by J. L. Abramo
“Mexico is just a hop, skip and a bail jump away.”
“Very clever, Raft, kick a man when he’s down. For some sick reason I gave you more credit. They took every fucking thing I had; I don’t have a dime to my name. What am I supposed to do in Mexico without bread? Pick bananas until some bounty hunter finds my fucking tree? Where the fuck was your helping hand when I got busted?”
“One step over the line, Ricky. I told you a hundred times not to do business here in the hills. I warned you if the LAPD dropped you my hands were tied.”
“So, you stopped by to say I told you so.”
“Like I said, Diaz, I stopped by to offer you a way out,” said Raft. “Two hundred thousand cash and the bail bondsman doesn’t send a headhunter after you.”
“What the fuck do I have to do for that, Detective? Kill someone for you.”
“Do you want to hear about it or would you rather fish hair out of your eggs?”
“I’m listening,” said Ricardo Diaz.
It took nearly two hours and telephone calls to Los Angeles, Sacramento, Washington DC and San Diego before Jimmy finally reached the desk of a U.S. Navy bureaucrat who could offer useful information. It was almost too much information.
“According to our records, 1st Petty Officer Leonard Archer was honorably discharged and is therefore eligible for burial benefits. There are a number of options. His body can be laid to rest at Los Angeles National Cemetery or Fort Rosencrans National Cemetery here in San Diego. The government will provide the transfer of the remains to either location and will provide a military graveside service and headstone. This service will be open to friends and family members. If preferred, 1st Petty Officer Archer can be buried at sea from a ship out of Long Beach harbor. Burials at sea, however, are never open to civilians. Is there a surviving widow or dependent children?”
“None.”
“In that case, all we will need to process the request, once you decide, are faxed copies of Petty Officer Archer’s death certificate and DD214.”
“DD214?”
“Enlisted Record of Separation or discharge papers.”
Jimmy jotted down the fax number and ended the call. He phoned Meg Kelly at home with the update.
“I’ll go back to Archer’s apartment and look for the papers, then I’ll try to find out about obtaining a death certificate,” Jimmy said. “I wonder if Lenny would have wanted to be buried at sea.”
“Lenny would probably prefer sitting in an urn above the wine rack at Angelo’s restaurant,” said Meg. “We can talk about options later. Meanwhile, could his brother’s name be Nathan?”
“Could be.”
“I found a Nathan Archer down in San Diego,” Meg said. “A licensed private investigator. I left a message on his answering machine.”
“What kind of message?”
“That if he had a brother Leonard, he should get in touch with you. I left your home and office numbers. I need to get to work, drop by when you can.”
“Will do. Thanks for the help, Meg.”
“Anytime. I have to run.”
As soon as Jimmy replaced the receiver, there was a tapping on the office door.
“Come in,” Pigeon called.
John Barnum opened the door, took a long look at the newly replaced window, stepped into the office and closed the door behind him.
“Could I have a few words with you, Pigeon?”
“Sure, Detective. Have a seat.”
John Barnum was Santa Monica Police, Robbery/Homicide Division. Jimmy was not delighted to see him.
“I was sorry to hear about Archer,” Barnum said, walking over to Jimmy’s desk.
“I was under the impression you didn’t care much for Lenny.”
“It doesn’t mean I like what happened to him,” Barnum said, sinking into the client chair.
“If you’re here about Lenny, the LASD beat you to it.”
“We were out on another call and the Sheriff’s Department helped us out as a courtesy, but the Archer case is ours as soon as LASD completes their preliminary report. How well did you know Edward Richards?”
“Never met the man,” said Pigeon.
“Talk on the phone?”
“No.”
“According to Richards’ phone records, he called here three times in the past few weeks.”
“Never spoke with him. I’ve been out of town.”
“But you’ve heard of him.”
“The newspaper reported he was killed during a house burglary.”
“And the fact he was killed less than two hours after your partner was killed and had called here doesn’t peak your interest?” asked Barnum. “I’m sorry if this is boring you, Pigeon, but I’d like to know what was going on between Archer and Richards.”
