by Jon Wilson
“I doubt it will take that long. He’ll call her, and if she’s home, I doubt we’ll wait anytime at all.”
“And if she isn’t home?”
“Where would they be? Joe hasn’t reported in. He must know you’d have eyes out looking.”
“I don’t have eyes out looking. Not specifically. I haven’t accepted your supposition that Joe is involved in this affair.”
“But if any of your boys were to spot him, they’d report it right away. Joe knows that.”
He shrugged, dismissing our argument without actually acquiescing. “Now, tell me what exactly you suspect Joe of.”
“Maybe we should wait.”
“Maybe you should remember who you’re speaking to.” Amazingly, I heard absolutely no threat in his tone at all. He was merely reminding me that he considered me worthy enough of trust to follow from his home in the middle of the night, and I might be decent enough to do the same.
“You know a good-looking guy, probably five-ten or eleven, blond, with a very prominent scar splitting his left eyebrow?”
He let me see that he was considering it, reviewing mugshots in his brain. “Scar?”
“Yeah.” I drew my fingertip through my eyebrow in as close an approximation of the highwayman’s scar as I could recollect. “About here. Most likely from a knife, but not necessarily.”
“Sam Rickey, maybe? He used to work at Zenith. Now I think he might snoop for some lawyer.”
“He wouldn’t be working for Marty Velasco?”
“Not if it is Sam Rickey. He’s bent enough, but I never heard he went over.”
“And this Sam, he might know Lovejoy?”
“I suppose. It’s a big city on a small parcel of land.”
I sat back, lighting up another cigarette. “Well, someone matching Rickey’s description waylaid me and a friend on a quiet road in Marin yesterday. He and two others. The idea was that they’d been sent by Velasco to collect a debt and possibly warn me off. I suspect they were there for the latter purpose only. Well, maybe not to scare me off. I doubt even Lovejoy is that thick. But to lead me astray.”
“Waylaid you?”
I provided him a brief summation of my adventure with the widow O’Malley, concluding with, “I doubt she came up with that on her own.”
“But you say Joe has hooked the daughter. Lana?”
“Hooked, yeah. Been hooked by? I’d say the widow. You’ve probably seen pictures, but let me tell you, they don’t tell the story by half.”
Cobb stroked his chin again. “Well, if he did fall, it would be over a woman. But only if she could convince him that he held the reins.”
“She could convince him he had her saddled and shoed. Even while clamping the bit between his teeth.”
“So it’s her you suspect?”
“No.”
“No.” He stared at me some more but I was saved by the telephone.
“Hello?”
“Colette,” came Lovejoy’s voice over the wire.
“Joe.”
He then offered to do me a favor, or at least what he probably considered a favor, though, honestly, he isn’t my type. “I called to say that Miss O’Malley is disrespectfully going to decline your invitation.”
“Well, she’s relaying the message through you, so I’d say she got the disrespectful part right.”
“I’m not wasting any more breath on warning you.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
“You’ve made your bed. Now you’ll just have to deal with Cobb.”
“Listen. You tell—” And I admit the clever center in my brain thought it might be a hoot to bad-mouth the old man with him sitting there in front of me, but I came to my senses in time. Or lost my nerve. “Never mind. I’m not worried about that. This time tomorrow, the whole affair will be wrapped up, and I’ll be sitting pretty on a nice bundle of cash. If not from Miss O’Malley than from some other interested party.”
Personally, I hadn’t expected things to go so smoothly. And his long pause, during which I could practically hear him chewing over my words, managed to somehow lower him two more rungs on my respect ladder. Finally he asked me in a manner he might use to address some annoying kid, “What is it you found exactly?”
“Sorry, buddy. This is my lucky break. My golden goose. Did it even occur to you to check out the girl’s room?”
“But you didn’t find anything.”
“Says who?”
But, of course, he couldn’t say who said without offering up even more of a confession than he already had. Still, I wasn’t completely confident he’d take the bait. He might rabbit. Or sit down and think things over. Neither of which fit my plan.
