Chapter 23
I hadn’t set my cell phone alarm but didn’t need to. The sun streaming through a side window in my room woke me. I got up, took a shower and made myself presentable. I pulled my bag out from under the bed and put on the one suit I had taken with me. It was a single-breasted, cream-colored suit. I wore a white shirt with no tie. I kept the collar open. I definitely looked, “Hollywood.” I clipped my gun and holster to my belt; with the suit jacket on you couldn’t tell it was there. I went downstairs for breakfast.
The “free” breakfast buffet was located in a room off the lobby. It was a simple setup, which appeared to offer everything one would want in a delicious breakfast. I collected the necessary accouterments and headed for the coffee urn. I filled my mug with ten ounces of coffee and made my way to the scrambled eggs and bacon. Upon closer examination, the eggs I scooped up looked as dry as confetti, and the bacon strips appeared to have a greenish tint to them. Or was it the lighting? I moved further down the table and opted for a buttered croissant and a jelly doughnut. The croissant looked brittle, but the jelly doughnut seemed okay. I found a seat by a window and sat down to “enjoy my stay.” At least the coffee was good.
When I got back to my room, I called Chief Briggs and Danny Nolan and updated them on what had happened so far, which wasn’t much. Then I called Captain Wells of the LAPD homicide division. Wells said he could meet me at any time. I asked if right now was good. He said that was fine. I said I’d be right over. I took a cab to Police headquarters on 1st Street and was escorted to Well’s office on the second floor.
Captain Wells was a tall man with a dark complexion and curly black hair. He was wearing a gray three-piece suit, with a bright white shirt and navy-blue tie. He appeared to be in his forties.
“Detective, Graham,” he said, “welcome to L.A.”
He extended his hand. I took it. He had a good grip. In the interest of protocol and respect for the office, I removed my shield and ID from my pocket and showed it to him. He glanced at it, then waved for me to put it away. He knew who I was. Like a seasoned cop, he had, no doubt, checked me out before acquiescing to my requests.
Well’s office was very impressive; done in warm mahogany. The floor was carpeted in deep blue. On the wall behind his desk were several framed documents and awards attesting to his achievements in police work and public service. A gun case with a glass front hung on the wall just left of his desk. It held several Winchester rifles and a Smith & Wesson pump-action shotgun. An assortment of handguns were displayed on hooks just below the long guns.
Wells walked behind a large glass top desk and gestured for me to sit in one of his guest chairs. He opened his desk drawer and removed a small notepad. He flipped it open to the first page and said, “You’re here to find out what you can about Troy Conlon.”
“I am,” I said. “He’s a possible suspect in my murder investigation.”
He offered no comment as he tore the top sheet from the pad and handed it to me. “That’s his pertinent info,” he said. “You should be able to follow it easily. If you require any assistance, of course, you can notify me. Other than the rap sheet I faxed to you, there isn’t any more information I can give you about this guy.”
“Thank you,” I said. I folded the paper and slid it into my inside coat pocket.
“You said he was a suspect in your murder investigation.”
“Possible suspect,” I said. “From what you know of him, do you think he’s capable of murder?”
Wells took a seat in the leather armchair behind his desk and said, “I believe anyone can commit murder, and those who think they’re incapable of it can be driven to it by circumstance. “Troy Conlon has had run-ins with the law for as long as I’ve been in this position. He’s committed a broad spectrum of crimes: public drunkenness, B&E, disorderly conduct, vagrancy. Most of his charges were misdemeanors, that were dismissed. If you’re asking me if he’s capable of committing murder, I couldn’t fathom a guess. I suppose it would depend on the circumstance.”
“Why were his charges dismissed?”
“Insufficient evidence, liberal judges with soft hearts for petty criminals.”
“Every system has its bias,” I said.
