Read Online City of Strangers (Luis Chavez Book 2) by Mark Wheaton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Wheaton
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to fail. So, pardon me if I try to alleviate some of my own guilt in this by venting my anger at the late Father Chang.”
Luis extended his hand. “Thank you for your time, Father.”
“If you find her, please tell her I’m sorry.”
Luis nodded and headed away.
VI
In the age of Google Maps and Waze, addresses in a big city like Los Angeles should have been the easiest things to find with a smartphone in hand. So why was it, Michael thought, that he couldn’t locate the law office of Caesar deGuzman, Yamazoe’s attorney?
He’d called to make an appointment, the receptionist registering surprise to hear that a deputy district attorney was coming in to meet her boss.
“Of Los Angeles?” she asked to confirm.
“Yes,” Michael had replied with relish. “Can he see me?”
But now, as he made his way up and down the stairs of what looked like a courtyard apartment converted into offices, including one that had the logo of a recently canceled television series on it and two more for a so-called wellness clinic, Michael wondered if he was even in the right part of the city.
“Mr. Story?”
Michael turned. A young woman with hair so unnaturally red it looked less taken from a bottle and more from the side of a fire engine waved a hand at him from a doorway across the courtyard.
“That’s me,” Michael said, striding over. “Couldn’t find the place.”
“Oh, that’s Koreatown for you,” the woman said, pointing to one of three placards alongside the door that listed deGuzman’s name under several others. “We’re all on top of, under, and behind everybody here.”
Michael resisted uttering the single entendre that entered his head as he followed the receptionist inside. For someone who spent thousands placing ads on the back of every bus and phone book in the city, the firm’s actual office space was no larger than that of the two-bedroom apartment deGuzman’s place of business now occupied.
“He’ll be with you in just a moment,” the receptionist said, taking a seat behind a desk which sat, Michael imagined, in what had at one time been the kitchen.
He’d just picked up an aged copy of Popular Mechanics when a squat man with a long black ponytail and bushy facial hair emerged from a back room. At first, Michael took him for another client. It wasn’t until he extended a hand that he recognized him as the man from the bus ads, just an additional forty pounds and at least a decade further along on his journey through life.
“Mr. Story,” deGuzman said, eyeing the deputy DA through thick glasses.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Michael replied, shaking his hand.
“Come on back,” deGuzman said. “And tell me how I can be of assistance to the great city of Los Angeles today.”
Though the ads and trappings read ambulance chaser, what Michael saw in deGuzman’s obsidian eyes was someone who in another life could’ve been a law professor or Supreme Court justice. He looked shrewd, and his eyes missed nothing. He folded his hands and sat at the head of a small conference table as he waited for Michael to speak.
“It’s about Shu Yamazoe,” Michael said.
“So you told Irma.”
Michael decided that was the receptionist’s name and pressed on. “I’m just curious as to how you and he came to know each other.”
“You can’t believe I’d actually have a conversation about this with someone from the prosecutor’s office,” deGuzman said. “I assume you thought I was someone who might wish to curry favor with a deputy district attorney by hanging a controversial client out to dry, but that’s incorrect.”
“No, I’m actually acting in an unofficial capacity at the behest of the Los Angeles archdiocese. They are concerned that Yamazoe’s confession—”
“They should be,” deGuzman interrupted. “So, they’re already looking to discredit my client, are they? I guess I would be, too.”
“No, they’ve just made mistakes in the past, so they want to approach
Luis extended his hand. “Thank you for your time, Father.”
“If you find her, please tell her I’m sorry.”
Luis nodded and headed away.
VI
In the age of Google Maps and Waze, addresses in a big city like Los Angeles should have been the easiest things to find with a smartphone in hand. So why was it, Michael thought, that he couldn’t locate the law office of Caesar deGuzman, Yamazoe’s attorney?
He’d called to make an appointment, the receptionist registering surprise to hear that a deputy district attorney was coming in to meet her boss.
“Of Los Angeles?” she asked to confirm.
“Yes,” Michael had replied with relish. “Can he see me?”
But now, as he made his way up and down the stairs of what looked like a courtyard apartment converted into offices, including one that had the logo of a recently canceled television series on it and two more for a so-called wellness clinic, Michael wondered if he was even in the right part of the city.
“Mr. Story?”
Michael turned. A young woman with hair so unnaturally red it looked less taken from a bottle and more from the side of a fire engine waved a hand at him from a doorway across the courtyard.
“That’s me,” Michael said, striding over. “Couldn’t find the place.”
“Oh, that’s Koreatown for you,” the woman said, pointing to one of three placards alongside the door that listed deGuzman’s name under several others. “We’re all on top of, under, and behind everybody here.”
Michael resisted uttering the single entendre that entered his head as he followed the receptionist inside. For someone who spent thousands placing ads on the back of every bus and phone book in the city, the firm’s actual office space was no larger than that of the two-bedroom apartment deGuzman’s place of business now occupied.
“He’ll be with you in just a moment,” the receptionist said, taking a seat behind a desk which sat, Michael imagined, in what had at one time been the kitchen.
He’d just picked up an aged copy of Popular Mechanics when a squat man with a long black ponytail and bushy facial hair emerged from a back room. At first, Michael took him for another client. It wasn’t until he extended a hand that he recognized him as the man from the bus ads, just an additional forty pounds and at least a decade further along on his journey through life.
“Mr. Story,” deGuzman said, eyeing the deputy DA through thick glasses.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Michael replied, shaking his hand.
“Come on back,” deGuzman said. “And tell me how I can be of assistance to the great city of Los Angeles today.”
Though the ads and trappings read ambulance chaser, what Michael saw in deGuzman’s obsidian eyes was someone who in another life could’ve been a law professor or Supreme Court justice. He looked shrewd, and his eyes missed nothing. He folded his hands and sat at the head of a small conference table as he waited for Michael to speak.
“It’s about Shu Yamazoe,” Michael said.
“So you told Irma.”
Michael decided that was the receptionist’s name and pressed on. “I’m just curious as to how you and he came to know each other.”
“You can’t believe I’d actually have a conversation about this with someone from the prosecutor’s office,” deGuzman said. “I assume you thought I was someone who might wish to curry favor with a deputy district attorney by hanging a controversial client out to dry, but that’s incorrect.”
“No, I’m actually acting in an unofficial capacity at the behest of the Los Angeles archdiocese. They are concerned that Yamazoe’s confession—”
“They should be,” deGuzman interrupted. “So, they’re already looking to discredit my client, are they? I guess I would be, too.”
“No, they’ve just made mistakes in the past, so they want to approach
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