Eureka (24 page)

“I really don't like it when you fast-talk me, Zeke.”

“It's logical.”

“So was Custer's Last Stand.”

“So what do we do? Shall I call Bones and tell him to send over the post? I'll do a report and then take it to McCurdy before it goes on file for the press?”

His eyes brightened when I mentioned that idea. He puffed on his cigar and stared across the desk at me. “You got five minutes to convince me otherwise.” He looked at his watch.

I said: “When Culhane became sheriff he promised to clean the mobsters out of Eureka, which is what San Pietro was called then. That meant getting rid of Arnie Riker and his number two, Tony Fontonio. Riker was arrested and convicted of murdering a young girl named Wilma Thompson. It was a solid case because, among other things, they had an eyewitness named Lila Parrish. The case went to appeal, and Riker's sentence was reduced from death to life-no-parole because Lila Parrish vamoosed right after the trial and nobody could find her. Then a year later, Eddie Woods knocked off Fontonio, Eureka turned into San Pietro, Culhane had the Fontonio case dead-docketed, and everybody lived happily ever after.

“Now get this: Woods was in charge of the Riker investigation
and
Woods burned Fontonio.”

“And you think you can get all that together in an airtight package? That's what it's going to have to be, Zeke. No holes, and right now all I see is Swiss cheese in that story. For one thing, you're assuming that Lila Parrish was lying and the Riker case was a frame and Eddie Woods set it all up. How the hell do you plan to put that together? Your chief witness, if it is Lila Parrish, is probably the dame on the slab in the morgue.”

“All I need to do is find one person who can identify the person who sent the checks to Verna Hicks.”

“And prove it was a frame. And Hicks and Parrish are one and the same. And Woods did the number on her. And Culhane sanctioned it.”

I didn't answer that.

He shook his head. “So far you haven't broken a lot of ice on that pond,” he said.

“It wasn't a homicide until this morning. That's a pretty good icebreaker.”

More cigar smoke puffed out of his mouth. He spun his chair around and looked through the plate glass walls of his office into the squad room for a long minute, then swung back.

“You plan to take Ski this time?”

I nodded.

“I told you to take the National Guard the first time you went up there.”

“Ski's better.”

He sighed joylessly.

“When do you want to go?”

“Is this Thursday?”

“It was when I got up this morning.”

“I got a date tonight. How's tomorrow morning sound?”

CHAPTER 19

When I left Moriarity's office, the switchboard operator called me over. “You got a call from a Millicent Harrington at the West L.A. National Bank,” he said. “Here's the number. She says she has some info for you.”

“Thanks.”

I went back to my desk and dialed her number.

“Hi,” she said, “remember me?”

“If I forgot you, I'd need a brain transplant.”

“I'm flattered, I think,” she said with a light laugh.

“What's up?”

“I may have a tip for you. I called a woman I know at the South View Bank and Trust. It's on the list. Her name is Patty North. She remembers selling the cashier's check for Verna Hicks two months ago.”

“Does she have a name for us?”

“No, but she has a great description of the man who bought it.”

I looked at my watch. It was 10:50.

“How about I pick you up in thirty minutes. Maybe we can grab a bite of lunch after we talk to her.”

“I'll call everybody on the list if that's all it takes to get you to take me to lunch.”

I went down to the garage and told Louie to bring the cream puff around.

“Not you again,” he snarled. “I just put the window in.”

“Good. I'll try not to drive into any flying elephants this time.”

Without another word, he disappeared with a swagger into the depths of the garage. A minute or two later I heard the Chevy crank up and then he came back, got out, and handed me the keys.

Millicent was waiting just inside the doors of the bank when I pulled up. She was so gorgeous I got a little numb when I saw her. She was dressed in a light taupe business suit with a pink scarf at her throat and a lime-green Robin Hood hat cocked jauntily over one eye. She never took her eyes off me as she walked toward the car.

“You look like you own the bank,” I cracked, holding the door for her.

“Not quite yet,” she said with a smirk. She sat on the seat, swung silk-sheathed legs in sideways, and crossed them at the knee.

“It's the South View Bank and Trust on West Sixth and Fairfax,” she said as I got in the car. I slipped cautiously under the wheel but still got enough of a kickback from my sprained ribs to grimace a little.

“Is something wrong?” she asked with concern.

“Nothing serious. A confused cop tried to use me as a punching bag.”

I let it drop there, although I could see her look of anxiety and curiosity. She lit two of her gold-tipped butts and handed one to me. Then she kissed two fingers and laid them on my cheek.

“Thanks,” I said, and took a quick look her way. She was staring at me with obvious affection, her mouth slightly open.

“You can get in a lot of trouble with a look like that,” I said.

“I hope so,” she answered.

