To Die in Beverly Hills (36 page)

Though Carr felt like downing the drink in one gulp, he settled for a healthy sip. "It looks like Jack's not going to retire after all," he said because he couldn't think of anything else to say at the moment.

"I'm happy for him if that's what he and Rose want."

The bartender pointed them to an open table in the corner. They took their drinks and sat down.

"May I ask you something?" Sally said.

"Sure."

She shook her head. "Never mind."

"Go ahead and ask."

"Would you have asked me to marry you that night if you hadn't been drinking?"

There was a pause while Carr sipped his drink. "I'm not sure," he said finally.

"Then I guess the trip was nothing more than a drunken fling."

"I didn't say that."

"You've never brought marriage up before or since."

Carr fidgeted in his seat as he tried to think of something to say. "Look," he said, "I asked you and I'm not going to back out on it. On the other hand, I don't think there's any real hurry at this point. No use rushing in-"

Sally gently reached over and put her hand over his mouth.

A few minutes later a lanky waitress who wore a T-shirt similar to the bartender's came and took their order of steamed clams and beer. The walk and the liquor had perked up Carr's appetite.

During the meal, Sally recounted what she'd learned from a recent health food seminar she'd attended (all meat contains cancer-causing substances) and gossiped about judge Malcolm's wife. Carr wondered, as he had before, if he could bear listening to such drivel every night of the week. But as the evening wore on and he continued to drink, he came to the realization that he probably could. She was his friend as well as his lover, and, he reminded himself, nobody is perfect. Not even-he thought philosophically-Carr.

Later that evening they walked from the restaurant along the dimly lit pier, taking in the sound of their footsteps on the wooden walkway, waves slapping and swirling against pilings and, faintly, from the business district east of the beach, a siren.

An elderly couple riding bicycles with tiny lights attached to the handlebars whizzed by them and continued into the darkness as they followed a cement walkway along the strand toward Sally's place.

"I'm not an easy person to live with," he said, surprising himself.

"I'm not either. We'd probably end up hating one another."

The sound of the waves seemed to grow louder.

Suddenly Sally stopped and threw her arms around him. Oblivious to others who walked by, they held each other tightly. When they got chilly Carr put his jacket around her shoulders and they continued on to her apartment.

The next day at the Field Office, Carr used his notes to prepare a written report that stated, in effect, that he had been assisting Detective Higgins in an investigation of the Leon Sheboygan incident. Under the preprinted section marked Details of Investigation he wrote the following: "See the official
L.A.P.D. reports
of Detective Higgins, Robbery-Homicide Division for investigative information. Case is in jurisdiction of L.A.P.D." As he was writing, the phone on his desk rang. He picked up the receiver. It was Higgins.

"How does this sound?" Higgins said. "Investigating Officer was assisting U.S. Treasury Agents. See Treasury files for further information."

"Sounds good."

"Catch ya later," Higgins said and hung up.

Jack Kelly trudged into the office. He looked tired and his necktie was askew. "The public defender is making a big issue about the trick we played on Bones Chagra-"

"No law against lying," Carr said.

"-and the Beverly Hills chief is screaming because we didn't notify him that we were working a case on one of his detectives."

"Figures."

"And the district attorney has assigned a team of investigators to look into the whole incident. They're interviewing Higgins now."

The intercom barked. It was No Waves. He wanted to see Carr in his office right away, Carr walked down the hall. Waeves was on the phone. Carr sat down in the chair he pointed to with his pipe.

"Yes," Waeves said in a lowered voice. He swiveled around his chair, so Carr could see the bald spot on the back of his head. "One case of the raspberry and one case of the strawberry. And of course you won't forget the law enforcement discount? Thank you." He swiveled around again and hung up the phone. "Three-zero-two-point-five," he said with one of his forced smiles.

Carr furrowed his brow as if he didn't understand what No Waves was talking about.

"Three-zero-two-point-five," No Waves repeated. "The section in the Manual of Operations requiring special agents to promptly brief the special agent in charge of all ongoing investigations. I'm afraid you're in violation of this section because you failed to keep me apprised of what you were doing on the investigation. I'll have to write you up. I hate to do it, but I have to cover myself. Unfortunately, covering one's ass is part of the game." Another forced smile.

Carr said nothing.

"Well?" Waeves said. "Don't you have anything to say?"

Yes,
thought Carr,
I'd like to say that you are a prick.

The intercom on the desk buzzed. "A news reporter on line three," a secretary said.

No Waves picked up the receiver, listened for a moment. "That's correct," he said. "It was an ongoing organized crime investigation. I directed my men to stake out a number of locations and the plan was successful. My plan worked. We were able to draw out the Mr. Big in the operation, who, as it turned out, was a police detective..."

Carr stood up and walked out of the room.

****

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

GERALD PETIEVICH is a former U.S. Secret Service Agent. Mr. Petievich numbers among his novels
To Live and Die in L.A., Boiling Point
(published as
Money Men
) and
The Sentinel
, all of which were made into major motion pictures. His other novels include
Earth Angels, Shakedown, To Die in Beverly Hills, One-Shot Deal, Paramour
and
The Quality of the Informant
.