A middle-aged doctor in a green operating smock came in through the swinging door. A heavy man, he had wiry black hair, an aquiline nose and thick glasses. Rose Kelly started at his sudden appearance. Carr jumped up.
"Your husband is going to live," he said. "He's sleeping, but you can go in and see him for a minute." Rose rushed out of the room.
Carr shook hands with the doctor. "Thanks, Doc," Carr said, blinking back tears.
"He may or may not be able to return to the job," the doctor said, "it's too early to tell." He made a little nod and exited the room. A second later he stuck his head back in the door. He smiled. "Next time you plug up a sucking chest wound with sandwich wrap, scrape the onion off it first." He winked and left.
Carr went into Kelly's room. Rose stood by the bed holding her husband's hand. His face was ashen and there were tubes entering his mouth and nose. He tried to speak. Carr leaned closer. He put his ear to Kelly's lips.
"It was a setup," Kelly whispered.
"I think you're right, partner," Carr said. "Try to get some rest. We'll talk later." Kelly licked his lips. He closed his eyes. Carr tiptoed out of the room. Rose followed a few minutes later. He offered her a ride home and she accepted.
Rose Kelly sat in the passenger seat clutching her purse and staring out the windshield at nothing in particular. Her demeanor reminded Carr of other victims he'd seen: the blank gaze of the wounded, the robbed, the deceived.
"The first time I saw Jack I fell in love with him," she said. "He was watching a counterfeiter that lived across the street from the school. He used my classroom every night after class for a week. He would come with a camera on a tripod. I could tell he was single because he used to bring hamburgers in a bag and his white shirts needed ironing. I found myself making excuses to stay after class and talk with him. One night I brought a nice meal to the classroom and we had sort of a picnic. Jack is such a gentleman. After the surveillance was over, he sent me a real nice thank-you note. I was very touched. I prayed that he would call me and he did. At the hospital today I prayed to the Virgin Mary that Jack's life would be spared." Her voice cracked. "God answered my prayer again." Rose Kelly put a hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs.
Carr tried to think of something to say, but couldn't. He felt tears, but managed to blink them back.
As Carr maneuvered the sedan through the empty streets of West Los Angeles and onto the freeway toward Orange County, Rose Kelly continued to sob quietly. Finally they arrived. Before getting out she wiped her eyes, blew her nose and thanked Carr three or four times for the ride home.
****
THREE
IT WAS early morning and Carr had a hangover.
The office intercom buzzed and a secretary told Carr the agent in charge wanted to speak with him. Carr got up from his desk and headed down the hallway. As he rounded the corner into an anteroom in front of No Waves's office, a young black woman wearing a summer dress sat behind a typewriter. She held up a sheet of paper as he approached. It read HIS RECORDER IS ON! She crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket.
Carr winked at her and continued into the office.
No Waves sat behind his desk thumbing through Carr's report on the Beverly Hills stakeout. Pipe-cleaning equipment was scattered about the desk.
Waeves did not acknowledge Carr's presence, but continued reading the report. Carr was accustomed to this behavior. In April, Waeves had spent a week at his desk reading a book entitled How to Intimidate and Succeed.
Waeves licked a thumb and turned to the last page of the report. He made a, little note in the margin, then looked up. "I don't see any need for this interview to be recorded, do you?" He dug his meerschaum into a plastic tobacco pouch.
Carr shrugged and sat down.
"Have you had any feedback from Mr. Hartmann?" No Waves said.
"About what?"
"About the damage to his home. Even though the Beverly Hills detective did the shooting, the government could be held liable for the shotgun damage to his walls and aquarium. I understand he had a lot of very valuable tropical fish in there."
Carr blinked back anger. He took a deep breath. "No feedback."
"All we need is another damage claim against the government," Waeves said sarcastically. He held up the report. "Your report says that you and Kelly met with Bailey in Chinatown when he first informed you of the possible hit on Hartmann. Was any liquor consumed at this meeting? I'm asking this strictly off the record. I mean that."