I drove down Western, grabbed a right on Sixth, and headed west to Fairfax. The bank was in the center of an upper-middle-class neighborhood. It was a one-story, yellow brick building boxed in by a women's clothing store and a pet store. Patty North was a tiny, well-groomed strawberry blonde in her mid forties, with bright eyes and a perpetually cheery smile. She was head teller and had a little cubicle in the rear of the bank. After introductions, we sat facing her and she took out a file, placed it on her desk, and laid one hand on top of it.

“This isn't quite kosher,” she said. “But Millicent assures me it's for a good cause.”

I didn't mention murder at this point. I didn't have to. She started right in.

“The gentleman came in a little after noon on a Monday, which was the first,” she began. “He was five-eight or five-nine; about forty, give or take a year or two; trim, with a little tummy. Very tan, dark brown hair with some gray in it, and one of those skinny mustaches like William Powell's. He wore a wedding ring on the usual finger and a Masonic ring on the fourth finger of his right hand. He had a kind of cocky smile and he dressed with flash. A cream jacket with a thin red check, tan slacks, two-tone brown and white shoes, a brown fedora, and he was wearing aviator sunglasses, which he did not remove. He didn't say much. He put five one-hundred-dollar bills on the desk and spread them out like you would spread out a pinochle hand, and he put a twenty-five-cent piece on top. That's what we charge for a bank check. He didn't look at me straightaway but kind of kept his head down. He said, ‘I require,'—I remember because he said it that way,
require
—'a five-hundred-dollar cashier's check made out to this person.' He had the name Verna Hicks written on a sheet of paper, which he slid across the desk to me. I said to him, ‘Who is the issuer?' And he said, ‘Is that necessary?' And I said, ‘No, but it's customary.' And he said, ‘Nix it, just give me a receipt.' That's the way he said it,
Nix it.
So I typed out the check and signed it, and he put it in a brown, letter-sized manila envelope. It was already addressed and stamped. He said thank you and left. The entire transaction took about five minutes. I did notice he had a jaunty kind of step to his walk.”

As she spoke, a face flashed in my memory; a face I had seen in Howland's basement on one of the framed front pages. A flashy dresser, thin mustache.

“You have an amazing memory for details,” I said.

“Photography is my hobby, particularly portraiture,” she said. “There was just something about him. The flashy clothes, the little mustache, the sunglasses, and his voice. There was a harsh quality to it, kind of tough. He was distant but not unfriendly, just seemed to want to get the transaction done and get out of here. It was one of those faces you'd love to capture on film, although I could tell from his attitude that was the last thing he would have been interested in.”

I thought for a minute or so and then asked Patty if she had a copy of the phone book. She reached in a large, lower drawer and got it. I flicked through it to the yellow pages and found what I was looking for. A quarter-page ad listed under private investigations. The ad told me that Eddie Woods was an experienced private investigator with eighteen years know-how, was bonded, and had references. His office was on the mezzanine floor of the Olympic Tower, on West Olympic and Almont. I jotted the phone number down.

I knew the place, a prestigious office building with a marble lobby only slightly smaller than the lobby of the city hall. It was known simply as the Olympic. Eddie Woods was in high cotton for a private eye. Jerry Geisert was a divorce lawyer for the stars, and probably one of Woods's clients, since he was located in the same building and on the same floor.

An idea was gnawing on my brain. There was a sprightly little restaurant across the street from the Olympic called Francine's, which specialized in excellent home cooking. I closed the book and suggested all three of us go there for lunch.

Millicent looked at me out of the side of her eye, obviously disappointed that I had asked a third party to join us.

“I have an idea,” I said by way of explanation.

It took fifteen minutes to drive to Francine's. I parked on the side of the building, went in, and found a table in front, facing the Olympic Tower. The place was just beginning to fill up with the lunchtime trade. The decor was as simple as the bill of fare. White-and-red-checkered tablecloths, menus printed up that day, paper napkins.

“Millie, order for me, will you? I want the turkey pancakes, and corn fritters with lots of maple syrup, and an iced tea. I'm going across the street. I shouldn't be more than ten, fifteen minutes. Patty, watch for me to come out and pay special attention to the person who's with me, if there is anybody with me.”

“Is this detective work?” she asked, bright-eyed.

“You betcha,” I answered.

CHAPTER 20

The lobby was all marble, bronze, and teak. Twin circular staircases curved up from each side of the room to the mezzanine where, the directory told me, Woods was located in rooms 106 and 107. I took the stairs up.

There was a doctor's office in the corner suite. Attorney Jerry Geisert's suite of offices took up about half the floor and Woods was located in the two offices next to Geisert.

The lettering on the pebbled glass door said edward woods, confidential inquiries and it was locked. The door to the adjoining office was open. I walked down to it and stood in the entrance. The lettering on this door said “Private.”

