Circling the Runway (Jake Diamond Mysteries Book 4)

by J. L. Abramo

  “You have a way with words, Jake.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Do you think they’ll let you see the kid?”

  “I could get lucky. What does my horoscope say?”

  “Think you’ll get to see Lieutenant Lopez?”

  “Maybe. Unless she sees me first.”

  “You need to be more positive, Jake.”

  “I am,” I said. “I’m positive this is going to be a long unpleasant day.”

  I left the office and headed for Vallejo Street.

  I made no progress whatsoever at the police station. The good news was that failing had taken me hardly any time at all. What I did learn I got from Desk Sergeant Yardley, a crusty old-timer who took to me like a fish to dry land.

  Sergeant Yardley was best at yes or no questions and his answer was usually no.

  I did manage to discover that Benny Carlucci had been shuttled off to a courtroom for an arraignment, Lieutenant Lopez had the day off, and Sergeant Johnson was downtown on a homicide call.

  I probably wouldn’t have gotten very far with Lopez or Johnson anyhow.

  Lieutenant Laura Lopez could read me like a comic book and treated me with all of the reverence she might afford a cartoon character. Sergeant Johnson and I got along like Stalin and Churchill.

  “Who got wasted downtown?” I asked Yardley.

  “What makes you think it’s any of your business, Diamond?” the desk sergeant replied.

  “Sorry, I lost my head there for a moment.”

  I headed out onto Columbus Avenue to catch a streetcar over to the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street.

  I tried avoiding the criminal courts building at all costs. It was a large gray edifice crawling with people who had nothing to be happy about.

  I was going to fit right in.

  To state the obvious, if a case forced me to visit the place, it was a case involving a crime. Trying to solve a crime is no picnic for a private investigator. Everything conspires against you, especially the police.

  If it’s true that, for a criminal, crime doesn’t pay—it is equally true that for a private investigator, working to solve a crime doesn’t pay very well.

  My only consolation was I could usually slip into the building through the rear door.

  Hank Strode was one of a kind. He was the only person I could think of who could spend five days each week in the building and always manage a smile. After ten years in an evidence room at the SFPD, where everyone came and went in a hurry, Hank had landed a position that was perfect for him. He controlled the rear access to the Hall of Justice where judges, prosecutors, and prisoners escorted into the building for court appearances entered and exited.

  Strode was a talker. Everyone who came through his door had a thing or two to talk about, and he had some time to do it. Coming through the back door was a delight compared to the cold indignity of the street entrance. There were no metal detectors, no emptying pockets of loose change or Zippo lighters or cell phones, no having to explain to some self-important dim-witted security guard that the bulge in your jacket was a book even after you had showed it to him.

  Hank was unique in another way—he was the only person I knew in town who wore a badge and tolerated me.

  When Hank saw it was good old Jake tap-tap-tapping on the window he gave me a big smile and ushered me in.

  “Too much to drink last night, Jake,” Strode said, by way of greeting.

  Yet another confirmation that I looked as bad as I felt, as if I needed more proof.

  Hank asked how Darlene, Joey and Vinnie were doing and after my report I told him what had brought me there.

  “And you came because Tony Carlucci asked you to?”

  “He didn’t give me much selection,” I said.

  “Where have I heard that line before?”

  “Brando. One-Eyed Jacks.”

  “Good one. Can you say it like Brando?”

  Hank was one of the few who knew I had been a mediocre actor before becoming an average P.I.

  I put all of the focus I could muster into my nasal passage and gave it a shot.

  “Not bad,” Hank said. “Did you hear about Sandoval?”

  “Manny Sandoval, the bookie?”

  “Roberto Sandoval, the shoe-in to win the election for District Attorney.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was shot to death in his apartment last night.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  I could only hope Benny Carlucci had a good alibi.

  I walked into the courtroom just in time to see Benny Carlucci and Lionel Katz standing before the bench as the judge said next case and two uniformed police officers moved toward Benny to take him away. I caught his eye as he was being cuffed and gave him a little wave and a smile hoping he might get a good impression of me to report back to his father’s cousin Tony.

  Benny looked at me like I was an idiot and they led him out through the side of the courtroom.

  Lionel Katz walked up the aisle toward the door to the courthouse hallway. He didn’t look too happy either.

  “Let’s talk,” he said.

  I followed him out into the hall.

  “Can I buy you breakfast?” he asked.

  By the look of his Kiton suit and his American Belting attaché, I imagined he could.

  Katz’s idea of breakfast was a sweet roll and a black coffee from the cart in front of the Hall of Justice and a park bench across Bryant Street. I passed on the roll.

  “Nice day,” he said, once we’d settled in.

  I wasn’t too sure. If Katz was talking strictly about the weather it was a little warm for my taste. It would eventually reach eighty-one degrees, a record high for the eighteenth day of March in the City by the Bay.

  A pigeon and a squirrel sat stationed at opposite ends of the bench, eyeballing the sweet roll and eyeballing each other.

  Lionel Katz was the attorney for the Carlucci family. They were his only clients.

  It took Lionel Katz less than a minute to bring me up to speed.

