As She Rides By (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  "Maybe," he said. "So what've you got?"

  "First, I've got what you didn't have and so your attention was distracted elsewhere," I said. "Which is five million bucks of motive, and as Mr. Howieson just said, that's only so far."

  "Yeah," the sergeant said. "Guess you could call that a motive, all right." He stroked his mustache once on each side.

  "Then we get down to 'His' and 'Hers,' " I said. I leafed through the folder and came up with some more paperwork, or copies thereof, and slid them across the desk to him. "Then there is 'Theirs.' "

  "Interesting," he said after a moment's perusal. "And you've got all the original police reports, too, I notice. I wonder how."

  I coughed modestly. "Some well-meaning citizen was kind enough to mail them to me, anonymously, of course."

  "Of course."

  "By sheer coincidence," I said, "I do have a brother, Anthony, aka Tony, who works Downtown in Records."

  "You do, eh?" he said. "Might just have to have a word with him one of these days."

  "Careful, sarge," I said. "He outranks you."

  "Might just have to get one of my captains to have a word with him about confidentiality one of these days," he said.

  "Oh, shoot," I said. "Me and my big mouth." Take that, Tony, I thought with satisfaction. All these years and my own brother, my only brother, my kid brother, would never once help me out and so I had to fork out fortunes to Sneezy instead; how fitting.

  There elapsed some ten minutes of silence as we cast our eyes down "His," "Hers," and "Theirs":

  HIS

  Fabulous house (hearsay)

  Collects early records (hearsay)

  Supposedly oil money—true or false?

  Car being serviced night in question (NIQ)—why? As part of potential alibi—e.g., he was transportless?

  In studio workshop, evidence motorcycle regularly kept there by delivery kid. Does he ever leave it there overnight? Does Tex ride a bike? How wild and woolly was his youth? Juvenile gangs? Is he a gun freak?

  Vise, hacksaw, pliers, metal files, soldering iron, etc., for homemade weapon all in his studio workshop storeroom.

  HERS

  Always seems to wear frilly blouses—why? Who wears frilly blouses in LA? Guys is who. Gang/homemade jail tattoos removed?

  When Mary goes to the theater, does she customarily don gloves?

  HISTORICAL FACT: The female of the species can be lots of trouble; ask what's left of any male spider after he's wined and dined his date and then given his all.

  How come they went in her car? Wouldn't the man normally drive the woman in his, even today? And he was a good driver—evidence Mrs. Flint—and loved his new car—evidence Mrs. Flint.

  Mary claims the passenger window was open, allowing the mugger to stick a gun to Flint's head. Why? It was pouring rain (Met. report for the NIQ). Flint didn't smoke; did she, and say she wanted to let the smoke out? For that, how much do you open a window, even if you do; enough to let some guy in a leather jacket stick his arm in? And, according to Mary's story, the window had to be open; if it was closed and some big black dude on a chopper started rapping on it late at night with no one around, what I would do is I'd get the fuck out of there, pronto.

  Unless: the guy on the bike was her hubby. Look! It's Tex! Wonder what he wants! Bzzzt. She opens the window, as the driver can do with her make of car (see police report). Zap! Watches, rings, wallet, etc., gun, gloves, etc., into purse. Scratch Mary's face with suitable scratcher. Zoom! Tex is gone.

  Or: Deserted corner, poorly lit. (Evidence—me.) Stop for 4-way stop, or just before. Jonathan, would you get me these papers from the backseat, please. He bends around to his left, and backward, exposing right side of face and neck, where bullet entered (see Ballistics). Zap! Watches, rings, wallet, etc., gun, & gloves into purse. Scratch self-inflicted with suitable scratcher. Window opened. Mary staggers out, falls/collapses by large drain near corner (evidence—me). Then, as above, into drain goes purse, including original list of twenty-seven, and, likely, the ladylike gloves worn to foil the cops if in the unlikely event they run a paraffin test on her pinkies to see if she's fired a gun recently. Then she sits there moaning until help arrives.

  THEIRS

  Did either of them legally own a registered gun? If they did, they sure wouldn't use it on Flint. If they didn't, where did they get one? Easy to say, you can pick one up anywhere these days, but precisely where? And what about the possibility of a comeback from the guy you got it from when he sees your mug in the paper a few days later?

