Bad Samaritan (12 page)

“Is that business big enough in this town to make him rich?”

“He can convert them here and ship them anywhere. The runaway kids are here. He came up from Los Angeles about nine years ago. We could never get a line on his connections, but he must have some big one. He lives real high and he doesn’t call Nowicki when we pick him up.”

“Who does he call? Paul Pontius?”

“Pontius is retired. He doesn’t mess around with this local trash. Locum calls Joe Farini. You got a thing about Pontius?”

“I remember all those hoods he got off in Miami.”

“He’s a lawyer. If they could afford him, they hire him. But that was before he retired.”

Joe Farini had been Lund’s lawyer. Vogel might have remembered that, or he might not have. In the interests of our new relationship, I decided not to remind him.

He stopped the car in front of Nowicki’s office. “I’ll wait here,” he said.

Nowicki was speaking Spanish with a stout Mexican woman when I entered. A few English words broke through; she was evidently complaining about a local time-installment furniture store. “Cheaters” was the English word she used the most.

He walked to the door with her when they’d finished. When he came back to his desk, he was smiling. “Vogel your chauffeur?”

“He thought he might not be welcome.”

“He’s wrong. With Bernie, if you don’t agree with him one hundred percent, you’re his enemy. But I wish all cops were as straight as he is.”

He shuffled through some papers and handed me a note-sized sheet. “These are the only names I could come up with that fit the chief’s scenario. I don’t think I’m breaking any attorney-client relationship.” He smiled. “And a thousand-dollar donation should earn you a few extra privileges.”

There were three names on the list, complete with address. “Thanks. Any ideas of your own, barrister? Any theories?”

He shook his head. “Only a dim hunch that Tishkin might be a key. But he’s not the kind you can break down, if you find him. He’s smart and he’s tough. Villwock told me something at the service Saturday that might help. That second name on the list, Patty Serano, lived with Tishkin for almost three years.”

“Any relation to the waitress, Mary Serano?”

“She’s Mary’s daughter. But she doesn’t live at home. She’s been on her own since she was fifteen.”

The whole trip was a waste of taxpayers’ gasoline. The two males were at work. It took us half the morning to learn where they worked, and they had nothing important to tell us about Lenny Tishkin when we finally tracked them down. The address for Patty Serano was the same address we had checked for Lenny, but we checked it again.

She, too, had moved on.

Vogel asked the manager, “How come you didn’t mention her when we were here Saturday?”

“You didn’t ask,” the man said.

Vogel studied him coldly. “You know they weren’t married, didn’t you?”

“Are you for real? Half the kids living together today aren’t married. A cop should know that. They paid their rent on time and they didn’t throw loud parties. You get tenants like that, you don’t bug ʼem with dumb questions.”

It had been a frustrating morning. Vogel continued to stare at the man.

“Let’s go, Bernie,” I said quietly. “Faceless, nameless occupants, that’s all. Remember?”

Back in the car, he said, “So much for Nowicki’s help.” He sat behind the wheel, staring out at the street ahead.

“We could check Lund,” I kidded him. “He was over to my house yesterday with his new camper. Maybe you could nail him this time.”

He said harshly, “You overlook a lot of opportunities to keep your mouth shut, Callahan. Put your brain to work for a change and think of a place to go next.”

“That liquor store,” I suggested, “the one Gonzales and Tishkin were indicted for robbing. The way I read it in the file, the owner gave positive identification to the investigating officer, and then changed his story in court. Maybe by now he has his guts back.”

“Maybe Nowicki bought him off. Maybe we ought to investigate Nowicki.”

I kept my mouth shut.

“All right,” he said, after a few seconds. “Do you remember the address?”

“I remember the name. Trinity Liquors. It’s on Padilla Street.”

We were halfway there when Vogel said, “What difference would it make if the man changed his mind? It wouldn’t have anything to do with Maude, would it?”

“It could give us some leverage on Tishkin—if we ever find him.”

“You’re not making sense. Tishkin’s already acquitted. What kind of leverage is that on a man we suspect of murder? Or the chief does.”

“You suggested we follow the chief’s script. Let’s stick with it.”

“You and the chief,” he said, “should move to Hollywood.”

The liquor-store owner hadn’t changed his story; I had misread the file. His name was Moses Jones. He was black and short and thin and feisty.

