The furniture in the spacious apartment was modern — white sofas with tube-shaped pillows, pendulous chrome floor lamps, a pink easy chair with an ottoman shaped like a heart. The walls were covered with color photographs of various sizes: Bones Chagra standing behind a bar with his arms around two blondes, Bones Chagra on the beach with his arm around a bikinied young brunette, Bones Chagra frolicking in a pool with three bare-breasted women. In one corner of the room was a pile of oversized pillows and a movie projector aimed at the wall.
Carr sat down in an easy chair.
"Are you clear about what you're supposed to say?" Carr said.
"What if he doesn't want to talk about it?"
"Then you make him talk about it," Carr said. "Argue with him, threaten him, do whatever you have to to make him open up, The only way we can make a case on him is to get him to talk about the murder on tape. If you don't get him to talk, your deal is off. We drive you down to the county jail and book you. It's as simple as that."
Chagra sat up, rubbed his eyes. "Let's say he does talk about the murder. Then what do I do?"
"Then you let him drive you back to your car."
"What if he gets suspicious and searches me? What if he finds the wire? Then what the fuck do I do?"
"We'll be able to hear everything that goes on," Carr said.
"I could get killed."
"And L.A. might have an earthquake today," Higgins said. He turned another page.
"I feel like a scotch and water," Chagra said. "Is it okay if I make myself a drink?"
"No," Carr said.
Chagra gave a sigh of disgust and lay back down on the sofa.
Suddenly the telephone rang. Chagra sat up as if he'd received an electrical shock. He reached for the phone sitting on the coffee table in front of him.
Carr made a "take-it-easy" motion with both hands. He hurried to the bedroom and placed his hand on the receiver of an extension. Stepping into the bedroom doorway, he nodded to Chagra. They lifted the receivers simultaneously.
"Was it there?" Bailey said.
"Even more than you said would be there." Chagra stared nervously at Carr.
"We'll get together tomorrow."
Carr shook his head violently. He mouthed the word today.
Chagra swallowed. "There's something we need to talk about."
"I'm listening."
"Somebody paid me a visit. They asked me about-"
"Not on the phone," Bailey interrupted.
"Can you come over?"
There was a silence. "I'll pick you up in front of the Blue Peach in an hour," Bailey said and hung up.
Carr set the phone down and stepped back into the living room.
Bones Chagra was wringing his hands. "He sounds more suspicious than usual."
Carr noticed that Chagra's face had lost color.
Higgins picked up a medium-sized black leather suitcase off the floor and set it on the sofa. He unsnapped the latches and flipped it open. It was filled with electronic equipment fitted into Styrofoam padding. He removed a miniature transmitter attached to a long wire and a small battery pack. "Take off your shirt, Bones," Higgins said as he examined the equipment.
Bones shook his head, backed away from the detective. "I don't think I can do it. I'm too nervous. He'll know something is wrong as soon as he looks at me. Besides, this whole thing turns my stomach. I've never ratted on anyone in my whole life."
Higgins and Carr exchanged worried glances.
"It's your choice," Carr said to Chagra. "If you want to do Bailey's time that's strictly up to you. But I'll tell you right now that if you back out on us, we'll interview Bailey right after we book you. And we'll tell him that you handed him up. We won't have enough evidence to arrest him, so he'll beat the rap. And you'll be in jail wearing a snitch jacket."
More wringing of hands. Chagra rubbed his temples as he stared blankly at the floor. In a show of disgust, Higgins shoved the transmitter and battery pack back into the suitcase. He slammed the lid shut and snapped the latches.
Chagra turned toward the window. "Okay," he said. "I'll go through with it."
As Higgins flipped open the briefcase again, Carr phoned the Field Office and asked for B. B. Martin. He gave surveillance instructions and told him to pick up Jack Kelly, then hung up.
Chagra took off his shirt. It took Higgins less than fifteen minutes to tape the four-inch battery pack to the small of Chagra's back. He looped the microphone wire around his left shoulder and taped it above his collarbone.
