Circling the Runway (Jake Diamond Mysteries Book 4) Page 12

  She wanted to tear the envelope and its contents into a thousand pieces and flush it down the toilet with the rest of the cherry flavored Alka-Seltzer. But that was not an option. It had been found in Roberto Sandoval’s apartment, it had been bagged as evidence by one or both of the first officers at the scene, and it had peeked out at Johnson from her jacket pocket.

  Misplacing evidence in a murder investigation was one thing. Destroying it was something else entirely. If push came to shove, she would need to produce the envelope.

  She could only hope Johnson wouldn’t push too hard.

  Lopez wondered if her timing could have possibly been any worse.

  She wondered if she could ever hope to find anything to replace the pleasure of lighting up a cigarette and embracing the irony when the shit hit the fan.

  Solving the case wouldn’t hurt. A motive and a few leads would certainly help.

  The lieutenant thought she knew what her father would have recommended, but she didn’t feel quite ready for sound advice.

  She didn’t feel quite ready for the trip to the Vallejo Street Station.

  Lopez elected to put it off for a few hours and decided on another cup of coffee.

  Sergeant Johnson was at his desk at the Vallejo Street Station at seven Friday morning, drumming his fingers on his desk and trying to decide where to begin. He would strongly insist Lopez talk with him the moment she arrived, and try to keep focused on the work at hand while he waited.

  Johnson called ballistics and asked for Thomas Yeatman.

  “This is Officer Jimmy Chapman. Detective Yeatman is not expected until eight. Is there something I can help you with?”

  The officer on the other end of the line sounded eager. He also sounded like he was in his teens.

  Wonderful.

  “Please ask Yeatman to call Sergeant Johnson at Vallejo Station as soon as he gets in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chapman said.

  Johnson placed the receiver in its cradle and picked it up again almost immediately. He called Amy’s parents’ house in Philadelphia, hoping her father would not be the one to answer.

  Her father answered.

  “Sterling Singleton the second, may I help you?”

  “This is Roxton, sir. Could I speak with Amy?”

  “Amy and her sister are at the catering hall putting some finishing touches on the arrangements for tomorrow evening.”

  “Would you please tell her I called,” Johnson said, and then before waiting for a reply that might never come added, “Thank you,” and hung up.

  It was seven-sixteen. Johnson was sure the day could only get better after such a disappointing start.

  He was wrong.

  Every morning, without fail, rain or shine, Darlene Roman took Tug McGraw for a walk through Buena Vista Park for twenty to thirty minutes. It was a routine hard to break. So Darlene found herself walking through the park on Friday morning, even though the dog was away frolicking in Marin County.

  As she circled the park, alternating between a brisk walk and an easy jog, she thought about the previous evening.

  She thought about Diamond. How, in spite of his stubborn concern, he had been sort of cute charging to her rescue, like a knight in wrinkled armor. She had first met Diamond through Jimmy Pigeon, who she had occasionally worked for in Santa Monica. When Jake decided to take a shot at starting his own investigation business and set up shop in San Francisco, he offered Darlene a job and she accepted. She had always liked Jake, and she was not one to spend time with anyone she did not like. But Diamond’s dress habits and his eating habits and his complete lack of business acumen often drove her up the wall. And the benefit of computers was as foreign to him as the Mongolian alphabet. If you mentioned email to Jake, he thought you wanted to discuss Zola, and when you told Jake, time and again, that he could find an answer to his question by surfing the internet he was like a kid lost in a supermarket. In these areas he was not about to change. He would continue to fight tooth and nail against technology. He would never hope to balance a financial log, except perhaps on the top of his head. He would never get away from cigarettes or a terrible diet or Tennessee whiskey or mismatched outfits or wild-goose chases. But after Jimmy Pigeon was murdered and Sally French had been killed, he had changed in more meaningful ways. Jake became more sensitive and more compassionate, and he became much more adept at being a friend. At the same time he became tougher. He was impossible not to like, difficult not to care for, hard not to love, and he was very charming in his goofy way.

