“Don’t you think we should?”
“I suppose we should. For identification. But he knows my voice. You’ll have to handle it alone. And Tucker could have told him who I am. He knew I wasn’t what I claimed to be that first time I drove up there.”
“If I handle it alone,” he said, “I’ll know what he looks like, but you won’t. It’ll have to be a picture. I’ll be right back.” He left the car.
Five minutes later, when he came back, he was carrying a wide leather belt with a large silver buckle.
“What in the hell is that contraption?” I asked him.
“The buckle is a camera. I’ve used it before. The boss is a camera nut. He invented it.”
“I see. And you’ll be wearing it around your waist. That should give you a good picture of his belly.”
“The lens is angled upward,” he explained. “I don’t like to repeat myself—but I have used it before.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Up the road to the Valley again. An illuminated neon sign on the roof of a savings and loan building on Ventura Boulevard informed the passersby that the temperature was now ninety-eight degrees, the humidity seventy-two percent.
Dennis parked in the shade of a high shrub when we arrived at Gillete’s house. It also served to screen the car from the view of anyone in the house. He buckled on the belt and left.
I got out of the car and went down beyond the far end of the shrubbery, hoping to catch some breeze from below.
There was no breeze and the sun’s rays were higher than the shrubbery. I went back to stand next to the car.
He was smiling when he came down the road five minutes later.
“You lucked out,” I guessed.
He nodded. “I told him Tucker was a friend of mine and that his funeral would be tomorrow. I suggested that he say a few words at the mortuary. He told me he was busy tomorrow.”
“Good work. That completes the cast, doesn’t it?”
He shook his head. “I forgot one—that lawyer, Winthrop Loeb. All we have is his license number.”
“Loeb next,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We stopped for gas in the Valley. While he filled the tank, I looked up Loeb’s office in the station phone book. It was in Beverly Hills.
“Have you dreamed up a story to tell Loeb?” I asked.
“Some of it. I think better on my feet.”
Tiger, tiger, burning bright … He was making me feel like an anachronism.
The office was in a recently remodeled five-story building on Sunset. When he parked on the lot I suggested that I go in with him.
He shook his head. “I plan to use a phony name.”
“I’ve got a lot of those,” I said.
“And a famous name. I’ll bet that half of the men and all of the sports fans in this county remember you from when you were with the Rams. Loeb could be one of them.”
“That’s nonsense,” I said.
“Trust me,” he said. “Even my mother-in-law remembers you.”
“You win,” I said.
He went to the office. I went shopping. I was running out of clean shorts and socks.
I was back in the car a few minutes before he returned. He was smiling again. Loeb’s secretary, he told me, had been very uncooperative at first, but when he mentioned that it was Gillete who had suggested that he come to get advice from her boss, she had relented.
“Advice?”
“Right! I fed him a story about these rich friends of mine from San Francisco who want to invest in redevelopment property down here. We have an appointment for tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”
“Dennis,” I said, “Loeb probably phoned Gillete right after you left the office. I hope to hell you don’t plan to show up for the appointment.”
“Of course not! But it should throw both of them off balance, shouldn’t it? You know—keep ’em discombobulated.”
“Smart move,” I said. That had always been one of my ploys. Maybe I wasn’t an anachronism.
Arden had their own photo-processing equipment. It was close to noon when we got there. We waited on the lot until we saw his boss leave for lunch.
“He’d probably charge me for the photos,” he explained. “He wanted to charge me for borrowing the camera. But his wife was in the office and she shamed him out of that.”
He handed me the pictures when he returned to the car. “The one who looks human is Loeb,” he said. “The other is Gillete.”
Loeb’s face was aquiline, adorned with a trim Vandyke beard and piercing dark eyes. He would have been successful, I was sure, at selling junk bonds to gullible widows. Gillete could have been a club fighter. He was swarthy, partially bald, scowling, with a shadow of a beard no razor could erase, à la Richard Nixon.
It seemed clear to me he was not what the family would welcome in their current period of enlightenment. That was a comforting thought.
“Where now?” Dennis asked.
“Let’s go to the station to find out if Lars has anything new to tell us. We can stop at the sandwich shop on the way.”
Lars was at the shop, alone in a booth. We sat down across from him. “Anything new on Woggon?” I asked.
He shook his head. “And what have you two been doing?”
I told him where we had been and what we had done since we left the station.
“Jesus!” he said. “The way you guys operate.”
“We don’t have jurisdiction problems,” I explained.
He scowled. “Was that a shot?”
“No. It was an explanation. Neither of the men we talked with today are in your jurisdiction. Tucker was. And who found him for you?”
“Okay, okay!” He finished his sandwich and drank the rest of his coffee and stood up. “As soon as I learn anything, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Thanks, Lars,” I said.
He nodded and went out, still scowling.
“We’re starting to get the connections between all of the suspects, aren’t we?” Dennis asked while we ate our own lunch.
“So far.”
“It’s costing you a lot of money.”
“Yes. But I’m not quitting.”
“Because Gregory was your friend?”
