Pretty City Murder

by Robert E. Dunn

  When he ran over speed bumps at the entrance to Central’s garage, his eyes blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness, and his cell phone bounced in the cup holder. He was reminded of a phone call the week prior. A vagrant had been taken to the sobering center and had asked for Larry’s help. The homeless shelter attendant’s answer, “You need a reservation, Inspector,” drew a quick response. “What for? A continental breakfast in the morning?”

  The agreeable smell of musk in the garage drew him nearer to the card reader. The smell of a bakery had the same effect. As he swiped his badge, his thoughts turned from the meeting with Mark and from his letter, which was now pressed inside a jacket pocket, to the work ahead, and a plan on how to investigate Cornelius’ death began taking shape.

  The door sprang open, giving access to a long hall and officers chewing over the previous night’s storylines. The police services aide stopped tapping. “Good Morning, Inspector Leahy.”

  “Morning, Christy.”

  “Have a good day, sir,” she replied and turned back to the screen.

  Rich, mahogany skin lit up, and her lips were full and wet.

  He walked past the line-up room on the right and a sergeant handing out instructions only a pharmacist could understand.

  “Morning, Inspector Leahy. How are you?” Hieu asked.

  “All right. You beat me here.”

  “Live down the street, Larry.”

  “All right, let’s head for Dempsey’s office.”

  Larry looked at his watch as they walked down the hallway. Ten after nine.

  Standing at attention were three members of the Situation Investigation Team and Inspector Joe Varton.

  Being addressed by Dempsey is one of several unpleasant ways to die.

  “Good morning, dream boy,” Varton said in Larry’s direction.

  “Knock it off, Inspector,” Dempsey said.

  “I have some information on the case. May I proceed?” Larry asked.

  “Go ahead. Keep in mind what I said to you on the phone this morning about not pursuing the MacKenzie case too aggressively. I’ll have more to say about that.”

  Something doesn’t feel right.

  “Last night I questioned James O’Hara and hotel employees Pepper Chase and Bud Fletcher.” Larry scanned the room. Everyone looked as if payday had been cancelled. Dempsey gazed at his blotter, and his fingers acted as a fulcrum for a yellow pencil, or a poison dart, depending on the circumstances.

  Larry continued. “Mr. O’Hara was at home when I rang him after finding MacKenzie’s body. It was Father Ralph MacKenzie who called me to the scene. I noticed the money sitting on the coffee table and asked O’Hara if the money came from in the vault. He told me there was $50,000 missing.”

  Dempsey interrupted, “Leahy, I brought everyone here so that we all know how the investigation will proceed.” He looked up at Larry. “I’m turning the case over to Inspector Varton. You know the people involved. You’re too close to the MacKenzie family.”

  “Captain, was the money in Cornelius’ apartment in the amount of $50,000? O’Hara’s office has the videotape of the counting room. Has anyone reviewed the videotape?”

  “We are processing all the evidence, Leahy, including the gun, money, and videotape. We fingerprinted the vault door handle and the door handle of Mr. MacKenzie’s apartment. The rest of the apartment was dusted. The gun is being examined for fingerprints. We found the shell casing. We don’t know if the gun lying in the apartment was the weapon that killed MacKenzie. The money was counted, and the total was $49,500, leaving $500 unaccounted for.”

  “What did the videotape show? Chase said she was the only one to enter the vault up to the time Cornelius was found.”

  “Inspector Varton is looking at videotape from noon yesterday up to one o’clock this morning. Is that right, Varton?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s right, sir.” His obsequious manner irritated Larry.

  “Captain, Cornelius received a call yesterday. The caller said his life was in danger. I was at the hotel and asked O’Hara to provide extra security, and his man, Bud Fletcher, failed to do so.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Did he forget about the phone call I made asking that a police officer be stationed there?

  “I thought I could take care of it.”

  Father Ralph’s admonition, “you need to figure out what has happened...if you can,” rang in Larry’s ears.

