by J. L. Abramo
Twenty Six
When I woke the next morning, Sally was gone.
She had left a note saying she had work to do, and had left a set of house keys. There was a small Post-it on the coffee maker, just below the on/off switch, that read push me.
I drank some coffee and looked through the Examiner. I found a not too flattering photograph of myself on page three. The good news was that the short accompanying piece indicated that I was wanted for questioning and not murder.
Fortunately I had slept late, and only had two hours to kill before the meeting at Carlucci’s Restaurant. Even at that, I had no idea what to do with myself.
I decided on a shower for starters, wishing that I had something other than a wrinkled five hundred-dollar suit to wear. I went to grab the cigarettes from my suit jacket and found a pair of chinos, a flannel shirt and a pullover sweater neatly folded on the sofa beside the jacket. I was fairly certain that they belonged to Dick Spencer, but I couldn’t be choosy. I’d have to stick with the shoes from Rodeo Drive because Dick had feet like a ballerina.
Squeaky clean and donned in attorney casual, I left the house at eleven-thirty. The walk would do me good. I circled around, taking Bay Street past Columbus Avenue to Powell and then down Powell to Washington Square. From there I could get into Carlucci’s and avoid the avenue completely. I fought the temptation to glance up toward my office and quickly ducked inside.
The clock above the bar made it five minutes to twelve.
The place was already filling up with a lunch crowd.
There was an old wooden phone booth at the far end of the bar, just at the entrance to the dining room in back.
I remembered admiring it the first time I was here. When Joey, Grace and I met with John Carlucci, before Frank Slater’s testimony put Johnny Boy in San Quentin. I headed straight for the phone, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone at the bar or at the tables along the opposite wall. I made it to the booth, sat down, and closed the door.
I decided that while I was waiting for Joey, I would call Darlene.
“Jake, where are you?”
“Down the street at Carlucci’s waiting for Joey. What do the police have to say?”
“A Lieutenant Lopez and Sergeant Johnson were here this morning. You gave the big guy quite a shiner. Lopez said that she just wanted to talk, that they weren’t planning to book you for murder.”
“How about for assaulting a police sergeant? Did they say why I fell off the most wanted list?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I’ll wait a while to turn myself in.”
“That kid Myron has been calling every hour.”
“Damn, I forgot all about him.”
“He’s back at Jimmy’s office; do you need the number?”
I was scratching the number onto the cover of the phone book with one of Sally’s keys when I saw Joey Russo walk in.
“Gotta go, Darlene, I’ll call you later,” I said, and started out of the phone booth.
Joey motioned for me to stay where I was and he went over to talk with the bartender. The bartender picked up the phone behind the bar and a minute later Joey was moving toward me. He tapped on the glass door of the booth and I opened it.
“Follow me.”
“Myron got into the files.”
“It’ll wait; come on.”
I tore off the corner of the phone book cover and followed him through the dining area, toward a door at the far end of the room. Everyone sitting there looked as if they recognized me. A very large orangutan, who did recognize me, led us through the door into an office. He closed the door behind him when he left.
“Jake Diamond meet Tony Carlucci,” Joey said.
“Have a seat fellas,” Carlucci said from his seat behind a desk covered with paper money of all denominations. “What can I do for you Russo?”
“If I’m not mistaken, Tony, you were paying Jimmy Pigeon to find someone for you. We’re here to ask if you’d like us to finish the job.”
“Jimmy had twenty grand of my cash. What about that?”
“I have most of it right here,” Joey said, reaching for an envelope, “I had to spend four grand or so but you can have the rest. From now on we’ll work pro bono.”
“As in free of charge?”
“And for the public good.”
“So what’s the catch?”
“No catch whatsoever, Tony. You just answer a simple question and we get to work.”
“Okay, let’s give it a shot.”
“Who were you paying Jimmy to find?”
“You didn’t come too prepared, Joey.”
“Throw me a little slack.”
