Circling the Runway (Jake Diamond Mysteries Book 4)

by J. L. Abramo

  “Guilty,” Johnson admitted.

  “I have to say I was hot about it, but it did pan out. In the future, however, drop me a little hint. That being said, you did a commendable job down there, Rocky.”

  “Thank you. Jake Diamond had a lot to do with our success. I’m beginning to rethink my opinion of him.”

  “Good luck with that,” Lopez said, as the waitress finally arrived with their food, “and, Johnson.”

  “Yes.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t reach out to Diamond when you were all jerked up about the envelope.”

  “Could you pass the pepper?” was all Johnson would say.

  Reporters from print and broadcast media had been trying for days to obtain a statement from Theresa Sandoval regarding the murder of her husband, with no success. Until a rookie reporter from the Examiner, with all of the ambition associated with youth, and working off information he acquired from a doorman named Kenny Gerard with the help of a fifty-dollar bill, discovered where the Assistant District Attorney’s widow was residing while the Sandoval apartment was being readied for her return. The reporter staked-out Mrs. Sandoval’s sanctuary, and he followed her to a Santa Rosa restaurant on Saturday evening. And suddenly the story became not what the woman felt about her husband’s death, but about how she was dealing with her loss.

  Carmella Carlucci called upstairs to her husband.

  “Tony, breakfast is almost ready.”

  Carlucci came down, collected the Sunday Examiner from outside the front door, carried it into the kitchen and sat at the table. He unwrapped the newspaper and looked at the front page.

  “Would you like toast with the frittata?” his wife asked.

  “Is this fucking beautiful or what?”

  “Anthony, please, your language,” Carmella said, bringing food to the kitchen table.

  “I can’t think of a better way to describe it,” Tony said, showing her the headline.

  GRIEVING WIFE, SECRET LIFE

  There was a half-page photo below the headline, above the fold. A man and a woman sitting together at a restaurant.

  “What is it?” Carmella asked.

  “Get this,” Tony Carlucci said, reading. “Theresa Sandoval, wife of the recently slain Assistant District Attorney, was followed to a Santa Rosa bistro where she was met by District Attorney Liam Duffey. Following dinner, the two were followed to the Good Nite Inn off Redwood Highway where they shared a room for the evening.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “It’s fucking beautiful. Liam Duffey’s career just went down the toilet. I love it. My brother John will love it. There is not enough cheerful news at the prison.”

  “Why are you always so cynical, Tony?”

  “Read the newspaper. The number of idiots out there on the streets makes it very easy.”

  “Eat you breakfast, before it gets cold.”

  “Hold your horses, Carmella, it says there are more pictures on page three,” Carlucci said. “Do you have any grated parmesan for these eggs?”

  I had left a voice message for Travis Duncan on Saturday evening. Duncan called me Sunday morning.

  “What can I do for you, Jake?”

  “I just wanted to thank you again for helping with the Manny Sandoval problem. Vinnie will be relieved to hear the heat is off.”

  “How is the kid doing?”

  “I’m headed over to the hospital later to check it out.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “Thanks, Travis, but I should go alone. No offense, but I think Vinnie finds you frightening.”

  “No offense taken, it’s what I do. Get him my regards.”

  “I will.”

  After speaking with Duncan, I called Joey Vongoli.

  “I’m going over to visit Vinnie in a while, do you want join me?”

  “Sure, I can pick you up.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  “You got it. Did you see the Examiner this morning?” Joey asked.

  “It’s still sitting out front.”

  “Check it out. It’s a kick.”

  While I waited for Joey to arrive, I used the time to call Darlene at her friend’s place on Stinson Beach.

  “When are you coming home?” I asked.

  “Are you in a yank to get the Impala back?”

  “I thought I would take you out to dinner.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Do I need a reason?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a suspicious girl,” Darlene said. “I should be back late afternoon. I’ll drop Tug McGraw at my place, get the sand out of my hair and ears, and pick you up.”

  “Six?”

  “Six it is,” Darlene said. “Thanks again for letting me use the Chevy.”

  “My pleasure. I’m looking forward to dinner.”

  “You may change your tune when I start grilling you about what went down in Los Angeles.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “How is Vinnie?”

  “I’m off to see him now, news at six.”

  “Speaking of news, did you see the Examiner this morning?”

  “As a matter of fact I did.”

  “How about that creep Liam Duffey?”

  “Lieutenant Lopez must be doing an Irish jig.”

  Ralph Morrison was very nervous about the meeting with Lieutenant Folgueras. Folgueras had called earlier that Sunday morning and asked if Ralph would come down to the police station.

  Ralph had been beating himself up since Saturday. Disillusioned and disappointed in himself for being so horribly wrong about Marco Weido. He was planning to apologize and promise to keep his nose forever out of police business the moment he walked into the lieutenant’s office.

  Folgueras beat Ralph to the punch.

  “I will get directly to the point, Mr. Morrison,” the lieutenant began. “Your activities have not gone unnoticed.”

  Here it comes, Ralph thought.

  “Activities, sir?”