  Darlene ended her walk through the park, absentmindedly expecting Tug McGraw to brush up against her legs.

  She stood waiting for the traffic to offer her an opening to cross over to Frederick Street.

  Darlene asked a man on a nearby bench for the time.

  The young man wore dark glasses and a Giants ball cap.

  “Seven-fifty-two,” he said, not looking up at her.

  “Thank you,” she said, and then she crossed Buena Vista Park West toward her house.

  Norman Hall removed the dark glasses and watched her all the way to her door.

  At five after eight the phone on Johnson’s desk rang. It was Thomas Yeatman from ballistics returning his call.

  “Tommy, I need a favor,” Johnson said.

  “I’m already doing you a favor. Delaying identification of the gun in the trunk with DiMarco as the weapon that killed Roberto Sandoval is like sitting on a powder keg with a short fuse. And I can only sit on it until noon.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. But I need another favor.”

  “I drink Johnnie Walker Black.”

  “Noted. Is it possible to have the bullet that killed DiMarco sent over to Oakland?”

  “Not possible, Rocky. Why do you ask?”

  “I need it compared to a thirty-eight used in an attempted holdup in Oakland yesterday.”

  “Was anyone shot with the gun during the robbery?”

  “No. Not then. But it had been fired recently.”

  “Well, you might be able to get Oakland to send the gun here, and I can run the tests. The slug that killed DiMarco is evidence in a murder case. There is no way I could let it out of our hands. Are you working on another wild hunch?”

  “I’m clutching at straws, Tommy,” Johnson confessed. “I’ll see if Oakland will send the weapon over. I really can’t thank you enough for your help.”

  “Johnnie Walker...”

  “Black. I’ll let you know what Oakland decides.”

  Johnson ended the call and immediately phoned Oakland.

  “Oakland Police Department, Perry speaking.”

  “Officer Perry, this is Sergeant Johnson.”

  “You were with Lieutenant Folgueras at the liquor store yesterday.”

  “That’s right. Could I speak with the lieutenant?”

  “He’s not expected in until nine, Sergeant.”

  Terrific.

  “Please ask him to call me.”

  “I sure will,” Perry said.

  Johnson slammed the receiver down into its cradle, picked it up and slammed it down again.

  Tony Carlucci was sitting at the breakfast table with his wife, Carmella, and his son, Anthony Jr. He was scanning the front page story in the San Francisco Examiner.

  “Jesus Christ,” Carlucci said. “Is Liam Duffey one lucky bastard or what?”

  “Tony, please watch your language,” his wife said. “What do you mean?”

  “Roberto Sandoval was murdered late Wednesday night.”

  “That’s terrible,” Carmella said. “But what does it have to do with Duffey and his luck?”

  “Liam Duffey is planning a run at the Mayor’s seat, and Sandoval was a shoe-in to move into the D.A.’s office if Duffey makes it to City Hall. Have you seen the latest polls? Duffey numbers keep falling. It’s doubtful he can even win the nomination for mayor and he must know it.”

  “And?”

  “And if Duffey can’t be mayor, he at least want
s to keep his job as head District Attorney, but if Sandoval ran against him in that race, Duffey would be back to chasing ambulances. So, I’m thinking what happened to Sandoval is a piece of luck for Duffey.”

  “Why are you so cynical, Tony?”

  “It’s my nature.”

  “Are you saying Duffey had something to do with what happened to Sandoval?” Carmella asked.

  “How would I know? And frankly, I couldn’t care less if these goddamn lawyers and politicians all killed each other.”

  “Tony, please don’t talk that way.”

  “How is Cousin Benny?” Anthony Jr. asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

  “Benny is an idiot. He’s up on a grand theft auto rap,” Tony said. “If you ever do something like that, Anthony, I will personally break both your arms.”

  “Tony, that’s a horrible thing to say,” Carmella cried.

