Write Me a Letter (Vic Daniel Series) Page 6

  "Not yet," he growled. "But I soon will be, goddamn it. I start next month—can you believe me going back to goddamned school at my age?"

  "When you go, don't forget your apple," I said, following him out the door and down the hall to the next door but two, the sign on which read 516 CAPT. LORNA T. CHAPMAN. A & A. He rapped once on the door, then barged in, with me at his heels.

  "Momma? Brought you a visitor. You busy?"

  "Not for you, dear," said Momma, beaming up at him from behind a large and well-cluttered desk.

  "V. Daniel," I said, crossing to her. "V for Victor."

  We shook hands.

  "Nice meeting you, dear," Momma said. She was a—to put it politely—Rubensesque woman, somewhere in her forties. Actually, large is what Momma was. Very large. All over and in every direction. She was wearing a huge, woolly, flowered caftan affair, a string of wooden beads about the size of kiddies' play blocks, large, brightly painted wooden earrings, a Mickey Mouse wristwatch, and sticking up from the back of her mop of unruly hair, two things that looked like wooden chopsticks.

  "How do you do, Captain Momma," I said. "Or would it be Mrs. Momma?"

  "Just call me Momma," she said, with a happy sigh. "Everyone else does, including the dog. Sit, sit, take the weight off and tell me what Momma can do for you today."

  I lowered myself carefully onto a spindly-looking chair across from her; Jasper perched on a corner of her desk. She dug out a package of crumpled Winstons from somewhere under her horse blanket, offered them around, got no takers, then lit up one for herself and took a deep puff. "Candy?" She pushed a tin of assorted fruit flavors in our direction. Jasper took one and began sucking noisily on it.

  I filled Momma in on the story so far and passed over Evonne's list. Momma thought for a moment, then switched on her PC and went to work. Jasper watched her flying fingers with a sort of reluctant fascination.

  Almost immediately, it seemed, she said, "Two matches, kids."

  "Finger-lickin' good," I said.

  "I'll be goddamned," Jasper said.

  Momma scrabbled through the mess of papers on her desk, found a clean sheet, then copied down from the screen "Ronald & M. Rubin, 1224 Lexington, Beverly Hills" and "Thomas L. & G. Gowan, 44 Wilkins, Westwood."

  "No recovery from either place so far, it says here and it don't lie."

  "Any chance of finding out precisely what was stolen?" I asked her.

  "If it's art, antiques, identifiable jewelry over a certain value, stuff like that, sure," she said. "And I ought to know, because it's Momma who inputs it all. If it was just TVs, VCRs, stuff like that, no, you'd have to go downstairs and dig up the original responding officer's probably illegible report."

  Momma tapped in another set of instructions, waited a few seconds, then whistled.

  "Though so. Though I remembered that one. "Chinoiserie. Collection faience. Art deco lamps and figurines. Early American quilts. Paul Revere teapot. Rugs. More rugs. Bit of everything. Jackson Pollack. Two Hockneys." She shook her head; a few more strands escaped from her straggly bun. "Stupid. Who's going to buy a hot Hockney?"

  "Not me," I said. "I don't know how to ride anyway."

  Momma blew some smoke skyward. Jasper groaned and shifted himself off the desk.

  "That let's me out," he said. "I'm not art or antiques, thank God. You want anything else, you know where I am. See ya, Momma. Hello to Frank and Annie."

  He bustled out. I picked through the candies looking for a lemon, orange, or green one, but they'd all gone already.

  "Now what?" I said. "What now?"

  "Well, dear," Momma said, "one of us had better check that the Rubins and the Gowans who are on my list are the same Rubins and Gowans on your list."

  "Use your phone?" I asked.

  "Nine for an outside line," she said. "I'll get back to what I was doing before you two pests came in to upset my rhythm."

  I obtained the numbers of the Rubins and Gowans from the phone company after a certain amount of trouble and a lie or two, as neither of them was, as usual, a listed number. Shortly thereafter I got Mrs. Rubin on the line. I told her I was calling from the Los Angeles Police Department Downtown Station, which I was.

  "Oh, no," she said. "Something's happened to Ron."

  "Not at all," I said hastily. "No bad news. It might even be the opposite. I just have a few questions to ask you about the robbery that took place on your premises earlier this year, it's possible we may have a line on the perpetrators."

  "Ask, ask," said Mrs. Rubin. "Anything. We'd given up hope, after all this time. So who was it, the butler?"

  "Not quite," I said, with a chuckle in my voice. "We think it's possible that one of the perps at least had some previous knowledge of your collectables, your Revere silver, your faience"—whatever the hell that was, old coins, maybe—"and so on."

  "And so on is right," she said with some heat.

