“Handle it,” I said. “I’m busy.”
It was about seven when I got home. I was exhausted, but Rosie’s enthusiastic greeting cheered me up. I decided to clean up before calling Millie. We did the dog food–bone routine, and while he was out back gnawing on it, I took a long, hot shower. I put on a pair of slacks and a shirt and tie, and was reaching for the phone to call Millie when the doorbell rang.
When I opened the door, all I saw was Millie’s eyes and that smile.
She was holding a sterling silver champagne bucket with a bottle chilling in it. There was a large wicker picnic basket beside her. The Phaeton was parked out front.
“Hi,” she said. “I happened to be in the neighborhood . . .”
CHAPTER 33
I took the basket and ice bucket, and she leaned into me and kissed me. Her kisses were never desperate or hungry, they were soft and giving and inviting. We stood there locked together while Rosie circled us and whined for a little attention. Finally, I carried the picnic into the living room while she fussed over the dog.
I went into the bedroom, hurriedly gathered up my dirty clothes and towels from the floor and threw them in the hamper, got a blanket and brought it back, spreading it on the living room floor. I put a couple of pillows from the sofa on the floor, too.
She appraised the place, studying the orange-crate bookcases and the barren simplicity of the furnishings, her expression concealing any hint of either amusement or disappointment. I’m inclined to think it was exactly what she expected.
“Welcome to the Taj Mahal,” I said.
She came across the room to me, her long legs sheathed in gray slacks, a pink V-neck cashmere sweater hugging her body, her eyes never straying from mine. She sat as close as two pillows would allow and studied my face.
“You’re gorgeous,” she said. “But you’re sad.” She ran her fingertips down one of my cheeks. “I’m sorry you had such a bad time and your partner was hurt. I hope you don’t mind; I sent some flowers.”
“His wife’ll probably kill him,” I said, and we both laughed and I kissed her again. Then I opened the champagne and filled two handsome fluted wineglasses. We toasted each other.
“I’ll never intrude on your work,” she said. “But I’ll always listen if you need to talk about it.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m sure Ski’s in his element, lying to all the nurses and playing the hero.”
“Good.”
“I’ve learned some things about Verna’s murder. I’m not sure where they’re leading yet, but I think Culhane and his friends may be in for bad times.”
“You like this man,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Irish charm,” I said with a smile. “I think he deals with the law in a very expedient manner. I’ve done that a few times myself but I think this time he went over the line. I haven’t told him what I know but I feel I should.”
“Then do it.”
“It’s gonna be difficult.”
“Has that ever stopped you before?”
“Not really. Culhane dropped everything last night when Ski and I got in trouble. Left a campaign fund-raiser. And he invented a lie—not for himself, he wasn’t involved. He invented it to protect me and Ski.”
“Did you go along with it?”
“So far. But it also protects the mobster who sent four killers after us. His name is Guilfoyle. A bottom-feeder.”
“Why did Culhane do it?”
I thought about that for a while and then said, “I think he sees a lot of himself in me. If that makes any sense.”
“I can understand that. Perhaps he sees the same things in you that I do. One of the things that attracts me to you is your impulsiveness. And your integrity. I’ve never known anyone like you, Zee.”
“Integrity? I was way over my head, Mil. Way out of my territory, going where I was warned not to go in what turned out to be a blind alley, and then going along with a lie to cover up some very serious consequences.”
“It’s not over yet,” she said.
“No,” I said. “But I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Was the trip up there worthwhile?”
I decided to give her a taste of what it would be like to have a relationship with a cop.
“Yes and no,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s leading me places I hoped not to go. And now this case is turning around on me. I know who Verna was before she showed up in L.A., Mil. Verna was Wilma Thompson.”
Her eyes grew the size of serving platters. “The woman who was murdered years ago?” she gasped.
“Apparently not,” I said.
“Why did somebody do it now?” she asked, her voice filled with sadness.
“That’s the question. Who killed her and why. I don’t have all the pieces put together yet. I keep thinking I missed something along the way. Ever try to think of someone’s name, and it’s right on the tip of your tongue but you can’t remember it?”
She laughed. “All the time.”
“It’s kind of like that,” I said. “Something I saw or read or heard. But it keeps eluding me.”
“Then forget about it,” she said. “Let’s eat.”
I don’t know whether she prepared the spread or had it done but it was a meal a king would have died for. I’m sure the champagne was from some prize vintage. I’d never had fresh strawberries in champagne or squares cut from the sweetest part of fresh melons or pâté from France. She had spread a dozen candles around the house and the odor was intoxicating.
While we were eating, my phone rang. I ignored it.
When we finished, we gathered up the remains and carried them to the kitchen, and gave some of the leftovers to Rosie. The phone rang again, and again I ignored it. I went into the living room and stacked several Tommy Dorsey records on the player. Soft stuff, with vocals by Sinatra, Jo Stafford, and the Pied Pipers. The first song was “Let’s Get Away from It All” and we started to dance. Rosie curled up on one of the sofa pillows and eyed us ruefully.