I thanked Wells for his cooperation and left the police station. It was almost 11:00 a.m. when I got outside the building, I removed the paper from my pocket that Wells had given me and read it. It listed Troy Conlon’s address, the name and location of his favorite bar, and the name and address of a former girlfriend. It was a good start. I’d begin by trying to gain access to Conlon’s rented room.
I called a cab from my cell phone and had to wait almost thirty minutes. The cabby was an older guy with a full white beard and a silver earring in his right ear. I gave him the address where Conlon rented his room. Unlike the first cabby I’d had, he was amiable and talkative. As he drove, he described the famous sights of the city whenever we passed one. His descriptions eventually morphed into a dissertation on the History of Los Angeles. I sat listening, only slightly interested. I tried to ask a question or two, for the sake of sociability, but his incessant rambling made it difficult for me to get a word in; this guy’s mouth ran faster than his meter.
Although the ride was entertaining, I was glad when it was over. I wasn’t sure whether I’d enjoyed it or not. When I got out, I tipped him a ten, anyway. I figured he deserved it for his effort.
Troy Conlon was renting a room in a boardinghouse on La Brea Ave. It was a low whitewashed building, fairly well kept but in need of a new roof. I wanted to get into Conlon’s room but wasn’t sure how I could accomplish that. I walked up to the front door and pressed the door buzzer. After a few more tries, a young girl came to the door. She looked about, fifteen. She was listening to music through a pair of headphones and didn’t bother to turn the music down while she spoke to me.
“Yea?” she said.
I took out my ID and showed it to her. She glanced at it and said, “Whattaya want?”
“Is this where Troy Conlon lives?” I said.
“What?” she said.
“Troy Conlon, does he live here?”
She looked at me, annoyed and indifferent. I reached out and turned down the volume knob on her headphones. She scowled.
“I’m looking for Troy Conlon,” I said.
“He ain’t here.”
“I need to see his room.”
“My parents won’t be home until later.”
“I didn’t ask to see your parents.”
“I ain’t supposed to let nobody in when they ain’t home,” she said.
“I’m the police,” I said.
She thought about that for a second, then held the door open for me. I stepped into a small vestibule. She pointed down a long, dimly lit hallway. “His room’s at the end of the hall on the left,” she said, “but it’s locked until he comes back.”
She closed the front door, turned the volume back up on her headphones, and walked away without any further interest in me.
I made my way down the hallway to Conlon’s room. The door was locked, as the girl had said. There were no additional locks, just a simple doorknob lock with a keyhole. I removed my credit card from my wallet and slid it between the doorjamb and the lock. It was an unethical, but it had helped me solve a few cases in the past. When I turned the doorknob and maneuvered the credit card in just the right way, the door opened. If you did it enough times, you got good at it.
I pushed the door back and stepped into a darkened room. I was immediately hit with the acrid odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke. I turned on the light switch by the door. The room was untidy, as I’d expected. There was a single bed shoved into a corner, in addition to a dresser and a small desk. Several crumpled packs of cigarettes and an ashtray mound with cigarette butts sat on a night table beside the bed. A half-empty bottle of Dewar’s Scotch lay on its side next to the ashtray.
I closed the door and walked further into the room. The dull white walls were
decorated with posters of rock bands and horror movies. I started with the dresser and opened the drawers one at a time; three were empty and one contained a pair of black socks and a pair of patterned boxer shorts. I went to the only closet in the room and opened the door. It was empty, but for some wooden clothes hangers. Conlon must have taken every bit of his wardrobe with him when he left. When I opened the one small drawer in the night table, I found a package of rolling paper and several “girlie” magazines, but nothing else. The desktop was littered with scrap paper, a bunch of scattered photos and a large ceramic ashtray, which held a single Bic lighter. When I pulled on the top drawer of the desk, it was locked, which told me it was the drawer I needed to look into. I took out my pocketknife and jimmied the lock. I found one large manila folder in the drawer. I laid it on the desk and opened it. Inside were many photos, large and small, of no particular interest: a group of young people sitting at a table wearing party hats, a middle-aged man leaning against the fender of a Chevrolet Corvette, and a young boy peddling a red scooter.
