Circling the Runway (Jake Diamond Mysteries Book 4)

by J. L. Abramo

  “Stay put. I’ll have it delivered to you by eleven.”

  “Good,” Weido said, and then he went for another beer.

  Johnson had asked Lopez to contact Officer Cutler and have Davey meet him at the office of Sound Sleep Security.

  Cutler was waiting when he arrived. They were directed to Bill Cataneo, Operations Manager.

  “It’s about one of your employees,” Johnson said.

  “It’s Justin, right? Did he turn himself in?”

  “Justin Walker was murdered sometime last night,” the sergeant said.

  “My God, it’s my fault,” Cataneo said, visibly distraught. “What I am going to tell my wife.”

  “Slow down,” Johnson said. “Tell me about Walker.”

  “On Wednesday I discovered an electronic chip key had been generated without authorization. I traced it to Justin.”

  “A key to Roberto Sandoval’s apartment.”

  “Yes. I told him I would have to report it to the police. He talked me out of it.”

  “How?”

  “He asked for a chance to see Sandoval, confess his action and plead for lenience. He hoped his voluntary confession and information as to who paid him to obtain the key might help his case. I was standing right beside him when he called to make an appointment with Sandoval. He was told he would have to wait until Thursday morning.”

  “So you let it wait,” Johnson asked.

  “He was my wife’s brother; I believed he would follow through. When I heard about Sandoval’s death, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been trying to reach Justin since Thursday morning.”

  “Did Walker tell you who paid him for the key?”

  “No. He said he didn’t want to get me involved.”

  “You are very involved,” Johnson said. “Cutler, call for the nearest unit to come to take Mr. Cataneo into custody and read him his rights. He is complicit in the death of Roberto Sandoval.”

  “My God,” Cataneo repeated. “What will I tell my wife?”

  “I suggest you tell her to call a lawyer. Stay with him, Davey. I need to check a few phone messages.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cutler said.

  Johnson retreated to a neutral corner.

  The first message was from Yeatman. The gun sent over from Oakland, used by Blake Sanchez in the attempted liquor store robbery, was the weapon that had killed Sal DiMarco.

  Unbelievable, Johnson muttered to himself.

  He might have considered it incredible luck if not for the fact that Blake Sanchez had died in the hospital before being able to talk.

  The second message was from Desk Sergeant Yardley, asking him to call Officer Perry as soon as possible. Johnson decided to delay the call to Perry until after the uniforms arrived to take Cataneo into custody.

  Carmine Cicero was polishing off a hearty room service breakfast when his cell phone rang.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m still at my hotel,” Cicero said. “I can be on my way in thirty minutes or so.”

  “He’s expecting you before eleven.”

  “No problem. I’ll stop on my way out to the Oakland airport. I have a flight back to Los Angeles at twelve-thirty.”

  “Good. Call me as soon as you touch ground.”

  Sergeant Johnson was standing on the sidewalk outside the Sound Sleep Security office when the squad car pulled up. Two uniformed officers exited the car and approached Johnson.

  “Take Mr. Cataneo down to Vallejo Street, ask Yardley to find an interrogation room, and let Lieutenant Lopez know you have arrived,” Johnson said. “And ask Officer Cutler to come out.”

  The uniforms entered the building just as Johnson’s phone rang.

  “Rocky, it’s Yardley. Officer Perry phoned a third time, he insists it’s urgent.”

  “Give me the number again.”

  Johnson punched in the cell number. It was answered in the middle of the first ring.

  “Sergeant Johnson?”

  “Perry, what’s the emergency?”

  “My name is Ralph Morrison, Sergeant. I’m sorry for the deception, but I needed to talk with you personally.”

  “I am extremely busy, Mr. Morrison,” Johnson barked, “and impersonating a police officer is against the law.”

  “It’s about the gun that killed Sal DiMarco.”

  “What about the gun that killed Sal DiMarco?”

  “I think I discovered where it came from.”

  “Tell me,” Johnson said, hardly believing his ears.

  “Not on the phone.”

  “Don’t play games with me.”

  “I’m not. Trust me. You need to meet the source of the information. Can you be at Highland Hospital by ten?”

  “Where?”

  “Fourteenth Avenue and Thirty-First Street in Oakland. The Beaumont exit off the MacArthur Freeway. In front of the hospital entrance. I’ll be with a teenage Hispanic boy. I’m wearing a green Army jacket. I have a ruined left hand.”

  “If this is bullshit I will be insanely angry, Ralph,” Johnson warned.

  “It’s on the level, Sergeant. Please be there by ten.”

  The line went dead. Cutler came out to the street.

  “Do you think Cataneo knows more than he told us,” Cutler asked.

  “I doubt it, but he held back information that ultimately led to four deaths. He will have to answer for that. It looks as if you and I are going to Oakland.”

  “Why Oakland?”

  Before Johnson could answer his phone rang again.

  “Yes?”

  It was Joe Beggs with the forensics team at the Walker murder scene.

  “We found something here in the motel room that may interest you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “A key to a pay locker at SFO,” Beggs said.

  “I’ll send Officer Cutler over to pick it up.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Change of plans?” Cutler asked.

