Lethal Streets (A Flood and Flood Mystery Book 2)

by Will Rayner

  “Ah, the enterprising father and son awaiting another challenge, another puzzle to unravel,” Bracken said. “The thing is, gentlemen, Samuel here seems quite recovered from his recent odyssey. I suppose, by the way, that everybody involved in the unfortunate affair of Mr. and Mrs. David B. Hockley is convinced it was really a murder-suicide, of course it was.”

  “You mean, could it be murder-murder?” T.J. asked. “C’mon, Jimbo, don’t you have enough on your plate with that dizzy dame here in town without meddling in other people’s cases?”

  Bracken ignored the younger Flood’s retort and looked blandly at his father. Sam thought quietly for a moment and then said, “That type of homicide is quite unfamiliar to me. The position of the gun on the floor was almost classically perfect, I suppose. The sheriff didn’t have a problem calling it murder-suicide.” Still, Sam couldn’t help thinking about his confrontation with Packy Shannon. “I should have asked,” he said abruptly. His son and the lieutenant looked at him quizzically.

  “The wedding chapel. I didn’t ask whether anyone else had inquired about the Hockley couple, or whether someone else knew about Wild Horse Canyon. It was a lapse on my part.”

  “Knock it off, pop,” T.J. said. “It was a clean job. You had no reason to watch your back.”

  “I agree,” Bracken said. “I am concerned, of course I am, that a McDonough hood could have made the same trip, to eliminate a potentially damaging witness, but the possibility is remote. Nevertheless, I will ask Reno PD to canvass that chapel of yours, just in case.”

  “Changing the subject,” T.J. said. “I thought you wanted to talk about Miss Bonkers Brown. I suppose you haven’t found the car yet – or her, or you’d be dancing up and down.”

  “Ah, young Thomas, blunt and to the point, as always, indeed, indeed,” Bracken said. “The thing is, we know the precise nature of her present weapon, the ever-so-useful meat cleaver. A heavy meat cleaver. So she ain’t about to throw it at you, like she did with the machete, or try to plug you from across the street with a crossbow. This is a close-up weapon, so a certain type of defensive posture is required, yes, indeed. I talked at length with Mr. Randolph Baggett about this, and the boys guarding his residence. Mr. Baggett still wants you to take up residence, but we all know the answer to that.”

  “The answer is ‘no bloody way’,” T.J. said.

  “Unfortunately,” Jimbo continued, “Mr. Baggett will almost certainly be required to come downtown for some legal business, probably in the near future, and you, Thomas, are nominated as his escort.”

  “We’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it,” T.J. said.

  Lieutenant Bracken inspected his dead cigar and deposited it in Sam’s ashtray. “Well,” he said, hands on his knees.

  “Well,” Sam repeated. “Speaking of meddling, as we were a couple of minutes ago, there is another situation we feel you might be interested in.”

  Bracken settled back in his chair. “Not a body, then, is it?” he said.

  “A live body. A live, crooked cop body,” T.J. said.

  “Some information has been passed on to us that a payroll robbery may be imminent at a Golden Gate Bridge construction site,” Sam said. “The … perpetrator … could be a police officer.”

  Bracken dug furiously for another cigar butt. “Information from whom and exactly where would this nefarious deed take place, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  “Our informant is Solomon Silverman. I think you know Solly – Silverman Hats?” Bracken grunted an acknowledgment. Silverman on Powell Street. He’d bought a couple of fedoras there. “Solly has a neighbor – a Winston Bloom. Mr. Bloom is employed by the WPA and claims to have prior knowledge of this robbery at the Lyon Street approach. He was also told the police are involved – which is why Solly Silverman contacted us rather than the department.”

  Bracken finally retried a decent-looking butt and lit it with a kitchen match. Sam reached for his pipe and T.J. took out his Old Golds.

  “Lyon Street,” the lieutenant repeated while he rapidly reviewed in his mind what he knew about Edwin Atherton, the Flood’s involvement in the investigation – and of burglary and robbery inspectors involved in actual thefts of their own. “Where is this Mr. Winston Bloom right now, if you don’t mind?” he continued.

  “He should be in our outer office right now,” Sam said. He picked up his phone. “Agnes, please escort Mr. Bloom into my office.”

