Write Me a Letter (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  "And me?"

  He shrugged cheerfully and gave me a playful little tickle down where my corset ended. I gave him a little slap on the wrist, not quite as playfully.

  "How long, how long?" he wondered aloud. "What, three days? Oh! I am forgetting!" He leaped onto one of the other beds in the ward and stretched out stiffly. "Here is how we are getting up. Be watching closely." He maneuvered himself onto his side at the edge of the bed, then in one smooth movement pushed up with one arm while swinging his legs down to the floor.

  "And upsadaisy," he said, beaming from ear to ear. "Now you try it."

  "Eh, maybe later," I said. "How about dope for the excruciating pain?"

  "If we are not foolish, we should not be excruciating," he said sternly. "However, as far as we are being concerned, you can munch Paracetemols all day long." He waved the tips of his fingers at me, then departed, nurse right behind him. Swish went the door—if not the door and the doctor—but what cared I, as long as nurse was around to chaperon me. All systems going . . . he made it sound like he'd stuck a patch on a bicycle inner tube, hell, anyone with an old tube of Elmer's glue could have done it. I was pondering over just why someone would ever bother being a doctor in the first place, especially a proctologist, plus other weighty matters, such as what particular tissue of lies I'd regale the cop outside the door's superior with, when—lo and behold—the cop in question poked his head in the door.

  "Still there?" he said affably.

  "Just till the cab gets here," I said.

  "Well, make yourself decent," he said. "You've got a visitor." He held the door open. In walked a man holding my wallet in one hand and my old wool shirt in the other. He was tall, aged about fifty, his gray hair in a crewcut, and was wearing a brown suit, brown shoes, brown socks, white shirt, and a brown tie.

  "Kalagan," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed nearest me. 'Lieutenant, Homicide, Sacramento Police Department. This upstanding young man assisting me is patrolman C. D. Fisher, know to his friends in the department, I believe, as 'Kingfisher,' to the amusement of all concerned. He is here to keep me continually supplied with coffee and to keep a record of the salient points of our discussion, of which I hope there will be many. Patrolman, you may be seated."

  Kingfisher sat himself on the bed on the other side of me, took out a pad and pen, and arranged his features into an attentive expression.

  "You," the lieutenant said, 'I am reliably informed by the contents of your wallet, are Victor Daniel." He told me where I lived and where my office was located. He told me I was a private investigator licensed by the State of California, and that my license was up to date. So was my driving license. So was my gun permit. So was my MasterCard.

  "I used to have a library card, too," I said from my bed of pain, "but I think it expired."

  "Your library card was not all that expired," he said calmly.

  "So a little bird told me," I said. The lieutenant shot Kingfisher a black look.

  "Perhaps you wouldn't mind running over the events of last night for me," he said. "Take your time. Go into any detail you like. Patrolman, when I go like this to you"—he pointed his hand, like a gun, at him—"you inscribe, word for word. Ready when you are, Mr. Daniel."

  "Monday," I said. "That would be what?"

  "April fourth," Kingfisher said.

  "April fourth," I said. "Right. At approximately eleven A.M. I received a visitor in my office."

  "Inscribe," said the lieutenant. Kingfisher started inscribing.

  "She gave her name as a Miss Ruth Braukis. She gave an address which later turned out to be false. It struck me her name might well have been false as well." Did it ever. If I did think it was really her name, would I have offered it up to the lieutenant? Some question, like "What in heaven's name did you ever see in that cheap, flashy, dyed blond, anyway?" are best left unanswered.

  "Describe," he said, cocking his thumb and forefinger again at his minion.

  I sighed. "Five foot seven and an iota. Hair, ebon, falling gracefully to her suntanned shoulders. Eyes, heliotrope, flecked with fool's gold. One dimple, left side. Eyelashes, long and well trained. Mouth—words fail me for once. Figure, slim. Chest, forty-two B. Legs, two. Dainty feet, ditto. Perfume, Miss Dior."

  "Too bad you didn't get a close look at her," the lieutenant observed. Kingfisher put one hand over his mouth to hide his grin.

  "Age."

  "Twenty-eight and three months?" I hazarded.

  "Vehicle? License plate?"

  "Never saw one," I said truthfully.

  "Patrolman," the lieutenant said. "Coffee. Lots of. Hot. Milk. No sugar. You?" He arched his eyebrows at me.

