Goodman was trying to decipher his partner’s less-than-expert typing when Lieutenant Corben yelled their names across the squad room.
“Where’s Morales?” the lieutenant asked as Goodman entered the office.
“Dentist, I think. Bad wisdom.”
“Yeah?” Corben asked, as if he assumed Goodman was lying but didn’t give a damn. “We got some action on the Lydon murder. Lab finally got around to sending us a list of prints found at his apartment.”
Goodman looked at the list. Stephen Palmer made it, of course. Two-thirds of the other male names would probably be more of the deceased’s romances, one-night stands in the main. Then he saw a name that rang all the bells. The guy’s fingerprint had been found on a color snapshot of Maddie Gray located inside Lydon’s locked safe.
“Something?” Corben asked.
Goodman nodded.
“Gonna keep it to yourself?” Corben asked.
SIXTY-EIGHT
That night, Jimmy Doyle was in bed, getting a hand job from the beautiful but disdainful Zorina, when the phone rang. The young woman, whose hair was now a raspberry shade, didn’t call what she was doing a hand job. It was a sensuous massage. She sat on the bed next to Doyle, naked, massaging him sensuously while watching Jay Leno do one of his Iron Jay routines.
Doyle scowled, annoyed that the phone had broken the mood. He shifted his aural attention from the TV to the answering machine. After a few clicks and whirs and wheezes, he heard Pete Sandoval say, “If you’re there, Jimmy, pick up.”
With a grunt, Doyle shifted, daintily removed Zorina’s hand from his penis, and lifted the phone. “I’m here,” he said.
“Jimmy, thank God. I’m in the shit, buddy.”
“Minute,” Doyle told him. He covered the phone and said, “Zor, honey, could you and Jay move it to the living room?”
She shrugged. “I’ll just give myself a sensuous massage,” she said. It was one of the things he loved about her. She simply didn’t give a damn about anything.
He watched her move languidly toward the door, a full-breasted woman with raspberry hair and, as if anyone in their right mind could mistake it for her natural color, a matching pubic thatch.
“Where the hell are you?” he asked Sandoval as he clicked off the TV. “You said you’d call before five to let me know how you were progressing on Walden.”
“Sorry, Jimmy. I didn’t have time to work on that.”
“Didn’t have time? What are you talking about?”
“I... I’m on the run. I only had minutes to pack.”
Doyle couldn’t believe it. If you couldn’t count on Sandoval...“Tell me about it.”
“When I, ah, visited that certain party’s apartment, I left something behind.”
“Talk English, damn it. I check for taps every hour.”
“I left a print at Lydon’s place. The cops have made it.”
“You’re shattering my faith in your professionalism,” Doyle said, mind awhirl.
“The little bastard had an International TL-30 in his matchbox pad. Too much safe for average use. I had to take my right glove off to feel the combination. There were photos inside. I guess I picked one up before I put the glove back on.”
Doyle didn’t care about any of that. “How clean a break did you make?”
“Ten minutes after Lattimer called about the fingerprint, somebody was knocking on my office door. I barely got out of there with my laptop and Fuck You money.”
“Leaving behind what?”
“Nothing much. I took your advice and converted to computer files years ago.”
“Any link to the clients or to me?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“That’s not totally reassuring,” Doyle told him.
“It’s the best I can do, Jimmy, under the circumstances.”
“And your plan is...?”
“Take a vacation for a while.”
Doyle was boiling. “I thought you owned this town,” he said, sticking the knife in.
“You know why I’m running, don’t you?” Sandoval asked.
“Just a guess, but maybe you don’t have an alibi for the Lydon murder. And there’s a bloody machete under your bed for the cops to find.”
“Aw, Jimmy. You know fucking well that kind of weapon isn’t my style at all. No. I’m leaving because of you.”
Now this was worthy of the Sandoval Doyle had come to love. “Elucidate on that one, Peter.”
“The fingerprint won’t mean much in the long run. It might let some people I’ve fucked over through the years have a little fun with me. But nothing serious’ll come of it. Not with my lawyers. On the other hand, it’s enough to give the cops license to ask me certain questions, like why I was in Lydon’s apartment. Eventually the questions could get around to our association.”