Chagra put his shirt back on. The microphone was invisible.
"I'm scared to death."
"We'll be close by," Carr said.
Higgins packed up the briefcase. "Just relax and pretend you're not wearing it."
"But I am, man. If he finds it he'll kill me. I know he'll kill me."
They barely made it to the meeting spot on time. Carr parked the government sedan around the corner from the Blue Peach and let Chagra out. He walked to the corner and turned right toward the nightclub.
"I have our boy in sight," Kelly said over the radio.
Carr clicked the transmit button twice to acknowledge receipt of the transmission.
"I can see him too," B. B. Martin said. The radio made a squelch sound.
Higgins sat in the passenger seat with the transmitter briefcase open on his lap. He adjusted the volume. There was the sound of footsteps and the rustling of clothes. "If Bailey doesn't admit to the murder on the tape, we're through. There's no way the district attorney will ever file a murder charge on him."
Carr didn't respond. He knew Higgins was right.
A few minutes later the radio buzzed. "We have an arrival," Kelly said.
Carr started the engine and put the car in gear.
"Bones is getting in the passenger side," Kelly said. "It's a white police sedan with no markings. He's taking off southbound … southbound and pulling up to a stoplight."
Carr stepped on the accelerator and raced to the corner. He proceeded slowly around the corner. As he made the right turn, Bailey's car was a block or so ahead.
Static buzzed from the transmitter. Higgins adjusted the dials frantically. More static. He plugged and unplugged the recording jack, flipped switches. More squelch sounds. "Come on, you son-of-a-bitch." He slapped the sides of the briefcase.
"…half gold and half silver," they heard Bones Chagra saying. "I haven't even looked at the coins real close yet." Higgins turned up the volume.
"Where are they?" Bailey said.
"I've got the coins in a rental locker. But that's not what's important right now. Carr just paid me a visit. He was with some guy from L.A.P.D. Homicide. They asked me about Amanda. I think they know something."
"Tell me exactly what they said." Bailey's voice was calm, almost soothing.
As the transmitter volume became weaker, Carr stepped on the gas. Ahead, he saw Bailey's police car pull into a lane leading to a freeway on-ramp. The car entered the northbound freeway. A traffic light turned red and vehicles in both lanes stopped in front of Carr. He backed up and swerved around the tie-up in a parking lane. Cross-traffic sped by, blocking him from going through the red light. The voices on the transmitter faded to nothing. The Treasury radio barked with Martin's and Kelly's voices. They had lost sight of the police car.
Brakes from the oncoming traffic squealed as Carr slammed the accelerator to the floor and zoomed through the red light and onto the freeway.
Travis Bailey flicked the turn indicator and exited the freeway. He turned right on Santa Monica Boulevard and drove east for a mile or so. He made a left turn onto a manicured residential street and continued north toward Sunset Boulevard. He noticed that Chagra kept wringing his hands.
"So they asked me what I was doing the night Amanda Kennedy was killed," Chagra said. "I told them, 'How the hell do I know what I did on such and such a day? I don't keep a daily diary.' DeMille, the bondsman, gave them my name. He told them that I put up the money to bad Ama
nda out of jail. The rotten bastard copped out on me. So Carr says he wants me to come down to his office to make a statement. I said no, but I'm worried, Travis, really worried."
Travis Bailey said nothing. He made a left turn on Sunset Boulevard. A block later, he turned right onto a side street and then left into a steep driveway leading to the porticoed entrance to the Beverly Hills Hotel. He proceeded up the driveway and turned into the outdoor elevated parking lot, which faced the front of the hotel. A black limousine with smoked-glass windows was parked at the front door.
"I don't want you making any statements," Bailey said as he gazed at the panorama of million-dollar homes below.
"I have to tell 'em something," Chagra said, "If I just clam up they can get me for being an accessory. I bailed her out of jail and she ends up dead. They can arrest me."
"So let them arrest you. They'll never get the case filed. They don't have enough evidence."