  "Coffee," I said. "Lots of. Hot. Milk and sugar. Cheese Danish on the side."

  "You'll be lucky," said Kingfisher. He departed.

  "Onward," said the lieutenant, rubbing a hand over his hair in a weary fashion.

  "You look tired, Lieutenant," I said sympathetically. "Been on the go all night?"

  "Thank you for your concern," he said. "Yes, I am tired. Yes, I have been on the go all night, or most of it, anyway. I got back from Locke about five. I was at the mortuary till seven. I slept for an hour in my office. I was back out in Locke by nine. I was at the pathologist's back here at ten-thirty. Yes, it is safe to say I am tired, Mr. Daniel, which is why I would like to press onward."

  I complied instanter. "Miss Braukis hired me to accompany a man she claimed was her Uncle Theo from LAX to the Star Hotel in Locke, giving me a deposit of six hundred dollars," In traveler's checks, I recalled bitterly; what were the chances of those being any good? "She claimed Uncle Theo needed an escort as he spoke no English and she was otherwise engaged."

  This time the lieutenant rubbed his eyes.

  "Did she say why?"

  "Why what? Why she was otherwise engaged or why she wanted him delivered to the Star Hotel?"

  "Either, Mr. Daniel," he said. "Or both. I have the feeling it's hardly going to matter."

  "The why she was otherwise engaged was she couldn't leave her mother who had recently suffered a stroke. The why she wanted him delivered to the Star Hotel was to rendezvous with his brother."

  "Did you investigate either of these claims?"

  "I certainly did," I said virtuously. "I established within minutes both claims were highly dubious."

  "However, you proceeded to meet 'Uncle Theo' in quotation marks and escort him northward, otherwise you would not have been at the Star Hotel."

  "That is correct, Lieutenant," I said meekly.

  Kingfisher returned, balancing three paper cups of coffee awkwardly in one large hand. He gave two of them to his boss, the third to me, then returned to his bed.

  "Thank you, Patrolman," the lieutenant said. "I cannot say you missed anything of great import. Why?" he then asked me. "Why, why, and again, why?"

  "Why not?" I responded, in the best Talmudic tradition. "What could hurt? There's no law against using a false name unless a fraud results. What did I care if he was really her uncle or her fairy godfather? I had half my money down, the other half to come, and all expenses covered, for a few hour's work. I should get that kind of job offered me every day." Well, not every day, maybe about once every millennium, or roughly as often as the Giants stand to win the World Series.

  "Let us move on to your arrival in the picturesque town of Locke," said the lieutenant, "unless significant events transpired en route, which I somehow doubt."

  I thought about asking him if he knew what they did with all those goats, but desisted.

  "What can I say?" I said. "We arrived. We walked around town. Had lunch. Took a nap. Had supper. Watched TV Went to bed."

  "Inscribe," said the lieutenant to his stooge. "We are now getting to the gory details."

  "Despite a touch of indigestion brought on by a certain fondness I have for pork grease, I fell asleep almost immediately on retiring," I said. 'I was awoken by a noise outside my window. I peeked out cautiously. I saw a man sneaking down the
fire escape. Being a detective, and having taken an oath to uphold the law, as have others in this room, I snuck out after him to try and apprehend him, with no thought of my personal safety, armed only by my wits and years of experience."

  The lieutenant didn't even bother trying to cover up his yawn.

  "I went right through one of the steps on that rotten fire escape," I went on, bitterly. "That guy had better be insured, is all I can say. Look at me! Look at this thing they got me wearing. I may never bowl again. I might have to have someone come in every morning to tie my shoelaces."

  "Buy some loafers," suggested the lieutenant. "Then what?"

  "Then I landed on the goddamned rain barrel and broke my sacroiliac, is what," I said. "Then I saw Nature Boy lying next to me bleeding to death and only tried to save his life, that's all, while World War Three was going on around me." I took a long swig of the coffee and wished I hadn't. The lieutenant did likewise. Kingfisher took out a stick of gum and began chomping on it. The lieutenant sighed deeply. I sighed even deeper.

  "Patrolman," the lieutenant said mildly after a moment, "do you ever get the impression that someone is not telling you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but?"

  "Sure," he said promptly. "I got two kids, remember."

  "And let me ask you this. What do you wear when you go to bed?"

