alarm wiring, just the way the alarm guy had taught him, and slipped the stolen equipment in-line to enter the codes. That way, the system would stay passive when he later opened the door. Then Two repaired the splice. And using ropes, grappling hooks and handholds, he climbed up the rear balconies of the building. Spiderman again.
When Two got to Ridge’s west balcony, he placed the suction cup, with a three-inch wire stretching from its center to the left of the sliding-door handle. The tip of the wire had a glass-cutting diamond head that scored a circle big enough to fit his hand through. Pulling on the suction cup brought the glass plug toward him. Perfect. Then he reached in and turned the handle. Simple, silent, effective. If only the others had any idea how good he really was.
Next, Two gingerly tugged to slide the glass door open. It didn’t budge. “Shit,” he muttered.
Must have put an extra pin at the top. He cursed again and reset the suction cup, made a new hole, and removed the top pin. “Perfect,” he said aloud, then froze as the sound of a growling dog and that guttural, unearthly yowling from the damn cat reached him from somewhere inside. Shit. It’s that cat from Hell, he thought. And a new dog! But they didn’t charge at him. Must be behind a closed door. Probably the bedroom. No matter, this time I’ll finish ’em both. Two cocked his .357 Magnum, planning to smear blood all over the place. He then carefully and silently slid the door open, and—shit hit the fan.
An alarm, like truck air horns, blasted away, deafening him. Red lights lit up the alarm panel like a Christmas tree on fire, and Two scrambled back, grabbed the rope, and vaulted over the balcony.
As soon as Mister and Pistol started making noise, Ridge was up and moving. He pulled the slide to chamber a hollow point in his Beretta, burst through the bedroom door, and dropped to his stomach, elbows propped, pistol gripped in both hands, combat-ready. Intending to shoot first and ask questions later, he sighted left to right around the room—front entrance, west balcony doors, north balcony, then back to the west balcony. Nothing. No one else was in the apartment. Alarm still blaring, he rose to a crouch and rushed to the nearest balcony. The door was halfway open. He stepped outside, gun still in position, and watched as a bald-headed ninja dropped from the end of a rope, stumbled, sprang up and ran down the beach, limping.
It was after 1 a.m. when Ridge called Terry. “Danger’s over but it took a while to get things settled over here. Had to talk to the alarm company and file a police report. Not to mention calming down Pistol, Mister, and some of my neighbors. I now, probably, have more open police reports in Redondo Beach than any other person.”
“Gotta make a mark in life somehow,” Terry said, breathing easier now that he’d heard the whole story. “Any idea what he was after?”
“Don’t have the slightest idea. But he seemed serious about it. The police took the ropes, grappling hooks, and rappelling device. But before they did, I looked at ’em. No identification marks. Maybe you can give them another look-see in the morning—later this morning—at the police station. I’ll call Jayne in Palm Desert to tell her everything’s OK.”
“Maybe you should have her put more locking pins on the sliding doors when she gets home,” suggested Terry with an almost imperceptible chuckle.
“I suppose she told you about that.”
“It might’ve slipped out at breakfast the other day. While you were in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, well. I could also have her rivet the damn thing like airplane skin. But that might interfere with opening doors.”
“I’ve got news too,” Terry said. “Long story short, sounds like some Hollywood producer type’s been snooping around Uncle Cho’s case. Something about insurance.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“I said long story short…let’s stick with the short for now.”
“OK,” Ridge knew when to push and when to keep his mouth shut. “Let’s tally it up. My head got smashed open, the boat was set on fire, we got shadowed by a crazy guy, your ribs were broken, we had a break-in here where Jayne was attacked and Pistol was shot, we had a break-in at the office, my plane just quit in mid-air, and now we’ve had another break-in here. Who knows what’ll happen next? We’ve been nothing but punching bags. Have to find out who’s doing this and why. We need to put an end to this shitshow.”
“Agreed. And based on when everything started going bad, it all seems somehow connected to Uncle Cho’s case or Judge Millsberg’s death.”
“Or both.”
“You know,” Terry said, “there are a lot of lawyers who would bail on both cases.”
“Not gonna happen. Not on my watch.”
“Knew you’d say that. So, looking at what we’ve got, Chesterfield, Gimuldin or both are probably involved. Starting today we plug in afterburners. Solve this mess. I promise. But right now, buddy, get some sleep.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I know,” said Terry with a sigh. “But we’ll get to the bottom of this. Tough never quits.”
As he hung up, Ridge headed back to the bedroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. “Tough never quits, Eric,” he said aloud. “Damn right.”
