CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Going to prison without satisfying her craving for barbecue would just be dumb so Veronica detoured to Market Street for a brisket sandwich and a half-rack of ribs from Bowlegged BBQ and ate her food in between errands. At her final stop, Navarro Custom Auto, she used a baby wipe and the rearview mirror to remove all traces of their special sauce from her face before heading inside.
"Do I want to know what you're gonna do with this?" Weevil asked, passing her a black reusable bag with the Ralphs logo on it.
"Would you believe me if I said food shopping?" He hung his head with a heavy sigh, and Veronica grinned. "What? Recycling is important."
"I don't know how Logan does it; flying fighter jets was probably easier than being married to you."
"Good thing he likes a challenge." She peeked in the bag. "How much did it cost?"
"Ten K." At her frown, he shrugged. "Someone owed me a favor."
Hopefully, the exchange wouldn't cause any blowback on him, but Veronica didn't question it further- the less she knew about Weevil's favors, the better. She gave him the money with her thanks and stashed her illegal contraband in the car. With a wave, she put the car in gear and pulled from the garage.
She traversed surface roads to the 805 south to National City where she cut across to the 5 and continued her southward trajectory to Chula Vista. It was out of her way, but totally worth it. In her world, people paid for their misdeeds and it was time for Sean to get what was coming to him.
He lived in an apartment complex optimistically called Pacific View. Not even on a clear day, standing on the roof and aided by binoculars, would any of these tan boxes afford the occupants a glimpse of ocean. But lucky for her, the only view she wanted was of Sean's front door, and the cracked parking lot offered fantastic sightlines. She backed into a space, and used her cell to call Sean.
"Yeah?" he mumbled into the phone, half-awake and surly.
"Guess who?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "It's Veronica Mars, and we need to talk."
"Uh… I don't think so. In fact, I'm hanging up right now."
"Big mistake." There was no need to check the display on her phone to know he hadn't disconnected the call; she could hear him breathing while he considered his options. She grinned.
"Whaddya want?"
"You know the IHOP over on Broadway?" Sean grunted his assent. The restaurant was close, less than a mile away, but his trip there and back would give her all the time she needed. "Meet me there in say… ten minutes and we'll talk."
The silence stretched. Long enough she actually did glance at her phone to make sure he was still on the line. Finally he said, "Fifteen minutes."
Veronica rolled her eyes at the pathetic attempt for control. "Fine." She tapped the end call button, tossed her phone on the passenger seat, and settled in to wait for his departure.
There were other ways she could've executed the plan—stake-out his apartment and wait for him to leave on his own, or pull the fire alarm to evacuate the building—but she wanted him to realize she was responsible. Deep in his bones, she wanted him to know she was the cause of his downfall. It wasn't ideal. She'd prefer to explain it to him. Give him all the reasons he so rightfully deserved this, but he'd have four years in state prison to figure them out on his own.
Sean hesitated on his way from the apartment. She watched him pause, check the exterior walkway, and then he leaned over the railing to see the courtyard below. Satisfied she wasn't lurking, he double-checked the lock on his door, and walked toward the stairs. Veronica sank lower in her seat, hiding behind the dash. She didn't want his paranoia to spoil things.
A car engine started and Veronica risked a quick peek over the steering wheel to confirm it was Sean. Done being cautious, he drove past her without turning his head, eyes focused on the exit and the street beyond. He barely tapped his brakes at the edge of the lot, the Corolla's taillights flashing before he pulled into traffic and made the left.
Veronica grabbed her purchases, and took the same quick walk as Sean, only in reverse - across the lot, up the stairs, and down the walkway to his apartment.
The lock was flimsy. It took her less time to pick it than it took to stage the scene. When the cops arrived, she wanted it to look like Sean was in the middle of cutting the coke and repackaging it for sale. Possession with intent to distribute.
Baby laxatives, boric acid, plastic wrap, and one kilo of coke. She artfully arranged them on the counter that separated the galley kitchen from the living room. For good measure—pun intended—she added her last minute purchase of a digital scale. Perfect.
