"If it's hot, it's a complete surprise to me," DeMille said. "He told me it belonged to his-"
"When you bailed her out, was anyone else there?" Carr interrupted.
"Huh?"
"At the jail to pick her up?"
"No. In fact, I didn't even wait for her to come out of the lockup. I just posted the bond with the jail clerk and went about my business. I was busy as hell that day. I just posted the bond and went on my way. Even when bail is posted, it takes an hour or so for the jail to process a prisoner out of the system. I never wait once I post a bond."
Carr massaged the edge of the plate. "So you bailed her out strictly as a favor and you weren't around when they let her out of jail. Is that what you're telling us?"
Cecil DeMille tugged his ear for a moment. "Okay, Bones was with me when I bailed her out," he said sheepishly. "He was still waiting there for her to come out when I left."
"Do you have Bones's address?" Carr said.
"No. If he wants to get in touch, he calls me."
Higgins gestured toward the office. DeMille reached out to take the plate, but Carr shook his head. "You're going to keep it?" he said. Carr nodded.
Back in DeMille's office Carr picked up a card index off DeMille's desk. He looked up a telephone number and address for Bones, took out a note pad and copied the information. He shoved the note pad back in his coat pocket.
"I guess I forgot that I had his number," DeMille said nervously.
The two men turned to leave.
"What about the plate?"
Carr tucked it under his arm. "What about it?"
"If it turns up stolen, you can have it. He told me it came from his aunt. He said she-"
"Thanks," Carr said as he opened the door. Higgins followed him out of the office.
That night at Ling's, Carr and Higgins hashed over the case as they sat at the bar.
"DeMille didn't tell us everything," Higgins said. He threw back a shot glass of whiskey and grimaced. Roughly, he wiped his mouth with a bar napkin.
"I agree."
"So maybe we should pay him another visit."
Ling filled Higgins's shot glass and dropped fresh ice in Carr's scotch and water.
"For all we know, he might have killed her," Higgins said, "or at least helped Bones do the job. For that matter, maybe he knows Bailey ... hell, it could be any number of things." He turned his bar stool to face Carr. "I say we bag his ass for murder and let him sit in the county jail for a couple of days. It'll loosen him up ... and if it doesn't, we haven't lost anything."
"I want to trace the silver plate first. I've got a hunch."
"So you find out it's stolen? That and ten cents will buy you a cup of coffee."
"Maybe I can tie it to an M.O."
Higgins downed another shot, wiped his mouth again. "Then again, maybe you can't. And you'll have wasted your time when we could have been getting somewhere on this investigation. I say we stop the cat-and-mouse bullshit and turn on the pressure."
"I think we need to surveil Bones for a few days."
"Great idea," Higgins said sarcastically. "But who the hell are we gonna get to do it? He knows you, and I can't do it alone. It takes at least six cars for a decent surveillance. Where are we gonna come up with five bodies? If I ask my lieutenant for manpower I'll have to fill him in on the caper. If I do that, he'll call the captain and so on up the line. The whole damn department daisy chain will know about it. And if just one officer along the way says no I'll be out of business ... the cat will be out of the bag and the brass will be in an uproar because they weren't notified from day one. I'll be up shit creek and we'll still be short five bodies."
Carr twirled his drink on the bar. "If I tell No Waves, he'll notify the Chief of Police in Beverly Hills because the Treasury Manual of Operations requires notification to other agencies in an internal investigation. The Chief would probably notify Bailey's pal Cleaver, and the cat would still be out of the bag."
"We could make up another reason why we want to follow Bones. We could say it's because he's associated with Tony Dio or something."
Carr shook his head. "It'll never work. The men on surveillance would figure out we were pulling a fast one." Higgins nodded in agreement. "Then how do we do it?"
Carr lit a cigarette. "We play Who Do You Trust." He unfolded a bar napkin and pulled out a pen.
