Catching Water in a Net Page 6

  As I headed out Wilshire toward 405 North I tried to review what I knew, figuring it would be easier than trying to inventory what I didn’t know.

  The latest revelation had been Crazy Al’s defense. The last person who would want to clear Pazzo of anything was Tina, so if she put him somewhere else when Jimmy was capped the alibi was ironclad. Well, that was one less suspect in Pigeon’s murder. For that matter I could eliminate Tina as a suspect as well, unless she and Crazy Al were in it together. That was too scary a thought, so I let it pass.

  I might have felt I was making progress if I didn’t know better.

  I didn’t like Bobo Bigelow or Vinnie Strings for it, either. Bobo really didn’t have that big a gripe, and I believed that Vinnie really cared for Jimmy. And if nothing else, I didn’t consider either of them smart enough to get the drop on Pigeon.

  As far as Harry Harding being the shooter, I could eliminate him just because I knew that nothing ever comes to me that easily.

  And according to Dick Spencer, Walter Richman seemed to have lost interest in Ex-Con.com.

  When I approached the Hills I wondered if I would find Evelyn at home and, if so, would she want to talk. I wasn’t quite sure about the reason I would give her for my ambush. Oh, by the way Evelyn, did you happen to murder Jimmy Pigeon and your husband for the dough? Being unprepared was getting to be a habit with me. I finally decided as I reached the cul-de-sac where Evelyn Harding lived that I would take an indirect approach and then wing it.

  As I pulled up in front of the huge house I adjusted Bobby’s tie, trying to force it into matching the sport jacket I was wearing. It wasn’t going to happen. I took a deep breath and headed up the stairs, dwarfed by the columns on each side of the entrance. I would simply say that I dropped by to give my condolences and then play dumb. It shouldn’t be difficult; I had playing dumb down to an art form.

  I rang the doorbell. I could swear that the chimes played Tara’s Theme. A minute later I heard the door being opened from the inside.

  The young woman who materialized in the doorway made Tina Bella look like Woody Allen. Long blond hair with a skinny braid hanging down the left side. Deeply tanned skin that made Lena Horne look pale in comparison. The white bikini she was wearing accentuated the obvious.

  If she said that her name was Lolita it wouldn’t have surprised me a bit.

  “Nice tie,” she said, and then added, “I’m at least eighteen.”

  I felt two hundred.

  “I was looking for Evelyn Harding,” I managed to choke out.

  She was doing something with her eyes that was mildly distracting.

  “Mom is out back, we were getting ready to take a dip. Did you bring your bathing suit?”

  “I left it in my other jacket. Do you think you could tell your mother that Jake Diamond is here to see her.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “No.”

  “Great. Mom hates surprises. Come on in, I’ll take you back.”

  “Maybe I should just wait here.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, it sounded like a question. “I’ll tell Mom that you’ve happened by. In case you were wondering, my name is Trouble.”

  She gave a little laugh and headed to the back of the house.

  I stood fidgeting at the door. If that was Evelyn Harding’s daughter it sure shot the hell out of genetic theory.

  And by the way, didn’t mother and daughter have arrangements to attend to? After all, Harry had been dearly departed for less than twenty-four hours and these gals were frolicking around the pool. Was it possible that they were unaware? I was counting on Boyle to handle notification. If I was here to break the news I was more unprepared than even I had imagined.

  What Evelyn Harding said when she appeared at the door eased my mind.

  I think.

  “I heard you found my husband, Mr. Diamond,” she said.

  “Yes. And a little too late I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”

  “Is there something that I can do for you Mr. Diamond? Are you covered on your fees?”

  That pretty much answered the question as to Evelyn Harding’s interest in sustaining our relationship.

  And she never did get around to calling me Jake.

  “Yes, Mrs. Harding, I’m covered,” I said and then nonchalantly added, “Do you have any idea who may have killed your husband?”

  What the hell, couldn’t hurt to ask.

