To Die in Beverly Hills (8 page)

Higgins nodded. "What were the positions?"

Carr pulled out a ballpoint pen. He drew a rough diagram of Jerome Hartmann's house on a pad of paper. He described where he, Bailey and Kelly were before the shooting. He drew an arrow to show the direction of fire.

Higgins rubbed his chin as he perused the diagram. He shook his head. "I guess anything can happen once the trigger is pulled," he said.

"I'm still trying to piece everything together. That's why I stopped by. I'd like to have you take a look at the reports and tell me what you think. You're the ballistics expert." Carr handed him the stack of reports.

Higgins looked Carr directly in the eye for a moment. "Sure," he said, "I'll check 'em out for you."

"There's something else," Carr said. He pulled out the photograph of Sheboygan and friends sitting around a cocktail table and handed it to Higgins. "There's a matchbook on the table. I need a blowup of it."

"No problem," Higgins said.

"I'd like to keep this just between you and me."

"Got it."

Carr nodded, got up and left.

It was almost 1:00 P.m. and Travis Bailey was alone in the police department's underground parking area. He strolled toward a row of vehicles with grease-penciled notes that read "Hold for Evidence" or "Impound" on their windshields. Lee Sheboygan's Mercedes-Benz was parked at the end of the row next to a Cadillac covered with fingerprint dust.

Bailey approached the passenger door of the car. With some difficulty, he tore the red evidence tape off the lock, inserted a key and opened it. To avoid soiling his sport coat, he took it off, folded it carefully and set it in the backseat.

He snatched an impound sheet off the dashboard. The section marked Comments read: "Owner was suspect/DOA after burg stakeout/Tow to police lot & hold as evidence per Det II Bailey." He set the sheet back on the dashboard. In the glove compartment he found an address book, credit card receipts, matchbooks, a bankbook and some telephone bills. Having scooped out the contents of the cubbyhole onto the floorboard, he searched thoroughly under the seats. He pulled out a sports car magazine, a pamphlet printed by a burglar alarm company and a thick wallet. In the wallet was a stack of credit cards, all bearing Sheboygan's name, a tiny address book (Bailey found his own initials and the Detective Bureau phone number scribbled on the first page), business cards of locksmiths, jewelers, antique dealers, owners of West Side art galleries, Hollywood massage parlors that Bailey knew were whorehouses and three hundred dollars in twenties and fifties.

Travis Bailey removed the cash and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. Having dropped the rest of the items in the pile, he proceeded to the trunk. He unlocked it gently and lifted the lid. Inside was an open metal box and a duffel bag. The metal box was filled with pry bars, key blanks, lock-picks, ratchets of various sizes and other burglar tools. Scattered among the well-used instruments were five or six Polaroid photographs of two-story homes. He removed them and closed the toolbox. Next to the toolbox was a small zippered bag containing a jogging suit and a pair of running shoes. He examined the pockets of the suit carefully and recovered a pawnshop receipt for a diamond ring and a laundry ticket. He shoved these items, along with the photographs from the toolbox, into the duffel bag. After thoroughly searching the rest of the trunk, he removed the toolbox and the duffel bag and set them on the cement floor. He slammed the trunk lid shut.

Kneeling down, he filled the duffel bag with everything from the glove compartment, including the wallet and its contents.

Carrying the bag and the toolbox, he walked across the garage to a smelly room filled with trash receptacles. He shoved the duffel bag deep into a brimming trashcan. Using the stairs rather than the elevator, he proceeded to his office. Before he had a chance to wash his hands, Captain Cleaver stopped by his desk. Bailey noticed that he was wearing a monogrammed shirt.

"Find anything in the car?"

Travis Bailey shook his head. "Just burglar tools," he said as he opened the box and displayed its contents.

"No address books? Nothin' else?"

Bailey shook his head. "The man traveled light."

"Typical hit man."

The phone buzzed. Bailey picked up the receiver. It was for Cleaver.

"Yes, sir," Cleaver said. "Where did it occur? Okay, sir." As Cleaver stood with the receiver an inch or so from his ear, Bailey could hear the sound of a voice coming from the receiver. "Yes, sir," he said finally, "I'll certainly do my best. I'll try to take care of it." He set the receiver down.

"Superman's brother got arrested last night at a pajama party. Superman wants it fixed. He says
Screen Confidential
magazine hired some private eyes to check out the party because lots of movie people were there. They stiffed a robbery-in-progress call into the complaint board to see what would happen. When the patrol officers went in the front door everybody ran out of the back. Superman's brother got pinched for possession of nose candy. He had an ounce in the pocket of his robe. The guy who plays the Black Knight on TV got away. He jumped over the back fence. The private dicks took pictures of everyone."

"They all ran because of a little cocaine in the place?"

Cleaver shook his head. "It was a pajama party for men. The host was some big-time agent. The house was full of hairdressers, hired teenage butt-boys, leather freaks ... a can of worms. I bet I'll have twenty phone calls from high-power attorneys before the day is over."

"I don't really see what else I can do on this Sheboygan thing," Bailey said, changing the subject. "His tracks were covered."

Cleaver had a preoccupied look. "Close it out," he said offhandedly. "Let the Feds do the follow-up. They've got the resources. We've got other things to worry about besides a hit man who fucked up and walked into a trap." He left quickly and headed back to his office.

