40 Nickels

by R. Daniel Lester

  “Seatbelts save lives,” he said.

  “Usually,” she said. “But hers held her upright for a second shot.”

  The next photo showed a man in his forties. He had looked better, but at least he wasn’t dead. The only visible damage was a goose egg on his forehead. Drake pointed.

  “Is that her husband?”

  “Yes. Thanks for the perspective, by the way.”

  Drake raised his eyebrows.

  “I’ve been obsessing over this case, but most people in the world haven’t heard of it.”

  “He looks like a cop.”

  “He is. He’s also the one who killed her.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Look again and tell me what you see.”

  Drake stared and then nodded. “Self-inflicted injuries to divert suspicion.”

  “How many times has a killer tried that scam?”

  “But they never have the nerve to hurt themselves badly enough. Where is he now?”

  “Still on the job. Riding around with a gun, and threatening my client.”

  “So the case is open.”

  “Not according to the cops. They say they did their job. The implication is, the prosecutor didn’t do his.”

  “How did your client get in the frame? What’s his name, by the way?”

  “Hank Alves. He was found wandering around in the rainforest just a few feet away. And a search turned up a rifle leaning against a tree right nearby. A 30.06 that ballistics matched to the bullet in the victim.”

  “What kind of explanation did he give?”

  “Pretty lame. He remembers leaving a restaurant in Hilo. He admits to having a few in the bar. Next thing he knows, he’s wandering around in the dark woods with a ferocious headache.”

  “How did you do it? Get a not guilty, I mean.”

  “I used the old ‘Some other dude did it’ defense. The jury bought it.”

  “Which means they believed you about the husband.”

  “I had to make them read between the lines. Jurors don’t like it when you accuse a cop and don’t back it up with hard evidence. But if you make them do the work themselves, they have an investment in the theory.”

  “Gutsy move.”

  “It worked. They got what I was telling them, and I believe that’s because it’s true.”

  “What was supposed to be your client’s motive?”

  “That’s where I caught a break. They didn’t really have much of one. Hank had a nasty encounter with Savage. Basically, a cop throwing his weight around. Make that his fists. But no matter how they dressed it up, it didn’t look like enough to kill over. Not unless Hank was complete psychopath, and nobody who sees him can believe that.”

  “Even so, you must have done a hell of job. There aren’t many stories as weak as the self-inflicted wound, but your client found one.”

  “Tell me about it. To make things worse, he kept insisting about a witness. A hooker he picked up in the bar of the restaurant.”

  “How did you handle that?”

  “I destroyed the bartender on the stand. He denied letting hookers work in his bar, but his record didn’t help him. Then I made it sound as if the cops had made the hooker disappear and leaned on the bartender to make him lie. It was all hints, but the jury got it.”

  “Which made you real popular with the cops.”

  “I was already high on their hate list.”

  “If I’m ever looking at serious time, I’ll definitely call you.”

  Drake held his hands out for the file. She passed it to him.

  “I suppose you considered the possibility that the husband hired your client?”

  “If I tried, maybe I could think of a less likely hitman. But why would I want to?”

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  Vinnie

  My worst habit is bad luck.

  —Vinnie “Strings” Stradivarius

  SATURDAY

  “Vinnie. Vinnie. Vinnie.”

  Vinnie Strings would have rather been sitting on a bed of hot coals than sitting face-to-face with William Conway across Big Bill’s oak desk in the back office of the Blarney Stone Saloon.

  “I know,” Vinnie said.

  “You knowing isn’t doing you much good, and it does me no good at all. And don’t insult me by telling me you are working on it. You have witnessed how I make examples of those who fail to pay what they owe. You know I will have no choice but to make an example of you. I didn’t twist your arm to put down bets with me, but both your arms will be twisted until they snap if you can’t cover your loses. I have a reputation to uphold. You may want to ask your guardian angel to bail you out again. I heard he squared your debt to Sandoval, and I heard Manny’s two gorillas are still on crutches.”

  “I didn’t ask him to do that.”

  “Whatever you say. In any case, do Jake Diamond a favor and explain to him that I am not Manny Sandoval and I don’t employ morons.”

  “Can you give me more time?”

  “Of course, Vinnie, that’s why you’re sitting here and not in traction at Saint Francis Memorial Hospital. One week. Go.”

  Vinnie Strings sat alone in a booth at The Homestead on 19th Street and Folsom, working on his third gin and tonic.

  He was staring at the phonebooth just inside the front door.

  Vinnie had come close, a few times, to leaving the table to phone Jake Diamond.

  He knew Jake would help him, but not without a lecture. Vinnie decided the lecture from Big Bill had been enough for one day.

  He turned his attention back to his drink, found the glass empty, and called to Rachel for another.