  "In the months preceding the burglary," I said, "did you happen to have any large social functions in your home? The sort of affair that would require you to hire extra help? Valet parkers, for example, or extra serving staff?"

  "Oh my goodness," she said. "We did. We had a party for our daughter Ramona who'd just graduated from USC, half of Beverly Hills showed up."

  "Ah-ha," I said. "A catered affair, no doubt?"

  "Are you kidding?" she said. "What else?"

  "Then it was dancing 'til the wee small hours, I suppose?"

  "The kids danced 'til breakfast," Mrs. Rubin said. "Us old fogies called it quits about three."

  I had a thought. A potential money-making thought, one of the best kind. The thought was about insurance and the sensible practice of many insurance companies to reward with a percentage of the value of the recovered items anyone who aids in their recovery. Mrs. Rubin kindly provided me with the name of her insurers. I thanked her warmly for all her help and rang off.

  I then had an almost identical conversation with a member of the Gowan family, a Mrs. Sybil George, sister of Thomas L., only in the Gowan case it had been a birthday party complete with caterers and dancing until the wee small ones. And she knew the name of her brother's insurance company, also, as she'd been in the house when their agent dropped by to verify the losses.

  All right so far.

  True, neither woman had actually come right out and said that the music their guests had been swinging and swaying to was provided by the rhythm king and his minions, but it did look odds on. I rubbed my hands with satisfaction. I noticed that although Momma hadn't stopped punching away at her keyboard for an instant, she had been listening with undisguised interest to every word I said.

  Then I got on to Sun Life and Realty, the Gowans' insurers, fought my way past two secretaries and ultimately found myself communicating with an A. Prescott, Claims. Yes, he was familiar with the Gowan affair. Yes, his company was prepared to pay a reward in certain circumstances.

  "Such as?" I said, arching my eyebrows in Momma's direction.

  "Such as," A. Prescott said in a slightly pompous manner, "the claimant of the said reward shall be proven to have had no connection with the criminals involved in the theft and also that he or she's contribution to the recovery of the stolen items shall be proven to have been substantial and this fact so attested by either the arresting officer or, in case of a recovery of stolen property unaccompanied by an arrest, by the head of the department involved."

  I said I thought I got it, thanked A. Prescott, Claims, and rang off. A Bill Lendon, Claims, at the Rubins' insurers, said much the same thing only in fewer words and in a friendlier manner.

  When I hung up after that last call, I discovered Momma gazing my way inquiringly. I filled her in on the parts of the conversations she hadn't overheard.

  "No problem," she said, waving away a cloud of cigarette smoke. "I'm the head of department. I might even be the arresting officer, too, that might be fun, I could use a little exercise."

  "Why don't we take Jasper?" I said. "He's alway
s complaining he's stuck to his desk."

  Momma laughed.

  "He wouldn't go it you paid him," she said. "It's just a number he does, he's been doing it for years. He hates it on the streets. He's about as comfortable out there as a cat at a dog show."

  "Oh," I said.

  "Why don't you call up D. Gresham the Third and see if he's in, dear?"

  I did. After a couple of rings, a man's voice said, "Good afternoon."

  "Good afternoon," I said. "Flo in?"

  "I'm afraid you have the wrong number," the voice said politely.

  "Ever so sorry," I said, breaking the connection. "Well, someone's home, but he doesn't sound like a musician to me, he didn't say 'man,' or 'dig' or 'bebop' once."

  "Now, now," Momma said. "Shall we go calling, dear, anyhow, on the off chance?"

  "Delighted, I'm sure," I said. "What about a warrant?"

  "Not for a little social call," she said. She switched off her machine, arose, gave herself a good shake, poked her bun ineffectually a couple of times, and pronounced herself ready, willing, and able.

  "A moment, madam," I said. "We have a slight problem. You are, excuse the expression, the fuzz. The fuzz needs just cause to enter a suspect's abode. We do not have just cause, all we have is just a suspicion or two. If you gain access as someone else, such as the gas man or a collector for the home for unwed mothers-in-law, that would be considered fraudulent entry and any evidence seized by you would therefore not be admissible in court. Thus spoke A. Prescott, Claims."

  "H'um." Momma furrowed her broad forehead, and reached automatically for another gasper. "A pretty dilemma."

  "How's about," I said, "you are what you are and I am what I am. Together we are investigating the case of the empty champagne bottles." I told her about the two guys in T-shirts who worked for the caterer and my subsequent misgivings. "I have a legitimate client. I have a legitimate right to put a few disarming questions to anyone who might be able to help, especially members of the band as they and the caterers set up so close to each other. And you have a right to just happen to be with me while I put these disarming questions, why not? Perhaps we had just come from an intimate lunch together and I had to make a quick stop before returning you here."

  "The intimate lunch I don't mind the sound of," Momma said archly. "Do you know the name of the catering firm involved?"