Having booked the burglar tools in the evidence room, Travis Bailey washed his hands. He left the office and took lunch alone in a health food restaurant a few blocks away. After a meal of bamboo shoots, shredded carrot salad and guava juice, he strolled past shops that specialized in men's clothing with Italian brand names, gourmet cheeses and furs. Having browsed for a while in a small shop featuring electronic solitaire chessboards, he returned to the Detective Bureau and completed the rest of his reports.

The restaurant had seen its day, but Carr figured it still served some of the best downtown fare. He stepped in the front door of the place and looked around. It was furnished with marred wooden tables and cane-backed chairs. On the walls were photographs of long-forgotten football teams and the floor was covered with sawdust. Bow-tied waiters wearing aprons and long-sleeved white shirts took their time serving a luncheon horde made up mostly of courthouse employees, detectives and downtown business types.

Higgins waved from a table in the corner. Spotting him, Carr made his way over to the table and sat down. Sheboygan's autopsy report was under a plate of French bread slices. Higgins said hello as he slapped a butter pat onto bread. A florid-faced waiter with thick glasses came to the table. Carr and Higgins ordered without using a menu.

"What d'ya think?" Carr asked after the waiter had left.

Higgins touched the autopsy report. "Very interesting reading," Higgins said with his mouth full. He dabbed more butter on the bread.

"Something was wrong," Carr said. "I was there and something was wrong."

"In the past few years I've heard rumbles that
Bailey
is
wrong.

"I've heard the talk too. Sometimes info like that comes from people with grudges. Double-crossing stoolies love to put out that kind of crap."

The waiter returned to the table, set down plates of coleslaw and rushed away.

"Sheboygan had a defensive wound on his right hand," Higgins said. "Shotgun pellets in the palm and out the back of the hand and into the sternum. I've seen this type of wound on victims who are shot in family fights. Daddy or mommy comes out of the bedroom with a gun. It's as if the victim is saying 'Please don't shoot me,' right before they become Swiss cheese."

"Maybe it was his gun hand," Carr said. "Sheboygan had a gun.

"Maybe, but if that's the case, why didn't he pull the trigger? That's the natural human reaction. The gun hadn't been fired. Here's an ex-con sneaking into a house to do a number on somebody. He has a gun in his
hand
and doesn't do anything with it?" He shrugged. "Of course anything is possible."

"Maybe Bailey just fired before Sheboygan did."

"Maybe. Then again, why did the thirty-two end up lying in front of the bar instead of frozen in a death grip in his hand? That's what usually happens. Or if the gun was blown out of his hand, why did it end up lying in front of the bar instead of being blown backward, the same direction Sheboygan's body was?"

Carr swallowed a few bites. "Unless it was a throw-down gun," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

Higgins stopped eating. "You and I have been around for a long time, Charlie. We both know what that means. It means that a cop is going to go to jail or be lucky enough to just lose his job and pension. I don't like Bailey. He's one of those slick types that always end up in a jam of one kind or the other. In fact, just talking to him gives me the creeps. I feel like washing my hands in alcohol afterwards. But I'm also telling you right now that if Bailey legitimately caught Sheboygan breaking into the house, I personally don't give a rat's ass if he wasted the son-of-a-bitch. I truly don't care if he killed the man in cold blood. Sheboygan had been in prison for half of his life. He made his living by breaking into people's homes and stealing their property. He knew the chance he was taking. If Bailey was dumb enough to carry around a throw-down gun and use it because he got scared after the shooting when he realized that Sheboygan was unarmed, that's his business. Slick people do slick things. But the last thing in the world I would want to do is get involved in trying to screw a fellow cop, even an asshole like Bailey, for making a mistake in a split-second judgment. I've been to too many autopsies of people killed by burglars-old ladies, housewives with kids, people who had never harmed anyone-to worry about how a career burglar got his ticket punched."

Carr and Higgins ate silently for a while.

"What if I told you I thought Sheboygan getting killed had nothing to do with either a burglary or a murder contract?" Carr said.

"Then I would ask you just what in the hell are you trying to say?"

"I think Bailey committed premeditated murder and didn't care if he had to shoot my partner to get it done. I think he used Jack and me as a cover."

The waiter brought plates filled with short ribs, mashed potatoes and string beans. Carr picked up knife and fork. Higgins stared at the plate for a moment. "What are you gonna do about it?" Higgins asked him.

"I'm going to find out what's going on. And if it wasn't just an accident, I'm going to pull the plug on Bailey. I'm going to sink him."

"You're talking about a blue-clue caper," Higgins said. "You're talking about going against another cop. It could get real sticky."

The men ate their meals in silence. After finishing they both ordered coffee. Casually, they discussed the latest Los Angeles City Council attempt to cut the police budget and whether the Dodgers would come out of their slump. Finally their small talk, as well as their coffee, was finished. The two men stood up and Higgins picked up the autopsy report. "I'll need to do some more work on this," he said.

On the way out of the restaurant, Carr gave him a slap on the back.

The next morning Carr returned to Amanda Kennedy's apartment. He knocked on the door. After first peeking at him through the window, she opened it. She was dressed in designer jeans, high heels and a peasant blouse. She wore a necklace with a star-shaped medallion that looked like the one Sheboygan had been fastening around her neck in the snapshot. He wondered if the diamonds on the star points were genuine.