Tightrope

by Teri White

  44

  It was early when the phone rang.

  Blue woke up reluctantly. It took a moment for him to remember that he’d fallen asleep on the couch waiting for a call. That was after he’d tried to phone Morell, but gotten no answer. His mouth tasted of brandy, good stuff, but despoiled now by several hours of restless sleep and bad dreams. He worked up a little saliva and spit into the snifter before lifting the receiver and making a reasonably appropriate sound into it.

  “Blue? You awake?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Well, listen anyway. We’ve got a lead.”

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Who the hell did you think it was?” Spaceman said irritably. “Fucking J. Edgar Hoover? Do you want to hear this or not?”

  “Hoover’s dead, you know. And yes, I want to hear it. I’m breathless with anticipation.”

  “Reardon’s car turned up. Outside a motel on Santa Monica. A zone car spotted the license and they’re sitting on it for us. You want to pick me up?”

  “Okay.” Blue hung up.

  He was halfway to the bathroom before the realization hit that he was starting to act just like his partner. Blue had always been a man who put great faith in the amenities of civilization. Simple things, like saying hello and good-bye and thank you.

  God, he thought, standing frozen in the hallway, I’m turning into Kowalski.

  That thought shook him up. So much so, that he took a shower lasting several minutes longer than it should have under the circumstances, shaved with particular attention, and gargled three times with Listerine to kill the taste and smell of old booze. Finally, he dressed with care in grey flannel slacks, crisp white shirt, and his best blue blazer. A new tie.

  He felt much better for all the effort, even when he pulled up in front of the apartment building on Vermont and found an impatient Kowalski fuming.

  Spaceman jumped into the car and slammed the door eloquently. “You took long enough.”

  “Sorry,” he said, although it wasn’t true.

  “Where’s the frigging party?”

  “What party?”

  “The one you’re obviously done up for.” Blue glanced at him, at the seedy sport coat and cords. “It is New Year’s Eve in few hours,” he said mildly. “I just want to be ready.”

  Spaceman snorted.

  They sent the zone car back onto patrol and then Spaceman crawled around inside Reardon’s VW carefully. Nothing much came of the search. Several magazines—Video Review, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, The New Yorker. A half-eaten roll of Tropical Fruit Lifesavers. A well-creased map of Beverly Hills.

  “Big time hustler,” Spaceman muttered in disgust.

  Blue was just back from a visit to the manager’s office. “You were expecting maybe whips and strawberry body lotion?” He perched on the front of the car. “I talked to the manager, a Mr. Harold Brown. He told me that there were three men staying in the room. They had another car, a Le Mans, but since Reardon actually rented the room, all he had was a record of this license. They left very early this morning, all three of them, in the other car.”

  “Great.”

  Blue absently rubbed the RR hood ornament on the VW. “He also passed along the information that several other guests complained about some noise coming from this room last night.”

  “What was it?”

  “Mr. Brown didn’t know. To quote him, ‘They shut up afore I could get over there, and anyways, I ain’t no fucking cop.’ So he never checked. He gave me a key.”

  Which, as it turned out, they didn’t need, because the door wasn’t locked.

  “Christ,” Spaceman said from the threshold. “Some noise? I wonder what they would have called World War II?”

  Blue made his way through the mess, following a trail of blood that ended in the bathroom. “No body anyway,” he said.

  “That’s a switch.” Spaceman nudged some rubble with his foot. “I guess we better get a lab crew over here and let them dig through this mess.”

  “Better them than me,” Blue said. Then he bent and moved aside the remains of a lamp. He came up with an exposed roll of film, still in its cannister. “Conway can’t stop taking pictures,” he said. For some reason, it was a thought that made him feel a sudden sadness.

  They took one more quick look around the room, then stepped out. This time, Spaceman locked the door securely.

  “What do you think happened in there?” Blue asked, leaning against the Porsche as Spaceman reached in toward the radio.

