To Die in Beverly Hills (19 page)

"I don't want to get involved," Bailey said, and hung up.

Though it was only 7:00 A.M., the California sun could already be felt on the back of one's neck. Carr, in an early-morning hangover haze, pulled into the parking lot of the coffee shop near the Field Office. Dreadful fare, but it was convenient and there was always room in the parking lot. He staggered inside.

Because he considered it a hangover cure, Carr ordered the "Lumberjack Special" from a waitress with a beehive hairdo who he hoped would not want to talk about her son who was serving a year in the county jail. A stocky, broad-featured woman who lacked any hint of poise, she scribbled his breakfast order on a pad. Having completed the order, she slipped the stub of pencil under rubber bands on her wrist. "You look like you could use a shot of whiskey in your coffee," she said, putting her hands on her hips.

"I'll never drink again," Carr muttered.

"Sure, she said on her way to the kitchen.

Carr sipped ice water. It hurt his teeth.

The waitress returned carrying a newspaper, which she set on the table before sitting down across from him. "This guy I'm going out with told me that my boy should have never pled guilty. He said that if he would have asked for a jury trial, the District Attorney would have made a plea- bargain and he would have gotten straight probation. He only had half an ounce in his car when he was arrested. Do you think he's right?"

"They don't call it plea bargaining anymore," Carr said. "It's called case settlement."

"Which means that you plead guilty to something that maybe you didn't even do in order to get less time in jail, right?"

"Right." Carr noticed No Waves walking toward him from the take-out counter. He carried coffee in a Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid.

The waitress glanced. "He's your boss, isn't he?" she whispered.

Carr nodded.

"He never leaves tips," she said as she slid out of the booth and headed toward another table.

No Waves smirked. "You look like you might have had a few too many last night," he said.

Without looking up Carr opened the newspaper.

"Got a call at home last night from the FBI," Waeves said. "They're confirmed that Tony Dio hired Sheboygan for the hit."

"Who told 'em that?" Carr said, keeping his eyes on the newspaper.

"An informant. Everything he told them has checked out, including info about a hooker whose body was found in Santa Barbara. The informant knew all about it. She was killed because she knew about the Sheboygan thing. She overheard Dio lay the contract on him to kill Hartmann. FBI is opening a case on it from the organized-crime angle. You'd better get over there today and see what they've got."

Carr nodded without looking up from the newspaper.

"Like maybe right after you finish breakfast."

Carr glanced at him. "Sure."

No Waves turned and sauntered out the front door.

The waitress returned to the table carrying a plate of eggs and hash browns. "He's kind of an asshole, isn't he?" she whispered, setting the food in front of him.

"He is the king of assholes."

The woman giggled and hurried back to her duties.

After breakfast, Carr drove to L.A. Police Department Headquarters. He met Higgins in his office and they took the elevator to the basement. At a large coffee pot they filled paper cups. They wound through a corridor and into a dingy photo lab strewn with empty boxes. The odor of coffee from the cups they carried mixed with that of photographic chemicals.

Taped to an easel in the corner of the room was a blown up color photograph of Sheboygan, Chagra and a woman sitting in what appeared to be a nightclub. The wall behind them was covered in red velvet and to their right was what looked like the edge of a stage curtain. Higgins, standing next to him, pointed to a crumpled matchbook cover on the cocktail table in the oversized photo.

Carr sipped coffee, leaned close to the blowup. Because of the photographic technique used, details on the photograph were fuzzy. The letters Carp were on the visible portion of the matchbook cover.

"Carp," Higgins said. "Mean anything to you?"

"The type of fish that swims in the lake at MacArthur Park."

"Carp ... carp..." Higgins said, ruminating. "Maybe the matchbook was just a stray. Sometimes people carry things around with them for months. We're going to need more than four letters on a matchbook cover in order to develop some background on these people. And background is what we're definitely going to need to be able to prove motive on Bailey."

Carr turned away from the photograph and lit a cigarette. It tasted awful. He took another sip of the stale coffee. "Maybe we should stir things up a little," he said.

"What do you have in mind?"

Carr stepped to a desk covered with empty film boxes, picked up the phone and dialed. A woman answered, "Beverly Hills Police Department."

"Detective Bailey, please."

Higgins had a puzzled look.

"Bailey speaking."

"Charlie Carr here. If you're not busy this morning, I thought I'd stop by."

****

TEN

CARR WALKED up some stairs and entered the well-furnished Beverly Hills Detective Bureau. Travis Bailey stood gazing out the window. A young blonde woman sat at a desk near him. She was on the phone. Two other detectives in short-sleeved shirts worked on reports on the opposite side of the room. "Hi," Carr said.

Startled, Bailey turned toward him. "Just daydreaming," he said quickly. He motioned Carr to a seat in front of a desk. Both men sat down as the blonde woman hung up the phone.

