Circling the Runway (Jake Diamond Mysteries Book 4) Page 13

“Give the lieutenant my best. Let me know as soon as he has something. Anything else?”

  “If DiMarco killed Sandoval, I doubt he had personal reasons unless Sandoval put him away sometime. It’s much more likely DiMarco was a hired gun and was murdered by his employer. Discovering who killed DiMarco could be the key.”

  “I’m inclined to agree. So get to work.”

  And that was that.

  Johnson left without answers and without the Zippo.

  Less than a three minute walk from Vallejo Street Central Police Station, Norman Hall sat nursing his third cup of coffee at a window seat in Café Trieste. From his vantage point, Hall could easily watch Molinari’s Deli across Columbus Avenue. He had been watching for more than an hour, since before Darlene Roman stepped off the Broadway bus, walked into the deli, came out a few minutes later carrying a small white paper bag, and disappeared through the entrance of the building that led to the offices above.

  Norman nearly jumped out of his seat when Jake Diamond walked past the window, so close Hall could almost touch him. He couldn’t understand why Diamond was walking away from the delicatessen and his office. He watched Diamond walk to the intersection of Vallejo and Columbus Avenue before crossing the avenue. Diamond approached the building from the north—it seemed as if he was avoiding a walk past the deli.

  Fifteen feet away, at another table in the café, looking out of the same window with her back to Norman Hall, Detective Megan Nicolace found it odd also.

  Alone in her office, Lieutenant Laura Lopez sat with her elbows resting on her desk and her head resting in her hands. Her hair fell across her face and forearms like a cascade of reddish-gold waves. The Alka-Seltzer cure had been temporary at best. The lieutenant had not eaten anything all morning. The thought of trying food as a remedy was repulsive. Lopez had consumed so much water in the past few hours she didn’t think she could swallow another drop. The throbbing pain in her temples, neck and shoulders was back in full force. The fact that in less than two hours she would be required to team with Liam Duffey’s lead investigator and pretend to cooperate for perhaps as long as it took to arrest, indict and convict Roberto Sandoval’s killer only compounded her discomfort.

  Lopez pushed her hair back away from her face and looked at the Zippo lighter sitting on the desk. She had been ready for Sergeant Johnson, had expected him, and had been prepared to deflect any question with a yes or a no, or with a question of her own. But she was totally unprepared for the lighter.

  Johnson had asked, innocently or rhetorically, if she had ever seen one like it.

  It had not been so easy to evade that question.

  Laura Lopez had seen a Zippo lighter exactly like it.

  Johnson sat at his desk, with Jake Diamond’s phone number sitting by his telephone and his hand on the receiver. He had every intention of calling Diamond since Lieutenant Lopez had so effectively shut him down, but he was hesitating. He was trying to decide whether to make the call or wait.

  He was saved by the bell when the telephone rang.

  It was Joe Beggs from forensics.

  “We found a key under the passenger seat of the Cadillac that the owner of the vehicle couldn’t identify. It may have belonged to DiMarco or whoever killed him. Unless you have another idea.”

  “I might. Could you let it out of your hands for a while?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. I’ll send someone over for it.”

  Johnson buzzed Yardley at the front desk.

  “Could you locate Officer Davey Cutler for me?” he asked.

  “He’s out on patrol,” Yardley reported. “I could radio him.”

  “Would you do that, ask him to call me.”

  “Sure.”

  Cutler called minutes later.

  “I need you to pick up a key from Beggs at forensics and try it on the door to Roberto Sandoval’s apartment,” Johnson said. “Let me know as soon as you find out if the key is a fit or not.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cutler said, thrilled to be back in the game.

  Marco Weido paced his living room with the television on. He needed to be at an appointment in San Francisco in less than ninety minutes, but his missing gun was distracting him. Weido lit one cigarette after another with a red plastic lighter, the need to use the ninety-nine-cent piece-of-crap only aggravated him further. He was just about to head upstairs to shower and dress for his meeting when the TV program was interrupted by a news bulletin.

