The Patrolman - 21

 

 

21.

 

 

 

Lacey stood outside, smoking a Lucky down to the filter. He lit another, letting the smoke settle in his lungs, and ran it over in his head.

They didn’t have a warrant, so they took the back way in. They saw the kitchen door, smashed in. Shards of glass covered the patio. Carruthers pulled a handkerchief, reached inside, and popped the lock. Lacey caught a footprint in the crunched glass – big, a size 12. It put the guy between 5’11” and 6’2”. A detail for later. They went inside.

William Barclay Jr. was at the kitchen table in a bathrobe. A glass of milk. A bowl of ice cream melted into soup. There were three people in the room, but only two of them were breathing.

Carruthers searched the rest of the house. Lacey took the body. He squatted down and took a mental picture. Barclay had bad tan lines on his wrist. The armhairs glued flat and thinning. A missing watch. The kind of guy who never took it off, not even to sleep. Someone had pulled it. The face was a mask of surprise. Frozen. But something was off. His chair faced the broken door. If the killer had come through there, Barclay would’ve seen him. Lacey checked behind the head. There were powder burns on the right ear. The kill shot. The guy never heard it coming. Three in the temple.

Not a burglary. A cover-up.

Carruthers came back. Said the place had been tossed.

A setup. The killer wanted it to look like a burglary gone bad, but he got sloppy. The body was all wrong. He took his brass – a sign of a professional. But not mob work. The mob would’ve done it in public or made sure there was nothing to find. This was something else.

Carruthers said there was hardcore smut running in the den.

Lacey couldn’t work it out. He let it sit while he stepped outside, perching on the Lincoln. He waited for Beverly Hills P.D. to arrive.  

He ground the second Lucky under his heel and pocketed the butt. What the hell was taking them so long? He already knew how it would go from working Wilshire Traffic. BHPD would roll up, steamroll the scene, and push them out. They’d promise updates and never deliver. There were too many police departments in this county. Too many budgets to fight over. Hollywood wouldn’t get a sniff on a case like this. Not with that name attached.

He was halfway through his third cigarette when a brown Pontiac sedan drew up outside.

 

 

Mr. Slate wasn't sure this was the best idea. What if someone had already called the cops? But he didn't know what else to do, so he drove back to Loma Vista Drive.

The car struggled up the hill. He pulled over on the right. Sun glare filled his view, and for a second, he had to blink the spots away. But even before his eyes adjusted, he knew he was in trouble. There was only one car in the driveway - a convertible - and it wasn't Barclay's. A man sat on the hood, blowing smoking rings, eyeballing him.

The guy had on a fedora and a charcoal-gray suit. As soon as Mr. Slate killed the engine, the man slid off the hood and headed toward him.

No use running. Time to face the music. He grabbed the clutch bag and stepped out of the car.

'Can I help you, sir?' the man called out.

Hot and flustered. Mr. Slate didn't know what he was doing. He fumbled with the car door and the bag slipped from his grip. It hit the asphalt with a small thud.

'Naw,' he said. 'All good. Think I gots me the wrong house.'

The man stopped at the gate. His eyes were large and serious, but not unkind. 'What number are you looking for?'

Mr. Slate reached into his memory for Barclay's number and came up blank. 'Uh, 1120?'

The clutch lay on the ground between him and the car. The man hadn’t noticed it yet. He crossed the sidewalk and stopped beside the car, but he was looking at the houses across the street.

'Well, that place is 1201. Next door’s 1220. So 1120’s gotta be back the way you came.' The man was in his late 20s. Not thin, not fat. His skin had that tanned look that made it hard to place him. White folks might’ve given him trouble about it when he was a kid. He had the kind of face that belonged anywhere and nowhere.

Mr. Slate needed to keep him looking at eye level.

'Aw, shucks. You're a pal. I'ma be late.' He locked the car and started walking down the hill, leaving the bag behind. No way could he risk picking it up now.

'Wait,' the man said.

Mr. Slate turned, keeping his face calm.

'You can't park there.'

Mr. Slate hesitated, then decided to spin the dial. 'Why's that? You the homeowner?'

The man forced a smile. 'No, sir. I'm a police officer. We have reinforcements on the way. Need them to park here.'

His stomach twisted. A cop. And more on the way.

'What's happened?'

'Can't say, sir. But I'll need you to move your car.'

Another cop stepped out of the house, walking toward them.

Mr. Slate told him he was happy to. He unlocked the car and got behind the wheel, but the bag was too far under to grab. He got the key in the ignition, started the engine and waved. He put his right arm around the passenger seat, and started to reverse.

A tap on the window.

He cracked it an inch. 'I'm late, officer. I need this job.'

'It won't take a minute, sir. Turn the engine off and step outside, please.'

He thought about it. Thought about jamming the car into gear and gunning it up the hill. About making a turn and cutting back to Sunset Boulevard. From Sunset, he could go anywhere. But he wouldn't make it 10 years before they put a bullet in him. He knew how this went. He felt heavy as he shut off the engine and got out again.

The older cop had taken charge. 'License and registration, pal.'

Fake name. Fake everything. The older cop quizzed him on the date of birth.

The cop took his time, circling the car, peering inside. He stopped at the trunk for a second, then came around to the driver’s side. Mr. Slate kicked the clutch under the car, but it scraped against the ground.

'You drop something?'

His gut clenched. Time to act. This was Tinseltown, after all.

He looked down, feigned surprise. 'Huh. Guess so.'

The young cop bent and picked up the bag. He handed it to his partner, who rifled through it.

'Spill it?'

'Say what?'

'What you're doing here.'

Mr. Slate fed him the wrong-house story, but the older cop shook his head. 'The truth.'

He looked to the younger officer, but he couldn't help him now. He took a breath, then spun half-truths and outright lies. Said he'd worked a party at this house last night, collecting glasses. Said the owner had money to throw at Al Jolson but stiffed the workers on their pay. He came back to collect. Folks down the street told him the man was a crook. That he had a trust fund and a mansion but liked stiffing the working man. Mr. Slate brought the story to a close. That he spotted the clutch lying in the street when he pulled up. It looked expensive. Might've had enough inside to make up for the lost wages.

The older cop nodded like he bought it. 'Tough break,' he said. 'But there's 10 bucks in here, if there's that. We found the owner dead this morning. Seems you ain't getting paid after all. You wasted a journey.'

Mr. Slate widened his eyes. 'Damn. Didn't think nothin' of it, but I seen him with two girls last night. Real young. I was gon' use that to get my money.'

The younger cop perked up. 'Can you describe them, please?'

He told them. The two men looked at each other in agreement.

'If you remember anything else,' the older cop said. 'Call Hollywood Station. Ask for Carruthers and Lacey.'

Mr. Slate nodded at the young one - so this was Lacey. The guy he'd pretended to be.

 

 

The Negro got back in his car and took off.

'What do you think?'

'It tracks,' Carruthers said. 'There was a party here. But it means our killer took two this time. He's breaking pattern.'

'Can I look at her driver's license?'

Carruthers passed him the clutch. He flipped it open and read the name and address. Carmelita Sabella and Nora Valdez were roommates.

Why were they hanging around with a creep like William Barclay?

Lacey gestured at the house. 'You think our guy did this?'

'No, I don't. That's something else. That's B.H.P.D.'s headache now, not ours. Once we're done here, we go by the girls' place. If we're right, Nora Valdez will be the next body we find.'

On cue, a half-dozen black-and-whites rolled up, lights flashing but no sirens. B.H.P.D., ready to take over.