A Nice Girl Like You (Lt. Andy Bastian Mysteries Book 2)

by Richard Wormser

  It might give us a description. But in the morning. We just couldn’t afford to stir up the citizenry any more than they were stirred up tonight.

  My lights flashed across the front of our house, and I swore. Should have had sense enough to turn them off; if Olga was sleeping with the living room door open, they’d lance right into the bedroom and wake her.

  And then – I’d dipped into her textbooks – I wondered if I’d left the headlights on just because I wanted Olga to be up, because I felt lonely and battered and needed her to comfort me.

  The idea made me chuckle.

  I left the car in the driveway because I might have to go out again, after I called Drew. But my Freudian musings caused me to walk on the edge of the lawn, rather than on the concrete driveway. I was self-conscious now about making noise; it would sound like a baby’s wail for mama, at least to my own ears.

  As I came up to the front door, I was aware of light on the immature hedge that was the opposite boundary of our opulent estate (no down payment G.I.). So Olga was either up, or had left the light on in the bathroom.

  And then, as I reached my key out to the door, the light shifted, ever so slightly.

  My gun was in my hand before I thought about it. I was off the little entrance porch, and crossing the lawn, moving easy, acutely aware of every little bush or shrub that might make me trip.

  So I tripped over the hose, which I had left out. But I recovered without noise, and went on, and there he was, pressed against the side of our house, peering into the bathroom window.

  Now I was doing what I knew best to do. Gun in right hand, pulled back so it didn’t touch the suspect, so he couldn’t whirl against it and knock it out of my grip. Legs apart, knees slightly crooked ready to bring up a heel if he kicked at my middle.

  Left hand out, and on his collar, ripping him around with his back to me, slamming him into the wall, away from the window.

  Voice hard: “This is a police officer. Get your hands on that wall, higher, then lean your weight on them.” My foot went out, kicking his feet back till he’d fall if he moved a hand.

  Gun in my left hand now, where he could see it as I stood in the light from the window. My right hand went over him, fast but thoroughly, frisking for a knife or a gun.

  One, a knife. But, held in the light of the window, it wasn’t a switchblade; it was an old boy scout type, a cheap one, and the largest blade was snapped off about an inch from the tip. An old break, since rust covered the fracture.

  “All right, walk towards the car over there.”

  His voice was weak and whiny, and the smell of cheap muscatel – they call it muscatoot in the cities that have Skid Rows – was enough to gag a clean-living cop.

  He said: “Officer, I was just –” and then he broke off, because even a wino couldn’t explain what he was doing outside my window at one in the morning.

  “Save it, bum, save it.” I don’t like talking like that, but I don’t mind it, either; it is sometimes the only way to talk. A quick confession, and Naranjo Vista could go back to striving in the sun. I felt pretty good.

  My handcuffs were in the car. I got them out and slid them through the front bumper, there’s a space there for the chain of a hydraulic jack that is just ideal for handcuffing purposes. “Lie down, bum.”

  His whine rose to a wail. “I was just wantin’ to see the lady come out of the shower, was all.”

  “Lie down, crumbum.” Maybe I should have said lay down. Anyway he got the idea, and sprawled on the concrete. I clamped both bracelets hard; I wanted him to suffer a little. Then I went into my house.

  The phone was in the living room, but I passed it for the moment and opened the door of our bedroom, just as Olga opened the bathroom door and came out, rubbing at her hair with a towel, stark God-damned naked.

  “How’s about pulling down a shade once in a while?”

  She blinked at me, too startled to say anything; she glanced at the bedroom shade, which was down all the way. She made no effort to cover herself, nor had she when we were first married; she was no prude. “Andy, that’s a fine way to come home. Did you bring a warrant for indecent exposure?”

  “There was a man outside, staring through the bathroom window at you!”

  She blinked, and then smiled: “He must be hard up. I’m sorry, but the house on that side’s empty, and anyway there’s a hedge, and – I just never thought. You sound jealous, Andy.”

  “There was an assault earlier this evening.”