“That’s why I came here. It’s not why I’m staying.”
It was costing me money. Mike’s mortuary bill and all the expenses I had incurred since then added up to more money than I had earned in six months when I was working my trade in Beverly Hills.
And it was probably a lack of money that had got Mike killed, either through a blackmail attempt or trying to lure new customers to support his own talent. Drugs were no big business in this country, as liquor had been in the long-gone prohibition days. In both periods, the pros resented competition. The man who had killed my father had been a dealer. Urban kids were dropping out of school to act as couriers for this scum. The kids usually wound up in jail, the dealers too rarely. They could afford expensive lawyers. The kids couldn’t.
“What are you thinking about?” Dennis asked.
“About what one of Bay’s followers told me about his philosophy. She told me he believed this planet of ours can’t be the only planet in the universe. There have to be some planets where the citizens have advanced beyond lust for money and constant wars. Does that make sense to you?”
“I’ve been thinking along the same line,” he said. “At least about the money. My dad went through the Depression. That was supposed to be a bad time. But he looks back on it with fondness now.”
I stood up. “Let’s go back and talk with Julie Woggon. Maybe she’s heard from her brother.”
She was still out on her patio, varnishing two redwood benches and a redwood picnic table.
She smiled at me. “If you’ve come to talk with my brother, he should be here soon. He’s at the Santa Monica police station now. But one of your people phoned a few minutes ago to tell me he would soon be released.”
“My people?”
/> She nodded. “From the ACLU. He thinks we might have a harassment case. You know, putting Robert’s picture in the paper and bothering me.”
“What happened?”
“He was visiting my father in Eureka. My father is a deputy sheriff up there. And he was there when that Tucker person was killed.”
“That’s great news,” I said.
“Do you still want to talk with Robert?”
I shook my head. “There’s no need to now.”
“Well, I do want to thank you for all the help you’ve given me. I phoned the ACLU right after you left this morning.”
“Good luck on the harassment case,” I said. And thought: I’ll hold my thumbs.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DENNIS WAS SMILING AS we walked to the car. “Cowboy Hovde now has egg all over his ugly face. I wish I had been there to see it.”
I held my tongue.
“Another dead end,” he said.
“Dennis,” I explained to him patiently, “most of the murder cases I worked on were loaded with dead ends. They are not credit checks or divorces or guard duty, like Arden handles. They are dead ends and blind alleys.”
He said nothing.
“Don’t sulk,” I said. “That will be your lecture for today.”
“I think I’ll go home,” he said wearily. “I’ve cost you too much and delivered too little.”
“That’s not true. You’ve been a big help. Back to credit checks now?”
He shook his head. “I still have a few days of vacation left. If you need me, holler.”
It was a quiet trip to the hotel. When I reached into the backseat for my purchases, he said, “Take the gun, too. Consider it a present from my wife. She insisted that I get rid of it. One of my macho uncles gave it to me when I started to work at Arden.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I also had gone the Arden route for eating money during my days down here. Murder investigations paid for by wealthy clients paid a lot better, despite the fact that they brought me into trouble with the police. Neither had paid enough for me to marry Jan. I had to wait for my uncle to die before I could afford her.
It had been different when I moved to San Valdesto; they could use free help. That was my edge there.
The desk clerk told me a man had phoned around noon and asked that I call him back. He hadn’t given his name, only his phone number.
I knew the number; it was Peter Scarlatti’s. I phoned him from the room.
He had, he told me, done some research on Gillete after my visit and my phone call. “He’s got a man named Clauss working for him now. Watch out for him! He’s a real psycho.”
“I know that. But I didn’t know you cared.”
“Don’t be cute. If it hadn’t been for Puma, I’d have died in my youth. And I remember what you did for his wife and kid.”
“Be sure you don’t tell the Feds that. Is there anything else you can tell me about Clauss?”
“Not yet. But we’re looking into it. One thing this country doesn’t need is disorganized crime. Tell me, Brock, just between us, are you the man who sent Tucker into the great beyond?”
“Poison? Me?”
“A dumb question,” he admitted. “Be careful now and carry a big stick.”
“I will. I just inherited a Galanti.”
“That’s a big stick,” he said. “Good luck.”
I had done something for Joe Puma. I had convinced his wife and son that he had not been guilty of blackmail, though he had. And been killed because he had. Peter had sent them a Christmas check every year when he became an adult.
Dead ends and blind alleys, but the search was narrowing. Luplow was dead; that had been a blind alley not connected with this case. Gorman had been cleared and Carlos Minatti had been in Fresno. So far as I knew, he was no longer a suspect. Tucker was dead. All we had left was Clauss, a maverick, a drug dealer and killer.
It didn’t seem likely to me that if Clauss had conned Mike into meeting him on the beach late at night, Mike would not have had enough sense to stay away or suggest a change to a more populated area. Unless Mike was in dire need of a jolt.
I stretched out on the bed after dinner to take a nap. I was deep in a dream too salacious to record when the phone wakened me. It was Lars.
