Strawberry Sunday Read online

  “Information.”

  “Buying or selling?”

  “Buying.”

  “We’re not in that kind of business.”

  “It might be to your advantage to deal with me.”

  She cocked her head. “That’s what they all say, one way or another, on duty and off. It seldom proves to be true.” She surprised me with a smile that softened her features and doubled her attractiveness. “But maybe you’re the exception.”

  I returned her grin. “Did you know Rita Lombardi wanted to fix us up?”

  She frowned. “Say what?”

  “Rita Lombardi thought you and I should go dancing with her and Carlos Reyna at a place called the Cantina.”

  “That poor girl.” The woman stuck out her hand. “Sal Delder. I’m not much of a dancer so you didn’t miss much, plus I’ve lived alone so long I lost the knack of smart conversation. You’re the friend from the hospital, huh?”

  I nodded. “Name’s Tanner. Marsh Tanner.”

  “They fixed her up real good up there, didn’t they?”

  I nodded. “So you saw her after she got back?”

  “She ducked in to say hello. And tell me to work on my fox-trot.”

  “She didn’t say anything to indicate she was in some kind of trouble?”

  “The opposite. She seemed happy as a bee on clover.” Sal shook her head. “Life can sure turn shitty once in a while. Working in a place like this, that can be all of it you see. Weighs me down some, especially with something like Rita. What kind of information you interested in? As if I didn’t know.”

  “The Lombardi case.”

  “Both? Or just Rita?”

  “I didn’t know there was more than one.”

  “We got a new one and an old one. Take your pick.”

  “The new one,” I said. “For starters.”

  She lifted a thumb and aimed toward the back. “Man in charge is Sergeant Lopez. Office is that way, but he ain’t here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out on union patrol, I imagine, along with everyone else with a badge, making sure things don’t get out of hand. Only one here is the chief.”

  “Then I’ll talk to him.”

  She lifted a brow. “Got a good reason why he should take the time?”

  “I’m a friend of the deceased, plus I’m a licensed private detective.”

  “That just might do it,” she said with a grin.

  She pecked some more strokes on her computer, pushed a button to clear the screen, then got out of her chair and went down the hall. Without her, the building seemed as hollow as a tire. Amazingly enough, despite the heat that made my shirt a soggy rag, I was chilly—the biggest item on the department budget must have been the air conditioning.

  When Sal Delder returned she was followed by a man in a two-tone blue uniform that was two sizes too small in the chest and an inch too short in the inseam, with enough gadgetry hanging off the belt to outfit the Italian army. He was short and burly and buff, with his hair shaved to his skull and his sleeves rolled tight above biceps that had to have been acquired artificially. His neck was as thick as a stump and his chest was the size of a swamp cooler. In response to his persona, my gut gave off a quick twist of pain, as if to remind me not to give the man an excuse to punch me.

  “PI, huh?” he said as he strolled down the hall to meet me.

  “That’s what the license says.”

  “Maybe I’d better confirm that you’ve got one.”

  I handed it over. He read it and looked up. “I’m Mace Dixon, chief cook and bottle washer around here. Call me Reb if you want; from Mason-Dixon and all that. Who hired you to come down and mess in our business?”

  “No one.”

  His lip curled like an apple peel. “You some sort of Lone Ranger, riding around the country solving crimes without an invite?”

  “I was a friend of Rita Lombardi’s.”

  He squinted to get me in focus, then looked at Sal with a dubious frown. “Hard to see how that could happen.”

  “They shared the same hospital for a few weeks,” Sal told him.

  “Oh. Yeah. Heard they fixed her up real good, though it was hard to tell in the morgue what with all the … anyways, what you in the hospital for?”

  “Gut shot.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who shot you?”

  “A cop.”

  His face hardened like baked clay beneath a hot pink glaze. “You out on bail, or something?”

  “Nope.”

  “So it was an accident.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Guess that can happen in the big city. Down here, we don’t put up with accidents.”

  “Glad to hear it. What can you tell me about the Lombardi case, Chief?”

  He thought it over before he spoke. “Stabbed a couple dozen times, got her legs broke, found her over by the high school. No witnesses; not much physical evidence. Not much motive, either, at this point. Looks like it may take a while to sort out.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Last Friday night. After ten and before midnight.”

  “Where was she at ten?”

  “Home. Lived with her mother on Fremont Street. Mother was asleep, but she got a call from a friend that confirms the time.”

  “Carlos Reyna?”

  He shook his head. “Not that kind of friend. Woman named Powell from Salinas.”

  “What was the call about?”

  “Girl stuff, is all she admits to. Mostly about the wedding the Lombardi woman was planning.”

  “And at midnight?”

  “Body was found by a guy coming home from the swing shift at the cooling shed.”

  “Is that one of Gus Gelbride’s operations?”

  “Hell, son, you can say that about ever business in this town and then some.”

  “Including this one, Chief?”

  The chief pinked up again. When he made a fist his bicep threatened to hop off his arm and slug me all by its lonesome. “You got no call to say something like that. Mr. Gelbride gets what everyone else in this town gets, which is the best effort I’ve got in me. I think maybe you should leave us be now, Mr. Tanner—I’ve told you more than you deserve already.”

