Cat and Mouse (12 page)

“Be damned sure you do. This is police business.”

“I know, I know! Don’t keep Ellie waiting, Bernie.”

I couldn’t understand what he answered to that. He mumbled it to himself and walked to his car.

He had called it police business. It was a lawyer business. The police brought them in; the defense lawyers made their deals with the prosecutors so the court calendar wouldn’t get more than two years behind. Our jails were overcrowded; the indignant (but penurious) citizens refused to have new jails built in their neighborhoods or vote for bonds to build them in any neighborhoods. So hard-core convicts had to be released to make room for the new ones.

And time off for good behavior—what in hell did that mean? It probably meant the criminal could walk out early if he promised not to attack the warden.

A major child molestation case was now in its twelfth month in Los Angeles. It involved a nursery school whose teachers were the defendants. Day after day the defense attorneys hammered at the young victims, confusing them, wearing them down, finally getting them to contradict themselves.

Dozens of the charges against the teachers had been thrown out of court. The defense attorneys’ fees in that case alone could probably pay for a couple of new jails.

Maybe it was time for me to desert the ACLU.

Corey came out to tell me he would take over again. Jan was waiting for our pre-dinner drink.

She had our drinks ready. “You look owly,” she said.

“I am.”

“Another argument with Bernie?”

“A difference of opinion that I don’t want to talk about.”

“Then we won’t. Bernie annoys me, too, at times. But he’s your friend, Brock.”

“Yes.”

I went out to sit with Corey after dinner, taking a portable radio along so I could listen to the Dodgers game. In the middle of the fifth inning a gray Chevrolet two-door sedan stopped in front of the house. Corey went over to stand behind a shrub, his gun in hand.

The car’s headlights went out, the front door opened, and I could see in the glow from the interior light that it was Rubio. “It’s okay, Corey,” I called.

He came out from behind the shrub as Rubio walked over. Rubio asked, “Is he a policeman?”

“No. He’s a friend of mine, a private detective.”

“Then he may listen to what I have to say. We had a meeting of the Brotherhood tonight, and a vote. The vote was unanimous. Our president sent me to tell you that we are going to find that man who is threatening you.”

“You don’t intend to cooperate with the police?”

“Never! They have jailed more of our people than they have protected. But you have been our good friend since you moved here. We owe you,
amigo.
”

“I’m grateful,” I said. “Hell, I’m
touched!
Thank you. Could you use a beer?”

“No, thank you. I have to get back to close the bar.”

When he left, Corey asked, “What’s the Brotherhood?”

“A Chicano group organized to keep their kids out of trouble and their adults out of jail. Their full name is the San Valdesto Brotherhood. I cleared their president of a murder charge on my last case. Chief Harris was determined to nail him.”

The darling Dodgers beat the mean Giants, 4 to 2, on a grand-slam homer by Marshall with two out in the last half of the ninth inning. I went into the house.

“It’s been a long time since we had cocoa,” Jan said.

“I’m ready for it.”

“Feel better now?”

“Some.”

I decided not to tell her about Rubio’s visit. We had our cocoa with some of Mrs. Casey’s chocolate chip cookies and went to bed.

It was a clear night for a change, with a full moon and a light breeze. Shadows from the maple trees in front of the window flickered through the room. But they were only shadows.

L
ARRY RUBIN PHONED IN
the morning to tell me he had another hot one at long odds running at Hollywood Park and did I want my usual double sawbuck riding on his nose?

I told him I did.

“What’s this static I hear about you around town?” he asked. “Something about a weirdo.”

“It’s a long and complicated story,” I said, “and I’m tired of repeating it.”

“Vogel told me at the poker game that it might have something to do with that guy who was asking about you at Heinie’s.”

“It is. I went down there to check him out and got nowhere.”

“Didn’t I tell you to talk with me first? Didn’t I tell you I have friends down there who could help you?”

“You told me,” I admitted. “What’s my horse’s name?”

“Galloping Ghost.”

“That’s what they called Red Grange.”

“Who’s Red Grange?”

“Look it up. He might be the greatest running back who ever lived. He lived before your time.”