  “It’s my guess that we’re not the only ones looking for Morgan and his two sidekicks. Except that whoever else is looking found them first.”

  Blue nodded. “Maybe we should hire whoever it is for the department,” he said. “You and I seem to be the only ones in town who can’t find Morgan.”

  45

  They were still just riding around in the Pontiac. Lars couldn’t seem to settle down anyplace. Safety for now was inside this car, on the move. Devlin was next to him, silent and watchful, the smashed camera on the seat between them.

  In the back seat, Toby stretched out as best he could, trying to find a spot on his body that didn’t hurt. It was a losing battle. Lars had kindly provided, in addition to the iodine and bandages, a bottle of pretty good Scotch to help the pain. Toby, however, kept the sips small and infrequent, because he figured this was not a very good time to be drunk.

  Abruptly Lars pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s and let the engine idle. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  “About a Big Mac?” Devlin said. “That’s great. Our lives are hanging by a very thin thread and you want special sauce.”

  Toby laughed shortly, then wished that he hadn’t.

  Lars gave Devlin a dirty look, then shook his head. “No, fool. I’ve been thinking that there’s a piece missing someplace and it just came to me who it is.”

  “Who?”

  “Tran’s sister. What the fuck was her name?”

  Nobody remembered.

  Lars reached over the seat and pulled up a battered briefcase. He fumbled through the contents and came up with the black notebook. “Angel,” he said after a moment. “Stupid name. Angel Tran.”

  “What’s her involvement?” Devlin asked.

  “I don’t know. But there must be something. Now that I think about it, Phillipe wasn’t bright enough to be in something like this on his own.” He shrugged. “Somebody else had to be telling him what to do, and I like the sister.”

  “You know where she is, I suppose?” Toby said.

  Lars lifted the book. “Of course.”

  “You have all of us in that damned book?”

  He just smiled.

  Toby lifted the bottle in tribute. “You’re amazing, Lars. You could have gone far in life.”

  Lars glanced back at him in surprise. “I have gone far, Tobias.”

  “What’s it say about me in that book?”

  “None of your damned business.”

  Since they were there anyway, they pulled up to the drive-through window and got some burgers.

  They parked across the street from something called the Los Angeles Vietnamese Center, and looked out at the building, which seemed deserted.

  “Maybe she’s not here today,” Toby said. “It is New Year’s Eve.”

  “She’ll be here. For one thing, she lives upstairs. And for another, her brother just died, so it’s not likely she’ll be out partying, right?”

  Toby slumped back against the seat. “I forgot about that,” he mumbled, suddenly paler beneath the bruises.

  Lars gave him a quick thumbs-up gesture, and after a moment, he smiled fleetingly. Lars opened the car door and got out, then leaned in through the window. “You two wait here.”

  “You sure?” Devlin said.

  “I can handle the broad. You just keep your eyes open.”

  They watched him cross the street and go into the building. Toby took a gulp of the Scotch, wincing as the al
cohol touched his cut lip. “Think he’ll kill her?” he said offhandedly.

  Devlin didn’t answer for a long time. “I don’t know,” was all he finally said.

  Toby shook his head and handed the bottle over the seat.

  She was standing by the wall, her back to the door as she took down some Christmas garbage, and didn’t turn around immediately.

  “Angel Tran?” Lars said.

  She finished what she was doing, before turning to look at him. “Lieutenant Morgan,” she said, not surprised.

  “You remember me.”

  “Of course. You used to give me Hershey bars when you came to see my father.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And you didn’t expect a quick grope in return.” She crossed to the desk and sat. “But you’re not here to talk about old times, right?”

  “Right. I’m here to talk about the diamonds. The ones your brother tried to kill me for. My diamonds.”

  “That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.”

  “That’s the way I look at it. You know what’s been going on here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course. Your brother didn’t have to die, you know. He tried to fuck with me.”

