Dead Pigeon (3 page)

“I’ll ask around.” He smiled. “At least thirty-eight dollars’ worth. Play it cool now, Brock. Don’t go off half cocked.”

“I won’t.”

I was halfway to the door when he asked, “How about that kook who was out to get you?”

“He’s dead,” I said.

According to my reckoning, the Temple of Inner Peace was only about two blocks from here. I left the car in Denny’s parking lot. My aged Mustang had been stripped in this area the last time I had ventured here. I noticed in the first block that the area had been upgraded since my last visit. But I could use the exercise.

The building looked like a deserted church, complete with cross and steeple. The wide double doorway was up two steps under an arched entrance. A poster on one of the doors informed the faithful that the subject of tonight’s lecture was “Inner Peace and Outer Space.” Cocaine could give you inner peace and take you to outer space. Was that his pitch? It was difficult to believe that Bay could amass a million-dollar account with Joe Nolan by lecturing to the residents of Venice.

A white-haired elderly woman in a brightly flowered dress was sitting at a card table in the foyer.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so. I was at a funeral yesterday where your minister gave the eulogy. The man who died was a friend of mine years ago. I have learned since that he had gone into a deep depression recently.”

She frowned. “Are you speaking of Michael Gregory?”

I nodded.

“I hope you aren’t suggesting that he committed suicide. He was murdered!”

“That,” I said, “is what the police claim—mur­dered with a shotgun. They also claim that they found no weapon near the body. I lived in Santa Monica for twelve years and have good cause to believe they were lying.”

She stared at me.

“What’s your minister’s name?” I asked.

“He’s not really—a—a minister,” she said. “His name is Turhan Bay. He won’t be here until this afternoon. Could I have him phone you?”

“No, I’ll get in touch with him.”

“Your name?”

“Carlton Ramsay.”

“Mr. Gregory was not a member of our flock,” she said, “but he was a very close friend of Turhan’s and Turhan tried to help him.”

“That’s what I’ve been told. I look forward to meeting him.”

Millionaire electronic preachers and kooky cults were infesting our country. Maybe Mrs. Casey was right; it was time to return to the true church. But what about confession? How could I convince the priest that incessant lying was a requisite of my trade. It was a necessary evil, designed to keep the bad guys discombobulated.

There were a pair of teenagers standing next to my Mustang when I came back to the parking lot. They looked normal enough, but who can tell, these days?

Then one of them said, “A sixty-fiver, right? Two hundred and eighty-nine cubes?”

I nodded. “Right. With a four-barrel carb and Spelke cams.”

“What’ll she do?” his partner asked.

I shrugged. “I’ve never had her over a hundred. I’m too old and too frail to test her above that.”

“You don’t look frail to me,” he said.

“How about old?”

It was his turn to shrug. “Oh, maybe thirty, thirty-two?”

“You have just earned yourself a pair of Cokes,” I said, and handed him a fin.

“Thank you, sir!” he said, and the two of them went into Denny’s.

Maybe for a few beers? No. Denny was strict about that. There was still hope for the future of the planet.

From there to the SMPD. The desk sergeant told me Lars was out on the street and would be all day. But it was possible, he added, that I could catch him around noon at Ye Sandwich Shoppe on Wilshire. Lars usually ate his lunch there.

It was still short of eleven o’clock. I used the phone book in the hall to see if there was a listing for Crystal Lane. There was, 332 Adonis Court. I knew the street, a short one, and not in the high-rent district.

They were all small frame houses on a narrow dead-end street. On the pitted asphalt driveway of 332, a sleek black Jaguar was parked. I wrote down the license number before I went up the one step porch to ring the doorbell.

No answer. I rang again. The same. I went back to the car to sit and wait. It seemed highly unlikely to me that the Jag was Crystal’s. How long could they fornicate?

Too long for me. A few minutes before noon I drove to Ye Sandwiche Shoppe. Lars walked in soon after.

“You bought the dinner,” he said. “I’ll buy the lunch. I suppose you’ve been sticking your big nose into police business all morning.”

“Somebody has to.” I didn’t reveal my sources, but I told him what I had learned from Denny and Joe Nolan, and what I had suspected at my stakeout at Crystal’s house.