Chagra's hands were shaking. He clasped them together."That's easy enough for you to say. Nobody's knocking on your door."
"And if anybody does knock on my door, I'll know just who gave them my address," Bailey said. "You and Emil are the only ones who know I killed her."
Chagra licked his lips, cleared his throat. "What if they trace the bullets to your gun?"
"I didn't use my gun."
"How did you-?"
"I squeezed her neck," Bailey said. "Which is exactly the same thing I'd do to both of you if I thought you were going to talk." He smiled coldly.
A sedan with two men drove out of a side street west of the hotel. Slowly, it entered the parking lot entrance. Another police-type sedan occupied by two men drove past the front of the hotel and drove in the parking lot's exit lane. The passenger in the car looked like Jack Kelly and the black man driving was the same man he'd seen drive past him — as he stood in front of Chez Doucette.
The cars were moving toward him; a car horn sounded three times.
Frantically, Bones Chagra fumbled for the door handle.
Bailey grabbed him by the hair. Chagra yelped as his head was jerked backward. Bailey's left hand tore open the front of his shirt.
"They made me do it," Chagra cried.
Brakes squealing, the sedans blocked him in from behind; their doors swung open. Chagra pulled away from his grasp, flung the door open and vaulted out of the car. He ran and dove for cover behind Martin's car.
Travis Bailey pulled his gun. Checking the rearview mirror, he saw that men were shielded behind the doors of the sedan in the usual "felony-stop" police configuration.
"It's over," Carr shouted. "We have you on tape. Place your hands on the steering wheel."
Travis Bailey squeezed the butt of his revolver. He glanced down at it, then at the rooftops that started across Sunset Boulevard and extended south on wide streets to the Beverly Hills business district. The thought of bending over waiting for a swat in the Pascoe Military Academy commandant's office flashed through his mind, as did the memory of peeking out a dormitory window and watching his mother walk out the front gate of the Pascoe Military Academy. The wind had carried the smell of her cologne.
There was the sound of sirens in the distance.
He touched the barrel of the revolver to his temple.
"Don't do it!" Carr screamed.
Bailey pulled the trigger.
With the blast from the gunshot was the sound of breaking glass. As Bailey's bead slammed against the driver's window, Carr dropped his.38 to his side, left the safety of the car door and crept slowly toward Bailey's sedan. As he reached the rear fender, he saw the bullet hole on the blood-sprayed driver's window. Bailey was slumped against the steering wheel. Carr bolstered his weapon.
Jack Kelly walked to the passenger side of the car and peered in. "Holy Mother of Christ," he said. Carefully, he leaned in the passenger door, reached across the seat and touched Bailey's neck. He drew his hand away and backed away from the sedan. He looked at Carr and shook his head.
Higgins used the car radio to call for the coroner.
B. B. Martin handcuffed Chagra and shoved him in the backseat of his sedan. Having locked the car, he removed a rope from its trunk. By looping the rope around bumpers and door handles of the vehicles parked on either side of Bailey's sedan, he secured the crime scene. He got into his car, started the engine and drove over to where Higgins stood with Carr and Kelly.
Reaching behind him, Martin swung open the rear door.
Higgins climbed in the backseat next to Chagra and shut the door. He leaned his head out the window to speak. "We'll book him in and see you back at the Field Office," he said. He sat back in the seat.
"You said you were going to let me go!" Chagra screamed.
Carr nodded. B. B. Martin put the sedan in gear and drove out of the parking lot.
During the next two or three hours, police and emergency vehicles sped in and out of the parking lot. Various police brass, including Captain Cleaver and the Beverly Hills Chief of Police, arrived and departed, as did Special Agent in Charge Norbert Waeves and the Chief of Detectives of the Los Angeles Police Department. Delsey Piper broke into tears after seeing the body and was helped away from the scene by another policeman.
In the midst of the activity a doorman dressed in gray tails and an Austrian soldier's hat helped people in and out of Rolls-Royces and limousines. Carr noticed that some of the people arriving at the hotel pointed at the jumble of police cars. Others did not.
