Bad Samaritan (14 page)

A black and gilt sign below the glass identified the place:

Arden Massage Parlor

Female Staff

Private Rooms

Hours—Noon to 4:00
A.M.

Locum was probably in there, taking an order for apprentice masseuses. I went back to the car and sat. I sat for half an hour and he didn’t show. And if he had? I had no authority to question him and the emotional urge to confront him was gone.

There were still two hours to fill before I was due to pick up Jan, but I had no place to go. I went home.

The people along the chief’s line of inquiry who might have revealing answers were all missing—Patty Serano, Tishkin, Gonzales. I didn’t have a line of inquiry, only an area. It was a doubtful area, not one I looked forward to investigating.

Phyllis Pontius wouldn’t fit into the backseat of my car unless her legs were sawed off; I took Jan’s car.

Through the fringe neighborhood, into the better neighborhood, through that to the best. It wasn’t a bad little car, this Mercedes, both solid and responsive. The only thing really wrong with it was the price, over a hundred dollars for each cubic inch under the hood.

June was coming down the marble steps of her sister’s lean-to as I came up.

“What have you done to my boy?” she asked me.

“Nothing lately. Why?”

“He thinks you disapprove of him. He’s even talking about going back to work.”

“There are worse sins, June.”

“I guess.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss my chin. “If you think it’s right, it’s right. You can do no wrong. I wouldn’t even have the bum if it hadn’t been for you.”

The females were clustered in the entry hall, ready to leave. Glenys’s butler waited patiently in disdainful resignation. He had come reluctantly from Beverly Hills with Glenys and never adjusted to the bucolic locals.

The women were enthused about the plans they had made at the meeting. They had decided on a dinner-dance to raise funds for the underprivileged.

They estimated a gross of ten thousand dollars. They would probably raise that much, spend ninety-nine hundred for expenses, leaving a clear hundred dollars for the underprivileged, preserving their present status.

“Why,” I suggested, “don’t we send those poor people a check for ten thousand dollars and then stay home and dance to some old Guy Lombardo records?”

Phyllis giggled. She appreciated my lowbrow humor.

“Don’t encourage him,” Jan said. “Let’s go.”

Only the outside front door light and one upstairs light were visible at the Pontius mausoleum. “Thank you so much,” Phyllis said. “You’re very kind.”

“Anytime.” I said.

She looked at me quizzically and smiled. “Have a good night.”

We drove past the massive homes, not visible from the road, past the large homes, partially visible, to ours.

“I wonder,” Jan said, “why we haven’t heard from your Aunt Sheila? Do you think she’s bitter about the inheritance?”

“Not Aunt Sheila. She was always money-conscious but never money-mad. She’s probably still in a honeymoon haze.”

“Her fifth? Isn’t that a little overromantic?”

“Not for her. I hope she’s having a wonderful honeymoon. It’s probably costing her plenty.”

The dog from across the street who hated the
Times
let us know with a howl that he was aware of our homecoming. That started the other dogs in the neighborhood. The money spent for dog food in this long block could feed three hungry families.

“Do you remember,” Jan asked, “when I lived on Beverly Glen Boulevard and used to make you cocoa?”

“I sure do.”

“Let’s have some tonight.”

You can’t go home again, even with cocoa. Oh, world I never made, why have you become so crappy?

A clear night with a light breeze, alive with moving shadows and small noises. Filled with tosses and turns, while Jan slept on, untroubled. I had no facts, no connecting links. All I had was a collection of attitudes and remarks, mostly throwaway lines, and an instinct for the obvious.

A clear night, a hot morning. The
Times
was un-chewed, but the lawn was full of dog do. Someday I would buy a bull elephant with diarrhea, and let him roam the neighborhood.

Over the morning waffles, Jan asked, “Going downtown again today?”

“Yup. I don’t know why, though. We were at a dead end yesterday. Maybe something happened last night.”

“You mean the investigation is finished?”

“Not officially. It may never be, officially. It will simply peter out. And so will the public interest in it.”

“You sound cynical, hubby.”

“I’ve been working with cynical men. No, that’s not fair. I’ve been working with—with realists.”

Something had happened last night. Lenny Tishkin had been picked up in Morro Bay.

In the hall, Vogel told me, “Helms went up to get him.” He paused. “So what do we hold him on?”

