Bad Samaritan (10 page)

Vogel shook his head. “There was no basis for it.”

“There is now. Get it out.” He looked at each of us in turn. “Do any of you really think a woman attempting suicide would take the trouble to fasten a seat belt?”

Nobody answered. Nobody knew, including the man who had asked the question.

“But one way to keep a dead body upright in a car seat is to strap her in, isn’t it? If a man’s in a hurry to leave, that’s a quicker way to take her home and leave in a hurry, isn’t it?”

Again, nobody answered.

He stood up and pushed back his chair. “The rest of you can leave now. I want to talk with Mr. Callahan for a few minutes.”

They went out and closed the door. He stood there for a few seconds, arching his back and rubbing his neck. “I’m getting old,” he said, “old and achy and impatient.”

“You don’t have an easy job,” I said. “Not these days.”

He nodded. “But I didn’t keep you behind to talk about my health. What you are doing, working with us, is very unusual police practice, I’m sure you know.”

“It’s rare,” I agreed. “Though I’ve done it in Los Angeles, when I was active.”

“And when you worked with them down there, the cooperation was complete, wasn’t it?”

“On my side,” I said. “There was, of course, information that they didn’t share with me.”

“Have we kept any information from you?”

I smiled at him. “Chief, we’re working our way east too slowly. Let’s go all the way to Vegas. I don’t know the man’s name. I only got that probably meaningless piece of information because I promised the source complete secrecy.”

“One question. Was it Silas Marner?”

I shook my head. “I swear to you it wasn’t. And I can’t see any Vegas angle here. They’re not that tricky, that complicated. They’re quick and dirty.”

“And all over the country,” he added.

I thought a moment, and said, “Right. Including here, a couple of them pretty big wheels in the mob.”

He stared at me. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody,” I lied. “It’s kind of complicated, the way I found out.”

“I have the time.”

“Well, a classmate of mine at Stanford lives down in Los Angeles. But at one time his family owned a lot of property in this town, going way back. He had the mistaken idea that they still had claims to some of that property where the condominiums were built out there near the university. Even if he didn’t have a legitimate claim, he thought he might pick up a few dollars by threatening them with a flawed title. He hired me to make a title search, which I did. Right up to the present buyers. And that’s where I saw the names.”

He nodded wearily. “They’re here. Before they moved here to retire, their attorney came in and promised me there would be no mob action in this town.”

“He probably told the truth,” I said. “You can’t stop a man from retiring here.”

“And it’s hard to stop a working man from working, not when there’s money in it. I’m older than you are, so you probably don’t know the days when all those retired clothing manufacturers retired in Los Angeles, most of them New Yorkers.”

“That was before my time,” I said.

“They couldn’t stand loafing,” he said. “They didn’t know how. So they started up with some small factories. And now Southern California is the leading area for women’s sports clothes in America.”

“They did it for the money,” I said. “In San Valdesto there’s probably a lot more money in real estate than in drugs or gambling.”

“Those clothing men didn’t need the money. They needed action. What if these boys get the itch to be active again? If they decide to move in, we’re not big enough or smart enough to stop them.”

“No town is today, Chief. Because the citizens don’t give a damn. There aren’t enough Maude Marners left.”

“Amen,” he said.

V
OGEL WAS WAITING FOR
me in the hall. “Seven dollars please?”

I handed him a five and two ones.

“What did he want with you? You were in there long enough.”

“Oh, we discussed strategy and sophisticated detection techniques.”

“I’ll bet. Did you tell him the name of your source?”

“No. You were right about him. He’s all cop.”

“A little on the imaginative side at times. That Tishkin-Gonzales script might sell in Hollywood.”

“But you didn’t buy it?”

“I don’t usually assume murder until I find a dead body. Maybe I’ve been in this business too long and learned to rely on routine. And I don’t enjoy getting dressed down.”

“He’s getting old, Bernie. And achy and impatient.”

“Who isn’t? Helms has gone over to have another talk with Mrs. Gonzales. Have you got any bright ideas, or should we sit and play gin rummy for three months while we wait for a response to that bulletin?”