Now the only thing she had to do was turn off the water to the toilet. There was no telling how long the cops would take to arrive and she didn't want Sean to flush the coke before they did. She hustled down the short hall. All the doors were open, which made locating the bathroom cake. Veronica twisted the valve, flushed out the remaining water from the tank, then backed from the room and the apartment.
Buying the coke (felony number one) was easy - there was no fear of Weevil turning her in to the cops. Breaking and entering (felony number two) and setting up the frame (felony number three) were even easier. She could pick a lock as cheap as Sean's in her sleep. But now was the hard part- calling the police to report a crime (felony number four). Veronica had to make sure the call did not trace back to her, and her voice had to be unidentifiable on the recorded line.
Good thing she'd taken the time to find one of California's last remaining payphones before she left the house this morning. It was a short drive to the trailer park around the corner.
She kept her head down, wiped her prints from the quarter, and used her knuckle to dial. With her best Sofia Vergara impersonation (the one Logan loved so much), she reported the drug dealer in her building who was selling coke from his living room. Then to make the matter urgent, she embellished the story by adding 'scary men with guns' and faked fear for her children's safety. She hung up before they could ask any questions.
Not wanting to miss the arrest, she drove back to Sean's. Too bad she couldn't plant a camera inside his his face when the police busted down the door would've been the winning entry in her own special version of America's Funniest Home Videos. She could save it to the cloud and…
Veronica frowned at her phone. Cloud account. Pam said Sam had an app on his phone that let him check the surveillance cameras at the club. With a wireless connection? And if so, could Mac get the footage from the night of Karen's murder? Better, could she access the videos Sam saved?
With one eye on the entrance, she sent Mac a text. She hit send as Sean's Corolla careened around the corner into the lot. He flew past her and jerked into his earlier spot. The loud slam of his car door gave her some insight as to how pissed he was to be stood up at the IHOP. Just wait, buddy, your day is about to get way worse.
The phone rang in her hands, startling her. Mac. Veronica hit the answer button. "That was very prompt; are you bucking for another raise?"
"Another raise? When did I get the first one?"
"Keep talking like that and you'll never get one. Have you found any of the other girls who left the club?"
"Not yet, but I got the video from Apple Liquors; I'm watching it now and I sent a copy to your email." Approaching sirens kept Veronica from answering. "Is that the police?" Mac asked. "Are they coming for you, and should I call Logan for bail money?"
"Hardy-har-har."
Three black-and-whites with their light bars flashing and sirens wailing slewed into the parking lot. Six officers scrambled from their cars, blue-and-gold Chula Vista emblems on their sleeves and sidearms on their hips. The lead officer unsnapped his holster to withdraw his weapon and the others followed suit. They raced up the stairs toward Sean's apartment.
"I've gotta go," Veronica said. "But I'll check the liquor store video as soon as I get home, and you keep searching for the missing dancers." She hit 'end call' as two officers dragged Sean from his apartment in handcuffs, hauled him down the stairs and stuffed him in the backseat of the lead car.
That's for Logan and Carrie, asshole.
Two cruisers peeled from the lot, leaving the final car and its officers behind. Veronica watched the remaining cops return to Sean's apartment and disappear inside. While they were collecting evidence, she made her getaway.
It was less than he deserved. Dealing drugs to first Logan, then Carrie. Cheating. Selling Logan's information to the tabloids. Posting illicit videos of Carrie's drug use online. Veronica wasn't going to lose sleep over framing Sean. Her conscience was clear.
She made a right at the end of the block and took Palomar to the freeway. With Sean dispatched, it was time to redouble her efforts on solving Pam's case.
Splitting her focus between the road and the nav system, she started pushing buttons. Veronica had a vague idea where Haley Romanov lived—east of the 5 and before the park—but she needed the GPS for precise directions.