“In other words, you feel I should keep you on the payroll while you’re having fun in the sun down South or wherever. Maybe even pop for your expenses.”
“Nothing like that. I screwed up and I cover my own ass. I just want you to know I’m doing the Polanski out of respect for our longtime relationship, Jimmy. That’s all.”
“Then vaya con Dios, old son,” Doyle told him. “ Vaya con Dios. ”
SIXTY-NINE
So Sandoval is in the wind?” Lieutenant Corben asked Goodman.
“Must’ve just missed him last night. The paper shredder was still warm,” Goodman said. He and Morales were in Corben’s office, watching him feed his goldfish breakfast.
“Any salvageable material?”
Goodman shook his head. “They’re poking around, and maybe they can tape some of it together,” he said. “But the pieces are smaller than confetti.”
“Was he tipped?” Corben asked.
“Looks that way.”
“Any suggestions on who did the tipping?”
“Sandoval used to be a cop,” Goodman said. “Maybe his partner, if he’s still around.”
Corben nodded. “I’ll look into it myself,” he said. “You seriously think Sandoval cut down Lydon?”
“I think Lydon’s death was connected to the Maddie Gray murder,” Goodman said. “And I believe I can tie Sandoval to Dyana Cooper.”
Corben put down the box of fish food and returned to his desk. “Let’s hear it.”
“A while back, I investigated the death of a guy named Martin Lobrano who was an exec at Golden State Savings.”
“I remember that,” Corben said. “The head man was Leonard Quarles. I had money in his goddamn S&L when it went bust.”
“Sandoval was working for Quarles at the time,” Goodman said. “And so was a character named James Doyle. Doyle’s in tight with the Willins family.”
“You figure Doyle set up Lydon’s murder?” Corben asked.
“All I know is that we’ve got a connection from Sandoval, whose fingerprint was in Lydon’s apartment, to Doyle to Dyana Cooper, who we assume killed Madeleine Gray.”
“What do you know about Doyle?”
Goodman had done some phoning and had pieced together a short bio that went from Doyle’s birth forty-nine years before in Boston, Massachusetts, to the present. In between were a Harvard MBA, a short apprenticeship at a D.C. public relations firm, and some years as an effective lobbyist before moving on to handle the successful congressional campaign of a local businessman. Since then, he had assisted in the election of a Democratic president and two Republican governors and had signed on as a hired gun for a number of people in the public and private sectors who were in extreme need of image polishing. Included were a U.S. Army general who’d been accused of murdering his wife, and Leonard Quarles, who, it was assumed, had drained millions of dollars out of Golden State Savings and Loan before it went belly-up. Both the general and Quarles were free as the breeze.
“And Doyle?” Corben asked.
“No wants, no warrants.”
Corben hummed a bar of some music Goodman was unable to identify, then turned to Morales
. “What’s your take on Doyle?”
“Man don’t blink.”
Corben scowled as if he didn’t consider that to be proof positive. “I’ll put somebody on Doyle’s case. Meanwhile, I been thinking of assigning another team to help you out with Lydon.”
“Could you hold up on that, chief?” Goodman asked. “At least until Carlos and I take a run at Doyle?”
“What kind of a run?”
“Shake his cage a little. See what falls out.”
“Nothing extreme, understand?”
They started to go.
“How’s your wisdom tooth, Morales?” Corben asked.
“Think I’m gonna have to yank the fucker,” the detective replied.
In Morales’s car, Goodman noticed a little Day of the Dead figurine stuck to the dash. The skeleton was wearing a dark suit and had a packet of money sticking out of his coat pocket.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Lawyer.”
“From the Palmers’ shop?” Goodman asked.
“I dropped by there yesterday.”
“Without me?” Goodman sounded hurt. “You conducting your own investigation in Lydon’s death?”
“Not ’zackly.”
“What’s that mean?”
“If I tole you, I know what you’d say. That I’m wastin’ my time. So we gonna go talk with your man Doyle or not?”