“It was Gonzales and it was Tishkin,” he told us. “You think those silly stockings over their heads fooled me? I know their builds, I know their voices. But that smart-ass lawyer of theirs made a monkey out of me in court. I’ll tell you something else, officer, I’m not the only one those punks robbed.”

“I’m sure you’re not,” Vogel agreed wearily. “But you don’t have any evidence solid enough to stand up in court, do you?”

“That’s for sure. What I got is two gutless competitors that know what I know. Manny Adler, over at A-l Beverages, and Barney Leeds at Padilla Grog Shop. They told me,
privately
, what I’m telling you about Tishkin and Gonzales. You talk to them and they’ll tell you I’m a liar.”

Manny Adler, A-l Beverages: “The man’s crazy! I never told him anything.”

Barney Leeds, Padilla Grog Shop: “Moses who? Don’t know the man.”

“Did you know Gonzales?”

“Half of my customers are named Gonzales. I don’t remember that one.”

Back on the sidewalk, I said, “Liars, both of them. Moses’ place is only a block from here. And why would Moses lie about Adler?”

Vogel shrugged. “Who knows? Hungry?”

“I could eat. How about Chickie’s?”

“Too hot for my ulcer. We’ll go kosher today. You buy. It’s your turn.”

At Plotkin’s Pantry, Vogel had borscht, gefilte fish and herring in sour cream, guaranteed to assuage his ulcer. I stayed on the safe side with two corned beef sandwiches and a gargantuan kosher pickle.

Over the best coffee I’d had in this town, Vogel lighted his ten-thousandth cigarette of the day and said, “You must be mental.”

“Why?”

“Riding around like this, getting nowhere, when you could be living the good life. At least, win or lose, I get paid for it.”

“There are other jobs that pay more with less work and less danger. How come you didn’t choose one of those?”

“I don’t know. But I guarantee you I wouldn’t have gone to work for the department if they didn’t pay.”

“Your pa’s delicatessen would have paid more. Your friend Plotkin, who runs this place, just bought the city a park.”

“So we’re both fools.”

I finished my coffee. “Was Maude, too? She could have moved in with Si and lived like a queen.”

“That’s different,” he said. “She helped people. I put them in the can. I think maybe I’m a vindictive type.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Let’s look up Locum. Do you know where he hangs out?”

“I know a few of the places. And I know where he lives. We’ll try his house first.”

He lived high on a bluff above the sea, at the northern edge of town, as close to the exclusive Slope Ranch section as a black man was likely to get. The house was low and large, mostly antiqued redwood, with a fieldstone facing. The Maserati was parked in the concrete driveway.

Vogel parked behind it. “This could constitute harassment, I guess you know. And he’s got an expensive lawyer.”

“I know. I could ask the questions. The chief can’t demote me.”

“That’s the way we’ll play it. You’re the concerned citizen. I’m only here because you insisted on it.”

The door chimes went through their sequence twice, some tune I’d never heard before. Then the big man stood there, filling the doorway. He was arrayed in yellow flared slacks and a black and yellow striped tennis shirt.

His smile was broad and patronizing. “Well, Lieutenant Vogel! What have I done wrong now?”

“Nothing I know of,” Vogel said. “This is Mr. Callahan, one of our local citizens. He has a complaint.”

“We’ve met,” Locum said curtly.

“Saturday night,” I agreed. “You stood in the middle of Rivera Street and blocked my passage.”

He frowned. “You must have been drunk, Mr. Callahan. I didn’t block no passage. You almost ran me down, man!”

He looked at Vogel. “I stopped in at Chickie’s for a drink.
One
drink, that’s all, Lieutenant. When I went back to my car, this tourist, some cat in a camper, asked me how to get to Mission Drive. I told him, and started to walk back to my car—and whammo, this car of Mr. Callahan’s is burning rubber and aiming right at me! Shakes a man up, thing like that, and maybe I got a little lippy. But hell, if anybody’s got a beef, it’s me, not him.”

“I see. Could you describe the man in the camper?”

Locum scowled and shook his big head slowly. “It was dark, Lieutenant. He was white, I can tell you that much. Weighed maybe a hundred and forty, hundred and fifty. Is he important or something?”

