Clutching at Straws

by J. L. Abramo

  “Vigoda came to me with an offer of fifteen thousand dollars to pull something out of Chancellor’s safe,” Lefty said. “Five grand down, outside the house, and the balance later. I suppose Vic got a fee for finding someone for the job, which didn’t do him much good. I was supposed to be out by eight, but when I first went there at just after seven, the neighbors had a party going so I had to leave and come back.”

  “What were you after?” I asked.

  “There was a metal document box. I was told that I would find a nine-by-twelve-inch envelope. All I had to do was to get it out of the safe, and I’d collect another ten grand.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “There were no envelopes at all, so I turned to leave. I spotted the watch and went for it. And then the cops showed up.”

  “The Rolex was never reported found, Lefty,” I said.

  “It was there, Jake. Someone lifted it. It might have been one of the cops who arrived first. One of them was cuffing me where I lay on the floor; the other may have grabbed the Rolex.”

  “Do you know the names of the cops that came in first?” I asked.

  “No, I was face down on the rug. I only know there were two cops to start, but by the time they let me up, the room was full of them.”

  “How were you supposed to identify the envelope?”

  “There wasn’t a single flat envelope in the box, Jake. I doubt there ever was one,” he said, “I was just sent in to take the murder rap, I guess.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question, Al. It could have been a box full of flat envelopes. Were you given a name to look for or any other identifying information?”

  Lefty paused to think about it. I wondered what there was to think about.

  “Alfred Sisley,” he finally said, “for what it’s worth.”

  “And that’s all of it?” I asked.

  “That’s all I know, Jake,” Lefty said, “and with Vigoda gone, it’s probably all we’ll ever know. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do, Al,” I said.

  And that was the best I could leave him with.

  I walked out of the police station and lit a cigarette. I thought about the Rolex and the envelope. I believed that the watch had been there on the floor. If one of the police officers lifted the Rolex it could have been a simple theft with nothing more sinister attached to the action. But it didn’t explain the envelope that Lefty said he was being paid fifteen thousand dollars to take out of the safe. If someone set Lefty up by sending in the cops to bust him at the murder scene, and Lefty is carrying the envelope, then the police get the envelope also. And that only works if the cops that went in first were meant to take the envelope from Lefty before he got it out of the house.

  And if there was something in an envelope that was threatening enough to kill for, and it wasn’t in Chancellor’s safe, then where was it, and who might still be out there looking for it?

  And who the hell was Alfred Sisley?

  I needed to find out who the first two officers at the scene were. I stamped my cigarette out on the ground and turned to walk back into the building to ask Lopez.

  Instead, I turned again and walked down the steps of the police station.

  I walked back to my office on Columbus Avenue to call and ask Kay Turner.

  I couldn’t track Kay down so I left a message with her answering service.

  I sat at my desk and realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I went down to Carlucci’s Restaurant for a bite to eat. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone.

  I sat at a small table across from the bar over a plate of ziti with meatballs and a glass of red wine, hoping for a change that Tony Carlucci would find me. When I heard his voice behind me I tried to convince myself that I was a lucky guy.

  “Why so late, Diamond? My mother is going to be very disappointed that she missed you.”

  “How are you, Tony?” I asked.

  “I’m touched that you would ask, Jake. What do you want?” There was no sweet-talking Tony Carlucci.

  “I was hoping you could tell me how to find Chancellor’s cabin,” I said.

  “Doing a little real estate speculation, Diamond?”

  “Just thinking about something your brother John mentioned this afternoon.”

  That seemed to satisfy Carlucci, and he gave me directions to Chancellor’s retreat in the woods. I finished my meal, picked up the Toyota, and headed out toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Judge Chancellor’s cabin was just outside the town of Mill Valley, north of Sausalito, in Marin County. I drove through the town and found the road where Tony Carlucci told me I would find Chancellor’s place.

  Mount Tamalpais loomed in the near distance.

  I reached an intersection at which a sign indicated Muir Beach to the left. I turned right onto a wooded dirt road and drove about a quarter mile. I caught sight of a lit cabin ahead on the left and killed my headlights, able to see the road ahead by moonlight.

  The judge’s cabin was a few hundred feet farther down on the right. I was pleasantly surprised to find the front door unlocked, then unhappily surprised by the voice behind me.

  “No one home,” the voice said.

  I turned and saw a rifle pointed at me, chest high.

  “My mistake,” I said.

  “You a cop?” the man asked.

  “Private investigator.”

  “Have some ID?”

  I showed him my investigator’s identification card. Thankfully it was enough to inspire him to lower the weapon.

  “Bob Gentry,” he said, holding out his hand. I didn’t hesitate to take it.

  “Jake Diamond,” I said. Of course, he already knew that.

  “What are you after, Mr. Diamond?”

  I thought that honesty might be exactly the right policy.

  “I’m working for the man who the police are holding for the murder of the judge. I don’t believe he’s guilty. I was hoping to find something to help the cause.”

  “You won’t find anything helpful in there,” said Gentry.

