Chasing Charlie Chan - Special Edition: Includes Catching Water in a Net

by J. L. Abramo

  “I’m looking for a book,” Jimmy said when the clerk finally looked up.

  “You came to the right place.”

  The nametag on his lapel identified the comedian as WHITMAN DONALDSON.

  “A particular book,” Jimmy said.

  “Could you give me the author’s name and book title?”

  “Homes of the Hollywood Stars,” said Jimmy. “Can’t tell you who wrote it.”

  The kid punched his computer keyboard.

  “We have one copy, sir. Checked out.”

  “Could you tell me who borrowed it?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I could tell you when it’s due in,” said Donaldson, “but the identity of the borrower is confidential.”

  Dead end. Jimmy was debating his next masterful move when something in the bin beside Donaldson caught his eye.

  “Well, how do you like that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What are those?” Jimmy asked, pointing.

  “They came in last night, through the after-hours drop box.”

  “Could you do me a huge favor, Whitman?” Jimmy asked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.

  “What kind of favor?”

  “Could you grab that book? The one we’ve been talking about. And please use this to handle it. I’d like to borrow it.”

  “What’s this about? Are you a cop or something?”

  “Something. Private eye,” said Jimmy.

  “No kidding.”

  “No kidding. Could you help me out here, Whitman?” Pigeon asked, holding out the handkerchief.

  The kid tentatively took the handkerchief and used it to pick out the book and place it on the counter.

  Jimmy glanced at the book cover and the name of the author below the title.

  Edward Richards. No kidding at all.

  “You’ll need a library card,” Donaldson said.

  “Never leave home without it,” Jimmy said, pulling the card from his wallet.

  Donaldson took the card, scanned it and the book, and stood waiting for Jimmy’s next instruction.

  “Do you have a bag?” asked Jimmy.

  The kid reached under the counter and came up with a large plastic bag labeled SMPL.

  “Perfect, could you place the book in the bag?”

  Donaldson did as he was asked and then he handed the handkerchief and library card back to Pigeon.

  “We’re almost done, Whitman. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” said Jimmy. He returned the card to his wallet, slipped out a twenty-dollar bill and put it on the counter. “Now, what if I try to guess the name of the last borrower and you blink your eyes if I guess correctly? Would that help ease the confidentiality dilemma?”

  “I guess it could,” said Donaldson, slipping the bill into his pocket.

  “By chance, was it borrowed by Leonard Archer?”

  The kid checked his computer monitor again.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure it was dropped off last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Jimmy said, grabbing the plastic bag.

  “Please don’t mention it,” said Donaldson.

  Jimmy walked to his apartment. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from a box in a kitchen drawer, moved to his recliner and started through the book. First he checked for markings. Pencil marks, bent page corners, slips of paper. Anything that might indicate Archer’s particular interest. Nothing. But Jimmy was certain there was something here. Lenny was already dead when the book was dropped at the after-hours box, someone else had returned it to the library. Who? And why bother, if not to insure that an overdue book wouldn’t bring unwelcome attention to the dead man who had last checked it out, the dead man who had written it, or the curious coincidence. Pigeon began to read from page one, hoping for a clue. Twenty pages in, his eyes were burning. Residual effects of the vacation in South Carolina. Jimmy decided to give his eyes a moment’s rest. The ringing of a phone woke him. He couldn’t feel his hands. He glanced at his wristwatch, almost five; he had slept for nearly four hours. He tore off the plastic gloves and grabbed for the telephone.

  “The window guy is over here,” Vinnie said when Jimmy answered the call. “If you want the new window painted he needs to know how you want it to read.”

  “Is he done installing the glass?”

  “He’s finishing up now.”

  “Cut him loose, ask him to send a bill. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Pigeon used one of the discarded gloves to return the book to the plastic library bag. He rinsed his face at the bathroom sink, slipped into a fresh shirt, grabbed the bag and walked back to the office.

  The question of how to adorn the office door window was the furthest thing from Jimmy Pigeon’s mind.

  MEG KELLY

  Pigeon peeked through the newly repaired office door and caught Vinnie Strings in an unguarded moment; sitting behind Jimmy’s desk, hands locked behind his neck, justifiably admiring the fine job he had done cleaning the mess left by Lenny Archer’s murderers. Vinnie jumped to attention as Jimmy pushed the door open.

  “Good work, Vinnie,” Pigeon said. “Very good work.”

  Jimmy walked across the Oriental rug now covering the area where Lenny had died. He recalled the position of Archer’s body and put it together with what he had heard on the tape recording. Archer had moved to the door, had been knocked back, voluntarily or involuntarily fired his weapon and been shot. Lenny kept a small handgun in his desk, the report from Archer’s gun was clearly audible but apparently not loud enough to attract outside attention. The second gunshot, and the shot that ended Archer’s life, were muted. Pigeon looked around the office searching for Archer’s spent bullet. He found the spot, high on the wall above the door, where a small section of plasterboard had been removed. Jimmy guessed Archer had been going down when his weapon fired. Vinnie followed Jimmy’s gaze.

  “I picked up some plaster and paint,” Strings said.

