Dead Pigeon (13 page)

“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.”

I sat next to him and he told me the story of their history. Both he and Clauss had been members of the National Rifle Association. They had often gone hunting together. Clauss was a young and single man then. But after he was married, his disposition soured. Like many former philanderers, he was intensely jealous.

“His wife’s a saint,” he said. “I tried to reason with him. But he is one stubborn bastard. He always had a macho complex. Most hunters do. That’s why I quit the NRA.”

“Do you have any idea of where he might be now?”

“None. But I could ask around. I’m getting tired of sitting up here staring at those young girls down on the beach. I’m sure they wouldn’t be interested in a horny old man.”

“Some older women might.”

He sighed. “I’ve been thinking along those lines. I’ve decided to join one of those senior citizen clubs. What’s your name?”

“Brock Callahan. I’m staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

He stared at me. “Didn’t you used to play with the Dodgers?”

“Nope. The Rams.”

“I never followed them,” he said. “If I learn anything that might help you find that weirdo, I’ll give you a call.”

“Do that. If I’m not there, phone the Santa Monica station.”

“That would be my last resort,” he said.

I
T WAS STILL WELL
short of the time I was due to pick up Lars. My chances of spotting Emil Clauss walking the streets of his hometown in daylight were slim. He knew that he was being hunted. For all I knew, he could take Tucker’s place as a guest at the Valley residence of Arnold Gillete.

But I made the grand tour from Santa Monica to Venice along the least inhabited streets and came back to the station fifteen minutes early.

There, the desk sergeant told me that Lars had phoned twice this morning but I had been out. He had been recruited with other officers for a stakeout on a house suspected of harboring a criminal.

“Emil Clauss?”

He shook his head. “Some Chicano drug dealer.”

Back to my novice days, when I had worked alone in my own way, without the aid of a belt-buckle camera. There were some contradictory lies to be clarified. I drove to Brentwood, to the home of Turhan Bay. He was out in front, waxing his Jaguar.

“More trouble?” he asked.

“Nothing violent,” I told him. “I have a feeling that a man named Joe Nolan has lied to me about you. Do you know him?”

He nodded. “I suppose he could be called my broker. I bought three hundred shares of a mutual fund from one of his junior partners several months ago. I’ve let the dividends roll over and now have three hundred and twelve shares.”

“How much are they worth now?”

“A little over three thousand dollars.”

“Does your wife have an account there, too?”

He shook his head. “She has been with E.F. Hutton for years. What’s this all about?”

“Nolan told me that your account there was around a million dollars.”

“The man’s insane! Why would he tell you that?”

“That’s what I hope to find out. I think he was trying to lead me down a blind alley.”

“Does it have anything to do with what happened to Tim?”

“I doubt it. But it could have something to do with Mike’s murder.”

“Murder? Nolan?”

“I’m sure he didn’t kill Mike. But there’s a strong possibility that he might know who did.”

“Have the police learned anything about who killed Tim?”

“Not yet. They probably suspect, as I do, that the man I told you about, Emil Clauss, killed Mike and your cousin.”

He nodded. “I phoned my detective friend at the West Side station. He had the same opinion. But he explained to me that that was a Santa Monica investigation.”

“It is. I’m working with them now.”

“Good luck,” he said. “I liked Mike as much as Crystal told me you do.”

From there to Beverly Hills. Nolan was in his glass-enclosed office when I entered, talking with a secretary. When she left, I went in.

“And what brings you here?” he asked.

Seconds passed, while he studied me. And then he smiled. “Brock, Bay has a very modest account here. But, as you probably don’t know, his wife has a very big account at Hutton. And she is a woman who doesn’t have long to live. I have good reason to believe that when she dies and Bay inherits, he will transfer that account to me.”

“Why would he?”

He smiled. “Because I just happen to know something about him that his followers don’t.”

“That he’s gay?”

The smile faded; he stared at me. “Where did you learn that?”

“From one of my sources. I’m sure the SEC would be interested to learn that you are contemplating blackmail.”

“It would be your word against mine, Brock.”

“Mine and Bay’s,” I pointed out. “Who do you think the Feds would believe? The next move is yours, Joe. Give it a lot of thought.”

He was still staring at me before I turned and walked out. It was possible that he would call my bluff. But he never had in those nights we had played poker together.

He had changed his story from the million-dollar Bay account to a future million-dollar Bay account. It was likely that both stories were false. The story he had confirmed about Bay’s sexual preference was true.

But where had he learned it? The logical choice seemed to be Tim Tucker. It was possible that he had gotten more than the two thousand dollars he had picked up from his cousin. Tucker could have gained at least that much if he had told Nolan.

I drove back to Brentwood. Bay was still out on the driveway, now checking the tire pressure on his newly polished car. I couldn’t think of any tactful way to open the subject. Tact had never been one of my virtues. I gave him the verbatim account of my dialogue with Joe Nolan.

“Damn him!” he said. “Where did he learn that?”

“Maybe from your cousin. Did he blackmail you, too?”

He sighed. “He did. But I have never even spoken with Joe Nolan. The only person I have ever talked with there was one of the junior partners and that was on the phone.”

“There’s a strong chance that you will never have to talk to Nolan after he digests what I told him. He could be in deep trouble.”

“Thank you for that. I have a number of my flock who are gay. But, unfortunately, most of them aren’t.”

“One thing we’re sure of …” I said. “Your cousin can no longer slander you. And I have the firm feeling that Nolan is now playing in company too rough for him. I plan to make that clear to him. He’s the weak link in the chain.”

“Good luck,” he said. “As for what he told you about my wife, he’d have a long wait for his money. She’s in a lot better health than I am.”

I drove to the Santa Monica station from there and Lars was at his desk.

“How did the stakeout go?” I asked him.

“Successfully. What’s by you new?”

I didn’t tell him about the sexual angle on my visits to Bay and Nolan, only that I had talked with them and learned that Nolan had lied about Bay’s million-dollar account. And then I told him about my park-bench dialogue with Grosskopf.

“Nolan could be the key,” he said. “But we would need stronger evidence on his financial shenanigans.”