Circling the Runway (Jake Diamond Mysteries Book 4)

by J. L. Abramo

  More likely, the Carlucci family lesson plans included instructions on chopping fingers off entirely.

  “Tony, I’m waiting to hear from a guy who may be able to help identify the dead man in the trunk. Lionel Katz agrees that’s where we should start.”

  “I heard Katz bought you breakfast. You realize that greedy fuck is going to charge me for it.”

  I let that pass.

  “What can you do while you’re waiting to hear from your guy?” Tony asked.

  “I’m wide open, Tony.”

  “Don’t get cute, Diamond. You weren’t exactly my first choice for the job.”

  Sometimes I have to admire my keen perceptions.

  “I’m working on it, Tony. Give me a little time.”

  “Don’t disappoint me, Diamond.”

  A horrible thought.

  “Don’t worry, Tony.” I said, biting my tongue.

  “It’s my job to worry. Johnny Boy has enough to deal with handling the daily cuisine at Quentin.”

  Thankfully, the conversation moved to small talk as we sipped our coffee. Tony expressing his singular opinions on how the Giants would fare in the upcoming season, after the humiliating loss to the Marlins in the Division Series, and on how the Democrats could possibly think about choosing a loser like John Kerry for their candidate in November.

  Before Tony Carlucci could move on to the subjects of gun control and abortion, I managed to cut loose, claiming I was very anxious to get back to work trying to clear cousin Guido’s son Benny’s murder charge.

  I walked out onto Columbus Avenue with nothing to do but wait to hear from Dr. Steve Altman, hopefully my ace-in-the-hole at the morgue.

  I decided I would wait it out back at the office, where no one but Darlene could catch me twiddling my thumbs.

  NINE

  Officer Davey Cutler was working the lobby, helping to interview residents as they entered or exited the building. Many had been questioned earlier, during the first sweep of officers doing door-to-door. Officer Winger was to collect notes from all the canvassers and check names off a list of tenants, until everyone in the building had been questioned at least once. Only Ethan Lloyd, who saw the woman in blue rush away from the building after midnight, had anything to contribute when interviewed on his way out in the morning—and his description of the woman had been sketchy at best.

  Officer Cutler was anxiously awaiting Lloyd’s return, hoping he could impress Sergeant Johnson by inducing Lloyd to come up with something more specific about the woman.

  It was a few minutes after two in the afternoon when Kenny Gerard stepped up beside Cutler, pointed to a small rotund character coming into the lobby and said, “There’s your man.”

  “Mr. Lloyd,” Cutler said, swooping in like a hawk.

  “I already spoke with an officer this morning, and I’m running late.”

  “It’s important I speak with you further, sir. Often when we look at something a second time, we remember things we may have overlooked the first go around. I won’t take much of your time.”

  “I need to run up and get the dog, before he redesigns my Persian rug again. I’ll be down in a few minutes and we can talk while we walk.”

  Five minutes later, Cutler and Lloyd were walking the dog down Third Street toward the highway. The canine was a poodle, as short and round as his caretaker.

  “Was the rug all right?” Cutler asked, trying to break the ice.

  “It was unblemished today, thank heaven. A few weeks ago he left a large brown circle in the upper right corner. I’ve been running home from the office in the middle of the day ever since to get him out in time. I can only hope if he loses it again he chooses the lower left, to maintain the integrity of the pattern.”

  Cutler was sorry he had asked.

  “What’s his name?”

  “For the past two weeks I’ve been calling him fuck-up. How can I help you, Officer?”

  “About the woman you saw last night. Is there any more you can add?”

  “As I told you, I’ve been over this before. Long blue coat, long blue scarf, dark glasses, in a hurry.”

  “Try to see her again, in your head,” Cutler offered, paraphrasing something Johnson had suggested. “Try closing your eyes, it might help.”

  “Are you going to hypnotize me next?”

  “No, sir,” Cutler said, attempting a smile. “Please try. Could you see her hair at all?”