  "What do I wear? Pajama bottoms, mostly. Or nothing." Kingfisher looked baffled.

  "How about you, Mr. Daniel?"

  I pretended to look baffled.

  "Me? Oh, you mean if I went to bed early and fell asleep right away, how come when they found me I was wearing clothes?"

  "That's exactly what I mean," said the lieutenant.

  "Those darn sleeping pills," I exclaimed. "They always do it. I took one for my upset tummy and must have zonked right out before I had a chance to slip into my nightie."

  "Of course," he said absently. "Of course." He took a tattered notebook out of his inside breast pocket and flipped it open. "Desist," he said to Kingfisher. "Male Caucasian," he read out to me. "Height, five foot nine. Weight, one hundred and seventy-four pounds. Hair, blond. Eyes, blue. Heavily suntanned. Hands show evidence of considerable manual work. Identifying marks—on lower back and buttocks, scarring probably due to shrapnel wounds, or similar. Scar upper right deltoid, similar. Scars on upper torso—likely cause, cigarette burns. Unlikely to have been self-inflicted. Et cetera. Et cetera. Dental work consistent with European techniques, not U.S. Identification on body—none. Possibility of identification through clothes, et cetera—none. Contents of wallet—nine hundred forty-two dollars. One pack soft toothpicks used for massaging gums. Contents of pockets: one pair cheap sunglasses. One plastic comb. Twelve rounds thirty-eight–caliber ammunition, suitable for S and W mod six forty-nine SS Special, found lying beside subject. Paraffin tests confirm subject had recently fired a handgun.

  "Cause of death—to put it simply, he was shot twice in the heart, at close range, by twenty-two–caliber bullets delivered almost certainly—Ballistics confirmations await—from a Beretta mod m seventy-one, color blue, length of gun barrel 3 inches. And where was said handgun discovered, patrolman?"

  "In the old guy's hand," he said.

  "Correct," the lieutenant said. "The old guy—you don't particularly care how tall he is, do you, Mr. Daniel? Or what his exact weight was?"

  "No," I said.

  "His name was Charles Rivers. Legal immigrant into this country from Mexico in nineteen forty-eight. Name anglicized from Carlos Delrio. Became U.S. citizen in fifty-three. Became owner of establishment known as Dago Don's, sixty-eight. Spotless bill of health from us, state, federal, Internal Revenue, state licensing board, and so on. And so on. What do you think the chances Interpol want him are when we hear from them?"

  "Not too good," I said.

  "I agree," he said. "Add to the deepening mystery one Henry C. Clam, whose physical characteristics you are no doubt uninterested in as well. Line of work, accountant. Home address, Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin."

  Chippewa Falls. If Benny had ever been to Chippewa Falls in his life I was King Zog of all the Slovaks.

  "Married."

  And if he was married, I was Queen Zog.

  "No children. I called his home. A telephone answering machine said he and his wife were on holiday. He could be reached care of the Star Hotel, Locke, and she at a phone number in Los Angeles. I called Mrs. Clam. She was greatly distressed to hear of her husband's condition and is flying up this afternoon. Although I don't think she or her husband have any direct relevance to what happened, I'm looking forward to meeting her."

  Mr Lawman, you ain't the only one, I thought.

  17

  Mrs. Henry C. Clam.

  Mrs. Benny the Boy.

  The mind boggles, although I don't quite know why. He did like girls, and sometimes they liked him. I started scheming how I might get a look at her, despite my achin' back.

  "Of the aforementioned trio," said the lieutenant then, pressing onward, ever onward, "had you encountered any of them prior to last night?"

  "Yes," I said. "If Charles Rivers, owner of Dago Don's is also, as I suspect, the cook at Dago Don's, I met him at lunch. He cooked it. Pot roast. I think he put bits of lemon and orange peel in the sauce. And if Henry C. Clam is the name, as I suspect also, of that nature freak I ran into in the lobby of the hotel, then it must be said I've encountered him as well. Once. In the lobby. He was showing Uncle Theo what to do with split ends. Speaking of Uncle Theo, how is he, by the way?"

  "Where is he is more like it," the lieutenant said, starting on his second cup of coffee. He actually seemed to like the stuff.

  "He's gone?"

  "As far as I'm concerned, he never was. By the time I got to checking out his room, it was empty. Cleaned out."

  "Oh, he was, all right," I said. "We spent hours together not talking to each other."