  “We’ll deal with that later,” said Jimmy. “Now I need you to get this over to Ray Boyle at Parker Center.”

  Pigeon walked over to Vinnie and handed Strings the plastic bag from the library.

  “Don’t touch the book; we need Boyle to have the lab check for prints. Ask Ray to call me with results. When they’re done, I want you to pick it up and bring it back here.”

  “Boyle will want to know why you’re sending it over to him at the LAPD when there’s a crime lab just a few blocks from here,” said Vinnie, wondering himself.

  “Tell him you have no idea and let’s leave it at that for now, until I’ve thought it out some. Be patient, Vinnie, I’ll keep you informed and I’ll need your help.”

  “Great,” said Vinnie. “I’m on my way.”

  The suggestion that he would be involved was enough for Strings to temporarily suspend his nagging curiosity.

  Vinnie headed out the door, a young man on a mission.

  Jimmy debated whether to call to inquire about the police investigation. Detective Raft had made it clear that Pigeon’s help wasn’t needed or welcome, but at the same time indifference would be suspect. Jimmy decided he would check in with Raft in the morning.

  It was after six, Jimmy had a dinner engagement with Meg Kelly at eight. He left the office and as he shut the door he glanced at the newly installed window. He decided that before it read Pigeon Investigation he would work to earn the title.

  “This is all he had?” asked Jackson Masters, looking over the rough notes that had cost Lenny Archer and Edward Richards their lives.

  “That’s all Richards gave to the PI. That’s all we found in the dick’s office. We searched Richard’s place and grabbed his computer. And had a long talk with him before he died. He told us it was all he had. I believed him.”

  “He was researching a fucking book?”

  “That’s what he said. That’s what Richards did, he wrote fucking books.”

  “What if someone connects the two ho
micides?” Masters asked.

  “I don’t see that happening. We were on Richards from the time he stopped at the hotel asking questions about the woman. He never met with Archer before Sunday night.”

  “Use your head, Frank. Richards had to have spoken to Archer before Sunday to set up the meeting and Archer had the library book in his office. There could be telephone records. Archer may have dropped the writer’s name. We need to establish a connection before someone else does.”

  “What sort of connection?”

  “Do what you always do, make it look like something drug related,” said Masters, tossing the notes into the fireplace. “What happened to Richard’s computer?”

  “It was a laptop; Tully took care of it with a sledge hammer.”

  “Will Tully hold up?”

  “Absolutely. You should have seen him work on Archer and Richards. Tully’s got ice in his veins.”

  “Throw some evidence around and find a fall guy. I want these two homicides cleared before the old man gets back.”

  “I might be better if I knew what this was all about,” said Raft.

  “How long have we been doing business, Frank?”

  “A while.”

  “And haven’t you always been well taken care of?”

  “Very well.”

  “I ask you to do something and you do it, am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you do not ask me why,” said Masters, reaching into a desk drawer. He pulled out a brick-sized package neatly wrapped in plain brown paper and tossed it to Raft. “Don’t spend it all in one place, Frank. And keep an eye on Jimmy Pigeon. I know the man’s reputation and he’s no idiot.”

  “No problem.”

  “That’s what you said when I asked you to keep an eye on Ed Richards. Use the back door when you leave. And don’t call me, Frank. I want to learn about your progress from the newspapers.”

  They had been silent during dinner. Meg had waited quietly and patiently for Jimmy to bring up the subject of Lenny Archer.

  “That’s the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” Jimmy said as he dried the last of the dishes and Meg poured the coffee at the kitchen table.

  “How would you know, Jimmy? You told me this morning that everything you’ve put in your mouth since last Wednesday has tasted like ragweed.”

  “I simply wanted to let it be known I consider you a remarkable chef.”

  “The fact that you eat in my café five or six times a week says it all. Lose the dishtowel and sit, Jimmy. We need to talk a little about Lenny.”

  “I don’t know much more than I did this morning, Meg.”

  “We’ll get to that, but first we need to think about what to do when the police release Lenny’s body.”

  “I found papers at his apartment. Lenny served with the Navy; they owe him a military burial. I’ll check into the details tomorrow.”

  “Let me know. I’ll plan to be there for the service,” said Meg. “Any luck locating the brother?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Only that they worked together before the falling out. I suppose his brother is or was in the business.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “It might have been Norman, or Nelson, I can’t recall. Lenny stayed away from the subject.”

  “Well, that’s something to go on. I’m off tomorrow morning; I can do some digging around if it would help.”

  “It would help a lot. Meg, when you saw Lenny on Friday did he say anything about the author of the book he was looking through?”

  “No.”

  “The book was written by Edward Richards, the same Ed Richards who was killed a few hours after Lenny died.”

  “My God, Jimmy, I’d met Ed Richards. He wrote for the Santa Monica Outlook, he came into the café a few times.”

  “Ever see Richards and Lenny together?”

  “No. Do you think the murders were connected?”

  “I do.”

  “What do the police think?”

  “I haven’t heard.”

  “Did you tell the detectives about the book?”