“I’ll give you a hint,” Carlucci said, turning his attention to me, “the guy used to be married to a good friend of yours, Diamond. A little number named Grace Shipley; my brother John claims she was quite a dish.”
I started to say something, but Joey gave me a look that almost made me swallow my tongue.
“What was the deal with Jimmy? Twenty grand is a little cheap for the rat that put your brother away.”
“I was going to square a debt with Al Pazzo.”
“We’ll be in touch, Tony,” Joey said, and rose to leave.
I got up to follow him out. Tony Carlucci stopped me at the door.
“Diamond.”
“Yes.”
“I was curious. How much does one of those Oscars weigh?”
Joey pulled me through the door before I could answer.
He hurried us through the restaurant and out the back exit to the alley. Sonny was sitting behind the wheel of a car behind the place. Joey opened the back door for me and I got in. He climbed in the passenger seat and pulled out his phone.
“Frank Slater,” I said.
“He testified against Johnny Boy Carlucci and they’ve been hunting for him since,” said Joey, “call Myron.”
Joey was taking control, and I was thankful for it.
Sonny drove, heading out Broadway toward Van Ness.
“Myron, what do you have?” I asked.
“The password worked; I got into the files. You want me to send it as an E-mail attachment or fax it to you?”
“Myron, get the needle out of your arm. Give me the salient points and make it fast.”
“Okay. The Carlucci file. Basically notes on a case Mr. Pigeon was working. He was employed by Anthony Carlucci to locate a man named Frank Slater.”
I was praying that he could tell me something I didn’t know.
“Did he locate Slater?”
“That’s where the Richman file comes in. It looks like Mr. Pigeon suspected that Slater was working at Richman International under an alias.”
“Any names mentioned?”
“No.”
I’d just paid five hundred to Stritch for the same sketchy information.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“There was an entry made the night Jimmy died. Mr. Pigeon had planned a meeting with an Agent Madison. FBI.”
“Okay, Myron. You did good. Now get out of there. Have Tom and Jerry take you home. Get some sleep. Don’t forget to take your cash.”
Richman, Slater, Jimmy, Carlucci. The trick now was to connect the dots.
“Slater is working for Richman,” I said, “Evelyn told me that Jimmy was going to speak with Richman, about reinstating the offer for the business, to save Harry’s hide. Jimmy came back claiming he could get Harry off the hook without selling. He must have thought he recognized Slater.”
“So he calls Carlucci to make a deal, asks for twenty grand up front and says he’ll turn Slater over once Carlucci gets Crazy Al Pazzo off Harry Harding’s case.”
“Jimmy’s notes said he was waiting for a visit from an FBI Agent Madison on the night he died,” I said.
“Well, here’s where we have to start making assumptions. But that’s what detectives do, right?”
“You really like this, don’t you,” I said.
“Are you kiddin
g. I’m loving it,” Joey said. “We know that Frank Slater was in the Witness Protection Program. Let’s assume that Agent Madison was handling Slater for the program.”
“Okay.”
“Slater somehow finds out that Jimmy made him. Slater calls Madison, whose job it is to protect Slater’s identity. Agent Madison gets in touch with Jimmy, asks for a meeting. Madison hopes that he can convince Jimmy that there are legal and ethical reasons to keep it quiet. Jimmy agrees to hear Madison out; they’ll meet at the Internet office. Slater gets there first, not wanting to take any chances.”
“And this was all about Slater trying to protect his identity?”
“It was about staying alive. If Carlucci finds Slater, Frank’s a dead man.”
“But why didn’t Slater just ask Madison for a new name and beat it to Montana or somewhere?”
“Maybe he liked working for Richman too much to give it up.”
“So Slater kills Jimmy. What must Agent Madison think about that?”
“I would imagine he would be feeling a bit worried about his job,” Joey said.
“How can we find Madison?”
“In my experience with the FBI, they usually find you. I can call around; I know a few Federal Prosecutors.”