“An old pro like you should be able to think of something. How about suspicion of robbery?”

“He’s already been acquitted of that.”

“Of Trinity Liquors. But not A-l Beverages or the Padilla Grog Shop.”

“Neither Leeds nor Adler will testify. You heard ʼem say so.”

“Suspicion of murder?”

“Whose? We’ve learned that Tishkin was in Oakland on the night Maude died.”

“Bernie,” I said, “your voice is shaking. Easy, man.”

“Easy, hell! The chief screams about bad police work. I say he’s wasting the taxpayers’ money, running down Tishkin.”

“Cool it, Loot. The man can be held for questioning about Gonzales’s disappearance. Maybe he’s got a habit. If he’s held long enough without a fix, he could loosen up.”

“He’s got no habit,” Vogel said coldly. “And Farini’s been phoning about him already.”

“Joe Farini? How did he find out about it? I thought Nowicki was Tishkin’s lawyer.”

“So did I. But Tishkin phoned Farini from Morro Bay as soon as he was grabbed. The punk’s gone big time.”

“Or maybe Locum’s picking up the tab. Why don’t we talk to Leeds and Adler again? They might change their minds.”

“I’ve already talked with both of them on the phone,” he said bitterly, “and they both laughed at me.”

I smiled. “So it isn’t the taxpayers’ money that’s got you riled. It’s the taxpayers’ scorn.”

“Shut up. Amateurs and politicians, that’s what I get to work with!”

“Bernie,” I said soothingly, “let’s not make this the shortest friendship on record. I’m on your side, man!”

His voice was quieter. “I’m sorry, Brock. I guess I need a vacation. You’ve been—” He stopped and stared past me. “Oh, Christ, here he comes now.”

Big Joe Farini was coming down the hall. I had met him when he had represented Skip.

“Well, Mr. Callahan,” he said genially, “we meet again. Only this time, I see, you’re working
with
the police.”

“It’s more fun this way,” I said. “You should try it, counselor.”

His smile faded. “Watch your tongue, footballer. You’re not that big.”

“There’s a way to find out,” I said.

From a smile to a stare and now to a glare. “Are you threatening me?”

I nodded.

He looked at Vogel. “You heard that, Lieutenant. You might be called as a witness.”

“My hearing aid was turned off,” Vogel said wearily. “What do you want, Joe?”

“I want to know when Tishkin is due here. All I get from that sergeant at the desk is static.”

“He’ll be here as soon as Helms gets him here. Sergeant Helms is a slow driver. We’ll let you know.”

“Immediately,” Farini said.

“If he gets here immediately, we’ll inform you immediately. If he doesn’t, we’ll inform you when he does get here. Anything else?”

Farini looked between us speculatively—and made the wise decision. “Nothing,” he said. “Thank you.” He went back down the hall.

Vogel shook his head. “With your mouth, you sure need your size.”

“It helps. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

He hadn’t had his breakfast, so I bought him more than coffee, an Egg McMuffin and a side order of French fries. I helped him with the fries.

We came back to the police parking lot the same time as Helms arrived. No department car had been available last night. Helms used his own and would get mileage added to his overtime credit.

My mental picture of Lenny Tishkin had been awry. He stood on the blacktop of the parking lot, neatly dressed in fawn slacks and a light yellow sport shirt, a slim young man with curly chestnut hair and big brown eyes. He could have been an Eagle scout.

Lenny stayed where he was while Helms came over to us. “He’s changed his story a little. The way he tells it now, he didn’t go to the bus station with Gonzales. He happened to be there when Gonzales left town.”

“What was he doing at the bus station?” Vogel asked.

“Waiting for a friend from out of town—he claims.”

“A friend we can check?”

Helms smiled. “I’ll give you one guess.”

“Sure,” Vogel said. “Natch! You’d better phone Farini. He’s been on my neck all morning. I’ll take Tishkin in.”

The chief wanted to see him, too, so we gathered in his office, Tishkin, Farini, Helms, Vogel and yours truly, citizen observer.

Chief Chandler Harris sat behind his desk, studying some papers, molding his face into the Santa Claus image. Finally, he looked up and smiled at the lad he had called a vicious punk who had learned to lie when he had learned to talk.

“Well, Lenny, it’s certainly comforting to see you on our side of the street, for a change.”

