Read Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) Online
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Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) (13 page)
Mr. Moe was stacking oranges in the produce case when I entered. His eyes jerked to me in the slanting mirror above the display. Under his trembling hand, the top orange teetered and bounced to the floor, bringing the rest of the pyramid down after it.
The grocer gave a dismayed cry and dropped to his knees. He scrambled around, filling his arms with fruit. I made no move to help him.
“Jumpy lately, aren’t you, Mr. Moe?”
He rocked back on his heels and looked up, hugging the oranges. “What do you want of me now?”
“I’m a customer, Mr. Moe. You don’t want to send me off to Safeway to spend my money.”
He sighed and let his arms drop, releasing the oranges. Indifferent to them, he got to his feet, brushing dust from his trousers. “What is it you need?”
“Some gin. Tanqueray gin, to be exact.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I am sorry. I do not have a license to sell hard liquor. I have only beer and wine.”
“What happened to that case of gin you had in your stockroom last night—the one that the bottle you broke came from?”
“I am sorry…”
I made a big show of examining the wines on the shelf behind the counter. “Come now, Mr. Moe, you couldn’t have broken all those bottles. Although you really should be more careful about dropping things.” I motioned at the oranges on the floor.
“Miss McCone, I stock no such thing.”
“Of course you don’t!” I whirled on him. “You have no such item because it’s already in the storeroom at the Blind Center. But when are the thieves making their next drop—the thieves you met at India Basin last night?”
His body sagged. “That was you?”
“At India Basin? Yes.”
“And you know everything?”
“I know about the fencing operation. And the big gin heist. And that this store is a drop for goods on their way to the Blind Center. By the way, do you know Clemente has skipped town?”
“A business trip to Los Angeles is not what you call ‘skipping town.’ ”
“A hastily manufactured trip, wasn’t it? What’s he doing there? Waiting to see if the whole operation falls apart? If it doesn’t, he returns quietly. If it does, he runs. The Mexican border is an easy two hours drive.”
The grocer shook his head stubbornly. “You do not understand.”
“I understand more than you think. For example, I understand there are other drops, at other grocery stores in the neighborhood.”
He began to pace up and down the aisle. “What is it you want from me? What is it?”
“Just some straight answers, for a change. How do you coordinate all those drops so Neverman knows when to pick up the merchandise?”
“I can see you will not give up.” He plucked a loaf of soft white bread from a shelf, and his slender fingers squeezed it rhythmically.
“No, I won’t give up. The fencing operation has fallen apart. The FBI is probably at India Basin now. You may as well tell me about it.” As I spoke, I stared in fascination at Mr. Moe’s hands. They squeezed the bread until it hung limp, doubled over.
The grocer’s eyes followed mine to the strangled loaf. “What am I doing?” he exclaimed. He hurled the bread back on the shelf and flung his arms wide above his head. “What
am
I doing?” He tried to push past me, but I blocked him.
“No, Mr. Moe,” I said. “You’re not going near the cash register.”
“What is wrong? Why not?”
“Because you have a gun stashed behind that counter. All the local grocers do.” I brought out my own, holding it at waist level, where it couldn’t be seen from outside the store.
Mr. Moe stared at the weapon. His tongue darted over his dry lips.
I said, “Lock the door, pull the shades, and we’ll talk.”
He did as I told him. I motioned him over against the freezers. “Now tell me how you coordinated the pickups from the drops.”
The grocer folded his arms over his chest. “The gun is not necessary. I will tell you. It does not matter now.”
“I feel better with the gun between us. Talk.”
“Sebastian coordinated the pickups.”
“Oh, come on!”
“No, that was his real job for the Center. When he came in to restock the racks, the grocers would tell him if there was merchandise to be picked up. When he returned to the Center, he would relay this information to Neverman. Sebastian has an excellent memory—I believe he perfected it by memorizing racing forms before he went blind.”
“And Gus—what was his part?”
The grocer shrugged. “He led Sebastian.”
It was probably a larger role than that. “All right. And for acting as your courier, Clemente allowed Sebastian to stay on at the Blind Center. And gave him so little money he was forced to steal already stolen goods and peddle them on the side.”
Mr. Moe’s eyes widened indignantly. “That is not so! Sebastian had fifty thousand dollars invested in the operation. We all had some money tied up in it.”
“But not as much as Sebastian.”
He was silent.