  “I already answered that question for Detective Boyle, and I don’t really understand your interest, but if it will help you any I have no idea.”

  Great help. I figured that asking about plans for her share of the Internet business wouldn’t get me very far either.

  “Working out the funeral details poolside?” I said, regretting it the moment it slipped out.

  “Mr. Diamond, how I manage my grief is really none of your concern, now is it?”

  “No, it isn’t. I apologize.”

  “Good day.”

  “I was wondering if I might speak with Grace.”

  “What about?”

  “I know that she kept in touch with Jimmy. I thought that maybe she could tell me something about what he’d been up to.”

  “Is Grace suspected of something Mr. Diamond?”

  A curious question.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Grace left town, Mr. Diamond. Before your friend Jimmy was killed.”

  I decided not to ask where Grace left to, or why Evelyn made it a point to say when she left. My foot was already sore from all the dead horses I had kicked lately. I reiterated my condolences to Evelyn Harding as she closed the door in my face. It had been three days since she first walked into my office and I was no closer to discovering who killed Jimmy Pigeon or why.

  I climbed into the Chevy and started the engine.

  I turned on the radio and lit a cigarette.

  I sadly realized that the worst part of trying to solve the case was not having Jimmy there to help me.

  And then I remembered that in some respects he was.

  And that it was time I started listening to what Jimmy had to say.

  Ten

  One of the first pieces of advice Jimmy Pigeon ever gave me, after “always insist on a fee in advance and never argue with a man holding a gun”, was to trust my instincts.

  “What if my instincts are consistently wrong?” I’d asked.

  “That’s how you tell if you’re in the wrong business,” he’d said.

  I’d actually had similar advice from my college drama instructor.

  My instincts were telling me that Walter Richman figured in somehow. I decided that I would pay him a visit.

  I also felt that talking with Jimmy Pigeon’s long-lost wife might be more revealing than Spencer or Boyle thought it might be. The chances of getting the information out of Detective Boyle were slim to none. I decided that I would drop by the hospital and pull it out from between Dick Spencer’s wired teeth.

  When I got back to Bobby’s place I realized that I was hungry, having gone half the day without anything to eat but a doughnut. There was nothing in my cousin’s Kenmore that even vaguely resembled lunch so I took the phone number off a menu stuck on the refrigerator door and called for delivery of a chicken dish named after some Chinese General.

  After ordering the food I stared at the telephone trying to decide whether to call Walter Richman or call to check the visiting hours at LA General.

  To look at me you would have thought I was trying to decide whether or not to drop the bomb on Nagasaki. Before I could make up my mind the phone rang, nearly causing me to swallow my cigarette.

  Darlene.

  “Just checking to see if you’re okay,” she said.

  “I wish I knew, Darlene,” I said, “did Tina Bella get in touch?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Remember when she shows up, put her in my place and tell her not to answer the door or the phone and give her up if you have to.”

  �
�Got it.”

  “Anything good in the mail?”

  “Another letter from Dick Spencer about back alimony and an invitation to try Time Magazine at sixty-eight cents an issue with a free Pocket Thesaurus thrown in.”

  “Trash them both.”

  “Today’s mail should be here soon; maybe you’ll get that two point nine per cent Visa Platinum Card application you’ve been hoping for.”

  “Funny.”

  “What would you like to do about the rent here?”

  “I thought we paid the rent for this month a few days ago.”

  “I was thinking about next month, it’s already the twenty-eighth.”

  Darlene could go on like that forever. Fortunately I had to excuse myself to answer the door for the restaurant delivery.

  The General who my meal was named after must have fought during the Boxer Rebellion because the vegetables tasted like they were picked around 1904. I had to fish around for the chicken, which was scarce, and wound up with what was basically a lunch of yesterday’s warmed-over rice. The broccoli and bamboo shoots went into the garbage disposal. I’d have done better with the tofu in Bobby’s cheese compartment.

