Circling the Runway (Jake Diamond Mysteries Book 4) Page 15

  Talking with his wife had helped Sergeant Johnson a great deal, but now the calmness Amy had helped him achieve was beginning to slip away.

  Johnson was waiting to hear from Diamond, to reluctantly ask for the private investigator’s assistance.

  The sergeant was also waiting for a fax from Folgueras, a list of numbers that could possibly identify the original owner of the cigarette lighter Johnson had discovered at the scene of Sal DiMarco’s last stand.

  Then he would need to work out how to get the Zippo back into his hands.

  Darlene Roman finally reached Jake on his cell phone. She could barely hear his greeting over the loud background noise.

  “Jesus, Jake, where are you, at a bull fight?”

  “Something like that, something happen?”

  “Johnson called. He would like you to call him back.”

  “Listen, Darlene. I can’t right now. Please call him for me. Ask him to meet me at the office at ten tonight.”

  “What’s going on, Jake.”

  “I can’t talk now. I will fill you in when I pick you up for dinner.”

  The line went dead. Darlene replaced the receiver and the telephone rang.

  It was Detective Nicolace.

  “I watched Norman Hall watch your house for a few hours this morning. I followed him for a while when he left, I don’t believe he will be back there again. When will you be leaving work today?”

  “I plan to leave by four. Jake will be picking me up for dinner at five-thirty.”

  “I will be looking out for Hall outside your house until Jake arrives. After you leave I’ll use the back door key and wait for you inside until you get home.”

  “We should be back between nine and nine-thirty. Jake has an appointment at ten.”

  “I’ll see you later,” Megan said.

  After ending the short conversation with Megan Nicolace, Darlene called Sergeant Johnson to relay Jake’s message.

  “Bigelow called me. He wants to make a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “The usual. Bobo gets enough cash to disappear and he forgets everything he may have seen here in Los Angeles.”

  “Boyle will find him. And Boyle will make him remember.”

  “I agree.”

  “Did Bigelow say where we could make the deal?”

  “Not exactly. Bigelow said we could contact him through a friend of his, Gloria, works at the Kit Kat Club in Oakland.”

  “So you want me to drop by the club and talk to her?”

  “I found out where she lives. Go there instead. With any luck she has Bobo stashed at her place.”

  “And if I find him?”

  “Shut him up. Forever.”

  “No problem. Give me the address.”

  Johnson’s patience was being tested, and the sergeant’s patience was not an A student.

  Johnson had been waiting for one thing or another all day. And each time it arrived, it led to more questions with answers just out of his reach.

  He finally received word from Darlene Roman. The word being he would have to wait until ten to talk to Jake Diamond.

  Just before three, Johnson finally received the list from Folgueras. Now he would need to get his hands on the cigarette lighter he had abandoned in Lopez’s office. And he wasn’t looking forward to being treated like a nuisance again.

  Rocky Johnson felt like the pilot of a plane waiting for the clearance to land, with no permission coming. Trapped in an endless holding pattern, circling the runway.

  He went over to Lopez’s office and tapped lightly on her door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  “Sorry to bother you again, Lieutenant,” he said as he walked in.

  “Can it wait? I have a meeting in a few minutes.”

  “I just need the cigarette lighter I left here earlier.”

  Lopez fished around in her desk drawer and came up with the Zippo. She rose from her seat and handed it to Johnson.

  Simple as that.

  “Something come up?”

  “Could be something, could be nothing,” Johnson replied.

  “Keep me informed.”

  Dismissed.

  “I will,” he said, and hurried out of the office.

  He nearly collided with a man moving to the lieutenant’s door.

  “Excuse me,” the man said, offering Johnson a handshake and identifying himself by name. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Lopez. I’m District Attorney Duffey’s special investigator. I have an appointment with the lieutenant.”

  Johnson transferred the Zippo from his right to his left hand and accepted the handshake.

  “I’m Sergeant Johnson. This is the lieutenant’s office. She’s expecting you.”

  “Thanks,” Duffey’s investigator said. He watched Johnson walk off, his eyes glued to the cigarette lighter in Johnson’s hand. He turned and rapped on the office door.

  “Come in.”

  Lopez looked up from her desk as he entered.

  “What a surprise,” she said. “Mr. Duffey failed to mention his new investigator would be an old colleague.”

  “Good to see you, too, Laura,” he said.

  “Have a seat, Marco. Make yourself comfortable.

  TWENTY TWO

  According to the sign prominently posted at the entrance, business hours ran between noon and two in the morning. When I went through the door, and it closed behind me, there was no way of knowing what time it actually was.

  The Kit Kat Club was dark and loud, no windows to let in daylight, no acoustics to mute the noise. It was designed to provide patrons with no clues to where they were or when, and it did the job very effectively.

  I somehow managed to find my way to the bar through all of the smoke.

  A tall, muscular bartender appeared immediately, in very tight blue jeans and a tighter tank top leaving nothing to the imagination, proudly displaying an upper-arm tattoo that read Born To Be Wild.

  She asked me what I was drinking.

  I asked for George Dickel sour-mash, doubting my chances.

