by J. L. Abramo
Dr. Altman was busy, but, as usual, he was willing to chat while he worked.
“Is it true the Sergeant is working on a case involving the Carlucci family?” Cutler asked.
Davey Cutler was both thrilled and terrified about the possibility of getting invited onboard that roller coaster. He avoided watching Altman cut on Sandoval and he strolled around the large, brightly lit room. He stopped in front of a table covered with men’s clothing.
“Johnson walked out of here fairly convinced the Carlucci kid didn’t kill anyone,” Altman said. “Johnson is off checking the kid’s alibi. What you’re looking at, by the way, are the effects of the dead guy the Carlucci kid was chauffeuring around, whether the kid knew it or not.”
Davey Cutler had no clue as to what Altman was talking about.
“Nice shoes,” Cutler said, lifting one off the table.
“Don’t touch anything,” Altman said.
Cutler quickly replaced the shoe. As he did, a small piece of notepaper slipped out of the shoe onto the table.
There were four numbers written on the paper.
2253.
Followed by a pound sign.
TEN
I made it back to the office from lunch at Carlucci’s Restaurant without incident.
Darlene had high-tailed it for the day. It was a blessing perhaps. I was spared in depth commentary regarding my spicy Italian sausage induced complexion.
I had nothing to do but wait for the Medical Examiner, Steve Altman, to phone. I settled into my ergonomic desk chair and I picked up the sad tale of Quasimodo where I had left off. The homely bell ringer was having a bad day.
One of the hunchback’s many problems, a dilemma not uncommon before or since, was looking up to a flawed dad.
As an abandoned, deformed child, Quasimodo had been adopted and raised by Claude Frollo, Archdeacon of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.
After setting his eyes upon the gypsy girl, Esmeralda, all of Frollo’s righteousness went straight out the window. The Archdeacon recruits Quasimodo to help kidnap Esmeralda and when the attempt is thwarted by Phoebus and the King’s Archers, Frollo remains hidden and leaves Quasimodo to take the rap. Quasimodo is put to the torture wheel and Frollo joins the jeering crowd in condemnation.
Nice role model.
Steve Altman phoned just as Esmeralda was giving the hunchback a drink of water at the wheel, and Quasimodo in turn made her an offer of protection I had a feeling he might one day come to regret.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Jake,” Altman said. “I’ve been tied up all day. I can give you a few minutes. How can I help you?”
“Benny Carlucci. He was picked up in a stolen car with a corpse in the trunk and he’s looking at a murder rap. Tony Carlucci has the misguided notion I’m the man to fix it up. I’m hoping you could help me get started with some information about the deceased.”
“Don’t worry about it, Jake.”
I wanted to say, I won’t, thanks, have a nice day.
“Oh?” I said instead.
“Sergeant Johnson dropped in to see me earlier. He’s still checking out a few things, but seems convinced the Carlucci kid simply chose the wrong Cadillac to steal. The kid should be out of the slammer by morning, latest.”
“You’ve made my day, Steve.”
“Of course, he still has grand theft auto and driving under the influence to contend with. I hope Tony Carlucci doesn’t expect you to fix that.”
“So do I, Steve. So do I.”
“If there’s nothing else, I’m elbow deep in the remains of Roberto Sandoval.”
I tried not to picture it.
“Why is Johnson on the Benny Carlucci case?” I asked. God knows why. “I would have guessed he’d be all over the Sandoval homicide.”
“Lopez cut him loose.”
“Trouble in paradise?” I asked, knowing Lopez and Johnson were like two peas in a pod.
“Couldn’t say.”
Okay.
“I’ll let you go, Steve. Thanks for the good news.”
Joey Vongoli walked into the office just as I replaced the telephone receiver.
“I’m off the hook with Tony,” I said. “I think.”
“How did you work it out so fast?”
“It worked itself out. I’m waiting on the final word.”
