Harris said, “There will be no charges filed on either side.”
“That’s my decision to make, not yours.”
“Oh, Jesus! What do you want from us?”
“I want Mr. X over there to stop following me. I want to keep looking for the bastard who killed Joe Puma.”
“We’re looking for him. You want to work with us, is that it?”
“If you insist. I’m not sure Bernie Vogel would be happy about that. He told me to keep my damned nose out of it.”
“He told you that because I told him to tell you that. You and Bernie are friends, aren’t you?”
“Most of the time.”
“Okay. You work it out with him. And you keep nothing from him. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
I nodded at Dahl, glared at Mr. X, said, “Good night,” and went out.
I could mourn Lenny but I couldn’t regret his death. It had been a long time coming. He had expected it. Maybe Joe had, too—or why the insurance policy? Why, why, why. … This mess was full of whys.
Jan was waiting at the door when I got home. “What happened? I phoned down there and the nurse told me you had left more than hour before I called. Where have you been?”
“Talking with Chief Harris and Captain Dahl and a G-man.”
“I see. Which one blackened your eye?”
“I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”
“Would you like your cocoa now?”
“Some whiskey. Lenny’s dead.”
“I know. The nurse told me. You go sit down and relax. I’ll get your drink.”
She knew that a drink and a soft chair would loosen my tongue. I recounted the night’s adventure.
When I’d finished she said, “You’re still down there, aren’t you?”
“Down where?”
“In Los Angeles, in that chintzy little office, playing Hawkshaw. It was your living then. Why do you need it now?”
“Because it’s all I know, except for football. I’m a little too old for football. But I’m too damned young to retire. Only a slob would retire at my age. I have to do something, Jan!”
“Okay, okay,” she said wearily. “Is your eye the only place that you hurt?”
“No. He gave me some mean shots in the groin. Want to see?”
“Not tonight,” she said. “I have a headache.”
9
MY NIGHTS HAD BEEN FILLED WITH dreams lately. Tonight’s was crazier than usual. Engelke was in the Super Bowl, a quarterback. I kept trying to tell him he didn’t belong there; he was a matador, not a quarterback.
Nine years with the Rams, but never in the Super Bowl. They had made it, finally, after I had retired. In the dream I sat with Mrs. Engelke in a VIP box, eating hot dogs and drinking Wild Turkey.
In the morning, over the waffles, I said to my bride, “This is a real stuffy town, isn’t it? Are all stuffy people cruel?”
“Here we go again,” she said. “What brought this on?”
“The Engelkes. That CANA business has made them social pariahs.”
“It’s news to me. I’m not that social.”
“I thought we could have some people in, you know, the Vaughans and like that and—“
“I’d better clear it with Lois first. There might be another reason why she dropped Nadia Engelke from her favored-persons list.”
“I’ll bet Judge Vaughan would prefer Stuart Engelke to his old friend Professor Barlow.”
“Possibly. But Alan doesn’t make those decisions.”
It was only a little after eight o’clock; Bernie would still be home. I phoned him there. “Chief Harris wants me to help you on the Puma case,” I told him.
“It’s too early in the day for low comedy,” he said sourly. “When did you start drinking in the morning?”
“I’ll meet you down at the station,” I said, “after you’ve talked with Harris.” I hung up.
When the phone rang, I told Jan, “That’s Bernie. Tell him I’m in the shower.”
“You’re not in the shower now! Why do you insist on baiting that nice man?”
“It maintains our adversary relationship,” I explained. “He’ll understand.”
The warm water caressed me. Nadia, what a beautiful name … Russian, probably. An olive-skinned Russian? Maybe her mother had been an Indian princess.
I had thought last night that my threat of taking the Fed to court and blowing his cover had been the reason for Harris letting me work with Bernie. Another thought came to me as I dressed. Maybe Bernie wouldn’t be my ally. He might be playing watchdog for the department. What I might learn on my own they could funnel to the Feds through him.
I decided to bring them something they didn’t know. Among Joe’s papers still littering the dining-room table the most innocuous seemed to be the unlisted number I had already phoned, the home of Lowell and Oren Kendfelt. I scribbled the number on a piece of scrap paper.
Vogel was in his office when I got there. He looked at my discolored eye and smiled. “I warned you about getting your lumps from the Feds. You’ll never learn, will you?”
“You should see the other guy.”
“I’ve seen him, tall and skinny. Just wait until you run into their heavyweights.”
I put the slip of paper on his desk. “I found this next to Joe’s phone at his house. It must be an unlisted number. I called it. Somebody named Kendfelt, Oren and Lowell Kendfelt. Anybody you know?”
“I know Lowell. I arrested him years ago.”
“For what?”
“For soliciting me in a gay bar.”
“What the hell were you doing in a gay bar?”
“Waiting for him to solicit me.”
“Entrapment? You?”
“Look, it wasn’t my idea. I had my orders. Are we going to get along or aren’t we?”
“I intend to try. Should I check this out?”
He stood up. “I’m going out to talk with a man on Arroyo Road. We’ll stop at Kendfelt’s on the way.”
