by J. L. Abramo
Vinnie Strings attempted a smile as he watched me move to his bedside.
“What happened, Vin?”
“I fell, Jake.”
“Like out of a third floor window?” I asked. “Or like under the wheels of a streetcar?”
Vinnie was a mess.
“It’s nothing, Jake. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”
“Humor me, Vinnie. I was having a really good dream when the hospital called.”
“Nothing, Jake, honest,” Vinnie repeated. “I’m just really glad you came down.”
And that was it. Vinnie Strings could stonewall with the best of them. If he didn’t want to tell me who or what trampled all over him, he wasn’t going to. He looked very pathetic so I decided he didn’t need to be beat up further.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked.
“I could eat a horse.”
“I’ll run down and check the stable,” I said, and left to look for something Vinnie might be able to chew.
Dr. Shepherd followed me out of the room.
“Can we talk with your patient, doctor?” a police officer asked.
She gave me a quick glance and got the message.
“Not yet,” she said. “I’ll let you know as soon as he is ready to answer questions.”
“Thanks,” I said as we walked down the hall.
“The food in the cafeteria isn’t bad.”
“I think Vinnie would appreciate something a bit more exotic. I know just the thing. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Is your friend always so stubborn?”
“He seemed scared to me,” I answered.
When I returned, Darlene was standing outside the door to Vinnie’s hospital room. The police officers were not.
“Are the uniforms in with him?” I asked.
“Hello to you, too, Jake,” Darlene answered. “They have been in and gone.”
“Did he talk?”
“He said he was ambushed at an ATM machine.”
“Since when does Vinnie have an ATM card?”
“I’m joking. Vinnie played possum. What’s in the bag?”
“A couple of Polish hotdogs with the works.”
“Too bad. He would have loved it.”
“Oh?”
“The doctor gave Vinnie something very strong for the pain. He went out like a light,” Darlene offered. “Vinnie mentioned Sandoval to me.”
“The dead Assistant District Attorney? What about him?”
“The other Sandoval.”
“Manny Sandoval. The bookie?”
“It seems Vinnie is behind on gambling debts. Manny and a couple of his goons gave him a harsh reminder and an unambiguous ultimatum.”
“How much behind?”
“Vinnie claims it’s only a few hundred, but…”
“But?”
“Vinnie’s physical condition suggests his estimate is conservative.”
“How did you pull all of this information out of him?”
“I walked in after the cops left and he just started blabbing.”
“Did he happen to blab about where I might find Manny Sandoval?”
“Jake, get the needle out of your arm. Vinnie didn’t talk with the cops because he was strongly advised against it. And he didn’t talk to you because he doesn’t want to see you lying in the adjoining bed. You don’t want to find Manny Sandoval.”
“Maybe I just want to see Sandoval to cover Vinnie’s gambling debt.”
“Try again. Maybe you need to give Sonny the Chin a call.”
“Sonny took his wife and kids down to Joey’s place in St. Martin. He probably won’t be back until the Giants’ home opener.”
“In that case, you might want to call Travis Duncan,” Darlene said. “And please lose the bag, Jake, the Polish dogs are beginning to growl.”
Darlene could be very charming at times.
And sometimes not.
“Are you all right, Darlene?”
She said: I’m fine, Jake.
I heard: Back off.
But I can be stubborn, too.
“I know when something is bothering you, Darlene.”
Darlene did the thing she does when she is trying to control her emotions. Something like closing your eyes and counting to ten, only quicker.
“It hasn’t been a lovely day, Jake. I spent most of it trying to juggle Diamond Investigations’ finances like a one-armed, blindfolded circus clown. I miss the pooch, and I am not thrilled to see Vinnie looking like something you mold into a patty and throw on a grill. And I’m late.”
“Late?”
“I promised Nicolai I would let him beat me at chess tonight. No reason to stick around here, by the look of the injection the doctor gave Vinnie he’ll probably be out for quite some time. You should get going too, Jake. You still look like you need to recover from last night. Not to mention that shirt. We can come back to see Vinnie first thing in the morning. Maybe you wouldn’t mind walking me to my car.”
“Since when do you need an escort?”
“Let it go, Jake.”
“I just want to be sure you’re okay, Darlene.”
“The biology experiment in the paper sack,” Darlene said, pointing to a nearby trash can. “Let it go.”
I took a few steps over to the receptacle, dumped the Polish hotdogs, and followed Darlene as she headed for the elevator.
As I watched Darlene drive away, I was tempted to take her advice. Head back home and lay low for the rest of the evening. But I felt I needed to do something quickly about Vinnie’s dilemma. Travis Duncan only phoned or visited me at the office, so I pointed the Toyota out to North Beach.
At the office, I called Duncan using the only number I had for him. As always, it went straight to voice mail.
The greeting was short and sweet.
Leave your name.
Then you waited to hear from him. If he knew your name and cared to return the call.
The good news was I had slipped the Victor Hugo novel into my jacket before leaving home for the hospital, so I would at least have the bell ringer’s company while I waited for a response from Duncan.
If I was going to get a response at all.