  “Leahy, what we know for sure is that the bullet entered the forehead, but, from what the team observed, it appears the gun was fired from a distance, perhaps outside the living room.”

  “Why am I not leading the investigation? The fact that I know the people involved is the reason I should be leading the investigation.”

  The dimples on both sides of Joe Varton’s smile deepened.

  “I’ve assigned the case to Inspector Varton. That’s an end to the question.”

  Larry expected a show of support and shared astonishment over the case being wrongly assigned to another, but all eyes, even Hieu’s, were on Varton.

  “We’ll catch the God damn idiot,” Varton said, feet wide apart, hands on the lapels of his green and gray checkered suit jacket. “This case has it all, even if we don’t know the particulars. Moneyed people, prominent families. It’ll be front page riff for a few days and then blow over.”

  “What makes you say that?” Larry asked.

  “I can smell it,” he answered, putting his right index finger to this nose. “I can smell it,” he proudly reiterated. “These things don’t go unnoticed, while important crap does.” His eyes circled the ceiling and the walls as if they were feeding him inspiration.

  He’s looking for an argument.

  While Larry was thinking of something to say, he heard a door shut outside. “Well, I’d better get back to my office. I’ve got several cases to work on. I’ll be keeping an eye on everything you do, Joe. You can count on that.”

  “Fine. Meet me at the Police Academy. I’m there every morning, and I jog five miles around the track. I can give you some pointers. Seven o’clock?”

  Dempsey interrupted, “I want this case solved in ten days.”

  “I will do that, Captain,” Varton resolutely said.

  •••

  Larry had enough unopened letters on his desk to make him want to get drunker than a skid-row lush. Plans made the day before pushed him across the threshold, but cold paper pled for a withdrawal. The blinds were closed and begged to stay that way. He ignored their protest, twirled a rod, and pulled down on one blind to get a look at the neighbors’ back windows, but glass dirty with droppings persuaded him to turn away. His desk chair welcomed him on its leather seat sliced open in several places by time.

  What’s done is done.

  He thought about Varton’s six foot two, 200 lb. frame.

  Size doesn’t matter. Otherwise, the Eucharist would be a hundred times bigger.

  Larry felt the urge to keep a tidy office and pushed the chair back. It ran over rippled cracks in the linoleum. Inside the top drawer, he guided one of several prayer cards to the bottom. Push-pins poked at this finger, and gray-brown dust rose in tiny plumes and floated away as the card came to a stop.

  The latest memo from Human Resources was stuffed inside the drawer. It stated, “Using the expression ‘God bless’ is prohibited.”

  They’re so dumb they don’t know “Good-bye” is an abbreviated form of “God be with you,” same as “God bless.”

  He crumpled the memo and threw it into the waste basket.

  There was a knock on his open door.

  Hieu walked in as if nothing had happened, but his eyes said otherwise. He carried the morning Chronicle in his left hand and an SFPD training manual tucked under the other arm. His medium gray suit fit a short, tight body, making him look like a banker, which left Larry feeling as if he’d been strong-armed by a pretty boy, but that wasn’t true. Hieu had just completed an online bachelor’s degree in c
riminal justice, which made his parents proud.

  Larry heard thumps on the roof.

  “Have a seat.” Larry’s grins were usually measured out at work, especially now.

  “Hey, Larry, sorry about the reassignment.”

  “He’s an ass. I’ve got a tin badge I could slap on.” He waved his official badge around. “You know Joe and I are up for the Chief Inspector job? I finished number one on the written, and Joe was second. Next is the interview with Dempsey.”

  “You’re the best man for the job.”

  Larry smiled.

  “What’s on for today?” Hieu asked and looked up at the ceiling.

  Larry’s first impression of Hieu was changing. He wasn’t a cocky SOB.

  “Poor Father Ralph had to tell my nephew about Cornelius. His name is Josh, and he works at the Greenwich on the weekends.” More thumps. “Just some seagulls up there.”