  Easier to make one, if you know how, maybe in the storeroom even, you've got almost two full days, remember, and .22 ammo you can get anywhere. Also, zips are quieter, much. Easy to say, what about a silencer, but where do you get one of them and a suitable firearm in two days?

  She didn't report any credit cards stolen. No one carries cash around to pay for things like theater tickets, which she had to pay for at the box office (evidence—me); if she did pay in cash to avoid the hassle of reporting stolen cards and replacing them, would that not be a mite suspicious? None of Mr. Flint's cards used after the NIQ. If they were legitimately, so to speak, stolen, wouldn't the thief have used them or sold them to someone who did? (Evidence Debby.)

  The handy little bar around the corner: Apparently held in reserve by Mary (my surmise) if she was ever asked what she was doing on that lonely corner instead of being on the direct and well-lit route back to the studio? Had she ever in fact been in the joint? Flint had two drinks; she had one. Where? It's all a bit of a blind alley, anyway, this line.

  When he was done, Sergeant Brav leaned back in his chair, smoothed his mustache again, and said, "Know what?"

  "What?"

  "You should be the cop."

  "Why, sarge," I said. "That's the sweetest thing anyone's said to me all day."

  "Know what else?"

  "What?"

  "If they clam up, I don't figure we could ever pin it on either one of them, or both; what's it been, over six months now?"

  "Don't look too good," I said.

  "Him or her," he said. "Which one do you think?"

  "I think her," I said. "Why did Tex hire me in the first place? He could have proven to the boys he was on the up-and-up easily without bringing me into it, but according to Rick, he jumped at the chance. Strange as it might seem for someone in the music business, one can only suppose that not only did he have a conscience, but it was starting to hurt. But enough to risk him getting sent up for life on a Murder One? More likely not. He did give me a couple of hints about her, too, now that I think about it; first thing I ever heard him say was his little woman was the brains in the family, then he let spill she was an actuary a few minutes later. I'm sure he would have let slip inadvertently on purpose a few other hints if required. I think he's scared, sarge, and getting scareder; how would you like to go home to a murderer each night after work?"

  "No thanks," the sarge said. "It's bad enough as it is." I grinned at him. He got to his feet and stretched.

  "Ahh. That's better. Goddamned back."

  "You too, eh?"

  "Comes from sitting in that goddamn car all day," he said. "Ah well, what can you do. About this stuff," he said, waving his paperwork at me, "I'll show it to the lieutenant, but like I said, don't hold your breath. But who knows, we might get lucky, it has happened." King got up too, and also stretched, then went over to have a sniff at the sarge's trouser legs.

  "Nice pooch," the sarge said, bending over to give his ears a rub.

  "Terrific," I said. "Smart, too. I'm thinking of sending him to police dog training school. 'Course, he could only work plainclothes."

  The sarge gave me a look, then a wave, then let himself out. I dug out Tom 'n' Jerry's phone number at their residential hotel up on Fountain, and tried them. It was Tom who picked up the receiver at their end.

  "Famous singing duo," he said. "The short one speaking."

  "Tom, it's Vic," I said. "Have I got news. Are
you sitting down?"

  "Lying down," he said. "Awaiting room service to arrive with my morning porridge."

  "Good," I said. "That way you'll have less distance to fall when I lay it on you, like, man."

  I laid it on him, in brief, but only about the pension scam.

  "You have to laugh," he said.

  "Keep it quiet for a couple of days, me boy," I said. "Because the Bobbies are still gathering evidence."

  "Ha ha ha," he said. "Hear that? It's me laughing my heart out."

  "What I thought was," I said, "if you have any instruments or amps or guitar pucks you've left down at the studio, if I was you I'd get them out of there pronto."

  "Master tapes," he said. "And it's 'picks,' not 'pucks,' as you well know."

  "Oh," I said.

  "And that sound you just heard," he said, "was me slamming the door behind me on the way out. Thanks, mate. I'll catch you later."