“Gonzales must have had some friends worth questioning besides Peter Allis and Tishkin. Do you know of any?”

He shook his head. “Nowicki might. But he’s left. Should I call his office?”

“Why don’t I stop in there on the way home? You can check out what you might have here. Those martinis you bought me have dulled my brain.”

“Okay,” he said wearily. “See you tomorrow.”

Nowicki’s office was closed. He was probably in court. Working men were still working. I wasn’t a working man. I was a wealthy amateur, an outsized Lord Peter Wimsey, a brainless Peter Wimsey. But it was too early to go home. The going-home traffic was too light to let me impersonate a working man.

I went to the club and put on my spikes and took a big bucket of balls over the practice range. Plunk, plunk, plunk, smothered hooks and wild slices, tops, shanks and dribblers.

And then I smashed one, a two-iron that soared into orbit, straight and clean as the search for truth. It takes time and work and attention to detail to hit one that clean.

Time and work and attention to detail had made Jack Nicklaus rich and Bernie Vogel cynical. How else can a cop work? His instincts, or even a confession, can assure him a man is guilty, but a court will make the decision, not the cop.

In court Perry Mason can put all the intricate pieces together and confront the guilty man with a faultless mosaic—and the criminal will break down and slobber his confession. But if you think suspects break down and confess, you haven’t spent much time around criminal courts. Suspects break down and confess about as often as there are heat waves in Antarctica.

Maybe I’ve been in this business too long and learned to rely on routine.

How else, Bernie? How else can you keep the tigers out of our patios? Time and work and attention to detail. … The daily grind, the daily roundup, the records, the dossiers, the bulletins, the interrogations and snitches and deals and compromise settlements. How else? You’re a working man, Bernie. Your nose is too big for TV and you lack the gift for persuasive fraudulence.

Skip Lund came over from the pro shop with a bag of balls. “Well, well, look who’s here! The working man in his moment of leisure.”

“Go clip another coupon,” I said.

He smiled at me doubtfully. “You still hot about that Vogel business?”

“No. I’m sorry. How’s everything with you?”

“Dull. June and I are going over to Hawaii for a week to get away from those Fiesta tourists headed for town.” He spilled out his bag of balls. “You’re sure getting grouchy lately, old buddy.”

“It will pass. So will we. Keep your head down and follow through, golden boy.”

I could feel his eyes on me as I carried my clubs back to the pro shop. I was embarrassed. Probably, if I had been born with his throwing arm, with his disarming smile, and agile body and handsome face, I would not have earned the pedestrian nickname of the Rock. There was no reason to resent him; I had some playboy tendencies myself. I simply lacked his equipment.

Jan wasn’t home. The liquor cabinet beckoned, but I headed for the refrigerator and a bottle of Einlicher.

Despite Vogel’s scorn for it, the chief had given us a line of inquiry. Murder has too many motives. With larceny it’s money, with rape it’s lust and violence. Those are clear trails. The motives for murder are less obvious. The chief had waded through all that paper and come up with a purely speculative pattern. What else did we have?

I was dozing when Jan came home. I half heard her making noises in the kitchen and clinking bottles in the den. She came into my line of vision in the living room. She had a martini in her hand.

“I won’t ask,” she said, “because the answer is either ‘nothing’ or ‘nowhere.’ ”

“You are very perceptive for a retired interior decorator. How was your day?”

“The memorial service was probably the high point. You looked gloomy, sitting there with all those policemen.”

“It has been a gloomy day. What’s for dinner?”

“Nothing of interest. I suppose I could warm up some leftovers. Let’s eat out.”

“All right. Is it too soon for Mexican food again?”

“Not for me. Did you plan to introduce me to your Juanita?”

“I’ll say it again—you’re very perceptive.”

We took my car. Jan’s Mercedes, I figured, would stay in one piece for about twelve minutes on Rivera Street. We took the freeway to Padilla turnoff, and Padilla Street to Rivera.

A gray Maserati had pulled in behind us on Padilla, and turned left when we did on Rivera. There was a parking space in front of Juanita’s place, which I took.

We were getting out of the car when I saw the Maserati make a U-turn at the next corner. We were going up the steps to the restaurant when I saw it pull into a parking space across the street.