“I have no idea, Barnum. What are you driving at? Are you suggesting their deaths were related? Do you have anything to go on beside a few phone calls?”
“Thanks for your help, Pigeon,” Barnum said, refusing to bite and rising from his seat. “I’ll be in touch.”
Jimmy sat and watched Barnum leave the office.
Pigeon counted to ten and phoned Detective Ray Boyle at Parker Center.
“What now, Pigeon?”
“I just had a visit from John Barnum. SMPD has the Richards case and they’re going to take over the Archer case. Barnum is thinking about putting the two together.”
“What’s he going on?”
“All he gave me was phone calls from Richards to the office here. Can you find out what he’s not telling?”
“Jesus, Pigeon, I’ve got a stack of open cases on my fucking desk. What did you give Barnum?”
“The same. Nothing. We danced around, stepping on each other’s toes.”
“If you have something, give it up. Barnum is a smart cop and he can get really ugly if he discovers you’re holding out.”
“I need a leg up first, Ray. Help me.”
“I’ll try. Don’t call me, I’ll call you,” Boyle said and killed the connection.
Jimmy called Vinnie Strings. Vinnie’s mother had to wake him.
“Vinnie, pick up the book at Parker. It’s waiting for you in the lobby. I want you to check it out front to back, see if anything grabs you that may have got Lenny going. What do you know about Charlie Chan?”
“What do you want to know?” asked Vinnie. “Six novels, forty-five films in less than twenty years, three different actors playing Chan, a television series.”
“Okay, save it for later, Vinnie,” Jimmy cut him off. “Grab the book, look it over and meet me at Meg’s Café at seven. I’ll buy dinner.”
“I’ll be there. And Jimmy.”
“Yes?”
“I forgot to return what was left of the two hundred yesterday.”
“What did the rug set us back?”
“Eighty bucks.”
“Keep the change, Vinnie. I’ll see you at seven.”
Jimmy put down the phone, grabbed his suit jacket and quickly left the office before the phone could ring again.
FRANK RAFT
Jimmy picked up a club sandwich and a soft drink from a deli on Third Street, walked them down to a bench on the pier and called it lunch. A seagull greedily eyed the last of Pigeon’s turkey club from its perch atop a bicycle rack. A teenage girl flew by on roller blades, sending the large bird into the air. A young mom pushed a stroller, stopping every few yards to retrieve the juice bottle her small passenger continually tossed overboard. An old man stood at a rail opposite Pigeon, dangling a fishing line into the ocean, speaking aloud to no one there, scolding a loved one for leaving him alone. A bearded man in an ancient Boston Red Sox ball cap held a paper cup out to Jimmy and politely asked for change.
“Change would do us all some good,” Pigeon said, putting a dollar into the cup, tossing the sandwich wrapping and the empty soda can into a trash barrel and walking off the pier toward Lenny Archer’s apartment building.
The gray haired landlady of the building stooped over a st
one flower planter at the front entrance, picking out cigarette butts from around the stems of the tulips.
“There’s no respect for beauty or personal property,” she mumbled, turning to the sound of Jimmy’s footsteps.
“How are you, Mrs. Epstein,” Jimmy asked.
“There is no consideration, no grace,” she sadly said. “It’s horrible about Mr. Archer; he was a wonderful man, a wonderful tenant. He would help me with the garbage cans every Wednesday morning. This morning I had to pay a boy five dollars. Can you imagine such a thing, taking advantage of a helpless old woman? I miss my dear husband. It is terrible to lose your life’s partner. What will become of Mr. Archer’s possessions? I’ll need to rent the rooms.”
Jimmy hadn’t thought at all about the contents of Lenny’s apartment.
“I’ll see it’s taken care of before the end of the month, Mrs. Epstein,” he offered.
“God bless you, Mr. Pigeon. There’s a police officer up there now, I let him in,” said the old lady.
“Okay.”
“He is no gentleman,” the woman added and turned back to her work.