  “We are instituting a new program here in Oakland, a beefed-up, more structured civilian crime watch effort. We are hoping to make the public more aware of the challenges we face every day, as members of law enforcement, combating crime. And at the same time, we want to educate civilians with regard to the many ways they can assist in the battle.”

  “That’s good,” Ralph said, a little tongue tied, not sure where Folgueras was headed with it.

  “I was asked to be in charge of our end, in the police department, and I gladly accepted.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “We need someone to head the civilian side of the program, act as a liaison between the department and the public. I recommended you for the position, and the request was granted.”

  “Me?”

  “You would be working for the City of Oakland. The salary is modest, but then again so is mine.”

  “Salary?”

  Ralph was afraid he might be hallucinating.

  “And full benefits—medical, dental, paid vacations and holidays, and tuition if you choose to take classes in police work.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Lieutenant.”

  “Say yes, Ralph.”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall we shake on it?”

  “Absolutely,” Ralph Morrison said, extending his good arm.

  Joey and I walked into the hospital room. Vinnie looked much better, at least physically. Emotionally he was a wreck.

  “Jake, Joey, thank God,” Vinnie said, visibly shaken.

  “Calm down, Strings,” I said. “You’re going to blow the heart monitor.”

  “I lied to you, Jake.”

  “About what?”

  “About how I got hurt. It was Manny Sandoval. He had two of his goons work me over. I owe Manny on some luckless wagers.”

  “I know, Vinnie. Darlene let the cat out of the bag. You can stop worrying about it.”

  “Stop worrying? Look at that. I’m freaking out.”

&nb
sp; Vinnie pointed his finger at something behind us, Joey and I turned to find a vase sitting on a small table against the wall.

  “Flowers?” I asked. “The flowers are freaking you out?”

  “Sandoval sent them, with a get-well note.”

  “That was sweet of Manny.”

  “Don’t you get it, Jake? It’s a message. It’s like the kiss of death.”

  Vinnie Strings was an imaginative young man.

  Next he would be alluding to a horse’s head under the bed sheets.

  “I told you, Vinnie, you can stop worrying about Manny. We got him off your back.”

  “You and Joey?”

  “Jake and Travis Duncan,” Joey said, not one to take undue credit.

  “Travis Duncan, he’s even scarier than Sandoval.”

  “That’s exactly what I was counting on,” I said. “You don’t owe Manny a penny, and he promised to stay away from you. And I recommend you stay clear of him and find a new bookie.”

  “After this mess, I might never make another bet,” Vinnie said. “I’ve really been thinking I should try to give up gambling entirely.”

  “That’s an interesting thought, Vinnie, but be careful not to set unrealistic goals. I’d hate to see you beating yourself up on top of the beating you already took. That being said, we’re very happy to see you looking so much better, and it might please you to know the two apes who roughed you up are doing a lot worse than you are.”

  “A lot worse?”

  “A whole lot worse,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll admit it doesn’t break my heart. You really came through for me, Jake. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll be well enough to join us in box seats at the Giants’ home opener,” Joey suggested.

  Carrying a badge had its advantages. Police identification could often open doors that were otherwise restricted, and garner unauthorized perks and favors.

  Sergeant Johnson was not in the habit of exploiting these benefits. He paid for his coffee while on duty, he paid the bridge and road tolls when off-duty. He even paid the occasional parking ticket, if the transgression was committed when not on official police business.

  But that Sunday afternoon he took full advantage of his status.

  Arriving at the airport, he flashed his detective’s shield at the security check point. It served as effectively as a boarding pass in allowing him admission to the concourse where his wife’s flight from Philadelphia was about to arrive. When Amy came off the plane, her husband was waiting at the gate.

  “Miss me?” she asked, giving him a peck on the cheek.

  “That’s an understatement,” Johnson said, taking her carry-on bag.

  “If it’s any consolation, with the exception of an hour alone with my mother and sister, it was a senseless waste of time.”

  Johnson resisted the urge to admit he was glad to hear it.

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  “Have you been staying out of trouble?” Amy asked.

  “You know me, staying out of trouble is my middle name.”

  He would wait until they were safe at home before concerning Amy with details about the wild ride he had been on since her departure.

  “Let’s blow this pop stand,” Amy said.

  “I did learn some things about myself while you were gone,” Johnson said, when they reached the car. He had difficulty holding anything back from his wife.

  “For example?”

  “I learned I am smarter and maybe a bit braver than I thought I was. And a better man—for the most part, because of you.”

  “That is very sweet, Rocky,” Amy said, eating it up and wanting to hear more. “What else?”

  “I learned I can’t even grill a cheese sandwich.”

  I filled Darlene in on my daring adventures down in Los Angeles, and on Vinnie’s greatly improved physical and psychological situation, over linguini with red clam sauce at Carlucci’s Ristorante in North Beach.

  True to form, Darlene had opted for the ziti with garlic, olive oil and broccoli rabe.

  I had called ahead, to ask if Tony Carlucci would be at the restaurant. I was told he rarely made an appearance on Sunday evenings.