  I called Walter Richman.

  “Richman International, Ms. Fairbanks speaking.”

  I could see that humility wasn’t going to be one of Walter’s strong points.

  “Good afternoon, this is Jake Diamond for Mr. Richman.”

  “Mr. Richman is out of town, Mr. Diamond. Mr. Alster is here taking his calls if you would like to speak with him.”

  I couldn’t see why not.

  “Why not,” I said.

  “Fine, it’ll be just a minute. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you wait?”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Just kidding. Please hold.”

  You know how sometimes when you speak to someone on the phone it makes you kind of curious to meet the person?

  And then again sometimes not.

  “Mr. Diamond, how can Richman International be of service to you today?” Alster sounded like he was practicing his Orson Welles impersonation.

  “I had been hoping to talk with Mr. Richman about Ex.Con.com.”

  “We’ve withdrawn our offer on that particular company, Mr. Diamond.”

  “So I heard. I was just curious about some of the details,” I said. “How the offer came about? Why the loss of interest? Who Mr. Richman had been dealing with? That sort of thing.”

  “This may sound strange, but actually Mr. Richman wouldn’t know very much about it. He leaves the small transactions to his associates.”

  He was talking about a million dollars as if it were chump change.

  “Well how about I talk to the associate who was negotiating the deal before it fell through,” I said. “Just a few simple questions, a few minutes on the telephone.”

  I was wondering when he was going to ask me exactly who I was and what business it was to me.

  “I think that I can help you with your questions, Mr. Diamond. It was my decision to pull out of the deal.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “However, I’d much rather speak in person and away from the office if it’s convenient. Have you eaten?”

  “Not really.”

  “Could I buy you lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

  I was guessing he could.

  “I could meet you there in an hour,” I said.

  “Terrific,” he said, “I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

  I was afraid that I might be somewhat underdressed for lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I would have borrowed one of Bobby’s sport jackets but he was considerably smaller than I was. Feasibly one of the reasons he went into acting.

  I thought I might find another of his ties that would match my jacket a little better, but I couldn’t find one with a paisley or Yosemite Sam pattern in his wardrobe.

  I decided I would have to go as I was. Screw them if they couldn’t take a joke.

  When I reached the hotel restaurant, a man in a tuxedo, who didn’t hesitate to identify himself as the maître d’, asked me what I wanted as if I had a vacuum cleaner under my arm. He had a British accent that he overplayed like an Iowa high school kid doing Lear. When I told him that I was there to join Mr. Alster for lunch he asked if I would care to borrow a jacket from the hotel. I politely declined. He solemnly led me to Alster’s table. When he pulled out the chair and motioned for me to sit down I had a momentary fear that he wouldn’t push it in behind me.

  Alster hadn’t arrived yet.

  A waiter came up asking if I would care for a drink. I ordered a double shot of Jack Daniel’s, sure that asking for Dickel would be misunderstood. He walked off with all the grace of a man with a rod up his ass. He must have taken walking lessons from the maître d’.

  To kill time I played a game we used to play on long car trips with my parents. Instead of counting out-of-state license plates I counted Rolexes.

  Alster came up to the table just as the waiter was bringing my drink. He put out his hand to me, squeezed mine a bit too hard when I accepted the handshake, and turned to the waiter.

  “I’ll have the usual, Clive,” he said.

  Nice name. I tried to guess what the maître d’ called himself. I would have laid ten to one on Bentley or Jeeves. I looked up at Alster and he had a smile on his face that looked crocheted on. He sat down.

  “Drink up, Mr. Diamond. No need to wait, we’re not all that formal here.”

  His four-hundred-dollar Canali suit could have fooled me.

  “I can hold out, Mr. Alster. Perhaps while we’re waiting for your usual you can begin telling me about Ex.Con.com.”

  “Call me Ted. Wouldn’t you like to look at the menu first?”