I thought of Sebastian’s settlement from Standard Oil. He’d said he lost it in a bad investment. The fencing operation was the worst he could have chosen. “Tell me how this all came about.”
Mr. Moe hesitated, staring at my gun. “When Sebastian was first referred to the Center, Clemente took a liking to him. They held long conversations while Clemente taught him to play chess by touch. Finally, Clemente announced he wanted to take Sebastian into our scheme. He felt it wise to have a patient involved, who could report if any of the other patients became suspicious. And, of course, Sebastian had fifty thousand dollars that we could use to finance our purchases.”
“So Sebastian gave Clemente his money.”
“Yes.”
“And, in turn, received a share of the profits.”
Mr. Moe was silent again.
“Oh, so he
didn’t
receive any money. That was why he stole. He’d invested all he had, and you people used it as capital and didn’t return a cent.”
“I admit it was not fair. But he did receive food and shelter. And we paid him back.”
“When?”
“Today.”
I recalled Clemente and Neverman discussing paying back a loan. “Why did you people suddenly decide to return his investment?”
“Sebastian demanded it, as soon as he heard of the gin purchase. He said he would leave us alone if he got it, but otherwise he would go to the police. We wanted him to leave—his actions lately had been strange. He took things, as you said. He was a risk we could not afford.”
A lot of people had threatened to go to the police in the last few days. Sebastian was lucky he hadn’t ended up dead. I said, “So Clemente paid Sebastian off.”
“This morning he gave him a cashier’s check for the full amount. That is why Clemente had to fly to Los Angeles: to make arrangements for the disposal of the gin. You see, to pay Sebastian, he had to borrow from the Blind Center funds.”
Tampering with federal funds was no laughing matter. Clemente would want to replace the fifty thousand quickly.
“All right,” I said, “now I want to know how this whole thing got started. It can’t have been going on any longer than the Blind Center’s been here. How’d you get connected with these folks, Mr. Moe?”
His hooded eyes shifted away from me.
“How?”
“Before he went to prison, Neverman used to sell his overloads to me. Not very often, though. I was never a big dealer, and after he was arrested I became frightened and stopped altogether. Naturally we did no business when he returned. He could not find a job. No trucking firm would hire him.”
“But then the Blind Center relocated here, and Neverman renewed his acquaintance with his old counselor, Clemente. With your help, they developed their fencing scheme.”
“No, they came to me with the complete plan. I blame it all on Neverman. Herb Clemente is not a bad man. I do not think he intended to become so deeply involved. But after years in social service, a man becomes cynical and desperate. He does things he never dreamed he would and thinks nothing of it because he has seen much greater evil.”
It was probably true, but I ignored his amateur psychoanalysis. “Neverman put you in touch with Clemente, then. You and your grocer friends were to be a buffer between thieves and the Blind Center, so it wouldn’t get around that the Center was receiving.”
“It was best it not become commonly known.”
“That’s why you left Neverman outside when you contacted the people at India Basin last night.”
“Yes, but Neverman ruined that when he shouted and ran after you. They saw the truck and realized who they were dealing with.”
I nodded. “And the thieves will spill that to the Feds. It’s all over for you people. Now let’s get to those killings.”
Mr. Moe’s head jerked. Fear shone in his eyes. “I know nothing of those.”
“Don’t you? Didn’t Molly Antonio tell Clemente she knew he was fencing because she found evidence in an item Sebastian sold her? Didn’t Clemente tell you to kill her, that night when you supposedly went to deliver groceries?”
“No! He never said anything to me. I did not know she had accused him.” Mr. Moe’s eyes darted wildly to the gun and back to my face. “You must believe me! I went merely to deliver her food. Would I be so stupid as to leave the groceries there if I had killed her?”
Maybe, but I doubted it. “What about Neverman, then? I imagine Clemente can make him do anything he cares to.”
Mr. Moe gestured weakly. “I… I do not know.”
“His wife, whom he hated, was the next one killed.”
“She was forcing him to go back to her. Clemente said he must. Neverman was furious, but I do not think he would have killed her. In time, he would have been able to deal with her, to work something out.”
“He certainly did.”
Mr. Moe shuddered. “I know nothing of it.”
“You can’t get off that easily, Mr. Moe,” I said with a flash of anger. “You’re in this thing all the way. You can be charged as an accessory…”
The outside door of the stockroom slammed.
I motioned for Mr. Moe to remain quiet.
Footsteps came across the room.
Gesturing with my gun, I marched Mr. Moe toward the swinging door. He walked stiffly, like a robot.
