Private

Lars Lundstrom spoke next. “That’s only part of the story, Mr. Morgan. Here’s where it gets interesting. Jane and I want to be together as well.” His accent was strong, but I was pretty sure I’d gotten it right.

Jane Hawke’s eyes sparkled under purple shadow. “We’ve been neighbors for years. Now we want to switch.”

Ethan Tau hadn’t spoken yet. He smiled broadly, then said, “You don’t shock easily, Mr. Morgan. I like that.”

“Not often, anyway.”

Tau continued. “We’re all on board with changing partners,” he said. “Jane will go live with Lars, and Jeanette will come live with me. But we’re not as stupid as this might sound to you. We want you to investigate all four of us. We want everything out in the open. No surprises. Kids are involved.”

“I see,” I said. “I’m sorry to have to say this, but our caseload is so full we wouldn’t be able to help you for weeks, if then. I’m sorry.”

I was sorry. I would’ve loved to take on a plum job like this: no blood, no guts, no gunfire, just background checks and surveillance. A lot of surveillance. Could keep four operatives busy and on the meter 24/7.

I gave the interesting foursome Haywood Prentiss’s phone number and told them that I’d not only worked for Prentiss, he’d taught me everything I knew. Then I showed them out.

I had another appointment, and I didn’t want to be late.

Chapter 31

I WALKED SIX blocks to an address in downtown LA that Uncle Fred had given me. The building was three stories high, pink paint flaking off the stucco and a sun-bleached green awning over the front door.

To the left was a bike shop and to the right was a bodega. There was a locked metal gate barring the stairs to the second floor.

I spoke into an intercom, said my name, a code number, and that Fred Kreutzer had sent me. A voice told me to hang on, he’d be right down.

A minute later, a wiry man with dark skin and a face shaped like a weasel’s opened the gate and said, “Barney Sapok. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan.”

I followed Sapok up the stairs to the third floor, where he opened a freshly painted door and showed me into a space filled with cubicles, about twenty of them, each occupied by a man or woman with a telephone headset, a scratch pad, and a computer.

They were taking bets.

The place looked like a police command center or a telemarketing office, but in fact it was a bookmaking operation that brought in tens of millions a year. Just this branch.

Sports wagering is illegal in every state but Nevada. As a result, it’s become a cash cow for organized crime. Barney Sapok was either a family associate or he was forking over a substantial amount of money to the Mob for collection and enforcement and writing it off as a cost of doing business.

Sapok’s office was in a corner, overlooking the street. He said, “Mr. Kreutzer told me to trust you. He told me to show you some things. But nothing can leave this office.”

“I understand,” I said.

He opened a drawer, removed a spreadsheet from a file, and put it on his desk.

“I pulled this data off the encrypted network. Bettors have code names and numbers, so I spent last night decoding it for you.”

“I’m sure that will help, Barney. Thank you.”

I dragged a chair up to the desk and began to scan the list. Familiar names jumped out at me immediately, players on a dozen teams in both leagues.

“These are their bets over the past year,” Sapok said, running his finger down the columns under the names. “Notice something?” he asked.

“I see some fifty-grand bets on a single game.”

“Anything else?”

“None of the players are betting on their games.”

Sapok nodded. “If the players are putting in a fix, I don’t know about it.” He dropped the spreadsheet into a bucket of water he kept next to his desk.

The spreadsheet and all other documents in the bookie’s office were printed on rice paper. I watched the pages and the ink that was printed on them dissolve in the water.

Sapok asked, “Mr. Kreutzer is your uncle? Is that right?”

I nodded. “More like a father, actually.”

“There’s something else he thought you should see. We’ve got a certain client who’s into us for over six hundred thousand dollars. He’s in big trouble. Could have a fatal outcome.”

“A football player?” I asked.

Sapok wrote block letters on a pad of paper, turned the pad so I could read it, then ripped off the top page, which followed the spreadsheet into the bucket of water.

The rice paper dissolved, but the afterimage of those block letters hung in front of my eyes.

Sapok had written down my brother’s name.

Tom Morgan Jr.

Tommy owed over $600,000 to the Mob.

Chapter 32

I THANKED BARNEY Sapok and left his place of business in a fury. I wasn’t mad at Sapok. That guy was trying to help by telling me about Tommy’s $600,000 debt. Clearly, Uncle Fred wanted me to know that Tommy was in trouble, and that he couldn’t help Tommy himself.