She moved back a step or two from me and started to untie my tie. She did it slowly, as if she were taking the silk ribbon off a gift. She let it slide out of her hand and it fluttered to the floor.
“I’ve only known you for five days,” Millie said softly, and began unbuttoning my shirt.
“You make love like nobody I’ve ever known in my life. Then you kill four men.”
Another button. And another.
“You quote poetry. Now you’re going to destroy someone you admire.”
“I don’t have any choice.”
“I know that, Zeke.”
She pulled my shirt out and let it fall open, and slid her hands around my waist and up my back. It was like being stroked by a velvet glove.
“I live in a dump and you live on a dozen acres on top of a mountain. You’re caviar and I’m corned beef and cabbage.”
She pressed against me and I could feel her heart beating through her sweater. Her lips were an inch away from mine.
Her lips caressed and engulfed mine. Her tongue found mine. There was nothing more to say.
We were both out of breath. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling. There were two candles in the room and their reflections looked like moths darting around overhead. Me? I couldn’t keep my eyes off her body, a work of art tanned by the sun and shaped by tennis.
We didn’t talk much. I could see the pulse beating in her throat. I don’t know what she was looking at.
She turned her head and looked at me for a moment, then closed her eyes and rolled over against me and put one leg over mine.
“You throw a great picnic,” I said.
“Mmm.”
“You have a lot of hidden talents.”
“So do you, darling,” she said, and nestled her head against my shoulder.
We lay there quietly for a while longer. The record player had long since run through the ten LP’s I had s
tacked on it.
“Miss Harrington, let’s put it on the table,” I said. “I make about three hundred bucks a month. I drive a car that’s falling apart and smells like a junkyard and I live in a one-bedroom . . .”
She put two fingers on my lips and shut me up.
“Does my money intimidate you?” she asked earnestly.
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“You’re accustomed to a way of life that’s—”
“Stop that!”
“I might begin to feel like a mooch . . .”
“Sergeant, you couldn’t be a mooch if you tried,” she said sternly. “You’re devoting your life to doing a job that’s dirty and dangerous, and doing it for damn little in return. I respect that. I find it very honorable. I also love the way you look and the way you think. We both know I have more money than I can ever spend. So why not let me enjoy sharing it with you. If you want to take me for corned beef sandwiches and beer at the deli, that’s fine by me. And if I want to take you to Chasen’s for roast duck and champagne, that should be fine by you. Doesn’t that make sense?”
I had to laugh at her. It was such a pleasure to be around a woman who could change chicken shit to chicken salad with the turn of a word.
“So let’s keep giving it a try, shall we?” she said. “I didn’t ask to be born rich. Why let money spoil a beautiful thing?”
She laid a hand lightly on my cheek and kissed me with those soft lips to put an end to the conversation.
The candles burned themselves out.
I awoke to the smell of coffee. Mil was not in sight. It was 11:00 a.m. I lay there staring into space, thinking about the highs and lows of the last thirty-six hours. Then Millie came in the room carrying a tray with steaming coffee, more melon squares, and sweet rolls.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, putting the tray on the bed between us. She had a sheet pulled around her shoulders and when she sat on the bed, it dropped off and she ignored it. If she was feeling nervous about the growing relationship between us, it certainly didn’t show.
And my reservations were quickly dwindling away.
“I just realized, it’s my day off,” I said.
“Wonderful!” she said.
She leaned across the tray and gave me a good-morning kiss.
And the phone rang.
“Damn it,” I said.
“Do you have to answer it?”
“If it’s business, they’ll just keep calling until I do.”
She took the phone and put it between us, where I could reach it.
“Yeah?” I snarled, and she put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
It was Moriarity. The old man seemed to be in a pretty good mood, considering everything that was happening.
“You forget how to use the phone?” he said.
“I was working, boss. A lot’s happening.”
“Got a minute we can talk about what really happened to you two up the coast? Ski’s acting a little coy about it.”
“You read the report,” I said. “It was signed off by Culhane and Guilfoyle. Usually they don’t agree on anything, including the weather.”
“I also heard from Charlie Lefton, whose place is less than a mile away from that icehouse. He says there was so much gunfire he thought the Japs were landing in Mendosa. What really happened? Just between us.”
I told him about our trip to Mendosa, the brief interview with Lila Parrish’s mother, and the ambush by Guilfoyle’s denizens.
“It doesn’t make sense, Dan. The trail keeps leading back to Culhane. Logically, that should make Guilfoyle giddy with joy. Instead, he sends four of his storm troopers to knock us off.”
He whistled low and said, “You going to be home later?”
“It’s my day off.”
“Mine, too. That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Yeah, I’ll be around.”
“I’m gonna have a chat with the D.A. and put him on alert,” he said. “I’m not sure where the department fits into this. Seems to me it’s out of our jurisdiction.”
“We have an unsolved homicide that is definitely in our jurisdiction,” I said. “Be sure to bring that up to the D.A.”
“How’s that coming along?” he asked.
“Forget you asked,” I said.
“Talk to you later,” he said, and hung up.
“Great.” I slammed down the dead phone, looked over at Millie, and said, “It isn’t always like this.”