Too bad there wasn't a GPS for how to navigate the upcoming conversation. There was no ruse Veronica could use to get Haley to talk. In order to ask the specific questions she needed answered, she'd have to be upfront about her identity. It was the ultimate cold call - you're under no obligation to speak to me, but do it anyway because I need your help.
Veronica took exit 19, merged onto Moore, and then made a left on Old Town Avenue. As the road started to climb, she scanned the buildings for the right address. Haley's complex was part of a brand-new development. The builders had cleaved open the face of the hills to insert the condominiums, and they looked precarious, as if at any moment they might topple onto the houses below.
She drove past in search of parking, found a spot at the apex of the hill, and walked back to the white-stucco-and-red-barrel-roof construction. Haley's apartment was on the top floor. Veronica rang the bell and waited.
The box next to the door squawked. "Yes?"
Veronica introduced herself. "I'm an investigator and I'd like to talk to you about Shenanigans." She strategically left off the word 'private' hoping Haley would assume she was law enforcement and not refuse entry.
It took a while, but eventually the box emitted another screech. "Okay."
A soft click indicated the release of the door lock. Veronica pushed inside and made her way upstairs.
Haley was standing outside her apartment, waiting. Dick said the dancers at Shenanigans were hot and Haley was no exception. Casual in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a white crop top, sporting bare feet, no makeup, and her caramel-blonde hair in a messy bun, she still looked ready for a Vogue photoshoot.
"You have ID?" she asked as Veronica approached. After handing over her license for inspection, V studied the other woman. On the surface, she seemed relaxed, leaning on the doorjamb and smiling, but her shoulders were tense and her fingers trembled when she returned Veronica's wallet. "I guess you better come in," she said with a furtive glance down the hall. "The neighbors can be..."
She didn't finish the thought, and Veronica supplied her own adjectives—nosy, annoying, intrusive—as she followed Haley inside. Private investigating 101 said you should build rapport with your interviewee by engaging in small talk. Too bad Veronica sucked at small talk, but she made an effort by complimenting the minimalist decor.
"How did you find me?" Haley asked, cutting her off mid-sentence.
"My assistant is good with computers." She offered Mac a silent apology for the understatement. "Have you lived here long?"
"It's temporary; I'm, uh... moving soon." Her eyes darted around the room. "What do you want to know about the club? I mean, not that I know anything. I only—" She bit her bottom lip and folded her arms over her body, defensive. "Is Sam your client? Did he hire you?"
Veronica shook her head. "Definitely not." Maybe she couldn't put Haley at ease by flattering her decorating skills, but she might be able to win her over with honesty. "I'm trying to close down the club and put Sam behind bars."
The words had an immediate effect on Haley, deflating the tension in her body, and clearing the pinched expression from her face. She unfolded her arms, and waved towards the couch - a silent invitation for Veronica to sit, which she accepted. Haley remained on her feet. "Why do you think I can… I'm not sure I can help you?"
She certainly wouldn't be helpful if she continued her habit of not finishing her sentences. Veronica had to get her talking. She started small. The softball questions soothed Haley into taking a seat, perching on the edge of a white tub chair.
Are you originally from this area? No, I grew up in Kirkland, outside of Seattle.
How did you get the job at Shenanigans? Joey saw me dancing at this place called Kittens.
Why did you decide to move here? It's California; doesn't everyone come here to 'find themselves'?
Her answer was disingenuous. There was definitely more to the story than the great weather in Southern California, but Veronica didn't know if it was important. A bad home life, or a shitty relationship with her parents, didn't necessarily…
"How did your family feel about you moving so far away?"
Haley shrugged. "It's just my mom, and we're not super close. I mean, we don't hate each other or anything, but we can go a few weeks without talking, and I don't…" She frowned. "I never actually told her about the job; I just said I was leaving town."
"Did you work at the club long?" Veronica already knew the details of her work history from the personnel file—one of the original dancers, there for six months before quitting—but sometimes you needed to test the person's veracity.
"A few months." She popped up from the chair. "Do you want something to drink?"