  She nodded soberly, the fun out of her eyes, and reached for a robe from the wardrobe that lined one side of our bedroom. “I know of course. Hal told me. A girl called Nora Patterson.”

  “He had a hell of a nerve, discussing police business.”

  Olga sighed. “Andy, I am a kind, sympathetic and ever-loving wife. But if you had a hard day at the office, you get three licks at me to get even, and no more. That was the third lick.”

  Counting to ten never did me any good; I wonder if it ever helped anybody. I said: “You could have been killed. Assaulted and killed.”

  Her eyes grew wide. Then she gave her sober nod again, and suddenly broke into the grin I loved her for. “Motive explained. You were worried about me. Freud would say you were jealous, but pooh on old Freud.”

  “Pooh on old Freud. The bathroom window’s undoubtedly unlocked; it always has been. He could have waited till you came in here, ripped the screen out and –”

  “All right, all right, I’m scared enough. . . . Andy, he oughtn’t to be running around in the night. There are other women and – He’s the one, isn’t he?”

  “He’s the one all right. The chances of two sex maniacs running around Naranjo Vista in one night are kind of small. But he isn’t running now; he’s chained to the front bumper of our car.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, Andy. That’s illegal, isn’t it? I mean, it’s almost a third degree. It gets cold out there at night. Couldn’t you get into trouble, cruel and inhuman punishment, something like that?”

  “Now you’re worried about me. Or is it your unknown admirer? After all, it’s quite a tribute to your charms – as you say, it get’s cold out there.”

  But her grin was absentminded. “It makes me feel sticky, all over.”

  “Okay, no more hardboiled cop jokes. I’d better go call in.”

  Mike Egan, a day cop, was on the switchboard. When he heard my voice, he said: “Hold it,” and gave me neither title nor name. While the switch was open, I could hear voices; the mess at the station house was not letting up. Then Jack Davis’s voice came on: “Where are you, Andy?”

  “Home. It seemed a good idea to stay away from the station.”

  Jack Davis said: “Dammit, Andy, this is no station. It’s a Civic Security Centre.”

  “My captain jokes. Jack – I got the bastard.”

  There was a long silence. Then Jack Davis said: “You’re sure, Andy?”

  And he had me stopped. All our years in military police, all our months in civilian work, all our background in crime hung somewhere in the air between me, here in my no-down-payment- G.I. house, and Jack, who was probably stashed somewhere in the Civic Security Centre.

  Finally I said: “No, of course I’m not sure. How could I be, until a lab and a D.A. and a judge and a jury go through their tricks. But I never made a pinch yet that I was surer about.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  So I told him. And I didn’t feel good while I was doing it. I felt like I was, somehow or other, betraying my marriage. And this would have to be gone through on a witness stand, too. A damned minor thing, but not to me. . . .

  When I finished Jack Davis said: “You have just run up the world’s record for cheap and quick police work.”

  “Luck.”

  He said: “Oh, sure. Of course. It always is . . . I’m in the firehouse, in case you wondered. The aroused citizenry hasn’t thought of looking here for me. The Purloined Letter.”

  “Huh?”

&n
bsp; “A story in which a guy hid something in such plain sight that nobody saw it. Very literary. Aren’t you glad you’ve got such a well-educated chief?”

  “What are you jittery about, Jack?”

  Our phone was in the living room. In the bedroom I could hear Olga moving around getting her clothes on. If this experience had given her a – conditioning? – against nudity, I was going to have a hell of a sanitation problem on my hands. I wasn’t being very funny. I said: “You still worried I’ve got the wrong man? It’s too much of a coincidence, Jack.”

  “Sure. But a coincidence is possible. And if I call off the search, and then this guy is innocent –”

  “Since Naranjo Vista opened, we haven’t had a sex case, unless beating your wife for cheating is a sex case. Now, in one night, we catch two? Not a chance, Jack.”

  He coughed nervously. “We’ve had peeping Tom complaints.”

  “Captain, I’m waiting for orders, chief.” He didn’t like being called chief; he wore captain’s bars and thought of himself as a captain.