  A thirty-eight caliber hand gun, discovered by the San Francisco Police Department in the trunk of stolen Cadillac, had been identified as the weapon that had been used to kill Assistant D.A. Roberto Sandoval late Wednesday night.

  Also in the trunk was the body of ex-convict Salvatore DiMarco of Oakland, killed from a gunshot wound to the head. Ballistic testing had determined the bullet that killed DiMarco was also .38 caliber, but had not been fired from the same weapon. The evidence suggested there may have been more than one perpetrator involved in Sandoval’s death.

  Lieutenant Lopez, who made the announcement, declined to offer any additional speculation.

  The lieutenant reminded reporters that the San Francisco Homicide Division was in the business of solid investigation, not in the business of playing guessing games.

  Lopez assured the Press that further information would be made public when, and only when, it could be substantiated.

  Marco Weido decided it would be a good idea to postpone the meeting until later in the day, whether his employer agreed or not. He made the phone call, and was very grateful when the call went straight to voicemail. He expressed his regret that he would not be able to make the appointment, and added he hoped the meeting could be rescheduled for later in the afternoon. He apologized for any inconvenience and he disconnected.

  Weido was relieved to have that out of the way, at least temporarily, but there were much more troubling concerns. As much as he missed having it, he was not too worried about the cigarette lighter. There were a good number of those lighters around. The gun was an entirely different story. If found it could be connected to the bullet that killed Sal DiMarco.

  And if the fuck who pinched the weapon led the police to his front door, Marco would have a lot of explaining to do.

  Weido lit another Marlboro and threw the plastic piece-of-shit lighter against the wall.

  Lieutenant Lopez had barely survived her statement to the press.

  She had fought through the pain in her head, said what she had to say, and had quickly retreated.

  Lopez had just forced down a couple of extra-strength Excedrin tablets when Yardley rang from the front desk.

  “I have good news and bad news, Lieutenant. Would you like the good news first?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I just received word that your noon appointment has been put-off until three this afternoon.”

  “That is good news. What’s the bad news?”

  “We located Roberto Sandoval’s widow in Italy. She will be flying into San Francisco later today. Mrs. Sandoval is meeting Dr. Altman at seven to officially identify the body.”

  “And?”

  “She insisted the lead investigator be there at that time.”

  “Terrific. You’re batting a thousand, Yardley.”

  “No need to thank me, Lieutenant.”

  “I wasn’t going to, Sergeant.”

  Cutler called shortly after eleven.

  “Worked like a charm, Sergeant.”

  “Okay, bring the key back to Beggs and forget about it for a while. Go back to what you were doing. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good work. Thanks, Davey.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Johnson put down the receiver, wondering whether it was all that helpful to be right about his hunches so often.

  It was a new ballgame.

  Obtaining the access code to the parking garage at Roberto Sandoval’s building would not be exceedingly di
fficult.

  Getting hold of a key to Roberto Sandoval’s apartment was, on the other hand, a very impressive accomplishment.

  He could not decide whether or not to go straight to Lopez with the news.

  He wished Amy would return his call and help him, as only she could, work out what to do about Lopez. And what to do about Jake Diamond.

  Johnson realized he was famished. He decided all other considerations could wait until after lunch.

  Ralph Morrison was a police groupie, a police hound.

  Since high school, Morrison had wanted nothing more than to be a member of the Oakland Police Department. He had signed up for the first Iraq war because he thought it would look good on his résumé. A wound sustained in Kuwait left his right arm and hand useless. Ralph’s dreams of becoming a police officer and hopefully, in time, a plain clothes detective, were replaced by a monthly disability check.

  Since then, Ralph had spent what could have been idle time with a studious daily examination of crime in Oakland and with what the police department was doing about it. He listened to dispatches on his shortwave radio, and he spent hours in and around police stations, talking with officers as they entered and exited, with endless inquiries about the state of the war on crime. Ralph knew them all by name, and many of them could tell you his name, although some of the tags they employed to identify Ralph The Grinch Morrison were not flattering.