The swinging door opened, and Neverman looked in. His eyes widened, and he bolted.
I shoved the grocer out of my way and went after Neverman. He dodged through the stacked-up crates and disappeared. An engine roared. As I burst through the outer door, the blue van pulled away.
I went back inside. Mr. Moe leaned against the counter, nursing a bumped knee. His body dropped, totally defeated.
I put my gun away.
“What will you do with me now?” the grocer asked.
“Nothing. You’re not going anywhere.”
He acknowledged it with a bow of his head. “I have nowhere to go.”
“Neverman won’t get far, either. He was helping the thieves deliver the rest of the gin, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Speed was of the essence, and they knew who they were dealing with, so we had nothing to lose.”
“He’ll probably go back to India Basin, straight into an FBI trap.”
Mr. Moe remained silent, rubbing his knee.
I moved toward the door.
“You are leaving me?”
“You won’t be alone for long.” I turned the lock and went out.
By the time I reached the curb, the double lock on the door clicked into place behind me. When I got to Ellen T’s, I looked back. The light that had streamed around the drawn shades of the Superette went out.
Ellen T’s was packed with drinkers getting started on the weekend a day early. I waved to Stanley and called, “Is Gus around?”
“In the back room.” He motioned toward the rear, where the pool and domino players congregated.
The two halves of the room back there were divided by an invisible gulf of time. To the left, the young pool players strutted about, guzzling beer from the bottle and eyeing one another’s shots. They wore tight jeans and T-shirts, with the inevitable bunch of keys hooked to their beltloops. The keys, a young Latino had once told me, showed a man’s standing in the community; a large number on the ring indicated he had access to and responsibility for a great many worldly places.
To my right sat the domino players: old men in khaki pants and plaid shirts, who sipped slowly at their frosty mugs and contemplated their moves in silence. Their monosyllabic conversation was drowned out from time to time by shouts from the pool players, but if they resented them, they didn’t betray it by so much as a glance.
Gus slouched over a table with three other men, his jowls resting on his balled fists as he studied the white-dotted rectangles in front of him. It might be the night before his wife’s funeral, but he had not deviated from his routine.
I went up and put a hand on his arm.
“Miss McCone!” he exclaimed. “What…”
“I need to talk to you, Gus.”
“I’m right in the middle of a game.”
“Please—it’s important.”
He shot a long-suffering glance around the table. “What say we take a break, boys?”
They grumbled, but nodded assent. Gus followed me to the front room, clutching his beer. We sat at a table near the door.
“What’s wrong?” Gus asked. “Nobody else died, did they?”
“No, thank God. I have a couple of questions for you.”
“Will it take long? I’m ahead in that game, and I don’t want any of those guys messing with my dominoes while my back’s turned.”
“It won’t take long at all. The other day you came into my apartment to wait for Molly and took some cord off the table.”
“I what?”
“You know you did, Gus. You take a lot of things, like the ashtray from Tim’s bookcase this morning.”
He colored. “How did you know?”
“Never mind. I know why Molly threw you out, though. And I know you steal brushes off Sebastian’s parka.”
Shamed, he stared down into his beer mug. Finally he said, “I try. I try all the time, but I can’t help it.” Suddenly, he glanced at the back room. “You won’t tell them, will you? They don’t know. They think I’m just a regular guy.”
“All I’m interested in is that cord. What did you do with it?”
“Didn’t do nothing with it.”
“Do you have it now?”
“Uh, no.”
“Where is it?”
“Well, I…”
“Gus, where?”
“Well, I had it in my jacket pocket. And I took it out and sort of fiddled with it while I was walking Sebastian back to the Blind Center for dinner.”
“And?”
“Sebastian, he’s sharp. He felt me fiddling with it, and he asked me what it was. He claims something comes over my voice when I’ve stolen stuff. He can always tell. Anyway, he made me admit what I’d done, and then he took the cord away from me. Said he’d take it back to your place, and you’d never have to know it’d been gone.”
But he hadn’t returned it. He had taken it to the Center.
“Okay. Another question: How well did you know Anya Neverman?”
He frowned. “Pretty well. She was Molly’s best friend. And Sebastian and me used to stop up there and sell her stuff. He was trying to make a deal to sell her all her candles and lucky charms if he could get them.”
“When you went to see her, did she always answer the door with her gun in her hand?”
