The Shakedown Shuffle: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 3)

by Richard Levesque

  She nodded. “When was the last time you had contact with Culpepper?”

  “Actual contact? Not a suspected tail?”

  “That’s right.”

  I folded my hands on the desk and thought about it for a moment, wondering what she was holding onto. I wanted it, and there was no reason I should hold anything back about Mulvaney, especially if coming clean meant I might get what O’Neal was teasing me with. So, I said, “Last Friday. He came here. I was finishing up with my blackmail client. It’s my preference not to let the clients interact, but it was unavoidable that day, so I got him out of here. We went down to a place on Broadway to eat and talk about ideas for his book. Then he left. That was it.”

  “Did anything he say strike you as strange? Like he might be in danger? Or depressed?”

  I raised an eyebrow at this. “You think he jumped off the pier or something?”

  “I’m not thinking anything right now. And not ruling anything out either. Did anything stand out?”

  I thought about it for a few seconds. “Not so much,” I finally said. “Only that we agreed to call the whole thing off. I couldn’t really give him what he wanted, and even though I didn’t mind taking his money, I had to draw the line.”

  She nodded at this. “And when did you notice him following you?”

  “That same afternoon. If it was him.”

  “Did you see the car again after Friday?”

  “Yes,” I said. “At least, I think it was the same one. The car tailed me on the Coast Highway on Sunday afternoon, but I lost it in traffic.” I noticed her thumbing the notebook again and realized she probably already knew everything I’d been telling her, that all I was doing here was confirming that Carl Culpepper’s notes weren’t just fabrications. If that was true, it meant O’Neal already knew about anything I might be omitting, too, so I decided I may as well let it go, saying, “Then I saw the same car again last night when I was on surveillance on my blackmail case.”

  “When was this?” she asked.

  “Around eleven-fifteen. Up in the Hollywood Hills.” I nodded toward her notebook. “Or did he mention that already in his notes?”

  She gave me a sly smile, and then it was her turn to echo me. “That’s a little more specific than I want to be.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “So, have I played ball, Detective?”

  “I think so,” she said and started flipping through the book again.

  Crashaw piped up at that point. “Are you sure that’s wise, Detective O’Neal?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” she said. She’d found what she wanted. Holding the little book open with both hands, she held it up so I could see the pages.

  A few minutes before, I would have said the day couldn’t have offered me any more surprises, but I would have been wrong. The pages O’Neal showed me included some scratchy notes that I would have needed to stare at for a while in order to decipher. That wasn’t the surprising thing, though. Above the notes was a drawing that crossed the spine of the notebook. It was framed by a penciled rectangle that I realized was supposed to represent a window; curved lines down the sides suggested curtains. And in the middle of the rectangle—as though seen through the eyes of a Peeping Tom—was a woman. She had her back to the window, and she was nude, the line of her spine curving down to her buttocks just above the line that represented the window sill. Another curving line suggested the side of the woman’s breast. From one hand trailed a recently unhooked brassiere. The drawing looked like a rough sketch of something that could have graced the covers of one of Mulvaney’s pulp novels.

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine the sleazy writer tailing me and getting curious about Jeanie Palmer, assuming that I was sleeping with her along with Leonora and Sherise—the man who gave himself credit for having a brilliant understanding of human behavior had certainly gotten this scenario two-thirds wrong. Something—maybe his own sexual frustrations?—had driven him back to Jeanie’s house to sneak into her backyard, to look through her window, and then to crudely sketch what he saw for future reference. Inspiration, he’d said. That’s what he claimed to have been after.

  “Jed, I swear you’ve turned three shades of red looking at that drawing,” I heard O’Neal say, her voice seeming to come at me from far away. The sensation was so odd that I feared I might have been on the verge of slipping free of this world again, and maybe if I’d been playing my guitar when I saw the drawing, I might have done just that. As it was, though, her voice brought me back.

  I looked up at her, made eye contact, and the world got solid.

  “Angry?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “I knew the man was a lower life form, but I didn’t peg him for a creeper. Are you going to arrest him if you find him?”

  She closed the notebook. “We’ll see. You sure you didn’t know about his predilections?”

  “Yes.”

  The detective gave me a long look of appraisal. Then she nodded her head, turned to Crashaw, and asked if he had any questions for me. The other detective didn’t bother looking at me, just told her he had nothing, and then they both stood up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Strait,” O’Neal said. “If there’s anything else you remember, you know where to find me.”

  I stood as well and, still shaken by what she’d shown me, almost let her get away without asking for her help with my other problem. “Any time, Detective,” I said. “Before you go, though, do you have a second to hear about what happened last night with in Chavez Ravine? I’m not sure Detective Merwyn is as up to the job as someone like you might be.”

  “Don’t you know flattery won’t get you anywhere, Jed? At least not with me?” she asked.

  “That wasn’t flattery. That’s me knowing who I can trust to do a decent job and who I can’t.”

  “Well…thanks,” she said. “Make it quick.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Would you mind if we talked privately, though? Some of this is a little sensitive.”

