Church of Spilled Blood (eBook)

1

It was a serene gray Monday morning, about two weeks before the Los Angeles summer began to take itself seriously. Some call it June Gloom. I call it restful.

I was reporting for bodyguard duty at the Westwood home of Dr. and Mrs. Ashbury, near the UCLA campus. It was a whisper-quiet neighborhood that allowed no display of vulgarity. No little boys brandishing slingshots. No housewives lounging on their front porches reading bodice-ripper romances. An oil change in the driveway would have been a capital offense.

The house was a white, two-story Cape Cod with black shutters, dormer windows, and Doric pillars. A burgundy and black Rolls Royce sedan complemented the red brick driveway. The driveway returned the compliment.

Dr. Ashbury was a prominent local neurosurgeon. In addition to the Westwood house, he and his wife owned a six-story Beverly Hills medical building and a Manhattan apartment overlooking Central Park. They were major players in the L.A. charity and arts scenes.

My pal Gabriel Van Buren had asked for my help on the Ashbury job. In our younger days, we worked together at Western Investigative Services. Now, he owns the company and lets me tap into his network of information sources. When it comes to favors granted, it seems like I always owe him one.

An elite group of ballet dancers, teachers, and students had flown in from Russia for a series of classes at the Los Angeles Dance Academy. An L.A. Times article had called the event “a very special summer intensive.”

The Russians were staying in the homes of local ballet patrons. Gabe had landed a fifteen-day personal protection contract for one ballerina and two students who would be staying at the Ashbury residence. It was a prestigious contract: high-profile clients, world-class dancers, and a big fat paycheck. I was the dayshift. Gabe had assigned the nightshift to Angela Marquez, Western Investigative Services’ premier female operative.

As soon as I parked behind Gabe’s big Mercedes SUV and stepped into the street, I pulled on my sport coat so the pistol on my belt wouldn’t frighten the neighbors. I prefer a revolver to an automatic, but I needed to carry a concealed gun 12 hours a day for this job. My Glock 9mm was lighter and flatter than my Smith and Wesson .38, therefore it was my cannon of choice. Most of the time, I don’t carry a gun.

Gabe came out the front door wearing his standard facial expression—a cheery smile with a trace of menace behind it. Standing six-feet-three, light on his feet, he wore one of his best suits, a white shirt, and a perfect Windsor knot in his tie. During his college years, he had been a first-string linebacker and a champion debater. Gabe prefers to talk his way out of trouble, but when things get physical, he’s been known to break bones.

I was in my usual work outfit: slacks, lightweight sport coat, no tie, and rubber-soled shoes. The coat pockets are convenient for stashing work-related items such as penlight, iPhone, and burglary tools. The rubber soles are convenient for hasty retreats.

Another man emerged from the front door. He looked to be in his fifties, smaller than average, gray-streaked hair. He had the face of an aging movie star: well-spaced features losing the battle with gravity. He wore a navy blazer, sharply creased tan trousers, and a regimental striped tie.

Gabe said, “Dr. Ashbury, this is Jack Salvo.”

I started to say hello, but Ashbury pivoted on the heels of his Gucci loafers and paced around the Rolls, scrutinizing the polished bodywork. He spoke without looking at me. “Salvo, how long have you been working as a bodyguard?”

“I started working personal protection fifteen years ago. I phased into investigations, and now I work as a bodyguard on special occasions.”

Ashbury looked straight at me, over the top of the car. “If you advanced from bodyguard to investigations, why are you here now? Wouldn’t that be a regression in your career path?”

I suppressed the urge to run around the car and smack him. “I’m slumming.”

Ashbury tried to stare me down, gave up, and looked over at Gabe.

Gabe said, “Dr. Ashbury, I’ve known Jack for years. I could get you someone who’s bigger and stronger, and I could get you someone who is not compelled to be a wise-ass, but I cannot get you anyone more capable for this job . He’s doing me a favor by being here.”

Ashbury slowly walked toward the back of the Rolls where Gabe was standing. “What’s the source of your compulsion to be a wise-ass, Salvo? Is it some psychological problem?”

“I’m not a wise-ass, I’m a philosopher.”

His thin lips curled into a dainty little sneer. “Philosophy is mostly about its own history. So tell me, who is your favorite philosopher?

“I don’t have a single favorite. The list would include Aristotle, Newton, Frege, Russell, and Wittgenstein. Sometimes the list changes with my mood.”

“And how did you gain this vast accumulation of knowledge?”

“Diligent study.

“Where did you study?”

“Long Beach State and UCLA.”

“What degrees do you have?”

“BA in Philosophy, minor in Criminal Justice. MA in Philosophy, plus more graduate work.”

“Why couldn’t you get your PhD?”

“I didn’t have the stomach for the requisite bootlicking.”

“What a surprise. Did you publish anything?”

“An introductory book called Philosophy for Morons. It’s in the second printing. You buy a copy, I’ll sign it for you.”

Ashbury looked at Gabe. “Is this bullshit or what?”

Gabe was trying to give me a dirty look without making it too obvious. “Everything he says is factually correct, except for his claim to be a philosopher. That’s highly questionable. In his defense, I have to point out he teaches a philosophy class at Coast College one night a week, and he gets high rankings from his students.”

Ashbury sighed and gave a dismissive, backhanded wave in my general direction. “I’ll assume all that is correct. What kind of weapon do you carry, Salvo?”

I held my sport coat back. “Glock G19.”

“How many shots does that thing fire?”

“California-legal, ten-shot magazine.” I lifted a spare magazine from a coat pocket, displayed it, and dropped it back in.

“Do you carry anything else?”

I slipped a folding combat knife from inside my waistband, opened and closed it with one hand, and put it back.

Ashbury’s eyes widened, and he edged closer to Gabe. “Gabriel, is this character a competent, professional bodyguard?”

“He’s the real deal, Dr. Ashbury.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He walked toward the front door, slowly shaking his head.

After Ashbury went into the house, Gabe got closer and spoke in a low voice. “Jackson, I requested you for this job because you have the ability to mingle with the upper crust. You have your philosophy background, your tailored sport coats, and those stupidly expensive Swiss mechanical watches. Could you possibly show a little savoir faire and not fuck up this contract?”

“I should have bounced him off the hood of the Rolls.”

Gabe straightened his tie and grinned. “I’m in charge here. If that narcissistic little blowhard needs to get bounced, I get to do it.”

“Why does Ashbury insist on armed bodyguards? What’s the threat?”

“There’s no threat, as far as I can tell. He says he wants to be absolutely certain the girls are safe.”

“The other ballet patrons are also hosting the Russians. Are they using armed guards?”

“Nope. Not even unarmed guards.”

I scratched my head. “This is all about Ashbury flexing his muscles?”

“That’s the way I read it.”

“All I have to do is watch beautiful girls for two weeks?”

“All you have to do is keep your mouth shut, your gun in your holster, and your dick in your pants. You think you can handle it?”

“Most of it.”

“Two out of three would be all I could ever hope for. Now let’s go inside and get you acquainted with everyone.”

I followed Gabe through the front door.

Two women were standing in the middle of the living room, which was furnished with numbingly traditional dark maple wood and tan, beige, and off-white fabrics. If I were commissioned to redecorate the place, I would start with a flame-thrower.

Gabe said, “Jack, you know Angela Marquez.”

Angela gave me a big warm smile. “Hello, Jackson.”

With her big eyes and small mouth, she always reminds me of a Hispanic Betty Boop. She wore a simple blouse, wide-legged pants, and a .38 snubbie in her ankle holster. I didn’t actually see the gun, but...