“I suppose so,” Goodman said, wondering why, suddenly, he was out of everybody’s loop.
Nearly two hours later, Jimmy Doyle bounced down the steps from the house in the hills, got in his rental Lexus, and drove off. Morales and Goodman followed.
He led them to a sun-baked minimall just off La Brea. Cars filled the parking area before four storefronts—Tip-Top Costumes (For All Occasions), Slip’n’Spin Rollerballs, Vic’s Video Repairs, and Wu Seafoo, the “d” in the name lost to the ages, apparently.
Doyle turned over his keys to a lot attendant in a Hawaiian shirt. Parked in a bus zone, the two detectives watched the stocky man saunter past a Rolls into Wu Seafoo.
“Look at the low riders on that lot,” Morales said. The automobiles were mainly Benzes, BMWs, and Lexuses, with the odd Jaguar and Suburban making up the mix. “What the hell goes on at Wu’s?”
“Guys eating seafoo,” Goodman said. During the period when he’d provided technical advice to a television series, he’d been taken there a couple of times by the genial young owner of the production company, who was addicted to risks and who eventually embarked on a fatal sky dive headfirst into the Mojave.
Wu’s had not been the detective’s idea of a real restaurant. Real restaurants had tablecloths and waiters in tuxes and menus and a cocktail area. Wu’s was an establishment frequented by men—primarily Asians and jaded Americans— who delighted in paying top dollar to sit at a Formica counter and dine on exotic and sometimes potentially lethal denizens of the sea.
When Goodman and Morales entered the air-conditioned, brightly-lit room, the counter customer nearest the door, a plump Asian gentleman, was dropping something with dangling tentacles into his mouth. Morales seemed fascinated by the spectacle.
Doyle was at the rear of the room, sitting at one of only three tables in the place. There was a tall, dignified man with him. They were chatting good-naturedly with their aged waiter. Goodman wondered if the old man might be Wu himself.
As they brushed past, the jabbering maître’d, the two young guys in chef’s hats behind the long counter, a waiter beside the first table, and the one who was possibly Wu near the Doyle party all zeroed in on them. Goodman had seen their kind of eyes before—deceptively emotionless, maybe a bit curious, but, ultimately, expecting the worst from the barbarians. That might be exactly what they were going to get.
Doyle recognized them immediately. He slid his chair back a few inches. To give him room to swing? No. He stood up and reached out a hand. “Detective Goodman, isn’t it? And . . .” He seemed to be searching his memory. “Morales.”
When it became obvious that neither of them was going to accept his offered hand, he withdrew it. Goodman looked at the distinguished man. “You an associate of Mr. Doyle?” he asked.
“Hobie,” Doyle said, “these are the detectives working the Madeleine Gray murder. Gentlemen, Hobart Adler.”
The tall man nodded agreeably. Goodman knew the name. The guy was a hotshot talent agent. What would he and Doyle be discussing? The detective smiled and threw out a fishing line. “Dyana Cooper’s agent, right?”
“Hobie is everybody’s agent,” Doyle said.
“I believe I saw you in the news a few nights ago, Detective Goodman,” Adler said. “You were leaving the courtroom. Everything went well, I hope.”
The smarmy-smooth bastard. “Everything went like roses,” Goodman replied. “The defense attorney tried to run some fake evidence past us, but she got nailed. I hear the judge is going to sanction her. Imagine trying a dumb stunt like that?”
“We were about to have lunch, detective,” Doyle said. “I know you’ll excuse us.”
“Actually, Jamey,” Goodman said, “it’s you we’re here to see.”
Doyle’s face broke into a dangerous smile. “Jamey? Nobody’s called me that in a long time.”
“Your mom, wasn’t it?” Goodman asked.
“Yeah. My mom.” Doyle was staring at him now.
The ancient waiter stepped into the scene. “You gentlemen wish to be seated?”
“No,” Morales said, flashing his badge. “And I ain’t so sure we’re gen’l’men.”
“Jimmy,” Adler said, “if you’ve some business with these fellows, why don’t we have our lunch some other time?”