“That Woggon, the bus driver, has been cleared,” he told me. “And now his attorney is threatening to hit us with a harassment suit.”
I didn’t mention my part in that. I said, “Well, you know how lawyers are, always after the fast buck.”
“Right! This week’s been a real downer. Did you learn anything on Clauss?”
“A little.”
“I’ve cleaned up my paperwork, so I’m available for part-time duty again.”
“Why don’t you come here?” I suggested. “We can have a drink and talk about our next move.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
He was dressed in his Sunday best when I met him in the lobby, but he still looked like a mean, tough cop.
Over our drinks I told him what Shorty had told me about Clauss’s gun collection, including the two shotguns, and his belief that Clauss would not desert his Santa Monica home turf. I added what Peter Scarlatti had confirmed; that Clauss was working for Gillete, something we had suspected. I told him about the Gillete connection with attorney Winthrop Loeb.
“You and the wimp have sure been busy,” he said.
“Lars, Dennis is not a wimp. He was a big help to me.”
“Was?”
“Was. He told me he hadn’t been earning his pay. I have the feeling that he’s not ready for the heavy stuff. His wife insisted he get rid of his fifteen-shot Galanti. He gave it to me.”
“A Galanti? Do you have a permit for that?”
“I have a gun permit, but not for that one.”
“Maybe I can finagle you one. A gun like that could put a lot of holes into Clauss. Let’s have another drink.”
We had that and a few more. I was woozy when he left. I phoned room service and ordered a pot of coffee.
We had all the connections, Bay with Nolan and Tucker, Loeb, Gillete and Tucker and Clauss. The connection with Turhan Bay was doubtful.
Lars hated crooked cops. That might be the wrong reason to concentrate on Clauss. But my conviction was growing that he had to be our number-one choice for the murder of Mike Gregory.
My addled brain rebelled. I went to bed and tried to sleep. Nausea stirred in me. I walked slowly and carefully to the toilet and vomited. That helped; I finally fell asleep.
The business section in the Times reported that two more financial firms were being investigated by the Feds, a brokerage in Newport Beach, a savings and loan firm in Beverly Hills. The millionaire electronic preachers were being investigated by the IRS. That was long overdue.
My stomach was back to normal. I ate a full breakfast. Lars would not be available until this afternoon. I decided to make a call on my friend at E.F. Hutton.
He smiled as I entered his cubicle. “I hope you’re going to tell me you’ve decided to switch your account.”
“I’ve been considering it. You have an office in San Valdesto.”
He nodded. “Tell ’em I sent you. Brock, you have never been a financial wizard. And discount brokers don’t give their customers investment advice.”
“I’ve learned that to my regret,” I lied. “But that isn’t the only reason I came. Do you know an attorney named Winthrop Loeb?”
He nodded. “But not well. I’ve been to a couple of parties where I talked with him briefly and listened to a speech of his at a financial seminar. There is a rumor going around that he might be tied up with the local Mafia.”
“Not quite yet. At the moment he seems to be tied up with a hoodlum named Arnold Gillete.”
“Never heard of him.” He frowned. “Is all this connected with Mike Gregory’s murder?”
“It could be. So far it’s just a hunch I’ve been working on. The word I got, the SEC
is investigating Loeb.”
“That I didn’t hear. What do you want from me?”
“I thought maybe a financial wizard like you could get me some information on the Gillete-Loeb connection.”
“Brock, I am not a detective. And I sure as hell don’t want to get on this Gillete’s hit list. Be reasonable!”
“You could be discreet about it,” I explained. “You wouldn’t have to get involved with him directly. You could ask around among your peers. They might know about the connection.”
“That I could do,” he admitted. “And if I learn anything I’m sure you will consider switching your account to our office in San Valdesto.”
“Of course I will.”
Brokers … I had saved him all that alimony money and now he wanted me to do him a favor. Brokers …
Lars had given me the name last night of a cantankerous old man who had been a close friend of Clauss until Clauss had been fired. That had ended their relationship and also the man’s regard for police officers. But he might talk with me, Lars had suggested.
He spent most of his days on the small park above the bluff that fronted on the ocean in Santa Monica. I drove there.
The benches in the park were mostly occupied by couples. At the far end, a thin old man attired in denim pants, a red field jacket, and a blue baseball cap, was sitting alone and staring down at the beach.
I parked across the street and walked over to the bench.
“Mr. Grosskopf?” I asked.
He looked up at me suspiciously and nodded. “Do I know you?”
“No. I’m trying to find a man named Emil Clauss. I was told that you knew him.”
“Are you a cop?”
I shook my head. “I’m a friend of his son. But he’s out of town right now.”
“If you’re a friend of his,” he said, “you can’t be a friend of his father’s. Or are you?”
“Quite the opposite. I think he killed a friend of mine. But the Santa Monica police don’t seem to be working very hard on the case. I guess they’ve lost interest in it.”
“Was your friend that man who was found on the beach with his face blasted off?”
I nodded.
“That could be chalked up to Clauss,” he said. “The man’s turned into a mental case. Sit down.”
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