  “I’ll close my eyes if you’ll hold the dog.”

  “Sure,” said Cutler, taking the leash.

  “Reddish blonde,” Lloyd said, after a moment or two. “Peeking out below the back of her scarf.”

  “You see, that’s what I’m talking about,” Cutler said, trying to restrain the dog while he scribbled notes. “Did you notice her shoes?”

  Lloyd squeezed his eyes shut tighter, Cutler stifled a grin. “White, clean. Running shoes I’m guessing. New.”

  “Very good. Was she carrying anything?”

  “Yes. It’s amazing. I see it quite clearly now. A large, blue canvas bag with a long shoulder strap. There was a logo of some kind, it looked like a flower, maybe a rose,” Lloyd said, opening his eyes. “That is all I recall, I did not ask to see her driver’s license and I do need to get back to work.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, sir. Not everyone we have talked with has been as patient.”

  “I am sure they would all like to help, and I am also certain most of them are very frightened,” Lloyd said, taking the leash. “Don’t forget two men were murdered last night, in the place we all call home. Please try to be as patient with them as you would like them to be with you.”

  “Thank you for the reminder, sir.”

  “Good luck, Officer,” Ethan Lloyd said, returning his attention to the dog. “Come along, Bonaparte.”

  Cutler watched the two walk off, realizing he had a lot to learn about police work and that his compact with Johnson could be the beginning of his higher education. He pulled out his cellular phone to call the Sergeant.

  Cutler felt prepared to turn in his first homework assignment.

  Marco Weido sat in the shade leaning against a tree in the Panhandle near Fell and Lyon Streets. Weido chewed the last bite of a Philly cheese steak from Jay’s on Divisadero Street and washed it down with a long pull of Coors Light. The temperature had peaked at a record-breaking eighty-one degrees.

  Weido watched a longhaired kid in torn jeans stop at a spot twenty feet away and take a guitar from a beat up case covered with decals. The kid placed the case opened at his feet and began to strum the instrument. He played a feeble imitation of a Pink Floyd song that was barely recognizable only after he began approximating the lyrics.

  How I wish you were here, we’re like two lost souls living in a fish bowl...

  Weido took a Marlboro from a hard pack, placed it between his lips, and reached into his pants pocket.

  “Fuck,” he almost shouted, remembering he had misplaced his prized Zippo cigarette lighter.

  Running over the same old ground, and have we found, the same old fears, wish you were here...

  “Hey,” Weido called.

  The kid stopped singing and looked over.

  “How I wish you weren’t here,” Weido said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Go slaughter that tune somewhere else, beat it.”

  Weido tossed the Coors beer can and it landed in the open guitar case. The kid looked into Weido’s eyes and he was afraid of what he saw there. He took the beer can out of the case, placed in on the grass, returned the guitar to the case and turned toward Golden Gate Park.

  “Hey,” Weido called, stopping the kid in his tracks. “Don’t fucking litter.”

  The kid picked up the beer can and quickly walked off as Weido’s cell phone rang.

  Weido knew who it was without having to look at the caller ID display.

  “Warm day,” he said.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “What you want
ed to happen,” Weido answered.

  “A doorman was killed.”

  “Collateral damage. The shooter was a total fuckup. I gave him the access code for the parking garage, but the idiot decided to walk right in through the lobby.”

  “Jesus. Where did you find the guy?”

  “You don’t find these guys on fucking Craig’s List. And they don’t come with letters of recommendation. You get what you pay for.”

  “And if he fucks up again, gets pinched and decides to talk?”

  “He’s not talking to anyone anymore. I picked him up after he hit Sandoval and before he realized I wasn’t reaching into my pocket for his payoff, I put a bullet into his ear. It was your brilliant idea to use an outside man. I told you I would take care of Sandoval myself, and then I wouldn’t have had to deal with ditching a body.”

  “What about the body?”

