The List: Rico's Revenge

By Larry J Horn

Los Angeles Detective John Ramos and his partner, Detective Beth Harper, have solved some of L.A.'s most perplexing homicides. John is often accused of being overly paranoid. Dr. Charles Stevens, a world-famous transplant surgeon, has a high affinity for publicity and an uncanny knack for being at the right place, at the right time, to perfo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Horn
• Release date: May 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733952620

Larry J Horn

With a PhD in Business Management, Larry Horn is an acknowledged expert in sales and manufacturing. As the head of multiple sales organizations, he has traveled North America extensively and worked internationally. Horn's real-life experiences-often extraordinary-along with his fascination for adventure and love of action and sports have all fostered his creative ideas and invigorated his debut novel, The List: Rico's Revenge. Born and raised in Texas, he now lives in Hot Springs, Arkansas with his wife, Lisa, and his youngest daughter, Lindsey. Horn continues to work full-time while pursuing his passion for writing.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I WANT TO THANK my Aunt Sherry and Uncle Stephen for giving me their encouragement and support to follow my dreams by writing this book. Their guidance and advice were invaluable and meant everything to me.

I want to thank my wife Lisa for her unwavering support and for always being ready to read whatever I wrote no matter what. Her reassurance and faith kept me going.

A special thank you goes out to Sarah as she was as important to this book getting done as I was. Thank you so much for your time and help!

And finally, a special thanks to Lindsay my youngest daughter. You have no idea how much inspiration you give to me each day. You have taught me more than I could ever teach you. Thank you so much for being a part of my life!

PROLOGUE

DR. CHARLES STEVENS walked through the automatic glass doors out of the oven-like heat of Dubai into the air-conditioned coolness of the hotel lobby. Several hotel employees took a step toward him, but he waved them away. He didn’t need help with checking in or carrying luggage as he was already staying there. He didn’t need help with getting to the penthouse suite that the Sheik of the United Arab Emirates had arranged for him as he knew where it was.

What he did need was a drink.

Four days ago, he’d performed a kidney transplant on the Sheik’s son, and he’d slept at the hospital as he’d monitored the boy’s progress. The kid was finally out of danger and looking good, so Stevens was going to enjoy a couple of days of total and complete down time. Something he didn’t get very often.

He knew he could go to his suite and find enough alcohol to sink a ship, with privacy to go along with it. But, for some reason, he wanted the anonymity of a hotel bar. Kind of a decompression, he thought, where he could unload the stress of making sure an iffy surgery on an expensive kid went as his father wanted it to.

Another blast of cold air hit him in the face as he pushed open the door to the hotel lounge, this time smelling of quiet luxury. He walked past the hostess and found a seat at the bar, then asked the bartender for a Hendrick’s gin martini, dry, dirty. Listening to the alcohol being poured over the ice and the liquid being shaken exactly twenty-three times so that perfect ice crystals would form, started his relaxation.

You here on business?

The peace shattered.

He turned his head. A man—medium height, well-built, military stance—sat a couple of stools down. He nodded once and looked away, hoping that would discourage conversation.

It didn’t.

Scooting his drink along the bar with a screech like fingernails on a chalkboard, the man settled onto the stool next to him.

American, right?

Stevens sighed. Look, I’m tired. Do you mind?

Nope. Don’t mean to bother you.

The man downed the rest of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he set the glass down. He cocked his head at the bartender. Another one. And put his on my tab too.

No need to do that. Stevens stood up. In fact, I’m taking mine with me.

Don’t be like that, Doc. Surely you can come down from the clouds long enough to have a drink with me. Name is Rico, by the way.

Stevens stopped. How do you know that I’m a doctor?

Rico huffed a laugh. All you have to do is be able to read, Doc. Your face is all over the newspapers. You did a good job on that kid.

The martini arrived in front of him, cold, crisp, inviting. Stevens sat back down. One drink with someone who spoke American without an accent wouldn’t hurt. Thanks.