  When Morrison walked into the Buttercup Grill and Bar on Broadway, a five minute stroll from the Oakland Police Station on Seventh Street, he spotted a familiar face immediately. He moved quickly across the restaurant and sat in a booth opposite a man working on a large plate of pork chops and eggs.

  “Hey,” Ralph said.

  “Roll Call Ralph,” Marco Weido said. “How’s it hanging?”

  “I’m surprised to find you here. I thought you had a fancy new job across the bay.”

  “Haven’t found a place there yet where I can get a Coors draft with my breakfast.”

  “Did you hear about Sal DiMarco?” Ralph asked.

  “Which Sal DiMarco?” Weido replied.

  “Salvatore ‘Buttonhead’ DiMarco. They found him dead in the trunk of a Cadillac over in Frisco.”

  “Good choice of vehicles. Roomy trunks. They have any idea who whacked him?”

  “Nothing yet. They’re working on a lead.”

  “Oh?”

  “They found a lighter at the scene. And get this. It was a Zippo with an Oakland PD logo, old time. Don Folgueras is working up a list of anyone who may have owned one like it for a homicide detective in San Francisco.”

  “Homicide dick have a name?”

  “Johnson, Sergeant Roxton Johnson,” Ralph said.

  “Nice moniker. Anything else?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then let me finish my breakfast,” Weido said.

  “Sure,” Ralph said, rising from his seat. “Good seeing you.”

  Ralph Morrison headed for the restaurant counter.

  “And Ralph,” Weido called after him.

  “Yes?” Ralph said, hoping to be invited to stay.

  “If you hear anything else, be sure to let me know.”

  Johnson didn’t want to stray far from his desk so he had ordered out from Mo’s Restaurant on Grant Street. Mo’s had a legendary reputation for huge portions and prompt delivery.

  The Belly Buster was a half-pound char-broiled hamburger smothered in sautéed mushrooms, caramelized onions and melted cheddar with a side of French fries and killer homemade chili, accompanied by a large Root Beer Float to wash it all down.

  Rocky Johnson felt pleased with one of his decisions for the first time all morning.

  His wife, Amy, would have been horrified.

  The phone on Johnson’s desk rang a few minutes before noon, just as he finished off the float.

  Lieutenant Folgueras calling from Oakland.

  “I worked up a preliminary list of Oakland police officers who were in possession of one of the Zippo lighters initially. It’s not complete, I’ll keep working on it, but I thought you might want to see what came up so far,” Folgueras reported. “I can shoot it over.”

  “That would be great,” Johnson said, giving Folgueras the fax number at Vallejo.

  “We’re working as quickly as possible on clearing the gun used in the attempted liquor store stick-up. If it doesn’t tie into something more sinister over here, I might be able to get it over to you as early as tomorrow morning.”

  “Great, Don. I really appreciate your help.”

  “Anything else you need right now?” Folgueras asked.

  “Just the fax, Lieutenant. Thanks again.”

  A few minutes later, Johnson retrieved the two-page print-out from the office fax machine and walked it back to his desk.

  He quickly scanned the first page, and then went on to the next.

  The name Victor Lopez jumped off the second page like a frightened jackrabbit.

  Sergeant Johnson set the list on his desk and reached for Jake Diamond’s phone number.

  TWENTY

  Call me Nostradamus.

  The scene at St. Mary’s was nearly a carbon copy of what I had predicted it would be.

  Vinnie’s mom had arrived early, in time to be at the head of the line when visiting hours began.

  It had been some time since I had seen Mrs. Stradivarius, but she had not changed a lick. She remained a very attractive woman and she held herself with great dignity, despite the poor hand she had been dealt. Her husband had fallen or been pushed off the roof of a seven-story building when Vinnie was fifteen years old. The insurance company tried to withhold benefits on the grounds that Sarge Stradivarius’ death was a suicide.