My morning’s suspicion was strengthening, he was being too cooperative. Prove to me I’m wrong, Bernie, baby. Prove you’re not as devious as I am.
We found the Kendfelt address in the city directory. It was an older home in a section of well-kept older homes only a few blocks beyond the business district. The other houses were Spanish or California stucco; Kendfelt’s was red brick with white trim and white Colonial shutters.
The man who opened the door to our ring was tall and pale, with light golden hair and brilliant blue eyes. “Well, Sergeant Vogel! What have I done now?”
“Nothing I know of, Mr. Kendfelt. I’ve made lieutenant since last we met. I’m not here to harass you.”
“In that case, you may come in,” he said.
We came through a small foyer to a living room of hooked rugs and maple furniture, with Currier and Ives prints on the walls. A shorter, darker man rose from his chair as we entered.
“This is my friend Oren,” Lowell said. “He took my surname when we decided to live together.”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Oren said.
It was the voice I had heard on the phone, the voice I had thought was female.
Vogel said, “I—we’re investigating the murder of a private investigator named Joseph Puma. He had your unlisted telephone number in his house and we wondered why.”
“Because he was trying to blackmail me. However, Oren and I were up in San Francisco the night he was killed. I can supply you with the names of a dozen people who will attest to that.”
“I’m sure there will be no need.” Vogel said.
“And you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to. But why did he think he had grounds for blackmail?”
Lowell smiled. “Can’t you guess, lieutenant? It was several months ago. I was about to become vice-president of Mr. Grundeman’s little bank in Montevista. Do you know Mr. Grundeman?”
Vogel nodded. “I know the man. He’s still living in the
nineteenth century. I get the picture. So?”
“So rather than pay blackmail, I simply resigned.”
“How much money did Puma want?”
“A thousand dollars. Which I could have paid. It was the principle involved—don’t you see?”
“I do. Thanks for your cooperation.”
Outside, Vogel asked, “What do you think of your friend now?”
“Kendfelt could be lying. Joe wouldn’t risk an extortion rap for a lousy grand.”
“A thousand here, a thousand there—?”
Could eventually get him enough to send Joey to law school. … I asked, “Where next? Arroyo Road?”
He nodded. “There’s an old guy out there who might have a story to tell. It’s probably nothing. Maybe he won’t even talk to us. We got our lead from a bartender.”
“He was sounding off in a bar?”
“Right.” He pulled away from the curb and headed for Main Street. “You want to name those dozen cops who are worse than Joe Puma now?”
“Lay off, Bernie. Joe was hustling for every buck, trying to get his kid into law school—but this I can’t believe. It was just as hard for me to believe you’d entrap a homosexual.”
“That was my job. I was ordered to do it.”
“You could have quit your job.”
“I have to eat.”
“So did Joe.”
He drove down Main Street toward the freeway. “It’s not the same and you know it. Let’s drop the subject.”
Silence in the city traffic, silence on the freeway. A quarter mile short of the Arroyo Road turnoff, he said, “Why do you pretend to be so moral? You don’t even go to Mass anymore.”
I laughed. “I’m not a saint and don’t pretend to be. I apologize for making you feel guilty.”
“Aagh—shut up!” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The old man who lived on Arroyo Road was an ornery old man. His ramshackle hut was about three blocks beyond the parking lot where Joe had died.
His first name was Calvin. I never learned his last name. Not that day. He was out on his gravel driveway, working on an ancient Plymouth, when we drove up.
He stood next to it, a wrench in his hand, as we walked toward him. “Oh, Christ, you—” he said to Vogel. “I ain’t got enough trouble with this heap?”
“Relax, Calvin. I’m not bringing trouble.”
“Fuzz is trouble,” he said. “Fuzz is always trouble. Trouble’s all you guys know.”
“Thanks to people like you. I told you to relax. We’re investigating that murder down the road. We have reason to believe you might be able to help us.”
He looked between us—and smiled. “For how much?”
“Free.”
“I don’t know a damned thing. So long, boys.” He bent over his engine again.
Vogel said, “You may have got the wrong idea of what a real prison is like from all your nights in the drunk tank. But impeding a murder investigation puts you in another league.”
“I always wanted to make the majors,” he said. “Goodbye, Loot.”
“If I go, you go with me, Calvin.”
He straightened up. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Vogel glared at him. I said, “How much?”
“We don’t pay for information,” Vogel said stiffly.
“I do.”
Calvin smiled again. “I had a feeling you weren’t a cop when you walked up. The way I figure it, this clunker needs new points, a new condenser and maybe a new distributor cap. Maybe sixteen, seventeen bucks?”
I handed him a twenty. “Keep the change and start talking.”
“The way it was,” he said, “I was coming back from Barney’s. You know—that bar down next to the railroad trestle?”
I nodded.
“I was walking. It was about two o’clock. I thought I’d cut across the field. It’s shorter. Then I saw this car parked behind the filling station. It sure looked like a deserted car to me. I mean—it had to be, right? Unless there was some lovers in it.”
“That makes sense,” I agreed.
“So if it’s deserted; I’m not stealing, right? A Chrysler product it looked like in the dark. Maybe I could get the parts I needed.”