Best transplant surgeon in the world, is what I hear. Makes a man proud to be an American.

Stevens took a sip. Perfect. Except for the asshole sitting next to him.

So, how do you get hooked up with a sheik when his son needs a transplant?

Stevens shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. Hooked up? I guess it’s not hard when you’re famous, huh?

Rico laughed, a series of short barks that sounded like he didn’t laugh very often. Guess that helps. So. He took a drink. Is there a list or something? I mean, if I had someone I cared about who needed a transplant and enough money, would you come running if I called?

White heat washed over Stevens. How dare he? This buffoon acted like he didn’t perform a service, a life-giving service. Money didn’t matter—it was about the, the...

Shit. He stood up, this time stepping away from the bar. Maybe. If I liked you. But I don’t.

He picked up his glass and walked out of the bar. He’d find his peace and quiet in a penthouse where no one could bother him. Shoot, he’d wake his wife up back home in Dallas and have phone sex with her. He didn’t need anybody to insinuate that he was driven only by money.

RICO SAT IN THE BAR, long after Stevens left, drinking one Jack Daniels on the rocks after another. Thinking.

He’d look Stevens up. Do some digging into his background. Find his weakness.

Then, he’d find a way to exploit it.

CHAPTER 1

_______________________________________

12 MONTHS LATER

Hey, Beth, come over here.

Beth Harper glanced up from the paperwork on her desk to where her partner, John Ramos, stood staring at a television screen stuck to the wall on one side of the LAPD Detective Squad room and glared at him. Yes, master. At your command.

John grinned over his shoulder. In my dreams. PLEASE step over this way, Detective First Class Harper.

She shrugged. K. In a minute. This report isn’t going to write itself.

No, get your ass over here and look at this guy. I think...

His voice trailed off and Beth, her curiosity now aroused, shoved her chair back and walked past the other desks, some full, some empty, to stand beside him. What about him?

A local TV reporter, blond, curvy, held a microphone right under the nose of a tall, good-looking guy—one who seemed almost too comfortable as he smiled directly at the camera.

Beth knew the reporter. Julie Scholtz was a little too familiar with some of the male detectives, including John. But now, the woman was making nice with her interviewee, leaning in too close and pursing those bright red lips. We’re speaking with Dr. Charles Stevens, who is the foremost transplant surgeon in the country. Dr. Stevens, would you please tell us about your latest case?

Beth grinned as the doc ignored Julie’s moves. The woman was the worst flirt she’d ever seen, but she could certainly see why she’d flirt with Dr. Stevens. The guy was gorgeous. And filthy rich, too, Beth would bet.

She glanced at John. He’s a doctor. So?

Can you believe this guy? He’s like a rock star, doing all these famous transplants. I mean he was just in Philadelphia last week and the week before he was in Chicago and now he’s here in Los Angeles. Twenty to one that some lucky celebrity is getting a transplant today. And Dr. Stevens there is getting richer. I wonder just how he’s always in the right place at the right time.

Oh my God, John, you are so paranoid about everything! Beth rolled her eyes at John and walked back to her desk. What are you insinuating? I mean this guy is out there saving people’s lives and performing life-changing surgeries, and you’re so sure that it’s all connected in some screwed up way of yours? How are you even putting this all together?

John shrugged, following right behind her. "Don’t know. It’s just setting off my weird alert. He put both fists on his side of the desk and leaned on them, frowning at her. Ya know, that weird alert that went off right before we cracked that drug ring case last month? Or the hit and run of those two kids the month before? He grabbed his coat. Tell you what. I’ll dig up more before I mention something like this the next time."

See that you do. You might be completely wrong, you know. She slid open her desk drawer and slipped her side arm into the holster under her arm, then shrugged into her jacket. Come on. Let’s go protect the mayor from the bad guys. I’m sure not looking forward to standing out in the heat today. Can’t believe this heat! It’s never hot here.