  “Mr. Dickel has left the house. Will Mr. Daniels do the trick?”

  “I guess he will have to.”

  “Rocks?”

  “Sure. I’m looking for Gloria.”

  “You’re looking at Gloria,” she said.

  “My name is Jake Diamond. I’m looking for an old friend who might need my help.”

  “You came to the wrong place, Mr. Diamond. The majority of our clientele are beyond help.”

  “I’m looking for Bobo Bigelow.”

  “Sounds like the name of a circus clown.”

  Gloria looked me up and down and sideways. She placed a glass full of ice in front of me and reached behind her for a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  Before she poured, she asked for I.D.

  “It’s been a long time since I was carded for a drink,” I said, sporting an artificial smile.

  Ray Boyle had asked me to charm the lady. Believe it or not, I was giving it my best shot.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I just need to see if you are who you say you are.”

  I pulled out my wallet and I handed Gloria my laminated private investigator’s license card, goofy photo and all.

  “I can’t imagine anyone else claiming to be Jake Diamond,” I said, as she looked from me to the card and back to me again. “I have trouble admitting it myself a lot of the time.”

  “That’s one goofy photo,” she said, returning the card and pouring a healthy dose of Jack Daniels over the ice.

  “Thanks for noticing.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Gloria said.

  She walked to a telephone at the opposite end of the bar.

  I nursed the Dickel substitute.

  True to her word, Gloria was back in a flash. She grabbed a cocktail napkin and scribbled an address and a phone number.

  “Bigelow is at my place, here’s the address.”

  “I’m a sucker for wild goose chase
s, Gloria.”

  “You’ll have to wait for one. This is on the level. Bobo wants to see you. Call him at that phone number before you go in…he’s easily spooked.”

  “Thank you.”

  I rose from the stool, dropped two twenties on the bar, knocked down what was left of my drink, and turned to leave.

  “Watch your back, Mr. Diamond.”

  I pushed through the door and the daylight nearly blinded me.

  I made it to my car and climbed in, but before I fired up the engine I called Ray Boyle in Los Angeles.

  “Did you locate Bigelow?” Ray asked.

  “I think so. I’m on my way to find out. Before I go, Ray, I would appreciate knowing what I might be walking into.”

  So, Lieutenant Boyle told me what I might be walking into.

  A teenage girl, calling herself Katya, had stumbled into a Los Angeles police station four days earlier. The Ides of March.

  She had been badly beaten and did not speak English.

  With the help of a Russian translator, Katya told police she had been brought into the country from St. Petersburg with the guarantee of a position as a housekeeper for a wealthy Beverly Hills family. When she arrived, she found herself with a number of other young Russian women who had been promised the same opportunity, but were told they would need to work off the expenses of their relocation at a night club called The Volga, a Burbank establishment that doubled as a modern day bordello.

  The girls were literally held hostage, and were strongly advised against failing to meet their obligations. Katya was sent into one of the club’s private rooms with a client. She resisted and the man got rough. Two bouncers responded to the commotion and restrained the client. Katya bolted.

  The Los Angeles Police Department responded swiftly. The police raided The Volga that night and made arrests. The girls were collected and transferred to the Department of Immigration and Naturalization in an attempt to sort it all out.

  The owner of The Volga, Ivan Rimsky, was not found on the premises at the time of the raid. Detectives did not find Ivan at his home.

  The following day, Ivan contacted the Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office. He said he would agree to turn himself in, and name the man who supplied the girls to the night club, in exchange for immunity and protection. The D.A. agreed, but Rimsky never showed. Apparently Rimsky decided to run instead, and that is where Bigelow came into the picture.

  Bobo had adopted a new career in a long line of nefarious enterprises.

  “Bigelow was making ends meet forging papers,” Boyle said. “Driver’s licenses and the like. He whipped up a new passport for Ivan. When Rimsky went to Bigelow’s office on Vine Street to pick up the passport, he was followed. Bobo stepped into a back room to collect the finished document and heard gunshots. Bigelow opened the connecting door and spied a man in an expensive business suit and a very large man holding a gun. Rimsky was bleeding all over Bobo’s prized Moroccan rug. The big man turned the gun on Bigelow and squeezed off a shot, missing Bobo by inches. Bigelow slammed the door and escaped through a rear exit.”

  “And you know all of this how?” I asked Boyle.

  “I heard it from your friend Willie Dogtail.”

  “Oh?”

  “Bobo dropped in on Dogtail to catch his breath, spilled the works. Willie recommended Bobo call me. Bigelow said he had considered it but needed some time to think, mentioned he had a friend, Gloria, worked at the Kit Kat up in Oakland, who could help him lay low while he deliberated.”

  “And Willie called you.”

  “And Willie called me. I doubt there is any question the dude in the suit is the man Rimsky was going to name as the trafficker of teenage girls. I want this bastard, Diamond, for kidnapping and for murder,” Boyle said, “and Bigelow can identify him. And I can’t protect Bigelow unless he comes in.”

  “Gloria said Bobo wants to see me,” I said.