“He could be involved in prostitution,” Vogel said blandly. “We don’t want that kind of scum in our town, do we, Mr. Locum?”

Locum matched his blandness. “Hell, no. But I can’t tell you much. It was a camper, don’t know what make. All American cars look the same to me. The color was light, maybe gray. Wait, he had a little moustache. You know, one of those waxed kind, like a foreigner.”

Vogel had his notebook out. “Light-colored camper. A male Caucasian. Small mustache. Was there anybody else in the cab or in the rear?”

“Nobody I saw or heard.”

“Did the man ask for any particular address on Mission Drive?”

“Just Mission Drive, that’s all.”

A silence. Locum looked at Vogel and then at me. “Anything else, gentlemen?”

Vogel said, “Not unless you have something more to tell us.”

“Nothing, Lieutenant. See you around.”

Vogel smiled. “You can make book on it.”

The door closed. We walked back along the driveway to our car. Vogel was still smiling. “That man writes a better script than you or the chief. His story made sense, right?”

“Maybe to you. But
I
was there.”

We climbed into the hot car. Vogel sat quietly, staring at the big house.

I said, “I’ll give you another script, on the weird side. You remember that first day, that day we became instant buddies? You said how silly it would look for a man in a gas mask to drive Maude around town in her car.”

“That wasn’t the first day. That was the second.”

“How sweet of you to remember! But how about a man in a camper? He could put her in the back and run his exhaust in there and drive around forever.”

“You might sell it to some private-eye boob-tube show,” he said. “But I think it’s too farfetched even for that.”

I was tired and I was hot and I was angry. It was a time not to overlook an opportunity to keep my mouth shut. I kept it shut.

Along Bluff Drive, down Ridge Road, back to Main Street, in silence.

As we pulled into the police parking lot, Vogel said, “How would he run the exhaust gases into the back?”

“By drilling a two-inch hole into the floor of the camper and running a hose through it from the tail pipe. I thought of it first, remember. The TV money is all mine.”

H
ELMS HAD SEEN US
drive in; he met us in the hall. “Mrs. Gonzales,” he told me, “has been waiting for over an hour. You’re the only one she wants to talk with. What goes on?”

“I sent her some money through a friend,” I explained. “She probably wants to thank me. Where is she?”

“In the interrogation room.”

The room was small and hot. There were beads of perspiration on Mrs. Gonzales’s face. She said, “Juanita gave me the money only this morning. I am with my mother now and have no need for it.”

“Neither have I,” I said. “Why not save it until Christmas, and buy those cute babies something extra?”

“You are a good man,” she said. “Do you work here?”

“Temporarily. Why?”

She looked doubtfully around the room.

“You might have a point,” I said. “It could be bugged. Why don’t we go outside? That afternoon breeze is starting.”

We sat on a shopper’s bench, in the shade of the San Valdesto Savings and Loan building. She said, “I’m not sure I should tell this to the police, Jesus had trouble with them, and they don’t forget. But Juanita said you can be trusted.”

“I can be trusted. But I’m working with the police right now.”

She paused for a moment, watching the traffic on the street. Then, “I’ll tell you what I know. You decide how much should be private. I keep hearing how Mrs. Marner was such a wonderful woman, winning that Good Samaritan medal, and all. I don’t know. …”

It was obvious she didn’t want to go on. Prompting her might only harden the attitude. I said nothing.

“I don’t know …” she said again.

I said, “I’ve learned a few things about Mrs. Marner that surprised me. Nobody’s perfect, Mrs. Gonzales.”

She nodded, still looking out at the street. “She and Jesus were working together on something, something they wouldn’t talk to me about.” Now, she looked at me. “If it was honest, why should it be secret?”

“Mrs. Marner,” I explained, “was a very inquisitive woman.”

She frowned. “Inquisitive? You think they were investigating something?”

“Probably. Did Jesus seem unhappy? Were you surprised when he left?”

“At first I was.” Her gaze went away again. “He seemed happy. But three little children? Jesus loved parties and fun. I was seven months pregnant when he married me. I can understand now why he’d leave.”

“Weren’t you surprised that Lenny Tishkin would bring you the news? Jesus and Lenny were no longer friends, were they?”

“I didn’t think so, not in the last year. But Lenny is the kind of man who likes to tell people bad news.”