  “Can you keep him in your house? I can sneak out through the back of the firehouse.”

  “Jack –”

  “I’ll put the pinch on the air. I’ll have Lasley let the citizens listen to it.”

  “We’ll be in my garage.”

  Chapter Six

  Olga came out of the bedroom as I hung up the phone. Her lipstick was too bright against her skin; she was getting a reaction. I hated to leave her, but I wasn’t paid to look after my own wife. I kissed her cold lips, and said: “Gotta go, honey.”

  “Just about to make coffee,” she said.

  “There’s a bottle of cognac in the sideboard, put a slug of it in.”

  “Can’t you wait?”

  I shook my head. When I said: “If you hear noise in the garage, it’s us, Jack Davis and me. We’re going to question the suspect there.”

  “Oh, can’t you get him out of here?”

  “He’ll be mobbed if we show him anywhere near the station house. Lynched, maybe. I can’t take a chance on that.”

  “Lynching’s too good for him,” Olga said. My Olga, the girl I loved – but, more important the girl with the high, high education – the B.A., the M.A. in psychology, the almost Ph.D.

  My face must have shown what I was thinking, because she said: “I shouldn’t have said that. I guess I won’t think it in the morning.”

  “Okay, kid. Another kiss?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  The house door closed behind me, and I was out in the night. It was cold; there is not a night in the year in Southern California that doesn’t get cold. And when the sun comes out, even if it is the dead of winter, you swelter. This is considered highly desirable, and thousands of people pour in every week to enjoy it.

  The dome light came on as I opened the car door to get my greatcoat out. I put it on, and looked like a cop, on the surface at least. The handcuff key was in the inner pocket, in a little leather case.

  My catch was chattering his teeth as I bent over him. His coat, as I slid my hand down the sleeve to find the cuff, was stiff and slick with dirt. I could smell the muscatoot on his breath, but it had worn off a little. I could smell him, too – sweat and food-stained shirt, body odours and the faint stench of rotten orange peels from the gutters and doorways he’d passed out in.

  I uncuffed one wrist and managed to get the nippers through the bumper without bruising him too badly. I didn’t spare him for humanitarian reasons, but because I didn’t want to mark him up. Sooner or later he’d have a lawyer.

  I was helping him to his feet when a car came down the block. I pushed him down again, and got down with him. There was a spotlight on the car, but it would be thrown high, since it was being run by amateurs.

  He said: “What the hell?” His chattering teeth made it hard to understand him.

  “Buddy, there’s a lynch party out for you.”

  The car went slowly by, and, as I had predicted, the spot played on the windshield of my car. I hauled buddy-boy to his feet again. He said: “Who you tryin’ to kid? Lynch party? Whata you think I am, a horse thief? I just wanted to see the lady with no clothes on. Nekkid. And, mister, you sure spent a lot of time in there!” He giggled.

  I hit him in the belly, and his stinking breath came flooding across me. He bent over, straining against the cuff in my hand.

  Then he was sick, all over my driveway, almost over my shoes. His vomit smelt hardly any worse than he did; there was nothing in his stomach but half-oxidized sweet wine.

  He straightened up, coughing, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “What kind of cop are you, anyway, talking about lynch parties, making me hide? I don’t think you’re a cop at all; I don’t know what this is all about. So I done wrong, wanting to look at the lady –”

  “She’s my wife.”

  It shut him up, but only for a moment. Then he giggled, his weak, alcoholic giggle. “Old joke,” he said. “That was no lady that was –”

  He saw my fist balling, and shut up.

  Finally, oh Lord, Jack Davis pulled into the driveway in his own car, not a department one. He flashed his spotlight once, and got out fast and came down to us. “Thought you’d be in the garage.”

  “When we tried to make it, a posse car went by. I ran into one before and read them the riot act.”

  “Those guys,” Captain Davis said. “They think this is the Old West, or something.”

  “After all, if they got any further west, they’d get pretty wet,” I said. “You bring my case?”