  T.J. sprang up to give Bloom his seat and wheeled around to his own office, returning with another chair. He straddled it backwards, placing his forearms on the seatback.

  Winston Bloom was a short, slim man, neatly dressed. He sat primly in the client chair with his feet together and a bowler hat in his lap. Nervously, he regarded the array of stern faces looking him up and down.

  Sam made the introductions. “Mr. Bloom, I am Samuel Flood. Solly Silverman spoke of me. This is my partner, Thomas Flood, and this is Lieutenant James. T. Bracken of San Francisco homicide.”

  “Homicide!” Bloom blurted. “You mean people might get killed?”

  “Relax, Mr. Bloom,” Sam said. “Lieutenant Bracken is here in regard to another matter. He is also honest and trustworthy and not involved in any way with the corrupt elements of the police force.” A little bit of stroking never hurt nobody, T.J. thought.

  “Tell us what you know, or what you think you know, Winston,” Bracken said. His voice had acquired the smoothness of the veteran interrogator. Bloom hesitated, twirling the bowler in his lap. “Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Bracken prompted.

  “I am attached to the Works Progress Administration,” Bloom said slowly. “Our mandate is to supply federal funding for municipal projects so as to provide jobs for the unemployed. One of these is the Lyon Street approach, which will connect Lombard Street to one of the exit ramps on the Golden Gate Bridge. The new road actually starts at the corner of Lombard and Broderick. A contractor is responsible for doing the work and we provide the wages every week.”

  “Tell us about the payroll, Winston,” Bracken said. “Why is the … ah … heist of the payroll so imminent? A robbery could occur on any payday.”

  “Well, this phase of the construction is winding down. The new street has been punched through and the grades leveled. A new crew is taking over to do the concrete work – the pavement, the sidewalks, the curbs. So this crew is going to get paid off, with two weeks’ pay.”

  “I’m beginning to get the idea,” Sam said.

  “Yes,” Bloom said. “When you hire on in the construction trades, the first week’s pay is held back. You have to work two weeks to get one week’s pay. When the layoff comes, you get everything at once.”

  “So it’s a double payroll,” Bracken said. “How much?”

  “Well over $1000, in cash, in pay envelopes,” Bloom said.

  T.J. whistled softly. “Well worth knocking it over,” he said, “crooked cop or no crooked cop.”

  “And you think, of course you do,” Bracken said, “that a police officer is involved. Tell us why, if you please.”

  “Well, I overheard them talking,” Bloom said. “I was at the police station on an errand and I had to go to the bathroom and I was in a stall and these two officers came in. They were laughing. One of them says: ‘So he’s gonna knock over the Lyon Street payroll, whether they suspend him or not. Robbery won’t make a big effort to collar him, that’s for sure.’ That’s what he said. They didn’t know I was there, I guess.”

  No kidding, T.J. thought. “You have a sharp memory, Mr. Bloom,” he said. “Those quotes were pretty exact.”

  “Well, the Lyon job is my job. I’m responsible. That’s why I was all ears.”

  “When’s payday?” Bracken asked.

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “How do these paydays work, exactly?” Bracken asked.

  “The contractor makes out the timesheets and I pick them up in the morning. I take them to the bank and supervise the filling of each pay
envelope. This is federal money, so I am responsible. The average pay is around $20 a week, give or take, depending on the man’s duties. The envelopes go into a stiff cardboard case and I take them to the construction shack in the afternoon. We put everything in a safe until the end of the shift”

  “What is the name of the bank?” Sam asked.

  “And do you have an escort from this bank, my dear fellow, when you deliver your pay packets?” Bracken added.

  “It’s the Bank of California on Lombard,” Bloom said. “It’s only a few blocks from Broderick. An employee of the bank usually rides with me, if they are not too busy.”

  “Do you wish to engage Flood and Flood to act as an escort two days from now?’ Sam asked tersely. Cutting right through the mumble-jumble to the really important stuff, T.J. thought.

  Chapter 29

  Jimbo Bracken took a puff on his cigar and was pleased to discover it was still alive. “A wise precaution, yes indeed, it certainly is,” he told Winston Bloom. “The senior Flood and the junior Flood are both resourceful and discreet. Very reasonable rates, too, I am given to understand.”