Pigeon walked up to the second story, his enthusiasm considerably diminished. Jimmy found the door to Archer’s apartment wide open. He looked in to find Detective Raft standing in the front room.
“Pigeon,” Raft said. “I was just about to return your phone call. Come in. What brings you around?”
“I need to locate some papers the Navy needs to arrange for Archer’s funeral. What brings you here?”
“Just taking a quick look around before I complete my report and hand it over to the SMPD. Did you happen to know Ed Richards, the reporter who was killed?”
“No.”
“And Archer never mentioned Richards to you?”
“No. Are you thinking the deaths are connected?”
“We’ve established that Ed Richards phoned your office several times. Both your office and his home were searched by the perpetrators. Both Archer and Richards were shot in the head, execution style. Drug execution style.”
“I never knew Archer to go anywhere near drugs.”
“Isn’t it possible Ed Richards was looking into the drug trade for a newspaper story and had employed your partner to help investigate?”
“Seems far-fetched,” said Pigeon.
“Maybe, but it’s all we have to go on at the moment.”
“Who’s handling ballistics?”
“We are. The bullet that killed Ed Richards will be picked up from Santa Monica. As soon as we get it to our lab we should be able to determine if both men were shot with the same weapon and present our results to SMPD.”
“So you’re suggesting Archer and Richards were silenced over an investigation into drug traffic?” Jimmy asked, finding the suggestion absurd.
“I’m saying SMPD will be looking into the possibility, yes. Once we send them our ballistics and medical reports the investigation will be in their hands.”
“Who do I see about obtaining a copy of Lenny Archer’s death certificate,” asked Jimmy, changing the subject, “and to find out when his body will be released for burial?”
“We are sending Archer’s body over to the Santa Monica Coroner late this afternoon; they should be able to provide that information. I’ll leave you to look for what you need here,” said Raft. “By the way, how were you planning to get into this apartment?”
“The same way you did, I suppose.”
“So, you haven’t been here before?” asked Raft. “I mean, since Archer’s death?”
“No,” said Jimmy.
“Feel free to call if there’s anything I can do.”
Jimmy watched Raft leave the apartment. When he heard Raft start down the stairs, he closed the door, sat on the sofa and considered the drug angle.
He considered it bullshit.
After leaving Archer’s apartment, Detective Raft drove out to Tully’s house in Sherman Oaks. He found his partner in the large back yard, trying to assemble a gas grill.
“You should have waited for this,” Raft said, handing Tully a fistful of fifty-dollar bills. “You could have paid your kid to do that.”
“My son couldn’t unfold a card table,” said Detective Tully, stuffing the bills into his pocket. “How did Masters react to the course of events?”
“He’s not happy, he wants this cleared up and quick.”
“So?”
“So, I have an idea,” said Raft. “I need both weapons. The gun you used to kill Archer and the one you used on Richards.”
“What makes you think I didn’t get rid of them?”
“I know what a compulsive junk collector you are, Bob. I’m sure you have a few old charcoal grills in the garage.”
“Three, actually. I’ve got both thirty-eights stashed over at my cabin,” said Tully.
“Can you tell which gun is which?”
“Yes, Frank, I know which is which.”
“Thank God, because I also need a bullet fired from the one you used on Archer,” said Raft. “And it needs to appear as if it went into flesh and bone.”
“There are a few stray dogs out there, I could pop one in the head and remove the slug.”
“Good. Do it. I need both guns and the spent bullet by three. I’ll meet you back here.”
“Do you want to tell me about your idea?”
“Later,” said Raft, leaving Tully to the chaotic heap of metal parts, bolts and tools on the lawn.
Pigeon dropped Archer’s discharge papers back at his own apartment and grabbed the keys to his car. He drove a 1988 Chrysler LeBaron convertible. Power steering, brakes and windows, wood-trimmed, leather interior, seventy-seven thousand easy miles, showroom clean. He pulled out of the parking area behind his apartment building and headed out on Santa Monica Boulevard to Los Angeles.