“Of course. Anya was a little cracked. Always thought somebody was gonna rape her. Even her own husband didn’t want to do that.” He snickered.
Annoyed, I said, “Well, her fears weren’t so silly after all. Someone
did
kill her.”
He sobered instantly. “You’re right. Somebody did. I guess that’s worse than rape, isn’t it?”
“I would say so. What did you think of Anya’s having a gun?”
“Oh, I used to joke with her about it. Called her Anya Oakley. She didn’t like that none.”
I stared at him. He’d had the motive, the opportunity. But did he have the brains—especially to lie about that cord? “Wait here, Gus.” I hurried up to the bar and caught Stanley’s eye. “Can you tell me if my friend Linnea picked up the wine?”
Stanley filled a beer mug. “Yeah, she did. A long time ago. Wasn’t she out back?”
“Out back where?”
“Watching the domino players. She came in right behind Sebastian and Gus. Gus invited her to watch the game.”
“She wasn’t there when I arrived.”
Gus came up and tugged at my sleeve. “She only stayed for a little while,” he said. “Then she decided to walk Sebastian back to the Center. I thought he might like coming here, but it wasn’t much fun for him.”
“I thought Sebastian lived with you now.”
“He’s moving tomorrow if we can get Neverman and the truck.”
“Did my friend say why she was going to the Center?”
“She asked if Mr. Clemente was back from LA, and Sebastian said yes. So she decided she’d take Sebastian there and have Mr. Clemente bring her back to pick up her bags on the way to the airport. She going someplace?”
His words were lost to me as I rushed from the bar.
Damn Linnea! Just when I thought she was reliable…
I ran across two lanes of traffic to the island in the middle of Guerrero and waited for more cars to clear. As I tore across the other two lanes and down the sidewalk, my feet beat out a refrain:
Not my friend. He can’t kill my friend.
The sidewalks of Twenty-fourth Street were empty; the fog and dampness following the rain had driven people inside. I saw them, in the windows of the bars and cafes, warm and safe and unafraid.
As I ran, fragments of long-forgotten prayers echoed in my mind: Let her be all right. Please let her be all right. If she is, I’ll be so good.
The iron gate to the church grounds stood open. I stopped.
Quietly, Sharon. As quietly as you can.
I went up the walk. All I heard were traffic sounds from the street. Hopefully, they would cover my approach. I moved to the side door of the church.
At the bottom of the basement stairs, broken glass crunched under my feet. The sweet odor of reisling drifted up.
I’d come to the right place.
Taking out my gun, I slipped down the hall. An eerie light burned in Neverman’s room, a sheet of white that spread across the ceiling. It came from his torch, which, along with the books and ashtray, had been knocked from the crate.
Had Linnea turned on the torch, struggled with him, and escaped? I crept down the hall toward the steps to the vestibule, where another light shone, and listened. Silence hung heavy upstairs.
They might be up there, each hiding from the other in the dark. Or Linnea could have fled…
A thump. Another thump. A dragging sound.
More silence.
Any sound from me would tip him off to my presence. I slipped down the hall and back outside. The situation called for reinforcements.
Stuffing my gun in my bag, I hurried down the walk to the street and ran across to one of the cafes where all the safe, happy people were. I forced my way through the crowd to the bar and demanded to use the phone.
“There’s a pay phone by the johns, lady.”
“I don’t have change. I don’t have time.”
“Look, lady…”
“The phone!” I flashed the photostat of my license at the bartender. It wasn’t a police shield, but it was damned official looking. His eyes widened, and he handed the phone across the bar.
I dialed the main police number, asked for Communications, listened to a lot of clicks and static on the line. The bartender leaned across at me, his eyes greedy with curiosity. I motioned him away, but he stayed.
The last thing I wanted was a whole barful of people surging across the street to watch the fun. I searched my memory for the police code numbers Greg had taught me one idle Sunday when we’d had nothing better to do.
“Communications, Lucke.”
I identified myself and gave the location of the Blind Center, turning my back on the inquisitive bartender.
“I’ve got a ten-thirty-one and need assistance.
Quiet
assistance. If the guy hears, it will set him off.”
“I’ll get it on the air.”
Code 10-31 was Homicide in Progress.
I hadn’t been sure the cop would cooperate with a civilian, but he must have figured I knew what I was talking about.
I slammed the receiver down and pushed back outside. Depending on its location, a radio car could be here in three or four minutes. Meanwhile, I’d do what I could to impede the progress of the homicide.