Runner-up 1

The cabby made lousy time between LAX and Beverly Hills, but what could Bonner do, take back the C-notes he’d already tipped him with?

He considered it. The way things were going he really couldn’t spare that cash.

Cripe! He was supposed to be gorging himself on aguachile shrimp or lobster tacos in Cabo by sundown tonight. What the hell was he going to tell Palmieri? He’d have to call in a couple of hours and postpone the meeting. Fly down tomorrow maybe.

Bonner agreed to this time-consuming detour mostly because he had to know what Falco had told Carmen, but Bonner also hoped Falco might fill him in on what he was sure Genie and he had discussed this morning. He might know where she was with the flash drive.

The cellphone connection had cut out before Bonner could confirm the address. The only time Bonner had been to Falco’s residence was late at night years ago when he’d given him a ride home after they’d had drinks. They’d come out of the bar to find Falco’s tires slashed and thought it best to remove themselves posthaste.

Bonner recalled that Falco was extremely uncomfortable -- like his privacy was being invaded. Bonner was cool with that -- the less personal, the better. Falco exerted pressure for congressional votes the way Bonner and his cohorts paid him to. Clean and simple.

The cab crawled along the broad avenue above Sunset as Bonner peered at one park-like estate after another.

“There. It’s that one. I remember that exotic villa look -- the double fountains and palm trees. Pull up here, man.”

Bonner told the cabby to go -- and stiffed him for the fare.

“Already paid you -- on the seat.” He gestured to the $200, turned abruptly and strode up the long walk.

He rang the doorbell, but even after several minutes, there was no response. Bonner stepped off the porch, wandered way over to the south side of the house and came back. He finally found a huge ornate gate in deep shade standing ajar. Bonner glanced out at the quiet empty street and then followed the winding walkway.

At the far end of the azure pool he saw Falco, wearing only swim trunks, face down on the patio. Bonner knelt close enough to see he was still breathing. Blood smeared the slate patio under him.

Somebody had really worked him over. His face was a solid mass of bruises, and a gaping split showed his white scalp beneath matted hair. His back and shoulders were streaked scarlet and purple.

“Jesus, Falco! What happened?”

He moaned and lay motionless, eyes closed. For an instant, Bonner’s main impulse was to get out of there quick, and he almost ran back the way he’d come.

But some bit of decency slowed him up long enough to place the 911 call. He read the numbers off the front of the house, declined to give his name, then took off on foot, toward Sunset.