"Ernie Kun would help," Higgins said. "He once told me he hated Bailey ... some deal about Bailey shaking down one of his informants a couple of years ago."
Carr wrote Kun's name on the napkin. "B. B. Martin and Bob Tomsic from the Field Office will help. They can take heat ... and Larry Sheafe."
"Ed Henderson owes me a favor," Higgins said. "Put his name down."
Having compiled a list of names, Carr handed Ling a dollar bill and asked for a dollar's worth of dimes. Ling scooped dimes from the cash register and dropped them in Carr's hand.
For the next half hour, Carr and Higgins alternated placing phone calls from the pay booth just outside the front door. Within an hour Carr had placed a check mark beside all five names.
"If this thing comes apart we'll all burn and the guys we've brought in will have us to blame," Higgins said.
"Think positive," Carr said, turning to him. Neither he nor Higgins smiled.
As he wound carefully in and out of the westbound Santa Monica Freeway traffic, Carr half listened to a radio talk show host interview the tenor-voiced governor of California. "It's like the song goes," the governor said, "...The Times They Are A-Changin'... and the title of that song has a lot of meaning for Californians..."
Carr turned it off and thought of Sally for a while. Because he was sleepy, he had both front windows rolled down. The smog was gone for the day, allowing him to breathe deeply a few times. Because he was close to Santa Monica, there was a hint of salt air. Carr turned off the next exit and pulled into the first service station with a telephone booth. He dialed Sally's number and listened as the phone rang about ten times. He hung up. After filling the sedan's gas tank with regular and buying a newspaper from a vending machine, he steered back onto the freeway.
A few minutes later he was in his apartment. He took off his suit coat and tossed it on the sofa, kicked off his shoes and plopped down with the newspaper. He read the front page and the editorial pages (they were all he ever read), stood up and went to the sink. He tossed the newspaper in a trashcan. Because the sink was brimming with dirty dishes he opened the cupboard and searched for dishwashing detergent. He remembered he was out. "Damn," he said out loud.
The doorbell rang.
It was Sally, dressed in a blue jogging outfit with a matching sweatband. Her hair was soaked with perspiration and she was out of breath. She pecked his check with a kiss as she brushed past him.
"I called you a while ago," he said.
"Sure you did," she replied sarcastically. She stared at the messy kitchen. "And I'm sure you were just getting ready to wash those dirty dishes." She sat down on the sofa and leaned back. Her eyes closed.
"Why are you out jogging at eleven P.M?" he said.
"Because I need the exercise." She didn't open her eyes.
"You're taking a chance at this time of night."
"I can't live my life worrying about such things," she said, this time looking at him. "I was going to ask why you haven't called me. But if I did, you would tell me you've been busy. Then I would get angry. So I won't ask."
"Would you like a drink?"
She shook her head. "Are you aware you're still wearing your gun?"
Carr looked at his side. Hastily he unclipped the inside-the-belt holster and went into the bedroom, opened a dresser drawer and shoved the gun in it. He closed the drawer and returned to the living room. Sally stood in the middle of the room with her hands clasped together behind her neck, doing torso-twisting exercises. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. When she didn't respond he moved away, letting his hands rest lightly on her shoulders.
"Ou
r relationship has been a sexual one right from the beginning," she said. "We get along in bed. I sometimes wonder if there is anything... I mean anything beyond sex between you and me. Even when you tell me you love me I'm not sure that you really mean it."
"I mean it," he said softly.
She pushed his arms away. "I have to do my hair and nails tonight. I've got to go. It's late and I have an early-morning deposition. She jogged to the door and opened it. Having blown him a kiss, she jogged down the steps and into the darkness.
Carr shut the door and locked it. He thought of his first date with Sally. They had gone to a jazz club in Studio City ... was it nine or ten years ago?
After a search, he found a container of liquid hand soap under the sink in the bathroom. Using it as a substitute for dishwashing detergent, he washed and dried the pile of dishes and glasses in the sink, then put them away.
