Circling the Runway (Jake Diamond Mysteries Book 4)

by J. L. Abramo

  I was not looking forward to the meeting with Johnson or Duncan—but if I only had to do what I really wanted to do, I might not have enough to complain about.

  To compound my discomfort, Angela’s meatballs were staging a Bocce match in my stomach.

  I had called ahead for a taxi and, when I arrived home, it sat waiting at the curb.

  I pulled the Chevy into the driveway, hopped into the cab, and we were off.

  Expecting Sergeant Johnson at any moment, I left the door to the office open after walking in.

  I reached down to floor to retrieve a printed flyer which had obviously been slipped under the door. It advertised next week’s lunch specials at the deli below. I had little need for such information. If I wanted to learn what Angelo was whipping up for lunch, I only needed to poke my nose out the window.

  I heard a sound behind me but before I could turn I felt an object pressed against the back of my head that could have been the barrel of a handgun or the neck of a beer bottle.

  When a man’s voice said, get down on your knees, instead of, did you bring the potato chips. I guessed it was the former.

  I lowered myself to my knees.

  Then I heard what sounded like Barry Bonds clobbering one over the right field wall into McCovey Cove. I heard a gunshot and I was knocked face down to the floor.

  My head bounced once or twice and I was out cold.

  Sometime later I opened my eyes. I found myself sitting in Darlene’s chair.

  There was a damp towel wrapped around my forehead.

  In another chair, at the opposite side of the desk, a man I didn’t recognize sat with his hands resting on his lap. I could see no restraints, but he sat there not moving a muscle.

  I looked up and found Sergeant Johnson standing behind the man.

  “He was about to take you out, execution style,” Johnson said.

  “Why?” I asked, pulling the towel off my head.

  “You’re messing with my girlfriend,” the man said.

  “Shut up,” Johnson said, and he slapped the guy in the back of the head the way Mr. Rosiello, my Junior High School shop teacher, would slap me in the head when I left the wood plane resting on its blade.

  “I clocked him with my elbow, he went down like an anvil in a swimming pool, the gun discharged, and he landed on you, hard,” Johnson explained. “His name is Norman Hall. Have you been messing with his sweetheart?”

  “This bastard has been stalking Darlene,” I said. “A vice detective named Nicolace was using Darlene as bait to catch him doing something that would revoke his parole.”

  “It sort of worked,” Johnson said. “Guess we should get hold of Detective Nicolace.”

  “That won’t be difficult.”

  I picked up the phone and called Darlene at home.

  “I want a lawyer,” Hall said.

  “Another word from you,” Johnson said, slapping Norman in the head again, “and I will make you eat that three-hole punch sitting on the desk.”

  “Norman Hall is down here at the office,” I told Darlene. “Would you send Nicolace over to pick him up.”

  “What are you talking about, Jake?”

  “Seems Norman has a jealous streak, he came to eliminate what he perceived as a rival for your affection.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “I have a lump on my head the size of one of Angela’s meatballs, but other than that I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Darlene said.

  “No. Please, Darlene. I have a lot of other business to take care of tonight. I will explain it all to you tomorrow. Just send Nicolace here to get this creep out of my sight.”

  “She’s on her way,” Darlene said, and disconnected.

  “While we wait,” I said, addressing Johnson, “did you want to talk about what I can do for you?”

  “I would rather not have an audience,” Johnson said.

  “Cuff Norman to the radiator, it will hold him. I’ve used the radiator before,” I said. “We can talk privately back in my office.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Nicolace called out from the front room.

  Johnson had been given enough time to assure me his suspicions about Lieutenant Lopez had been a misunderstanding, he would not need my help after all, and I should forget he had ever brought it up.

  Johnson helped Detective Nicolace exchange his handcuffs for hers.

  Nicolace read Hall his rights and she took him into custody.

  “Can you come to the station to swear out a complaint?” she asked me. “Assault with intent to kill?”

  “I’ll swear he killed Cock Robin if you want me to, but I can’t leave here now. Can you hold him until morning without my statement? I can come down first thing.”

  “I can sign off on the complaint,” Johnson offered. “I witnessed the attempt.”

  With that settled, Johnson and Nicolace escorted Norman out of the building.

  A few minutes later the telephone on Darlene’s desk rang.

  Travis Duncan.

  “Jake, I’ve been sitting in my car across the street for twenty minutes,” Duncan said. “It’s been busier than Caltrain Depot out here. What’s going on?”

  “It’s a long story that would bore you, Travis. Do we have a little time?”

  “Some.”

  “I need a drink. I’m alone now. Why don’t you come up and join me for a glass of Dickel, and you can fill me in on your plan for dealing with Manny Sandoval.”

  “I’ll be right up,” Duncan said.

  I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy.

  I sat beside Travis as he drove to Sandoval’s restaurant.

  Manny was expecting me, alone. I had called him from my office before we left. It was a short telephone call. My end of the conversation scripted by Duncan. I asked Sandoval for permission to drop by to hand him a fistful of dollars.

  Manny liked the idea.

  Travis stopped a few hundred feet from the entrance of Manny’s to let me out.

  “Can you act tough?” he asked.

