“It don’t take long, lady. The lab is still sorting it out, but they figure something like a cane. That length and diameter, anyway, maybe weighted. Thirty, forty blows. Would take maybe a minute, two minutes even if he stopped to rest.”
“Not very professional,” said Kearny thoughtfully.
“Yeah. Lots of emotion, looks like. Last ones must of been like whackin’ a mud puddle with a stick.”
Giselle made a small noise in her throat and stood up quickly. “Anyone for coffee?”
“I gotta get back to Sixth and Bryant,” said Nicoletti. “Dan, I expect to get anything you come up with on this. Anything.”
Kearny asked almost irritably, “What the hell would that be, Benny? Fazzino was a hundred and fifty miles down the pike when she got it. If he hired it done, you’ll come up with it a lot quicker than we ever could.”
“Yeah. I expect to get anything you come up with. Anything.”
When he was gone, there was silence in the cubicle. Giselle caught herself wondering, and was immediately ashamed of herself for the thought, whether Petie could meet her that night. If only he would tell his wife about them, so...
“Bart, what did the Homicide cops turn up in Edith Alley last night?” Kearny asked, breaking her reverie.
“Not much. One old Italian chick saw a couple of spades going down the alley at maybe four o’clock, out at four-twenty. Some young chick coming back from the laundromat on the corner of Greenwich and Grant at five forty-five met an old man with a limp coming out of the alley. It was still misting then, but she sat under cover on her front steps playing with a cat named Red Rooster until six-thirteen. She has the times so exact because she was waiting for her clothes to come out of the dryer. Nobody in or out of the access door at the end of the alley during that half-hour.”
The door at the end of Edith, which Kearny had thought went into the building that blocked off the alley, actually led down to a small garden. The building really fronted on Greenwich Street. Directly behind the garden, and separated from it by the fence, was Chandra’s yard. Because of the slope of Telegraph Hill, both the garden and Chandra’s yard were in effect terraces, so the fence that was only neck-high at the back of the garden was twelve feet high on Chandra’s side.
Climb over the fence, drop the dozen feet to Chandra’s yard, cross to the back door completely hidden by foliage, go in, do it. Use one of the numerous gnarled old trees to climb back out again. Simple.
Except that it had happened between Chandra’s hanging up after her call to Giselle — 6:01 — and Heslip’s entering Chandra’s house — 6:06. And Heslip had been covering the Greenwich side and the girl in Edith Alley had said no one had gone in through the alley side between 5:45 and 6:13...
Kearny realized that Ballard had asked him a question. “Huh?”
“I was wondering what we do now.”
“We dig. Louisa Padilla. Wendy Austin. Who is she? Where did she come from? Who owns Funky Threads? What was Fazzino doing in L.A...”
And what was the significance of the fact that still no syndicate troops were showing in this thing? And behind everything, Wayne Hawkley, the smooth old attorney. How much did he know — or not know — about what was going on?
But first, Los Angles. With Larry Ballard.
Eighteen
The clerk of Department 2, Municipal Court in and for the County of Los Angles, looked up from his docket book and nodded. He was into his forties and smoked a pipe that smelled like cherry-tree cuttings. A comfortable-looking man, as Kearny had found many pipe-smokers to be.
“Here it is. Fazzino, Philip. Picked up just about midnight on October twenty-ninth...”
“Monday night?” asked Kearny.
It was 9:15 on Thursday morning. Last night had been Halloween, and he’d just remembered, the kids had been giving their big party. He’d been on the road with Ballard and had forgotten all about it.
“Monday. That’s right, sir. Penal Code 647S.”
“Drunk and Disorderly?” demanded Kearny sharply. It was a false note. He didn’t see Fazzino letting himself that far out of control.
“Um... no, as a matter of fact. Drunk in and around a Vehicle.”
“Drunk driving?” asked Ballard.
“He wasn’t driving, a cabby was. Fazzino got in a beef with him over the fare. There was a scuffle, officers were called in...” He stuck the pipe back between strong yellowish teeth and consulted the docket, then took it out to say, “Bail, three hundred fifty bucks, deposited by a young lady at eleven o’clock Tuesday morning.”
“Miss Wendy Austin?”
He nodded to Kearny. “Yes. Pleaded not guilty, hearing is set for later this month.”
Ballard was ready to go, figuring they’d got it all here, but Kearny paused over his thank-yous. “Isn’t there a bail schedule posted for this sort of misdemeanor?”
“Oh, sure. If he’d had the cash with him...”
“Thanks again.” They started out, then Kearny made a disgusted face and turned back once again. “Could we have that cabdriver’s name and address?” He lowered his voice to a confidential rumble. “Between you and me, our client doesn’t remember anything.”
The pipe-smoker laughed and gave them the information. Jacob Christie, 1463 Hosmer Lane. The kicker was in the city.
Santa Barbara, California. A hundred-mile taxi ride.
The booking sergeant was also in his forties but did not smoke a pipe. He had the face of a man with an ulcer who hates milk.
“No way, sonny,” he said to Ballard. Kearny was letting the young detective have this one, but it wasn’t working out. “You want to see the Property Receipt Log, you gimme something from a judge.”
Ballard could imagine Kearny leaning against the corridor wall outside the room, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers and a wise-ass expression on his face.
“Well, Sergeant, you see... Well, Mr. Fazzino felt he had more money than he got back.”
“He figures we stole it, huh?” The sergeant thrust an unpleasant face across the desk at Ballard. “A court order, kid. Period.”
“Shove it,” said Ballard. But he said it under his breath as he left the office.
Kearny unstuck himself from the wall to fall into step with him. Grinning, of course, the son of a bitch. “You really handled that one beautifully, Larry.”
“That sour bastard—”
“Mr. Fazzino felt he had more money than you gave back to him,” said Kearny in a fair imitation of Ballard’s voice. “Why didn’t you just call him a thief?”
“Why do we want to see the property list anyway?” demanded Ballard irritably.
“Because Fazzino spent a night in jail.” He put out a detaining hand to a pleasant-faced black cop going by with two styrofoam cups of coffee. “Could you direct us to the office of the property custodian?”
It was one floor down, behind a closed door which had a thick glass pane to waist level, with crisscrossed steel wires embedded in the glass.
Kearny paused outside it. “Let me handle this one, Larry.”
As Ballard watched, a look of boredom came into Kearny’s eyes. His shoulders drooped fractionally, left a little lower than the right as would befit a man who did a lot of thankless paperwork. He dangled an unlit cigarette from one corner of his mouth to soften his rock-hard jaw. His coat hung open. His hand smeared ashes down his lapel.
They pushed through the door. Inside was a narrow stuffy room bisected by a plain wooden counter. A man sat behind the counter in a swivel chair. Behind him the walls were lined with plain wooden bins crammed with possessions. The room smelled vaguely of dirty laundry. The door at the far end had what looked like a good lock on it.