The office was neither flashy nor drab, small nor large. When I looked in, I faced a mahogany desk of average proportions. Against the right wall was a red leather sofa, beginning to show its age, as were the two matching leather chairs that bracketed it. Somebody had told Woods leather impressed people. They forgot to tell him less is better than more. There was a dark wooden hat tree in the corner near the door, and on the desk, a large glass ashtray that could have qualified as a deadly weapon, a leather-wrapped Ronson table lighter, a familiar green package of Luckies, and two phones, one a conventional black job with a handset, the other an old-time stand-up, which Woods was whispering into.

I stood in the entranceway and lightly tapped the glass in the door. He held up a finger without looking at me. A moment later he hung up, waved me in, stood up, and offered me his hand. Twenty years had changed him very little. He still looked younger than his age, still sported the pencil mustache, still had a full head of hair as well as a bronze beach tan and bit of a paunch. His jacket was hanging on the tree. He was wearing a white silk shirt with a thin, pale blue stripe, and an inoffensive tie, red suspenders, and no belt.

“Edward Woods,” he said with a practiced smile. “My secretary's gone to lunch.”

“My name's Bannon,” I said.

“Have a seat.”

I dropped my hat on his desk, and as I sat down he looked straight into my eyes. His memory was getting a nibble.

“I'm about to go to lunch, too,” he said.

“Nice fish,” I said, nodding toward a six-foot marlin mounted on the wall.

“Two hundred and sixty pounds and every ounce a fighter. Took me seven hours to land that baby. I quit going after game fish after that. Anything that will fight that hard to stay alive deserves to die of old age.”

“That's an admirable philosophy.”

“Thanks. What can I do for you?”

“Ever heard of a woman named Verna Hicks? Or Verna Wilensky, which was her married name?”

His eyebrows drew together and his eyes went from interested to suspicious. He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a couple of smoke rings.

“This a missing persons thing?” he asked. “You might do better starting with the police.”

“I know where she is. She's down in the city morgue waiting for the state to bury her.”

A casual smile crossed his lips and his eyes became less intense. He nodded more or less to himself and chuckled.

“Sergeant Bannon, right? Central homicide.”

I nodded. “If we've met, you've got a better memory than I do.”

“You've been in the headlines a few times. This about the dame whose radio took a bath with her?”

“You heard about it?”

“It was in the
Times
. Just a couple of graphs. No name on her. Didn't sound like a job for homicide.”

“You read every line in the paper?”

“Always looking for an angle,” he shrugged. “You'd be surprised what a guy can pick up if he keeps his eyes open and reads every page. I read the gossips, too.”

“There's an angle in this one. She died with a lot of money in a savings account. I'm trying to locate survivors.”

“Well,” he said, standing up and walking to the tree to retrieve his suit jacket, “she's no relative of mine.”

He slipped on the jacket and went back behind his desk but didn't sit down. My eyes wandered to the photographs on the desk. One was a sepia tintype of Woods, Culhane, and Buck Tallman. The other was a tinted studio shot of Woods standing with his arms around the waist of a pretty, black-haired woman who looked to be in her late thirties.

“Very pretty woman,” I said, nodding at the picture.

“Thanks,” he said. “I'll tell her you said so. That's my wife, Hazel. We're celebrating our tenth anniversary today. We check into a little hotel, have room service, put out the Do Not Disturb sign . . . a little tradition we have.” He looked at his watch and then back at me, and raised his eyebrows.

I stood up, too.

“The Hicks woman died with almost a hundred grand in the bank.”

It didn't shake him one way or the other.

“Most of it came in the form of five-hundred-dollar cashier's checks that showed up once a month over the last seventeen years. Most of them were sent from up San Pietro way.”

“Is that a fact?” He came around the desk, took my arm by the elbow, and led me toward the door. “Come on, I'll go down with you.”

He was a very smooth character. If I was annoying him, he didn't show it. He set the latch on the office door, pulled it shut, and tried it to make sure it locked. We walked down the marble stairs together.

“You see some connection between the checks and her radio jumping in the tub with her?” he asked on the way down.

“No. It just keeps gnawing at me. A woman with that much money in the bank, no will, and suddenly dead.”

“Happens all the time. Nobody thinks they're gonna die. They put things off.”

“I suppose.”

As we walked out the front door, I turned around in front of him so he was facing the restaurant and stuck out my hand.

“Well, thanks for your time,” I said. “I was hoping since you left San Pietro about the same time the checks started, the name might ring a bell.”

“Sorry,” he said with a pleasant smile. “I don't hear a thing.”

As he started to turn, I said, “How about Lila Parrish? Didn't she disappear about that time?”

He stopped, and turned around. His eyes narrowed.

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“She's never turned up, has she?”

