by J. L. Abramo
“Sure.”
“Good. I have some research to do. I will give you a call tomorrow afternoon, and then we can get this business settled.”
“Thanks,” I said, Joey Clams’ warning echoing in my head.
Be careful what you wish for.
Duncan left the office without another word.
He also left the bottle of Dickel.
A couple of nightcaps with Travis were not exactly the physical therapy I needed. The theory concerning the hair of the dog was highly overrated. I wondered for a moment where the expression originated, but let it go. It was definitely time to take Darlene’s advice. A hot bath, a shot or two of Mylanta chased by a few quarts of water, and a good night’s sleep might give me more than a snowball’s chance in hell of feeling human in the morning.
I could hardly remember how it felt.
When I walked out of the building, Angelo Verdi was sweeping in front of the deli. I tried to tip-toe away.
“Jake, I need to talk to you for a minute.”
Oh, boy.
Angelo couldn’t talk for less than ten minutes if his life depended on it.
“Sure, Angelo, what’s up?”
“Has Darlene said anything to you?” he asked.
“She generally has a lot to say to me. Are you referring to something specific?”
A quick getaway was looking very unlikely.
“I think someone has been watching her, watching the building, maybe following her.”
Angelo ran his suspicions by me.
I recalled the scene at the hospital. Darlene insisting there was nothing on her mind when I knew there was.
“I need to check this out, Angelo.”
“I hope I haven’t worried you unnecessarily.”
“Not at all. You did the right thing telling me.”
And did it in record time.
“Let me know that everything is all right,” he said.
“I will,” I said, already rushing for my car.
I raced over to Darlene’s house off Buena Vista Park.
Also in record time.
When I pulled up in front of the house, I spotted a man at the window to the south of the front door. He took off around the corner of the house, running to the rear. I double-parked the car. I left it running with the key still in the ignition and went after him. When I reached the back of the house and the alley behind, the man was nowhere in sight. Hoping I hadn’t arrived too late, I scrambled back up to the front door like the place was on fire.
I pounded on the door until Darlene opened it.
She looked at me as if I was a raving maniac.
“Jesus, Jake, you look like a raving maniac,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“Angelo said he thought you were being followed. I got here as fast as I could. I think the stalker was peeping into your living room window.”
“And you charged in like the Light Brigade and chased him away,” she said, not sounding all that appreciative.
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“Yes and no.”
Unless Darlene had honed her skills at ventriloquism, it was the voice of another woman behind her.
“My hero,” Darlene said. “Maybe you should park the car. Then you can come inside and meet Megan.”
I parked the car and I went back inside.
I found them in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of Pinot Noir.
“Jake, meet Detective Megan Nicolace. Megan, meet Jake Diamond,” Darlene said. “He means well.”
“Whoever Angelo is,” Nicolace said. “He is perceptive.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know you think so,” I said, impatiently. “What’s going on here?”
“His name is Norman Hall, a paroled sex-offender. Don’t ask me. I would have thrown away the key. I’ve been watching him and he’s been watching Darlene. I’ve been waiting for him to give us a good reason to revoke his parole,” Nicolace said.
“The guy was at her window, Detective. How good a reason do you need?”
“Something that will put him away for a long time.”
“Like assault?”
“Jake,” Darlene said. “Quit it.”
“So,” I said to Nicolace, ignoring Darlene. “Norman is the wolf, you are the rancher, and Darlene gets to play the staked calf. No way.”
“I will be watching Norman Hall and Darlene constantly,” Nicolace said.
“I’ve heard that before. Get a restraining order. Get him off her.”
“He’ll just find someone else, Jake,” Darlene said.
“Good.”
“It’s my decision, Jake.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like tofu either, but that never stopped me,” Darlene said. “Don’t worry. Go home, get some rest. Let me do this. I need to help get this creep off the street.”
I conceded I was outnumbered.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Darlene,” I said. And then to Nicolace, “If he messes a hair on her head I will see you’re busted down to traffic patrol.”
“Is that from a Jackie Chan movie?” Darlene asked.
“Police Story 2. I couldn’t resist. Please be careful, Detective. Darlene is very important to me.”
“That’s sweet, Jake. Go home,” Darlene said.
“I won’t let anything hurt Darlene,” Nicolace said. “The thought of directing traffic horrifies me. Go home.”
I went home.
FIFTEEN
Marco Weido couldn’t sleep.
The unplanned afternoon nap had lasted hours and now he was wide awake.
He had missed his appointment and his employer was going to give him grief about it.
He grabbed his pack of Marlboros and a book of matches, very unhappy about misplacing his prized Zippo lighter.
He stepped out onto his front porch and lit a cigarette. He stood on the doormat and felt something was not right. The mat was out of place, something he hadn’t noticed coming in. He looked up and down the street, saw no one, moved the mat and removed the trap opening underneath. He reached into the opening and under the porch.