  Minutes later, Vinnie was about to ask Rachel why she had delivered two drinks when Bobby Lockhart sat at the booth.

  “On me,” Lockhart said.

  “Thanks.”

  Bobby and Vinnie sat in at the same poker game twice a month. They were not exactly bosom buddies, but they got along.

  “I hear you’re into Big Bill Conway for three large.”

  “Did you read about it in the Chronicle?”

  “You know how word gets around among gamblers, we all love hearing about someone less lucky.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You don’t look all right.”

  “No offense, Bobby, but I would rather talk about the weather.”

  “I can help you.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because you would be helping me.”

  “I’ll listen,” Vinnie said.

  “There’s a cat owes me fifteen grand for work I did for him, and he’s late. He said he would have the cash for me tonight—but he’s said it before.”

  “And?”

  “I told him I would drop by his house to pick it up, but I wouldn’t be alone. You always look more serious when you bring someone along. I will give you twenty percent just for keeping me company. It’s enough to get Big Bill off your back.”

  “What time tonight?”

  “I can pick you up outside your place at nine.”

  Vinnie Stradivarius looked over to the phonebooth, and then back to Lockhart.

  “Nine it is,” Vinnie said.

  The house was in the Richmond.

  Lockhart parked on the next street and they walked.

  At the front door, Bobby pushed the doorbell.

  It rang the first eight notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.

  The man who opened the door looked at both visitors.

  “Good evening, Fred,” Bobby said.

  “It’s Frederick. What do you want?”

  A gun appeared in Bobby
’s hand.

  “You can invite us in. Fred.”

  The man backed away, and Lockhart stepped through the door.

  Vinnie stood planted at the threshold. Confused.

  “Come on,” Bobby said, “and close it behind you.”

  “If you want money, I have around twelve hundred dollars in my wallet,” Frederick Hanover said.

  “Impressive,” Bobby said. “Do you have a gun?”

  “In my desk drawer.”

  “Show me.”

  They followed Hanover into an office at the back of the house.

  “Top drawer, left side.”

  “Sit. Take it out, slowly. Place it on the desk, and put your hands behind your head.”

  When Hanover complied, Bobby handed his weapon to Vinnie.

  “Keep him covered until I get his gun.”

  Bobby walked over to the desk, picked up the weapon, turned, shot Vinnie in the chest, and placed the gun back down on the desk.

  “Are you insane,” Hanover said.

  “You have no idea.”

  Lockhart walked over and picked up his gun where Vinnie had dropped it when he went down. Bobby pointed the gun at Hanover.

  “I’ll give you a chance,” Lockhart said. “I’ll let you go for your weapon.”

  Hanover grabbed for his gun. Bobby put a bullet in Fred’s head.

  Bobby touched the weapon to Vinnie’s hand, and placed it on the floor next to Vinnie’s body.

  He started out of the room, but stopped short at the door.

  He walked back to the desk and lifted the small statuette.

  It was a figure of a winged-woman, made in metal, six inches tall.

  She stood on a green stone pedestal.

  Bobby slipped it into his jacket pocket. He couldn’t resist.

  Lockhart had a thing for angels.

  After a dinner of leftover Chinese take-out, another terrible Steven Seagal film on TV, and two chapters of Dicken’s David Copperfield, Jake Diamond was ready to call it a night when his doorbell rang.

  Jake found Detective Sergeant Johnson standing on the front porch.

  “I’m just going to say it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Vincent Stradivarius was shot. An hour ago.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “He’s alive, but he may not make it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Saint Francis, but he’ll be in surgery for hours.”

  “So, there’s no need to rush down there.”

  “None I can think of.”

  “Care for a drink?” Diamond asked.

  “Sure, I could handle a drink.”

  Bobby

  Every murderer is probably someone’s old friend.

  —Agatha Christie

  1

  After Sergeant Johnson gave me the news about Vinnie Strings, I invited him in for a drink.

  He followed me back to the kitchen, where I poured two glasses of George Dickel Tennessee sour mash over ice.

  We sat at the kitchen table.

  “Has his mother been told?” I asked.

  “I called Ray Boyle down in Los Angeles. He said he would personally go over to see her tonight, and book her a flight for tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks for taking care of that.”

  “No problem.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I can tell you what it looked like.”

  “Okay.”

  “Vinnie and Frederick Hanover were both found in Hanover’s study, a house in the Richmond. It appears there was an exchange of gunfire. Both were hit once. Vinnie was found on the floor in front of the desk, Hanover’s body was behind the desk. Hanover was DOA. Guns were found near each body.”

  “Who was Hanover?”

  “Big time businessman. Real estate developer. Obscenely wealthy. It’s being looked at as a robbery gone south.”

  “Not possible. Not Vinnie.”

  “Word has it he had worked himself into debt. Nearly three thousand dollars.”

