To Catch a Spy (8 page)

I sat back down. We’d never had a prayer before.

“Amen,” said Bidwell.

“Wait till I say the prayer and then you say ‘Amen,’” Mrs. Plaut said.

“Sorry,” said Bidwell, amused.

Mrs. Plaut put her palms together and looked up. She reminded me of a Norman Rockwell painting. The whole scene reminded me of a Norman Rockwell painting. Her eyes moved to each of us. We put our palms together, fingers pointing up.

“Dear Lord,” she began. “I had a friend who was Japanese. Yoko Mirimi. Now she’s in a camp somewhere. I won’t ask you why. You made a mistake when you gave us free will. We don’t use it well. Just look at the Japs and the Nazis. It is a New Year and we have gathered at your table to each make a resolution.”

Mrs. Plaut looked up. Her eyes fell on Ben Bidwell. He was amused.

“I resolve in the coming year to turn up the charm and sell a record number of cars.”

“I resolve,” Emma Simcox said softly, “to not judge people till I know them.”

“I resolve,” said Gunther, “to learn Bulgarian.”

It was my turn.

“I resolve,” I said, “to do my damnedest not to get hit on the head or neck or any other part of my anatomy.”

“Amen,” said Mrs. Plaut. And we all said, “Amen.”

“My chapter on the Sorenson twins,” she said, rising and looking at me.

“I’ll read it today.”

“I am growing no younger,” she said, reaching for Gunther’s empty plate.

“I’m cognizant of that,” I said.

Before she turned and headed for the kitchen, I think she allowed herself a small smile.

CHAPTER

6

Bruno Volkman’s apartment was at 778 Hauser. The name “Volkman” was on his mailbox. The building was a two-story white adobe. His apartment was on the second floor. There was another apartment next to his.

I didn’t bother to knock. I remembered Ted Lewis in some movie tipping his top hat to the side and singing, “We never knock ’cause nobody’s there.”

I hummed “Me and My Shadow” as I examined the lock. Simple spring model. I was reaching into my pocket for my knife when I turned the doorknob. It was open. I went in.

The Sunday sun was bright, but all the lights were on in the combination living and dining room where I stood. I closed the door behind me, my hand on my .38.

Bruno Volkman kept a neat apartment. The kind of furniture that looked like the set of an Astaire—Rogers movie. Lots of white and black and chrome steel. Two paintings on the wall, one all squares and cubes in black on white and the other a super-streamlined train, racing from left to right, leaving a trail of smoke behind it.

I moved to the kitchen, also neat, and opened the door to what I assumed was the bedroom. It was. The blinds were closed. I turned on the light. Double bed made with a light blue cover with matching blue pillows. A dresser. A night table next to the bed, with a telephone and a radio. There was a single picture on the wall, a big one, a painting of Katharine Hepburn cradling white flowers in her arms. On the dresser were two framed photographs. One was of a skinny little boy in short pants being hugged by a woman wearing a distinctly turn-of-the-century dress and hat. The other photograph was a recent one of Bruno Volkman and another man, somber, shoulder-to-shoulder, looking straight at the camera.

There was one more door. I opened it. It was a closet with clothes neatly hung and evenly spaced, shoes lined up on the low shelf over the clothes. That was it except for the body of Bruno Volkman sitting behind the clothes when I parted them. His mouth was open and he was looking at my knees.

I closed the closet door and started to look through the dresser, which was just as neat as the rest of Volkman’s apartment. Even his underpants were folded flat.

In the bottom drawer I found a box, took it out, and put it on the bed. The box was filled with pro–Nazi and Bund literature. Almost all of it was in English. I checked for photographs, maybe notes. Nothing but the literature. I was scanning a pamphlet to see if he had marked anything when I heard the front door of the apartment open.

I stuffed the pamphlet back in the box, put the box back in the drawer, closed the drawer, and walked through the door, past the small kitchen, and into the living room, where I stood facing two men, both in their late forties or early fifties, both wearing hats, both on the hefty side.

“I didn’t hear you knock,” I said, my hand in my pocket grasping my gun.

“We didn’t knock,” one man said. “Door was open. Who are you?”

“Conrad Bishop,” I said.