The office of Diamond Investigations was a modest two-room affair. Darlene’s domain was off the hallway entrance, and my hiding place was a smaller room separated by a wall. It featured a three-paned, curved bay-window looking out onto Columbus Avenue.
There was only one fairly comfortable place to sit in the front room—an upholstered armchair against the wall facing Darlene’s desk. This was where Darlene would invite clients to please have a seat. Mr. Diamond will be with you as soon as he can. It was meant to create the illusion that I might be tied-up with other important business.
I thought it was a nice touch.
Darlene insisted it was lame.
I was just about to settle into the chair with the hunchback when the phone rang. I expected Travis Duncan. I got Lionel Katz.
“Diamond,” Katz began without ceremony. “Benny Carlucci is no longer a murder suspect. He will be released on bail in the morning. Of course, he has other legal problems to deal with, but I can handle it from here.”
I took that to mean my services were no longer required.
“Good to hear.”
“Tony Carlucci and I appreciate your help.”
“I didn’t really do much,” I reminded him.
“Your time has value. Please let me know what you feel your effort was worth, and Tony will be more than happy to compensate you.”
“Please tell Tony it’s on the house, Mr. Katz. And thank him for the tasty lunch earlier today.”
“I certainly will.”
“Any word on who did snuff the guy in the trunk?”
“Not my concern, Mr. Diamond.”
Lionel Katz was all business. A cold fish. I wondered if he would be more interested if it was his mother tied-up and gagged in the trunk.
I resisted the urge to ask
.
I thanked him for the update and ended the call.
I eased myself into the armchair and located the bookmark.
Quasimodo was losing status fast. The bell ringer had gone from King of Fools to just another everyday sap in two easy steps. First, look up to the wrong man. Second, fall in love with the wrong woman.
Esmeralda was not faring much better. She had a crush on Phoebus, Captain of the King’s Archers. Captain Phoebus was a shameless womanizer, and the Gypsy girl was about to make the biggest mistake of her young life.
And then there was the Archdeacon.
Lust for Esmeralda was tearing Frollo apart.
As Jimmy Pigeon noted more than once, “Whoever said all is fair in love was delusional.”
I am always awed by the lessons that can be derived from classic literature, and amazed at how these lessons can be ignored time after time after time.
The phone rang—sparing me the journey further down that road. I expected Travis Duncan. I was thankful it was Joey Vongoli.
“Surprised to find you at the office, Jake,” he said.
“I’m waiting for a phone call.”
Joey didn’t ask. He had told me many times that if there was something I thought he needed to know, he shouldn’t have to ask.
“I’m calling because Angela would like you to join us for dinner tomorrow evening,” Joey said. “In celebration of St. Joseph’s Day.”
Being part Italian, I knew about St. Joseph’s Day. It was generally forgotten. Only two days after St. Patrick’s, St. Joseph’s was treated like the luckless kid whose birthday fell on the day after Christmas.
“Count me in, Joey. And thank Angela for thinking of me.”
“She would like Darlene and Vinnie to join us also.”
“Darlene might be a hard sell, especially if there is anything on the menu that was alive recently. And I’m not certain if Vinnie will be available. He’s lying in a recovery room at St. Mary’s. He had an accident involving Manny Sandoval and a couple of Manny’s gorillas.”
“Will he be all right?”
“He’s resilient, but it could take a while.”
“Anything I can do?” Joey asked.
I knew what he was asking and tried to act dumb.
“If you have the time, come with me to visit him in the morning. I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”
“I would be glad to visit him, Jake, but you know that’s not what I was asking.”
It was no wonder my acting abilities never took me very far in tinsel town.
“I’m waiting to hear back from Travis Duncan.”
“You’re planning to set Duncan loose on Manny and his boys?”
“That will be entirely up to him. I’m just wishing Travis can work something out.”
“Call me in the morning when you’re ready to go to the hospital,” Joey said in parting, “and Jake.”
“Yes, Joey?”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
THIRTEEN
Lieutenant Laura Lopez left the Hall of Justice and took a deep breath of air. The short meeting with Liam Duffey had been stifling. Lopez had told Duffey she needed to check out the progress of the questioning at the apartment building where the doorman and Roberto Sandoval had been murdered and decided she should at least make an appearance. Lopez would much rather have been on her way to a beach in Barbados.
The lobby was as busy as it had been hours before, maybe more so as tenants began returning home from their workday. Joanna Knapik, the uniformed officer Lopez had met earlier, was doing her best to keep the interviews moving along with some semblance of order.
“Have there been any earth shattering revelations, Officer?” Lopez asked.
“Not a thing, Lieutenant,” Knapik reported. “I’d guess the tenants here are used to feeling safe, so we have encountered a great deal of surprise and shock and concern, but nothing to help in the investigation.”
“Hearing your fortress is not impregnable is not very good news. Is that a tenant list?” Lopez added without a beat, referring to the clipboard Officer Knapik held in her hand.
“Every resident, listed by apartment, floor-by-floor. We have been checking off names all afternoon, every tenant who has been questioned either going out, coming in, or in his or her apartment. It’s a big building, Lieutenant. We still have a way to go.”
