He laughed at that. “Yeah,” he said, “and I think your father beat you too much right?”
“Anyway, I said if they’d go clean I’d help them with a small problem that they’ve got. This small problem isn’t, well it isn’t that small and it has a name. The name is Gianni Mancini who’s sic’d his dog, Fat Tony on them.”
John raised his eyebrows at me. I raised him back. He showed me his hand.
“Why are you going messing around with the mob? It’s not enough that you’re trying to solve a murder before we do to keep a lid on the PR? You know you don’t have the LAPD to get your back?”
I nodded. “Yes I do,” I said.
“Okay, but you don’t have them officially. You can’t just go pissing off the mob like you’re still a cop. For God’s sake Anthony.”
Always the concerned older brother. That’s why I liked him so much.
“I’m not going out to piss off the mob, I’m going out to have dinner with my old friend Gianni. I understand that Trattoria d’Italia has a new menu I want to check out.”
I was still leaning way back on the chair but it was beginning to feel like work. I was tempted to put my feet up on the desk. But this office closet was way too small. Besides, my oxfords weren’t as clean as I’d like. I think I mentioned that before.
“What are you going to do Anthony. Come on now pal. You can’t just go in there telling him to stop busting someone’s chops like you’ve been personally sent by Bianchi. Jesus, what are you thinking Anthony? These guys won’t entertain your gumshoe-hail-fella-well-met crap.”
“I dunno. I mean I’m going to pay for my meal.”
He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes. He slid his fingers through his hair and sighed like a tired, old balloon.
“Seriously John, I’m just going to go ask him nicely. That’s all. Besides he owes me a favor for that time I drove his kid back instead of giving him a DUI and impounding the car. He was appreciative of that.”
He turned and put both elbows on the table and stared at the blank concrete wall. He took the manila folder in both hands and tapped it on its short end on the table. Nothing fell out. Maybe it was a decoy. I looked around for the big fatty, but I didn’t see one.
“Okay Sid, if you say so. If you think you can handle this one.”
“Sure I can. And besides, maybe he did it…”
“Yeah and he’ll confess like a little baby to you about it. I tell you what. If he did it, we’ve both got our work cut out for us in trying to prove it.”
“Lighten up buddy. I’m just having fun with you. I don’t think he’d waste his time on something like this. Besides, the guy is worth more to him alive than dead.”
“So he’s leaning on the crack pipe son?”
“Yeah exactly. I told you. I wanted to give this kid a chance. I’m not going to stick my neck out for it, but I’ll go and talk to Gianni. See what’s what.”
“So when are you going to do this?” he asked looking more concerned.
“Right after we’re done here if the timing is right. I could use a good meal. You know how tasty their food is at the Trattoria?”
He nodded. He knew. We’d been there before a few times. Back in the day.
“Now come on Johnny, I’m spilling my guts out to you like I’m an altar boy at confession. It’s your turn now. What have you got in that thin, very thin manila folder?” He opened it up and straightened it out on the table. There were two sheets of color photocopied photographs. I couldn’t tell how many photos in total, but the top page had four. There seemed to be a couple of other sheets underneath. John fanned out the sheets for me like he had a winning hand. From what I could see it wasn’t better than a pair of twos.
“This is all I could get together for you on short notice. And it’s only because of the kindness in my heart that I’m showing you this much. ‘Cos we go way back. Otherwise you’d be seeing sweet fuck all.”
“That doesn’t sound too sweet,” I said. He moved the folder over towards me. I banged my knee on the frigging drawers. I called upon Jesus. He never answered. Then I spread my knees out on either side.