"No, thanks." Declining the offer wasn't enough to keep Haley in place. The dancer skittered from the room, disappearing behind the wood-grain peninsula and wrenching open the stainless steel fridge. Veronica waited until she'd opened a bottle of Perrier then asked, "So why did you leave?"
A delicate, one-shouldered shrug. "It wasn't for me. There are a lot of girls who are willing to provide extra services, but I'm not one of them."
"You're talking about the private parties?"
She nodded. "The main club was okay, but upstairs is where the real money's at. I was making close to a grand a night, enough to be able to buy this place outright, but then—" Her eyes widened as she realized her mistake. Admitting she owned the condo gave lie to her earlier words about her living conditions being temporary. "You really won't tell Sam where I am?"
"I won't," Veronica promised. "Did he… did Sam hurt you?"
"No!" The denial was swift and not entirely believable. "Not me, but… there was talk."
"What sort of talk?"
"Pochemuchka," she muttered under her breath. With a pointed glare at Veronica, she added, "My mother calls me that when I ask too many questions."
Instead of taking the hint, Veronica approached the subject from a different direction. "There was another dancer, Aimee, who quit around the same time- have you stayed in touch with her?"
"She didn't—" A kaleidoscope of emotions played across Haley's face as she stared at the bottle in her hand like she wasn't sure what it was for or how it got there. Finally she raised it to her mouth, took a long sip, and set the Perrier on the counter. "I don't know where Aimee is, and I don't talk to anyone from there."
There was a finality to the statement, which made Veronica think Haley was done with the interview, but she gave it another try. "Whatever rumors you heard could be useful. They might point me in the right direction. The police already think he's involved with money laundering and gun trafficking."
"Gun trafficking?" Haley shook her head, incredulous. "His type of friends don't have a need for guns. They're more Savile Row than street."
"You mean the members?"
"Sure, members - private clients, take your pick." She started towards the entrance. "Good luck, Veronica. I really do hope you find a way to nail him to the wall." Pulling open the front door, she turned, expectantly waiting to usher Veronica out into the hallway. "But don't come back here, okay?"
"If you change your mind," Veronica said, dropping her business card on the coffee table. "Call me at the office, or on my cell."
The look on Haley's face said it was never going to happen. Veronica left the apartment. The echo of the closing door followed her down the hall to the elevator. She jabbed the button with her thumb.
It was an odd conversation. Haley's initial nerves made sense. Scared Veronica was there at Sam's behest, she'd lied. But after assurances, it seemed like she'd be willing to help. That is until the mention of the private parties. Then, not only did her fear return, she'd become hostile. Maybe, in the abstract, the idea of punishing Sam was alluring, but when faced with the concrete fact of having to do something, she wasn't so eager.
Unfortunately the visit left Veronica with even more questions. Too many.
She fobbed open the car. What was the word Haley used? Pochemuchka. Veronica smiled. She'd have to remember it for one of Wyatt's 'why, why, why' days. She'd also have to remember to never say it around Logan, or else she'd be the one saddled with a new nickname. He'd add it to his endless repertoire of short jokes and bossy comments.
Veronica returned to the freeway. North or South? A quick call to Gant Publishing said Casey wasn't in the office today, and she turned the car toward his home. As the real estate prices climbed, the properties thinned. Instead of four houses sharing an acre, these homes had an acre or five all to themselves.
Casey's house on Idle Hour Lane wasn't far from Black's Beach. In fact it was probably close enough to include one of the very coveted gate keys that allowed vehicle access to the beach. She made the right onto Blackgold, followed the gradual curve to his street, and made another right. The lane ended in a wide cul-de-sac with two gated driveways. An intercom and keypad were mounted on a low post at the edge of the tumbled cobblestone pavers. Veronica pulled the car close and rang the buzzer.
It took all her skills of persuasion and her most-winning smile directed at the security camera to convince the voice on the other end of the speaker that she did know Casey, but eventually the gates parted, and Veronica was driving up to the sprawling modern farmhouse. Clad in white lap siding with on-trend black-steel windows and matching standing-seam metal roof, the mansion whispered class.