"No."
"I take it you were in a bar?"
Carr nodded.
"And you didn't order even one drink?"
"That's right."
"Why?"
"Because I was on the wagon."
"And Jack Kelly?"
"He's on the wagon too."
Waeves blew into his pipe.
"From your diagram, it appears that you were in the bedroom when the shooting took place," Waeves said. "Who made the assignment?"
"Bailey did. He seemed to know the layout of the house. It was just a matter of covering the three entrances. The assignments seemed okay to me. We had things covered."
"I'm asking this totally off the record, but were you sleeping in the bedroom when the shooting occurred? Your answer will be kept just between you and me."
"No."
"Then what were you doing?"
"I was in the bedroom covering my position," Carr said. "I was waiting for someone to break into the house."
"You're saying that you were in a nice comfortable bedroom with a king-sized bed literally for hours and you didn't even think about lying down on the bed and taking a little rest?"
"Come to think of it, you're right..."
Waeves smiled.
"I did think about it once..." Carr said, "...but I didn't do it."
"Just asking. As you well know, it's my responsibility as the special agent in charge to ask questions when accidents happen." A smoke signal billowed from his pipe. "Nothing personal, you understand."
"Bailey fired a shotgun," Carr said. "Some of the pellets hit Jack. That's what happened."
Waeves ignored the remark. "This Leon Sheboygan...we probably should check into his background. Tony Dio could be behind this."
"Good idea," Carr said to the wall.
"It was a hot day. And I'm sure Hartmann's house was sweltering. You fellas probably had a couple of beers to cool off in there, right? I know I would've."
"No, we didn't."
Waeves fiddled with his pipe. He took some puffs.
"I haven't had a chance to get over and see Jack," Waeves said. "How's he doing?"
Carr stood up. "Is there anything else?"
Waeves licked the stem of his pipe. "Not at the moment."
Carr turned and walked out of the room.
Travis Bailey's condominium was furnished modern: chrome-hanging lamps, a dining table with a glass top, unconventional sofa and chairs upholstered in purple leather. On the wall behind the television hung a four-foot-square oil painting of a bolt and nut on a barren desert. Bailey, who had decorated the place himself, lay back on the sofa with his feet in Delsey Piper's lap. They wore matching blue terry-cloth bathrobes and nothing else.
Delsey Piper turned the pages of a newspaper. "Here it is, she said excitedly. "Officer Shoots Hired Killer. An alleged underworld hit man was killed yesterday in a shootout with Beverly Hills Police Detective Travis C. Bailey. Police sources report that the suspect, who was not identified, entered the Beverly Hills home of Terence J. Hartmann, president of the Southern California-based Bank of Commerce-Pacific. Hartmann was in Palm Springs at the time, attending a bank conference. Acting on a tip that Hartmann might be the target of an attack, Detective Bailey, with the assistance of two U.S. Treasury agents of the L.A. Field Office, initiated a stakeout of the Hartmann residence. In the early afternoon, an armed man gained entry to the palatial home by forcing entry through a back door. When confronted by Detective Bailey, the suspect drew his weap
on. In the ensuing shoot-out, the thirty-six-year-old Bailey fired two rounds from a shotgun. The suspect was killed and U.S. Treasury Agent John A. Kelly was wounded. Kelly was rushed to Cedars of Lebanon Hospital, where he underwent emergency surgery for wounds to the chest. He remains in critical condition. Police sources report that the incident at Hartmann's home may be related to the fact that he is a potential witness in a federal trial now under way against reputed Mafia figure Anthony Dio. Dio has been charged with engineering a bank extortion plot involving the use of counterfeit U.S. securities." Delsey Piper giggled. "It's like a movie!"
Bailey smiled. He grabbed the phone receiver off the coffee table and dialed.
"City Desk, Sanders," the man answered.
"This is Travis Bailey, Beverly Hills P.D. I've got some more on the shoot-out for you. The suspect has been identified. I thought you might want to know."
"Got a name?"