  Benny had stumbled across a Cadillac with no passenger and a set of keys and decided to drive home to avoid public transportation. Carlucci knew absolutely nothing about the body in the trunk.

  “All Benny is guilty of is driving a stolen car under the influence of alcohol,” Katz concluded.

  That’s all the kid did. A real choirboy.

  “Tony and John Carlucci are counting on you to find out who killed the guy in the trunk,” he added.

  Great.

  I could only hope I would be afforded the mandatory eight-count.

  Katz tossed a big piece from the edge of his roll out onto the grass in front of the park bench. It fell between the squirrel and the pigeon. It was a standoff. I tried to identify with one or the other of the little creatures, but felt more akin to the hunk of crust. I really wanted to ask Katz where to start, but didn’t want to jeopardize the confidence everyone in the Carlucci camp seemed to have in me. Katz unwittingly helped me out.

  “I’d start by finding out whatever you can about the victim, who he was and how he was killed,” Katz suggested. “It might help if you knew someone in the coroner’s office who feels like sharing.”

  I did know someone in the coroner’s office and he owed me a favor. However, I suppressed my optimism.

  “Couldn’t they identify the guy in the trunk?” I asked.

  “Eventually they may be able to identify him from fingerprints, but the condition of the fingertips is going to slow them down a bit.”

  “Condition of what fingertips?”

  “The victim’s fingertips. I am told they were burned, they’re guessing some kind of acid.”

  “Oh, those fingertips,” I stammered. I closed my eyes and wished myself to a Mediterranean beach holding on to a tall glass of George Dickel Tennessee sour mash whiskey on ice. I opened my eyes and I was still on a park bench with a mob lawyer.

  The squirrel and the pigeon were both gone, as was the hunk of t
he sweet roll.

  I had no way of discerning which critter had taken the prize.

  “Good luck, Diamond,” Lionel Katz said, as he stood up from the bench. “Be assured that both Tony and John greatly appreciate what you are doing for the Carlucci family.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I said, meaning it literally.

  As I watched him walk away, I wondered if my day could possibly go any further downhill. Then I looked down at my hands and wiggled my fingertips.

  Sure, I decided.

  Things could always be worse.

  SEVEN

  When Kenny Gerard spotted Laura Lopez out in front of the apartment building approaching the entrance he nearly tripped over his own feet to get there first.

  Gerard opened the door and leered at her as she moved past him into the lobby. She was drop dead gorgeous. She looked up at him and held his gaze.

  “You can let go of the door now, kid,” she said. “And get your eyeballs back in your head before I accidentally step on them.”

  Lopez crossed the lobby to the uniformed officer who stood at the mouth of the elevator bank. Lopez couldn’t remember whatshisname’s name.

  “Where might I find Sergeant Johnson?” she asked.

  “He should still be up in apartment thirty-five-oh-one, Lieutenant,” Winger said. “Would you like me to radio the sergeant and let him know you’re coming up?”

  “I’d rather surprise him,” Lopez said as she headed for the elevator.

  Lopez found a uniformed officer standing like a sentry just outside the door to 3501. Lopez couldn’t remember the tall skinny kid’s name either.

  The nametag on his chest clued her in.

  “Officer Murdoch.”

  “Lieutenant,” he said, and opened the door for her.

  She stepped inside and found another officer in the front room.

  “Officer.”

  “Cutler,” he quickly replied, eager for recognition. “Lieutenant.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Sergeant Johnson, Dr. Altman and a couple of evidence guys are in the bedroom, down the hall on the left.”

  Lopez did a quick inventory of the front room, her eyes resting for a moment on the oak coffee table.

  “Would you join Officer Murdoch out in the hall,” she said. She watched Cutler move out and then walked over to the coffee table. She then started for the bedroom just as Sergeant Johnson entered the room from the rear hallway.

  Johnson was surprised to see her there.

  “I thought you had the day off,” he said.

  “Death is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. What do we have?”

  “Sandoval was at the Omni Hotel at a dinner and dance to raise money for the Crossroads Irish American Festival. The festival runs for a week each March and is followed by a fundraiser to kick off planning for the following year. Sandoval’s boss, Duffey, is on the festival board. Duffey is giving up his District Attorney seat to make a run for the Mayor’s Office. Duffey was backing Sandoval to take his office, mostly because Sandoval isn’t Italian, so he dragged Roberto along to drum up Irish support. Stop me if you’ve heard any of this before.”

  “Go on.”

  “Sandoval left the hotel by taxi. I tracked down the driver. He said he dropped Sandoval out front at midnight. The doorman came to open the door of the taxi and Sandoval went into the building. The doorman chatted with the taxi driver for a minute or two and returned to the lobby. The cabbie drove off.

  “A tenant passed through the lobby at about ten after midnight with his dog. Ethan Lloyd, strange bird. Anyway, he noticed the doorman was not at his post. At twelve-thirty he saw a woman come out of the building and rush off toward Market Street. He did not recognize her as a fellow tenant and could not describe her in any detail.”

  “Nothing?” Lopez asked. “Height, weight, hair, eyes.”

