Blood Type Page 14
“Do you have any idea what he was talking about in the note?”
She shook her head. “Do you?”
“Not if he was talking about something more immoral than your husband’s dalliance with his wife.” I paused. “Do you really think your husband is capable of murder, Mrs. Sands?”
Her gaze was marbled with mischief. “My husband is capable of anything. If you don’t believe me, read the financial pages.”
If it had been someone else sitting there, I probably would have sent her on her way, to an operative like Standish or the nearest free clinic for a healthy shot of Thorazine. But I was getting old, and beautiful women no longer slowed when they crossed my path, so I took a different tack. “Tell me about the note.”
“I would have come to you sooner, but my secretary only gave it to me yesterday. She thought it was just another crank—Richard and I get hundreds of them. You’d be surprised how many lunatics think the fact that you have money and they don’t puts you in their debt.”
“I’m not only not surprised, I even think they’re right.”
She sniffed with irritation. “Let’s not get into that, shall we? Discussions about noblesse oblige are boring.”
“Your wish is my command.”
“Sarcasm is also boring. As I’m sure you know.” Mrs. Sands readjusted her legs. “As I was saying, when she saw in the newspaper that Mr. Crandall had been found dead, Matilda brought me the note and asked if she should do anything with it. I made inquiries. They eventually pointed to you. So here I am.” Her eyelids fluttered, and her bust inflated admirably. “Will you help me, Mr. Tanner?”
“Help you what, exactly?”
“Prove my husband is a killer.”
I shook my head. “But I’ll let you hire me to find out who killed Tom Crandall. If it turns out to be your husband, I’ll make him pay a price for it.”
She bit a lip. “I suppose that will have to do.”
“My rate’s forty an hour plus expenses. Will that be a problem?”
Her smile was as mercenary as her regard for her spouse. “All my problems should be so picayune.”
SEVENTEEN
Deirdre Sands gave me a five-thousand-dollar retainer and a hand to squeeze as she walked out the office door. She also gave me a husky laugh and a vigorous nod when I asked if she piloted the Cadillac herself. And she gave me, just maybe, a hint that she and I could have some fun sometime, if both of us were in the mood. The implication was that Deirdre Sands was always in the mood, an implication that had taken her a long way in the world. As her heels tapped their purposeful way down the stairs at the end of the hall, I wondered why her husband had soured on her.
The phone started ringing before I got back to the desk.
“This is Guy Heskett at the Chronicle,” it said when I picked it up. “I’ve got a note to call you. Something about an obituary. It’ll save us both some time if I tell you up front that I don’t do obituaries.”
“You did one for Tom Crandall.”
The high, almost feminine, voice floated in surprise. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t till you called.”
“Oh. Right. I … What was Tom to you?”
“A close enough friend to know he was deserving of the tribute you paid him.”
“He deserved a lot more than that. But what’s your interest—you want a few extra copies of the paper?”
I opted for the direct approach. “I was wondering if you’d been in communication with Tom in the last month or so.”
“Why?” His thin voice acquired a reporter’s husk.
“Because some people are finding it hard to make sense of Tom’s death.”
“When does death ever make sense?”
“Lots of times, in my experience. This doesn’t happen to be one of them.”
“Have you seen the M.E. report?” Heskett asked after a moment.
“Not yet. My source hasn’t gotten back to me.”
“Well, mine has.”
“I didn’t know they did follow-ups to obituaries.”
Heskett debated whether to tell me what he knew. “Our news story said that a weapon was found at the scene.”
“I remember.”
“Guess what it was.”
“A slingshot.”
“A syringe.”
“Containing?”
“Epinephrine. Adrenaline, basically. Used to treat anaphylactic shock. But this particular dose was handmade and king-sized: a hot shot big enough to blow out the brain of an elephant. Which is what it did to Tom—he died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage.”
“That’s what killed him? An overdose of adrenaline?”
“That’s what the M.E. says. And since Tom had access to the stuff in his EMU, the coroner’s inclined toward suicide.”
“That makes him the only one in town who tilts that way.”
“I don’t buy it, either.”
The line went dead for a moment as we tested our stance and its implications. Heskett was the first to test it audibly. “Tom was a depressive personality.”
“True.”
“But not a nihilist, I don’t think.”
“Not quite.”
“So not a suicide.”
“Not even close.”
“Which leaves homicide.”
“You mean a mugging,” I suggested, knowing it wasn’t what he meant at all.
“With a syringe? Come on. I mean premeditated murder.”
“You said it, I didn’t,” I pointed out, as though someone were taking notes. “So how did you know Tom? Were you in the service together?”
Heskett’s laugh became a titter. “Hardly. I spent the war years in Vancouver and a decade more besides. I met Tom a year ago. I was doing a story for the Recorder.”
“The legal newspaper?”
“Right—my former gig. They had me running down rumors that the city paramedics were on retainer to some personal-injury attorneys around town. Cappers, they’re known as in the trade.”
