by Bill Moody
“Would you please come with me, Mr. Pigeon,” he said.
Jimmy followed Sutton into the building and up to the second floor.
The building superintendent stood in the hall, pale as a ghost. He looked at Jimmy and then turned his eyes away. At the office door, Jimmy immediately noticed the crack in the opaque glass pane which ran diagonally across the hand painted words. Archer and Pigeon, Private Investigation.
Sutton pushed the door open. Jimmy’s eyes went to the floor. Lenny Archer, his face nearly unrecognizable, lying in what seemed an ocean of blood.
Pigeon sadly looked away and surveyed the room. It had been turned upside down. File cabinet drawers open, papers scattered everywhere. Two men in white lab coats dusting for prints. Two plain clothed detectives staring back at him. The older of the two starting toward him.
“Are you okay, Mr. Pigeon,” the detective said. “You don’t look very well.”
Allergies, Jimmy thought to say, aversion to violent death.
“When did this happen?” Jimmy asked.
“I can’t say. The call came in a few hours ago. The medical examiner is on his way. We’ll know more after he takes a look. Do you feel up to a few questions?”
“Give me a moment,” Jimmy said. “I need some air. Can we talk outside?”
“Sure. We’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Jimmy walked back down and out of the building. He passed Sutton and the other uniform at the door. They had nothing to say. He walked twenty feet from the entrance, leaned against the building and lit a cigarette.
Jesus Christ, Lenny, what the fuck was it about?
Jimmy was crushing the cigarette under his shoe a few minutes later as the two detectives approached him.
“Go ahead, ask,” Jimmy said before either could speak.
The older of the two took charge. The other detective took notes.
“When was the last time you saw your partner?”
“Monday evening, a week ago today. I left town early Tuesday morning, got back in late last night.”
“Did you speak with Mr. Archer while you were gone?”
“No. I imagined Lenny could stay out of trouble for six days.”
“Do you have any idea about why this happened?”
“None.”
“Whoever it was seemed to be searching for something.”
“No idea,” said Jimmy.
“A case you were working on? Something particularly sensitive or dangerous?”
“Nothing I was involved in,” Jimmy said. “Nothing Lenny told me anything about.”
“Did you usually work separate cases?”
“Most of the time.”
“So, you can’t really help us on this.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything.”
“Mr. Pigeon, it would be much better for all concerned if you left this to us.”
Not much better for Lenny.
“I didn’t get your names,” Jimmy said. “I thought I knew all of the Santa Monica homicide detectives.”
“I’m Detective Raft and my partner is Detective Tully. We’re LASD,” said Raft, handing Jimmy a Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department business card.
“Oh?” said Jimmy.
“We were handy,” Raft said. “Can you tell us anything about Mr. Archer’s next-of-kin?”
“He had none,” said Jimmy.
“Here’s the ME,” said Tully. “I’ll take him up.”
Tully started toward the Ford that had pulled up in front of the building. An ambulance turned onto Fourth Street. Tully led the Santa Monica Medical Examiner into the building. Solomon Meyers, a familiar face.
“When can I get back into the office?” Jimmy asked.
“Hopefully by early this evening. Is there somewhere I can reach you before then?” Raft asked.
“I’m not sure where I’ll be. You have my card. You can reach me at the office number, hopefully by early this evening. Can I go now?”
“Sure,” said Raft. “I think that’s all for the time being. You have my card, if there’s anything we can do.”
“Thanks, I’ll let you know,” Jimmy said and he quietly walked away.
Raft returned to the office. The medical examiner was studying the corpse, the ambulance drivers were waiting for the ME to release the body, the crime scene investigators were dusting, collecting, shooting photographs. Detective Raft called Detective Tully out into the hall.
“Do you think Pigeon knows anything?” asked Tully.
“I don’t believe so,” said Raft. “Archer and Richards both said no. But Pigeon is a snoop and from what I hear a very good one. And he has a poor fucking attitude. We’ll need to keep a close eye on him.”
“Do you think they’ve found Richards yet?”
“I’m sure they have,” Raft said. “I imagine that’s why the Santa Monica PD was too busy to take this one.”
Pigeon spent the remainder of the day alone. He sat for hours at the Santa Monica Pier, watching the ocean. He dropped into a few bars along Third Street, nursing more than one drink in each saloon. A toast to Lenny Archer. At a table in the rear of Murphy’s Saloon four men in military uniform, all in their late sixties or early seventies, sang patriotic songs and tipped drinks in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of the allied invasion of Normandy. It was too much celebration for Jimmy to handle. He left the bar and treated himself to a steak dinner before returning to his office.
Someone had tried valiantly to scrub the floor, most likely the building superintendent, but a large faint stain remained. The strong scent of bleach had taken the place of the hideous smell of fresh blood. The office was still in shambles. He knew he would need to call someone in to pick up, to fix the glass pane on the door, maybe drop an area rug down. He knew he wasn’t up to it himself.
Jimmy went over to Lenny Archer’s desk and opened the top drawer. In the top center drawer of each of their desks sat a small ceramic change bowl filled with coins and paper clips. Imbedded into the bottom of each bowl was a remote switch, a small button which started the tape machine that recorded sound through a microphone hidden in the ceiling light fixture. The tape recorder was hidden in the wall behind a metal vent cover. Jimmy emptied the bowl in Lenny’s drawer.
The record button was depressed.
Jimmy went over to his own desk for a screwdriver. He detached the metal grill and he pulled out the machine. He carried it back to his desk and rewound the tape. He lit a cigarette and pressed the play button.
Pigeon could not identify the voices but he could tell there had been two men in the office with Lenny. The dialogue was audible, as were the background noises. The first gunshot followed by a close second. The awful sounds of the beating Lenny had taken. The brutal interrogation, a name mentioned more than once. Richards.
Ed Richards.
Something to go on.
They had found what they came looking for; Lenny had been of no use to them.
And then the final fatal gunshot.
Pigeon replaced the tape recorder and switched on the small portable TV hoping to catch the late local news. He pulled the pint of bourbon from his desk and drank from the bottle. Jimmy caught the lead story, a Santa Monica author and journalist found shot to death in his beach house. The place had been ransacked. The Santa Monica police suspected a robbery turned felony homicide.
The name of the victim was Edward Richards.
Jimmy turned off the TV, slipped the bottle into his jacket pocket and left the office. He stopped at the front entrance to check the mail. He unlocked the box and found two bills and a postcard. The card had been addressed to Jimmy at his sister’s place in South Carolina, but the street address had been transcribed incorrectly and the postcard was stamped Return to Sender. On the front of the card was a photo of the Santa Monica City Hall Building and on the back side of the card was an eight word message to Pigeon.
Chasing Charlie Chan.
Wish you were here.
&nb
sp; Lenny.
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