“I am not a history buff,” he said. “If you plan another trip to L.A. call me before you do.”

“Okay!”

I didn’t tell Jan about the bet. Larry doesn’t
always
pick winners and if she split the bet with me and lost, she would sulk. She hates to lose at
anything.

Vogel picked her up, Corey went out to his vantage point. I didn’t go back to my records. I had them almost memorized.

My Chicano friends and both the city and county police were on the hunt. They had more sources and resources than I had. I had slept through the night but the fury and frustration in me had me down.

If my Chicano friends got to him before the police did he would have more scars to add to the one on his cheek. He could suffer the same fate as the cat that was thrown on our lawn.

I worked out with the weights and was dozing when Harley came. He had spent the afternoon before and part of this morning cruising the town with no success.

He asked, “Would you take me to that place where Jasper died?”

“Why? There is nothing there that will help us.”

“I just want to see it,” he said.

I took him there. It was as cluttered as it had been on my first visit. There were two new additions, a couple of empty wine bottles that had once contained a cheap local muscatel wine.

“Jesus!” he said. “This is what I brought him to.”

“Don’t think that way, Harley. Don’t blame yourself. It can eat you up. It’s happened. It’s over.”

“I know,” he said wearily. “I’ve watched men die in worse places. But they died for a cause.”

I said nothing.

“Maybe it’s time for me to go home,” he said. “We’re not even sure he’s in town.”

“If he isn’t, he will be.” I told him about Rubio’s message of last night. “We have some allies now who know the territory. And if you hadn’t come to town with Jasper’s letters we’d have known a lot less than we do.”

Mrs. Casey insisted that he stay for lunch, it being her theory that no human being can stay healthy on restaurant food.

We were sitting with Corey in the front yard when the mailman came. Buried in the garbage mail was another envelope enclosing another file card. Both the envelope and the card were printed in pencil in capital letters:
WELCOME HOME. NOW YOU CAN START SWEATING
.

Seven words again. I handed it to Harley.

“I can’t understand it,” he said. “A town this size? He has to go out to mail the letter. He has to eat some place. He has to buy gas if he has a car. And
nobody
spots him!”

“He could have a friend who handles that. He’s probably holed up.”

Harley looked at the postmark. “At least we know he’s in town. I’m staying over.”

He left and I sat with Corey for another half hour and then went into the house. I was dozing when the phone rang an hour later.

It was Harley. “You’d better come down here. I think I’m in trouble.”

“Down where—the hotel?”

“No. The police station.”

“What happened?”

“Come down and find out. I need you, man.”

I told Corey where I was going in the event Jan came home before I did. I took the inner route; the freeway was jammed, as usual. San Valdesto is probably the only city in California that has traffic lights on the freeway.

The desk sergeant told me that Harris and Harley and Vogel and an unidentified man were in Harris’s office.

Portly, penguin-shaped Chief Harris was sitting at his desk, his ruddy face redder than usual. Vogel and Harley sat in straight-backed chairs next to the side wall. The unidentified man was sitting in a captain’s chair near the desk. He was wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap. He was short and stocky and muscular. He had a bruise below his left eye and a badly puffed lower lip.

There was no other chair in the room. I asked, “What happened?”

Harris said, “Interfering in a murder case could be one of the charges.”

Vogel said, “Chief—please!”

I asked Harley, “What happened?”

He told me he had been walking from the parking lot to the hotel when he saw a blue Toyota pickup with a Ventura dealer’s license plate frame. The driver was just about to get into the cab.

“So I asked him if he had dropped off a friend at the Travis Hotel a week or so ago and he got lippy. I did, too. And then he took a swing at me.” He shrugged. “I beat him to the punch—just as a squad car was passing.”

I asked Chief Harris, “Have any of your officers interrogated this man?”

“Yes. For your information, Mr. Callahan, about a third of the Toyotas in town are bought in Ventura. There’s a dealer there who sells for a lot less money than the local one.”

“I can’t believe that ratio applies to pickup trucks.”

“Oh? You’ve made a survey?”