Farini frowned. Lenny smiled.

“You heard about the death of your good friend, I suppose?” Harris went on. “Mrs. Marner?”

Lenny nodded. “I read about it in the Oakland paper.”

“You didn’t come down for her memorial service. At least, I didn’t see you there.”

“I wasn’t there,” Lenny said.

“Fine lady,” Harris said. “As I remember, she arranged to get Stanley Nowicki to defend you on the robbery charge. Young Nowicki is probably the best defense attorney in town.”

“Easy, chief,” Farini said.

Harris smiled. “Nothing personal, Joe. We’ve known each other a long time,” He frowned. “Maybe too long?”

Farini said coolly, “I have advised my client to be cooperative. But I don’t like the trend of this meeting.”

The Santa Claus image had melted in the hot room. Harris’s face was a mask. “I intend to ask your client about a certain discrepancy in a story he told. Would you like to consult with him first?”

“Information he gave to a police officer?”

Harris shook his head.

Farini looked at Tishkin. Tishkin said, “I know what he’s talking about. It’s easily explained. I told Maria Gonzales I had gone to the bus station with Jesus. I lied. Jesus and I weren’t close, anymore, but I didn’t think Maria knew that. I was. …” He paused. “Well, I guess I was trying to comfort her. I always liked Maria.”

“Couldn’t you have explained to her you were waiting at the station for a friend from out of town?”

Tishkin nodded. “I should have. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. I mean, though, there was Maria with those three babies, and Jesus just taking off like that. I wanted her to think of me as a friend, I guess.”

Clean, innocent, cooperative young man with curly hair and those big brown eyes. … He had moved up a rung on the larceny ladder, from stickups to the big con. He no longer needed a public defender; what cop would roust this young, short-haired, establishment citizen?

The words went back and forth in the room, meaning nothing, leading nowhere. We couldn’t hold the punk, but as a favor to us he promised to stay around town for a few days. He had brought enough fresh clothes.

If you wonder why cops are cynical and inclined to carry short fuses, you should meet the citizens they have to deal with—on both sides of the law.

Harris finished his questioning and looked around the room. “Anybody else?”

Vogel said, “That’s a fancy motel you were staying at up in Morro Bay, Lenny. Are you working now?”

Farini started to protest, but Tishkin silenced him with a gesture. “I’m working,” he said. “I’m selling mutual funds.”

Vogel smiled and shook his head. “I have no other questions.”

We all went out, except for the chief. In the hall Farini said, “No hard feelings, I hope, Mr. Callahan. I guess we got off to a bad start. Give Miss Christopher my regards when you see her.”

“I’ll tell her how it was,” I promised. “And I’ll tell the Lunds, too. But don’t blame me. They were thinking of changing lawyers anyway.”

I
N HELMS’S OFFICE, VOGEL
asked, “Wasn’t it Joe Farini who defended Lund in that mess he was in?”

“Right. He was mostly a criminal lawyer then. But Skip was grateful, and he introduced him to his rich friends. Now Farini has reverted, the way it looks. Why, I wonder?”

“Maybe the hoodlum rich pay better. That old-money crowd aren’t too generous with their help.” He smiled. “That was a stiff shot you gave him in the hall. Below the belt, maybe, but I enjoyed it.”

“That’s the only place you can hurt lawyers,” I said, “in the wallet. So what have we learned that we didn’t know?”

“Nothing,” Helms said. “About the only good that came out of the trip was the dough I’ll pick up on mileage. I’ve got to talk to the Optimists this noon. I’d better get cleaned up and shaved. See you later, boys.”

“And I’ve got to be in court at two o’clock,” Vogel said. “Any place we can go before then, citizen?”

“None I can think of.”

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got two acres of paperwork long overdue. This might be the time for it. If you get any bright ideas, holler.” He waved and left the room.

He had suckered me out of seven bucks. I had paid off our bet too soon. When had
any
police department officially announced that the investigation of a murder was no longer active?

Who needed them? That’s what I asked myself, standing on the cracked blacktop of the parking lot in the hot sun, wondering where to go next.

Almost six and a half days, a lot of man-hours, had been spent by the department on the mysterious death of Maude Marner. Helms had to carry on with his public relations, Vogel had to catch up with his reports. The still living public needed protection. What else could I have expected?