ONE MONTH TO MIDNIGHT-Chapter 4

SUNDAY, AUGUST 7th

CORNER OF HOMICIDE, staring at monitor at seven in the morning, Dent was dialed into a database allowing him to read about Pedro “Peter” Mirabella, the stiff from Wind-N-Sea.

According to the Feds, Mirabella was born in Mexico City, son of a prominent politician who’d been snared in one of Mexico’s generational corruption sweeps, when the PRI looks to dust off its image a little. Papa Mirabella had pissed off somebody with political cajones, got set up, yanked out of office and tossed in the slam on a lifer. Typical Mexico.

Before the bottom fell out, Papa Mirabella sent Pedro to Harvard, then the Wharton School of Business. Pedro graduated with honors, top 5% of his class, but while his classmates were entering Big 8 accounting firms on the bottom floor, Mirabella was entering the crime world at the penthouse. In ‘86, he was RICO’ed for a money-laundering scheme for the Gambino family. Refusing to flip on his bosses, Pedro ended up getting 3-5 for racketeering and doing 19 months at a Club Fed facility in upstate New York.

Upon release, Mirabella disappeared from the FBI radar screen. He resurfaced in ‘91, a DEA report connecting him with the Cali Cartel. The report had Mirabella leaving the cartel in 1992 and disappearing again, and the last report, dated July ‘93, put him back in Mexico City.

Dent stretched, staring at the screen but not seeing it. Seeing Mirabella’s house in his mind’s eye, facing the Pacific, three-thousand-square feet of house in an expensive neighborhood. Rented. Dent smiled, because that’s how anybody dodging the IRS does it. If a guy’s got illegal income and no way to claim it, he rents. Maybe buys through some fish stupid enough to put it in his own name and try working some bullshit scheme to rent it back to a guy like Mirabella. Mirabella maybe giving thirty percent as a buyer’s fee. Dent glanced down at Walt Bishop’s report. ‘94 Porsche 956 in the garage. Dent thought, Ten to one you leased it. Pulling a phonebook from a shelf beside the monitor, he opened it to the L’s and found Lemontree Leasing.



LEMONTREE LEASING was a cottage-like affair in La Jolla with a Beemer and a Cadillac parked out front; the Beemer with a LEMONTREE LEASING sticker in the rear window.

A note on the cottage’s door informed Dent somebody would be ‘Back in one hour- Showing Property.’ On impulse, he tried the door, found it unlocked and entered. Inside were lots of plants but no sign of any lemon trees or leasing agents. Through a window, Dent could see into a private office. Empty.

He called out, “San Diego PD. Anybody here?” and heard a thump, like something had fallen over. He thought of the sign on the door and put a hand on the butt of his .45. “San Diego PD. Anybody here?” He moved so he could see down a hallway, in the direction of the thumping. A couple of open doors were on the left, one closed at the end with a sign on the door stating: Joyce Lemon, Broker. Hearing voices through the door, Dent loosened the .45 in its holster, said, “San Diego PD . . . who’s back there?” and started down the hall.

Abruptly, the door opened and a platinum blonde in her fifties exited the office, pulling the door closed behind her. “Can I help you?” Out of breath in a gold lamé pantsuit, buttons up the front, the collar of the suit disheveled and plum-colored lipstick smudged around her mouth.

“I’m Detective Dent with San Diego PD investigating a homicide. I want to ask some questions about a dead ex-tenant of yours.”

“Oh. Mr. Mirabella.” The woman kind of turned her head to the side, glancing behind her . . . Who’s in the office? . . . and back at Dent. Clasping her hands together, smiling a big real-estate agent’s smile, she said, “Maybe we could talk about this later, schedule an appointment? How’s tomorrow sound?” Smiling broadly and pushing a strand of platinum hair behind her ear.

Dent smiled back, indicating he understood all, was in fact the most empathetic man in all of San Diego, then shook his head. “Unfortunately, this is a homicide and with these types of cases, murder and all, my boss thinks it’s best we get right on them.” He shrugged. Mr. Agreeable.

“Unh-hunh.” Ms. Lemon’s tongue popped out, licking a corner of her plummy lipstick-smudged mouth. “Well I’m busy right this minute, but if you want to come back in a while . . .”

“No problem, I’ll read a magazine while you wrap up whatever you were doing. Heard voices so I assume I caught you in a meeting.” He waved at the door. “By the way, your note says you’re out. I guess you forgot to take it down when you got back.” Dent strode to the door, “Let me get it for you,” removed the sign, “don’t want to chase away any sales,” and handed it to Ms. Lemon, who’d turned to look down the hallway at that closed door.