  “Then go see him, Jake. Before someone else does.”

  I started the car and headed for the address Gloria had written on the Kit Kat Club cocktail napkin.

  I pulled in to a spot at the curb across the street from the apartment building. I called the phone number Gloria had also provided. She had given me the impression that if I went in without warning, Bobo might take a back door exit again.

  There was no answer.

  I was about to leave my car when a big man, the size of an Oakland Raiders defensive lineman, hurried out of the apartment house. He looked up and down the street, rushed down the front stairs, walked quickly to the closest intersection, turned left and disappeared. His face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on where I might have seen him before.

  I waited a full ten minutes before going in.

  I found Apartment 208 and rapped on the door.

  Nothing.

  I tried the door knob, the door was unlocked. I pushed it open as far as it would go, far enough for me to see Bigelow’s body on the floor blocking the door.

  The bullet hole in Bigelow’s right temple and the pool of blood spreading around his head made checking for a pulse seem frivolous.

  I closed the door and promptly left the building.

  I was halfway across the Bay Bridge, parked on the side of a deserted road in Treasure Island, before I called Ray Boyle.

  And I finally recalled where and when I had crossed paths with the gorilla fleeing Gloria’s apartment building.

  “Did you find Bigelow?”

  “I recognized an ape coming out of the place before I went in. He used to be a strong arm for Crazy Al Pazzo. He drove Al around before Pazzo was locked away at California State Prison in Lancaster. The mook who was granted a get out of jail card for giving Pazzo up.”

  “Carmine Cicero?”

  “If that was his name, Ray, I was never formally introduced. And I’m guessing it was Cicero who shot Rimsky and parted Bigelow’s hair in Los Angeles. Do you have any idea who Carmine’s latest employer might be?”

  “What does Bobo say?”

  “Bobo can’t say anything, Carmine didn’t miss his target this time.”

  “Dead?”

  “Very dead. I was a little too late.”

  “Lucky you weren’t a little too early. What’s the address, I’ll give the Oakland PD a head’s up.”

  “Please ask them to clean up the mess before Gloria gets home, Ray.”

  “Will do.”

  I gave Boyle the address and asked if there was anything else I could do, hoping for a no, thank you.

  “I’ll let you know,” he said. “Thanks, Jake.”

  Close enough.

  “Anytime, Ray.”

  “If we can find Carmine, and identify his new benefactor, I think we’ll have our man. You may have to testify you saw Cicero at the scene.”

  “No problem.”

  “Good. Thanks again.”

  “Good luck, Ray,” I said in parting. I hoped if they found Carmine he would be considerate enough to be carrying the murder weapon in his breast pocket.

  I restarted the car, slipped it into gear, and set out on the second leg of my return trip to San Francisco.

  TWENTY THREE

  Laura Lopez and Marco Weido had two things in common.

  They had both graduated from the Oakland Police Academy ten years earlier and they shared a mutual dislike for one another.

  All similarities ended there.

  The meeting between the lieutenant and the D.A.’s special investigator lasted exactly eighteen minutes, and could not end soon enough for either participant.

  Lopez dominated time of possession.

  Weido remained distracted by the vision of his cigarette lighter in Sergeant Johnson’s paw.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet today,” Lopez said. “I hope it was not inconvenient. Please thank District Attorney Duffey for sending the information I requested. It is going to take me a while longer to study all of the material thoroughly, but there’s something I came across
you can help look into for the time being.”

  Lopez was laying the ground rules, letting Weido know, and letting Duffey know through Weido, who was running the show and who was there to lend a subordinate hand.

  And she was doing it as politely as possible.

  Weido did not like it at all, nor would Duffey, but Marco was in no position to argue at the moment.

  “That’s why I’m here, Lieutenant,” Weido said. “To help.”

  “Roberto Sandoval had a meeting scheduled for yesterday morning at ten at the D.A.’s office with a man named Justin Walker. Walker never showed. He had probably heard the news of Sandoval’s death. I’m interested to know who the man is, what he does, and what the meeting might have been about.”

  “You want me to find him and interrogate him?”

  “Just find him, find out who he is. We can decide what to do about him later,” Lopez said. “It would be a great help, and I can continue going through Sandoval’s case files.”

  “Any clues as to where I should start?” Weido asked.

  “Just the name, Justin Walker, it’s all we have.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Thank you,” Lopez said.

  And the eighteen minutes were up.

  Back at his desk, Sergeant Johnson waited impatiently for the updated list from Lieutenant Folgueras. It finally arrived at half-past three. Johnson quickly scanned the list, looking for the name Victor Lopez. When he found it, accompanied with a serial number, he checked the number against the one stamped on the bottom of the lighter.

  No match.

  The sergeant was relieved.

  Johnson then proceeded to check all of the serial numbers on the list against that on the lighter.

  No matches there either.

  The sergeant was frustrated.

  All he could determine from the number on the lighter was its year of issue, nineteen ninety-eight, information that was of little if any help.

  Johnson decided it was time to go to Lopez with the news that a key to Sandoval’s apartment was found in the Cadillac with Sal DiMarco’s body.