Bailey introduced Delsey Piper. "My new partner." Carr shook hands with the woman.

"How is Jack doing?"

"Just fine," Carr said. "Just fine. He should be out of the hospital in a week or two."

"Glad to hear it. What brings you out here to the land of the fur coats and end cuts?" He leaned back in his chair comfortably.

"I'm still checking into the Tony Dio angle. He still looks like the best suspect to be behind Sheboygan. But I'm running into dead ends. I can't seem to tie Sheboygan into the Tony Dio mob. As a matter of fact, as far as I can determine, Sheboygan was just a cat burglar plain and simple. And for the life of me I can't figure why a cat burglar would pick up a contract on a federal witness."

"Maybe he owed someone a favor," Bailey said. His hands hugged the back of his neck.

Carr stared at the detective. Nothing was said. Bailey unfolded his hands, sat up. Delsey Piper fidgeted. She glanced at both men.

Bailey cleared his throat. "Maybe Sheboygan is listed in an organized-crime file somewhere in town. Have you checked?"

"Checked every file in town," Carr said. "L.A.P.D., Sheriff's Intelligence, District Attorney's Bureau of Investigation, all the federal agencies. I came up with a zero. Nobody lists him with any OC connections."

"You know how incomplete police files are. There's lot going on out there that no one knows about."

Carr looked out the window. The Goodyear blimp floated in front of a fluffy cloud. "That's for sure," he said, staring at Bailey. "There's always a sleeper or two in town, Somebody's secret little game just waiting to make the headlines."

Bailey nodded.

"Did Hartmann tell you he was leaving town?"

Bailey gave a puzzled look.

"Before the shooting..." Carr said, "Hartmann told me he spoke with you."

"As a matter of fact he did. He wanted to let the Department know his house would be vacant for a few days. A routine thing..."

"Oh."

The phone rang and Delsey Piper answered it in a subdued voice. Carr studied her for a moment, lit a cigarette and blew out smoke. "I'm going to need to talk with your informant," he said, turning to Bailey.

Bailey swallowed. "He's moved out of town."

"I'm willing to travel."

Bailey cleared his throat again. "And even if he was still in town, I'm not sure I could let you talk to him. A confidential informant doesn't stay confidential for very long once he starts getting passed around between police agencies. I'm sure you understand what I mean when I say that."

"I'm not asking your informant to testify in open court. I'm not asking him to go on the six o'clock news. I just want to interview him, ask him a few questions."

Bailey snatched a pencil off the desk. He drummed. "He'll never agree to be interviewed. He's told me that more than once. He won't talk to anyone but me."

"When he tells me that in person, I guess I'll have to be satisfied," Carr said. "I'll be able to put in my report that he looked me in the eye and refused to be interviewed. My headquarters couldn't dispute that."

Carr watched Bailey's jugular vein. It pulsed rapidly.

"My word should be good enough." Bailey fiddled with his collar.

"You know the brass. Particularly Washington, D.C., brass. They need to have things proven to them."

"Even if the informant agreed to meet with you, I know my captain would never go for it. He's from the old school. You know, informants are precious; better to hand up dead old mom than a good snitch."

"I'd like to talk with your captain."

"Talk to him?"

"That's right. I want to talk to him right now."

Bailey shrugged. "No problem. I'll go see if he's in." He stood up and left the room.

Carr turned to Delsey Piper, who started to nervously rearrange things in a desk drawer. "How do you like working in the Detective Bureau?" he asked.

She shut the drawer. "It's super," she said. "Really super."

Bailey stepped from the hallway into Captain Cleaver's office. Cleaver sat at his desk. On his desk was a jar of Vaseline and a pocket-sized mirror. He unscrewed the top of the Vaseline jar and moistened the tip of a finger with the lubricant. Looking in the mirror, he dabbed it carefully on his sunburned nose.

"Carr is here," Bailey said. "He's pushing to meet my informant. I told him no, but he wouldn't buy it. He wants to talk to vou."

Cleaver did not look up from the mirror. He dabbed again. "Who is the informant?"

"He makes lots of recoveries for us. As a matter of fact, you have two grand coming from a jewelry recovery he made for us a few days ago. California Life and Casualty will have the cash for us any day."

"Two grand?" he said to the mirror. "My nose is burned to a crisp." He looked up. "Send him in."

Bailey stepped back into the Detective Bureau and motioned to Carr. Carr followed him into Cleaver's office. Bailey made introductions. As he shook hands, Carr thought Cleaver's hand felt greasy,

"We don't reveal our informants," Cleaver said. "That's my policy and the policy of this department. I'm going to back up Bailey's refusal to let you talk with the informant. Is that what you were going to ask me about?"

Carr looked at the jar of Vaseline. He flexed his palm. "Are you aware you've grease on your hand?"

Cleaver looked embarrassed. He pointed to his face. "Sunburned nose. I was just applying some-"