“Your wife did my hair once a month for four years or so. She spoke of you all the time; always nice things. She said you looked like Tyrone Power and had your picture there to prove it. You certainly do look like that famous actor a lot. It makes me feel as though I know you.”
Leslie immediately saw the woman to be especially sharp, not at all what he’d expect of a mere bar maid.
Many knew of the killing of his mother and father in Guadalajara, Mexico, by robbers and then only three weeks later, of his pregnant wife in her car by a drunk driver. Ironically, his wife-to-be had been drunk speeding through a stop sign when patrolman Jack Leslie arrested her years before - that was how they had met. Later on, she quit alcohol totally.
“Thanks miss. That’s quite thoughtful of you. But right now we’d best get on with this. How well did you know that fellow on the floor? And oh yes; and what’s his name?”
“His name is Jay Williams. Jay the Second, I think. He’s an executive with the company that insures the Cecilia hotel. But I don’t know the name of his company.
“Anyway, Jay used to live in San Diego when he first sold the insurance to Mr. Stevens. The company’s based in Los Angeles someplace and Jay would come down to ‘service the account’, as he called it; whatever that means. He’d come down about once a month I think, from L.A.”
“And he’d come up to your apartment for a visit then?” Leslie asked.
“Oh no, not at all. This was the first time he was ever up here. I saw him at the bar any number of times – oh, for maybe the last two or three years.
“Lately, he got friendlier; you know, full of compliments or maybe just flattery; take your pick. He told me he did woodworking in his garage and was curious to see my knotty pine cabinetry. He said he’d never known of knotty pine used for fine cabinetry and here I’ve got it in the kitchen and the living room, too.
“At Christmas I replaced our twenty seven inch TV with a sixty incher and a clever cabinet-maker altered the arrangement in there so you can’t even tell it’s been changed.”
Leslie saw the kitchen layout as being much like his own; it was thoroughly modern although he had never seen cabinets made of such wood as those. He thought they were easily as beautiful as those of oak in his own kitchen.
An enormous built-in refrigerator anchored the left leg of the U-shape and a double oven cabinet ended the right leg. The cooking burners were in the center with a fancy hood over and pretty tile work all around.
The island held the sink and dishwasher. The counters were of grey granite and the windows covered almost the whole south wall of the apartment. There was a good view of downtown San Diego, the bay and even the Pacific Ocean beyond, from those windows.
“But Jay’s an impressive gentleman; no dirty jokes, no naughty comments,” she continued. “I’m sorry; I guess I should say he was a gentleman.”
“Was he married?”
“I don’t know. He told me he almost got married. He said he was engaged to a girl here in San Diego when he was in his mid-twenties, I think he said, but then she got leukemia. That’s a slow death cancer of the blood, as you know, and she refused to marry him but he hung onto her until she died after having that disease for about eight years; such a sorry thing for him.”
“Can you think of anyone who’d want to kill him?”
“Oh goodness, no! He was so nice, but then I only saw him to speak to in the bar. I can’t think why anybody would want to harm him. Oh no. Can’t he be covered with a sheet or coat or something? I’d hate for my daughter to wake up and see him there like that. She’s so young, you know.”
“No miss,” Leslie said, “we’ve got some crime scene investigators coming and we mustn’t disturb anything. Do you expect your daughter to wake anytime soon? We’re trying to keep quiet here.”
Just then there was a light knock on the hall door.
Sergeant Jackson jumped up from the stool where he had been listening in on the conversation and they heard the officer outside say something to him.
“Jack, it’s the building owner,” Jackson told Leslie. “Want to talk to him?”
“Sir, that’s my ex-husband,” the lady said. “He lives next to the office, down by the entrance. Maybe he saw something.”
“It’s okay with you if he comes in?” Leslie asked her.
“Oh sure; we don’t hate each other. Not anymore,” she sighed.
Leslie waved to Jackson to bring him in and saw the man was about average height. His black hair was disheveled and he needed a shave. He wore a sleek blue silk bathrobe and slippers.