  “I’ve done it more than once for bit parts in gangster movies.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes and no,” I said. “I was always killed before the end of the first reel.”

  “I’ve got your back, Jake. Stay cool, act tough. When you ask for the bathroom be polite and insistent.”

  “Like Michael Corleone.”

  “Something like that. You will be frisked. Put this in your inside jacket pocket.”

  Duncan handed me a thick envelope. I slid it into my jacket.

  “Let’s do this,” I said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, and I climbed out of the car and I walked the short distance to the restaurant entrance. A sign hanging from a chain in the front door window read CLOSED.

  I rapped lightly at the door.

  A pair of simian eyes looked me over before the door was opened. The ape who stood there motioned for me to enter. A second man sat at a table close to the entrance, he could have been a twin. Manny Sandoval sat at the bar, closer to the far end of the room.

  “Jake Diamond, I presume,” Manny said.

  I wanted to say, No, Dr. Livingstone you fucking scumbag.

  I bit my tongue.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind if Hector checks you out?”

  “Not at all,” I said, and then to Hector, “be gentle.”

  Hector patted me down. Hector’s clone watched closely from his seat nearby. Manny seemed mildly disinterested.

  “What’s this?” Hector asked when he came across the bulge in my jacket.

  “Money,” I said.

  “Let me have it.”

  “I would prefer to hand it to Mr. Sandoval personally,” I said, wondering how many of the words he could identify, “that is if you don’t fucking mind.”

  “Hey, watch your mouth.” Hector warned.

  “Sure, do you have a mirror?”

  Hector grabbed me by t
he lapels, I knocked his hands off, Manny intervened.

  “Enough,” Sandoval said. “Is he clean?”

  “Yes.”

  “The boys take their jobs seriously. Join me for a drink, Jake,” Manny said. “Hector, get Mr. Diamond whatever he likes.”

  I walked over and pulled up a stool beside Sandoval.

  Hector moved behind the bar.

  “Bourbon,” I said, “whatever you have.”

  Hector poured a shot of Jack Daniels over some ice.

  It would have to do.

  “So,” Manny said.

  “So,” I said, pulling the envelope from my pocket. “This is four grand in cash, which is what Vinnie owes you if I am not mistaken. Consider his debt paid, and don’t ever take a bet from him again.”

  “What? No please,” Manny said. “And you are forgetting about the vig. Your friend is very late in his payment. He owes me closer to six thousand by now.”

  “I was hoping we could forego the interest, to defer some of Vinnie’s hospital costs. Pretty please.”

  “It’s not the way I work, Jake, and you are coming very close to being disrespectful.”

  “Sorry, it’s been a rough day. Can I use the rest room?”

  “It’s in the back.”

  Hector made a move to follow me.

  “I can find it myself,” I said.

  “Stay put, Hector,” Manny said, “and get me another beer.”

  I walked to the back, opened the bathroom door and let it close, unlocked the deadbolt on the rear door leading out into the alley behind the restaurant, counted to sixty, played with the bathroom door again and returned to Manny at the bar.

  “Okay. Where were we?” I asked.

  Before Manny could recap, there was a loud crash. Hector started to move.

  “Hector, stay,” Manny said. “Tito, go.”

  Hector and Tito were like trained Dobermans.

  The three of us at the bar looked toward the rear. Tito was taking his time investigating.

  “See what’s taking him so fucking long,” Manny finally said.

  Hector complied.

  After a minute, a gun appeared in Manny’s hand. My cue.

  Before he could rise, I kicked the stool out from under him. He fell to the floor, the gun squirted out of his grip, and I kicked it across the room. We both heard the wails of pain coming from the back.

  “What the fuck,” he yelled, looking up at me with pure hatred in his eyes.

  “I recommend you stay down, Manny,” I said.

  Tito was hurled into the room, followed by Hector. They were both gagged, but their cries of pure agony were not well muffled. I counted four broken legs.

  Travis Duncan stepped into view a moment later wielding a Louisville Slugger.

  “I’m batting a thousand,” he said, looking down at Manny who was looking up from the floor in horror.

  “Don’t,” Manny choked out.

  “What, no please,” I said.

  “Please,” Manny said.

  “Want to take it from here, Jake,” Travis asked.

  “Sure, fix yourself a drink,” I said. “Manny, get the fuck up and have a seat.”

  Sandoval rose from the floor, set the fallen stool upright and sat. Travis had poured himself a whiskey and then asked if Manny would care for another beer. Sandoval politely declined.

  Hector and Tito rested on the floor, uncharacteristically still.

  “How about you, Jake? Ready for another?”

  “I’ll pass. Maybe if they stocked Dickel in this dump, I would become a regular.”

  I pushed the cash filled envelope until it rested in front of Sandoval.

  “Please listen carefully, Manny,” I began, “I am only going to say it once.”

  When Travis had suggested earlier that the meeting with Sandoval and his goons would be fun, I thought he was insane.

  Now I had to admit it was very entertaining.

