“She said a couple of guys named Rance and Johnson and a woman named Minnie did it.”
“Minnie?” Preston groaned, kneading the bridge of his nose.
“She also said I should ask Miguelito,” I added.
“Miguelito?”
“Her dog.”
Sunset, who had moved behind me, hit me with the rolled-up newspaper. My head jerked forward.
“Sorry,” Sunset said. “Big fly on your head.”
“Cut that shit,” Preston ordered, stepping behind me so I had to turn my head to watch the two cops. Preston was smaller, but older and presumably wiser. Sunset shrugged and came back in front of the table to hit a few imaginary balls through the grimy wall.
“Thanks,” I said over my shoulder to Preston.
He ran a hand through his graying hair and threw his empty coffee cup in the general direction of the overfull wastebasket in the corner. The wastebasket had one of those paper liners two sizes too big for the basket.
“And I want a phone call,” I said.
“Who’s stopping you?” asked Preston, pointing to the phone on the table. “Hey, make two, three calls. No long distance.”
“All you had to do was ask,” said Sunset.
I picked up the phone and called information. I got Lundeen’s number. The phone rang six times before Lundeen answered.
“It’s me, Toby Peters,” I said. “Are you sitting?”
“Whenever I can,” he said with a deep sigh.
And I told him. I’ll give him credit. He didn’t say much. He did groan from time to time, and his voice wasn’t steady, but he said he’d have a lawyer there as quickly as he could.
“Peters,” he said with a tear in his voice, “I must say this. I never really liked Lorna. I didn’t know her well, but I didn’t like her and now … You didn’t kill her?”
“John,” I said, “why the hell would I kill her?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I … Lord, ‘O happy dagger. This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.’”
“Beautiful, John,” I said. The two cops looked at me with weariness in their drooping eyes.
“Gounod,” he said. “Romeo et Juliette. Actually, the words are Shakespeare’s, but …”
“John, find Gunther, Jeremy, and Shelly,” I said. “Tell them not to come here, to stay on the job. Got it?”
“I have it,” he said.
“And send a lawyer, fast,” I said. “You have Vera’s number?”
He had it. Or rather he knew the hotel she was staying at and looked up the number while I waited. When he hung up I called. The phone rang six times and then a man answered. It was Martin Passacaglia. I heard a dog yapping behind him. I hung up.
I passed the time waiting for the lawyer feeling sorry for myself. Preston and Sunset played scare-the-suspect.
“Open …” Preston began.
“… and shut,” Sunset agreed. “Witnesses say he entered about ten. We get a call that a murder is in progress seconds later, dispatch a car, and catch him with a mess-scratches on his face, and a very newly dead body. Open …”
“… and shut,” Preston finished.
I didn’t say anything.
Preston sang a medley of Russ Columbo, Harry Cool, and Bing Crosby songs.
“What do you think? Could have been a crooner?” he asked.
“Lovely voice,” I said. “None of the new guys have the timbre. Maybe Buddy Clark, Perry Como.”
When Preston started “Just One More Chance” for the third time at about two-thirty in the morning, Sunset left, announcing that he “had to take a leak.” Preston took the news solemnly and sat across from me, waiting with his arms folded.
“You like baseball?” I asked.
“I like singing and I like quiet,” Preston said. “I like being home with my wife and kids when my shift is over. I don’t like catching murder calls, and I don’t like talking baseball with out-of-town private dicks.”
I shrugged and shut up. He sat quietly, arms folded, out of songs.
The lawyer arrived at a little after three, escorted in by Sunset, who smiled at Preston and me. I didn’t like the smile. The lawyer was a little Mexican guy about sixty-five. His back was straight, his face clean-shaven except for a mustache, his three-piece beige suit recently pressed, his tan shoes highly polished. He nodded at me and the two cops and placed his briefcase on the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said.
“Counselor,” said Preston, sitting on the edge of the table and looking at his watch. “You want some time alone with your client?”
“Absolutely,” he answered.
Preston and Sunset moved toward the door, but the little lawyer held up his hand.
“Not in this room,” he said. “I want privacy. You wouldn’t want your case thrown out later because you failed to honor the lawyer-client relationship?”
In short, the lawyer was telling them the room had a hidden mike and he knew it. Now we all knew it.
“Bathroom’s down the hall to the right,” Preston said. “Inspector Sunset will show you.”
The lawyer picked up his briefcase, adjusted his jacket and vest, and we followed Sunset into the hall. Sunset led us to the washroom and made it clear he would be waiting outside the door for us. There were two windows in the room, both open a crack to let some of the smell of Lysol out and some of the smell of the night air in. Four urinals, their white showing rust patterns, stood along one wall alongside two stalls without doors. Opposite urinals and stalls were two sinks.
The lawyer, who identified himself as Manuel Flores, turned on the water in all four faucets and talked softly, our heads close enough together that I could smell his aftershave. I told him everything. It took about five minutes. Then he asked questions. That took about fifteen minutes.
“Basta,” he said when he had finished. “We have a problem. All they have is circumstantial evidence, but that is all they need. The law says they must establish your guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. That means there can be some doubt as long as the jury, if there is a jury, is convinced that you have committed the crime. But what is a reasonable doubt?”
“You really think they’re going to hold me for this?” I asked.
Lawyer Flores shook his head to show he wasn’t sure. He washed his hands, patted down his hair, checked his mustache in the spotted mirror, and led me to the door where Sunset was standing guard.
Back in the little interrogation room, Flores pulled up a chair and sat at the table with me at his side. “I would like to hear charges and cause before deciding my client’s course of action,” he said, opening his briefcase. He took out a fresh white pad, removed his Waterman pen from his jacket pocket, and looked at Preston. Sunset stood in the corner, arms folded.
“Your client’s fingerprints,” Preston added, after he had gone over what else he had on me, “are all over the apartment. Just got a call from forensics. He was in that apartment with a dead woman looking for something, probably money, when a patrolman arrived. Also, we have testimony that your client had a fight with the deceased this morning.”
“Fight?” I said. “You …”
“Weapon?” Lawyer Flores interrupted, taking notes.
“Missing,” said Sunset. “There’s a balcony and the bay right outside the window. It’d take a good throw, but our Peters here looks like he’s got a whippy little arm. We’ll look in the morning, but it could have been washed clear down to San Jose by now.”
“Why do you not believe the Bartholomew woman was dead when my client went up to her apartment?” Flores asked.
“Doorman called up when he arrived,” said Preston wearily. “Miss Bartholomew told him to send said client up.”
“How does the doorman know it was the Bartholomew woman who answered?” Flores asked. “An intercom phone, a word, a uh-huh in answer to the doorman’s question if he should send my client up. Why could it not be the killer who answered the call?”
Preston shrugged and Sunset sighed. They had heard this kind of thing before.