  “It is a horrible thing to say. So I hope I never have to say it again.”

  “Why would I ever steal a car, Pop,” Anthony Jr. asked. “You already gave me two of them.”

  “This coffee is cold,” Tony Carlucci replied.

  At nine-fourteen Lieutenant Don Folgueras called from Oakland.

  “Ballistics can’t release the bullet that killed Sal DiMarco,” Johnson reported.

  “And you’re wondering if we can send the gun to you.”

  “Yes,” Johnson said.

  “Give us a day to run it against recent shootings over here. I’ll try getting it to you sometime tomorrow if I have to deliver it personally.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The odds that the hold-up gun also killed DiMarco would make Mr. Ed’s chances against Secretariat look good.”

  “I have nothing to bet on but long shots,” Johnson said.

  “And if by some miracle we get a match,” Folgueras added, “it might do you no good at all. The boy, Sanchez, is hanging by a thread in intensive care. He may not make it. And if he dies before he can say where he got the gun, you would be back to square one.”

  “I’ll pray for the kid,” Johnson said.

  “Wouldn’t hurt to pray for all of them,” Folgueras said.

  EIGHTEEN

  I woke Friday morning feeling more rested and clear-headed than I had felt in nearly two days, back before St. Patrick had his way with me. I treated myself to a shower while coffee was brewing. I threw on a pair of sweatpants and a vintage New York Mets T-shirt. It was a cool morning, so I hid the T-shirt under a red plaid flannel. I carried a large mug of coffee and a Camel non-filtered cigarette out to the back yard and settled into an unusually comfortable piece of lawn furniture facing the Golden Gate Bridge. The air was crisp, the sky was crystal clear, and I had the feeling you sometimes get when greeted by a fresh new morning.

  You know the one.

  It’s a beautiful day and it’s great to be alive.

  Once the caffeine and the nicotine kicked in I was able to see things more realistically.

  I am not generally a negative person. Not the one to always expect the worst. But the words Thank God it’s Friday were not exactly rolling off my tongue, and my prospects for a delightful time would have challenged the President of the Optimist Club.

  The odds in favor of a beautiful day were slim to none, and Slim had already left town.

  A mental list of what I had to look forward to in the next sixteen hours or so made it painfully obvious.

  First would be a visit to St. Mary’s Hospital to discover if Vinnie Strings looked more like Vinnie and less like a pile of purple mashed potatoes than he had the night before. I was sure Vinnie’s mom would be up from Los Angeles. And I was sure Mrs. Stradivarius would not relent until I explained, to her satisfaction, how such a terrible thing could happen to her sweet innocent angel.

  I would have no satisfactory explanation.

  Next, I would need to sneak into my office and somehow avoid being confronted by Angelo Verdi. Angelo would be prepared with twenty questions about Darlene and her stalker, which would only serve to remind me of the unappealing plan of action Darlene and Detective Nicolace had drummed up to trap Norman Hall, and would have me stealing quick looks out of windows and glancing over my shoulder to see if the creep was lurking about. I then realized I didn’t need reminders from Angelo. I prayed I could tip-toe past him nevertheless.

  I had no cases in progress and none expected. A condition that gave the term private investigation unwelcomed new meaning.

  I thought if I spent some time in the office it would alert the cosmos to the fact I needed some work, and soon. The possibility that our next client might be a San Francisco police Detective Sergeant was not exactly the solution to a distressing lack of gainful employment I was hoping for.

  The very thought gave me the unnerving feeling I would rather take up golf.

  If an excursion to the hospital, an attempt to slip into my office like a thief in the night, and the dreaded probability of a call from Sergeant Johnson were not enough to look forward to, there was the matter of Travis Duncan and what he might have in mind for dealing with Manny Sandoval and his goons.

  I could hardly wait to hear about it.