Coroner's deputies wearing olive drab overalls finally arrived and lifted Bailey's body onto a gurney, then covered it with a plastic sheet.
"I can't help but feel sorry for him in a certain way," Kelly said. He stared at the body as it was loaded roughly into the Coroner's station wagon. "Nothing is so bad that a man should take his own life."
"He might have beat the case in court," Carr said somberly. He continued to make notations in a small notebook.
A thirtyish man with suntanned features and a tailor-made suit approached from the direction of the hotel. He introduced himself as the resident hotel manager. Carr nodded and kept writing.
"May I ask how long you people plan to be here?" he said.
Carr stopped writing and looked up at the man.
"We're short parking spaces because of a studio party, he said.
Carr and Kelly both glared at the man. He turned and hurried back to the hotel.
NINETEEN
It was after nine o'clock by the time Carr arrived at his apartment that night. He heard the phone ringing as he unlocked the front door. Hurrying inside, he picked up the receiver. It was Sally Malone.
"I thought you might like to join me for a late dinner," she said. "No big thing."
"Sure," he said, though he wasn't hungry because of what had happened earlier. At her suggestion, they agreed to meet at a small seafood restaurant on the Santa Monica Pier that was an equal walk from either of their apartments.
Knowing she would never arrive anywhere before him, he decided to wait for her outside at the entrance to the pier. She arrived a few minutes after him, wearing a new jogging outfit. They touched lips and headed toward the restaurant, a tiny weathered building situated in the middle of the pier next to a bait shop. Its only identification was a flaking sign over the door that read Seafood. Inside, the tables and small bar were filled. They stood at the bar while a young T-shirted bartender whose nose was covered with a layer of zinc oxide served them drinks.
Though Carr felt like downing the drink in one gulp, he settled for a healthy sip. "It looks like Jack's not going to retire after all," he said because he couldn't think of anything else to say at the moment.
"I'm happy for him if that's what he and Rose want."
The bartender pointed them to an open table in the corner. They took their drinks and sat down.
"May I ask you something?" Sally said.
"Sure."
She shook her head. "Never mind."
"Go ahead and ask."
"Would you h
ave asked me to marry you that night if you hadn't been drinking?"
There was a pause while Carr sipped his drink. "I'm not sure," he said finally.
"Then I guess the trip was nothing more than a drunken fling."
"I didn't say that."
"You've never brought marriage up before or since."
Carr fidgeted in his seat as he tried to think of something to say. "Look," he said, "I asked you and I'm not going to back out on it. On the other hand, I don't think there's any real hurry at this point. No use rushing in-"
Sally gently reached over and put her hand over his mouth.
A few minutes later a lanky waitress who wore a T-shirt similar to the bartender's came and took their order of steamed clams and beer. The walk and the liquor had perked up Carr's appetite.
During the meal, Sally recounted what she'd learned from a recent health food seminar she'd attended (all meat contains cancer-causing substances) and gossiped about judge Malcolm's wife. Carr wondered, as he had before, if he could bear listening to such drivel every night of the week. But as the evening wore on and he continued to drink, he came to the realization that he probably could. She was his friend as well as his lover, and, he reminded himself, nobody is perfect. Not even-he thought philosophically-Carr.
Later that evening they walked from the restaurant along the dimly lit pier, taking in the sound of their footsteps on the wooden walkway, waves slapping and swirling against pilings and, faintly, from the business district east of the beach, a siren.
An elderly couple riding bicycles with tiny lights attached to the handlebars whizzed by them and continued into the darkness as they followed a cement walkway along the strand toward Sally's place.
"I'm not an easy person to live with," he said, surprising himself.
"I'm not either. We'd probably end up hating one another."
The sound of the waves seemed to grow louder.
Suddenly Sally stopped and threw her arms around him. Oblivious to others who walked by, they held each other tightly. When they got chilly Carr put his jacket around her shoulders and they continued on to her apartment.
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