Yeah. Not much fun. But somebody’s got to do it.

A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, glad their security detail for the Mayor was over, John and Beth sat across from each other in their dimly lit office, sipping on coffee and cooling off.

Huh. Look at this.

What now? Beth raised her head from the reports she was working on.

John pointed at the LA Times article in front of him. It says here that Congressman Miller’s 28-year-old daughter just received a liver transplant.

So?

Well, have you ever wondered how they choose the next in line? I mean, why does this person get a liver and that person doesn’t?

Beth shot John a withering look. Are we still talking about this? I thought you were going to drop it.

No, listen to me. John leaned forward in his chair, turning on the light over his desk so the print was easier to read. I mean, have you ever thought about it?

Can’t say that I have. Beth took a sip of her coffee. I’m sure they have a list of transplant recipients, and then some medical team decides who gets what. I know they have to find someone who matches the donor, since the rejection rate is pretty high.

Come on, Beth! John hit the top of the desk with his palm, and Beth’s reports went flying. Don’t you see that there’s room for somebody to get really rich peddling organs?

Why are you so obsessed with this thing? You watch one rich, handsome doctor saving people’s lives and you automatically determine he’s a criminal and getting rich off the system. She reached to retrieve papers from under her chair and slapped them back on the desk. If you think there’s a reason to check him out, fine. If you’re just making more work for me, then forget it.

Okay, okay. I might be overthinking this a little. But I just can’t let this go. There are too many questions.

Beth sighed. I’m probably going to regret asking you this. What questions?

John glanced around at the squad room. The few detectives in the office in the middle of the day were clustered around a TV to watch a noisy soccer game. No one was close enough to hear his crazy theory.

He leaned towards her. First, like we said, how do they decide who is next in line? Secondly, how does this doctor happen to be there at the right time to perform all these transplants? I mean there are doctors who do transplants at most major hospitals, right? Why or how does this guy happen to be the one to perform all these high-profile transplants? And what about the donors? I’m sure there’s a long list of conditions that have to be met in order to decide who gets what, right?

What are you getting at? Beth frowned at him. Are you suggesting that he’s breaking rules to get organs for the celebs?

Why not? If I remember correctly, the transplant he performed in Pennsylvania was on the wife of the doctor who is head of Neuro-Surgery at Philadelphia General, and the one he performed in Chicago was on the famous producer of those popular reality-TV shows.

So?

So, those are some pretty high-profile cases, right? I thought the transplant recipients were more or less first come, first serve.

Beth shrugged. Or at least those that are in most need.

So, what if these famous people are fixing the game?

You think these people are buying their way to the head of the transplant line?

John sat back in his chair and nodded vigorously. Well, yeah, basically.

Okay. I got it. Beth sipped her coffee and made a face. Cold. Time to go.

So what are we going to do about it?

Beth gathered up files and placed them carefully in her drawer.

Beth? What are we going to do?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing. Beth stood up and carried the coffee cup to the sink next to her desk. It’s just speculation on your part and you have no proof. And if what you are hypothesizing were true, well, it would be a huge deal. Way out of our league. So, instead of spending the rest of the day listening to more of your paranoid conspiracies, I suggest we head down to the impound.

The impound? Why? John knitted his brow.

To do our job. Captain wants us to check out a car. Susan Reeves. Fatal accident, early this afternoon. Beth tossed the file onto John’s desk, Mother of two. Ran off the road, hit a tree.

Okay, but why aren’t the forensic guys looking at it? John mumbled as he flipped through the file.

Don’t know. I think the captain is friends with the family. Must be hitting close to home. Beth reached for her purse and slid the strap onto her shoulder. Also have to go by the hospital and pick up the medical toxicology report.

John let out a long sigh. Back out into the heat. Ok, let’s go. He grabbed his jacket and his keys and followed her out of the squad room.