  “I need you to pick up an airport locker key from Beggs back at the Travelodge, and go to SFO to check the contents,” Johnson said, moving to his car. “I need to get to Oakland. Call me as soon as you open the locker.”

  Johnson climbed behind the wheel and headed out for the Bay Bridge.

  Marco Weido was watching the clock, pacing the living room and feeling like shit.

  He went to the bedroom, took his service revolver from the bedside table, and he tucked it into the back of his belt.

  The oversized sweat shirt would conceal it nicely.

  Weido understood you could never be too careful when dealing with fellow felons.

  Johnson spotted Ralph Morrison and the boy as soon as he pulled up in front of the hospital.

  “Okay, Ralph,” Johnson said. “Let’s hear it.”

  “The boy is Raul Sanchez,” Morrison began. “His older brother Blake attempted to rob a liquor store Thursday night and Raul can tell you where Blake found the gun.”

  “Where is my money?” the boy said.

  Ralph gave Johnson a look of embarrassment, and then he took two twenties from his pocket and handed them to the boy.

  “Now, tell Sergeant Johnson what you told me,” Morrison said.

  “Under the porch,” Raul said. “The cop’s house.”

  “What cop?” Johnson asked.

  “Weido,” the boy answered.

  “Marco Weido?”

  “Yes,” Ralph said.

  “Do you know where he lives, Ralph?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come with me,” Johnson said to Morrison.

  They left the boy there, the cash held tightly in both hands.

  “Stop here,” Morrison said, ten minutes later.

  Johnson pulled the car over to the curb and killed the engine.

  “Which house?”

  “Across the next street, fourth house from the corner, the green wood porch.”

  “Stay in the vehicle, Ralph.”

  When Johnson stepped o
ut of the car he spotted a man fifty yards further up the street who appeared to be watching Marco Weido’s residence.

  Johnson recognized the man immediately.

  He instinctively moved his hand to his weapon and picked up his pace.

  TWENTY SIX

  I slept late Saturday morning, but I logged little sleep.

  The events of the previous day had been overly stimulating to put it mildly. I kept waking up through the night to escape disturbing dreams. I had not witnessed so much violence in one day since Sally was killed.

  I had missed three phone calls. All from Darlene.

  Her messages were all the same, Jake, please call me at the office.

  I called her at the office.

  “Diamond Investigations, always in season.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  “I thought you’d never call, Jake. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. What are you doing at the job?”

  “I needed to take care of a few financial snags—and I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I was hoping you could give me a ride to Stinson Beach,” Darlene said. “I am seriously pining for Tug McGraw.”

  “He is one lucky mutt. Give me a little time. I should be there by ten.”

  I drove down Columbus Avenue toward Vallejo Street, the Trans-America Building poking through the clouds straight ahead.

  I knew most of the doormen at the Columbus Hotel, across Vallejo, just past Molinari’s Deli. I also knew that a five-spot pressed into the right hands would allow me to leave the car parked in front of the hotel until I collected Darlene.

  I pulled into the passenger loading area. A parking valet was stepping out of the vehicle in front of me. He handed the keys to a very large man who proceeded to climb in.

  It was Carmine Cicero.

  Cicero rolled out into Columbus Avenue traffic.

  Against all better judgment, I followed.

  Carmine turned right onto Pacific Avenue. I could see the Bay Bridge up ahead. When I was sure we were headed across the bay, I called Ray Boyle.

  “Try to stay with him, Jake,” Boyle said. “Call me as soon as he gets to wherever he is going.”

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  I followed Cicero to a quiet, tree-lined street near downtown Oakland. He parked in front of a house with a green wood porch. I pulled over to the curb, on the opposite side of the street, fifty yards away.

  Cicero left the vehicle and moved to the front door of the house. A few moments later he was let in.

  I was reaching for my cell to call Boyle when I thought I heard someone coming up behind me. Then a familiar voice. He didn’t sound very happy to see me.

  “Diamond, what the hell are you doing out here?” Johnson said.

  “I followed someone here,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “For Ray Boyle. A favor. I owe him a few.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A mug named Cicero. Boyle has questions for the ape.”

  “Where did he go?” Johnson asked.

  “The house with the green porch. Opposite side of the street.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “I’m here to question Marco Weido.”

  “Who is Marco Weido?”

  “Former Oakland police detective, presently investigating for the San Francisco District Attorney’s Office. He may have been party to Roberto Sandoval’s murder,” Johnson said. “That’s his house.”

  “Terrific. A pair of ruthless killers,” I said. “What’s the connection?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Is he with you?” I asked, looking past Johnson at a man coming up from behind.

  Johnson turned on his heels. His service weapon magically appeared in his hand.

  “Ralph,” he said, lowering the gun. “I asked you to stay in the car. Do I need to handcuff you to the steering wheel?”

  “But…”

  “Go.”

  Ralph, whoever the hell he was, put his head down, did an about face and walked away.

  “I need to call Boyle,” I said. “Calling Oakland PD for back-up might not be a bad idea.”

  We were both reaching for our cell phones when the gunfire in the house began.

