Dead Pigeon (9 page)

“None. And there’s no listing for young Clauss in the phone book. The only other word I got was from a doubtful source. I was told he used to live in the Brentwood area. At that time he was driving a red Porsche with wire wheels.”

Clauss, who couldn’t pay his rent, had a son who lived in Brentwood and drove a Porsche. I could understand why young Emil had no listing in the phone book.

I ate breakfast at the hotel and came out into a sunny day for a Sunday tour of Brentwood. Back and forth I drove, on the main streets and the lateral streets, hoping against hope I would spot a red Porsche with wire wheels.

On one of the lateral streets off Wilshire, about three blocks from Bay’s house, my luck held. A car of that description was parked in front of a two-story stucco apartment house.

There were five names on the mailboxes in the vestibule. There was one blank space. I pressed the button next to that one. There was no answering buzz on the locked door nor any answer on the vestibule phone.

I went out to sit in the car. I sat and sat and sat and wished I hadn’t given up smoking.

A few minutes before I had decided to leave, a stocky young man in tennis shorts and carrying a racquet came out of the building and headed for the Porsche.

I walked across the street as he was about to get into the car. “Are you Emil Clauss?” I asked.

He nodded and smiled. “And I know who you are. I grew up watching you perform at the Coliseum. Are you the man who rang my bell?”

I nodded.

“If I had known it was you, I would have answered. But too damned many cops have been ringing my bell lately.”

“Looking for your father?”

“Right.” He frowned. “Wait—didn’t you work as a private detective after you left the Rams?”

“I did. I’m retired now. I live in San Valdesto. But a very good friend of mine was killed and I came down to investigate it.”

“And that’s why you’re looking for my father. He could have done it. Jesus, he put my mother into intensive care.”

“So far,” I said, “he is only a suspect. We have to remember he could be innocent.”

“Not of beating up my mother. The last I heard about him, he was boarding in some house in Venice with a former hooker.”

“He’s left there. And stiffed the lady for room and board. If you get any information on him, please phone the police.”

“No way! I’ve had a belly full of cops. I’ll phone you. This friend you mentioned, was that Mike Gregory?”

I nodded.

“That damned fool.”

“Did you know him?”

“No, but I watched him on the tube that day he beat Cal. And he winds up a dead derelict on the beach. What a waste!”

“Drugs,” I said.

He nodded. “Drugs and dumb jocks. But not in tennis, not yet.”

“Not yet,” I said, and told him where I was staying.

Clauss, so far, was only a suspect. We were running out of those. Gorman’s innocence had been certified. The Fresno police had established Carlo Minatti’s. If Clauss made that an unholy trinity, we were out of suspects, the end of the road.

There were old friends in town I probably should have visited, but I had been in the car too long. Crystal was the closest.

She was out on her small front lawn, in shorts and halter, digging up dandelions.

She stood up and stared at me. “Twice in two days? I’m beginning to think you’ve got the hots for me.”

“Not in any vulgar way. I am only a worn-out traveler seeking pleasant company.”

“The Sunday blues,” she said. “I get ’em, too. Maybe we should go to church.”

“I’d prefer the beach.”

“So would I,” she said. “We can walk there from here. I could use the exercise.”

“Let’s go.”

She packed a lunch, including four bottles of beer. An old blanket and a large parasol made up the rest of our luggage.

The beach was jammed. We walked to the far end, to a more sparsely populated area and set up the parasol and spread the blanket and sat down to watch the waves come in. It was nirvana time, a haven from the external realities.

“That friend of yours, that Lars,” she said. “How can you stand him? He’s a slob.”

“Because he busted you?”

“And propositioned me. It would be like being run over by a truck. He’s so big and gross.”

“Lars propositioned you?”

“He did. Don’t you dare mention it to him!”

“I won’t. I know he’s a horny guy. But he is also an officer of the law. Why didn’t you report him to his superiors?”

“And have him put me on his enemy list? No, thanks.”

I said, “Lars isn’t as big and gross as Terrible Tim Tucker. Did you ever meet him?”

“Turhan’s cousin? A long time ago. Turhan looked him up when he first came out here. I guess they didn’t hit it off. Isn’t he a boxer?”