“Both Mr. Belton and I have for the last day and a half. This is the first one either of us has discovered.”

“How interesting! And now will you explain why a pair of hotheaded amateurs should be involved in police business?”

“I resent being called an amateur, sir, considering the cases I have worked on with this department. I might point out that it was my information that kept you from making a serious mistake when you tried to railroad Corey Raleigh.”

A shade of purple began to darken his red face. “Watch that damned tongue of yours, Callahan! That was Mallory’s decision.”

“The information I have is that you and Tom Mallory agreed that Corey was your number one suspect.”

“At the time, yes. At that time, he was.”

“Not to me. I apologize for using the word
railroad.
Has bail been set for Mr. Belton?”

“There has been no charge so there will be no bail. Get out of here, all three of you. Bernie, you stay here.”

Bernie nodded. I told him, “I’ll pick up Jan.”

“She won’t be going home for another hour.”

“She will with me.”

Outside, the unidentified man asked, “What in hell was that all about in there?”

“Murder,” I said. “And my friend, here, is the father of the boy who was murdered.”

“Hey! Shit, man, I’m sorry! I work for the dealer old lard-ass in there was yakking about. Could I buy you guys a beer?”

“I’m buying,” Harley said. “I owe you.”

“Nah, I’ve been having trouble at home and I’m not myself. My name is Gus Henshaw.”

We introduced ourselves and shook hands with him and headed for the Alamo Café, half a block down the street. I explained that most of the customers there were Chicanos.

“They don’t bother me,” Gus said.

“I admire them,” Harley said. “I served with many of them in the Marines.”

Gus shook his head. “My first fight in over a month and I have to pick on a Marine!”

Over premium Mexican beer at the Alamo Café, Gus asked for more background on the series of events that had led to his swollen lip. We told him most of it.

“And that Pontiac,” he asked, “that was deserted in Ventura, is that the car this guy you’re looking for was driving?”

“Almost certainly,” I said. “It belonged to a woman he was living with in Santa Monica. She was beaten to death.”

He nodded. “I remember reading about that. Look, I know a couple of cods in Ventura and the boss has records of all our sales since he opened the agency. Maybe I could learn something, huh? I mean, if we compared our list of customers with the rap sheets the police have there could be a connection.”

“That,” I told him, “is very sound thinking. You have just earned yourself another beer.”

I gave him my address and phone number before we left.

As Harley and I walked back to the police station parking lot I suggested he come to our house for dinner.

“Thanks, but not today. I’m still going to prowl around, maybe out in Omega. From what I’ve seen of it it shapes up as likely hideout country.”

“Be careful. Don’t get lippy again.”

He smiled. “Why not? It’s already given us an ally in Ventura.”

When I came into Kay Décor, Jan said, “What a pleasant surprise! Where’s Bernie?”

“He wanted to drop in on his girl friend before he went home. Are you ready to go?”

“I am. You’re lying about Bernie, aren’t you?”

“Of course! Let’s go.”

I didn’t tell her why I was downtown and I was glad she didn’t ask. She takes a dim view of fisticuffs.

She had her drink in the house. I took a couple bottles of Einlicher out of the fridge and went out to sit with Corey. I told him what had happened downtown, including Gus Henshaw’s offer of help.

“We’re building an army,” he said, “and we still haven’t learned the man’s name. Maybe we never will.”

“It took a lot of cops a lot longer than this to learn the name of the Valley Intruder.”

“Sure. And he’ll probably walk in two years. So will Big Bear, if we ever find him.”

“Not if our Chicano friends find him first.”

“Would you want that? It’s bad law, Brock.”

“I know! But maybe good justice?”

“I thought so at first but I’ve been thinking about it, sitting out here. And I’ve been wondering—could I use a gun to kill a man, no matter how much he deserved it? I’ll bet Harley could.”

“And has. Could you kill a man if he was about to kill you?”

“I don’t know. I could shoot him, but maybe in the leg or some other place that’s not fatal.”

“Corey, that wouldn’t be justice. That would be suicide. You can be damned sure that he’s not going to aim for your leg.”