  Larry couldn’t fix the location of Hieu’s reaction to any news, the lips and cheeks, or eyebrows and forehead? This was only his third day as an inspector trainee. They spent part of the first day looking at the black and white photographs hung around Larry’s office, pictures of department history, pictures of him building his Russian River summer home, and pictures Ansel Adams might have snapped but didn’t. Larry’s thoughts drifted to his end-of-day walk along the seawall, seven blocks from home.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Oh. Hi. Fine. Hang on.” He held the phone away from his ear and said, “Hieu, would you mind stepping out for a minute? This shouldn’t take long.”

  “Of course. I hear Inspector Varton – I’ll visit with him while you’re busy.”

  Varton’s office was the last place Larry wanted Hieu to go.

  “Are you there?”

  “Did you read my letter, Dad?”

  “Yes.” Larry cupped the phone with his hand as if it were a feather pillow.

  “Did you talk to Mom about the letter?”

  “No, I haven’t spoken to Mom.” Larry pictured Lauren sitting up in bed and smoking a cigarette, its filter tip smelling of tincture of whiskey.

  “Well, did you show her the letter?”

  He raised his voice to quell opposition. “Yes, I showed her the letter, and she didn’t say anything.” He lied and now had a reason to go to confession. “Are you contracepting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Next, you’re going to tell me she had an abortion!”

  “So, what if she did? Dad, I plan to move out of the Bay Area. I see no reason to stay.”

  “Good-bye, Mark.” Larry’s nostrils flared, the phone dropped, the chair leaned back, and he rubbed his face.

  How do I tell Lauren Mark is threatening to move?

  Hieu walked back in.

  “I’m going to stay on top of the case regardless of what happens.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Larry.”

  Larry’s cell phone rang again.

  “Leahy.”

  “Stay away from the Greenwich.” The caller hung up.

  “Wow. I just got a call telling me to stay away from the Greenwich.”

  “Who was it?”

  Larry logged into his computer. “I don’t know. It was a man. Sounded middle-aged. I’ll add an addendum to my report on what happened last night. I’m not worried about the call. We’ll find out who made it.”

  “Did you come back to the office to write the report?”

  “No, I filed it last night from home. Hieu, Varton doesn’t know these people like I do. I need to be involved, and Dempsey doesn’t have to know everything.”

  “Maybe I can help?”

  “Absolutely not. I don’t want your feet in quicksand. If I need help, I’ll ask.”

  Larry was glad about his decision recommending that Hieu be promoted from patrol officer to inspector. He had all the qualities of a politician, well-bred, fit, amiable, stylish, and ambitious, everything Mark lacked, and Hieu was married.

  Larry pulled the letter out of his jacket pocket.

  “Hieu, close the door. I have something I want to read to you.”

  Larry pressed down on the letter’s edges and breathed deeply:

  Dear Dad,

  I know you are disappointed with me. There are so many things I would like to say, but you won’t listen. The choices I make are mine, but I need your support. Joan is a wonderful girl and makes me feel like a man. I’m happier than ever before. She’s my best friend, and I couldn’t ask for more. Please give her a chance. If you cannot do that, I don’t know how we can continue any kind of relationship.

  Mark

  Larry watched Hieu thinking. He had passed the civil service exam and pointless interviews. His middle name was “Clement,” the same as Larry’s father. Larry had told Hieu nothing of his father’s past, and while waiting for a response, he was reminded of a story that Hieu had told two nights ago at dinner. His parents had fled Vietnam with the help of their grandfathers. They had arranged for certain government officials to be bribed and, even though the money was accepted, both men were sent to “re-education” camp as punishment.

  Hieu’s story is so much more uplifting and serious than a family spat, or is it?

  “What did Varton have to say?” Larry asked, not really interested in the answer.

  “He asked me if I run every day.”

  “And?”

  “I said that’s where I get my tan.”

  Larry laughed, “Well, you know, most people think he can’t tell the difference between one Chinese and another, but his wife is Japanese. It’s his hard exterior. Former Marine.”

  “I gathered that from his haircut. High and tight.”

  “Mm. Nothing flusters him.”