“And, besides, there’s plenty of implication in this letter—er, I mean, this thing I found—to go around. Maybe I won’t be the one facing the wrath of Mr. Cobb.”
That got me a shorter pause with less chewing. When his voice came again, the words were clipped, like his lips were stretched thin and he was biting off bits of air as they came out of his mouth. “Listen, Colette. I don’t know what you think you found, but whatever it is, you’re confused. The police are sure that the grease monkey killed the girl. It’s settled.”
I let him hear how disappointed and disgusted I was. “Oh, hell. Are you that far behind? I thought I made it clear in my message to Miss O’Malley that this wasn’t about the Wyman girl. This is about the matter she came to consult me on Tuesday morning.” I savored a long, loud breath through my nose. “Or are you just playing stupid, boy? Because you should know, at this point you seem to be laying it on thick.”
He covered his mouthpiece. He didn’t even try to be subtle about it. He and whomever he had with him were still arguing when he came back. He hissed, “Yes, yes. Will you trust me?” and then aimed his words toward the transmitter. “We need to meet.”
“Who? Me and you?” I sounded confused.
“Yes!” He practically screamed it. The brief disagreement at his end had apparently stoked some passion in him. “I’m telling you as a friend. There’s more to this than…” Unable to come up with a suitable comparison, he let it hang. “If you really do have your mitts on a golden goose, there will be more than enough gold to go around. I can make you rich, boy. Both of us rich.”
It was my turn to act stupid, but I didn’t want to risk laying it on as thick as he had. “I ain’t your friend.”
And the weasel actually managed a quick laugh. “Ain’t, he says.” I admit it was a cunning maneuver. And it made it even easier to pretend to fall for it.
“Fine. You know where I am. I have things to prepare. If you can get here quick, I might hear you out.”
Relief colored his voice in pinks and green. “You won’t regret it.”
“Huh,” I said, moving the receiver back over toward its cradle. But he was right. I almost certainly wouldn’t regret it.
Chapter Twenty-three
“So, how was that?” I leaned back in my chair, lacing my fingers behind my head and hoisting my heels up onto the corner of my desk. I admit I was feeling pretty swell.
Walter Cobb was too busy lighting a cigar to pay proper attention to my exhibition. He didn’t make a production out of it the way Holmsby had, but it held his focus. It occurred to me, watching him, that this case had come down to me relying on two mostly square old geezers and one probably dirty young gigolo. Of course, at that point, I didn’t know a third, even older geezer waited in the wings. Like most everyone else, I had written him off. How wrong we all were.
Cobb waved out his match and leaned forward to drop it into the ashtray I’d placed at the far corner of my desk for him. “I only heard your half, but at least you didn’t invite him here yourself.” He settled back and squinted his left eye at me. It’s quite a trick and I never failed to swallow it hook, line and sinker. “You know I think highly of you, Declan.”
I fought to keep a stupid grin at bay. It’s silly how much I admire that man. And then I started to f
eel uncomfortable because I thought he might decide to remind me that I had possibly suspected him of malfeasance. Placing my shoes back onto the floor, I asked him, “Would you like a drink, sir?”
He responded favorably, and I poured us two whiskeys. Meanwhile he rose and took a brief tour of my digs, meaning he glanced at my license and tossed a gander out my window at the alley. While he stood appraising the yellow sofa, I delivered his beverage.
“I’d heard reports…”
The bend of his lips couldn’t quite be labeled a frown, but it certainly wasn’t a smile. I wanted to tell him that just the other day a client had complimented me on that sofa. I opted instead for a bald-faced lie. “It’s not as comfortable as it looks.”
“How could it be?” He sampled some whiskey and turned back toward his chair. “Kenny Dolman worked for me two years. And when he left, he took seven good clients with him. Allowed him to set up a nice shop over in Oakland.”
“Yes, sir.” I pointed to the far corner, behind my desk. “I’m thinking of getting a plant to put there.”
That put a pin in the topic, and we moved on to his wife and kids. He was telling me about his daughter Moira and some fresh-faced young gunnery sergeant when we heard the ping of the elevator. The outer door opened. Firm, measured footsteps came through the reception area, then Joe Lovejoy waltzed in, looking handsome and self-assured. Neither of which lasted long.