“And some parts you could sell,” Vogel said.
Calvin looked at me and sighed. “Cops—huh, buddy?”
“Go on,” I said.
“Well, I’m still in the high grass over there when I see this other car pull off the road and into the lot. Great big black job. Two guys got out and went over to open the front door of the parked car. The inside lights went on when they opened the door and I could see this guy sitting there.” He took a deep breath.
“And they shot him?”
“Nah. There was no shot. I think the guy was already dead.”
“Did you notice the license number of the black car?”
“Hell, no. I wasn’t interested. I did notice it was a Nevada license, though. I used to live in Nevada. They went back to the road after a couple of minutes and really burned rubber.”
“Which way did they go on Arroyo Road?”
He pointed toward the ocean. Vogel asked, “Do you think you could identify those two men?”
Calvin shook his head. “Their faces were never in the light. So help me, that’s the gospel truth.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Glad to help,” he said. “If you’re going toward town, could you give me a lift to that auto-parts store next to Barney’s? I can walk back.”
“If you keep your greasy hands off the upholstery,” Vogel said.
Calvin sighed once more. “Cops!”
We dropped him off at Payless Auto Parts and continued toward town. Vogel asked, “You know who lives in that swanky section at the ocean end of Arroyo Road?”
“I know a few people. I suppose you mean Tony Romolo?”
“That’s the man. Since his old man went to the clink, Tony took over the family. Did they ever get along with the Scarlattis? Never. And your buddy worked for Vincent Scarlatti.”
“One time. Only on the kidnapping.”
“So far as you know. Nevada license plates. No wonder the Feds are in town. Let them handle it.”
“Sure. Why should we care who gets killed in our town?”
“Drop dead. Are you going to take me to Pierre’s for lunch?”
“Not today. I have to see somebody.”
“Not alone. Not if it has anything to do with this case.”
“It doesn’t,” I lied. “I’m also working for CANA, remember.”
“Okay. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”
A thought hit me. “Bernie, you said ‘No wonder the Feds are in town.’ Don’t you know why they are?”
He shook his head. “Not even Chief Harris knows that.”
10
IF THE NEVADA MEN had been heading out of town they had traveled in the wrong direction. Arroyo Road ended at the residential area along the ocean. It was the only road in or out of the area.
I left my car in the police station parking lot and walked over to the South Coast Electric Company building on Main Street.
Stuart Engelke’s office was on the second floor. In the outer office, a buxom, middle-aged woman was typing at a desk near the door. She looked up as I came in.
“My name is Brock Callahan,” I told her. “Is Mr. Engelke busy?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
I shook my head.
“Could you tell me the nature of—” She paused to smile. “I mean, you’re not selling anything, are you?”
“No. It’s kind of dumb. I’ve been working with CANA, you see, but lately I’ve been wondering—”
She smiled again. “I’m sure he’ll see you.” She picked up her phone, pressed a button, waited a few seconds and said, “A Mr. Brock Callahan to see you.” Then, to me, “Go right in, Mr. Callahan.”
He was standing behind his desk when I entered. “Brock Callahan? I know that nam
e.”
“Through my wife, maybe? She knows your wife.”
“Are you joking? Brock Callahan? You and Merlin Olsen—immortals! And neither of you ever in a Super Bowl. It’s criminal!”
“I’m sold,” I said. “Goodbye, CANA.”
“That’s why you’re here?”
I nodded. “My wife had me working with them. But lately—I don’t know. I mean, that Trinity Investment Company, and all—”
He gestured toward a chair. “Sit down, Brock, and we’ll talk.”
We sat down, an immortal and his fan. He asked, “Where did you hear about the Trinity Investment Company?”
“From Judge Vaughan. He didn’t know much about it. Some of the attorneys around town have hinted there might be some syndicate money in it.”
“Our attorneys have the same feeling about them. I guess the governor’s people are beginning to suspect it, too. Were you at the rally?”
“Until about halfway through the governor’s speech.”
“Oh, yes. First the one hand and then the other. He could make a living as a juggler.”
“And this Judson Barlow,” I said. “That was his land, wasn’t it? And there have been some rumors around town about his recent connections.”
He nodded. “Mafia. But only peripheral, so far as we know now. Didn’t you work as a private investigator after you retired?”
“For a while. And then my uncle died and I came up here from Los Angeles to lead the good life.”
He smiled. “We could use a competent investigator. But you don’t need the money, I suppose.”
“I do a little work around town. Never for pay. This is the kind of mess that intrigues me.”
His phone buzzed. He picked it up. “Send her right in,” he said. “Tell her she is about to meet my idol.”
We were both standing when she came in, Nadia Engelke. She stood in the doorway, glaring at me. “You liar! You blabbermouth! You promised me, you weasel!”
“Nadia!” Engelke said. “For God’s sake, have you gone crazy? What’s this all about?”
She closed the door and looked between us doubtfully.
Engelke said, “I have to assume you two have met. Would it be presumptuous of me to ask where?”
Great lines. I stifled my laugh.
“I—” she said. “I—Oh, damn it!”
Cana Diversion Page 6