“Sergeant Leslie, this is Winfred McCarty, my ex-husband,” she said with no emotion.
“What in hell’s going on? I woke up to go to the bathroom and see a bunch of cop cars out front. Who’s that in there on the floor?” McCarty asked.
“Winnie,” the lady said, “that’s a really nice man that I’ve known at work for some time and he came home with me to have some wine with me, my bad habit, like I always have after work. Please be quiet; little Anne’s still asleep. I remembered I had run out of wine here so I bought a bottle at the bar. But darn, I had put the bottle in a sack to bring home and somehow forgot it. I don’t know why I was so obsessed with getting that wine except I’d paid twenty bucks for it and I was sure it wouldn’t still be there when I went back to work Tuesday night. I left him here, checking out the cabinetry when I went to get my wine and when I got back, he was there on the hall floor, dead.
“Mr. Stevens even laughed at me at the hotel to think I’d forgotten something I’d paid for. I couldn’t have been gone but maybe thirty minutes at the very most. I checked to see little Anne was okay and then called the police. That’s all I know. These gentlemen are investigating and maybe you saw something or heard something.”
“I’ll be damned. Is he really fat?” Winfred McCarty asked.
“No, he’s all muscles, seems like,” she told him. “He told me he lifts weights to keep fit.”
“I just woke up, like I said,” McCarty mentioned. “I just went to go pee when I saw those cops out there. I didn’t hear any shots or anything. Goddamnit, I suppose my building’s going to be on TV again for the wrong reasons.”
“Are you a sound sleeper,” Leslie asked him, “like her daughter?”
“You mean like our daughter. Little Anne is mine too, you know. I remember you when you investigated our sailor-tenant for killing his wife. You were in the papers some time ago too, but I don’t remember what for now. Oh yes I do too; your wife and your parents were killed. And yes, I sleep like a goddamn rock; didn’t hear anything at all.”
The lady smiled a little. “Sergeant, I can tell you he sleeps soundly except for a long time he’d always be at his window about two thirty to see if I was bringing any guys home with me. But I guess he finally gave up on that one.”
McCarty gave no reaction to what she said then.
He looked around the kitchen and said, “Damn! It’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen this apartment.”
He then turned to Leslie.
“You got any leads yet on who knocked him off?”
“Not yet, Mr. McCarty. Do either of you McCarty’s own any guns?”
“She doesn’t but I do,” McCarty said. “I target practice over there on India Street, at the firing range. I shoot both with my .45 Colt auto and my .22 squirrel gun. I’ve got a thirty-ought-six deer rifle too, but haven’t shot that in a lot of years; not since we moved out here from
Chicago. What’s the guy been killed with? Was it a gun?”
“Looks to be with a .22 caliber, Mr. McCarty.”
“Somebody killed a man with a .22? Really? A .22? That’s damned amazing. Who in hell would use a little caliber .22 for that?” he said, acting amazed.
“You have a license for that .45?” Leslie asked.
“Oh yes, damn well do. Hope I never have to use it to protect myself, but you know I collect rent, some of it in cash, so I figure I should have it on me, jus
t in case somebody gets stupid and tries robbing me. I keep my guns in my apartment and only go outside with one to the bank or the firing range. Wish I could try your police firing range out there at Home and Federal. I’ll bet it’s real nice.”
“Mind if Sergeant Jackson goes down with you to your apartment right now and checks your weapons and license?” Leslie asked. “He’ll have to bring your .22 to me. It must be checked; okay?”
“Hell yes; that’s okay. I used both the .45 and the .22 for target practice just yesterday at the India Street range. Go there ‘most every Saturday. You fellas are welcome to look ‘em over since of course I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Jackson and McCarty walked out and Leslie turned to the lady again.
“Your ex says you don’t have any guns; that true?”
“No I haven’t; there can be no reason for me to have any and I don’t like guns anyway. He’s the shooting nut; not me.”
“You can probably guess we’ll have to search the place,” Leslie told her. “Just standard procedure of course.”
“You don’t have to wake my daughter, do you?”