“And you worried about my little Mercedes,” Jan said. “That thing cost twice as much.”

“Maybe the driver lives down here.”

“With a car like that? Why would he live here?”

“Because,” I told her, “this is where the action is.”

There were three men at the bar, one of them an Anglo. There were about a dozen people in the dining room, more than half of them Anglo. Juanita would have an “in” place yet, if she didn’t get tired of cooking. A tall, thin black man was behind the bar; she was probably in the kitchen.

I told the waitress, “If Mrs. Rico is in the kitchen, will you tell her Callahan has brought his bride in, as he promised he would?”

She nodded. “Would you like a drink?”

Jan shook her head. I said, “A stein of Einlicher.”

Juanita arrived about a minute after the beer, smiling, wiping her hands on her apron, appraising Jan.

“No wonder I lost out,” she said. “You are a very attractive woman, Mrs. Callahan.”

“Thank you. I hope you’ll have time to eat with us, so my husband doesn’t sulk.”

Juanita nodded. “In a few minutes. Enchiladas, Pancho?”

I shook my head. “I can get enchiladas as good as yours at home. You decide what we should eat.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I make myself presentable.” She went to the kitchen.

We had chicken chalupas and chili rellenos and refried beans. We had some laughs and a three-person rapport. It was close to eight o’clock when Juanita glanced around her almost full room and said, “Look at all the gringos here. I’ll have to raise my prices.”

I asked. “Have you been keeping your ears open?”

She stiffened. “Is this the time to talk about that?”

I nodded.

She looked at Jan. “What a thing you married, snoop, snoop, night and day. Is business all he ever thinks of?”

“I’m not raising
my
prices,” I told her. “What happened, Juanita?”

“You are working with the police,” she said quietly. “I had this list made out before I learned that. Some of the people on the list are friends of mine but not friends of the police.”

“So you tore up the list?”

She shook her head. She glanced toward the bar. I followed her gaze to see an enormous black man in a white linen suit staring at her. She looked back at me.

“Is he on your list?” I asked.

She looked at me, at Jan, and past us both. “The man at the bar is no friend of mine. He is on the list. His name is Otis Locum. He is not a man you should trifle with.”

“What’s his business?”

“Girls. All colors, all ages, mostly kids. He is a very dangerous man, Pancho.”

Jan said, “Let’s go, Brock. I’m frightened, I don’t like this.”

“No need to go because of him,” Juanita said quietly. “Nothing will happen in here. Mr. Locum knows I, too, have friends. But I want to take some of their names off the list. I thought you were private.”

“I might have to be, if the police give up on this. Could you phone me, later? I’ll be up.”

She nodded. “And now let us pretend to be enjoying ourselves. Couldn’t we laugh a little?”

“We don’t have to,” I said. “Mr. Locum has left.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Jan said. “He’s talking on the wall phone at the end of the bar.”

“To hell with him,” Juanita said. “Another Einlicher, Brock? And maybe a liqueur, Mrs. Callahan?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Call me Jan,” my bride said.

It had been an overcast day. When we left half an hour later it was an overcast night, not a star in sight. On the side of the street, about half a block away, a big blob of white was standing next to what looked like a camper, one of the kind that is slid over the box of a pickup truck.

A car came along the street toward us. Its headlights illuminated the bulk of Otis Locum, leaning in, apparently talking to the driver of the camper. I couldn’t see the license plate.

I told Jan, “I’m going to make a U-turn. When we drive past that camper down there, I want you to get the license number. Your eyes are better than mine.”

“All right,” she said. “But let’s get out of here. I’m frightened, Brock!”

I was halfway through the U-turn when the camper pulled away. I goosed the rear end around, the tires squealing, as Jan gasped. I must have been up to thirty—before I had to jam the brakes.

Otis Locum stood in the middle of the street, smiling into our headlights, the front bumper about twelve feet from where he stood.

He came around to my side of the car, still smiling. My window was half-open; he put one big hand on the top edge of the glass. “What’s your hurry, whitey?”

“I wanted to check out your friend,” I told him. “Take your hand off the glass before you lose it.”