“So were they?”
“The city crews came up clean. I’m not saying they never plucked a few bucks out of some stiff’s wallet, or copped a wristwatch or a ring or two, but I never found any link to the lawyers.”
“Be hard to nail down, wouldn’t it?”
“Hey,” Heskett bristled. “I’m a good reporter. I got into the bank accounts of about a third of the EMTs to see if they were making unusual deposits, which they weren’t except for one guy who had a way with the ponies. And I couldn’t come up with a single accident victim who admitted being pressured by a paramedic to consult any particular attorney about their injury situation. Whatever might have gone on in the past, I’m pretty sure by the time I got into it, there wasn’t any graft in the city rigs except some petty thievery.”
“So you met Tom on assignment.”
“Yeah. I’d run across him initially on an earthquake follow-up; you know about that, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, when I got into the ambulance thing, I remembered Tom’s name and gave him a call and arranged to follow him around for a couple of days, just to get the feel of the life.” Heskett sighed. “It was like getting a feel for vivisection, let me tell you. But it was great getting to know Tom. These days you don’t run into all that many people who make use of a moral compass.”
“Tom may have worn his out.”
“I don’t know about that, but man was he refreshing. I’d just spent five years covering lawyers—you know, guys who choose up sides on the basis of who’s paying the most bread—and here comes someone who doesn’t have two dimes to rub together yet has a real live personal ethic. Not some situational shit, or self-serving pap about free enterprise and the perpetuity of the poor and all that, but a code he actually tried to live by. The last person I ran into with one of those was my philosophy teacher at Oberlin. Crandall made me feel like I was talking to Alfred North Whitehead, plus he helped me move up to the Chron.”
&nbs
p; “How did he manage that?”
“I was at a dead end on the ambulance thing when Tom hinted there might be something fishy in the Healthways units.”
“Healthways has ambulances?”
“Healthways has everything.”
“So was there a problem?”
“They definitely had personnel who were dirty. I know for a fact that one of their drivers got a thousand a month to tout Vic Scallini onto any prime P.I. claims he rolled on.”
Vic Scallini was one of the more successful and less ethical of the personal-injury specialists in the state, with offices in both L.A. and San Francisco and an ego that spanned the gap. The respectable members of the profession had ranted about Vic and his champertous methods for years, but the state bar had never reined him in.
“Yeah, this Healthways guy was dirty all the way,” Heskett was saying. “Dickerson his name was. Slipped Scallini’s card to the victims or relatives at the scene, maybe a C-note along with it, then followed up with a call recommending they see Vic to learn their litigation prospects. Scallini had Dickerson on commission, one percent of the recovery if Vic got the case and won it.”
“One percent of a million-dollar verdict is a lot of money for an ambulance driver,” I said.
“For a newshound, too. And a P.I. as well, would be my guess.”
We shared some economic wistfulness. “So the Healthways guys were definitely capping?” I asked.
“That and worse. One former Healthways EMT told me that when it was a close case and it looked like no one would be the wiser, his partner would keep driving around town till the injured person died, rather than getting him to the E.R. right away, because the lawyer he was capping for liked death cases better than injury cases.”
“That’s because you can’t get punitive damages in this state unless the victim dies.”
“How did you know?”
“I used to be a lawyer myself once upon a time.”
“Why’d you give it up?”
“I was making too much money.”
Heskett laughed. “That’s the kind of crap Crandall used to spout.”
I basked in the compliment for about three seconds. “So did you nail this Dickerson?”
“Couldn’t lock it up tight enough for my editor to run with it. Whatever the guy did with his money didn’t show up in the bank books, and without a subpoena of Scallini’s ledgers there was no way to prove the connection. But we went with some of the tamer stuff, and even that caused a bit of a stir, and I parlayed the story into my job on the city desk.” Heskett paused to take a sip of something. “So what’s really going on here, Tanner—you got a suspect picked out? You giving me an exclusive?”
I hastened to dash his hopes. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to Tom.”
“Why?”
“Because someone ought to know. You never got around to telling me if you talked to Tom in the last few months.”
“Not a word. But I know someone who did.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Alan Lodge.”
“The guy in the obituary.”
“Right. When I called him for a quote for the obit, Lodge told me Tom had come to see him a week before he died.”
“For what purpose?”
“He didn’t say, but he wanted to know if there was anything unusual about Tom’s death. That was before I knew something was.”
Heskett waited for me to corroborate his conclusion. When I didn’t, he donned his reporter’s voice again. “Listen. When you do get a line on what happened, be sure and plug me in. I smell a story here.”
I refrained from admitting that the stench was familiar.
When I called Lodge’s office, the receptionist told me the doctor was in Honolulu for a medical meeting and was staying on for a few days of vacation time.
“It’s important that I speak with him,” I said.
“Dr. Timkin is taking over his practice in Dr. Lodge’s absence. I can make an appointment for you to see Dr. Timkin, and—”
“I have to talk to Lodge. Where’s he staying in Honolulu?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t give out that information.”