He darted his dark eyes back and forth between Cobb and me before settling on the old man. “Boss!”
“Joe.” Cobb’s face was stern but not smoldering. He pinned Lovejoy without assaulting him. I confess to having a dopey grin on my own mug. It was some pleasure to watch Lovejoy squirm.
“But, what are you doing here?”
Cobb indicated the client chair next to his own. “Have a seat, Joe.”
That Lovejoy immediately complied was perhaps more a testament to the old man’s nature than his own. I would have done the same thing. The back of his lap hadn’t quite made it to the cushion, however, before he stopped, shot a glance at me, then made a show of looking quite serious for Cobb. “I hope this clown hasn’t been telling you stories, sir.”
He must have liked the way that sounded because, as he settled into the chair, casually flipping back the corners of his trench coat and confidently crossing his legs ankle to knee, a bit of the self-assurance reasserted itself on his comely kisser.
Cobb sighed. “No, Joe. No one tells me anything. For instance, you. Last I heard, you were following up a lead. That was two days ago. How often are my operatives expected to report?”
And Lovejoy’s self-assurance went right down his throat with a mighty gulp. “The nature of the lead, sir. I was waiting for a chance to report. The Wyman girl. Ramona Wyman as we discussed Wednesday morning.”
“Wednesday morning. It’s Friday night. Nearly Saturday morning. I had a top man assigned to that case and yet my most thorough report came through Andy Ackerman at Homicide.”
I thought, top man! But I held my tongue. Lovejoy, on the other hand, was sputtering something that sounded suspiciously like deep cover. Cobb dismissed him by clamping his teeth tightly around the butt of his cigar and growling, “Report.”
Joe’s features clenched and then relaxed. He cast a glance at me indicating I might offer them some privacy. When I ignored his look and sat there merely being interested in hearing his report, he began.
“I spent most of Wednesday a.m. attempting to reconstruct the girl’s movements of the previous day. It’s summertime, so she doesn’t attend school. My investigation mainly involved questioning the house staff. As you can imagine, the household was not only bereft, but had endured police interrogation most of the night.”
“You sure do talk purdy,” I crooned in my best Western drawl.
Lovejoy’s head snapped up on his neck so that he could glare at me with narrowed eyes. Cobb cleared his throat, which I translated as a firm cease-and-desist order. But I leaned back again, feeling more than comfortable and offering Joe the sort of grin usually reserved for cats feasting on canaries.
“As you know,” Lovejoy continued, turning back toward Cobb and winning the valiant struggle to meet the old man’s eye, “my in allowed me access to the entire family. Not merely access, but I had been able to nurture a certain amount of trust. I think—”
I couldn’t resist interjecting, “Your in being Lana O’Malley.”
“Shut up!” That was from Joe, looking like he meant it. And, moreover, looking quite prepared to follow up his command with hands-on persuasion if I wasn’t willing to comply. His attitude did away with my smug grin, but I confess it left me feeling tingly all over.
Cobb offered me a slow, disapproving frown. Sitting there, he did not look anything but bored by Joe’s report, but I figured he was boiling. I saw tell-tale signs: the way his fingers worked the arms of his chair, and the fact that his legs were neither crossed nor stretched out, but rather folded so that his feet were under him like he was ready to pounce. Of course, he was a few years past the days of deadly pouncing, but I figured like Wayne Holmsby, he could still manage a sting or two. And at that point, I also figured most of his rage was directed at someone other than me, but his frown warned me I was edging dangerously close to shifting the distribution.
As if he’d read my mind, he sighed and moved his hands off the arms of the chair, using them to rub his knees. “It’s late, Joe. Get to the point.”
“Yeah, boss. I’m sorry. Everything I learned leads me to agree with the police. For whatever reason, either lured or of her own volition, Ramona Wyman left the mansion to meet with Declan Colette.”
“You weasel,” I said.
“Sit down,” Cobb told me, and I realized I was on my feet. As mentioned before, given the old man’s nature, I complied without considering any other option.