  “No, I’m waiting to see what their investigation turns up,” Jimmy said. “And I want to talk with Ray Boyle first. I trust Ray.”

  “And you don’t trust the detectives on the case?”

  “It’s more a matter of not knowing them. I know Ray.”

  “You look worn out, Jimmy. You’ve had a rough few days.”

  “I have a feeling it’s going to get rougher, Meg. I feel as if I need to keep moving on this before it slips away from me.”

  “Do you have time for another cup of coffee?”

  “Sure, I’d love another cup of coffee.”

  Meg rose from the kitchen table and moved for the coffee pot.

  “Jimmy,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “It would be okay if you slipped your shoes off.”

  It was a welcome invitation.

  Pigeon slipped off his shoes and put them back on his feet the following morning.

  RICARDO DIAZ

  Jimmy was planted in the chair at his desk before nine on Wednesday morning. He surveyed the office, wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling. Looking for anything he might have missed or the police might have missed. Anything Lenny might have left to help explain the cryptic postcard.

  He was rewarded with a stabbing headache and decided to try his luck with phone calls. Pigeon pulled Detective Raft’s card from his wallet and reached for the telephone. Before he could get to the handset, the phone was ringing.

  “Archer and Pigeon,” Jimmy said. It was habit.

  “This is Boyle. What the fuck is going on out there?”

  Ray Boyle was an LAPD homicide detective. When Jimmy and Ray didn’t dwell too much on their earlier professional encounters they got along fairly well.

  “Good morning to you too, Ray.”

  “Your right-hand delinquent snagged me before I could get out of my office last night and he handed me a library book to check for fingerprints. I can only guess you chose not to employ the Santa Monica Police Department lab because you were afraid they would either laugh you out of town or simply stone you.”

  “Did you run it Ray?”

  “Yes, I fucking ran it.”

  “No prints, right?”

  “Not one,” said Boyle. “So what the fuck is going on out there?”

  “Lenny Archer was killed.”

  “I heard. I was sorry to hear it.”

  “Someone took that book from our office, Ray, wiped it clean and dropped it in a slot at the library the night Archer died. The author of the book coincidentally turned up dead the same night. Edward Richards.”

  “No shit. Who caught the case?”

  “I don’t know who caught the Richard’s homicide, but LASD took Lenny. Since when does the LA County Sheriff’s Department bother with our little beach town?”

  “It happens; luck of the draw, the LASD gets around. Who are the primaries?”

  “Raft and Tully. Know them?”

  “Tully, no. Raft, unfortunately. Had to work with him once or twice. Dealing with Frank Raft is no picnic. Look, Jimmy. All due respect to Archer, I liked the man, but I don’t have the time or the desire to butt heads with Raft or the Sheriff’s Department; not to mention the LAPD brass would seriously hate me sticking my nose in.”

  “Are you saying you can’t help me, Ray?”

  “I’m saying I’d rather you didn’t ask.”

  “Preference noted. Help me, Ray.”

  “Fuck,” said Ray Boyle. “What the hell do you need me to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet, I need to check in with Raft and hear the official line. Meanwhile, maybe you could just keep an ear to the ground.”

  “Don’t mention my name, Pigeon.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ray. I’ll send Vinnie Strings over to collect the book.”

  “Tell him he can pick it up in the lobby
. I really don’t need to see him again so soon,” Boyle said. “That kid makes me nervous.”

  “I’m sure the feeling is mutual, Ray. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I can hardly wait,” said Boyle, just before the line went dead.

  Jimmy placed the headset in its cradle and took a deep breath before lifting it again and punching in Raft’s phone number at the LA County Sheriff’s Department Malibu Station in Agoura. He was politely informed that Detective Raft was out in the field and Tully was out for the day. Jimmy left his name with a request that Raft return his call. Then he dialed directory assistance with the hope of finding a lead to information on the subject of United States Navy veteran burial services.

  Ricardo Diaz sat at the counter of Armando’s Diner in Woodland Hills trying to remove a strand of hair from his sausage and egg omelet without giving it too much thought.

  He nearly had it locked between his thumb and index finger when Frank Raft hopped onto the stool beside him.

  “High protein breakfast, Diaz?”

  Diaz looked up from his plate. Raft sat grinning and nodding like a bobble-head doll on amphetamines.

  “Detective Graft, did I forget to feed the parking meter? Don’t you have more important things to do?”

  “What makes you think you’re not important to me, Ricky?”

  “Only my friends call me Ricky, Frank.”

  “What makes you think I’m not your friend?” Raft asked. “How is your court case looking, Ricky?”

  “According to my lawyer, it’s hopeless; he was shocked when they let me out on bail. How is that for confidence? If I didn’t know he was right on, I would fire the useless bastard. Why the interest? Worried about where you’ll cop your buzz after they put me away?”

  “Actually, I stopped by to offer you a way out.”

  “It’s beyond you, Frank. The DA has me cold. Three kilos of cocaine with intent to sell, two priors, fifteen to twenty, end of story. I’ve got nothing to bargain with. I only pray the food in Chino is fucking better than this,” Diaz said, pushing his plate away.