"Leon Sheboygan," Bailey said. "Spelled like the city. He's thirty-four years old. A local hit man for the Dio mob...but don't quote me on that. Keep it deep background."
"Sure. What sort of a weapon was he carrying?"
"A thirty-two automatic. All the hit men use 'em these days."
"How many shots were fired?"
"It all happened so fast I don't really know. Things were pretty hot and heavy...I guess I was just a little better shot." He winked at Delsey.
"Have you been involved in other shoot-outs?" the reporter asked.
"Yes, but I've always been able to come out on top."
"Keep up the good work."
"I'm just glad I was able to save Mr. Hartmann's life," Bailey said in a serious tone. The phone clicked.
"Reporters used to call my father all the time," Delsey said. "When I was a kid, paparazzi would be waiting outside restaurants. Once they took a picture of us coming out of Perino's. A few days later there was an article in a movie magazine asking whether the young blonde seen with Rex Piper was going to be his sixth wife." She giggled. "That was at the time when my father was really big...right after he made Sundown Morning. He took me with him to Italy on location. I met some kids and we spent the whole summer smoking hash and taking trains around Europe. When we got back to the States the movie really hit. There were fans hanging around in front of our house all day. I used to flip 'em the bird out the window. Once this thirteen-year-old named daddy in a paternity suit. He told me he didn't do it but one of my girl friends had seen him with her at the Pro-Celebrity golf tournament. Our maid told me about her too. She used to tell me everything if I would give her a free day off when my father was out of town." She sighed and caught her breath. "Daddy finally settled out of court. He hired a private detective to handle the negotiations. Everyone in Hollywood knows my father as a real cockhound. Once when I came home from boarding school he had these two Puerto Rican women in his bedroom..." She laughed. "It was really gross."
Bailey left the sofa and strolled into the bedroom. He opened a dresser drawer and removed two marijuana cigarettes from a small wooden box. As he headed back toward the sofa, Delsey picked up where she had left off.
"The day my father's house was burglarized and you came over to investigate was the same day he accepted his first role in a dinner-theater musical. It was a blow to his ego. He said he couldn't get work in Hollywood because he fired his agent for cheating him on a contract and his agent's brother was a producer and between the two of them they destroyed his career..."
He tossed her a marijuana cigarette. She caught it.
"But I think the real reason was that my father is just getting old," she said.
He lit a match and offered it to her. She leaned toward him and fired the cigarette. He lit his, and with a puff, felt a wave of relaxation. Bailey leaned back on the sofa and propped his legs up on the table. Delsey's voice seemed to emanate from far away,
"When you asked me if I wanted to be a police officer I thought you were crazy. But my father thought it was a great idea. I know I would have never been accepted on the Department if my father hadn't lived next door to the mayor. They're old friends from when they worked together on The Enchanted Castle.
"Don't forget that every cop on the Department knows that the mayor was your hook," Travis Bailey said.
"Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke," she said with a giggle. She cupped her hands around the roach and took a couple of deep drags. She held the smoke in her mouth, then let it crawl out. "I can't wait till tomorrow. My first day as a detective..."
Bailey puffed. "Go for it, baby."
Charles Carr wandered around Jerome Hartmann's living room. The carpet was stained with the still-damp mixture of water and blood. In addition to the buckshot holes in the wall next to the hallway door, there was shattered glass and dried-up aquarium fish everywhere. In the middle of the mess, white tape outlined where the burglar's body had ended up.
Hartmann stood next to the sliding glass doors. He was dressed in tennis togs, which failed to hide his slack stomach muscles. He shook his head sadly. "I had no idea when those hoods approached me that it would end up in something like this. It's like a bad dream," he said. "I can't tell you how grateful I am to Agent Kelly. I hope you will let me know if there is anything I can do for him or his family. I really mean that."
Carr nodded. His eyes followed the reverse path of the bullet holes, from the wall to the bar. He stepped gingerly on the wet rug toward the hallway door where Kelly had been hit. Another tape mark.