Lovejoy’s dark eyes glinted at me under the overhead light. “It appears she accepted an offer of a lift from Hector Papalia, the man responsible for the automobiles and also George Kelly’s driver on occasion.”
“The suicide.”
“Yes, sir. What exactly transpired between them can only be surmised at this juncture, but I imagine it was sexual in nature. He made advances, etcetera, which the girl spurned. Resulting in a crime of passion.”
Lovejoy sat back in his chair, signaling completion. He was attempting to appear alert and professional, but again, the signs were contradictory. He was clutching his right ankle, which was lodged atop his left knee, too tightly with both hands. His heavy, manicured eyebrows were cocked too high. And he was swallowing about twice as much as any honest man would need to. Not surprisingly, I suspected him of chicanery. And if I suspected it, Cobb not only knew it but could probably explain exactly which parts of the report had been subterfuge, which had been exaggeration, and which had been outright lies.
But the old man took a different tack. “So, basically, you’re telling me you’ve got nothing.”
Startled, Lovejoy shifted in his chair. “Well, no. I—”
“You’re saying the police solved the case ahead of you, even though you were right there on the scene, having already established contacts and trust.”
“Actually, boss,” Lovejoy said, foolishly letting a hint of frustration sharpen his tone, “Papalia solved it by offing himself. The police just found the body.”
The old man fiddled with his cigar. “But everything you’ve just told me I heard from Andy Ackerman twelve hours ago. Am I paying Ackerman’s salary? Should I be?”
“That’s not fair, boss.”
I had to wonder if he always addressed Cobb as boss, or if that wasn’t something he was doing for my benefit. Perhaps he did it to remind both Cobb and myself of where the old man’s loyalties should lie. It wasn’t a poor strategy, if that was indeed the case. Though, like Ackerman at the crime scene referring to Cobb as Walter, it felt to me Lovejoy was laying it on a bit thick.
“So tell me about Marty Velasco,” Cobb said.
<
br /> “Marty Velasco?” Lovejoy was completely befuddled. And also astounded. And he let us both see that he didn’t care who knew it. “What about Marty Velasco?”
I noted Cobb’s visible relief. Lovejoy, too busy force-feeding us his own reaction, probably missed it. “Thank God,” the old man said. He settled back in his chair, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “So you aren’t working for Marty Velasco.”
Lovejoy sputtered. “Working for…” Then he slid forward, clutching the arms of his chair, putting both feet on the floor under himself, preparing to pounce. It was as if he and Cobb had decided to swap poses. But Lovejoy was staring at me. “This is you!” He jabbed a finger toward me, probably to ensure both Cobb and I knew exactly to whom the pronoun referred. He appealed to the old man, “I don’t know what lies he’s been spreading.”
“Calm down,” Cobb told him, and it partly worked. But even if Lovejoy had wanted to comply, he was too excited.
“But, boss!”
“Tell me about Sam Rickey.”
“Sam Ric—” It undoubtedly occurred to Lovejoy that he’d just sung that tune, and a reprise so soon might not fly. He swiveled his head back and forth, gaping at Cobb then me then back.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” Cobb asked him, every inch the concerned patriarch.
Lovejoy recovered with a visible jerk. He instantly relaxed, sliding back and flattening his tie. He went to brush his fingers through his hair and knocked the magenta fedora, which he’d forgotten to remove upon entering and discovering the trap he’d walked into, to the floor. He made no move to retrieve it. He just showed me a wicked smirk. “You cheap bastard. This is you trying to weasel your way in.” He shifted his attention with a distinct snap onto Cobb. “Listen, boss, this character is a snake. He used that poor girl’s murder to get into the O’Malley’s mansion and then threatened Mrs. Lawrence O’Malley. Tried to blackmail her. Thanks to me, that didn’t work, and now he’s trying to get my job.”
I wasn’t even tempted to rise to that bait. It was too pathetic. I merely shook my head to show how sad it was to see him squirming through the wreckage. Whether or not he bought my insincere sympathy, who can say?