  “Twenty-five dollars a day and expenses,” Sam said, “but we’ll worry about the paperwork later.”

  “The thing is, we have a day to iron out the wrinkles,” Bracken added. He drew on his butt until the end of it glowed an angry red. Winston Bloom coughed.

  “If you have nothing more to add, Mr. Bloom, I suggest you may take your leave now. Thomas, please escort our friend to the door. Mr. Bloom, contact this office around, say, two o’clock tomorrow. Don’t mention our little conflab to anyone else and Don’t … Call … Me.” He spaced the last three words out slowly and forcibly.

  When T.J. returned, Bracken slumped a little in his chair. Deflated. Even his smelly cigar didn’t interest him. “I’m sorry you had to hear about more rotten eggs in the department, of course I am,” he said. “But I suppose it’s no surprise to you gents, what with your splendid efforts on behalf of Mr. Edwin Atherton. Will things ever be the same again?”

  “Yes, it would be nice, Jimbo,” T.J. said. “It’s hard playing Cops and Robbers when the cops are also the robbers.” He picked up his chair and returned it to his office. Bracken gave both Floods a half-hearted wave, said goodbye politely to Agnes Wilkins and departed.

  “There goes one unhappy flatfoot,” T.J. told Sam.

  “Yes,” his father said. “His castle is crumbling about him. However, all will be returned to an even keel eventually. Perhaps a positive outcome two days from now will restore the lieutenant’s equilibrium.”

  ****

  The next morning, T.J. had an idea. “I think I’ll get the Essex and check out this Lyon Street approach,” he told Sam. “Get the lay of the land – access, escape routes, hiding places, the usual.”

  “Good thinking,” Sam said. “Mr. Bloom will be driving the car from the bank, I assume, but it will be useful to know exactly what to expect tomorrow.”

  “Be prepared, just like a loyal Boy Scout,” T.J. said. “And if nothing happens tomorrow, well, we’ll still collect our 25 bucks.”

  “I don’t know how Jimbo will take a no-show – a dry run so to speak,” Sam said. “Disappointed, or relieved?”

  “I think he’d be more disappointed that he didn’t catch a bent copper trying to pull a stickup,” T.J. said.

  Driving up Van Ness, T.J. tried to remember the last time he’d been along Lombard. There used to be a very decent steak place near the corner of Octavia, he told himself. Used to go there with Jessica. A stab of memory and longing rose and subsided quickly. Maybe Indigo would like it, he thought, if it were still there. It was. Further along Lombard he got caught up in construction traffic for the bridge. Big, noisy trucks. Finally, he parked a block away from Broderick and walked.

  He was astounded at the change in the neighborhood. The raw dirt of the roadway had sliced an ugly scar across several blocks, all the way to Lyon and Bay Street. T.J. could see the remains of once-stately old mansions on either side. Many more, he realized, had simply disappeared. Ah, progress.

  The construction shack was a solid structure near the corner of Lombard and Broderick. It was built to last for a few years, T.J. noted. Pieces of equipment and refuse bins were scattered haphazardly around. There was nobody in the immediate vicinity. The closest laborers were 60 yards away, loading some wheelbarrows. A cleared level area in front of the shack served as a parking lot. To leave, one would have to make one’s way back the way one came. Unless, T.J. thought, one simply ran across the broken landscape.

  Returning along Lombard in the Essex, he noticed the Bank of California. Bloom’s bank. Pulling in to the curb, he looked it over. It’s possible a crook could try to snatch the payroll here at the bank, he thought, but it could get messy. Waving a gun in the air, tellers screaming, bank alarms going off. All that for a lousy thousand bucks or so? Naw, he decided. If I were going to knock over the payroll, I’d do it at the construction shack with hardly anybody else around. Of course, I wouldn’t know that a certain intrepid private dick named Thomas Jefferson Flood would be sitting in the front seat.

  ****

  Lieutenant Bracken made his own survey of Lombard Street and the construction site. It was a simple drive-by, but he absorbed the pertinent information. One way in and one way out for vehicles. A convenient spot on Broderick to park and observe. Like T.J., he put a low priority on any robbery attempt at the bank. Too many variables. Still, perpetrators often can’t think straight. Their focus was too narrow, their greed too consuming. Keep the bank in mind, he decided, but concentrate on the Lyon Avenue approach.