The top sheet had four photographs photocopied to retain their color. Problem is it didn’t look very accurate. The pool of blood around Max’s head looked the color of ketchup and not the more burgundy red it ought to be. This was the first picture. A close up of his head resting on a pillow of blood looking to the right. Only he wasn’t looking anymore. This picture had his full head with the pool of blood around it like a halo in those old paintings of the saints. Sort of like the kind you’d find in Giotto’s work. I noticed a few books in the photograph. Ironically the bible was amongst them. There was also Chuck Palahniuk’s Choke. I noticed this because its white cover was dotted with blood splatter and I’m pretty sure that isn’t on the original cover. Choking usually doesn’t cause blood splatter. Now I’m rusty from my days as a cop, but I’d bet a square penny on it. Now, whereas the bible’s pages were starting to mop up the blood as they lay spine up. Their pages stained rouge, their covers didn’t have blood spatter on them from what I could tell. That would give me an indication that Choke at least was on the floor before the old man lay down to rest with it.
“Did you notice this,” I said pointing to the blood splatter on Choke’s cover.
“Sure did Holmes. You know Anthony, you need to come on back and help us with this. I just don’t think we’ll be able to crack it open without your incredible deducting.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said.
The next picture was the same shot taken further away and showing pretty much his whole body. He was wearing blue satin slippers and a blue satin robe that was flared out over his torso as if it had been put over him after the fact. It wasn’t as his arms were still in the sleeves. The right arm was bent under his body and the left was at an awkward angle. The elbow pointing off to the right and the hand tucked towards the elbow with palm facing up. His feet were still in the slippers, mostly, with the heels leaning in towards each other about a foot apart. You could see his white calves with black, wispy hair on them.
In this one you could see part of the table to the left of the frame. The next photo was taken even further back so you could see most of the room. The bookshelf was in disarray and the Oscar was on the table towards the left edge if you were sitting at it. This was the edge closest to the body. At this angel and distance it looked like there was a bit of blood on the bottom of the statue. Here Max was on the right of the image and his pool of blood was very difficult to see. This was the image I had when I first entered the room. Only Max wasn’t there. He had risen from the dead. But not without help. Probably from Emily and her boys. That got me to thinking about her again. Those lovely hands. I wondered if she played the piano. I had some ivories I’d like her to tickle.
Onto the last picture on this sheet and it was a close up of the statue and the desk. The background was blurred out. Oscar wasn’t looking his most pristine and golden. His sword was dipped in blood and you could tell there was blood all around the black base. It shone differently in the picture. On the table was a half small smirk of blood. It looked dark red if not brown on the wooden table. It looked like Oscar had been picked up and put down again. During or after the beating.
I knew I was onto something here so I pointed this out to Max and asked him if he’d seen this too.
“Genius,” he said to me. “I’m retiring now. LA is a lot safer now that you’re looking into homicides.”
I smiled at him. “Always eager to help,” I said. “You’d be lost without me. Admit it.” He smiled but wouldn’t admit to anything.
“Did you guys get any prints off of this knight in shining armor?”
From this close up of Oscar you could tell that there were a couple of finger smudges on it. Slam and dunk I thought. The game’s over as soon as they get the prints back.
“Yeah we did. Crime Scenes is working on identifying them now. You’d better hustle
. If we get some good prints off that, we might have our killer. And it might give us insight as to it being a botched burglary or alternatively a crime of passion. If it was planned the killer or killers likely would have given Oscar here a rub down.”
He pointed to Oscar, his finger landing on his groin. I don’t think he realized.
“That my good pal, is a little something I call Homicide 101 for you.”
“I’m done Johnny. I just can’t keep up with your intellectual gymnastics.”
I looked back at the picture. Nothing else in this close up of Oscar caught my eye.
“How much does this strapping fella weigh? Do you know?”
“I think he’s about eight pounds give or take if he’s been on the Hollywood diet or not.”
“I’m gonna close this case for you right now John. I’ll let you in on a little secret I’ll call private-eye-for-the-cop-guy 101. Do you know who was caught carrying this heavyweight and standing over the body? That’s your killer my friend. Open. Closed.”
I took the manila folder and closed it. Then I opened it again. Then I closed it. I said open, closed each time I did this. I had my eye on an Oscar too. I thought my performance was pretty good.