“We’re Kelso and O’Boylan, Los Angeles police. Name by the bell says Volkman. Where is he and what are you doing here?”

“Visiting,” I said. “Bruno left the door open for me. He should be back any minute.”

“Identification,” said the cop who I guessed was Kelso.

I fished out my wallet and handed it to him. He flipped it open.

“Tobias Leo Pevsner,” he read from my driver’s license. “And you’ve got a private investigator’s card. It doesn’t say Conrad Bishop. Pevsner? You related to Captain Phil Pevsner at the Wilshire District?”

“My brother,” I said. I didn’t bother to tell him that Phil had been reduced to lieutenant less than a year ago.

The two cops looked at me.

“Conrad Bishop is my stage name,” I explained. “I use it all the time. It’s what people in the business call me.”

“You’re an actor,” said O’Boylan.

“Acting, singing, a little dancing,” I said. “All background stuff. You see
Follow the Fleet?
The one where Fred Astaire’s a sailor?”

“Yeah,” said Kelso.

“Remember when Ginger Rogers falls into a sailor’s arms at the end of one of the numbers?” I asked.

“‘I’m Putting All My Eggs in One Basket,’” said O’Boylan.

“I was the sailor.”

“I think I would have remembered seeing a face like yours if it was you,” said Kelso.

“Makeup,” I said.

“You’re not a private investigator?”

“I am, but I haven’t really worked at it since I decided to go into the movies.”

This was not going well. I should have told the truth, but lying comes so easily when you find a body with bullet holes.

“Have a seat,” said Kelso.

I sat.

“I’ll look around.” Kelso left me seated with O’Boylan, who folded his hands in front of him and watched me.

Kelso was back before I could figure out what I would say.

“We got a call saying a man had been murdered here,” said Kelso. “There’s a dead man in the closet, Pevsner.”

“It’s Peters, Toby Peters. That’s my legal name now,” I said. “I came here to see Volkman, found him dead, and panicked. I’m carrying a gun, but it hasn’t been fired.”

O’Boylan moved directly in front of me and motioned for me to stand up. I did. He had no trouble finding my weapon.

“You know what I think?” asked Kelso.

I didn’t know, so I kept my mouth shut.

“I think we’re going to call the M.E. and take you over to the Wilshire for a family get-together,” Kelso said.

On the way to the Wilshire station, nobody said a word.

“Let me be sure I’ve got this straight,” my brother Phil said when I was seated across from him in his small office. “You were driving in Elysian Park last night. You went to the Memorial Grove.”

“I felt an urge to honor the war dead,” I said. “It just came over me.”

“Very patriotic,” he said, and then looked down at the notes he had taken. “You ran into another guy in the Grove. He told you his name was Bruno Volkman. Suddenly someone you didn’t see shot him in the back and hit you on the head.”

“Yes.”

“And,” Phil went on, rubbing one hand over his short, bristly gray hair, “when you woke up, Volkman’s body was gone.”

“Yes, you can ask the cop who found me there,” I said.

“I’ve got Montoya looking for your cop,” he said, sitting back.

Phil was a broad-shouldered, heavy-set man in his fifties. He had a wife, Ruth, who was dying, and two sons. He also had a temper, which had gotten him into trouble more than once and cost him his captain’s badge. When we were kids, I had been Phil’s punching bag of choice. Things had stayed that way until a little over a year ago. While Ruth wasted away, Phil grew mellow and I stopped trying to provoke him. So I was fairly sure he wasn’t going to throw anything at me or come over the desk to slam me against the wall. He had done both on more than one occasion.

He just sat there.

“You were there in the park on a case,” he said finally, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a thumb and finger.

“I …”

“Don’t give me your crap about going to Memorial Grove in a sudden burst of nostalgia.”

“… and patriotism,” I added.

“Toby,” he said evenly, “Don’t make me return to the bad old days. Don’t make me do something I won’t regret for a second. Who is your client and what were you doing in the park?”

“I didn’t kill him,” I said.

“Preliminary report says he’s been dead at least ten hours, and Kelso and O’Boylan found blood traces on the floor. I can’t see you killing him last night and bringing his body home and then sticking around for ten hours till the police came.”

“And what about the tip that said there was a dead man in the apartment?” I asked. “My guess is someone was watching the place or following me and called in so I’d be there when Kelso and O’Boylan arrived.”