Casey was waiting for her beneath the portico. The front door standing open behind him offered her a glimpse of dark oak floors, exposed beams, and tons of natural light.
"Does this mean you're not going to invite me in?" Veronica asked, climbing the few steps to join him.
Smiling, he leaned in for a one-arm hug and bussed her cheek. "No, I just had to see it for myself."
"What? You didn't believe Veronica Mars would ever darken your door?"
"Mars?" He arched an eyebrow. "I thought you finally made an honest man out of Logan?"
"Well you know what they say, if you like it, then you should put a ring on it." She directed another glance at the open door. Casey took the hint, stepping back to allow her to precede him inside. "What about you, is there a Mrs. Casey?"
"I'm currently in between spouses," he answered, walking past her and moving deeper into the house. "My ex is enjoying her generous alimony in an apartment on the Seine."
Bitter much? "Should I offer my condolences or congratulations?"
Casey shrugged away her question and asked, "What brings you here, Veronica? I'm sure it's not to reminisce fondly about our days at Neptune High."
"No, not exactly." The house may have shouted class, but his manners didn't. Where was the offer of something to drink? Or at least an invitation to sit? For all his hospitality, they should have held their conversation on the porch. "So does this house come with a kitchen, or do elves just magically appear with food whenever you're hungry?" At his blank look, she added. "Gee Casey, I would love a cup of coffee, thanks for asking."
He didn't even have the good grace to look embarrassed, but he did lead her into the kitchen. "I can have Lucia make coffee, or you can settle for a soda."
"Soda works." She slid onto a stool at the massive island, and waited until Casey fetched a can of Sunkist from the refrigerator before saying, "I'm here about your father."
"What's he done now?"
Still no love lost between father and son, but it didn't mean Casey would voluntarily spill all his secrets. And Veronica wasn't ready to make any confessions either. "Can I get a glass and some ice?"
Casey frowned at the soda can, but did as requested, taking down a tumbler from a floating open shelf, and using the ice dispenser in the door of the stainless-steel fridge. He set the glass on the counter in front of her.
"Thanks." Veronica took her time pouring. "Does your dad still work at Gant Publishing?"
Even though Casey inherited everything from his grandmother, his role as 'publisher' was honorific, and Bill Gant still managed the day-to-day operations in his position as Editor-in-Chief. At least that's how it had worked while Casey finished high school and attended college, but it was possible Bill had been ousted since.
"If by work you mean 'stop at the office when he's done traveling with his twenty-year-old girlfriend', then yeah, he still works there."
"I didn't realize your parents got divorced."
"They aren't," he said flatly. "Mom just chooses to pretend she's his assistant."
Juanita Gant had married up in the world and apparently she wasn't willing to risk her status as one of the ladies-who-lunch, even if it meant turning a blind eye to her husband's indiscretions. They should put that on the sign- Welcome to Neptune, Where the Rich Get Away With Everything.
Veronica sipped her drink. "Want me to look into her? I can do a background check, follow them around, get some photos?"
Casey leveled her with an appraising look. "Maybe."
"All I need is a name to get started." Veronica dug another business card from her purse—this one sans cell number—and dropped it on the counter. "You can call the office with the information, or send me an email."
The soft sell. She didn't need him wondering after her motives. Time to change the subject. "Has your father ever mentioned a man named Sam Carlucci?"
"No, but we're not exactly chummy." He dragged a stool to his side of the kitchen island, straddled it, and rested his arms on the marble counter. "Who is he?"
"What about a strip club called Shenanigans?"
Recognition widened his eyes, but he shook his head. "Never heard of it."
Veronica waited, letting the silence stretch. Challenging him would only make him defensive. Correction, more defensive, and she didn't want to go home empty-handed. "Your father has."
"How do you know?" He scratched the side of his neck, and stared at a fixed point over her shoulder, refusing to make eye contact.