  The Floods were waiting for him in Samuel’s office. They were smoking. Bracken found a dead cigar and brought it alive again. “So, gentlemen, the day approaches,” he said. “A survey of the crime scene – if indeed it does become a crime scene – suggests the … ah … suspect will have little opportunity for flight. I will be on the corner of Broderick and young Thomas will be in the car. If you spot anything suspicious—”

  “…Like a guy pointing a heater at me,” T.J. interrupted.

  “… honk the car’s horn, or get Mr. Bloom to do so. Give it a good, loud honk, and I will spring into action, indeed I will.”

  “No backup?” Sam asked.

  Jimbo Bracken inspected his cigar butt. “I think it would be unwise to involve other members of the department,” he said.

  Sam Flood kept his own council. This was not a very elegant operation, he thought. What is it based on? Something overheard in a men’s washroom. That’s half a step above a straight rumor. A lieutenant of detectives at war against his co-workers. And a private citizen – my boy – doing police work. Not elegant at all. Not a proper use of resources. Inwardly, Sam Flood shuddered.

  They sat around, waiting for Winston Bloom to call, smoking and talking idly of current events. One event they did not discuss was the situation at 750 Kearny. By mutual, unspoken consent, none of them chose to raise such a touchy subject.

  After some minutes, Jimbo Bracken looked at his watch. “Duty of another nature intrudes,” he said. “An unfortunate lady of advanced years has been strangled with her own bathrobe cord. Her son, who was observed having a violent argument with her shortly beforehand, has absented himself. May I use one of your telephones, gentlemen, if you would be so kind? I need to check on our endeavors to apprehend him.”

  “Certainly,” Sam Flood said. “Use Thomas’s office. Ask Miss Wilkins for an outside line.”

  Bracken was back in a few minutes. “Talking of other duties,” T.J. said, “what if this dizzy skirt decides to get in the way of things tomorrow?”

  Both Sam and Bracken realized he was serious. Miss Jane Brown had a disconcerting habit of appearing out of nowhere. What if she sprang into the middle of a holdup? Bracken shuddered at the prospect.

  “Vigilance,” he said. “Unflagging vigilance.”

  “That’s easy to say, but vigilance hasn’t done us much good so far,�
� T.J. said.

  “She would have to follow Thomas from here to the bank,” Sam said. “Have you decided, Thomas, how you will get to Lombard Street?”

  “I was thinking of taking the Essex, parking it at the bank,” T.J. said. “Perfect opportunity, Jimbo, for your flatfeet to spot that stolen Packard tailing me.”

  Bracken ignored the gibe. “It would be wise to take a taxi, indeed it would,” he said. “A circuitous route, perhaps.”

  “Followed by thorough vigilance when you arrive,” Sam said. “If she doesn’t know you are on Lombard Street, she won’t know about the construction site.”

  Sam’s phone rang. “It’s for you,” he told Bracken. “Mr. Winston Bloom.”

  The lieutenant scrunched his chair closer to Sam’s desk. “Bracken here,” he growled into the mouthpiece. “Ah, Mr. Bloom, how are you, sir? Everything’s normal, is it not? Keeping your own counsel about our little enterprise? Good, good, good. Now, Mr. Bloom, you will proceed just as normally tomorrow, do you understand? What time will you arrive at the bank? … Around one o’clock, good, good, good … About an hour and a half, I see. Well, Mr. Bloom, our Mr. Flood will plan to arrive shortly after two o’clock to escort you … No, you will not meet him on the sidewalk. Anyone loitering outside a bank these days is certain to attract attention. The officer on the beat will tell him to move along … Now, Mr. Bloom, I will turn you over to young Thomas. No, you won’t see me tomorrow but I will be there.”

  T.J grabbed the phone and waited until Bracken said his goodbyes. “Okay, Mr. Bloom, give me the dope on this bank of yours. Run through it for me.”

  “Well, I take the timesheet to the assistant manager,” Bloom said. “I watch as he fills each pay envelope. I write the employee’s name and number on the envelope and his name is checked off. When we are finished, I put all the packets in this case and sign a receipt.”

  “And all this takes about ninety minutes?”

  “It will tomorrow,” Bloom said, “because there will be more money to count out.”