Buried below this collection of memories was a large eight by ten photo. When I slipped it out from beneath the others, I immediately recognized a full-face portrait of Father Conlon, taken from his waist up. He was wearing his Cossack robe and smiling into the camera. Draped over his folded hands was a set of rosary beads. I picked up the photo and looked at it with disturbing curiosity. Andy Conlon’s face had a large X placed over it with a red marker. Also, there was a crudely drawn knife protruding from his chest with a depiction of blood dripping from an opened knife wound. The photo was an obvious display of hatred for Father Conlon. Was this a creative attempt by Troy Conlon to vent hatred for his brother, or had he obtained the photo by some other means and hidden it in a folder out of sight?
I took a picture of the photo with my cell phone camera and placed it back into the folder. I put the folder back into the drawer and left the room.
I had seen enough.
I made my way down the hallway toward the front door. The house was quiet. I didn’t see my young hostess. I closed the front door gently as I left and started walking several blocks in the direction of a busy commercial street. It was 1:00 p.m.
As I walked, I looked over the paper Captain Wells had given me and noted the address of Troy Conlon’s favorite bar hangout; a place within walking distance of his rented room.
I walked two blocks to a main thoroughfare heavy with traffic. The area was littered with bars, fast-food joints, a tattoo parlor, a car wash, and a movie theater. I found “Pugly’s Bar” situated between a barbershop and a Chinese laundry. It was a rundown structure with peeling red paint and a large cracked window on one side of the entrance door. A sign, hanging above the door, was missing the letter “P”, so that it read, “ugly’s” Bar. I smiled to myself and wondered what the proprietor looked like.
A group of men were hanging around the front door as I approached. A few stared at me like I had two heads. Two were pitching pennies against the building’s I.
“I smell cop,” I heard one say.
I ignored the remark and walked through them. As I did, one of the penny pitchers, a kid about sixteen, stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “Where ya goin’, Pop?” he said. He was wearing tight black pants and a tight black muscle shirt. His glossy black hair was spiked in the center and his right nostril had been pierced to accommodate a silver ring.
“I’m not your Pop,” I said. “And if you don’t get outta my way, I’ll teach you a lesson your Pop should have.”
“Whoa, tough guy,” he said.
He looked over at his partner expecting moral support, but was offered none. Before he had a chance to say another word, I reached out and grabbed the ring in his nose and pulled him out of my way. He screwed up his face in agony and let out a few yelps like an injured puppy. He had no choice but to follow my lead. When I turned him loose, he fell against the building and stayed there massaging his nose.
“You learned a valuable lesson today, kid,” I said. “Don’t talk to strangers.”
I heard his partner laughing at him as I opened the door to the bar and walked in.
I let the front door close behind me and stood until my eyes adjusted to the smoky darkness. Music was blaring from a jukebox. A bar to my left ran the entire length of the place. It was filled with men and women, drinking, laughing, arguing and shouting over the noise of the music in a futile effort to communicate with each other. Although it was midafternoon, the place was packed. The main floor was dotted with round tables, most occupied with patrons, either drunk or halfway there. A large moose head hung on a distant wall between the restrooms marked: His and Hers. A placard behind the bar announced in bold letters: “TIPPING IS UNAMERICAN.”
At the bar, I ordered a beer. A young lady seated on a stool in front of me turned and gave me a look. I said, “Hello,” in a loud voice. She offered a quick smile, then turned back to her drink. She had blonde hair down to her shoulders, and a ton of makeup caked on her face. Her lips were painted deep red and looked inordinately wider than they should have. Without all that makeup, she might have been attractive. She was wearing very tight jeans and a light blue blouse; its top buttons opened enough to expose plenty of cleavage.
The bartender brought my beer. The beer felt good going down. I hadn’t had any lunch and wondered if they offered food, then thought better of it. I’d eat when I got back to my motel.