  “And people who fuck with Wolf get dead,” she said in a tone that was vaguely mocking.

  “As a rule.” Lars leaned against the wall and stared down at her. “You could move into line for his share, if you cooperate.”

  “Big talk from a man who no longer has these diamonds.”

  “I intend to have them again. I will have them again. Are you interested in being on the winning side?”

  “For the same ten thousand dollars you promised Phillipe? No, thank you. Not enough. I can tell you exactly when and where the stones are going to move. But for that information, I want fifty thousand dollars.”

  Lars smiled. “As greedy as your brother.”

  “But smarter, Lieutenant, much smarter.”

  “I can see that. As another rule of life, I never play games with smart bitches. They’re too mean.” He shrugged. “All right. Fifty grand.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “There’s a phone booth by Third and Melrose. You be there in three hours. Exactly. I’ll call you with the details on when and where Delvecchio’s men are going to pick up the diamonds.”

  “Why not just tell me now?”

  She smiled. “Because I’d like to be alive when you leave here.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’ll expect payment very soon. Don’t try to cheat me. Your friend at the motel can tell you that my associates are ruthless. He is only alive because we wanted it that way.”

  “Well, people say that I can be pretty ruthless, too, baby.”

  “I have heard that.”

  He leaned down very close to her. “It’s true.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  He straightened and moved toward the door. “Two questions,” he said from the threshold.

  “What?”

  “First, why is my friend from the motel still alive?”

  She smiled. “Because I wanted to deal with you. And no matter how much you want the stones, my killing him would have eliminated any chance of our working together.”

  “You are a smart bitch.”

  “The second question?”

  “Why are you so willing to work with me?”

  She shrugged. “Because the other side will pay me only twenty-five thousand.”

  “Greedy and smart.” Lars shook his head and walked out.

  Toby was reading the black book and didn’t know that Lars had returned until the car door slammed. Without even looking back, Lars held a hand over the seat and Toby slapped the book into it. “I didn’t get to the good stuff yet,” he complained.

  “Reardon, Tobias,” Lars recited as he started the car. “Fast cock, fast mouth, and too damned nosy for his own good. Satisfied?”

  Devlin gave a muffled laugh.

  Lars glanced at him. “You haven’t heard what it says about you, Mr. Conway.”

  Toby lifted the bottle for another drink. It occurred to him that they hadn’t asked what happened with Angel Tran. Or even if she was still alive. But it really didn’t matter. Things were getting very weird and Toby sort of wished he could just stop the world and get off. But he was also, in a strange way, enjoying himself.

  He was having a good time.

  46

  Blue struggled to balance a large Coke, a small Tab, one foot-long hot dog (with chili, sauerkraut, onions, cheese, and relish), one plain cheeseburger, and an order of fries in the flimsy cardboard box without dumping the whole disgusting load onto his grey flannel slacks. In the front seat of a Porsche that was quite a trick.

  Spaceman finally emerged from the hole-in-the-wall photography shop, a large manila envelope in one hand. “Got ’em,” he announced. “Told you that bringing the film to Ivan would be a lot faster than waiting for the police lab.” He slammed the car door, causing the box of food to totter dangerously.

  Blue gritted his teeth and held on.

  Spaceman, oblivious, shoved the envelope between his knees and started the car. “There’s a little park couple blocks from here. Good place to eat.”

  It was a perilous trip, but the food and Blue both made it safely. Within five minutes, the two cops were sitting alone in a tiny urban excuse for a park, the lunch spread out on the grimy surface of a wooden table. Blue took one bite of the burger, then opened the envelope and dumped the contents.

  What was he looking for? Evidence, maybe, whatever the hell that was. It certainly wasn’t as clear in real life as in the TV cop shows. Anyway, what he saw in the first dozen or so snapshots didn’t seem to prove much of anything, beyond the fact that Toby Reardon and Lars Morgan had spent a lot of time together in a cheap motel room, mostly being bored and having their picture taken. Beyond some light-hearted mugging for the camera in a few shots, they seemed pretty oblivious to the camera as they watched television, arm wrestled, shaved, and ate fast food.