“You’ve got that Turhan-Lane bit wrong,” he informed me. “They’re not shacked up together. Turhan lives in Brentwood.”

“Does he drive a Jaguar?”

Lars shrugged. “I don’t know.”

I handed him the slip. “Here’s the license number of the Jag that was parked on Crystal’s driveway.”

“I’ll check it out.” He took a deep breath. “I picked up Miss Lane a few times when I was working Vice a few years ago. But I sure as hell can’t pick her up for having an expensive car on her driveway.”

“You picked her up for prostitution?”

“Yup. But she had some expensive clients and beat the rap.”

“Did you know that she was once Mike’s girlfriend?”

He shook his head. “Are you suggesting that Turhan Bay was involved in Mike’s murder?”

“Maybe, maybe not. He gave the eulogy at Mike’s funeral.”

“That’s really weird, Brock! Where’s the connection?”

I shrugged.

“The funeral was in Westwood,” he said. “That’s outside of our jurisdiction. So is Brentwood, where Bay lives, and so is Venice, where he runs his con. The LA Westside Station is where you should go with your weird theories.”

“I’m not welcome there. They remember me from the old days.”

“That was before you moved. Tell ’em you’re rich now.”

I sighed. “You are one cynical bastard, Lars.”

He didn’t answer, munching away at his double cheeseburger. I gave my attention to my more refined avocado-and-bacon sandwich on rye toast.

Over our coffee, I said, “Bay is giving a lecture tonight on inner peace and outer space. It might be interesting. Would you like to come with me?”

“I don’t work nights.”

“It wouldn’t be work. Maybe it would help you attain inner peace. You could use some of that.”

“Watch it, acid tongue!”

“Screw you!” I finished my coffee and stood up. “Thanks for the lunch.”

“Dear God, now we get the petulance bit. I’ll check that license number and phone you. When will you be back at the hotel?”

“Around five.”

“I’ll phone you there.”

I smiled down at him. “Thanks. Buddies again, Lars?”

“Hell, yes,” he said, “but I don’t know why.”

Two hours later, after a fruitless search of my former informants in the area, I drove to the hotel and put in a long-distance call to Tacoma. Jan answered.

“I’m still in smog town,” I told her, “and I miss you.”

“I’ll bet you do! With all those bimbos you used to know down there?”

“Jan, I had lunch with one cynic today and one is more than enough.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lars Hovde. Remember him?”

“That big man from Minnesota, that Santa Monica detective?”

“That’s the man. How are things in Tacoma?”

“Not so good. Aunt Alice has a cold and needs a lot of rest. I may come home a little later than we’d planned. You are not going to get involved in that murder, are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Brock—!”

“I’ll say one thing and then we will drop the subject. Mike Gregory was my friend.”

“And fellow womanizer.”

I considered reminding her that she was not a virgin when we first met, but decided not to.

About a half minute of silence from Tacoma and then she said, “I apologize. I can be bitchy, can’t I?”

“It’s one of your charms. I adore you, feisty.”

“It’s mutual. You keep that fly of yours zipped shut.”

“Even in the toilet?”

That got a laugh out of her. Then, “Aunt Alice is coughing again. I have to go. You be very careful down there!”

“I will. That’s a promise.”

L
ARS PHONED A FEW
minutes after five o’clock. The Jaguar, he told me, was listed as the property of Turhan Bay. “Now maybe you can tell me what the connection is with Mike’s murder.”

I told him the theory held by Nolan.

“You’re reaching, aren’t you? Did one of your brainwashed stoolies feed you that script?”

“Nope. I dreamed it up all by myself.”

“Blackmail? Mike—?”

“It could be a bad script. The lady at the Inner Peace place told me that Bay was a very close friend of Mike’s and tried to help him. What I can’t believe is that he would try to help anybody who couldn’t afford to pay him.”

“Not unless he had reason to.”

“He could have reason. Blackmail could be a strong reason for a man as broke as Mike. Mike didn’t even belong to that kooky outfit. And we both know a heavy habit needs heavy money.”

“That makes sense,” he admitted.

“And,” I pointed out, “it’s not outside your jurisdiction. Mike died in Santa Monica.”