"I guess I took a vacation at just the right time," Hartmann said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Carr returned to the living room. He checked the lock on the sliding glass door. Having pulled out pad and pen, he made notes.
There was the sound of vehicles pulling into the driveway and car doors closing.
TV cameramen and photographers followed Travis Bailey in through the sliding doors. He winked at Carr. "The Chief wants a little coverage," he said. Flashbulbs popped. The newsmen jostled for position. Bailey pointed at the bullet holes. More photographs.
While this was going on, Carr drew a diagram of the room and the location of the evidence on his note pad. Having completed the sketch, he strolled out the glass door into the backyard. Hartmann followed. "I'm a member of the Beverly Hills Police and Fire Commission," he said. "I intend to thank Detective Bailey publicly at the next meeting. It's a good feeling to know that one's police department is on the ball."
Carr nodded approvingly. "Did you tell anyone about your trip to Palm Springs?"
"Certainly not," Hartmann said. "I followed your instructions and didn't tell a soul. Not a soul...with the exception of the Beverly Hills Police Department. I phoned them and gave Detective Bailey a brief rundown before I left. I was worried about someone putting a bomb in my house while I was gone. Certainly you don't consider that a breach of confidence on my part?"
Carr shook his head. "Of course not." The photographers shuffled out of the house and piled into station wagons, then drove off.
Travis Bailey sauntered over to Carr. He shook his head mournfully. "I really feel bad about Jack. It was just one of those things...a cross-fire situation."
"These things happen," Carr said ruefully.
"I hope Jack has no hard feelings."
"He doesn't. And as a matter of fact, he asked me to tell you that."
"I'm glad," Bailey said. He patted Carr on the shoulder.
Carr avoided the urge to cringe and, instead, smiled at the detective.
"By the way," Bailey said, "what brings you back here?" He spoke as if he were doing nothing more than making conversation.
"I'm doing a diagram of the scene. My agent in charge loves lots of paperwork."
"Why don't you just copy my reports? Save yourself some time."
"Good idea. By the way, the powers that be want me to interview your informant. Do you see any problem with that?"
"None whatsoever," Bailey said. "If I knew where to find him... He split town right after the shooting. I'm afr
aid that he might be gone for good."
Carr shrugged. "I guess that was to be expected."
Bailey glanced at his wristwatch. "Gotta run. Press conference at the police station in ten minutes." He waved as he rushed down the driveway.
The Beverly Hills apartment complex was shielded from Wilshire Boulevard traffic noise by a high wall and replanted palm trees. Though it was a weekday, suntanned men and women (most of whom seemed to be fighting midriff bulge) roamed and lounged around a swimming pool and a couple of tennis courts. Carr figured the rents would be three or four times what he paid for his Santa Monica one-bedroom.
Carr approached a ground-floor apartment with a Manager sign on the door. He knocked. An attractive, fortyish woman wearing a turquoise lounging outfit with matching scarf answered the door. He held out his badge. "Federal officer," he said. "Are you the manager?"
"Yes."
"Which apartment is Leon Sheboygan's, Miss..."
"Kennedy. Amanda Kennedy. Mr. Sheboygan lives in apartment nineteen," she said haughtily. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Mr. Sheboygan is dead."
The woman's jaw dropped. "My God," she said, covering her mouth with her hand, "what happened?"
"He had an accident. I need to look inside the apartment. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me in. You may accompany me if you wish."
"There was a Beverly Hills detective here last night. He asked to look in the apartment too, but didn't say a word about Lee being..." The woman gulped. "I just thought that he was in some sort of trouble."
"Did the detective go in the apartment?"
"No. I wouldn't let him in. And I'm not going to let you in either. I don't think it's legal to hand over someone's apartment key. In fact, I called an attorney last night and he told me not to let any policeman in any apartment no matter what they said."
"I take it you understand that Mr. Sheboygan is deceased," Carr said. "That he is dead and will not be paying any more rent?"
The woman adjusted her scarf. "I don't see where that makes any difference one way or the other."
To Die in Beverly Hills Page 4