People scurried around us on the sidewalk. The street was full of cars going places during the lunch hour. A horn or two beeped. He walked over very close to me and said, “There's a lot of funny ideas in that question.”

“I don't get you,” I said.

“Sure you do. You tell me this Hicks dame was on somebody's pad for five bills a month. Then you tell me the checks came from San Pietro. Then you ask about the other broad, Parrish, who was a witness in one of my cases. I could hop about two feet and make something out of all that. Parrish skipped out, pal. Nobody knows where. I, for one, haven't seen her since the trial. Nobody else I know has either.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“You know what I think, Bannon?”

“Nope.”

“I think you're more interested in finding out who was sending money to that lady than finding her family.”

“I'd like to see her get a decent send-off, that's all.”

“Then pass the hat around the station house, you ought to be able to pick up twenty bucks. Here . . .” He reached in his pocket and took out a small roll of cash, peeled a five off it, and slapped it in the breast pocket of my jacket. “That'll get it started.”

He turned and disappeared in the river of pedestrians.

I jaywalked back across the street to the restaurant. When I got to the table, Patty North was so excited she was bouncing in her chair.

“It's him,” she said. “He's the one. How did you know that?”

“I'm a detective, remember?” I said, sitting down at the table. “That's what I'm supposed to do.”

I reached in my pocket, took out the crumpled five-spot and dropped it on the table.

“What's that?” Millicent asked.

“He just started a fund to bury Verna.”

“What a wonderful idea!” Her eyes brightened and she said excitedly, “We can go back to the bank after lunch and open an account. I'll put in fifty.”

I laughed. “Millie, with fifty bucks we can lay her away in a solid silver coffin, with the Philadelphia Symphony playing ‘Goodnight, Irene.' ”

The waiter brought our meals and we dug in.

“Now, Patty,” I said, “you are sure that's the guy who bought the check for Verna Hicks, aren't you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, nodding her head emphatically. “There's no question about it.”

“You did a great job,” I said. “Thanks.”

We finished lunch and I dropped Patty North off at her bank with more thanks.

On the way back to the West L.A. bank, Millicent said, “He's the one you've been looking for, isn't he?”

“Yes and no,” I said.

“I don't understand.”

“His name is Eddie Woods. He was a cop up in San Pietro, got in some trouble, and left about the time Verna Hicks showed up down here. Now we know for sure he bought at least one of the checks. The next question is, who gave him the money to buy it.”

“He didn't buy it himself?”

I shook my head.

“I don't think so,” I said. “He wouldn't have had that kind of dough back in the late twenties and early thirties. Whoever made that deal with Verna was wealthy. He knew he could pay off for as long as it took. Woods wouldn't have driven all the way back to San Pietro to buy the other checks, everybody there knew him. I think his was probably a one-shot deal. I goofed.”

“How?” Millicent asked.

“By looking for a single buyer. Obviously the checks were bought by different people through the years. Whoever was paying off Verna probably brokered the buy through a middleman. And that's going to make it even harder to trace them back to the number one.”

“I'm sorry,” a crestfallen Millicent said.

I smiled at her. “Don't be. It was a great break. She's a regular Charlie Chan. One thing I am sure of, thanks to her. Eddie Woods knows who the number one is.”

“How do you know that?”

“He was too far up in the hierarchy not to. Maybe he
is
the middleman. I have to go back up to San Pietro tomorrow. I think I can get some answers now.”

“If we have the money to bury Verna, can't you just forget it?”

“Not anymore.”

“I don't understand.”

I got very serious. “You've got to keep what I'm going to tell you under that cute little hat of yours for the next day or two. You can't even confide in your father.”

“Alright, what is it?”

“Verna Wilensky was murdered. She was drowned, and whoever did the trick dropped the radio in the tub with her to make it look like an accident.”

“Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with her hand. Tears suddenly gathered in her eyes.

“Now it's a homicide, and I've got to find out who killed her.”

“Can't you ask Woods?”

I tried to smother a laugh. “I don't think that would work with Mr. Woods. He's not going to give up that information, not after all these years of covering it up. I may be able to hammer information out of him but I'll save him for later. First I want to see Culhane's face when I tell him this is now a homicide case and they'll have to stop playing coy.”

I pulled up in front of her bank and struggled out of the car.

“Please don't get out,” she said.

“They kicked in my ribs; they didn't kick my manners out of me.”

I walked around the car and helped her out. As she stepped by me, she brushed my cheek with her lips.

“We still on for tonight?” I asked.

“We better be.”

“I thought we might drop by the C-Note after the show.”

She tossed me one of her million-dollar smiles. “I'd love that,” she said. “Wherever it is.”

I stood there and watched her disappear into the bank. And I thought to myself,
So
that's
what they mean by the luck of the Irish.