  "How did you get from San Francisco to here?"

  "I drove," I said. "A rental."

  "Which is still in the parking lot," he said. "And as there is not an abundance of public transportation out in those parts at three A.M., i.e., none, he either walked out, hitched a ride, or someone picked him up. Which would mean there was someone else on the scene for me to try and fit into the grand scheme of things. Like you."

  "Me?" I said indignantly. "My story is not only simple but verifiable. There's the entry in my diary listing the appointment with R. Braukis. There's the down payment she gave me. I've got a copy of the receipt I gave her." I didn't, but could always come up with one if needs be. "There are our airline tickets, plus the airline's records that we actually flew. The car rental. Our checking in here. My case rests."

  "Mine does not," said the lieutenant.

  "Don't see why not," I said, shifting my weight with extreme caution. "It looks open and shut to me. Unidentified male Caucasian kills cook. Cook kills unidentified male Caucasian."

  'Why?" the lieutenant asked mildly. "Don't you like to know why things happen, Mr. Daniel?"

  "Sometimes," I admitted. "OK, often, even. Not as much after a few drinks. Not at all when I'm legless. I don't suppose there's any connection."

  He smiled briefly.

  "Let us examine some of the possible 'whys,' Mr. Daniel, if you can spare a few moments."

  I smiled briefly.

  "Be my guest. With any luck you'll make me miss lunch."

  "Gangs," he said. "It doesn't smell like gangs, does it, Patrolman?"

  "No, Chief," he said.

  "What does it smell like to you, Patrolman?"

  The Kingfisher thought deeply.

  "Money?"

  "Elucidate," said the lieutenant, doodling in his pad.

  "Women, drugs, money, what else do people kill over? The percentage says it's money."

  "Flaws," said the lieutenant, "in your reasoning, Patrolman. There are many other causes of aggressive behavior. Drink. Anger. Frustration. Religious mania. Racial hatred. Nonracial hatred. Feelings of
inadequacy. Feelings of moral superiority."

  "In the line of duty," I chimed in. "For one's country, to protect one's self, one's possession, a loved one. Then there's always kicks.

  "Some kick," muttered Kingfisher, to his credit. I've heard it said some cops, and not only cops, actually like shooting at living things.

  "To avenge," murmured the lieutenant. "There's one we forgot. Ah well, I don't suppose we'll ever know for sure. As you mentioned earlier, Mr. Daniel, our humble task is to solve, not to reason why, which is probably lucky for some." Here he glanced as Guess Who and it wasn't Kingfisher.

  "You never know, Chief," I said encouragingly. "Something may break. Some well-meaning informer, an anonymous letter from a good citizen, perhaps from a woman scorned . . ."

  "Sure, sure," said the lieutenant, getting slowly to his feet. "Come on, Patrolman, let us leave Mr. Daniel to his dreams. And his hospital food. To say nothing of his disappearing clients." He strode out.

  "See ya," Kingfisher said over his shoulder. The door swished. It swished again. The lieutenant tossed my shirt in the general direction of my bed, missing by a mile.

  "Here," he said. "Someone even washed it for you. Hop it didn't shrink."

  "Pure virgin wool shrink when it's put through a commercial laundry along with blood stained sheets, surgeon's robes and God knows what from Delivery? Don't make me laugh." He left. Swish. What was left of my shirt lay on the floor. I lay on the bed. I thought. Things could have gone worse with the lieutenant, I thought. Lucky I dumped the gun. Lucky too I had my story together such as it was. Benny's story would be together, too, I had no doubt of that, it always was. If the lieutenant persisted, he could eventually find the link between us, which might lead him to rethink the whole affair, but why should he? Like he said, his task was to solve and solve he had. But a fool he wasn't. "To avenge"—that was a nice touch, that was one way to link up a European, i.e., Israeli, former soldier, and, from the cigarette burns, former what? Intelligence officer? Spy? And why former? Anyway, link him to an elderly immigrant of dubious background who stayed strictly on the right side of the law, never once straying, never once provoking any questions into his past. And, for all I knew, maybe Cookie had a bad burn scar as well, like on his arm, where he had his SS number removed. If SS members did have their numbers tattooed on, I wasn't sure. In any case, careful is what I would have to be for the next few days. Benny likewise, but he didn't need reminding. I hoped his mystery bride would keep her trap shut, whoever she was.