  Jimmy Pigeon used all of his resources to convince the courts to rule the fall an accident and Sarge’s wife and son ultimately collected the life insurance settlement.

  Pigeon took Vinnie under his wing and became a substitute father for the troubled teen. Although Vinnie did not inherit his father’s drinking problems, the boy did become heir to the gambling gene. Big-time. Jimmy Pigeon had always suspected the plunge from the roof had been aided by someone Sarge owed money to, unpaid loans to cover unsuccessful gambling wagers.

  Now Vinnie was in the same sort of mess.

  And with Jimmy gone, it was up to me to come to Vinnie’s rescue.

  Good old Uncle Jake.

  In truth, Frances Stradivarius knew her son was not exactly an angel, but she also knew Vinnie was basically a well-meaning kid and she was totally devoted to her thirty-two-year-old boy.

  When I walked into the hospital room, Frances was sitting at Vinnie’s bedside holding his hand. His hand was one of the few parts of his body not covered with bruises. Vinnie looked better than he had the night before, which is like saying Rocky Balboa looked better than Apollo Creed after their first championship bout. And his speech was unimpaired, which isn’t necessarily an improvement considering his impressive ability to talk a blue streak.

  Dr. Shepherd had finally allowed a police officer to enter and question Vinnie after his mother arrived, and Fran insisted she be present for the interview. So Vinnie told both the same story.

  He had been heading down the stairs to the Powell Street BART station when a man running to catch a train hit him from behind and sent him bouncing to the bottom of the stone steps.

  Not bad.

  At least it seemed Vinnie had convinced his audience.

  Vinnie Strings liked to consider himself my “right-hand man.” In reality he was more like a second left foot.

  I tried keeping Vinnie busy helping Darlene and I with minor private investigation assignments, in the same manner Jimmy Pigeon had, in an attempt to keep him out of the kind of mess he had managed to get himself into.

  To his credit, he tried very hard to assist us.

  There was not much Vinnie disliked. The three things Vinnie did not like were losing bets, as good as he was at it, disappointing me, and color photography.
I had the delusional notion I could find out more about his trouble with Manny Sandoval. How much he owed? How long he had to come up with payment? What Vinnie could expect if he failed to deliver?

  I had ways of extracting information from Vinnie on those rare occasions when he was reluctant to talk, mostly involving assurances that he had not let me down or pissed me off.

  I was hoping for anything that might aid negotiations when Travis Duncan set up a chit-chat with Manny Sandoval later that night, as Travis had assured me he would. But Strings was not about to admit to me he had totally screwed up, again, unless I walked into the hospital room in a jogging suit with a mutt on a leash and a paper bag over my head with a big smile penciled on it pretending to be Darlene. And even then, not as long as his mother was glued to his bedside.

  So we ruminated on the upcoming baseball season and about the weather and I excused myself on the grounds I did not wish to further impose on quality time between mother and son.

  Call me non-confrontational.

  From St. Mary’s Hospital I headed for the office to put that particular skill through a series of true challenges.

  My route to the office might have raised some eyebrows had anyone bothered to notice. I went out of my way to approach my destination from the north, avoiding a stroll past the entrance of Molinari’s and a chance encounter with Angelo Verdi.

  Call me stealthy.

  I made it into the building unscathed.

  I wasn’t as fortunate when I walked through the door of Diamond Investigations. Darlene looked up from her desk and got right down to it.

  “Sir Galahad. Good of you to drop in. I brought coffee up for you. It’s ice cold. I didn’t want to bring you donuts so I didn’t.”

  I let it slide.

  “Angelo asked if you had taken care of my ‘problem’. I wasn’t quite sure which problem he was referring to, since I have more than a few. Nevertheless, I told him you had done so, admirably. Your reward is a free order of octopus salad his wife whipped up this morning.”