In a place as crowded as this, there had to be a good amount of people that were familiar with Troy Conlon, especially since this was his usual watering hole. I could arbitrarily take my pick and come away with an abundance of information. I started with the girl on the stool, who had flashed me a smile. I finished my beer and set my glass down on the bar. “Excuse me,” I said. She slid off her stool and stood next to me. “It’s okay, honey,” she said. “I’m leaving anyway.”
“Do you know, Troy Conlon?” I said before she had a chance to walk away.
She touched her ear, indicating she hadn’t heard me due to the loud music.
“Troy Conlon,” I said. “I’m trying to locate him.”
She kept her hand to her ear and said, “I’m sorry, honey, I can’t hear you over the noise.”
I took a ten out of my wallet and handed it to her; she took it without reservation and shoved it into the front pocket of her jeans. “Who wants to know?” she said.
“An old friend,” I said.
“Honey, don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know a cop when I see one.”
“Okay,” I said, “but I’m still a friend of Troy’s.”
She sat down again on her stool and ordered another drink. I put a twenty on the bar and ordered the same drink for myself. The bartender brought the drinks and my change and placed them on the bar in front of her. I waited while she downed half of her drink.
“I haven’t seen Troy in a while,” she said, wiping her lips with the back of her hand; “and I don’t want to.”
“Are you his girlfriend?”
“Hell, no,” she said. “We met here one night and spent time drinking together. He didn’t seem like a bad guy until he got me jammed up with the cops.”
I offered her a, “Wow” and said, “What happened?”
She picked up my change from the bar, her drink, and mine, and indicated for me to follow her to a table. We found an abandoned table in a corner where the music wasn’t so loud. She set the glasses down and spread the bills on the table between us. She finished her drink and signaled to the bartender for another. I drank some of mine.
“How were you in trouble with the law?” I said.
“Troy and I were having drinks at a table when this big guy walks over and he and Troy start arguing. They were both shitfaced. I was okay.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“Don’t know. It was hard to hear.”
The bartender brought her drink and she continued. “Next thing I know. They’re swingin’ at each other. I’m screamin’ for
them to stop, but they don’t listen. The big guy grabs me and tries to choke the shit outta me. Troy grabs the guy’s neck and starts hoking’ him. People in the place are screamin’ but nobody tries to stop it. The big guy pushes me to the floor. When I look up, I see two cops standin’ over me. I get up fast and try to get even with the big guy, but wind up hittin’ a cop by mistake. The cop puts me in a headlock and cuffs me. His partner cuffs Troy and the big guy and they take us out. I did thirty days for hittin’ a cop.”
“You got off easy,” I said. “What happened to Troy?”
“Thirty days for drunk and disorderly.”
“Did you see Troy after that incident?”
“No, I want nothin’ to do with that bastard,” she said. “I shoulda never got involved with him.”
“Seems to me, you put yourself in harm’s way by even associating yourself with him in the first place.”
“He seemed like a nice guy in the beginning, ‘til he started drinkin’.”
“What you see isn’t always what you get,” I said, sounding very philosophical.
“If he didn’t act like a jerk that night, I wouldn’t o’ got jammed up. Now I got a record.”
I was satisfied that I had gotten all the information I needed from this young lady, so I got up and pushed in my chair. When I did, she reached out and took my hand. “Do you have to leave already?” she said. “My apartment’s not far from here.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I promised my wife I’d help her with the groceries.”
She pulled her hand away feeling only half indignant and downed the rest of her drink. I smiled at her and walked out.
I was getting the same information about Troy Conlon from everyone I had interviewed, east or west coast. He was a degenerate jerk. So far, I hadn’t found anything that would convince me he was a murderer. The photo I had found in his desk drawer certainly was incriminating, but there could be multiple meanings behind it, especially coming from someone with Troy Conlon’s habits and disposition.
Other Men's Sins Page 16