  “Why is that?”

  “Someone would have beat you to it. A San Francisco cop as a matter of fact, or so his uniform and badge would suggest. Came out the night that Judge Chancellor was killed, it was the first I heard of the judge’s death. The cop was in there for more than an hour. I doubt you could do much better.”

  “Catch his name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember it?”

  “Hard to forget. Katt it was. Tom Katt.”

  “Did you know the judge well?” I asked.

  “Sure, we’ve been neighbors here for years. Always played a few games of chess when he came up from the city,” he said.

  “He come up often?”

  “Almost every weekend.”

  “Did you see Judge Chancellor that weekend?”

  “We spent most of Sunday together. He left around seven or so, said he had to find someone and decided to go back early.”

  “Mention a name?”

  “No.”

  “Chancellor ever mention someone named Alfred Sisley?”

  “No.”

  “Have any idea who might have killed Chancellor?”

  “No.”

  “Seen anyone else here that didn’t belong, before or after Chancellor’s death?”

  “No, and I would have. I keep a pretty good eye on our little neighborhood.”

  I was sure he did.

  “Maybe you could give me a call if you see or hear something,” I said, handing him one of my cards.

  “Maybe,” he said, dropping it into his shirt pocket.

  “Mind if I take a look around, anyhow? Just for the hell of it,” I asked.

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, nodding toward the rifle. “Nothing personal, you understand.”

  “I do,” I said, and made for my car.

  “Well, good talking to you, Mr. Diamond. Have a safe ride home.”


  “All right, then,” I said, “thanks for your help, Mr. Gentry.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  I climbed into the Toyota, jockeyed the car around, and headed back out to the main road and through town to Sausalito and the bridge.

  I had a pretty strong feeling that I was going to hear the name Tom Katt again.

  There was no return call from Kay Turner when I reached my apartment, nor was there one on the office machine. It was late enough to justify saving the report to her until morning.

  It had been a long day, but I wasn’t sure that I would fall asleep if I hit the rack.

  I poured a glass of Dickel on ice and read The Count of Monte Cristo until I was fairly confident that if I stretched out in the bed, sleep would take me.

  It did.

  Thirteen

  I walked into the office Friday morning at nine.

  “Kay Turner called, Jake. She said she was off to a meeting with Judge Morgan and Lowell Ryder this morning to discuss the possibility of bail for Lefty. She said she would call you after the meeting.”

  I walked over and poured a cup of coffee.

  “Have you talked with Buzz Stanley?” I asked.

  The phone rang before she could answer.

  “Speak of the devil,” she said, with her hand over the mouth-piece. “Okay, Buzz, calm down.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Buzz says that he showed up at Chancellor’s office this morning and found the place turned upside down.”

  “Ask him if he knows where the Turk Street coffee shop is and if he can meet me there in fifteen minutes.”

  “He said he’ll be there,” Darlene said, hanging up the phone. “Watch what you eat, Jake.”

  I refrained from saying that I would watch it all the way from the plate to my happy mouth.

  “If Kay calls, give her my cell phone number,” I said, and ran out to meet Buzz.

  “So,” I asked, hungrily eyeing a sausage link, “what do you think whoever rifled the office was after?”

  “I don’t know,” said Stanley.

  “Do you know anything about a document the judge may have received recently? Maybe in a large envelope. Something he thought important.”

  “There was an envelope, now that you mention it, brown manila, nine by twelve,” said Stanley. “It was delivered about two weeks ago. I remember because the judge snatched it off my desk while I was going through the other mail and immediately locked it in his desk drawer. And I’m pretty sure it was the same envelope that I saw him stuff into his briefcase the following week, before he left for the long weekend at his cabin.”

  “Did you notice anything written on the envelope,” I asked, “like a return address, for instance?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Come on, Stanley, think. Nothing? A name? Anything?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “you’re shouting at me.”

  “I’m sorry. Did Chancellor ever mention someone named Alfred Sisley?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Do you know why the judge was set against Ryder’s bid for the DA’s office?”

  “It was personal,” said Buzz. “Chancellor had a very close friend, Alan Jameson, who committed suicide six months ago. The judge blamed Ryder for the man’s death.”

  “Why so?”

  “Jameson was accused of insider trading, based on information he may have had about the sale of the company he worked for to a large conglomerate. Jameson always insisted that he had no prior knowledge, but Ryder went after him with both barrels. It was a very high profile case. Ryder must have figured that a big splash would kick start his bid for the DA’s office. Chancellor pleaded with Ryder to drop the charges. He told Ryder that he was positive that Jameson was innocent and that Jameson was prepared to donate his profits to charity to prove good faith. Ryder went ahead, Jameson was convicted, sentenced to eight years in prison, and shot himself before reporting for lockup.”

  “Why didn’t Chancellor appeal to his buddy, the governor?”

  “The judge enjoyed his job, and rumors were circulating that Chancellor may have been involved in the stock scandal, since he was close to Jameson personally. It wouldn’t surprise me if they came from Ryder. I guess that Chancellor was afraid to be too vocal in Jameson’s defense, fearful of guilt by association.”