“Take the credit anyhow,” Joey suggested. “It never hurts to score points with Johnny Boy and Tony Carlucci.”
“I wonder if it might be better if they didn’t have so much faith in me.”
“Did you remember to have lunch?”
“Yes. Plenty of lunch. But I could drink some George Dickel for dessert.”
“Bourbon? After what you did to yourself last night?”
“It might be the only cure.”
“Did you drive down here?”
“No. Couldn’t find the car keys this morning.”
“I’ll give you a ride home and have a quick drink with you. Then I recommend you get some rest. And tomorrow you can start the day with a hug and a kiss from a grateful Tony Carlucci.”
“I can hardly wait.”
We settled in the kitchen at my house in the Presidio and Joey stayed for a few drinks. We steered clear of any talk of Carlucci’s appreciation, and addressed the subject of the Giants instead.
Joey Clams’ beloved Giants had blown the World Series to the Angels in 2002 and Joey was still bitter a year-and-a-half later. Joey was always quick to suggest where Mike Scioscia could shove the rally monkey.
Joey reminded me I was invited to join him for the Giants’ home opener, less than four weeks off. An annual tradition.
“Any chance of getting an extra ticket for Vinnie?” I asked. “Strings is always depressed for days after we go to an opening day game without him.”
“As a matter of fact, I scored four seats. We’ll take Sonny and Vinnie along,” Joey said, glancing at his watch. “Jesus, I have to run. I’ll be late picking Angela up at her hairdresser. My wife finds one gray hair on her head and she acts like she’s seen a mouse. Give Lionel Katz a call. Carlucci’s mouthpiece can handle it from here.”
With that, Joey Clams was out the door.
I called Katz with the glad tidings.
I moved into the living room, settled into my well-worn armchair, and opened the Victor Hugo paperback.
Quasimodo, indebted to the gypsy girl Esmeralda for bringing him water to quench his thirst, promises to give her sanctuary at the cathedral if ever the need arose.
Kind of like a get out of jail free Monopoly card.
I hoped Lionel Katz would have one handy for Benny in the morning.
And I felt thankful I might get out of this one without having to play the you tell me what you know and I’ll tell you what I know game with Lieutenant Lopez or Sergeant Johnson.
After reading a few pages, I became distracted. I found myself looking around the room I was in. I was still not quite accustomed to living in the large house, with its spectacular vista of the Golden Gate, after nearly a year.
Nearly a year since I had moved into the house Sally French and I had shared before our marriage fell apart.
Almost a year since I had courted my ex-wife like a teenage kid with a schoolboy crush.
Nearly a year since Sally died in an explosion, a booby-trapped bomb meant for yours truly, and I found out, when her last will and testament was read, she had left the large house to me.
The house often reminded me of Sally.
Memories both pleasant and painful.
As I surveyed the living room I felt my eyes getting blurry and I closed them. And, as I found out some hours later when the screaming telephone summoned me to St. Mary’s Hospital, I fell asleep in the chair.
ELEVEN
Norman Hall took another look at his wristwatch. If he didn’t get moving, he would be late for the appointment with his parole officer. As much as he wanted to stay, he was forced to miss watching Darlene Roman complete the last few laps of her run t
hrough Buena Vista Park.
If he was lucky, maybe he could watch her sitting on her front porch later that evening.
Norman wondered if Darlene Roman would like him when they finally met. Like him as much as he liked her.
And again he wondered where the mutt was, and how much more relaxed and pleasant his first personal encounter with Darlene Roman would be without the dog underfoot.
So, what are you waiting for, Norman? he thought.
The thought brought on a grin.
Norman Hall gave Darlene a loving parting glance and headed out for the street.
A few minutes after Norman left the park, a woman came up from behind Darlene and began running alongside.
“I wish this was as easy as you make it look,” the woman said.
Darlene turned to the woman as they continued jogging side by side.
She was very attractive and in good physical shape, close to Darlene’s age and appeared non-threatening.