  I'd no sooner hung up from the laying it on to Tom when I had a call from Mr. Gall's secretary. She wanted to know if me and Elroy would be in my office at two p.m. precisely that afternoon, please, and to be prepared to finalize with Ms. Garrison. I told her we would be delighted to finalize with Ms. Garrison that afternoon; ipso facto, the sooner the better. I passed the news on to Elroy, who jogged around to my office shortly after I got back from lunch, arriving hardly out of breath at all. Seeing he was so fit and all, I let him take the extra chairs back to the Nus.

  "Eh, Elroy," I asked him as we were shooting the breeze and awaiting the arrival of Ms. Garrison, "just what are you planning to do with that lot I've managed to secure for you at such an attractive price, I have no doubt?"

  "Fear not, my man," he said, swinging his legs busily. "Tear your mind away from thoughts of such tasteless ventures as a club with live sex shows three times a week and mud wrestling in between, or an all-night disco, or a Yamaha agency, all repairs done on premises."

  "With pleasure, Elroy," I said. "What direction should I turn my mind to?"

  "To tasteful living in a quiet family neighborhood," he said, "with all mod cons, wall-to-wall carpeting throughout, new drapes, garbage disposal units, pets accepted. In other words, hold my hand, in other words, cast your eyes on this." He worked the rubber bands off the rolled-up blueprint he'd arrived with and spread it out on the desk, using the telephone to hold down one edge and the mug full of pens and pencils the other. "Is it not a work of art? Does it not rival Frank Lloyd Wright at his most inventive?"

  "Does it not indeed," I said. "Have you got planning permission for all this already?"

  "Do I not indeed," he said. The plans showed a new second story of apartments built over our whole little row of businesses. A three-story apartment building was projected where the empty lot was, and a smaller, two-story flat over Mr. Amoyan's. I looked over the plans, nodding wisely. Then I took a closer look and stopped nodding.

  "Elroy," I said, "what's happened to my office?"

  "Ah," he said. "Glad you brought that up. As a matter of fact, it's been turned into a staircase."

  "You're turning my office into a staircase?"

  "Had to, my man," he said. "The main building needed a rear exit and there was no where else to put it."

  The phone rang. "Saved by the bell," I told him bitterly. "Hello, who are you and what do you want?"

  "My name is Evonne Louise Shirley," said a voice I knew all too well, "and I thought I'd stop by and say hello, if you weren't busy."

  "What a brilliant idea," I said. "Busy? Not at all. Free as a bird is more like it. Elroy's here, but he'll be on his way any minute now, in a hearse, then I am yours, babe, all yours."

  "See you soon, sweetheart," she said.

  "Eh, what happened to Colombia Joe, the king o' cappuccino, if I may be so bold?"

  "He turned out to be a total wimp," she said. "He even had to put his apron on when he made cinnamon toast."

  "Well I never!" I said.

  "And whatever you are, Victor," she said, "and you are many things, not all of which I am deeply enamored of, you are in no way a wet wimp."

  "I had an apron once," I said. "My sister-in-law gave it to me one Christmas. It was for barbecues. It had a lot of pockets and it had 'Some Like 'Em Hot!!' written on it. I wonder what I did with it?" I blew her a kiss and rang off. "Evonne," I said to Elroy.

  "I guessed," he said.

  "She's come crawling back, just like I always knew she would," I said. "Now. Where were we? Oh yes, I was just about to throttle you."

  "Calme, calme, compadre," he said. "Observe." He tapped with one finger on Mr. Amoyan's shop. "Mr. Amoyan is retiring to do whatever it is retired Armenians do, and I shudder to think, as it probably involves some combination of pistachio nuts and sheep. His shop will become your office, it's perzacherly the same size. You will dwell, if you so care, in the two-story apartment above, as did you not once mention to me in an aside that you were getting the heave-ho from where you are now?"

  "I did," I said. "I did, I did. And I hang my head in shame at my evil thoughts about you."

  "Amongst the special features planned for your abode," he said, "are a specially reinforced roof on the top floor, complete with extra drainage, and thus suitable for a decorative town garden should the need ever arise." Here he looked at me innocently; he knew full well Evonne was a gardening freak. "As a token of my gratitude," he went on, "the rent for the entire unit will be—monthly," and he named a sum so reasonable I was almost given to protest. In fact, I was just about to when a Celebrity Cab Co. cab drew up in front of the office and out stepped the leggy and highly winsome Ms. Garrison, a green cardboard folder in one hand. She was dressed that afternoon—or undressed that afternoon—in red shorts made of some shiny stretch fabric that came all the way down to the top of her legs almost, yellow tights, boots that matched the red shorts, and who even noticed the rest.