“Can you keep it moving along without my supervision, Knapik? I need to check in with the Medical Examiner and the forensic team. Find out if there’s anything new there.”
“Sure, Lieutenant, I can handle it.”
“Great. Thanks,” Lopez said, and then added, “You are doing a great job, Officer.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Knapik said, beaming.
Lopez stepped through the lobby door and out onto the street, where she nearly collided with a man trying to keep his dog from dragging him into the building.
“Excuse me,” Ethan Lloyd apologized. “He’s anxious to get inside. It’s dinnertime.”
“No problem,” Lopez said. “Here, let me get the door for you.”
“Thank you. Terrible what happened here last night. Do I know you? Are you a tenant?”
“No, I’m not.”
“I feel I’ve seen you before,” Lloyd went on, the dog straining to pull him along, Lopez holding the door.
“You may have. I’ve been in and out all day. Lieutenant Lopez. I’m heading the investigation.”
“I see. It’s shocking, Lieutenant. It makes one re-evaluate one’s sense of security.”
“I imagine it would,” Lopez said, wishing one would get one’s mutt into the damned building. “If you will excuse me, I need to be going.”
“Of course,” Lloyd said, letting the dog lead him into the lobby, allowing Lopez to release the door.
As Lopez moved away from the building, Lloyd could not help thinking he had seen the woman before today.
When Sergeant Johnson left Officer Davey Cutler at the Chieftain Irish Pub, he felt a strong need to talk to Lopez. And soon. Johnson thought he might find her at the Roberto Sandoval murder scene.
The apartment building was just a stone’s throw away, but the prospect of confronting his superior made him think it would be more like throwing a boulder. He left his motor pool vehicle at the Chieftain and walked over to the high-rise. He was greeted by Officer Knapik with the news that the lieutenant had been there and gone. He had missed her by minutes. Johnson tried to reach Lopez on her cell phone and the call went straight to voice mail.
Johnson called Beggs at forensics. They had checked every fingerprint they could lift from the Cadillac. Benny Carlucci’s prints were all over the interior—the steering wheel and the radio and the driver’s side door handle—but not anywhere near the trunk. Other prints in the interior matched the vehicle owner.
“I would say the Carlucci kid is clear,” Beggs said.
“Seems to be the consensus already,” Johnson said.
“Here’s the good news,” Beggs went on. “We identified the victim.”
“I thought his fingertips were ruined.”
“They were, after he got into the car. We ran prints from the passenger side door handle and got a hit. Salvatore DiMarco—convicted felon, gun for hire. No question. The mug shot matched the victim’s mug exactly, minus the bullet hole in the ear.”
“What’s a guy like that doing out on the street?”
“Been out on parole for less than two weeks,” Beggs reported.
“So, DiMarco entered the Cadillac from the passenger side.”
“Exactly,” Beggs said. “I’m guessing someone picked him up, then shot him, did a job on his fingers and dumped the vehicle.”
“Did we get a residential address for DiMarco?” Johnson asked.
“His parole officer put him in a flea bag rooming-house in downtown Oakland. That’s all we have, and I’m elbow deep in work down here, Rocky.”
“Okay. Thanks, Joe,” Sergeant Johnson said, and let
the crime scene investigator get back to it.
Johnson tried reaching Lopez again.
No dice.
He walked back to pick up the car and drove over to the morgue to revisit Dr. Steve Altman. Altman gave Johnson what he needed, an eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white photograph of Salvatore DiMarco from the M.E.’s impressive collection of portraits of the dead.
“Suitable for framing,” Altman said.
On his way back to the car, holding onto the glossy of the late Salvatore DiMarco, Johnson pulled out the Zippo lighter that had been burning a hole in his pocket since he left the Chieftain Pub. He climbed into the vehicle.
His cell phone rang as he slipped behind the steering wheel.
“Johnson.”
“Bingo,” said Tommy Yeatman.
“Bingo?”
“The thirty-eight in the trunk of the Cadillac killed Roberto Sandoval, without question. It looks as if this DiMarco character was the shooter.”
“Not necessarily. But at least we have a suspect. Can you keep a lid on this for a while?”
“Not for very long.”
“Can you give me until noon tomorrow?” Johnson asked.
Can you give me time to talk with Lieutenant Lopez about a few things is what Johnson was thinking.
“Noon it is. No later.”
“Thanks, Tommy. Good work,” Johnson said. He fired up the engine and headed to the Bay Bridge to visit the Oakland Police Department.
Duffey finally heard from his man, who did not even offer an excuse or an apology for missing his scheduled appointment at four.
Duffey told his investigator where he needed to be the next day at noon, and he hoped the guy would be just a bit more diligent.
The D.A. wondered if he had made the right decision in recruiting the man.
But it was far too late to change horses now.
Sergei Romanov was born in the town of Khimki, Russia, twenty-four kilometers northwest of Moscow, in 1887. In 1914, while a student of Philosophy at the University of Bern in Switzerland, Sergei was among a crowd of students witnessing a fiery oration on the university campus. The speaker was a Russian exile named Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.