  “I can see why Ryder would be on the top of the judge’s shit list.”

  “When Jameson killed himself, I could see that the judge felt guilty about not fighting harder for the man. That whole week after it happened, Chancellor was walking around the courthouse like a zombie. The judge would have done anything to derail Ryder’s candidacy, but he didn’t have enough clout.”

  Except that just before the judge was killed, Chancellor had told Hank Strode that Ryder would never be elected.

  “So,” I said, “you feel confident that if someone was looking for that particular envelope, it wouldn’t have been found in Chancellor’s office.”

  “I’m almost positive that the judge took it with him that day. It was the Tuesday before he died,” Buzz said. “On Wednesday he went to San Quentin to visit a prisoner, and the next day he went up to his cabin.”

  My cell phone rang. It was Kay Turner.

  “We have a bail hearing set for this afternoon, Jake,” she said. “It looks good. I think Lefty will be out for the weekend.”

  “Why the change of heart?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. The judge seemed to think that Lefty wasn’t a flight risk, and Ryder didn’t really argue much.”

  “Well, it sounds like good news,” I said, wanting to believe it. “What time is the hearing?”

  “Four.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “Do you have a copy of Lefty’s arrest report handy, Kay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were the two officers first on the scene at Chancellor’s place.”

  “Let’s see,” she said, “one was Philip Moss and the other was, I have it right here somewhere.”

  “Tom Katt?”

  “Yes, Officer Thomas Katt, how did you know?”

  “Wild guess,” I said, “I’ll see you at the hearing at four.”

  I thanked Buzz Stanley, apologizing again, and went out looking for Katt.

  I went right up to the desk sergeant at the police station and asked to speak with Officer Katt. I was told that Katt would be coming on duty at three. I decided that asking for a home phone number or address would be a waste of breath.

  I thought about bringing my suspicions to Lieutenant Lopez, and I came to regret that I hadn’t.

  Instead I called Joey Russo to ask if he had any way to get the information.

  An hour later I was back at the desk in my office when Joey called with Katt’s home phone number and street address.

  I dialed the number.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Officer Katt,” I said, “this is Jake Diamond. I was hoping that you had some time to talk, as soon as possible.”

  “What do we have to talk about?” Katt asked.

  “A Rolex and an envelope,” I said.

  There was a good long pause before he answered.

  “I get off duty at eleven,” Katt finally said. “I’ll meet you in front of the station if you want.”

  “See you then,” I said, and hung up.

  At ten minutes to four I arrived at the courthouse for the bail hearing. Kay Turner came running up as soon as she spotted me. She was breathing as if she had taken a right to the abdomen from Lennox Lewis.

  “Jake, Lefty is dead! They’re saying he was killed trying to escape.”

  “Slow down, Kay,” I said.

  “Lefty was being transported to court from the jail and grabbed for the officer’s gun in the parking garage. The gun went off and killed Lefty.”

  “That’s ludicrous, Kay. What officer?”

  “Thomas Katt.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”


  “Not that I’ve heard,” she said.

  I felt as if I had been hit by a wrecking ball, which was trying to make contact with good sense and caught me blocking the way.

  I could think of no reason why Lefty would try to escape.

  I spotted Lieutenant Lopez and Sergeant Johnson coming in through the front entrance.

  “What’s this all about, Lopez?” I asked. “Where’s Katt?”

  “He’s at the station, being interviewed by Internal Affairs.”

  “Lefty was assassinated, Lieutenant,” I said. “I wouldn’t let Katt out of my sight if I were you.”

  I turned away before she could think up a response.

  I left Kay Turner standing there; she was still having trouble breathing.

  I went out the back way past Hank Strode, who didn’t say a word.

  I headed straight for Katt’s apartment on Divisadero Street.

  The apartment building at Divisadero and McAlister was in the Western Addition on the other side of Alamo Square from my place on Fillmore Street. The front door off the street was unlocked, but Katt’s door was locked fast and constructed of metal.

  I went around back and climbed the fire escape to Katt’s kitchen window. The window slid open easily, and I climbed in.

  I passed through the kitchen into the next room and stood face-to-face with a German shepherd as large as a pony. We looked at each other for a full thirty seconds, each standing perfectly still. Then the dog moved slowly toward me. I reached out my hand wondering if I would ever see it again.

  The dog gave my fingers a few good sniffs and then soaked my palm with his large warm tongue. I wiped the hand on his forehead and started going through the apartment.

  In the top drawer of a dresser in the bedroom, under ties, handkerchiefs, T-shirts, and jockey shorts I found ten thousand dollars in fifties and twenties. I moved on to the other drawers. I was looking for a gold Rolex.

  Something told me that I didn’t have much time, so I went through the remaining rooms quickly, looking for anything that might help identify who it was that Katt, Vigoda, and Lefty, whether he knew it or not, was working for. I found nothing.

  The dog tailed me, nudging me occasionally with his large snout.