They pulled through the security gates of the police impound and came to a stop next to a ten-foot tall chain link fence. Beth flipped through her paperwork. It was supposed to have been already brought over. Ah. She pointed at a totaled vehicle being winched off of a tow truck. That must be it.

John winced. The car was nothing but a mass of metal. Twisted. Crushed. Unrecognizable. I don’t see how anyone could have lived through that.

She didn’t. Beth opened her door and got out. Come on.

The battered car creaked and moaned as it was lowered to the ground, raising the hair on the back of John’s neck. The sound was almost human. The driver’s door, or what was left of it, had been cut open with the Jaws of Life and John could see the crumpled compartment where Susan Reeves died. With a deep breath, he pulled out his phone and took pictures at several different angles.

That car must have been flying when it left the road.

John turned to find the tow truck driver standing behind him. Why do you say that, Benny? asked John, reading his name off a patch on his overalls.

Brake line is loose. Noticed it when I fastened my cable underneath. She didn’t have no brakes coming down that hill.

Loose? John raised his eyebrows at Beth. Can you show me?

Sure thing. Over here.

The tow truck driver motioned towards the driver’s side of the car and crawled under the vehicle. John squatted down next to him.

Right there, Detective. Look there at the left front tire.

Can’t see a thing. John stood up, removed his coat and handed it to Beth, and with a grumble about dry cleaning his suit, he crawled next to the driver.

Do you see anything now? Beth squatted down trying to see under the vehicle.

Just a minute. John pulled up the flashlight app on his phone, scooted under the car on his back, then followed the truck driver’s pointed finger. A shiny brass fitting sparkled in the light.

See, right there. It’s been repaired at some point. That splice should be tight, and instead, you can see where the brake fluid has dripped out.

John grunted and snapped a couple of pictures. Okay. So, we’ll have to find who did the repair.

Yeah, but look at that. Benny pointed again, his blunt finger almost touching the metal line. Something’s been wrapped around the line right at the junction, like duct tape or something. But it’s black, not silver.

John peered at the line, wiping sweat from his eyes. A fibrous, foreign material bunched up around the broken spot. A sudden tingle went up John’s spine and the back of his neck. Shit! That’s not duct tape. And, look at how it was holding the line together right there at the splice.

Thought you’d find that interesting. Benny’s tiny flashlight played over the black material. Even in the shadow under the car, John could see the narrowing of the man’s eyes as he stared at the steel tube. Looks like somebody wanted the brake fluid to leak out. Why do you think they would do that?

Don’t know. But we’ll find out.

What’d you find? Do I need to climb under there, too? Beth strained to see.

No, don’t get dirty. John examined the spot again, took another picture.

Then, he called the station, and still lying flat on his back under a car where somebody died, he asked for his boss.

JOHN AND BETH STUCK around until the CSI folks arrived and watched for another thirty minutes or so as the car was secured as a crime scene and readied to be taken to the lab. They’d figure out pretty quickly if the line had actually been tampered with and what the material was.

Ready to go? Beth touched his arm.

John jerked out of his thoughts, wiped his face, and straightened up from where he’d been leaning against a tree. Yeah. Come on. Let’s get that report from the morgue.

He waved at the head CSI, and walked to his car, still tangled in the process going on in his head.

Beth grinned. Come on, Ramos. Think out loud, will you?

A reluctant grin matched hers. Thought you could read my mind after all these years. But, since you can’t... He knew that talking to her was one of the best ways to sort through his ideas. She was the best partner he’d ever had, especially when she doubted him, because he had to get everything straight to explain it to her. This time would be no different.

Something, some kind of black material with little fibers in it, was wrapped around the brake line, right at a splice. It didn’t get on there by itself. Someone put it there on purpose.

What’s a splice? I mean, I know what one is but how does it work on a brake line?

"Brake lines break sometimes, deep in where they’re hard to reach. So, instead of taking the whole car apart, a mechanic will splice a new line to what’s still good on an existing line with a brass coupling. This particular