  Into the office she swept. Elroy hastily rolled up the plans to clear the desk, on which Ms. Garrison daintily deposited the folder.

  "Party of the first part, may I introduce the party of the second part?" I said to her.

  "No thanks," she said. "Anyway, we already met, remember?"

  "How could I forget?" Elroy said gallantly.

  "Save it," she said. She opened up the folder and began handing him documents. "Our lease with Corsault Realty. The transfer agreement. Their agreement to the transfer." Elroy began looking them over.

  I took off my glasses, which I'd needed to look at the plans, and said, "Have a seat, Ms. Garrison."

  She gave my spare chair one frosty look and said, "No thanks, I've just got these back from the cleaners." Here she wiped an imaginary speck of dirt off her shorts.

  "Just trying to be friendly," I said.

  "I'm not," she said, smiling sweetly at me.

  There followed five minutes of silence while Elroy worked his way methodically through the documents. Finally he said, "They look OK to me. Your pen or mine?"

  "How about mine?" I said before she could open the purse she had slung over one shoulder. I selected one from the mug at random—it turned out to be a souvenir from some motel in Vernon I'd never been to—and she signed, he signed, she signed, he signed, and she signed and he signed.

  "Thank you very much," Elroy said. He rolled up his copies with his plans, said he'd catch me later, and off he went. Ms. Garrison picked up the folder containing her copies and started out.

  "Those two elephants," I said to her (mostly) bare back, "who were playing piggyback, remember? Hope you liked them."

  "Speaking of animals," she said, pausing by King's empty blanket and full water bowl, "don't see him around today."

  "Took him home," I said, "all things considered. Thought you might have some cyanide this time. Not nice, what you did, Ms. Garrison, lethal or not. And beating up on poor Injun Joe and frightening his girlfriend half to death, not nice either; what you need is a good spanking, only you'd probably enjoy it."

  She turned around and swayed across
to me until we were almost touching. She looked up at me, batted her fabulous eyes, and said coquettishly, "You wouldn't hit a lady, would you, big boy?"

  "Depends, I guess," I said, batting mine right back. "But whatever you are, sister, you sure ain't no lady. Here. A present from King." I shifted my weight onto my back foot, preparing to hang a six-inch love tap on her perfect chin. Her right hand came out of her shorts pocket holding a suitable scratcher indeed—a finely honed metal nail file—and before I could blink I had a gash opening up all down one cheek. Then she shifted her weight back and drove one elegantly booted foot right in that spot where a guy wants a boot least. OK, a guy doing it to a guy in a fight, like I'd done to the beach bum, that's one thing, I was fighting for my life, after all, but what was she fighting for? Down went big boy, clutching. She stowed away the nail file, checked unnecessarily that her coiffure hadn't been disturbed, then, hands on shapely hips, looked down at me.

  "Too bad," she said. "You've got the size, you've got a certain style, and you've come up with some pretty good moves this past week or so. Loved the mice, by the way. Too bad at heart you're just another pussy-cat."

  "That's not what my girlfriend thinks," I managed to get out through clenched teeth. "Anyway, I been sick. Come around when I'm healthy if you really want a good licking."

  She laughed, and knelt down to my level, which was low. Over her shoulder I spotted a beat-up, two-year-old Celica pull in next to the cab, which was still waiting. Evonne's adorable face peered out of the car window at us. I closed my eyes and groaned. Ms. Garrison patted my cheek—the one that wasn't gushing claret—leaned forward and pressed her full ruby lips to mine, and kept them there. Somewhere a car door slammed. Somewhere Gypsy dancers whirled in a furious fandango around a glazing campfire. Somewhere the last golden eagle soared high in a Navaho sunset. Somewhere a lone saxophone moaned. And somewhere, somewhere not so far away, an oversized pussycat of a private investigator moaned as well.

  After a moment Ms. Garrison straightened up gracefully, sailed out of the door, flashed the approaching Evonne a brilliant smile, climbed into the cab, then she was gone.