  “I’ll let you order for me, Ted. I’m sure you know what’s best here and besides I don’t think I could lift the thing.”

  “Very well, Mr. Diamond, what can I help you with?”

  Hallelujah.

  Just then the waiter arrived with Alster’s drink. Ted asked Clive for a couple of filet mignons and a large Caesar salad. There was no general’s name attached to the lunch order.

  The food came almost immediately. That might have surprised me if the filet didn’t look as if it had never touched the grill.

  Ted Alster managed to remain precise and articulate between mouthfuls of raw steak and salad anchovies the size of brook trout.

  I listened and looked on in horror.

  Among other things, Richman International bought up small companies and resold them at a profit. Richman himself was busy with his film interests and left the small stuff to his highly qualified staff of corporate advisors.

  One of the other corporate advisors working deals for Richman had apparently made an offer for Ex-Con.com. Harry Harding had called the office to speak to him, he wasn’t available and Alster took the call.

  Harding told Alster that he was working out a little disagreement with Jimmy and they would need more time before signing off on the sale. Alster asked Harding a few questions about the company and said he would pass the message on.

  “I did some exploration and it seemed to me that the offer was out of line with what Mr. Harding’s business was worth. I called Mr. Harding and told him that we had decided to withdraw the offer.”

  “Did you tell him why?”

  “Not exactly. I didn’t want to discourage him. I told Mr. Harding that we couldn’t wait for them to work out their differences, that we had other transactions to move on.”

  “You’re aware that both Harding and his partner have been murdered?” I said.

  “Yes, I heard about that.”

  “Any ideas about that?”

  “Not the slightest Mr. Diamond. Why in the world would I?”

  “And you never spoke with Harding’s partner, Jimmy Pigeon?”

  “No. We never got that far. I just hope that any animosity that the offer may have created between the two men had nothing to do with th
eir tragic deaths.”

  Very neatly put.

  “I would still like to speak with your associate, Mr. Alster. Ask him why he thought Ex-Con.com was worth a million dollars in the first place.”

  “I’m afraid that I can’t reveal his identity, Mr. Diamond.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because we’re looking into that very question ourselves, and we would prefer to keep it in-house.”

  “When you say ‘we’, are you including Mr. Richman?”

  “I feel it would be best not to bother Mr. Richman with it, until I know more about the details. It could simply have been a matter of poor judgment or inadequate research on the part of our associate. Until I can be certain, I prefer not to worry Mr. Richman and I want to avoid any damaging speculation or publicity.”

  “Mr. Alster, Jimmy Pigeon was a friend of mine. If the information you’re keeping from me, whatever the reason, turns out to have anything to do with his death it won’t sit well with me.”

  I didn’t like the guy. And it wasn’t just the way he ate.

  Speaking of which, I hadn’t touched a bite.

  I thanked Alster, not quite knowing what for, and left the table.

  As I passed the maître d’ on the way out I told him to put the meal on my tab. I told him that if he wanted a tip I would suggest he get out of the business. I did tip the kid who brought my car. He was so in love with the Impala that I wanted to run right over to see Dick Spencer and put the kid in my will.

  Come to think of it, seeing Spencer was next on my short list.

  I headed over to LA General.

  I wanted to know who had inherited Jimmy’s share of the company and what it might really be worth. Dick Spencer was an idiot but he wasn’t stupid. He had to know something about the value of the inheritance.

  Another thought hit me. Regardless of its value, was the company worth owning?

  Being a part owner of Ex.Con.com had proven to be bad for one’s health.

  And the new owners, Evelyn Harding and maybe Jimmy Pigeon’s ex-wife, whoever and wherever she might be, weren’t necessarily immune.

  Of course with all of these musings cluttering my mind I totally neglected the obvious. So when I approached Spencer’s hospital room I was caught by surprise when my ex-wife walked out of his door; which was like being shocked to find Jack Nicholson at a Lakers’ game.