“I’m calling up the Chief right now and getting him to reinstate you. This will be a scandal if we let your intellectual muscle go to waste. The taxpayers will hang us high. Come on Sid, I’m on the edge of my seat. I’m drooling at the thought of what you’ve got to share. Tell me. Please, I can’t wait.”
I shut the folder again. “Case closed,” I said. I leaned back in my chair again for effect. I asked him if he really wanted to know. He pleaded with me. Or at least that’s what I imagined.
“The person who was found holding Oscar over Max for the role of Best Supporting Actress in a Murder was Vanessa. Max’s wife.”
John slapped his knee.
“Unbelievable,” he said. “Unbelievable. Why did you keep this to yourself so long? Anthony, you’ve gotta show me how you did that. It’s like magic. So you’re saying that those finger prints on Oscar are gonna be Vanessa’s?”
I nodded a satisfied smile riding my lips. John picked up the phone and without dialing he said, “Chief, it’s Captain Roberts. Listen we’ve got to send a car over to the Raffles Hotel to pick up Vanessa Ernst right away. Anthony Carrick here, you remember him, has just found our killer on the Ernst case. He is, isn’t he? Yup an absolute genius. What, you’re giving him my job. Jesus.” And then he hung up on the Chief. I thought I’d just lost my Oscar to my pal Johnny Rotten here. I gave him a round of applause. He bowed in his seat.
“Can we get back to real business now Sid?” he asked me.
“Sure. I guess you knew that then?” I was still playing the ham.
“Just keep looking at the stuff I got for you in the folder old man.”
I opened the folder again. I turned the first page of photographs onto its face on the left side of the folder. The next page only had two photographs on it. The first one was a distance shot of Max. Only this time he had turned over in his sleep. He was in what they call the ‘soldier’ position, this one more like ‘dead soldier’. His legs and arms straight down. He had on a pair of satin boxers. White with blue paisleys. His arms were still in the robe but the robe was flared open. His legs like skinny toothpicks stuck out from the boxers. The Crime Scenes’ guys had managed to keep his feet in his slippers. His torso was a sack of white custard with an hourglass patch of black hair on it. The bulbous ends on his chest and lower abdomen. He wasn’t obese but he wouldn’t be a Calvin Klein underwear model. His belly was soft with a layer of fat. His face was turned to his right looking at the leg of the table. At this distance you could tell his hair was matted with blood and it was smeared all down the left side of his face. It looked like he had been rolled. He was closer to the table and the pool of blood was next to him, not underneath him anymore.
The next photograph was a close up of his face in this position. His face was smudged with thick strokes of blood as if a first year art student had painted it onto him. It was thicker in places. His hair was matted with blood and it was darker and more gelled by the wounds. Little bits of custard and what looked like chipped teeth could be seen around his temple. Likely brain and bone. I’d say he had been hit more than once, probably at least three times. It was an ugly mess. Excessive. More than was required to kill him. But this was the only wound I could see on his face. I’d seen enough. I turned this page over onto its sibling on the other side of the folder.
“Ugly mess,” I said at the folder.
“Usually is,” said John.
The last page was an official witness statement. It was from Vanessa Ernst. Hand printed in that nice handwriting I’d been the lucky recipient of. I read it quickly. Pretty much said what I thought it would about Maria finding her and her telling Maria to call nine one one. It failed to mention that she was found holding the Oscar. Not that I thought she’d done it, but I couldn’t exclude her either. I turned to John.
“She doesn’t say anything about being found holding the alleged murder weapon.” I love that word alleged. Such bullshit frankly. Everybody knows damn well that when you allege something it’s as good as a promise. But we don’t want to offend lawyerly sentiment or ‘good’ jurisprudence and give the wrong impression about guilty people until they’ve been proven guilty in court. Presumption of innocence and all that good stuff.
