Tricky by Josh Stallings

Author:Josh Stallings [Stallings, Josh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Polis Books
Published: 2021-09-21T00:00:00+00:00

San Marino is a city of wealth equaling Beverly Hills, but the money is older. It rests surrounded by Pasadena, Alhambra, and San Gabriel. City names in Southern California tell the story of the messy, sometimes bloody, recent past. San Marino started as a Gabrieleño-Tongva tribal village. The Spanish used monks and muskets to invade and occupy, thus it became part of the Mission San Gabriel Arcángel. After the Mexicans won independence from Spain, they claimed the land from the church and gave it as a land grant to Dona Victoria Bartolomea Reid, creating Rancho Huerta de Cuati. The 1846 Mexican American war delivered a California entirely free from Mexican domination. The dons retained their massive rancheros. In 1873, James DeBarth Shorb renamed Rancho Huerta de Cuati San Marino after his grandfather’s plantation in Maryland that had, in turn, been named for an Italian Republic.

Madsen looked out the passenger window of the unmarked Ford Interceptor and wondered if the men working the massive hedges and rolling lawns knew that at one time this was all theirs.

“The Torres family owns the local Spanish language newspaper.” Kazim reported from behind the steering wheel. “Eduardo Torres dragged them into modern times when he created two Spanish language radio stations and a cable network.”

“How rich we talking here? Ferrari and Gucci rich? Private jet rich? They named the university after you because you built it for them rich?”

“I’m going to say Ferrari leaning toward jet, but that’s speculation. Zillow valued his home at twelve plus.”

“Twelve?”

“Million.”

“For a house? Better be one hell of a place to hang a hat.”

It was. Two blocks from The Huntington. A cobblestone drive fronted the Spanish Revival mansion. Two stories of pale pink stucco, deep-set arched windows, wrought iron scrolled rails, and topped with a rustic terra cotta tile roof. 9,760 feet of old-world opulence.

The woman who answered the door echoed the pueblo and mesas of her ancestors. Her obsidian eyes remembered a time before European invasion. Her starched white uniform made clear that how she felt carried no weight. After seeing the detectives’ badges she ushered them in to the grand foyer. She instructed them to wait. No chairs. No offer of refreshments. No pleasantries. “Wait here.” Curt. Final.

Madsen reflected back at himself in the polished marble floor. Lack of sleep gave him haggard bags and sags. The heat left him drooping. He held his Stetson in his hand. Kazim openly gawked at the room. A wide, dark wood staircase swept to the second floor. It’s wrought iron banister had so many graceful spirals and curlicues it was less Spanish and more baroque. Iron and gold were the unifying features of the décor. They had fifteen minutes to study all this before the housekeeper returned. “Mr. Torres will see you now.” She turned, not waiting for—or expecting—a response, and led them deeper into the house.

Torres’ office overlooked a brilliant green lawn that defied any notion of summer or drought. It stretched around an Olympic-sized swimming pool, past a rose garden and ended at a red clay tennis court.

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