The telephone rang. It was Sally.
"You're having second thoughts about marrying me, aren't you?" she said.
He didn't answer.
"I know you are," she said, her voice cracking. "I can tell."
The phone clicked.
****
FOURTEEN
AFTER A wrong turn or two in the hilly residential area of Beverly Hills, Carr noticed a curbside sign that spelled out Beverly Hills Revolver Club in delicate type. He turned right and followed a driveway that led up a slight elevation to the club's parking lot. In the corner of the lot was a small building with a canopied entrance. He parked his sedan and got out. The view from the lot was of the Santa Monica Freeway, which guarded the southern perimeter of Beverly Hills like a moat.
On the other side of the freeway was a bank of gray apartment houses that Carr recognized as one of the many L.A. neighborhoods populated by Mexicans who had fled their cardboard houses in Tijuana for the high life of loud mufflers and garment district piecework. All things considered, Carr thought to himself, even cramped quarters in a run-down apartment house with a greenish-tinted swimming pool was better than cardboard city.
He entered a lobby and showed his badge to a red-haired receptionist with a bouffant hairdo. She wore a tan safari blouse. He told her what he wanted.
"Artie can probably help you," she said as if she were interested. "He's on the range right now." She pointed to a glass door. "You can wait for him inside if you like."
Carr thanked her and went over to the glass door. She pressed a button. The lock clicked and Carr went inside, making his way down a hallway to a glass-enclosed viewing area behind an indoor firing range with four firing positions.
Three middle-aged women stood at positions on the firing line holding loaded revolvers. They each wore ear protectors and jogging outfits. Artie, the rangemaster, a flyweight-sized man with a safari jacket similar to the receptionist's, checked the ladies' weapons and stepped back. Using a microphone, he gave firing instructions. Target lights came on and the targets (man-sized gorillas pointing guns) faced front. The women fired, turning the targets sideways. Without conversation, the women reloaded. At the end of the firing set, Artie retrieved the women's targets and gave shooting advice. The women chattered and giggled with one another on the way out.
Carr left the booth and strolled onto the firing line. He showed Artie his badge.
"I could tell you were a cop," Artie said, offering a jockey-sized hand. They shook hands, and Artie made a salesman's grin.
"I recovered a thirty-two revolver during the course of an investigation," Carr said. "It's registered to you."
"No lie? Where'd you find it?"
"It was used during the commission of a burglary."
"I have nine or ten thirty-twos registered to me ... or to the Revolver Club I should say. We used them on the firing line. They're small. The ladies love 'em. Purse size. Personally, I like automatics. I fired a new style Beretta last week that was a dream." He made his hand into a gun. "Bap bap bap bap. People in this town are scared shitless. Muggings, burglaries. The scumbags from Watts drive through like marauders ripping off whatever or whomever they see. They thrive on weakness. Everybody thought I was crazy to open a gun club in Beverly Hills. They said the rich folks would never go for it. Well, I've made enough money in the last year to open another one in San Marino. Wealthy people believe in self-preservation. Have no doubt. Did ya see the women who just walked out of here?"
Carr nodded.
"Anyone who tries to rob one of them is a goner. They're not great shots, but they know how to pull the trigger. Fuck with any of those grandmas, and they'll scatter your brains." He laughed.
"How did you lose the thirty-two?" Carr asked.
Artie shrugged, bent down and picked up a few expended shells off the floor. "Don't really know."
"When did you first notice that the gun was missing?"
"Hard to say," Artie said as he reached for a light switch, turning off the target lights. Carr followed him out of the range area and down the hallway to an office. The wood-paneled walls were covered with shooting certificates. Trophies decorated the top of a desk. Artie motioned Carr to a chair as he sat down behind the desk in a swivel chair that made him look even shorter than he was. "Ever had to shoot anybody?" he said.
"Yes. How do you keep track of the guns you have here?"