“A former wrestler, now a bodyguard for a local hoodlum.”

She looked at me suspiciously. “Are you interrogating me? Are you suggesting that Turhan might have something to do with Mike’s murder?”

“Of course not! Don’t be so damned suspicious. I’m your friend, Crystal. Let’s go wading.”

I took off my shoes and socks, she her sandals, and we splashed along in the shallow water all the way to Muscle Beach. I was more bushed than she was when we got back. Which she pointed out.

I tried to think of some acerbic comment to make about that. None came to mind.

We ate the sandwiches and drank the beer and watched the waves roll in, the swimmers and the waders and the young splashers, back again to nirvana time.

When we got up to go, I suggested that maybe a dinner and a movie might be a pleasant way to end the day.

She shook her head. “Some other time. Turhan is giving a talk tonight on world peace. Maybe you’d like to come with me?”

“Not tonight.”

We walked back to her house in silence. I had the feeling she was miffed. Before I got back into the car I asked her if she was.

She sighed. “Nostalgic, I guess. Were things really better when we were younger or is that only what I want to believe?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. If I had my druthers, I wouldn’t mind being young again.”

“You weren’t rich then.”

“But I was handsomer.”

She kissed me. “You’re handsome enough for me. If your wife ever divorces you, put me on top of your substitution list. Thanks for today, Brock.”

“And thank you. Any time you have need of me, holler.”

She smiled. “I will. You’re not nearly as heavy as Lars.”

“You are a vulgar woman, Crystal Lane.”

“I know.”

“What a waste” young Clauss had said about Mike. The same could apply to Crystal. Pretty and smart and stylish, a victim of unsuitable suitors. It would be unfair to accuse her of having a love of money, the core of all evil. She didn’t love money, only the spending of it.

I was having my predinner drink in the dining room when Joe Nolan walked in. He saw me and came over.

“May I join you?” he asked. “My wife is out of town, visiting relatives.”

“So is mine. Be my guest.”

He shook his head. “This one’s on me again. I can pretend you’re a client and put it on my expense account.”

The waiter came. He ordered mineral water. He sighed. “I thought I didn’t need AA but I was wrong. Is there anything new on Mike’s murder?”

“Nothing. I have a feeling I am going down a dead-end road. And the Santa Monica police seem to have dropped it from a low priority case to a no priority case.”

“How about that Gillete person you mentioned. Isn’t he a suspect?”

“Not to the Santa Monica boys. But, of course, he is out of their jurisdiction.”

“And Turhan? You don’t think he was involved in any way?”

“Not so far.”

He smiled again. “I’ll bet you think that blackmail theory of mine was dumb. My wife claims I read too many mystery novels.”

“It wasn’t dumb, now that I’ve learned more about Mike. I still hope to do a little more digging on Bay. But that could cost you a wealthy client, couldn’t it?”

He shook his head. “Not really. If he goes to jail the account would still be mine.”

I frowned.

“That was cynical, wasn’t it?” he asked. “My wife also claims I have a macabre sense of humor.”

“I agree with your wife,” I told him.

He left before our dessert arrived. He explained that he had a ticket for a Springsteen concert.

He went to the concert. I went up to my room. What had I learned today? I had learned that young Clauss hated his father, Turhan Bay was lecturing on world peace tonight, and Nolan was back in AA. I consoled myself with the thought that Sunday was not supposed to be a working day.

Lars had settled on Clauss as his target. But all of them—Nolan, Bay, Crystal, Gillete, and Tucker—could be involved, one way or another, with the death of Mike Gregory.

Clauss was the logical choice at the moment. But how were the others involved? Tucker could be a logical suspect, or any hit man Gillete could hire.

It might have been Clauss who had conked me in that rooming house. My choice would be Tucker. Tucker was the muscle man. Luplow hadn’t been shot; he had been beaten to death.

There was, of course, a possibility it was both the muscle and the hit man. He was mean enough. And the sound of a shot in that second-story room was bound to alert the tenants. If there had been any roomers on the first floor, they could have identified the killer when he came clattering down the stairs.

