To Die in Beverly Hills (26 page)

Higgins stepped closer, wrapping the cuffs around his right fist like brass knuckles. Carr went over to the door and locked it. In a fighting stance, Higgins moved closer to DeMille. "Come on, clown, you still wanna resist?"

DeMille looked frantic as he backed up until he was against the wall. "I don't know who the guy was who bailed her out," he said. "It was the first time I'd ever seen him."

"What was his name?" Carr said.

"He was a friend of a friend." DeMille's eyes were wide and focused on Higgins, who dropped his guard but remained standing directly in front of DeMille, twirling the handcuffs. "I don't know his real name. I swear to God."

"What name do you know him by?" Carr said.

"Just a nickname." DeMille kept his eyes on Higgins.

"Bondsmen don't post bonds for people they don't know," Carr said.

Cecil DeMille's eyes darted briefly from Higgins to Carr. With a catlike motion, Higgins snatched DeMille's wrist and twisted. DeMille groaned as he went to his knees and a handcuff was snapped on the wrist. He yanked the bondsman's other arm behind him and snapped on the other handcuff.

"His name is Bones," DeMille said. "That's all I know. I met him at a crap game one night about a year ago."

Higgins grabbed DeMille's collar. He jerked him to his feet, then roughly pushed him down into his desk chair. "Where's the file?" Higgins said.

"Will you let me go if I tell you?"

"Maybe," Carr said.

DeMille nodded toward a gray metal filing cabinet. "Top drawer."

Carr went over to the cabinet, opened the drawer and dug out a manila file folder with the word Bones scribbled on its tab. Carr opened the folder. Inside was a pink copy of a bail bond information form with Amanda Kennedy's name, date of birth and jail booking number typed on preprinted lines. In the section marked Collateral, the word Bones had been printed. There was nothing else on the form. Carr closed the folder and tossed it back in the drawer.

"What did he tell you when he asked you to bail her out?" Carr said.

DeMille squirmed in the chair, glanced up at Higgins. "If you'll take off the cuffs I'll tell you the story," he said in a defeated tone.

Carr and Higgins looked at each other. Higgins dug around in his pocket for a moment, then pulled out a small key ring. He motioned to DeMille, who stood up and turned around. Higgins removed the cuffs.

"Bones calls me up and asks me to bail this broad out of jail," he said softly while rubbing his wrists. "He says he's doing it as a favor to a friend. I said okay because I owed him a favor." He sat down in his chair.

"Why did you owe him the favor?" Carr said.

"Because I owed him some money. He sold me a set of silver and I still owed him some money for it."

"Where's the set of silver?" Carr said.

DeMille threw his hands up in exasperation, then dropped them back into his lap. "What does that have to do with the broad who got murdered?"

As if he were bored, Carr pushed back a sleeve and glanced at his wristwatch. Higgins spun the handcuffs on his index finger.

"The stuff's in the trunk of my car. It's been there for months. Bones told me the silver belonged to his aunt, who wanted to sell it and-"

"Let's see it," Carr interrupted.

"You want to
see
it?" DeMille said, looking at Higgins.

"That's what the man said."

Resigned to the situation, DeMille stood up and headed out the door. Carr and Higgins followed him past the reception area and out the front door, where he turned right and followed the sidewalk to a small parking lot adjoining the building. Parked in the lot was a pink Cadillac with black leather upholstery.
DeMille Bail Bonds
was painted in black on the driver's door in large italic script letters. DeMille reached into his pocket, pulled out a key and unlocked the trunk. He pointed to one of five or six cardboard boxes. Carr reached into the box, pulled out a sterling silver dinner plate and examined it. An engraved W was on the bottom of the plate.

"If it's hot, it's a complete surprise to me," DeMille said. "He told me it belonged to his-"

"When you bailed her out, was anyone else there?" Carr interrupted.

"Huh?"

"At the jail to pick her up?"

"No. In fact, I didn't even wait for her to come out of the lockup. I just posted the bond with the jail clerk and went about my business. I was busy as hell that day. I just posted the bond and went on my way. Even when bail is posted, it takes an hour or so for the jail to process a prisoner out of the system. I never wait once I post a bond."

Carr massaged the edge of the plate. "So you bailed her out strictly as a favor and you weren't around when they let her out of jail. Is that what you're telling us?"

Cecil DeMille tugged his ear for a moment. "Okay, Bones was with me when I bailed her out," he said sheepishly. "He was still waiting there for her to come out when I left."

"Do you have Bones's address?" Carr said.

"No. If he wants to get in touch, he calls me."

Higgins gestured toward the office. DeMille reached out to take the plate, but Carr shook his head. "You're going to keep it?" he said. Carr nodded.

Back in DeMille's office Carr picked up a card index off DeMille's desk. He looked up a telephone number and address for Bones, took out a note pad and copied the information. He shoved the note pad back in his coat pocket.

"I guess I forgot that I had his number," DeMille said nervously.

The two men turned to leave.

"What about the plate?"

Carr tucked it under his arm. "What about it?"