“Sounds right,” said Phil, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk.

He sat there staring at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Your client’s name and the real reason you were in the park.”

“Can’t tell you, Phil,” I said.

“Did Volkman get killed because you met him in the Grove?”

“Can’t tell you, Phil,” I said again.

“It’s a crime to obstruct justice,” he said.

“I know.”

“And I know you know,” he said. “You’re not giving me much choice here, Toby.”

“My client didn’t kill Volkman,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” I said.

“Good,” said Phil, slapping his hands on the desk, a sure sign that he was about to lose control. “Now
I
want to be sure.”

“My word’s not good enough, is it?”

He didn’t bother to answer. He was on his feet now, fists clenched.

“I’d tell you if I could,” I said. “But I promised I’d keep my client out of this. If I start turning my clients in, it won’t be long before there aren’t any clients. Phil, I sell my loyalty.”

“You want me to make you an offer?” he said with heavy sarcasm.

“I don’t betray my clients,” I said.

“Integrity.”

“That’s all I have, that and a body in serious need of an overhaul and some rest.”

Phil came around the desk. I got up quickly, ready to get the hell out of that office before he threw me into a corner. He cut me off and moved in front of me. His right hand came up and touched my arm.

“How badly did they pound you?” he asked.

“Bad enough. Stitches. Sore neck and shoulder.”

“I’ll have to turn you over to the district attorney’s office,” he said.

“They haven’t got enough to hold me,” I said. “And if you just talk to the cop at the park, he’ll tell you I reported the murder.”

Phil backed away, shaking his head. He moved to his desk and picked up the phone.

“Lester,” he said, “find me the officer on duty last night who checked out Elysian Park.… I don’t have his name. He’s an old-timer. Make it fast.”

“You want coffee?” he asked, hanging up the phone.

“No, thanks.”

Phil shrugged and left to get himself a cup. I wasn’t thinking straight. I had handled the two cops badly and I wasn’t doing all that well with Phil. I reached into my pocket for my three bottles of pills and downed one from each as Phil returned to his desk.

His phone was ringing. He put the cup down and picked up the phone.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah … you sure?… Thanks.”

He hung up the phone, took a sip of coffee, and looked at me.

“No cop in the park last night,” he said.

“He was there,” I said.

“Park’s not patrolled at night,” said Phil.

“He said …” I began. Then I stopped. “He let me go. Said he didn’t want to do the paperwork.”

Phil stared at me.

“You know I’m beginning to think the guy wasn’t a cop. I’m beginning to think he was just trying to find out what I knew.”

“Think some more, Tobias,” Phil said.

“I know.”

“But I believe you,” he said after a long pause. “I know when you’re lying. And I know you wouldn’t shoot anyone in the back. But you do know something.”

I shrugged.

“All right,” he said with a final sigh, “we’ll let the D.A.’s office take over.”

“I want to call my lawyer,” I said.

“Give me his number,” said Phil. “I’ll get him for you.”

“It’s Sunday,” I said. “We’ll have to call him at home. I don’t know his home number, and only his business phone is listed in the phone book.”

Phil nodded. He knew who my lawyer was. He called the phone company, talked to a supervisor, and came up with a home number for Martin Raymond Leib.

Marty Leib’s wife answered the phone. I told her I had to talk to her husband. She sighed and put the phone down. I could hear her call out, “Martin, you have a call. I think it’s one of your criminals.”

Then Marty came on.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Toby Peters,” I said. I told him where I was and gave him the broad outline.

“Wilshire Station?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“I have to shower,” he said. “I was playing tennis.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. Your bill will reflect the inconvenience.”

“Happy New Year,” I said.

“The same to you,” he answered and hung up.

Three hours later I was on the street in front of the station. Marty Leib, all three hundred pounds of him in a lightweight white suit, said, “Much of my income is derived from police and attorneys working for the city, county, or state who don’t know the basic criminal law.”

I nodded. I was free. Marty had shown up with a writ. How he got it so quickly was a question I didn’t want to ask. The assistant D.A. Phil had turned me over to was a kid four years out of law school. Ten minutes after my rotund lawyer entered the office Marty had the poor guy apologizing for detaining me.