  “You’re right, Chief. And I apologize if you took offense.”

  He looked left. “With that and a quarter I can buy Sal a posy.”

  I guessed he was sweet on Sal but the sentiment wasn’t requited. I’d been in that neighborhood myself, so I sympathized. “Was there any connection between Rita and the guy who found her body?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you have any suspects at all?”

  He looked me over. “I got one more than I had when you walked in the door,” he said sourly. “Now I got work to do. You best get back to Frisco where you know how things work. Down here, you’re going to be hip-deep in manure the minute you step out that door. And right at the moment, I wouldn’t be inclined to haul you out of it.”

  I met his scowl with a sunny smile. “Thanks for the advice, Chief, but I’m going to be nosing around for a few days. Hope you won’t have a problem with it.”

  His frown wrinkled everything from his chin to his cowlick. “Damn straight I got a problem. I told you to leave us be and go back to the big city. Why aren’t you going to do it?”

  I met his look and held it. “I came near dying in that hospital. For a while, the pain was so bad I decided that’s what I wanted to do. Then Rita Lombardi came along and reminded me why I should try like hell to keep breathing.”

  “So you owe her.”

  “Big time.”

  He looked at Sal yet again. She smiled at him and shrugged, which I interpreted as a vote of confidence.

  After the vote, the chief made his decision. “Don’t get cute. Don’t tell lies to folks about who you are and what you want. Report in whenever I tell you to and don’t keep any secrets. And if I tell you to back o
ff, do it, because it means we’re breaking the case.”

  “I think I can manage that,” I said, with my fingers tightly crossed at my side.

  “Then we’ll get along.” The chief turned to go.

  “Chief?”

  “What?”

  “The other Lombardi case.”

  “What about it?”

  “Is it the position of the police department that Franco Lombardi was murdered?”

  Chief Dixon crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, which made it give six inches. “Does it matter?”

  “I figure it might somewhere down the road.”

  He thought it over, then nodded. “I’d only been here six months, just out of Shore Police with the Navy down in Dago. Some things about it seemed off plumb to me, so in my mind it’s still open. But I’m the only one who thinks so.”

  “Who was the guy who hit him?”

  “Man named Fitzroy. Dead himself a few years later; heart attack.”

  “Any connection to Franco Lombardi?”

  “Not that I found. Except they work for the same man.”

  “Gus Gelbride.”

  “Around here, that’s not much of a guess. Do what you got to do, Mr. Tanner. I got paperwork to do.”

  “I’d like to talk to you more about the Lombardi thing sometime.”

  “Not now.”

  “Then later.”

  “Anything’s possible, they say, though in my experience it’s not nearly true. Most things folks want ain’t ever gonna happen and somewhere inside they know it.”

  The chief lumbered down the hall, a tough and candid man who seemed up to the task of warding off the pressures that would come to bear on law enforcement in a place like Haciendas. I decided it would be prudent to stay in his good graces.

  Sal Delder walked with me as far as her desk. I bid her good-bye and pushed open the door.

  “She wasn’t who you thought she was,” she said at my back.

  I turned back. “What was that?”

  “Rita Lombardi. She wasn’t the saint people thought she was.”

  “Then what was she?”

  “A revolutionary.”

  “Saints are the most radical revolutionaries of all,” I said. By the time I found a motel room down in Salinas, my mood was as foul and apprehensive as it had been on the day I’d been shot.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I showered and changed my shirt, then called the machine in the office for messages. Ruthie had left one that said everything was under control more or less, except her phraseology was more scatological. The only other messages of interest were from Jill Coppelia and a lawyer named Knoblock. As I called the lawyer, the number seemed familiar and for good reason: Knoblock was a partner in Andy Potter’s law firm and Andy was a friend of mine and a member of the poker group from time to time.

  “Knoblock,” he said gruffly.

  “Marsh Tanner, returning your call.”

  “Ah. Mr. Tanner. How are you feeling?”

  “Hunky-dory.”

  “I assume that means good.”

  “Good enough.”

  “Great. Well, the reason I called is, I don’t know if you’re aware of it or not, but some years back, this office drew up a will for your friend Charles Sleet.”

  I hadn’t heard him called Charles since his wife, Flora, had died ten years ago. “I didn’t know that. No.”

  “The terms of the will should be of interest to you. In fact, the terms are somewhat unusual.”

  “How so?”

  “In essence, the will provides that the entire residue of Mr. Sleet’s estate, after payment of debts and expenses and taxes, shall be bequeathed to the Tenderloin Children’s Project.”

  “Great. They’re a quality operation.”

  “So I’ve been told. But there is a condition precedent to that gift I need to apprise you of.”

  “Which means what?”

  Knoblock cleared his throat. “Mr. Sleet’s will specifically provided that you are entitled to select whatever assets you want from his estate and to keep them as your own, without limitation.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything at all—the house, his car, his bank account, his pension—anything and everything, if you so choose. As I said, it was quite an unusual bequest. So, as the co-executor along with Mr. Potter, whom I believe you know, I’m calling to ask you to make your selections as expeditiously as possible, so the residue can be transferred to the residual beneficiary without needless delay.”