  Jack shook his head. “We’ll take him in when it gets quieter.” With his car blocking us, we had less chance of being seen by a patrolling civilian. We went into my garage, pulling the big door up on its tracks, pulling it down behind us, standing in the dark until I had leaned the oil catcher up against the single side window. Then I pulled the light on, and Jack Davis looked my captive over. “Throw him back,” he said. “Under the legal limit.”

  He got no smile from me. Nothing about this was very funny to me. But the truth was, this wasn’t a very prepossessing criminal.

  About thirty years old, but going bald; what hair he had was dark blond or maybe true blond with dirt in it. A scab on his forehead had dirt ground into it; when he opened his mouth to yawn – a sure sign he was afraid – most of his upper front teeth were missing.

  His coat had been grey, once, his pants brown. Now dirt had them almost matching.

  But the outstanding characteristic of my little dandy was that he was little. Not over five-feet two, maybe less.

  So now you had the story of his life; He was small, and people picked on him, so he turned wino. He was small, and couldn’t get a girl, so he took one, the assault way.

  I could write the speech for the defence counsel, though he wouldn’t want me to because he’d want to have a longer speech; mine wouldn’t keep him in the limelight long enough.

  Jack Davis said: “We’ll have trouble proving it to a jury. The girl’s an inch taller than he is, at least.”

  “He’s a man, she’s a woman. It gave him an edge.”

  Wino whined. “I don’t know what you guys are talking about. I feel awful. You gimme pneumonia, an’ I’ll sue ya. I’ll sue ya both, and the city, too. Hey, I’ll get ten thousand dollars and –”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Take your pants off and hand them to me.”

  His red eyes blinked. “What is this, anyway? I ain’t gonna take my pants off.”

  Jack Davis moved his very burly shoulders. “You heard the man.”

  Wino giggled again. “Hey, you got me wrong. I don’t go that route.” He pronounced it “root”, the civilian, educated way; Jack or I would have called it “rout”, Army lower-class style.

  “He’s had a good start in life,” I said. “College man, maybe. Bet there’s a family someplace’ll come up with money for a top-flight lawyer, when they hear baby brother’s up for criminal assault.”

  The rheumy eyes widened. The
semi-toothless mouth gaped. “What are you framing me for? I look in a bathroom, and the next thing ya know –” He mumbled along. His dialect swung from upper class to Skid Row and back again.

  When he ran out of breath, I said: “Take your pants off, or I’ll do it for you.”

  He took them off. I examined them. Cop work. What makes our job so glamorous. I gave them back to him. I took out my notebook, noted the time, made an entry.

  Jack Davis said: “Yes?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Jack nodded. He said: “It’s my decision, I guess, whether to hold him in our station, or take him up to county.”

  “What I saw of the county boys, I’d say hold him here. They have a good lab man, a Sergeant Ernen. The rest of them have guns on their hips, badges on their chests, and they use their heads to wear uniform hats.”

  Jack Davis looked at our prisoner, and then at me. He was a chief of police, and he didn’t like his lieutenant talking that way about other peace officers in front of a suspect.

  “I’d rather hold droopy here at our station.”

  Wino had his pants back on, and mostly buttoned up. He didn’t finish the job; he was shaking pretty badly. Jack Davis said: “We ought to get a doctor for him.”

  “We’ve got doctors in Naranjo Vista. With paraldehyde.”

  Wino groaned. He had had the drug before, no doubt; it is given all alcoholics to prevent DTs when their liquor is suddenly cut off. None of them like it. I’ve never tasted it, but it smells like no one would like it.

  Jack Davis said: “What’s your name, son?” I don’t know what the son was for; just an Army-police habit, I guess.

  Wino said: “Davis, sir. John Davis.”

  Any other time I would have let out a whoop at the punk’s having the same name as the chief. But I didn’t feel funny at all.

  Jack Davis just grunted at John Davis and looked at me, daring me to laugh.

  Instead, I said: “What did you put on the air, Captain?”

  Jack said: “That a prime suspect had been arrested and taken to County Headquarters. It should have sent the night-riders to their beds.”