  “Photographic essay,” Blue said. “Life on the run.”

  “They don’t look like they’re running from anybody,” Spaceman said around a large bite of hot dog, chili, and kraut.

  “Yeah, they certainly seemed to feel safe enough. At least, when these were taken. It must have been a real shock when the room was trashed. And somebody did a hell of a lot of bleeding. One of the them, I think, or there would have been a stiff. They might be running scared now.”

  “Maybe.”

  Abruptly, Blue stopped shuffling through the pictures. “Jesus,” he said.

  Spaceman looked up from the fries. “What?”

  Blue fanned out several glossies. “Now we know what this is all about.”

  Spaceman lifted one print by the edge and studied it. “God, that ice must be worth a couple million.”

  “At least.”

  “Well, no wonder all these people have been dying.” Spaceman sounded pleased. He hated mysteries, hated for things not to make sense. Now he could understand it all: The murders had happened because everybody was chasing these diamonds. Neat and clean. He picked up the chilidog again and ate with renewed enthusiasm.

  Blue, however, let his cheeseburger grow cold as he went through the pile of pictures again and then a third time. He was interested in the diamonds, of course, but beyond that, he would liked to have found in the images some deeper explanation. Not for Morgan so much, but for Reardon and Conway. Was money, even so much money, enough to turn two ordinary-seeming men into ruthless killers?

  Blue didn’t like to think so.

  Reardon had seemed intelligent and harmless enough during their interrogation. In the pictures, he was usually barefooted, shirtless, and the most obviously bored. There was one shot of him stretched out on a bed, reading the Gideon Bible and giving someone out of camera range the finger. Toby Reardon made a good gigolo, but he didn’t seem like even a second-rate Dillinger.

  As
for Lars Morgan, though obviously a killer who struck often and easily, when viewed through Conway’s expert lens he looked like anybody else. No madman. Just a slender, fair-haired man, who tossed occasional smiles at the camera, but who seemed quite unremarkable.

  Blue felt very tired suddenly. He shoved all the pictures back into the envelope.

  Every cop in the city was keeping an eye out for Morgan and the others. But Los Angeles was a big place, with a lot of people, and it was New Year’s Eve. There was a lot going on.

  Blue sat at his desk, not even looking at the pictures anymore. Instead, he was staring across the room, wondering why the hell somebody didn’t take down that damned Christmas tree, which was still tilting in the corner.

  He glanced at his watch. Spaceman was taking a long time at his meeting with McGannon. Or maybe he was in the can.

  After another moment, Blue reached for the phone. He thought briefly, then dialed a long string of numbers. The call went through quickly, but it rang six times before a woman answered. “I know this is probably a bad time to be calling,” Blue apologized. “New Year’s Eve and all. But could I talk to Danny, please?”

  There was a long pause.

  Spaceman appeared and dropped into his chair.

  The woman caught her breath finally. “Don’t you know?” she said dully. “Danny’s dead.”

  Blue thought at first that he hadn’t heard her correctly. He stared at Spaceman, who was drinking an Alka-Seltzer. “What happened?” he asked at last.

  “Shot himself yesterday. My husband put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I found the body. Lot of blood all over the bathroom.” She told the facts wearily; it wasn’t the first time. “Who is this anyway?”

  Blue didn’t say anything for a moment. He was aware that Spaceman was watching him curiously. “This is, ah, nobody important. I’m sorry about Danny.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe it was for the best. He wasn’t right anymore.” There was a lot of bitterness coming through her weary resignation.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, then he hung up.

  Spaceman folded and unfolded the empty foil packet from the Alka-Seltzer. “Something wrong?” His tone was too casual; it clearly recognized that something was very, very wrong.