  “Average, average, hair covered by a scarf or a shawl, dark sun glasses, a canvas shoulder bag, nothing,” Johnson answered. “At seven this morning the day doorman shows up and finds the night guy stuffed behind the security desk. A few hours later they find Sandoval. He lives here with his wife who is in Florence for two weeks, taking an art class. She left on Tuesday afternoon.”

  “Has the wife been notified?”

  “Should have been by now. They were trying to track her down in Italy.”

  “What went down here? If you had to guess?”

  “Okay. If I had to guess. The cabbie leaves, the perpetrator follows the doorman into the lobby and then snaps his neck, comes up here and shoots Sandoval.”

  “How does the perp get into the apartment?”

  “I don’t know. Sandoval lets the perp in, or leaves the door unlocked. Maybe he’s expecting someone. By the position of the body, the perp may have led Sandoval back there at gunpoint and then shot him execution style in the back of the head. The M.E. and the forensic techs are back there now. An ambulance is on the way over for the body.”

  Johnson spotted the corner of a plastic bag peeking out of the lieutenant’s jacket pocket.

  “Did you bring me lunch?” he asked.

  Lopez followed his eyes and stuffed the bag further down into her pocket. She caught him glancing over to the oak coffee table.

  Johnson and Lopez had graduated from uniforms to plain clothes detectives around the same time. And if there were those in the department who questioned Lopez’s rapid rise to lieutenant, resented being outranked by a woman, or implied her ascendancy was motivated by gender considerations—Johnson was not one of them.

  In his opinion the lieutenant had won her position the old-fashioned way. She had worked hard for it.

  Johnson and Lopez had been working together for a long time. Side-by-side in the trenches. And Johnson had known very few law enforcement officers, woman or otherwise, who were as cool and clear headed as Lopez in the most volatile and life threatening situations. But when Johnson turned back from the coffee table to meet her gaze he saw an uneasiness he had never seen in her eyes before.

  “What gives, Lopez?” he asked.

  “I need you back at the station, Sergeant,” she said without blinking.

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

  She didn’t. Not at all.

  “What on earth for?”

  “I need you to work the homicide from last night. The victim found in the trunk of a Cadillac, shot in the temple, fingertips burned off. We need to find out who he was and who killed him.”

  “They already picked up the doer, driving around with the body. He was supposed to be arraigned this morning.”

  “The kid they picked up didn’t do it.”

  “I heard he was a Carlucci. It’s genetic with them.”

  “Not this particular Carlucci. The kid has no priors. He’s a second cousin or something as removed. The kid was so drunk I doubt he could have found the trunk of the car with a roadmap. And he is frightened to death. The kid is just incredibly unlucky. He stole the wrong car.”

  “Lieutenant, there’s a roomful of detectives sitting on their hands down there.”

  “I want you down there, Sergeant.”

  “What about this mess? Sandoval and the doorman?”

  “I’ll take it from here.”

  It had been a very long time since Johnson had been dismissed so summarily, and never before by Lopez.

  He wanted very badly to complain, to argue with her, but he decided against it.

  Something was telling him not to push her.

  “I’m on it, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good luck with this mess,” Johnson said, walking to the front door. Then he silently left the apartment.

  Lopez sighed deeply and headed for the back rooms.

  Johnson found Officers Murdoch and Cutler just outside the apartment door.

  “Murdoch, remain here, don’t let anyone
in except the ambulance guys,” Johnson said. “Officer Cutler, please walk with me to the elevator.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cutler said, and he followed Johnson down the hallway. At the elevator, Johnson turned to the young officer.

  “Cutler, I need your assistance.”

  To Davey Cutler, the sergeant looked and sounded very sober.

  “However I can help, Sergeant.”

  “I need a witness re-interviewed. His name is Ethan Lloyd, he lives in the building. Lloyd nearly ran into a woman who was coming out of the lobby last night. He was out front with his dog. He gave us nothing, claimed she was covered up—long coat, scarf, dark glasses. He had to notice more. He’s just not trying hard enough. The woman’s skin tone, approximate height and weight, her hands, shoes, jewelry, hair length or color. Get him to put his thinking cap on, to try seeing her in his mind, whatever the fuck it takes to shake something loose.”

  “What if he’s not in?”

  “Then you wait for him to come in, for as long as it takes. I need more on the woman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will report back to me, Cutler, and only to me. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “About the envelope you found.”

  “What about it, sir?”

  “You handled that very well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I need you to forget it.”

  “Forget it, sir?”

  “Yes, forget you ever saw it. At least for the time being.”

  “Isn’t it evidence, sir?”

  “Yes it is. It might be very important evidence and, for that reason, we need to keep it quiet at this stage of the investigation.”

  “Oh, I get it, Sergeant,” Cutler said.

  “You do?”

  “It’s like something only the killer might know about and if it stays out of the media it could help identify whoever murdered Sandoval.”

  “That’s exactly it, Cutler,” Johnson said, thankful for all of the crime books and movies most of these young police officers were raised on. “I can see a very promising future for you in the department.”

  “Thank you, sir.”