"LaMonica comes into town," Carr said, staring at the road ahead. "He stops by the Castaways Lounge and meets with Teddy Mora. They talk business. Linda gets her hooks in and invites him over-"
"For one of her Mata Hari-style interrogations," Kelly interrupted.
"LaMonica makes a telephone call from her place," Carr continued, "and uses the name Bob French. He tells her he plans to leave town the next day." He rubbed his chin. "LaMonica came to L.A. to get something he needed, or maybe to sell a package of bad paper." He had a puzzled expression.
"It could be anything," Kelly said, coming out of his fugue.
"Four-Lima-four from Los Angeles base," blared the Treasury radio. Carr opened the glove compartment, pulled out the microphone, and answered.
"Meet Detective Higgins at the L.A. morgue, third floor."
"Roger," Carr said.
Chapter 9
Carr and Kelly stepped into the morgue elevator and waited for the doors to close. There was an odor of formaldehyde. "Hold it!" shouted someone in the hall. Carr pushed the "open door" button. A freckled man in a pale green surgical outfit backed into the lift, pulling a gurney with a sheet covering everything on it except a yellowed toe.
Kelly grimaced and pushed the third-floor button.
"You guys here for a murder autopsy?" said the medic. A surgeon's cap balanced precariously on a mop of curly red hair. His voice had a tone of anticipation.
Kelly shook his head no. He stared at the yellow toe.
"This turkey electrocuted himself," said the red-haired man. "He wrapped an electrical wire around his head, grounded himself in his bathtub, and lust put in the old plug. Zappo!"
Kelly shook his head sadly. "Poor guy," he said.
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. "He got a real charge out of it!" the doc said. He laughed and waited for the agents to join in. When they didn't, he rolled the body out of the elevator and headed the opposite way down a sterile-looking corridor.
"That's why I hate to come here," Kelly said as they walked down the hall. "These people are all creeps. Real honest-to-god one-hundred-percent creeps."
Carr nodded.
Higgins, a fortyish, crew-cut man who was the size of a football lineman, beckoned them into an office. They sat down around a table covered with bloody knives in transparent plastic envelopes and enlarged color photos of death scenes. One photo was a close-up of the belt around Linda Gleason's neck.
"I'm waiting to observe my second autopsy for the day," Higgins said. "Some gang murders that happened last night." He ran a hand through his stubble of blond hair. "I've got a few minutes, so I'll give it to you briefly. Your girl died of strangulation and she had multiple head injuries. The murderer bashed her brains in with a heavy lamp base. He did this after he choked her out with a belt. There were no fingerprints in the apartment except for hers and those of a couple of bartenders from the Castaways Lounge she was balling. I showed LaMonica's photograph to every resident of the apartment house. No one could identify him, including the old lady next door. She wasn't wearing her eyeglasses. "
"What about the taxi dispatchers?" Carr said.
"Just getting to that," Higgins said. "The taxi company logs show no fare to Linda Gleason's address all day, which probably means that the cabby who drove LaMonica over there pocketed the fare." Higgins stretched his arms over his head. "So unless you can capture LaMonica and talk him into giving us a confession complete enough so that we can corroborate everything he says, we have no murder case." He turned his palms up.
Carr raised his eyebrows. He shook his head. "I've read all his previous arrest reports. LaMonica doesn't confess when he gets arrested. He always goes to the joint without saying a word."
"Then he'll beat the rap," Higgins said. "It's doubtful we could prove motive because we can't prove he knew she was the informant. For means, the murder weapons have no fingerprints. Proving opportunity is out because no one can place him at the scene of the crime. Getting the district attorney to file murder charges in this case would be about as easy as finding a doctor who'd admit a mistake."
Carr stared at the floor for a minute.
Kelly took a photograph from the array on the table and held it up. It was a five-by-eight of a group of pigeons pecking at what looked like popcorn strewn along a blood-splattered sidewalk. "What the hell is this?" he said with a disgusted look.
"Pigeons eating human guts," said the cop. "Couple of Mexican chaps disemboweled one another on Wabash Avenue day before yesterday. Machetes. A young officer took the photo to prove that he tried to secure the original crime scene like he was supposed to. But the birds showed up for the feast."
Kelly tossed the photo down.
Carr said thanks to the detective. Then the two agents headed out of the office and down the hall toward the elevator.
"Next time we come here I'm going to wait in the car," Kelly said. "I'm getting too old for this shit. I really am."
"Me too," Carr said. He gave his partner a punch on the shoulder.
In the moonlight the water along the coast was inky, its waves gray, ominous.
Paul LaMonica pulled off the El Camino Real highway onto a bumpy road that led to the beach. After a hundred yards or so, his headlights illuminated a stucco building surrounded by sports cars and Cadillacs. The structure was the size of a small tract house. For God only knows what reason, it had been built catty-corner to the water. Like the rest of Baja architecture, it looked unfinished. Like some revolutionary slogan, the word Teddy's had been painted in red above the entrance.
LaMonica parked his car and got out. The sound of Mariachi music and drunken conversation mixed with that of the waves slapping against the rocks. He went in.
Inside the dimly lit hangout was a circular bar and a few tables occupied by as many boisterous, garishly dressed women as men — mostly bikers and their broads. Three Mexican guitar players strummed in the corner.
Everyone, including the musicians, had their eyes on LaMonica as he made his way to a table.
Behind the bar, Teddy Mora filled shot glasses from a half-gallon tequila bottle. He wore a Stetson with a red band and feather, and gold necklaces over a T-shirt with a cartoon illustration of a man with an oversized, drooling tongue. He waved at LaMonica and everyone stopped staring. LaMonica sat at an empty table.
A few minutes later Mora moved to LaMonica's table carrying a tequila bottle and two glasses. He set the items on the table and pulled a lemon out of his trouser pocket. Using a penknife, he sliced it into wedges. He looked around to see if anyone was listening.
"I'm running out of twenties," Teddy said, wiping the wet knife on his T-shirt.
LaMonica shook his head. "They're all gone," he said.
Teddy filled the glasses and sprinkled salt on the back of his hand. Taking a lick of the salt, he tossed back a shot of tequila. He chomped on a lemon wedge and spit the rind on the floor. "That's too bad," he said. "Everybody wants 'em." He laughed. "I even tossed a few in with my bar receipts and deposited them in the bank." He laughed again.
"That's what you can do with my newest thing," LaMonica said.
Teddy Mora looked puzzled.
"Traveler's checks," LaMonica said. "You can dump a few in with your bar receipts. Even though they're counterfeit, the traveler's-check company will pay off, stand good for them. If they didn't, all of you legit businessmen would refuse to accept them and the company would go out of business."