“Is there anyone you don’t know, Joey?” I asked.
“I’m still hoping to bump into Madonna one of these days,” he said.
“Can we assume that Slater killed Richman?” I asked.
“I’d bet on it. I just can’t figure why.”
“So what now?”
“Well, I’ll try to find FBI Agent Madison, see if I can persuade him to give up Slater’s cover. I’ll have to appeal to his survival instinct. As far as what you should do, and I know you’ll hate hearing it, I think maybe it’s time you gave Ray Boyle a call. You need his help, whether you like it or not. You keep saying that this guy Alster rubbed you the wrong way; run it by Boyle. If Ray decides that Alster is worth questioning, it won’t be at a table at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
Joey was right on both counts. I did need to cooperate with Boyle. And I wasn’t going to like it.
Sonny pulled up in front of Sally’s house.
“Maybe I’ll call Ray,” I said.
“Good. Think of it this way; you’ll be helping him. Maybe he’ll invite you back down to LA and you can work together, like a buddy thing,” Joey said. “Meanwhile stay out of sight; you may still be a fugitive. Let me know how it goes with Boyle.”
“Will do.”
“How’s Sally?” Joey asked as I climbed out of the car.
“Good,” I said, “very good.”
“Jake.”
“Yes, Joey?”
“I’m just wondering. If Jimmy found Slater, why wouldn’t he have told Grace?”
“Maybe for the same reason he didn’t tell me about finding Grace. Maybe he figured she be better off not knowing.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Joey said. “Call me.”
Sonny pulled away.
I walked up to Sally’s door, trying to count the number of times Joey and I had used the word maybe.
Maybe if I caught up with Grace again I would have to ask her about the car ride that Evelyn had mentioned.
The ride that Grace took with Jimmy Pigeon the day before he died.
Twenty Seven
I walked into Sally’s house resolved to give Ray Boyle a call with an offer of help.
The telephone was ringing.
“Jake.”
“Darlene.”
“There’s someone here at the office wanting to speak with you.”
A moment later, Ray Boyle was on the line.
“Jake, way to go. I hear you slugged an SFPD detective sergeant.”
“It was unpremeditated, Boyle.”
“I think I can get Detective Johnson to forget it happened.”
“What are you going to do, offer to give him your autographed photo of Police Chief Gates?”
“See how you are, Diamond? Someone reaches out to help you and you bite the hand.”
“Excuse me if I’m more concerned about being wanted for murder than for trying to improve Sergeant Johnson’s looks, Ray.”
“You’re clear on the Richman killing.”
“Oh?”
“Why don’t you meet me at Washington Square in thirty minutes and I’ll fill you in,” Boyle said.
“Grab me a sausage-and-pepper hero from Molinari’s downstairs. I haven’t eaten.”
A half-hour later I walked into the park. I spotted Ray at a bench, working on a meatball sandwich and taking sips from a bottle of Manhattan Special. I sat beside him and picked up the sandwich on the bench at his side.
“There’s another of these in the bag at your feet,” he said, holding up the soda bottle, “this stuff is terrific. Coffee soda, what a concept.”
“I would have pegged you for a Yoo-Hoo kind of guy, Ray,” I said, “so, who killed Richman?”
“The name Jack Canty mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
Boyle was going to take me around the long way. I was fighting the nagging impulse to ask Ray what the hell he was doing in San Francisco. I remembered that patience is a virtue and I needed some points. I took a healthy bite of the sausage sandwich, to keep myself from talking, and waited for Boyle to continue. If the name Frank Slater came into the conversation, I preferred that Ray bring it up first.
“Canty worked for Richman. He was embezzling money from the company. Richman confronted him and he clobbered the old man with an Academy Award.”
“Did Canty confess?” I asked.
“We haven’t found him yet,” Ray said.
“You think he might have come up this way?” It was a logical guess.
“Yeah.”