  “I took everything that could possibly ID him, wallet, jewelry, all of it. Then I dumped him in the trunk of the vehicle, after dipping his fingers into a jar of sulfuric acid.”

  “Why in God’s name would you do that?”

  “It’ll take longer to ID him. Give the evidence guys a challenge. They get lazy and complacent at times.”

  “You carry a jar of sulfuric acid around with you?”

  “Not all the time.”

  “What about the weapon?”

  “I left the weapon in the trunk with him. I ditched the car under the James Lick.”

  “What if they connect the gun to Sandoval’s murder?”

  “Why would anyone even think of it? And besides, what does it have to do with me or you or the price of beans?”

  “Whose car was it?”

  “Some yahoo left a Cadillac running in front of a news stand on Masonic. I jumped in and drove off.”

  “Have they found the vehicle?”

  “Yes, they did, and this will tickle you. A member of the Carlucci family was behind the wheel. I left the keys and the luckless bastard took the car for a joy ride.”

  “It will be much more than ticklish if the Carluccis ever connect us to it.”

  “I told you, no one is connecting anything to anyone, unless there’s something you’re not telling me. Is there?”

  “Keep me informed.”

  Marco Weido made a highlighted mental note that the question had been ignored.

  “I certainly will,” Weido said.

  It took Sergeant Rocky Johnson all of five minutes in an interrogation room with Benny Carlucci to feel convinced Lieutenant Lopez’s assessment had been correct.

  Benny might be a Carlucci, but he was not one of “The Family” and the scared kid at the interrogation table was definitely no murderer. All that connected Carlucci to the corpse in the trunk of the Caddy was incredible bad luck.

  Benny nervously told Johnson everything he could recall from the night before. He claimed he was literally thrown out of the Chieftain Irish Pub after midnight and he stumbled upon the car some time later. He added there were three teenagers further down on Third Street who might have seen him get into the vehicle.

  Johnson told Benny to try and relax and he would check it out. He assured Benny he would clear it up as soon as possible, and the kid might possibly be released on bail in time for lunch the next day.

  If the kid was innocent, then someone else was guilty. So before following up on Benny’s alibis, Johnson opted to see the Medical Examiner about the victim.

  Johnson found Steve Altman at the morgue, leaning over the body of Roberto Sandoval.

  “I just started,” Altman said. “I can’t tell you any more than what I suspected at the scene.”

  “I’m actually here about the fellow they found in the trunk.”

  “Mind if I work while we talk?” Altman asked, reaching for a scalpel.

  “Go for it,” Johnson said.

  “The gentleman in the trunk was shot once in the ear, certainly died instantly. He hasn’t been identified yet. The condition of his fingers is slowing down the process. The fingertips were mutilated post-mortem, which is either a strong hunch or my reluctance to envision it otherwise. They will eventually get something to work with, and then it will be a question of finding the prints on file somewhere. The body’s on that gurney,” Altman said, pointing it out to the Sergeant. “Personal effects are laid out on the adjoining table.”

  Johnson walked over to the gurney and he uncovered the victim’s head. A thirty-eight caliber bullet hole through the victim’s ear had done considerable damage. From what he’d learned from the forensic report on the vehicle, there was enough blood on the passenger seat and passenger window to alert anyone except a very drunk car thief like Carlucci. There were a number of different prints lifted, not yet all identified. The owner of the Cadillac had been located and questioned and reported the vehicle had been lifted out front of a newsstand, well before midnight—another fact that would most likely help Benny Carlucci’s chances of exoneration, at least on the murder rap.

  Johnson moved to the table and he looked down at the personal effects of the dead man.

  Pants, shirt, underwear, socks, shoes, no wallet, no jewelry, no money, no keys.

  Nothing.

  “That’s all they found on the guy?” Johnson asked, moving back to Altman.

  “And the thirty-eight Special. They found it in the trunk with him,” Altman said. “Recently fired.”