  Crashaw started to protest. He got about as far as opening his mouth before O’Neal silenced him with a look. “Mr. Strait and I should talk this out in private, Detective,” she said, ignoring the way her partner’s face was turning red at this insult. “I’ll fill you in later if it’s necessary.”

  We waited as Crashaw went through an internal skirmish. I could tell he came close to launching into a protest another two times, but then he must have seen that the battle had been lost without his firing a shot. Saying nothing more to O’Neal and shooting me a look that was laced with cyanide, he went to the door and stormed out of the office, not bothering to close the door behind him.

  “Sorry about that,” I said to O’Neal as I circled the desk to shut the door again.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “He gets on my nerves with all his chatter. Every now and then it’s good to check him like that. Getting him to give me the silent treatment is about the only way I can get him to shut up.”

  “You sound like an old married couple,” I said as I crossed back to my side of the desk.

  “I think this is worse.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s make this quick. If I make him wait too long, he might just decide to drive off and leave me here.”

  I smiled at this, but before I could begin, I heard the telephone ring in the outer office and then Peggy’s muffled voice answering it. I paid the call no mind. “Last night, my friend Guillermo Garcia was robbed of a very valuable book” I said, “and his assistant was either abducted in the robbery or—”

  A sharp knock at the door interrupted me. This irritated me, but given the information Peggy had gotten from her last phone call, my concern overruled my annoyance.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the detective and went back to the door, opening it to find Peggy standing in front of me with a strange look on her face that appeared to be equal parts apprehension and excitement.

  Before I could ask what was going on, she blurted, “They found him!
”

  “Osvaldo?” I asked.

  “Yes!”

  By this time, Detective O’Neal had come to stand in the doorway beside me. “I assume this is good news?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said although I could still see something unpleasant lurking around the corners of Peggy’s smile. “At least, I think it is. He’s the abduction victim, or at least he seems to be.”

  “That’s Merwyn’s case?”

  “Yes.”

  O’Neal nodded. “So, does this good news mean you don’t need me anymore?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Turning back to Peggy, I asked, “What happened?”

  “Apparently a minister traveling up to the desert found him on the road and gave him a ride into Pearblossom. Osvaldo wouldn’t speak to him, so the minister dropped him at the police station.”

  I turned to the detective. “Pearblossom. Do you know where that is?”

  “I’ve got an inkling. Pretty far off the beaten track.”

  Peggy continued. “The police up there didn’t know about what happened here, so…” Her face fell a little.

  Here it was, I thought. The fly in the oatmeal. “What happened?” I asked.

  “It was Carmelita on the phone.”

  “All right.”

  “She said they’re taking Osvaldo back to Camarillo.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “They didn’t get the missing person report until just a little while ago. That’s when they called Guillermo. Until then, all the police had was the minister’s story. They figured there must be something wrong with Osvaldo since he wouldn’t talk.”

  “Is there?” O’Neal asked.

  I let out a long breath as I turned to her. “Yes and no. He’s perfectly capable of functioning in the right circumstances, but when he’s around people he doesn’t know or doesn’t trust, he just shuts down.”

  O’Neal nodded. “This is why you were asking me about Camarillo the other day, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, avoiding eye contact with Peggy.

  “You sounded at the time like you weren’t sure of this fellow.”

  “I wasn’t. I still don’t know what to think.”

  “Not violent?”

  “Not that I’ve ever seen or heard. Do you think there’s any chance you could intervene?”

  She seemed to give it a moment’s thought and then said, “I’ll check into it. If he hasn’t acted out against the police up there or anyone else who was trying to help, I might be able to get him rerouted down here instead of up to Camarillo. If they’ve already admitted him to the hospital, it’ll be a different story. But I still might be able to get him released if you’ve got someone who can sign off as being responsible.”

  “I do. Guillermo. Or Osvaldo’s mother. Both.”

  O’Neal nodded. “I’ll let the desert boys know he may be a witness to a crime down here. Victim, too. They should spring him.”

  Perpetrator? I wondered.

  “Thank you,” I said. Then, turning back to Peggy, I asked, “Is Carmelita bent out of shape?”

  “Yes. She hung up on me before I had a chance to calm her down.”

  “All right. Can you get Guillermo on the phone for me?” Turning to O’Neal, I said, “Guillermo will calm her down.”

  O’Neal, who didn’t trust Carmelita’s mechanical moods, just raised an eyebrow in response. Then she said, “I’m going to go. I’ll get on the phone and see what I can do. Call you when I know.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But…”

  She stopped halfway through the door and looked at me.

  “The other day, I mentioned the possibility that Elsa Schwartz might come after Guillermo. This whole thing with someone stealing that book of his…it’s definitely something she’d want. I still don’t know how Osvaldo figures into all of this, but I’m really starting to think Elsa’s behind it.”

  “Before, you said she was behind that green station wagon. You can’t keep trotting her out as your all-purpose boogey-man, Jed. Or…boogey-woman, I guess.”

  “I know. And I don’t mean to be. It’s just…Guillermo’s an old man. He might need some protection, and I can’t be around him all the time. Is there anything you can do on that front?”