Downtown, Jimmy miraculously found a parking space on South San Pedro near the corner of East 1st. He locked the car door and gave the ragtop a few gentle pats.
“Stick around,” he said and then walked the two short blocks to Parker Center.
Jimmy had thought about calling ahead, but didn’t want to give Detective Boyle the opportunity to tell him not to bother. He would have loved to surprise Boyle, but he knew that getting up to the Robbery Homicide Division Offices on the 3rd Floor without being announced and permitted through security was as good as impossible. Jimmy was hoping Boyle would give him a break and grant audience simply because he had made the trek, but he wouldn’t bet on it. And then, as fate would have it, Jimmy entered the lobby of LAPD central headquarters and bumped into Sam Stephens heading out.
“Jimmy Pigeon,” said Detective Stephens. “What brings you into our nightmare?”
“I need to see your partner.”
“Is Ray expecting you?”
“No.”
“Great. The cheap son of a bitch stuck me with the lunch check today. Allow me to escort you up; it’ll serve the bastard right. No offense, Jimmy.”
“None taken, Sam.”
Pigeon followed Stephens through security and up the stairs to the door of the office Sam shared with Ray Boyle. Sam opened the door and poked his head in.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, Ray,” he said.
“I don’t like surprises,” said Boyle from his desk.
“All the better,” said Stephens as he ushered Jimmy into the room.
“Jimmy Pigeon, glad to see you,” said Boyle. “I’ve been trying to reach you at your office.”
“It figures,” said Stephens. “Son of a bitch.”
“Thanks for taking the time to bring Jimmy up,” said Boyle. “I know you were in a rush to get somewhere.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Stephens, stomping out.
“Trying to reach me at my office about what?”
“Your protégé, Vinnie Strings, picked up your library book about an hour ago. The kid walked out of the building and stepped into the path of a moving taxi cab on Los Angeles Street,” said Ray. “An
ambulance took him to Good Samaritan Hospital. Come on, I’ll take you over there.”
At three, Raft found his partner back behind the house swearing aloud as he fumbled through a toolbox for a half- inch socket.
“Fucking piece of shit.”
“Calm down, Bobby, your face is going purple.”
“Fuck,” said Tully, throwing the ratchet wrench into the disorganized pile of designer outdoor gas grill parts.
“Did you get what I asked for?”
“In the bag,” said Tully, pointing to a small cloth satchel sitting on a picnic bench.
Raft walked over to the bench and grabbed the bag.
“I have to fly,” Raft said.
“Aren’t you going to fill me in, Frank?”
“No time now. We’ll talk later or in the morning. Have fun.”
“Fucking piece of shit,” Tully said again as Raft walked away.
When Raft reached the front of the house, he ran into Tully’s son on his way in.
“Hey, Champ, how’s my favorite centerfielder?”
“I thought Brett Butler was your favorite centerfielder, Uncle Frank.”
“Not since you went three-for-four with six RBIs last Saturday. Your father is out back and he’s in serious need of some help, Kevin.”
“I need to get to practice, I just have time to drop off these school things and get changed.”
“What do you have there?” asked Raft, finally noticing what the boy carried under his left arm.
“Check it out, it’s really cool,” Kevin said, dropping his school bag to the lawn and proudly displaying his prize to the detective. “It’s a laptop computer; Dad gave it to me.”
“It’s very nice, Kevin. You’re lucky to have such a generous father. I have to run, have a good practice.”
Tully, you fucking fool, Raft thought as he climbed into his car for the drive to the SMPD crime lab.
At the lab, Raft signed-out the bullet removed from the skull of Edward Richards. Back in his car, Raft dug into the satchel for the spent bullet supplied by Tully. Using plastic gloves, he swapped the slugs. Raft placed the original evidence into the satchel and threw the bag behind the driver’s seat. He took the substitute slug to the LASD evidence lab, where it would be compared with the slugs removed from Lenny Archer’s head and stomach. With that business completed, Raft drove out to Woodland Hills to deliver the weapon that killed Archer into the hands of Ricky Diaz.