  I remembered it was St. Joseph’s Day, which in turn reminded me I had a dinner engagement with Joey and Angela Vongoli. I had told Joey that Darlene might choose to pass on the invite. Darlene would not eat meat, and my dining habits and the variety of cooked animals I regularly brought into the office often made it difficult for her to be in the same room. Angela’s holiday dinner table would be a meat lover’s dream, but her salads and vegetable side dishes were legendary and meatless. Joey would surely have the very best Chianti on hand. And the Zeppole di San Giuseppe, traditional fist-size golden pastry prepared traditionally for St. Joseph’s Day, was a cannoli cream-filled miracle even Darlene found tough to resist.

  I made up my mind I would use this ammunition to try convincing Darlene to join us. I knew how much the Vongoli’s enjoyed her company. Darlene Roman was infinitely more fun at social gatherings than I was.

  And I wanted to keep Darlene in my sight, and out of Norman Hall’s sight.

  I was determined to do a great deal of arm twisting once I maneuvered past Angelo Verdi and reached Darlene at the office.

  My coffee was gone, so I rose from my seat. I stretched my arms and took a deep breath. I could smell the ocean and I felt the Pacific mist in the air. I looked out to the bridge, the tops of its magnificent pillars partially hidden behind a parade of pure white clouds.

  I could not help recognizing it was truly a beautiful morning.

  And despite my endless complaining I was compelled to admit it was, in fact, not all that bad being alive.

  NINETEEN

  The phone on Johnson’s desk rang at nine-fifty-six.

  “She just walked in,” the desk sergeant reported.

  “Thanks, Yardley,” Johnson said.

  Laura Lopez climbed the stairs to her second floor office and found Johnson waiting at her door.

  “Good morning,” Lopez said.

  “Good morning. We need to talk.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “It would be better now.”

  “Well,” she said, opening the door and hitting the light switch. “Let’s talk.”

  Johnson followed her into the office. Lopez sat at her desk.

  “Have a seat,” she said.

  “I’ve been sitting for three hours.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Can you tell me about the evidence you removed from Roberto Sandoval’s apartment?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “All I will say about it is I hope you can forget about it,” Lopez said. “And please sit down, Sergeant.”

  Johnson sat.

  “I only want to help you,” Johnson said. “If you are in some kind of jam, let me help you.”

  “No.”

  Johnson had expected resistance, but he was unprepared for total dismissal.

/>   “Is there anything else?” Lopez asked.

  Johnson decided not to push.

  “The murder victim in the trunk of the Cadillac Benny Carlucci took for a joy ride was identified.”

  “I heard. Salvatore DiMarco.”

  “There was a thirty-eight in the trunk with DiMarco. It was the gun that killed Sandoval.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yeatman at ballistics made a positive match.”

  “When was that?”

  “Late yesterday. I tried reaching you. I asked him to sit on it until I could let you know. He can only wait until noon today.”

  “What clued you to the possibility that DiMarco might be a suspect?”

  “The parking garage code to Sandoval’s building was found tucked into DiMarco’s shoe.”

  “And he didn’t use it?”

  “He may have used it, but on the way in or the way out he chose, for some reason, to use the lobby and kill the doorman. Or he killed no one and it is all an elaborate set-up.”

  “Anything solid on who killed DiMarco?”

  “Nothing. Could have been anyone, with the exception of Benny Carlucci.”

  “I’ll talk to Yeatman before noon and make it official.”

  “Let Yeatman know he’s not in hot water.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Have you ever seen one of these?” Johnson asked, pulling the Zippo from his pocket.

  “A lighter?”

  “I found it on the ground where Carlucci stumbled across the Cadillac.”

  Johnson handed the lighter across the desk to Lopez.

  Lopez studied it for a moment and laid it on the desk.

  “And?” she asked.

  “These particular lighters were issued in the nineties to Oakland police detectives of merit. Lieutenant Folgueras over in Oakland is trying to get me a list of recipients.”

  “I know Don Folgueras,” Lopez said.

  “He mentioned it.”