The noise of a rumpus on the floor above would probably sound to them like just another family dispute.

There were too many “ifs” and too many “maybes” in this case. It was after midnight when I finally fell asleep.

T
HE MORNING
TIMES
REPORTED
that the man who had killed Barney Luplow was now in jail. Lars would not learn from Luplow where Clauss was hiding.

I thought of phoning him to tell him what young Clauss had told me yesterday, but decided not to. I was still angry about what Crystal had told me. Lars claimed he hated crooked cops. Sexual favors, apparently, did not qualify as extortion to a fornicator.

I phoned Dennis Sadler and suggested we ride together today.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at the hotel in an hour.”

I had finished breakfast and was out in front of the hotel when he drove up the driveway in a dark-yellow Chevrolet two-door sedan. The town was loaded with that model. It was the kind of inconspicuous car the smart investigators favored for shadowing or surveillance.

“How was Palm Springs?” I asked.

“Perfect! Domestic harmony has returned to our house.”

“And your mother-in-law?”

“Hopeless. Where first?”

“The Valley. Studio City.”

Traffic heading into downtown Los Angeles was heavy. It was light on our trip to the Valley. The Bentley and the yellow pickup truck were parked in front of the Gillete garage.

We drove past, made a U-turn at the nearest intersection, and parked on the far side of the road across from the house. We had a clear view of it from here, parked behind a hedge.

Dennis asked, “What makes you think Gillete could be involved in your friend’s murder?”

“Tim Tucker, Bay’s cousin. I met him first when I came here to check on Bay. But the second time I ran into him was in a small bar in Venice, a long way from here. I don’t know if he was looking for me or if it was only a coincidence. My guess is that he followed me. Then Gillete phoned me to apologize for the fuss Tim and I had at the bar. I wondered why.”

“Maybe Tucker followed you on his own because he learned you were investigating his cousin.”

I shook my head. “They’re not that close.”

“That’s a doubtful confirmation, Brock.”

“Probably. But what else do we have? I’ve been lucky before, working on instinct.”

“So have I,” he said.

He reached into the backseat and picked up a pair of binoculars. He took a notebook and a ballpoint pen out of his jacket pocket and handed them to me.

“We don’t need the binoculars,” I said. “We can see from here what’s going on down there.”

“But not the license plates of any visitors,” he explained.

It had been a long time since I had done any surveillance. I said nothing.

We sat. There was no radio in the car. We sat in silence.

About twenty minutes later he said, “That cop who came with you when you came to our office, that Hovde, he’s a real cowboy, isn’t he.”

“Yup.”

“The boss thinks he’s on the take.”

“Your boss is wrong. Lars hates crooked cops. And your boss is also dumb if he supports Turhan Bay.”

“I know. I wish he was half as generous with his help as he is with that faker.”

More silence.

Two cars came down the hill in the next fifteen minutes; none came up. When one finally did, a jet-black Cadillac, we missed the reading on the front plate. We hadn’t known it was going to turn into the driveway; no signal light had shown.

“We’ll get the back-plate number when it leaves,” Dennis said.

The minutes dragged on. The car got hotter. “We should have brought a six-pack,” I said.

“There’s a bottle of spring water behind your seat,” he told me.

It was a vacuum bottle and the water was cool. We sat.

The Cad finally left and he read me the plate, which I recorded. A few minutes after that, Terrible Tim came out and raised the hood of his truck.

Several more cars went down the hill, one came up. Tim closed the hood of his truck and went into the house. It was close to noon now and the car was an oven.

I could be home, swimming in the pool, I could be playing golf. Was Mike worth all this? The Mike who had been my roomie, yes. But now? What was I, the avenger? Somebody had to be, I told myself. Who else gives a damn? Certainly not the SMPD.

Tucker came out of the house and climbed into the truck.

“Should we follow him?” Dennis asked.

I nodded. “Let’s hope he’s heading for the ocean. It should be a lot cooler down there.”

He was. Traffic was heavy on Ventura Boulevard; we stayed close to the truck. Dennis dropped back as the traffic thinned.

“You’re good at this,” I said.

“I always thought I was. But my mother-in-law won’t even ride with us unless my wife drives.”