“What time does she usually get up?” he asked.
“Seven. Even on weekends when she doesn’t go to school, she’s almost always awake at seven. That’s when I get up too, and we have breakfast together and talk. You know, before she goes to school. She’s an exceptionally good daughter.”
“You only get a few hours of sleep each night?” he asked.
“Oh no, I get seven or eight. I go back to bed when she’s gone off to school. I get to sleep easily,” she said.
“Okay, I can wait to talk with her,” the Sergeant said. “By the way, did you happen to see a shell casing near your friend? You know, on the floor inside or maybe outside your house?”
“Shell casing? Oh, you mean from a rifle? No, I didn’t notice anything like that. This is all so awful.”
“Oh, how about Mr. Williams’ folks?” Leslie asked.
“Jay said they’re retired and living outside of Phoenix. He must have many friends up there in L.A. and of course this will be a really big shock to his company. He’s a Vice President of the company, he told me. They’ll be shocked of course and his family….well, I don’t know if he has brothers and sisters. He didn’t mention any. Oh dear, he was such a nice man. My boss will surely be shocked, too. He knew Jay a long time.”
For the first time, Leslie noticed her eyes were misting, as though the reality of a friend’s death was finally hitting her. But there were no real tears. He noticed too that she had a million freckles. That was common with redheads, he remembered; but her freckles were unusually pretty, he thought.
“By the way Miss, did you lock your door when you went back to the bar for the wine?”
“Lock my door? No, I….why, do you suppose I should’ve locked him in so he wouldn’t get away? That’s kind of fun….well no, I guess it’s not funny at that. I was in a hurry and….no; I had no reason to lock it with him here.”
“But you usually lock it when you go out?”
“Yes, always. But I don’t think I did then. I’m sure not. Why? Oh, I see, someone had to have come in to shoot him! Oh! Of course! If I’d have locked the door he’d probably still be alive! For God’s sake, I never thought of that! But who? Who on earth would want to harm him? Oh, do you suspect Winfred could’ve done it?” she asked with squinted eyes. “Well, drunk or sober, he wouldn’t need to have the door unlocked to come in. He naturally has keys to all the apartments; there’s exactly fifty of them plus this one.”
“Miss, it’s my job to find out who did what,” the Sergeant said.
“But no,” she said, “Winnie wouldn’t do such a thing, even if he was terribly drunk.”
Leslie turned to the hall to see Sergeant Jackson returning and two women and a man coming in with him. The newcomers were the Crime Scene Investigators.
“Bob, that sure didn’t take long down there,” Leslie said.
“He’s licensed for the .45 Jack and here’s his .22, cleaned and oiled. Miss, I apologize for the invasion here, but it’s necessary,” Sergeant Jackson said.
“Thanks Bob, for handling it like that. Hand it over to the investigators,” Leslie said, commenting on the cautious way Jackson held it only by the trigger guard with his ballpoint pen.
Leslie saw it was nothing special, just a common semi-automatic Mossberg .22 caliber rifle. When fired, it would send the spent casing flying out the right side of the weapon. The little brass cup might travel six or seven feet, depending on how high the rifle was when fired; and the angle it was at the time.
They had just recently reviewed that little detail with a .22 when investigating the other .22 caliber killings.
TWO
Leslie got up from the stool and turned to the newcomers, shushing them to keep quiet because of the sleeping daughter and asked them to hurry the body out because of there.
He bent over the body, pointing to the bloody shirt. “Seems a remarkably small amount of blood there, but maybe that’s because of the tiny hole.”
He was careful not to suggest to them that it was from a .22 caliber shot; it was their particular business to determine what happened and scour the place for clues, no matter how seemingly insignificant.
“We’ll check it, Sergeant,” one of them said.
“By the way, we haven’t seen a shell casing,” Leslie added.
He almost added, “As we also did not in the other .22 caliber killings,” but thought better of mentioning the similarity.
Leslie returned to his stool at the island, the lady still with her back to the entry hall.
“I’m not very nice,” she said to him. “I’ll make some coffee for you if you like.”