“I’ve been at it for a while,” Darlene said.
“How often do you run?”
“Four or five times a week.”
“I’m a beginner. I’ll be lucky if I can walk after today,” she said, straining to keep up with Darlene.
“You’ll build up your stamina before long,” Darlene assured her. “Where’s your water bottle?”
“Water bottle?”
“You need to carry water. It’s extremely important. You need to avoid dehydration,” Darlene said as she began slowing down to a brisk walk. “Let’s stop in the shade and take a drink before you overdo it.”
They gradually came to a stop under a large tree and Darlene passed the woman her water bottle.
“Drink slowly,” she said.
The woman took a long, slow drink and she passed the bottle back to Darlene.
“Thanks.” She pulled a printed card from the pocket of her running shorts and handed it to Darlene.
“Megan Nico...”
“Nicolace. Rhymes with Liberace. It’s Italian.”
“Was Liberace Italian?”
“I doubt it.”
“Darlene Roman. It’s international.”
“I wonder if you could do me a huge favor, Darlene.”
“I’d have to know more before I could say.”
“Can we walk and talk for a while? I can tell you how you can help me and you can decide if you’re game.”
Darlene took another look at Megan’s business card and then a quick look around the park. Buena Vista was teeming with people enjoying the unseasonably warm day.
“Sure,” Darlene said, taking a drink before recapping the water bottle. “We can walk and talk for a while.”
Marco Weido knocked off the last can of the six-pack of Coors Light on his way back to his apartment in Oakland to shower and change for his meeting at four-fifteen.
The clock above the recliner in his living room told him he had lots of time. The La-Z-Boy looked very inviting.
After one more beer from the refrigerator and a few Marlboros, Weido leaned the chair back as far as it would go and was promptly asleep.
Detective Sergeant Roxton Johnson of the San Francisco Police Department sat silently behind the steering wheel of an unmarked motor pool vehicle parked on Third Street below Interstate 80. Johnson gazed out across Third, to the spot where Benny Carlucci claimed he had come upon the abandoned Cadillac the night before.
He imagined he might simply cross the street and find something, in plain sight, which would clearly identify the villain who had left the vehicle sitting there with a dead body in the trunk.
Johnson imagined, as he crossed the street, that one or two or three teenagers would suddenly materialize to report to him that yes, we saw a drunk guy climb into the Cadillac and drive away and, yes, the car had been sitting there for a while before the drunk stumbled along and, by the way, if you’d like a detailed description of the cat who dumped the Cadillac there in the first place and hurried away up Third Street back toward Market Street, Sergeant, all you need to do is ask.
Johnson thought about his wife.
Amy would be in Philadelphia until Sunday evening. He was thinking about how much he would prefer to be dining on her meatloaf and mashed potatoes—complaining about the Golden State Warriors and confessing to her how much he had really missed her—than to be sitting in an unmarked police car underneath the highway entertaining fantasies of clear logical solutions to muddy senseless crimes.
Johnson glanced at his watch. He’d been sitting there in the car, daydreaming, for nearly thirty minutes.
The realization unsettled him.
As he climbed from the car, he thought about the white envelope in the plastic evidence bag peeking out of Lopez’s jacket pocket, and he felt a queasiness in his stomach that even meatloaf and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy with a couple of bottles of Samuel Adams Boston Lager on the side wouldn’t soothe.
He found no critical evidence on the pavement.
He met no adolescents with case-breaking news.
And Johnson was standing there trying to rationalize Lopez’s behavior, with no luck at all, when Officer Cutler finally reached him on the cell phone.
Cutler was excited, trying to spill it all out at once over the telephone. He was talking so quickly Johnson couldn’t follow him.
The roar of the traffic from the highway above didn’t help.
Johnson cut him off abruptly.
“Meet me at the Chieftain Irish Pub on Howard Street,” Johnson said. “You can tell me everything you discovered over a bottle or two of Sam Adams.”