  “Vinnie would take a beating before he would point a weapon at anyone. Who does he owe the money to?”

  “William Conway.”

  “I guess I’ll have to talk with Conway.”

  “Big Bill is a nasty piece of work. I’m just saying. Try to be polite.”

  “Dealing with Conway will be a walk in the park compared to giving Darlene the news.”

  “It’s after midnight. Why don’t you wait until morning to call her?”

  “I will, and I’ll need to tell her in person. I’m going to head over to the hospital, find a doctor who knows something. Did Vinnie say anything?”

  “Not a thing. And he probably won’t be saying anything for quite a while. But there was this,” Johnson said, pulling a crime scene photograph from his jacket pocket and handing it across the table to me.

  “What is it?”

  “The floor near Vinnie’s body.”

  The photo was a close-up shot of two symbols written in blood.

  X X

  “Mean anything to you?”

  “It does. Vinnie is telling us he was double-crossed.”

  2

  It was nearly two hours before I was able to talk to a doctor and hear what I didn’t want to hear.

  It was after three in the morning when I made it back home.

  Another fun-filled Saturday night.

  I knew exactly where Darlene would be with Tug McGraw five hours later, so I set my alarm for seven-thirty.

  It would have given me four hours sleep, had I been able to sleep.

  I sat on a bench in Buena Vista Park, waiting for Darlene and the dog to come to the end of their run.

  They were about to pass the bench at full speed when Darlene spotted me. She stopped on a dime.

  I was afraid the leash would pull Tug McGraw’s head off.

  “I’m not glad to see you,” she said.

  “Vinnie was shot last night. He’s alive, but not in the clear.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “He went from surgery to recovery to intensive care, no one will be seeing him until noon at the earliest.”

  “What happened?”

  “The going theory is Vinnie shot a man named Hanover while Vinnie was committing a robbery, but we both know that’s not true.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  “I think someone else was there, shot them both, and staged the scene to mislead the police.”

  “Hanover?”

  “Dead.”

  “So, on top of everything, Vinnie is a murder suspect.”

  “I’m hoping when the crime scene investigators are through they’ll find it couldn’t have gone down that way.”

  “What was Vinnie doing there?”

  “Before he lost consciousness at the scene, Vinnie left a message. He was telling us he had been betrayed. Someone Vinnie felt he could trust got him there, and back-stabbed him. That someone is who we’re looking for.”

  “What can I do to help find that someone?”

  “I don’t know enough yet to answer that question, but there is something you can do. Ray Boyle called to tell me he put Vinnie’s mother on a plane, can you pick her up at the airport and take her to the hospital?”

  “Of course. What will you be doing?”

  “I’ll be paying a polite visit to a nasty Irishman.”

  3

  The Blarney Stone was one of those neighborhood bars where locals came to drink breakfast.

  The place was buzzing at nine in the morning.

  I went to the bartender and asked for Conway. The barkeep told me to come back later, but didn’t say how much later.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  “Paddy.”

  I might have guessed.

  “Paddy, if Big Bill happens to be available sooner than later, please let him know Jake Diamond needs to talk.”r />
  Paddy picked up the bar phone, exchanged a few words, and sent me back to Conway’s office.

  “Jake Diamond. Take a seat. I’m guessing you are here about Vinnie Strings.”

  “Vinnie was shot last night.”

  “That’s terrible news. Is he alive?”

  “Afraid you may not get what he owes you?”

  “May I call you Jake?”

  “Sure.”

  “Jake. I was raised by an Irish mother, I’m not heartless. And that was a rude thing to say. I’ll let it go this time. I’m sure you are upset.”

  “I apologize. Vinnie is alive, but it’s touch and go. Any idea about who may have wanted to hurt him?”

  “None. I saw him yesterday afternoon, and I gave him a one-week grace period to square his debt. I suggested he reach out to you for help. He wasn’t too keen on that idea. Vinnie is a luckless gambler, but he has his pride. I am a businessman and I can’t tolerate being short-changed, but I actually like the kid. I have many eyes and ears around the city. If I get wind of anything at all, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How about a drink. I have twenty-one-year-old Jameson.”

  “It’s a little early for me.”

  “It’s five in the afternoon in Dublin,” Big Bill said.

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  1

  Golden Fingers

  The theme music for the quiz show Jeopardy! makes an unsettling ringtone. Although originally composed as a lullaby, its relentless, tick-tock, time-is-running-out associations can’t help but impinge upon your dreams if you’ve already nodded off.

  Other things that can impinge are a hip flask full of Old Grand-Dad and memories of a turbulent flight from Palm Springs to San Francisco earlier in the day. Now, as I dozed on a couch in my old apartment on the corner of Post and Hyde, the inexorable march of tinny notes from my cellphone turned my vague dreams about flying into lucid nightmares about crashing.