“Then give me a number where he can be reached.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I think you should talk to Dr. Timkin.”
“Does Dr. Lodge call into the office every day?”
“… Yes.”
“My name’s Tanner. Please give him my name and number and tell him I want to speak with him about Tom Crandall as soon as possible.”
“Tom Crandall. Is he a patient of Doctor’s?”
“Tom Crandall is the bravest man Dr. Lodge has ever known.”
Forty minutes later, Alan Lodge was on the phone from Honolulu. The noises in the background suggested he wasn’t far from the beach. Or maybe he was in his room watching Magnum, P.I.
“Mr. Tanner,” he began earnestly. “I’m glad you called the office; I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” His voice was thin and timid, a far cry from the stentorian tones of most M.D.’s. I began to see why Tom had entrusted him with one of his last requests.
“What did you want to talk about?” I asked.
“Because Tom asked … that is … this is difficult. But I suppose it shouldn’t wait till I get back.”
“What shouldn’t wait?”
Lodge inhaled a lot of ocean breeze. “Tom came to see me some weeks ago. Before that, I hadn’t seen him since the earthquake, when he … Anyway, he came to the office with a rather strange request.”
“Which was?”
“He said that if anything happened to him, I should get in touch with you.”
“Why?”
“So you could help me find his brother.”
“Nicky.”
“Yes.”
“What did he want us to do when we found him?”
“He wanted me to give him a medical workup and report the results to you.”
“Why?”
“Tom was afraid his brother was ill.”
“With what?”
“He didn’t mention anything specifically. He simply asked me to do a complete physical exam on Nicky and follow wherever it might lead.”
“Why do you think he wanted you to report your findings to me?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry I didn’t call about this the moment the reporter called to tell me Tom was dead, but I had this meeting scheduled and I needed a vacation badly, so … anyway, I’ll be happy to pay whatever expenses you incur in finding Nicky Crandall, Mr. Tanner. I want to live up to my part of the bargain.”
“What was Tom’s part of it?”
He paused. “I thought you knew. Tom saved my wife’s life. She was one of the people he rescued in the earthquake.”
EIGHTEEN
After fixing a cup of coffee, I put in another call to the Central Station. It must have been a cold day in hell, because Charley Sleet was on the line a minute later.
“You were going to get back to me with the postmortem on Tom Crandall,” I reminded him.
“Got it right here. Bunch of new guys over there,” he groused by way of apology and explanation. “Takes them an hour to wipe their ass.”
“Overdose of adrenaline, administered by syringe.”
Charley is never nonplussed. “This is to prove I’m not indispensable, I guess,” he grumbled.
“This is to ask if the department is going to list Tom Crandall as a homicide.”
“Murder by syringe, huh? Not the weapon of choice for many muggers, Tanner. They got a needle, they generally stick it in themselves.”
“Were there any other drugs in his system?”
Charley paused to check. “No.”
“No other signs of foul play?”
“Not enough to interest a D.A.”
“I’m pretty sure Tom was murdered, Charley.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t have a perp, how about a motive?”
Charley emitted his famous growl. “You come up with an answer to one or the other, maybe I can crank something up. In the meantime, it goes down as self-inflicted.”
“You know the Tenderloin better than anyone, Charley.”
“A dubious distinction.”
“Ask around. Talk to your snitches. If you hear anything, let me know.”
“Anything about what?”
“I’m not sure. All I know is that Healthways has come up a lot over the last few days.”
“First Sands, now Healthways. Those clinics do a lot of good down there, you know.”
“I know.”
When I didn’t say anything else, Charley said, “I’ll keep it in mind.”
I thanked him. “One last thing. Check the computer and the morgue sheet to see if you’ve got anything on Nicky Crandall. That’s Tom’s brother.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” I said, and hung up before he could sass me back.
It was time to talk to Tony. When I called his home, all I got was a reprise of the salacious nonsense that befouled his answering machine. When I called the ambulance service, they told me Tony had graveyard this week and wouldn’t be on till midnight. Since Tony wasn’t going to come to me, I decided on the next-best thing.
Tony Milano lived in the swale between Telegraph and Russian hills, under the phallic eye of Coit Tower, on Greenwich across from the North Beach Playground. Kids were screaming and balls were bouncing and rackets were pinging as I climbed the stoop and pressed the doorbell beneath the Romanesque archway that framed the entrance to the building. My guess was that the handsome structure had been in the Milano family for generations. I also guessed that if and when Tony became its sole surviving heir, he’d trade it in on some place more fashionable, which is to say on something worse.
If Tony was at home, he was probably asleep, given his change in shift, so I pressed the buzzer and held it there. A bevy of words suddenly ricocheted back and forth somewhere at my back, Italian words aimed and fired with the mock exasperation that seems to be their trademark in everything from courtship to comic opera. I gave my finger a rest, then pressed the buzzer a second time.