Ms. Lemon took the note and sighed. Said, “I’ll need a moment,” and stalked down the hallway, squeezing the note in her fist. It was a tiny ball when she reached the door, knocked once, and slipped within.

Dent sat on the couch, smiling while selecting last month’s San Diego Magazine, one with a cover featuring summer casseroles, and was halfway through Avocado Delight when Ms. Lemon returned; the lipstick was wiped from her face and her collar corrected. “Now what can I do for you, Detective . . . What was your name?”

“Dent. I want to find out a little about Mr. Mirabella.”

“Yes, I know, but you said it was a homicide. I thought it was suicide.”

Dent nodded, because that’s exactly what Decker had told the press. The judgment being that if someone wanted Mirabella’s death to look like suicide, it was best to keep them thinking the cops believed the same. “That’s right, but we have to be thorough. Anyway, tell me about Mirabella. First off, I figure he paid his rent on time and he paid cash. Am I right?”

“Yes, but how did you know he paid cash?”

Dent shrugged. “Lucky guess. How long did he live there?”


“Five months the first of September.”

“Unh-hunh. And do you recall how his credit looked when he moved in?”

Joyce Lemon studied Dent’s eyes. Making a decision. “He had excellent credit.”

And deciding wrong. Dent said, “How much was the deposit?”

“That’s confidential.”

“Confidential? It’s a deposit. Why’s it confidential?”

“I don’t own these homes, Detective, I manage them and see they’re occupied.”

“But if I was planning on renting one, you’d tell me what the deposit was. That’s the way it works, right?”

“Yes, but you’re not planning on leasing one of these places. I’ll need permission from the owners before I can release that information.”

Dent nodded. “That’s a nice car you have out front. The BMW’s yours?”

Ms. Lemon nodded cautiously. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking about the fact that a Seven-series BMW costs quite a lot. Big payments. You making payments on it?”

“That’s a personal question I don’t deign to answer,” Ms. Lemon said. Way she said it, Dent knew the woman was paying every month.

“Look,” Dent said, “I’ll level with you. I know Pedro Mirabella didn’t have a credit history, excellent or doodly-squat. So, basically, I know you lied to a peace officer, which is currently against the law. If convicted, the sentence is up to one year in the Los Colinas women’s facility in Santee.” Dent let that little nugget sink before saying, “Wanna know why I think you lied?”

Joyce Lemon said nothing. All big blue eyes. Amateur.

“How’s this: you discovered Pedro Mirabella had no credit history and told him you couldn’t rent to him. Now Pedro, he’d probably heard that before, what with the economy and landlords being really tight about who they rent to, but he wanted that place. I mean, it’s got one heck of a view, you know what I mean?”

Eyes, the woman nothing but eyes. Nervous eyes.

“So,” Dent continued, “Pedro offered bonus cash up front or a little extra every month on the rent to let him in the place. You’re thinking this is too good to be true, he’s paying cash, so what’s the deal, no way anybody’d know, including the IRS. Nobody gets hurt, right?”

Scared eyes.

“But your clients you work for, they certainly wouldn’t appreciate finding out that you let some no-credit loser move in. Am I right?”

Joyce Lemon said nothing and Dent knew he was.

“Ms. Lemon, don’t make me elaborate on withholding information and how it affects the previous lie and the sentencing portion of the trial.” Dent making stuff up as he went along.

Obviously, the woman didn’t watch L.A. Law and knew zilch regarding Miranda rights, because she immediately said, “Fifteen thousand. He gave me fifteen thousand for the deposit”

Dent whistled. “Wow. For most folks that’s a regular down payment. The fact he paid all that cash, didn’t you wonder where he got the money? Just a little?”

Joyce Lemon said nothing.

“He by any chance fill out an application, give any names as credit references?”

She shook her head.

“Hunh. Well, thank you for all your help. I’ll just let myself out.” Dent crossed the little office, opened the door and stood there regarding Joyce Lemon. “Oh, by the way? You missed two buttons. Here and here.” Dent smiled. “Have yourself a nice day, ma’am.”


DRIVING HOME, DENT WAS ABLE to resolve three things. One, because of the cash, Mirabella was doing crime. Two, the crime was probably drug-related and Mirabella’s murder had something to do with drugs. And three, because the man was an accountant, that something was probably on the computer. In the form of a file.

Dent glanced at his watch. It was 5:30, it was Sunday and he was tired. But tomorrow we’ll take a look at that computer . . . Maybe find out what he was killed about . . . And maybe even who did it.