“I figured that out,” she said with a smile. “Now, what do you say we take a shower.”
“Together?”
“Of course.”
Then the phone rang again.
“Damn that thing,” she cried.
It rang again. I sat there watching it. At six rings, I snatched it up.
“Yeah,” I growled.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Sergeant,” the desk man said, “but you got a funny message just now.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny weird?”
“You tell me. He said, ‘Tell Bannon that Sidney called. Tell him I said since we’re going to be partners, we should talk.’ Does that make any sense?”
“Yeah. And it’s definitely not funny. That son of a bitch. What’s the number?”
He told me and I thanked him, disconnected, and dialed the number he had given me.
“Who was that?” Millie asked.
“The desk man. The biggest shyster in the state is smirking at me.”
Sidney answered. His soft, oily voice said, “Is that you, Zeke?”
“It’s Sergeant Bannon to you, Schyler, and today’s my day off.”
“So sorry to bother you,” he said with a leer in his voice. “I wanted to check in since we’re working on Riker’s release together, in a manner of speaking.”
It’s hard acting tough when Millicent Harrington is sitting two feet away, stark naked and smiling at you.
“In a manner of speaking, my ass,” I said, trying to put a snarl in my voice. “I want you to listen real carefully, Sidney. I am not working with you on Riker’s release. I’m not working with you on the March of Dimes or the USO or anything else. Not if the Panama Canal freezes over.”
“I’m trying to be nice. I can call a press conference in an hour and lay the whole story out.”
“No, you can’t, Sidney. All you got is a jailbird doing time for murder one. He’s been crying ‘Foul!’ for twenty years. Nobody believes him anymore. It’ll be the joke of the week. You have Riker’s daydream and that’s all you have. You want to stick your neck out? Go ahead. Otherwise sit there and count your toes until I tell you otherwise.”
“Always the tough guy,” Schyler said with a chuckle. “You will let me know, won’t you?”
“I’ll let my boss know. You want a statement, get it from him. See you around the courthouse.” And I hung up.
“You’re in the middle of the maelstrom,” she said, obviously enjoying the action.
“If that means I’m in over my head, you’re probably right. Well, the hell with them all. Damn it, it’s my day off.”
She moved the tray over and crawled up over me, one leg on each side, and sat down. She reached over and took the phone off the hook and put the receiver under a pillow and looked down at me.
“We don’t have to get dressed today, do we?” she purred.
“Not unless the joint catches fire,” I answered.
CHAPTER 34
The attorney general’s hearing was held in an assembly room on the third floor of the city courthouse usually reserved for public meetings of the council. There was a large table at one end of the room with six chairs behind it, the seats of the mighty. There were two smaller tables facing the inquisitors, one on each side of the center aisle, a railing behind the tables, and six rows of pews on each side of the aisle for the common people.
The room had fewer than twenty people in it.
The inquiry was closed to the public and the press sinc
e it was an advisory hearing, a rare tribunal called by the governor. A gag order concerning evidence was in effect. The attorney general and two men, nominated by the A.G. and appointed by the governor, presided over the hearing. They would listen to the evidence and vote on the issue. The attorney general would then report the findings and recommendations directly to the governor, who would make the final decision. Then the record of the hearing would be made public.
Moriarity, Art Cannon—the city D.A.—Bones, and Dr. Tyler were seated at the table to the right, inside the rail. I was sitting behind them in the first pew when, about ten minutes before ten on Wednesday morning, Sidney Schyler entered with Arnold Riker, who was handcuffed to Harvey Craddock, the Wesco guard captain. Riker was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and a silk tie, probably courtesy of Schyler. If the objective was to make Riker socially acceptable, it didn’t work. There was a feral aura about the man that a new suit and white shirt couldn’t camouflage. Once a killer, always a killer.
When he saw me, Riker’s lip curled into a mean smile. Then he winked at me and mouthed the words “Hi, partner.”
He was enjoying his hour.
It did not go unnoticed by Cannon, a short, trim man with black hair parted down the middle and a wire mustache. He was fifty-two. He motioned to me and I leaned over the railing. “Don’t let him rile you, Bannon,” he said. “Everybody knows what he is, no matter what happens here today,”
“If he refers to me as his ‘partner’ one more time,” I said, “I’m going to throw the son of a bitch out the window.” I leaned back in my seat.
Sidney Schyler was a dandy. His thin blond hair was carefully distributed over his scalp in an attempt to cover a growing bald spot. He wore pince-nez, a yellow linen suit with a wide red check, and a vest with a watch chain that arced from one side of a growing paunch to the other. He spoke in a soft, unctuous voice, with a smile that was more of a smirk. But from everything I knew about him, he was scrupulously honest and one tough lawyer. He had been true to his promise. First thing Monday morning, while Bones and Tyler were working on the case, Schyler had called a press conference and announced that he had undeniable proof that Arnold Riker did not murder Wilma Thompson. He had requested an immediate governor’s hearing, at which he would demand that Riker be exonerated of the crime and released on the spot. He got his request for the hearing, and a gag order pertaining to all evidence in the case was issued by a state judge. Par for the course.
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