"If it turns up stolen, you can have it. He told me it came from his aunt. He said she-"

"Thanks," Carr said as he opened the door. Higgins followed him out of the office.

That night at Ling's, Carr and Higgins hashed over the case as they sat at the bar.

"DeMille didn't tell us everything," Higgins said. He threw back a shot glass of whiskey and grimaced. Roughly, he wiped his mouth with a bar napkin.

"I agree."

"So maybe we should pay him another visit."

Ling filled Higgins's shot glass and dropped fresh ice in Carr's scotch and water.

"For all we know, he might have killed her," Higgins said, "or at least helped Bones do the job. For that matter, maybe he knows Bailey ... hell, it could be any number of things." He turned his bar stool to face Carr. "I say we bag his ass for murder and let him sit in the county jail for a couple of days. It'll loosen him up ... and if it doesn't, we haven't lost anything."

"I want to trace the silver plate first. I've got a hunch."

"So you find out it's stolen? That and ten cents will buy you a cup of coffee."

"Maybe I can tie it to an M.O."

Higgins downed another shot, wiped his mouth again. "Then again, maybe you can't. And you'll have wasted your time when we could have been getting somewhere on this investigation. I say we stop the cat-and-mouse bullshit and turn on the pressure."

"I think we need to surveil Bones for a few days."

"Great idea," Higgins said sarcastically. "But who the hell are we gonna get to do it? He knows you, and I can't do it alone. It takes at least six cars for a decent surveillance. Where are we gonna come up with five bodies? If I ask my lieutenant for manpower I'll have to fill him in on the caper. If I do that, he'll call the captain and so on up the line. The whole damn department daisy chain will know about it. And if just one officer along the way says no I'll be out of business ... the cat will be out of the bag and the brass will be in an uproar because they weren't notified from day one. I'll be up shit creek and we'll still be short five bodies."

Carr twirled his drink on the bar. "If I tell No Waves, he'll notify the Chief of Police in Beverly Hills because the Treasury Manual of Operations requires notification to other agencies in an internal investigation. The Chief would probably notify Bailey's pal Cleaver, and the cat would still be out of the bag."

"We could make up another reason why we want to follow Bones. We could say it's because he's associated with Tony Dio or something."

Carr shook his head. "It'll never work. The men on surveillance would figure out we were pulling a fast one." Higgins nodded in agreement. "Then how do we do it?"

Carr lit a cigarette. "We play
Who Do You Trust
." He unfolded a bar napkin and pulled out a pen.

"Ernie Kun would help," Higgins said. "He once told me he hated Bailey ... some deal about Bailey shaking down one of his informants a couple of years ago."

Carr wrote Kun's name on the napkin. "B. B. Martin and Bob Tomsic from the Field Office will help. They can take heat ... and Larry Sheafe."

"Ed Henderson owes me a favor," Higgins said. "Put his name down."

Having compiled a list of names, Carr handed Ling a dollar bill and asked for a dollar's worth of dimes. Ling scooped dimes from the cash register and dropped them in Carr's hand.

For the next half hour, Carr and Higgins alternated placing phone calls from the pay booth just outside the front door. Within an hour Carr had placed a check mark beside all five names.

"If this thing comes apart we'll all burn and the guys we've brought in will have us to blame," Higgins said.

"Think positive," Carr said, turning to him. Neither he nor Higgins smiled.

As he wound carefully in and out of the westbound Santa Monica Freeway traffic, Carr half listened to a radio talk show host interview the tenor-voiced governor of California. "It's like the song goes," the governor said, "...
The Times They Are A-Changin'
... and the title of that song has a lot of meaning for Californians..."

Carr turned it off and thought of Sally for a while. Because he was sleepy, he had both front windows rolled down. The smog was gone for the day, allowing him to breathe deeply a few times. Because he was close to Santa Monica, there was a hint of salt air. Carr turned off the next exit and pulled into the first service station with a telephone booth. He dialed Sally's number and listened as the phone rang about ten times. He hung up. After filling the sedan's gas tank with regular and buying a newspaper from a vending machine, he steered back onto the freeway.

A few minutes later he was in his apartment. He took off his suit coat and tossed it on the sofa, kicked off his shoes and plopped down with the newspaper. He read the front page and the editorial pages (they were all he ever read), stood up and went to the sink. He tossed the newspaper in a trashcan. Because the sink was brimming with dirty dishes he opened the cupboard and searched for dishwashing detergent. He remembered he was out. "Damn," he said out loud.

The doorbell rang.

It was Sally, dressed in a blue jogging outfit with a matching sweatband. Her hair was soaked with perspiration and she was out of breath. She pecked his check with a kiss as she brushed past him.

"I called you a while ago," he said.

"Sure you did," she replied sarcastically. She stared at the messy kitchen. "And I'm sure you were just getting ready to wash those dirty dishes." She sat down on the sofa and leaned back. Her eyes closed.

"Why are you out jogging at eleven P.M?" he said.

"Because I need the exercise." She didn't open her eyes.