“No thanks; I don’t like to impose. Just policy, you know, but it’s nice of you to offer. Go ahead and fix some for yourself. Was your friend Williams sober when he came home with you?” Leslie asked.
“I’d say so; he had a few drinks of Merlot wine at the bar, but that was maybe one glass an hour. That’s why he rode with me and didn’t drive his car; it’s parked at the hotel garage, I suppose. I can’t believe he’d be drunk although he might’ve had something before he came in to see me,” she said.
“Well, you’d know one way or the other, with your experience. What about your other boyfriends?” he asked.
“Boyfriends? Sergeant, Jay Williams wasn’t what I’d call a boyfriend at all. He was merely an acquaintance, not at all a lover. He was a nice guy and a friend; nothing more.”
“Didn’t mean to imply anything. How about others? You are an exceptionally good looking gal and you surely….”
“Oh please; I get enough baloney behind the bar; don’t you start, too. Besides my ex-husband, there’s only been one other recent male interest in my life, believe it or not. Just one other, that’s it. It’s difficult for me to trust men, I’m sorry to say.
“Besides, I really believe in the sanctity of marriage even though I’m not religious,” she continued. “I may sound like a dreamy juvenile, but I feel I’m saving myself for the right man. That fellow and I who was merely my friend have been all through a long time; oh, six or seven months, I think. I didn’t exactly mark it on my calendar.”
“I see; mind telling me who?”
“His name is Donald McCoy and I’m just now thinking that he has a rifle, too. It might be similar to Winnie’s. He target practices at that India Street range, same as my ex. He’s remarked that their guns were somewhat alike. But he told me he doesn’t dare carry a gun in his cab; it’s against the law, he said, for cabbies to carry a gun but it’s okay for passengers to carry guns!” she said with a look of surprise at the rules.
“Even a Billy club is illegal for cabbies to possess, he told me. He said there’d been a string of cab robberies so he put a club under his seat. Then, once at the airport he was in the taxi line and he went to talk to another driver and left his door open and a cop came by and arrested him for havin
g a Billy club under his seat! Amazing! He was actually thrown in jail over the weekend for that!”
“Who does Mr. McCoy drive for?” he asked.
“He owns his own cab. It’s called ‘McCoy’s Cab’ and it’s Orange because he gets the Orange Cab dispatch service, but he owns it free and clear, he told me. He practically lives in that cab; drives twelve hours or more, seven days a week, I think. Actually, that was part of why I ended our friendship.
“He actually wanted to move in with me and I couldn’t have him do that. No sir, not with my ex-husband downstairs and most especially, with my daughter here. He wanted to move into the spare bedroom that shares the bath with my daughter’s room.
“But he thought I was just being prudish, I guess and he got terribly angry over it. Well, maybe I am sort of a prude but I think I ought to be in charge of my own life.
“Little Ann liked him very much but I never did love him; he never made any moves on me and vice versa. There wasn’t anything like romance there. He had the wild and strange idea he could become Little Anne’s papa. I know he thought highly of her. But he was only a good friend to me. So I haven’t seen him in quite a while,” she ended with a sigh.
“Do you know his address?” Jack Leslie asked.
“I don’t know where he’s moved to. He used to have a room at the Buckner on 10th Avenue. I’ve seen his room there and it sure wasn’t much but then, he was hardly ever in the place. He told me he was going to move and that’s when he got the notion to move in with me. I have his cell phone number; would you like to have it?” she asked.
“Yes, by all means,” Leslie said and entered it into his Blackberry smart phone. “That could possibly be helpful. Tell me please; do you think that former friend could be guilty of shooting someone interested in you?”
“Who, Donald? I certainly can’t imagine that. He seems a very sweet man. I liked him. The way we met was, I had a really old Ford Pinto before I got my Mustang and as Little Anne and I were driving along Broadway – oh, right near your Police Headquarters – about at Sixteenth Street, the motor simply died.
The .22 Caliber Homicides: Book 1 of the San Diego Police Homicide Detail featuring Jack Leslie Page 2