Nothing.
The gun was gone.
Laura Lopez couldn’t sleep.
She was looking at three unsolved homicides cases.
Liam Duffey was breathing down her neck.
Lopez was looking forward to the meeting with Duffey’s lead investigator with all of the enthusiasm associated with an appointment for wisdom tooth removal.
And then there was the matter of Sergeant Rocky Johnson.
It was not in Johnson’s nature to let go when something about a case was nagging him, and the white envelope she had removed from Sandoval’s apartment clearly fit the bill.
Lopez had managed to avoid the sergeant all day, but she couldn’t hope to put him off much longer.
Nice going, Laura.
Lopez poured another Glenlivet on the rocks hoping that three would be a charm.
After leaving Jake Diamond, Travis Duncan had made a few inquiries. He was confident he knew where he could find Manny Sandoval and his two monkeys late the following night.
Duncan was actually looking forward to the get-together.
He slept like a baby.
Darlene Roman couldn’t sleep.
As stubborn as she could be, she understood Jake’s concerns were not unfounded.
She had confidence in Detective Nicolace, but it didn’t negate the fact Megan had gone and Darlene was alone in the house.
Nicolace had assured her Norman Hall would not be coming back that night after Jake’s wild pursuit.
It had sounded convincing, but—
Jake was concerned, her dad was concerned, even Angelo Verdi was concerned, and Darlene was sure if Tug McGraw was not off running up and down the beach with her ‘nieces’ he would be concerned also.
She was missing her trusty canine companion big-time.
Norman Hall couldn’t sleep.
He had been diligent, patient and, above all, cautious.
Hall had waited in the park until Darlene arrived home. She was alone, the dog still mysteriously out of the picture. He watched as she entered the house and he saw the outside porch light go dark. Soon the light in the entranceway at the foot of the stairs leading up to the rooms above followed suit.
Norman saw the light in what he knew was the bedroom turn on and then the light in the bathroom. Hall wondered if she would shower before bed. He liked the idea. If she had showered, it was a quick one, since less than ten minutes later the bathroom went dark. A few minutes later the bedroom light went out.
Hall waited nearly thirty minutes before approaching the house, pleased by how well he had learned to take his time.
And now his time had come.
And then Diamond had arrived.
Charging after him like Rambo.
Norman knew who Jake Diamond was. He was the man Darlene worked with above the delicatessen. Hall hadn’t worried that Diamond was a private investigator, he was just another loser who couldn’t make it as a real cop.
In all the time he had watched Darlene, Hall had never seen Diamond at her house. Now Norman wondered if there was something going on between them, something dirty. It was the first time Hall had ever seen another man at Darlene’s home.
The thought of another man upset Norman.
As Hall lay awake in his bed, he thought something might have to be done about Jake Diamond.
He did not want to be interrupted again.
It just wouldn’t do.
Rocky Johnson couldn’t sleep.
And as much as he missed his wife, it was thoughts of another woman that were keeping him awake.
Lieutenant Lopez.
Johnson was pacing his living room. Lopez was dodging him. The white envelope, Ethan Lloyd’s description of the woman in blue, the Zippo cigarette lighter. Circumstantial but incriminating.
A quote from Henry David Thoreau came to mind: We are always paid for our suspicion by finding what we suspect.
He needed answers, and if Lopez refused to supply them he would have to try getting them some other way. He had an idea about that. An idea he found almost comical, but the only one he could muster. Johnson would try one last time with Lopez in the morning, if she continued to play deaf and dumb he would resort to Plan B.
He would need to go outside the department.
And he wouldn’t sleep unless the alternate plan was in place before he tried another go at Lopez.
Johnson could only think of one man for the job, and the thought was not a pleasant one. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he needed to know the option was there.
Johnson climbed into his car and headed out toward the Presidio.
SIXTEEN
On my way home I tried to replace thoughts of Darlene’s possible peril with thoughts of a hot bath and a good night’s sleep. When I pulled into the driveway, I saw a man standing at my front door. Easily recognizable and totally unexpected. The porch light lit him like a spot for a Puccini aria. The bald head, the slightly off-center facial features, the look of ruggedness and awkwardness that made him look like a cross between Telly Savalas and Mr. Potatohead.
“Sergeant Johnson, what a pleasure,” I said as I joined him on the porch. “What did I do now?”
“I may need your help, Diamond.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised if he had said: You are under arrest for murder.
After all, I had heard that one from Johnson before.
Before I record my reaction, allow me to briefly recall my personal history with Sergeant Johnson.
Johnson and I were not what you would call buddies.
In fact, we got along like Tyson and Holyfield.
The very first time we met, four years earlier, he and Lieutenant Lopez had arrived at my apartment in the Fillmore. Uninvited.
They were there to take me in for questioning.