  Hieu looked at the letter now folded over in Larry’s hands and said, “Varton said the workhouse should be reopened and the homeless invited to spend some of their free time there.” Hieu said it without comment, as if he had heard it before.

  “What do you do in your spare time, Hieu?”

  “I have too many adult toys, according to my wife.”

  “What was that?”

  “Not what you’re thinking. Four skateboards, a snowboard, a bike, and motorcycle.”

  “When do you have time for all that?”

  “My wife asks me that all the time. She tells me to quit spending.”

  “My wife talks like a drill sergeant.” A rakish smile on Larry’s lips dissipated when the thumping of the seagulls resumed.

  “Okay, do you want my opinion about your son’s letter?”

  “That’s why I read it.”

  “Mark isn’t seeing multiple women while claiming to be monogamous. So, if they’re happy, shouldn’t you be?”

  “Like O’Hara and all his fooling around? No, Mark’s problem is that he’s spending his time pleasing others.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been influenced by his own vanity and the world, except that he doesn’t have the kind of ambition the world proscribes, the lust for money, power, and sex. A Catholic must gain control of himself and reject lust of any kind. The world didn’t spend the time building his life or giving him an example of self-discipline. His mother and I did, and Lauren agrees with me. The phone call that sent you to Varton’s office was from Mark. He said he’s planning to move out of the Bay Area.”

  Hieu pulled his seat forward. “Larry, my father says that happiness comes with sadness. If you know love, you will know sorrow.”

  Hieu’s advice hit hard. Larry recalled the words of a Jesuit retreat master.

  We know how to enjoy food if we know what hunger is.

  As the seconds ticked by, Hieu’s advice began to feel like the stomping-on he got when he tried to break up a fight outside a bar on Columbus Avenue and a six-foot-eight drunk with a bright red face and extra-large hands got the best of him.

  Hieu sat there with a bronzed face and fixed stare like that of a Hollywood statuette.

  Larry shook his head, indicating tha
t the matter was closed.

  “I met with Father Ralph this morning. He believes wholeheartedly in O’Hara and said I failed to protect Cornelius. Henry MacKenzie, Cornelius’ father, paid for my education and O’Hara’s college education and made us promise to look out for Cornelius. It looks like neither one of us kept the promise.”

  Larry moved over to the window and slid it open. The building next door beckoned Larry’s evaluation of its parts. “For now, Varton is leading the investigation, so let’s do some good with the other files piled high on my desk before their owners get the impression I’m their whipping boy, too.”

  An hour of work passed, and Hieu closed Larry’s door on the way out.

  No more phone calls came in, no paperwork arrived, and no susurrus passed under the door. Larry closed his eyes and entered a deep sleep.

  A car leaves a Greyhound bus stop for Napa.

  “Why didn’t you ask me to drive you there?”

  “I’m just visiting someone.”

  A lie. Larry wonders why his father rolled down the window. Doesn’t he know, after twenty years, that his son has allergies? Why are they going to Napa together? Getting away from him was the whole point.

  “Who are you going to visit?”

  “No one.”

  “Then we’ll go home.”

  “Fine.”

  Larry awoke and bolted for Varton’s office. An open window allowed cool air to lift the edges of paper held down by one elbow. Joe’s face was buried in his own paper mound. On one wall was a clock. It was fifteen minutes before twelve. On another wall hung a 1983 honorable discharge. A black cord draped against ruddy cheeks and was attached to eyeglasses sitting on his Nordic nose.

  Sunset Magazine’s The Western Garden Book lay on the only other chair in the room.

  Larry placed the magazine on a corner of Joe’s desk and sat down without a fuss. He knew Joe to be a non-smoker and light drinker, and the only stout odor that lingered after a tough morning work-out was body lotion liberally massaged everywhere except his teeth. On his left, a picture of his wife, Aioki, was turned in such a way that anyone could see her upon entering the office. Larry averted his eyes from a large wall picture of a crate branded Hula Apples, which featured a sun-bronzed, bare-breasted woman sitting under a palm tree.