  “Consider the debt paid in full,” I continued. “If you ever mess a hair on Vinnie’s head again, my friend behind the bar will pull out all of your fingernails before he pulls out all of your teeth. And he will love every moment. Am I clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Terrific. We’ll get out of here now, let you clean up. You should get Hector and Tito to the veterinarian as soon as possible. Thank you for the drinks,” I added, dropping a twenty dollar bill on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  Travis and I headed for the front. Duncan picked Manny’s gun off the floor and tossed it across the bar. It broke the wall mirror and destroyed at least a dozen bottles on a shelf below. Manny didn’t seem to mind.

  We were both quiet during the short drive.

  Travis pulled the car to the curb in front of my house.

  “Thank you,” I said, as I left the vehicle.

  “Anytime,” he said, and he drove off.

  I was too wired to think about sleep, so I poured a Dickel and settled into my reading chair with the Hugo paperback.

  Vinnie was saved from Manny Sandoval and his goons.

  Darlene was saved from Norman Hall.

  Lieutenant Lopez was saved from Sergeant Johnson’s suspicions.

  I was saved from having to snoop around for Johnson or Lieutenant Ray Boyle.

  Esmeralda was saved, protected by Quasimodo the Hunchback within the sanctuary of Notre Dame Cathedral.

  But for how long.

  PART THREE

  THE BELL RINGER

  or CLEARED FOR LANDING

  The straight line, a respectable optical illusion

  which ruins many a man.

  —Victor Hugo

  TWENTY FIVE

  Sergeant Johnson was at his desk at Vallejo Street Station by seven Saturday morning. He called Yeatman at ballistics at ten past.

  “Officer Perry from Oakland PD was waiting for me when I arrived,” Yeatman reported. “I have the weapon.”

  “How long before you have results on a comparison?”

  “Give me an hour, maybe less. I’ll call you as soon as I know one way or another.”

  “Good. Thanks again, Tommy.”

  “Johnnie Walker Black. You’re welcome.”

  Next, Johnson called Sleep Sound Security to follow up on what he had learned from the guard at Roberto Sandoval’s apartment building. A recorded message informed him the office hours on Saturday were eight until three and provided an after-hours emergency number. Johnson would call back at eight.

  Then he followed Weido’s suit and called the Department of Motor Vehicles for an address on Justin Walker. The DMV was closed Saturday, but in this case he had a privileged number at his disposal.

  Johnson decided he would go to check out the address while he waited for the Sleep Sound Security office to open and while he waited to hear from Yeatman at ballistics.

  The phone on his desk rang before he could get away.

  “Yeatman?”

  “Yardley,” the desk sergeant said. “It looks like we have a homicide. The first officers at the scene just called it in. The Travelodge at the airport, cleaning lady found the body.”

  “Make sure the uniforms know not to touch anything without gloves,” Johnson said. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

  “Vallejo Street. Yardley.”

  “I need to speak with Sergeant Johnson.”

  “Sergeant Johnson is in the field. You just missed him.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I have no idea. Tell me what you need. If I can’t help, I will put you through to another detective.”

  “I need to speak with Sergeant Johnson, it’s urgent.”

  “If it is an emergency, hang up and dial nine-one-one,” Yardley said, beginning to lose patience.

  “This is Officer Perry from Oakland. Can you give me a cell phone number for the sergeant?”

  “I cannot. I will try to reach Johnson and give him the message that you called. Can he reach you at your station?”

  “Please ask him to call m
e on my cell phone. Please tell him it is extremely important he contact me as soon as possible.”

  “What’s the number?”

  The caller gave Yardley a cell number.

  “Got it. I’ll do what I can, Perry.”

  “Thank you.”

  When Johnson arrived at the airport motel he found a uniformed officer waiting for him in the lobby.

  “Charles Musman, Sergeant,” the officer said, greeting Johnson.

  “What do we have?”

  “My partner, Derek Plewacki, is in the room with the murder victim. Room one-oh-three. Multiple gunshot wounds. We were instructed to wait for your arrival before calling in a forensics team or the medical examiner,” Musman said. “Three additional officers have been canvassing the other guest rooms, nothing yet.”

  “Good. Join the others canvassing. Let me know if you get anything,” Johnson said, and he continued on to Room 103.

  Officer Plewacki led Johnson to the body. Three clustered gunshots to the chest, close range.

  “You can call in the M.E. and forensics,” Johnson said. “We can rule out suicide. Has the victim been identified?”

  “We found his wallet, driver’s license,” Plewacki reported. “His name was Justin Walker.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Something wrong, Sergeant?”

  “We have been searching for this man,” Johnson answered. “Anything else?”

  “It looks as if he was planning a trip. We found an airline ticket for Tel Aviv. And we also found this—an employee identification card,” the officer said, handing it to Johnson. “It seems Walker worked for a company called Sound Sleep Security.”

  “Son-of-a bitch,” the sergeant said.

  Johnson pulled out his cell phone and turned it back on. His noticed there were two missed calls. It would wait until after he phoned Lieutenant Lopez.

  Marco Weido was chugging a Coors Light, trying to remedy a colossal hangover at eight-thirty in the morning.

  He found his cell phone by the fourth ring.

  “Where are you?”

  “At home. You owe me payment,” Weido said.