“No she wouldn’t put that down on paper without speaking to her lawyer first. Had to let her have it her way. She was only a witness at that point.”
“So you don’t consider her a suspect?” I asked.
“Well sure we do. This close to the event there are a lot of suspects Anthony. But unlike you, we can’t go around accusing people and leaning on them just because we have our suspicions. Now, in my mind she could easily have killed him. If the prints come back as hers we’ll probably give her her rights and she’ll lawyer up and we’ll have our work cut out for us.”
“That’s what I love about my position. I can lean on people till they buckle and get confessions out the yin yang. Not that it’ll help you but it helps me. It helps my client usually, in that they get some sort of closure and sometimes it helps the perp get that shit off their chest. Because they know you’ll have a helluva time using stuff I come up with in court. My methods are often, how do you say, not strictly in line with LAPD policy.”
John smiled but didn’t say anything.
“What about Lorenzo? Do you think you might have any good prints on the shears or shovel?” Sounded like a landscaping company. Shears and Shovel. Hell, it could just as easily be a law firm. Or I could name my Private Eye company after that. ‘Shears and Shovel. We cut to the chase and dig up the dirt.’ I liked that, but I was getting carried away.
“No, Crime Scenes didn’t even bother with those. Both of them wouldn’t hold prints anyway. But you know what. I’m thinking if Vanessa killed her old man I doubt she’d be good for Lorenzo. I just don’t see a connection. What about you, do you have any fav suspects?”
“I’ve got too many actually.” I thought maybe it was time to do some sharing with my old pal. He’d done some for me and quid pro quo I guess.
“Did you know that Max and Vanessa had an ‘open’ relationship?” I put quotes around ‘open’ with my index and middle finger of both hands. John chuckled.
“Stop with the bullshit and the riddles. Tell me something I can sink my teeth into.”
“Okay, but seriously this is off the record. I’ll never work in this town again if this stuff gets out.”
“Sure, sure. Aren’t you looking for an early retirement anyway?”
I frowned at him.
“I’m being serious now.” He turned the corners of his mouth down and squinted his eyes and nodded knowingly.
“Well, the two of them had an understanding that they could have lovers. They needed it to be discreet but they could have bed buddies if you like.”
John
nodded. “Okay, fair enough, but how does this give me something I can chew on?”
“Okay. Well for one thing I’ve heard from the horses mouth i.e. Vanessa that Lorenzo was her bed buddy.”
“So you don’t think she would have killed him. Is that what I’m hearing you say?”
“Yeah I guess it is.”
“Come on Anthony you’ve only been gone a few years and now you’re telling me that because a suspect bats her eyes at you, you exclude her from the suspects list.”
“It’s not like that. She had on this wonderful one-piece dress and you should have seen how it caressed her breasts. But you wouldn’t understand.”
“Yeah I would. Just because I’m still happily married doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a woman’s body.”
“Johnny I was only joking with you. I haven’t excluded her I just don’t think she’s good for the Lorenzo murder that’s all. Maybe the old man but not the lover.”
John closed the folder and brought it back to his side of the table. I wasn’t hurt.
“So how do you exclude her from the suspect list on the Lorenzo case? I want to see how much you’ve forgotten from Homicide 101.”
“Well as it happens, I had a very nice dinner date with her last night.”
He laughed at that. “Yeah right,” he said.
“Seriously, I was up on the Terrace at Raffles there. Having Vanessa and Stella both at the same time. Intermingled with some crusty bread. But she wouldn’t even buy me a morsel to eat. Although she did pay for the beers.”
“Yeah, well you’re not working for her. Anyway, you come here trying to twist my arm into giving you all the LAPD info and all this time you’ve been holding out on me.”
“Well you passed her the phone buddy when she invited me up.”
He nodded. I guess he’d forgotten about that part.
“Okay, carry on.”
“Well we looked deeply into each others eyes and spoke about matters of the heart. There was a real deep caring and soul bonding going on.”
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 11