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Warren looked up at me, said, “I know who you are, Morgan. Friend of the chief. The go-to guy for the one percent.”
“I get around,” I said.
Cops don’t like private investigators. PIs don’t play by the same rules as city employees, and our clients, in particular, hire Private because of our top-gun expertise and our discretion.
Captain Warren was saying, “Okay, since you called this in. What’s the story?”
“A friend of mine in the hotel business called me to say that these two were bounced out of the Constellation for assaulting a chambermaid. They checked in here two hours ago. I’ve got a couple of spider cams on the windows, but the drapes are closed. I’ve made out two male voices and one female over the music and the TV, but no calls for help.”
“And your interest in this?”
I said, “I’m a concerned citizen.”
Warren said, “Okay. Thanks for the tip. Now I’ve got to ask you to step back and let us do our job.”
I told him of course, no problem.
And it was no problem.
I wasn’t on assignment and I didn’t want the credit. I was glad to be there for the takedown.
Captain Warren sent two men around the bungalow to cover the back and garden exits, then he and I went up the steps and across the veranda to the front door along with two detectives from the LAPD. Warren knocked and announced.
We heard a shout through the front door; sounded like “Go away.”
I said, “He said, ‘Come in,’ right?”
The captain smiled to show me that he liked my way of thinking. Then he swiped the lock with a card key, cocked his leg, and kicked in the door.
It blew open, and we all got a good view of what utter depravity looks like.
Four
THE LIVING ROOM was done up in silk and satin in the colors peach and cream. Logs flickered in the marble fireplace, and atonal music oozed from the CD player. Empty glasses, liquor bottles, and many articles of clothing littered the floor. A room-service cart had been tipped over, spilling food and broken china across the Persian carpet.
I served for three years as a pilot in the U.S. Marine Corps. I’ve been trained to spot a glint of metal or a puff of smoke on the ground from ten thousand feet up. In the dark.
But I didn’t need pilot’s training to recognize the filth right in front of me.
The man called Gozan Remari sat in an armchair with the hauteur of a prince. He looked to be about fifty, white-haired, with gold-colored, catlike eyes. Remari wore an expensive handmade jacket, an open pin-striped shirt, a heavy gold watch, and nothing else—not even an expression of surprise or anger that cops were coming through the door.
A nude woman lay at his feet, bound with silk ties. Her arms and legs were spread, and she was anchored hand and foot to an ottoman and a table, as if she were a luna moth pinned to a board. I saw bluish handprints on her skin, and food had been smeared on her body.
There was an arched entrance to my right that led to a bedroom. And there, in plain sight, was Khezir Mazul. He was naked, sitting up in bed, smoking a cigar. A young woman, also naked, was stretched on her back across his lap, her head over the side of the bed. A thin line of blood arced across her throat, and I saw a steak knife on the cream-colored satin blanket.
From where I stood in the doorway, I couldn’t tell if the women were unconscious or dead.
Captain Warren yanked Gozan Remari to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back. He said, “You’re under arrest for assault. You have the right to remain silent, you piece of crap.”
The younger dirtbag stood up, let the woman on his lap roll away from him, off the bed and onto the floor. Khezir Mazul was powerfully built, tattooed on most of his body with symbols I didn’t recognize.
He entered the living room and said to Captain Warren in the most bored tones imaginable, “We’ve done nothing. Do you know the word con-shen-sul? This is not any kind of assault. These women came here willingly with us. Ask them. They came here to party. As you say here, ‘We aim to please.’”
Then, he laughed. Laughed.
I stepped over the room-service cart and went directly to the woman lying near me on the floor. Her breathing was shallow, and her skin was cool. She was going into shock.
My hands shook as I untied her wrists and ankles.