The answer loosened my tongue a bit.
“So, how did you make Canty for the killer? Fingerprints on the Oscar?”
“No, as a matter of fact the only prints were yours. I talked with a guy named Alster.”
“I hope you didn’t let him take you to lunch.”
“I bought him lunch, a package of those cheddar cheese sandwich crackers from the machine outside the interview room at Parker Center.”
“Peanut butter?”
“Uh huh.”
“Are you going to tell me about it?” I said.
“Alster said that he was looking into some of Canty’s dealings for the company, particularly the offer for Ex-Con dot com. Canty offered Harding a million for the business. Alster found reason to suspect that Canty was going to present it for Richman to sign off on as a two-million- dollar deal and keep the change. Alster also suspected that Canty had pulled it off successfully a few times before.”
“So why didn’t Alster call in the troops?”
“Alster claims that he took it to Richman and Richman said he would deal with it himself. That Richman wanted to be certain. Alster figures that Richman challenged Canty, determined that it was true, decided to call the police, and Canty whacked him.”
“And Alster figured this all out by himself.”
“He’s a bright guy.”
“Yes, he is. Did he happen to say where he was when Richman was killed?”
“What? You don’t think I asked him?”
“I’m sure you asked him, Ray. Did he happen to say?”
“Alster has an alibi.”
I wanted to ask Ray how he confirmed Alster’s alibi, but I didn’t want to raise the hair on his neck.
“Well, there you go,” I said. “I’m glad to hear that I’m no longer a suspect. I appreciate you taking the time to stop by and tell me.”
“I’m up here to try to find Canty. I stopped by to see if you had anything to tell me, in the spirit of cooperation. I know that you saw Richman and I know you met with Alster. I’m guessing that your interest had to do with Pigeon’s murder, that you couldn’t care less if they all robbed each other blind at Richman International,” Ray said. “So, what do you know?”<
br />
“What makes you think that Canty came up this way?” I asked.
“That’s not an answer, Diamond.”
Ray was losing a grip on his patience now; switching over to my last name was a dead giveaway. I eased my conscience by telling myself that he’d started it.
“Do you know an FBI Agent named Madison?”
“I’ve heard of him. Witness Protection?”
Bingo.
I decided that it was time to take Joey Russo’s advice and bring Boyle in.
“I think Madison may have been handling a guy named Frank Slater. Slater testified against Johnny Boy Carlucci and put him in San Quentin. The Feds gave Slater a new ID and immunity for his cooperation. I think Slater was working for Richman, that Jimmy Pigeon made Slater and that Slater killed him. If you can get Madison to name Canty as Slater, you should wrap up both cases.”
“How could Jimmy identifying Slater hurt Slater?” Ray asked, “Unless Jimmy was going to sell him out to Carlucci.”
Since Boyle had answered his own question I didn’t bother.
“So, what makes you think that Canty is up here?” I asked.
“He called a number in Santa Rosa from his office before he disappeared.”
“So why aren’t you up there?”
“The number he called was a phone booth, outside of a little place called the D Street Deli. The Santa Rosa Police are searching the area. I’m heading up later this afternoon. I’ll try to track down this Agent Madison in the meantime.”
“Ray, when you answered the telephone at Richman International, was it Canty’s office line?”
“As a matter of fact it was. Darlene told me it was she who called. Why?”
“Oh, just another nail in Canty’s coffin.”
“Do you want to come up to Santa Rosa with me?” he asked.
The invitation almost swept me off my feet. Then I realized that Ray just wanted to be able to keep an eye on me at all times.
“I’ll let you know. Call me when you’re ready to go; I’ll be at my office,” I said. “And call if you get in touch with Madison. Thanks for the sandwich.”
I got up to leave.
“Jake.”
“Yes?”
I could see it in his face. He was going to thank me for helping him. He’d called me Jake again. It would be music to my ears.
“Speak to you later,” he said.