  I faked disappointment.

  Once I felt the coast was clear, I had made reservations for two.

  I had ordered a carafe of Pinot Grigio, for Darlene’s sake. It was not my drink of choice, but I was afraid that pairing bourbon on the rocks with a seafood dish might be considered unsophisticated.

  Darlene was an excellent interrogator. Her ability to dig up every last detail of my past twenty-four hours was as effective as sodium pentothal. Once she was satisfied she had got it all, she moved on to new business.

  “What do you think of Megan Nicolace?” she asked.

  “Detective Nicolace?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t thrilled about the way she used you as bait for Norman Hall.”

  “She was doing her job, and we caught the creep. Megan asked about you.”

  “Asked what about me? My shoe size?”

  “She asked if you were taken.”

  “Taken where?”

  “Taken, spoken for, married, engaged or seeing someone. God you’re impossible,” Darlene said. “Megan seems interested in seeing you again. Socially. She’s a sharp woman, Jake, and not hard to look at.”

  “I’m flattered, but a vice cop is not exactly the girl of my dreams. I would be more inclined to get sociable with Lieutenant Lopez.”

  “Okay, fine, then how about Lopez?”

  “Get serious, Darlene. I’d have as much chance with Laura Lopez as I would have with Rachel Weisz. Besides, I’d hate to jeopardize the dynamic of the special relationship Lopez and I have so effectively developed.”

  “Special relationship?”

  “Smart-mouthed public servant and nuisance private dick.”

  “You are worse than my father,” Darlene sighed.

  “And you, my dear friend, are as bad as my mother.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to spend time with a bright, attractive female once in a while.”

  “I’m doing that right now.”

  When she had a mind to, Darlene Roman could exhibit a truly dazzling smile.

  Sunday night.

  I was alone and protected inside the walls of my house in the Presidio.

  I should have been tired, but I couldn’t sleep.

  So instead, nestled in the bosom of a well-worn armchair, I kept company with a tall glass of George Dickel sour mash whisky over ice and a dog-eared paperback.

  And in a few hours, I had followed Quasimodo’s journey to its end.

  Esmeralda had taken the rap for killing Captain Phoebus. She was innocent of the crime, but confessed to avoid further torture. The gypsy girl was sentenced to be hung.

  Frollo, who actually did murder the captain, kept that inconvenient truth under his archdeacon’s hat.

  The hunchback took the gypsy girl into Notre Dame, to protect her within the sanctuary of the cathedral. He had fallen in love with Esmeralda, for her kindness.

  Pierre Gringoire, the poet, rescues the girl from the cathedral, but she eventually falls into the hands of Claude Frollo, arch villain.

  Frollo, who was attracted to the beautiful gypsy girl for what could be called un-Christian like reasons, offers her a choice—Esmeralda can either declare her love for the archdeacon, or face the hangman.

  Esmeralda chooses what she feels is the lesser of two evils and ends up on the scaffold.

  Quasimodo discovers the girl missing, and frantically searches for her.

  Finally, from the north tower of Notre Dame, he spots Esmeralda, in a white dress, hanging from the gallows.

  Realizing this was the work of the archdeacon, Quasimodo’s quasi-father, the hunchback throws Frollo from the tower.

  Seeing Esmeralda and Frollo below, both dead, Quasimodo cries out.

  There is all I ever loved!

  Quasimodo’s story
saddened me.

  But for me, the true tragedy was voiced in the hunchback’s ultimate lament, Quasimodo’s sense of loss.

  It defied the suggestion, If you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose.

  Even the wretched, tormented bell ringer, disfigured and abandoned at birth, shunned by his peers, had something to lose.

  My personal feelings of loss and sadness, which visit me occasionally, were intensified when Hugo’s epic finale brought to mind those I had loved and who were now gone. Forever.

  Jimmy Pigeon. Sally French. My father.

  But then, the little voice in my head that thankfully reminds me at times I am luckier and more fortunate than a good number of tragic figures from classic literature did just that.

  And I considered those I cared about, and who seemed to feel the same about me, who were still among the living.

  Darlene. Joey. Vinnie. My mother.

  Maybe even the good Sergeant Johnson, a little bit.

  With these thoughts in mind, and as much as I had regretted doing so in the past, I fell asleep in the chair.

  Back to TOC

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Although he made a guest appearance in Chasing Charlie Chan (2013), this is the first new Jake Diamond novel since Counting to Infinity (2004). There are many to thank for the support and inspiration necessary to continue the crazy business of writing books. I would like to recognize those most guilty.

  All of the readers who thought enough of the series, and Gravesend, to spread the word privately and publically—and kept pressing me for word about when Jake Diamond would be back.

  Down & Out Books and Eric Campbell, who gave Diamond a new lease on life.

  Sonny Wasinger and Daniella Ba’Rashees—for always being there to welcome me when I finally hit the tarmac.

  Linda Abramo, my remarkable sister and friend, for her endless encouragement and tireless promotion.

  And to whatever it is that drives me to write—thanks for the lift.