  “Oh?” Johnson said, hearing about the weapon found in the vehicle for the first time. “Where is the gun now?”

  “It was sent down to ballistics. Maybe they can ID him through a firearm registration.”

  “That would be too easy.”

  “Somebody definitely went the extra mile to challenge us with the identification. I’ll give you a phone call as soon as I know something more about Sandoval and the doorman.”

  “Call Lieutenant Lopez,” Johnson said. “It’s not my case anymore.”

  “Lopez took it over? Why would she?”

  “Thanks for your time,” Johnson said as he left the room, wondering the same thing.

  Why would she?

  Lieutenant Laura Lopez decided she needed to run. She drove back to the Vallejo Street Station to change into her jogging gear. It would be hours before all of the evidence collected in the lobby, and in Sandoval’s apartment, would be put into a meaningful report. Altman was still working on the bodies. All they had was approximate times of death and the sighting of a woman leaving the building at roughly the same time, a woman who could not be clearly identified by the sole witness. Lopez had been summoned to meet with District Attorney Liam Duffey in his office at four and she knew what she could expect. The pressure from the Mayor’s Office would have the D.A. frantic for a quick resolution. Sandoval was heir apparent to Duffey’s throne, and Duffey had his eyes set on the Mayor’s seat. Lopez did not look forward to going in to see Duffey with nothing to contribute. Rather than worry about it, Lopez slipped into a green running suit and her new running shoes, dropped two bottles of water into a canvas shoulder bag, and headed out of the station for a long jog in Golden Gate Park.

  Officer Davey Cutler had been unable to reach Johnson by phone, so he decided to run over to Vallejo Street and try to catch the Sergeant at the station. As he turned toward the entrance, he caught sight of a woman walking away from the spot where he stood. Strawberry blond hair, tied back in a ponytail, bright white running shoes, carrying a blue canvas bag strapped over her shoulder.

  Davey Cutler moved quickly and came up behind her.

  “Excuse me,” he called.

  The woman turned, surprised to find an officer there.

  Cutler noticed an embroidered rose on the shoulder bag before he looked up at her face.

  “Officer Cutler, isn’t it?” Lieutenant Lopez said.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, thank you for remembering me. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  “You’re the one who appears a little startled. Can I help you with something?”

  “
No. Yes. I was wondering if you knew where Sergeant Johnson was.”

  “Anything I should know about, Officer?”

  “No. Lieutenant. He asked me to give him a hand with the case he’s working on.”

  “The Carlucci case?”

  Carlucci? Davey almost said aloud. The Carlucci?

  “Yes, I believe that’s the one.”

  “Last I heard Johnson was down at the morgue, touching base with Dr. Altman.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “No problem,” Lopez said as she turned away, wondering why the kid looked like he had seen a ghost.

  Darlene Roman was through waiting for the phone on her desk to ring.

  She had spent the best part of the day sitting in the office alone, without Jake or the dog to talk to.

  She had gone over the Examiner, cover-to-cover, and it was mostly bad news.

  The crossword puzzle only made her feel more useless.

  She had creatively juggled with the company finances, and was feeling fairly confident her ingenuity would hold off the creditors until the first of the month.

  If the deadbeats who owed Diamond Investigations for services rendered all came through any time in the near future, they might manage to remain solvent until the beginning of May.

  The phone had remained silent. No millionaire called, offering a fortune to find a missing son. No bank magnates called to offer bags of cash to discover who at the branch was embezzling funds. No furious wife called, offering to empty out her husband’s savings account to find out who the bastard was sleeping with. And Jake hadn’t called all day, although Darlene thought no news might be good news if it had anything to do with Tony Carlucci.

  Darlene had told Jake she would be leaving the office early and she felt it was about time she did just that.

  When Officer Cutler reached the morgue, he discovered he had missed Sergeant Johnson.

  Again.

  It was his first visit there, and he found it creepy as hell. Not the mention the aromas, which threatened to reintroduce him to his lunch.