After beating on my door for a full minute, like a Ginger Baker drum solo, Johnson decided to try to break it down. He charged shoulder first and I opened the door as he was about to hit. He came through the doorway like a runaway freight train and his forward motion would have carried him across the room and out the window if my armchair hadn’t stopped him cold halfway.
Our second meeting, not long after, was at the airport in San Francisco. Johnson and Lopez were there to meet my return flight from Los Angeles and take me in as a murder suspect. I sucker-punched Johnson and ran.
At our third meeting, Johnson knocked me to the ground, a perfect tackle. I went down like a piano from a twelfth-story window. He didn’t apologize. He was there to prevent me from walking into an ambush. The sergeant was helping me out of a jam, I guess, but perhaps used a little too much force.
Since that time, I have done a very good job of avoiding Johnson, choosing to bother Laura Lopez instead when I needed to bother someone in the department. I decided I had as much chance of getting into Johnson’s good graces as Pete Rose had of getting into the Hall of Fame.
Lieutenant Lopez wasn’t exactly my buddy either, but she had a sense of humor at least. Which is to say I could often make her laugh even when it was not my intention.
So, when Johnson said, “I may need your help, Diamond,”—what else could I do but invite him in?
“Can I offer you something to drink?” I asked, as I led him to the kitchen.
“Scotch?” he said.
“Bourbon?” I said.
“Sure.”
He sat at the kitchen table and waited as I fixed him up with a George Dickel on the rocks. I was tempted to join him, but I fought the urge. Instead I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice. After I quickly checked the expiration date, I decided to put it back and save it for the next time I had need of paint remover. I opted for a tall glass of iced water and sat across from him at the table.
Johnson wasted no time.
After swearing me to secrecy the sergeant quickly listed his concerns about his lieutenant’s uncharacteristic behavior, as he just as quickly finished his first drink and gratefully accepted another.
“So,” he said in summation. “If Lopez can’t give me an acceptable explanation tomorrow morning, I will need someone to look into this, unofficially. I don’t want to create any doubt about the lieutenant’s integrity within the department until I understand what’s going on. I sincerely hope it will not come to this.”
“So do I,” was all I could manage to say.
“But if it does, I need to know if you are willing to help me.”
In case you are wondering what a size ten shoe looks like stuffed into a private investigator’s mouth—picture this.
“I’ll try my best to help you, Sergeant.”
With that he rose from his seat, thanked me for my time and for the drinks, and headed for the front door.
“I’ll let you know,” he said, as I followed him out onto the porch, and then he was gone.
Thirty minutes later, I lay in bed thinking about how much Johnson and Lopez reminded me of Quasimodo and Esmeralda.
The beautiful redhead and her homely protector.
The bell ringer had swung from the cathedral on a rope, scooping up the gypsy to rescue her from being destroyed by the mob.
I hoped I could offer Johnson enough rope to do the same for Lopez, without giving him enough rope to hang himself.
The large green numbers projected on the ceiling above me from the table-side alarm clock turned from 11:59 to 12:00.
My last thought before sleep welcomed me was that I had made it through another entire day without earning a cent.
PART TWO
THE GOOD SERGEANT
One would have pronounced him a giant who had been broken
and badly put together again.
—Victor Hugo
SEVENTEEN
Lieutenant Lopez woke up with a single-malt hangover that would have impressed Hemingway.
The hot bath. The green tea. The artesian well water.
Lopez would have to go the plop-plop-fizz-fizz route for the sake of expediency. She watched the effervescent tablets dissolve and emptied the tall glass in one drink. The cherry flavored had been a poor choice.
She would try to remember to choose the Orange Zest next time.
She would try to avoid the need to ever use it again.
She would try to keep in mind how Hemingway had kicked the drinking habit.
She tried to recall her undergraduate days at Berkeley, when anything and everything was possible.
But all Laura Lopez could recall was yesterday, and the impossible mess today promised to be.
Lopez started a pot of coffee and jumped into and out of the shower. She slipped into a plush terrycloth robe with the embroidered inscription Caesar’s Palace. She was a tall woman at five-foot-nine in bare feet, a fact that helped her survive in the male-dominated world of police investigation—still the robe swam on her.
It was one of the few things she had inherited from her father—a souvenir of her parents honeymoon in Vegas.
Victor Lopez had been with the Oakland Police Department for nearly thirty years, and although he was not killed on the job, the job slowly killed him nevertheless. It ruined his marriage, ruined his health, and ruined his bid for father-of-the-year honors. It wasn’t until after her mother had passed away that Laura and Victor Lopez were able to investigate the possibility of developing a meaningful relationship. But the time allowed was too short. What she did know was he had been a clean cop, and although stuffing a hotel robe into your suitcase was not a capital crime, she never doubted Victor had paid for the keepsake.
She opened her front door, looked down at the headline of the Examiner, and left the newspaper lying there. She walked back to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and settled into the living room sofa. The white envelope in the zip lock bag mocked her from its resting place on the coffee table.