"What's this all about?"
"A burglar ended up with one of your guns," Carr said impatiently. "I'm here to find out how he got it."
Artie stood up, closed the door and returned to the desk.
"What if I was to tell you I didn't know what happened to it?"
Carr said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
"I had it in my car one night," he said. "I was barhopping... I must have hit every place on the -West Side of town. I got arrested for drunk driving about two in the morning. I bailed out that night. It wasn't until two or three days later that I realized the gun was missing. Yes, I know it's illegal to carry a loaded gun around in one's car. My answer to that is that I'd rather be safe than sorry. I'd rather be tried by twelve than carried by six. I'm ready to kill to protect myself and I don't care who knows it."
"Where?..."
Artie raised his hands and shook his head at the same time. "I have no idea where I lost it. It could have been stolen from my car at any one of eight or ten bars we hit that night. I had it in the glove compartment."
"Where were you arrested?"
"Right here in the city. On La Cienega. I was driving south on La Cienega. I'm pretty sure it was south. I was bombed, man. Three sheets to the wind. Soused. My girl friend was with me. She said I drank twenty grasshoppers during the course of the evening. If you so much as showed me a bottle of crème de menthe right now, I'd throw up right on this desk. Since it happened I drink only vodka on the rocks. You wanna know why? It's because I hate vodka. I drink less. For me it's the answer."
"What happened to your car after you were arrested?" Carr said.
"The police impounded it I guess. My girl friend picked it up for me the next day. The hangover was so bad I couldn't get out of-"
"Do you have a copy of the impound receipt?"
Artie pulled open the center drawer of the desk and rummaged through a mound of papers. "My lady friend stops by now and then to help me with the paperwork around here. Great gal. Just divorced from Trent Beckwith, the producer. She bought me a Rolex for my birthday ... here it is." He pulled a blue receipt from the drawer and handed it to Carr. It was a receipt from a police contract tow service.
"May I keep this?"
"Sure," Artie said.
Charles Carr stood up to leave.
"You should stop by sometime when you have time to fire. I like to have cops around."
"Thanks," Carr said, moving to the door.
"The women around here all have lots of bucks. Lots of bucks and lots of time on their hands."
Carr opened the door, paused briefly. "Why didn't you report the gun missing?"
"I was embarrassed to tell the police I couldn't remember where
I'd been that night."
"Thanks again," Carr said. He walked out the door.
It was Saturday morning.
Three weeks had passed since Jack Kelly had been shot. With the single exception of Carr's trip to Las Vegas with Sally, he hadn't taken a day off. As he parked at the curb in front of the auto impound yard, Carr realized that for the last few days he'd been waking up tired and staying that way all day ... and he'd been drinking more than usual. He rubbed his eyes and got out of the sedan.
He walked past an open chain link gate into a lot filled with cars. A doorless shack that served as an office was next to the gate. Most of them were luxury cars; a few were smashed up, including a purple Maserati that looked like it had been crushed with a steamroller. All the vehicles bore grease-penciled numbers on the windshields.
Carr showed his badge to a puffy-eyed heavy woman whose feet rested on a grease-covered table in the shack. She wore a dingy mechanic's shirt and trousers and a smudged baseball hat that covered her closely cropped gray hair. She was reading race results.
"What can I do ya for?" she said in a nasal voice that reminded Carr of male comedians who imitated women.
Carr handed her an impound receipt. "I'm tracing a gun," he said. "The man whom the gun is registered to told me that he was arrested for drunk driving a couple of months ago, about a mile from here. The Beverly Hills Police booked him and impounded his car. He says the gun was missing from the trunk of his car when he checked it out of this lot."
"Did he make out a theft report?" she asked.
"He didn't report the gun missing because he didn't notice it was gone until a week or so after he'd bailed out and picked up his car. He figured making a theft report wouldn't help him get the gun back."
To Die in Beverly Hills Page 17