“Hey, don’t run off,” Morales said, blocking Adler’s exit. “You gotta eat. You oughta try one of them sticker fish that kill you dead if they cook it wrong.”
“Sounds delightful, but I think I’ll be leaving,” Adler said, barely ruffled, if at all.
“We’re just going to ask Jamey a few questions about some stuff we found at the home of a friend of his, Peter Sandoval.”
Adler blinked. The bastard blinked! Goodman was ashamed at the delight he felt over so slight an achievement. “Sorry you can’t stay,” he said.
The agent seemed torn.
Morales sent him on his way with “So long, Jobart, see you aroun’.”
As Adler made his exit, a remarkably graceful one considering the circumstances, Doyle sat down at his table and said, “You boys don’t want to rile him for no reason.”
“Hobie?” Goodman said, taking Adler’s chair. “Hell, he’s an old prom queen.”
Doyle watched Morales drag a chair over from another table. Then he turned his head toward Goodman. “You look a little long in the tooth to be behaving like such an asshole.”
“That’s the beauty of age,” Goodman said. “You reach a point where you can get away with anything. And if not, what difference does it make?”
“If you say so,” Doyle said. “You guys want some fish? On me.”
“Naw,” Morales said. “These people put MSG on everything.”
“Well, here we are,” Doyle said. “You got a question about Sandoval?”
“We were wondering if you knew his whereabouts,” Goodman asked.
“Peter’s a blithe spirit,” Doyle said. “What do you want with him?”
“Robbery, murder, interfering with an investigation,” Goodman said. “Maybe even racketeering. Pick a topic. We haven’t gone through all his stuff yet. The guy was like a pack rat. His place is full of hidey-holes jammed with material. I’m particularly interested in his files on Leonard Quarles. You knew Quarles, didn’t you?”
“In passing,” Doyle said. “You sure about Peter? It doesn’t sound like him at all.”
“What’s Sandoval been doing for you?” Goodman asked.
“Nothing. Like you said, he’s a friend.”
“Oh?” Goodman put on his surprised look. “Then he wasn’t working on Dyana Cooper’s behalf wh
en he black-bagged Arthur Lydon’s place?”
“Boys, I think you must be talking about some other Peter Sandoval. The one I know used to be a policeman, just like you.”
“Maybe a little different,” Goodman said, rising. “Love to sit around all day and chat with you, Jamey. But we’ve got other puffer fish to fry.”
Morales got to his feet, too.
“You did some research on me, huh?” Doyle asked Goodman. “Found out my sainted mom called me ‘Jamey’?”
Goodman had located a Boston cop whose family had grown up on the same block as Doyle’s. He looked the smirking man in the eye and said, “Just something I spotted in one of Sandoval’s files. You have a nice lunch now.”
SEVENTY
It was about four P.M. when Nikki finished up with her witness, Milan Jabhad, the night manager at Quik-E-Gas on Sunset and La Brea. Jabhad had seen a tan Jaguar XKE pull up to his pumps at approximately 9:05 P.M. on the night of the Gray murder. Since the car was on the other side of the pumps, he’d been unable to identify the person who got out to fill the tank, but, as he informed the courtroom, he’d watched the car drive away. He added that he thought there may have been two people in it.
The nervous little man had failed to mention that during the several hours of interrogation at the D.A.’s offices the previous evening. Stung by the unexpected revelation, which cast doubt on the prosecution’s theory that Dyana Cooper had acted alone, Nikki tried to get back on track. Knowing the man’s indecision, she asked, “But you can’t be sure you saw two people?”
“Objection. Leading her own witness.”
“Sustained.”
“How many people are you absolutely certain you saw, Mr. Jabhad?”
“I only saw part of one,” he replied, eyes as wide and full of alarm as a runaway horse. “When she pumped the gas.”
The night before, the little man had told her that he could not identify Dyana Cooper, could not, in fact, say if the person had been a male or a female. Nikki felt it a personal triumph that he was now referring to the pumper as “she.”
The Trials of Nikki Hill Page 28