  “I … what if I don’t want anything?”

  His voice cooled. “That’s your prerogative, of course. Although I know Mr. Sleet hoped you would take something. A memento, if nothing else.”

  “It’s a little like taking candy from a baby, though, isn’t it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean whatever I get, the children’s project loses.”

  “That would appear to be so. Yes. It’s a zero-sum situation.”

  “How much are we talking about here, Mr. Knoblock? Not a lot, right?”

  “The assets were valued at the date of death at six hundred and ten thousand dollars.”

  “What?”

  “Six ten, Mr. Tanner. A sizable sum, though just below the level at which federal estate taxes would be incurred.”

  “Jesus,” I blurted. “Maybe Charley was on the pad.”

  Knoblock’s laugh was careful and controlled and his statement was meant to rebut my charge, whether or not it was serious. “Approximately three-fourths of the total is in real estate.”

  I was relieved. “Right. The house.”

  “And a second residence up near Rio Vista, I believe.”

  “A second … oh. The fishing cabin.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any other questions about the assets, Mr. Tanner?”

  “Not at the moment, I don’t think.”

  “So when do you think you’ll be reaching a decision in this matter?”

  I was tired of his tone and tired of the suggestion that I pick over Charley’s bones. “I don’t know, Mr. Knoblock. I’m calling from Salinas; I’m involved in a case down here. I think I’d want to look at the house and his personal effects before I make any—”

  “Of course. And I could make that arrangement at your convenience. Or you can use the key under the rock by the porch.”

  “I’ll let you know when I get back to the city.”

  “Of course.”

  “That sadistic son of a bitch.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Just saying another form of good-bye,” I said, and hung up.

  Ten minutes later I’d pushed Charley back beneath my consciousness, so I called the number Jill Coppelia had left on my machine. When the person who answered said, “District Attorney’s office,” it seemed more a warning than a welcome.

  I gave her Jill’s name and a moment later she came on the line. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Coppelia.”

  “How about Jill and John?”

  “I go by Marsh, actually.”

  “So that would make it Jill and Marsh. If we were going to become less formal.”

  “Jill and Marsh. Sounds like a children’s book.”

  “Jill and Marsh went to the farce—it has possibilities. Speaking of farces, we’ve done what you suggested.”

  “Which is?”

  “Put our investigators on this Triad business.”

  “Good.”

  “One of them will probably be talking to you.”

  “Fine. I can’t guarantee I’ll be talking to him, however.”

  Her voice abandoned its coltish banter and fell toward asperity. “I hope you will, Marsh.”

  “I know you do, Jill.”

  She framed an alternate gambit. “What we want to know is, do you know anyone in the police department who has information about this Triad group? Anyone but the late Mr. Sleet, I mean?”

  As it happen
ed, I did. Charley’s buddy, Wally Briscoe, had been part of the Triad himself, though less actively in recent years. I could give her Wally’s name, and they could sweat him and eventually break him down, since backbone wasn’t one of Wally’s strong points. That would get them probable cause for some warrants and away they would go, straight to the Grand Jury. All I had to do was rat Wally out and things would take care of themselves. But I learned long ago that that’s not my style. Not even when it would take the heat off dead friends.

  “Sorry, Jill,” I said. “You’ve got all you’re getting from me.”

  “Because that’s all you’ve got, or that’s all you’ll spill?”

  “From where I sit, it doesn’t matter.”

  “From where I sit, it does.”

  I laughed rather meanly. “Do what you have to do, Ms. Coppelia.”

  “You can be sure that I will, Mr. Tanner. The next hand you see may be carrying a subpoena.”

  She hung up in a huff. After I’d resisted an urge to call back and apologize, I got in my car and drove back up to Haciendas.

  It was early for my meeting with Carlos, but bars are good places to hang out, especially in hot valley towns that have a lot of thirsty people in them, especially when you’re getting the sense that the town is hiding a whole lot of secrets and that most of them have to do with a man named Gus Gelbride.

  The ceiling of the Cantina hung so low I could touch it without standing on tiptoe. The floor was a series of rough-hewn planks that had been worn smooth by everything from line dancers to dead drunks and had absorbed spills ranging from beer to blood for at least forty years—it was so greasy from the leavings of its past it felt as if I were walking on ice. The dancers must have loved it.

  The bar ran along the far wall, a simple ledge of polished cedar lit mostly by neon beer signs that hung above the booze on the back of the bar. The lighting made the bartender look more ghoulish than human, which didn’t necessarily mean it made him look worse than he looked in the sunlight. The rest of the place was booths and tables and a wall of video games that emitted noises suitable for alien spacecraft, which was fitting since the clientele was straight out of the bar scene in Star Wars.

  The guys at the bar were regulars, three Anglos and two Latinos drinking slow and steady and sweating it out the same way. Their eyes seemed to float on plates of buttermilk; their hands quaked like aspen as they raised the whiskey to their lips; their elbows were propped on the bar in a triangulation that would keep them secure on their stools. The whole time I was there, not one of them uttered a word or moved a muscle that didn’t have to do with alcoholic intake.