  She sighed at this. “Whatever happened at your friend’s place last night, it’s still Merwyn’s case. Do I have to tell you there’s a reason he’s relegated to the graveyard shift?”

  “It was pretty obvious when I talked to him last night.”

  “I’ll see if I can put a little pressure on the right people to get a squad car to pass through the neighborhood a couple times an hour. It’s not exactly a bodyguard, but it could be enough of a deterrent to keep anyone from making a move against Mr. Garcia.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She left after that. I didn’t envy her having to get into a car with the sullen Crashaw, but I knew she was up to the challenge, and I was extremely grateful for the help I knew she’d be giving over the next couple of hours. I hoped it all worked out. And I also hoped I could return the favor by helping out with her missing person case.

  I had a pretty bad feeling about that one, though.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I called Sherise as soon as I was back in my office. Skipping the pleasantries, I said, “Has there been a strange guy hanging around the club the last few nights? Tall guy, thin mustache. Looks like a car salesman.”

  Sherise hesitated only a moment before saying, “Yes, now that you mention it. Who is he?”

  “He’s a writer, goes by Carson Mulvaney, but his real name is Carl Culpepper.”

  “Is he a problem?”

  I pictured him sneaking into Jeanie Palmer’s backyard and watching her disrobe—just like he must have watched Sherise, only in a different setting, if she recognized him only by my short description of him.

  “He might be. But he also might not. The cops were just here, and it looks like he’s gone missing. Do you know when he was at Darkness?”

  I couldn’t remember having seen him in the audience when I’d played at the club on Friday, Saturday or Monday. But, then again, I couldn’t typically see everyone in the audience in the dimly lit little burlesque house. Culpepper could have been lurking in the shadows, watching me play and looking for little indicators of the relationship between me and Sherise.

  “Tuesday,” she said without hesitation. “Front and center during my sets. There was something about the way he watched that I didn’t like.”

  The stares of Sherise’s audience was something we’d talked about before. She knew very well how to read the lustful gaze of her patrons; drawing it out was actually part of her job. Some men’s stares, however, were more than lustful or desirous. They were predatory, sometimes judgmental, sometimes all of the above. Those, she had told me, were the worst. It was like dancing in front of a bomb that was likely to go off. When she spotted those kinds of patrons, she usually let Nicolai, the bouncer/bartender, know that he should keep an eye on the man in question.

  “All he did was watch, though, right?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Okay. I have a feeling he’s not going to come back anytime soon, but if you see him again, call me.”

  “That’s all? Just call you?”

  “Unless he causes trouble. If he’s just watching, then let him sit so I can get there.”

  “It is going to be you, isn’t it? Not the cops? I don’t want to get raided here.”

  I smiled. “It’ll be me.”

  “Okay.” I heard her draw a breath before she continued. “Does this have anything to do with what happened out on the Coast Highway the other day?”

  “I think so.”

  “Are you sure we’re safe in all this?”

  “I’m sure, Sherise. And I’m sorry if my work is making you feel like you’re not safe.”

  “It’s all right,” she said and then added, “for now.”

  After hanging up with Sherise, I gave Peggy a m
essage to pass on to Guillermo should she get lucky in contacting him. I mostly wanted to make sure he knew I was working behind the scenes to get Osvaldo sprung from Camarillo. I also wanted to encourage him to do all he could to pacify Carmelita. To cap things, I said, “Tell him to watch out for strangers, especially dark-haired women. But, mostly, just watch his back, and if he gets custody of Osvaldo, Guillermo can’t let him out of his sight again, not until I get there. Okay?”

  “Got it,” Peggy said.

  “Great. I’ll check in when I can,” I told her on my way out and for the first time wished I had one of Guillermo’s portable phones at the ready. Annoying as the contraptions were, they served their purpose, and I figured the time had come where I should see if Guillermo had an extra on hand that he could permanently lend me.

  Peggy had had no luck raising Leonora, so I took a chance and went to her house first. As usual, there was nowhere to park, but having succeeded in turning her neighbor’s miniscule driveway into a parking spot the night before, I figured I might as well try it again in broad daylight. Only this time, I chose Leonora’s driveway to abuse, pulling the Winslow into the narrow slot with its front bumper an inch away from the closed garage door and the back end still hanging halfway into the street. If anyone came along at a good clip, my car’s tail was going to feel it, but I hoped I would be here just long enough to put a scare into Leonora and then I could move on.

  It turned out I was there for a very short time. Knocking on the door got no results. I put my ear to the wood panels and heard nothing. Climbing over a low bush, I rapped on one of the windows of what I figured was Leonora’s office. Then I went back to the door and waited again. Nothing.

  I got back in the car and got out of there thirty seconds before a delivery truck came heading in the other direction, the vehicle’s width suggesting that there must have been something supernatural allowing it to navigate the narrow curves that made a maze of the Hollywood Hills. Grateful that my car had been spared a rough encounter, I made my way back down to the flatlands and the less exotic real estate around Hollywood Boulevard.