“Okay, okay,” he said wearily. “I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks, Lars. Give my best to your latest.”

“Latest what?”

“Female conquest,” I said, and hung up.

I hadn’t planned to sit through tonight’s lecture. My hope was that I could talk privately with Bay and sort of test the way the wind was blowing.

The lecture was scheduled for eight o’clock. I phoned at six-thirty and a woman answered. I gave her my phony name and asked if she remembered my visit.

“I certainly do, Mr. Ramsay,” she said.

“Could I speak with Turhan tonight before the lecture?”

“He will be here at seven.”

The black Jaguar was on the small parking lot that flanked the temple. I parked next to it.

There was no one in the foyer. I walked down the middle aisle past the rows of benches. There was a closed door in the wall next to the rostrum and voices from behind it. I knocked. The woman I had talked with that morning opened the door.

“Come in,” she said. And to Bay, “This is Carlton Ramsay.”

He was standing behind his desk, a thin, fairly tall man with cold blue eyes. He said, “Have a seat, Mr. Ramsay,” and nodded at the woman.

She left and closed the door. I sat in a straight chair near his desk.

He stared at me for a few seconds. “That was a strange story you told my secretary this morning. Why would the Santa Monica police claim Mike was murdered if he wasn’t?”

“It’s possible that he was. It is also possible that he committed suicide. And that is what I hope to clear up. Do you believe he was despondent enough to take his own life?”

“I do.”

“Do you think he did?”

He shrugged. “That’s what I don’t understand. No weapon was found.”

“Not yet,” I said. “Mr. Bay, I worked for the Arden Investigative Service in Santa Monica for twelve years. I finally had to leave the town and the agency. I uncovered some shenanigans that were going on in the Department and was harassed constantly by them after that.”

He smiled. “And now you are on a vindictive crusade? That is a waste of time and effort. They have the clout in court and they are the law.”

I agreed with a nod. “And if you think Mike could have committed suicide—?” I took a breath. “But I remember the riot guns the Department used in those days. They were sawed-off shotguns and that was the kind of weapon that probably blew away Mike’s face.”

He stared at me. “Are you suggesting that—”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Bay. You’ve learned all that I know. I want to thank you for the help you tried to give Mike and your kind words about him in your eulogy.”

I heard the door open behind me and turned. And there she stood in the open doorway, a shade heavier and a touch older, but as beautiful as ever—Crystal Lane.

She smiled at me. “Brock Callahan, as I live and breathe! It’s been a long time, honey boy.”

I brushed past her and hurried down the aisle. I was in the car, feeling like a country bumpkin, when Crystal came out the front door. She shouted something I couldn’t understand. I didn’t stop.

My current investigative techniques were no longer as sharp as they should be. Soft living and too many misspent hours on the golf course in San Valdesto had obviously dulled them.

I stopped at Denny’s for a glass of Einlicher. He had, he told me, asked around about Bay this afternoon and got a lot of mixed reports on the man. He seemed to have gained favor with the women in the neighborhood, but was not generally admired by the men. I told him where I had been and what had happened.

Denny sighed. “Have you ever thought of retiring, Brock?”

“Not until tonight.”

The man standing next to me at the bar, a large man in cheap clothes, said, “Brock? Brock the Rock?”

Denny nodded.

“You were the greatest,” the man said. “Can I shake your hand?”

We shook hands.

“This Turhan Bay you mentioned, is he a friend of yours?”

“No way! Do you know him?”

He shook his head. “But the wife thinks he’s God. She’s down there right now, listening to his bullshit. He’s really making a lot of money with his blarney. I told the wife if she wanted to contribute to that creep she’d have to take it out of her household money.”

Denny smiled. “I’ll bet you haven’t been eating too good since then.”

“No bet,” the man said. “Brock, if you ever tangle with that weirdo, give him an extra shot for me.

I promised him I would, my ego restored.

A few beers and two hours of jock talk after that, I left. The night was clear, the stars were bright. I drove slowly and carefully to 332 Adonis Court and turned on the car radio to a local big band station.

A few minutes after ten o’clock, an ancient but still glossy Volkswagen Bug came down the street and pulled into the driveway. Crystal got out to open the garage door. I left my car before she got back into hers.