"The club's in a very tony neighborhood and your father helped make that happen - he pushed through a zoning variance." Veronica weighed her next words. "I'm not looking to cause trouble, Casey; I just want to know why."
He drummed his fingers on the counter. "I'm not sure."
Was he not sure about the reason, or not sure he should talk to her? Veronica gave him a little push. "Remember when we bonded over cow milking, bad poetry, and poinsettias? You can trust me."
His internal debate played across his face in rapidly shifting expressions. "There were checks. Large sums each month for… a year, maybe a little longer, and they were drawn on the company account." He reached for her soda can, shook it to confirm it was empty, and stood. "Want another one?"
"Okay."
Casey opened a cabinet near the sink, tossed the can, then retrieved a new one for her. After setting it near her glass, he paced back to the fridge and withdrew a beer for himself- an IPA she recognized, one with a fancy label and a ridiculous price tag. The eye roll was a reflex.
Thankfully Casey was too absorbed with his own thoughts to notice. "The accountant flagged the checks. Not because of the amount. I mean, all told, it was only a million dollars, but a strip club is not a legitimate business expense."
Only a million. Money was still wasted on the rich. "So the checks were made payable to Shenanigans?"
"Dad said it was an investment, made a flimsy excuse about using the wrong account, said he meant to use his personal checks." Casey frowned. "I thought he was just trying to hide it from my mother."
He probably WAS trying to hide it from his wife, but not for the reasons Casey suspected. Veronica's mind traveled a dark path. She hoped like hell she was wrong and it was something less sinister like— "Could it have been blackmail?"
Casey's head reared back in surprised confusion. "Blackmail? Who would pay to keep their attendance at a strip club quiet? That's like a regular Saturday night for ninety percent of the married guys I know."
His nonchalance provided Veronica with some insight into Casey's marriage and subsequent divorce. "Not for just going there, but maybe there were, uh, other activities?"
A bark of laughter erupted from him. "Pay a million bucks to hide sex with a stripper? Not in this lifetime." His smile disappeared long enough for him to take a sip of beer, but it returned as soon as he lowered the bottle, clearly still amused by her assumption. "It's probably nothing so sinister." He shook his head. "Were you always this jaded?"
Veronica bristled, but let the question go unchecked. Sharing MoonCalf Collective memories was one thing, reminding him she had very real reasons for being jaded would be straying into territory that was off-limits. "So this office assistant… is she your dad's first mistress?"
The abrupt return to the earlier subject had the desired effect- loosening Casey's tongue. "I wouldn't call her a mistress per se, she's just…"
"An extracurricular activity?"
Casey smirked. "Yeah, that… and no, she's not the first. I'm not even sure she's the only- there could be others."
Veronica filed away the information. "Have you ever been to Shenanigans? Taken an interest in checking out your father's"—she threw a pair of air quotes around the word—"investment?"
"No. Dad made it sound like a dive? He said he'd dumped the money in the club because he needed to realize a capital loss for the year."
That might be enough to explain the lack of 09er scum in the club. If ninety percent of Casey's friends DID frequent strip joints and he mentioned it was a dump, they'd probably steer clear. Was the loss of business an unintended consequence, or was Bill's lie a brilliant calculation designed to keep his son from learning too much?
She shouldered her bag. "Thanks for the drink and the conversation."
"I'll walk you out." Casey popped off his stool like he was spring-loaded, and started for the front door, barely waiting for her to follow. "I haven't seen Logan on the beach- does he still surf?"
"He's been surfing at Trestles."
"Tell him to give me a call; I've got vehicle access to Black's."
Ah, so he did have one of the coveted gate keys. It would probably be a real bummer for him if he knew Logan had one too- and he hadn't needed to buy multi-million dollar real estate to acquire it either.
Veronica told him she'd have Logan get in touch (not likely) and said her goodbyes. Casey withdrew, swinging the door shut before she even left the porch. Dick.
She returned to her car, put the top down, and took the scenic route home-a futile attempt at letting the beauty of the coast drown the ugliness of her thoughts.