  Johnson called for back-up.

  “Do you have a gun?” Johnson asked.

  I was tempted to say I had left it in my other pants.

  “No.”

  The sergeant pulled a .38 from an ankle holster.

  Pretty cool, if you’re into that sort of thing.

  I tend to be more impressed by a good book.

  “Coming or watching?” Johnson said, offering the weapon.

  I took the gun and I followed him.

  Johnson went in first.

  Thankfully.

  His weapon gripped in both hands, arms fully extended, sweeping the front room like Jack Bauer badly sketched.

  Both men were down. Cicero was closer to the front door. He looked finished. Johnson kept his weapon trained on Weido, who was convulsing on the floor. Johnson kicked the gun that rested near Cicero’s hand clear across the room and checked the gorilla for pulse.

  “Dead,” he reported, and swiftly moved to Weido.

  “The fuck sent him to kill me,” Weido whispered. “London.”

  London.

  It was the last word Marco Weido ever said.

  I told Johnson why Boyle was after Cicero.

  The runaway Russian girl, the murdered nightclub owner, and Bobo Bigelow.

  Johnson told me why he had come for Weido.

  The gun that killed Sal DiMarco.

  And he told me about Cicero’s visit to the D.A.’s office and Justin Walker.

  Weido and Cicero had taken us down the same road.

  Beyond that, all we could be sure about was their shooting match had led us to a dead end.

  I called Ray Boyle, to fill him in on the gunfight at Weido Corral and the outcome.

  “Weido said, The fuck sent him to kill me?” Boyle asked.

  “Johnson and I are guessing Weido and Carmine Cicero were working for the same man and Weido was double-crossed.”

  “I won’t be saying a novena for Cicero. He was a menace,” Boyle said. “But he was my only lead.”

  “Weido may have been involved in the murder of Assistant D.A. Sandoval up here, and Cicero was identified visiting the D.A.’s office inquiring about a man named Justin Walker.”

  “And?”

  “Walker supplied the key that allowed Sandoval’s killer to enter his apartment.”

  “Damn it. There’s a connection. Have they questioned Walker?”

  “Walker was killed, Ray.”

  “Weido?”

  “Maybe. Maybe Cicero,” I suggested. “Could have been either one of them. Or both.”

  “Damn it. And Weido said nothing else?”

  “London.”

  “London? What does that mean?”

  “No clue, Lieutenant. But it sounds like something way out of your jurisdiction.”

  “Will you let me know if anything else turns up?”

  “I will.”

  “And follow up on it for me?”

  “If I can, Ray.”

  Two Oakland PD uniformed officers, Bruce Perry and a rookie sidekick, had arrived to secure the scene. Oakland would be taking over.

  I walked outside and saw Johnson’s buddy Ralph standing across the street trying to figure out what went down.

  Johnson joined me on the porch and waved Ralph off when Ralph started to cross over.

  “I just got a call from Lopez. Justin Walker was planning to run. He left a bag in an airport locker. Forensics found a key and I had an officer check it out. Twenty thousand dollars, in neat bundles, in a small travel bag. His passport was also in the bag, and a slip of paper with a phone number inside the passport book.”

  “Okay.”

  “When Cutler couldn’t reach me he cal
led Lopez. She tried the number. It connected to the office of Daniel Gibson at the Bureau of Immigration at the Appraiser’s Building on Washington Street in San Francisco. The office is closed, but Lopez found a residential address for Gibson. She said she would meet me there in forty-five minutes.”

  “There’s the connection. A straight line between Gibson, Walker, Cicero and Weido. And Roberto Sandoval.”

  “Straight lines can be deceiving and often lead nowhere,” Johnson said. “I need to meet the lieutenant.”

  “Can I come along?”

  “Lopez won’t like it.”

  “I promised Boyle I would stay on this if I could.”

  “Okay. Meet us there. But don’t be surprised if Lopez chases you off.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for the loan,” I said, offering to return the gun Johnson had handed to me earlier.

  “Maybe you should hold on to it,” Johnson said. “Two-seventy-two Seventh Avenue, Inner Richmond.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, and we both headed for our cars.

  I called Ray Boyle as I was crossing the Bay Bridge, to bring him up to speed.

  And then I remembered Darlene was still waiting.

  I decided to go straight to Darlene at the office. Try to make amends.

  Not only had I made her wait for more than an hour, now I would need to renege on my offer to transport her to a reunion with the pooch. On top of that, I had little time for excuses or explanations.

  “Thanks, Jake,” she said when I walked into the office.

  Darlene was being facetious.

  “I’m really sorry, Darlene. I can explain, but not right now. And I can’t take you to Marin.”

  “You could have said all of that on the phone. You didn’t have to come down here if you are so busy.”

  “I said I’m sorry, Darlene, really.” I felt like a heel. “But if I didn’t come down here I couldn’t give you the Impala to drive to Stinson. I know how much McGraw loves to ride with the top down.”

  “Can I keep the car overnight?”

  “Sure.”

  “I forgive you. And I want a total account tomorrow or your name is mud.”

  “Wow. I haven’t heard that one for awhile.”

  “Like it?”