If it takes that long to tell, Johnson left unsaid.
As Johnson turned back toward his car he caught sight of something on the ground. Something shining. He moved to it, reached down and picked it up. It was a Zippo lighter. He placed it into his jacket pocket and he crossed to the unmarked police vehicle. He headed over to the Chieftain to meet Officer Cutler.
The Hall of Justice in San Francisco is a seven-story L-shaped concrete building erected in 1958 and taking up a large portion of the city block bordered by Seventh Street and Harriet Street, west and east.
The main entrance sits on Bryant Street, on the south side. The north side of the building rests up against the Interstate 80 overpass known as the James Lick Skyway.
The building houses the police department’s Southern Station and administration, patrol and investigative headquarters, criminal courts and the offices for prosecutors, probation officers and medical examiners.
The top two floors are home to more than eight hundred inmates, including, that particular afternoon, Benny Carlucci.
Eighteen hundred city employees work in the building each day and another fourteen hundred citizens visit.
The structure has for some time been cited as a place you do not want to be during an earthquake. Geological experts claimed that a minor quake could split the structure at the corner of the L, where the police administrative offices and the parole offices as well as some of the criminal courtrooms were located.
Lieutenant Laura Lopez could have ignored all of these seismic concerns, and been perfectly at ease strolling into the Hall of Justice, if her presence had not necessitated a visit to the office of Liam Duffey.
The lieutenant had rushed to the Hall of Justice after an invigorating run through Golden Gate Park, followed by a very long, cold shower.
The lieutenant felt clean and refreshed, but wondered how long the feeling would last. As she climbed the stairs to the third floor, her sense of wellbeing was beginning to wane already.
Lopez was not looking forward to the meeting with the San Francisco District Attorney.
On top of that, Lopez was very worried about Sergeant Johnson. She knew the sergeant would not let her forget the envelope she had slipped into her jacket pocket at Roberto Sandoval’s apartment.
Not because Johnson was interested in busting her for improper police procedure, but because the sergeant really cared about her and wa
s honestly concerned.
Sergeant Johnson was an extremely competent partner and a good man, but Lopez feared that in this particular case, his admirable qualities might prove problematic.
Lopez walked into the District Attorney’s office a few minutes before four in the afternoon. Lopez was cheerfully greeted by a young woman who she had never seen before, but who looked much like the four or five cute, perky girls who had occupied the same seat in the six years Duffey had held the office.
Lieutenant Lopez understood why Duffey might like the type. His wife was a former Miss California Pageant third runner-up and even now, pushing forty, Charlotte Bradford Duffey could have easily slipped behind the desk and been mistaken for any one of her husband’s parade of adorable receptionists.
And, knowing a little about Liam Duffey’s character, Lopez might also venture a guess as to why this position boasted such a high turnover rate.
The current incarnation flashed a broad smile exposing perfect bone white choppers.
“Mr. Duffey is expecting you, Lieutenant,” the girl said. “Please go right in.”
Lopez entered the D.A.’s inner sanctum to find Duffey peering through his large office window out toward the bay.
Duffey turned from the window and invited her to take a seat. He remained standing as Lopez settled into one of the two plush chairs facing his desk, and then he began to pace back and forth behind the enormous piece of furniture. He finally stopped moving, placed both of his hands on the back of the large burgundy leather desk chair that was his throne, and he began to speak without inflection.
“There is not much I could say about the fervor caused by Roberto Sandoval’s murder last night that you could not guess yourself, Lieutenant. From the Commissioner’s office to City Hall to every news desk in town,” Duffey said. “So, why don’t you talk and I’ll listen.”
Though Lopez was accustomed to Duffey’s arrogance, and was long past being offended or intimidated by the man, she still found herself, from time to time, fighting the fierce urge to slap the pompous smirk off his face. If Duffey had addressed her as Laura, as he sometimes did, she might have lost the battle this particular afternoon.