  I thought for a moment, then had to confess I did not.

  "D. Gresham might," she said. "Seeing as the band and the caterers were set up so close to each other."

  "Not just a pretty face," I said. "Un momento."

  I called up Aaron Lubinski at his place of business. I revealed to him the latest startling developments and asked him for the name of the caterers.

  He said they were called the '£!!//$**% + !! Kosher Katerers, with a K, and wanted to know why I wanted to know.

  "They may be '£!!//$**%!!s," I said, "but you gotta admit their chopped liver was heaven."

  6

  Momma signed us out an unmarked police car—a two-year-old Olds Cutlass—downstairs, into which we strapped ourselves, and off we went, with Momma driving, and extremely competently, too. D. Gresham wasn't far away, he lived west of where we were, on Denker. During the short drive I asked Momma how she became a cop.

  "What's a nice girl like me, eh?" she said. "I was just out of UCLA—major, art history, minor, phys ed. In other words, totally unemployable. I saw an ad, they were just starting to seriously recruit women to do other jobs than shitwork like filing and answering the telephone. So I went down one day, took the test, didn't make too many spelling mistakes, passed the physical, then went off to school with all the rest of the recruits. You can't imagine the crap they threw at me, I threw it right back with bells on it." She drew out to pass a city bus and got back in line with inches to spare, pretending not to notice my involuntary braking motions.

  "Second day out," she said without any apparent rancour, "as a rookie cop, I was partnered with a foul-mouthed bigot of Polish extraction called Ski. Ski thought he was tough, which he probably was. He thought he could drive, too, a lot better than any stupid broad."

  "Aren't men the worst sometimes," I said, shaking my head.

  "So we get a call and take off," she said, "and he runs a light and wham, next thing I know it's sixteen days later. First thing I see when I come out of the coma is Ski, blubbering like a baby and holding my hand, he hadn't left the hospital once in all that time. Five months on my back. Year and a half in rehab. I've got so many metal pins in me when I go through one of those detector things at airports, it tilts. I must be the only person in the world who put on weight in hospital. Swimming is about all I can do now. Someone in admin with half a brain for once looked over my record, saw I had a background in art history, and as soon as I was more or less mobile again, shifted me to Robbery and then to what I'm doing now. I got interested. I started taking night classes. I'm still taking them, I'm taking one right now in African art, especially West African. Ashanti. Stuff like that."

  "Ashanti, eh?" I said. "I heard it's nice there in the spring. Whatever happened to old Ski?"

  "Blew half his pension by taking early retirement and moved to Arizona," she said. "By the way, there's Denker." We turned left off Exposition. "What number are we looking for?"

  I told her. After a minute or so she pulled up in front of a modest, two-story, stuccoed building that was divided into four apartments, two up, two down. A neatly lettered sign on a wooden gate to the left of the building said D. GRESHAM THE THIRD, BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. SALESMEN, MISSIONARIES, MORMONS & MARIACHI BAND MEMBERS ENTER AT YOUR PERIL.

  As we were none of these, as far as I knew, we entered without undue caution. The path led us around the side of the building to a freshly painted firehouse-red door. Through an open window came a sort of eerie keening, a moaning chant, if you will. Momma made a "who knows?" gesture, then rapped gently but firmly on the door. After a minute it was opened by a tiny Asian girl with a recently scrubbed face and long, tousled black hair. She was wearing a lemon-colored robe that was split up one side and just failed to cover her bare feet.

  "Yes?" she whispered.

  "V Daniel," I whispered back. I handed her one of my business cards, one that told the truth for once. "I'm looking into possible misdemeanors by members of the firm who catered the wedding reception Mr. Gresham played at last night. This is Captain Chapman. I wonder if we might ask Mr. Gresham a couple of quick questions, it's possible he saw something that might help us with our inquiries. Is he all right, by the way?"

  She giggled. "It's just his mantra."

  "Hope it clears up," I said.

  "Come on in," she said. "I suppose it's OK. He'll be done in a few minutes."

  We followed her into D. Gresham's front room. D. Gresham himself was seated cross-legged on a small prayer mat in one corner, his hands, palm upward, resting on his knees, his eyes open but seemingly unseeing. Directly in front of him was an ornate mirror bedecked with a garland of flowers and in front of the mirror a tinny-looking shrine of some kind. Pungent incense burned in two brass ashtrays on either side of the mirror. The low-pitched moans continued. Whatever he was up to he sure didn't get from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer.

  "Make yourselves comfortable," our hostess whispered. "Be right back." She padded out. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could on a settee that looked like it was made out of Meccano parts. The high-tech look, I do believe it's called. In fact the whole room was high tech except for D. Gresham's devotional corner; it was also immaculate. The dining table was brushed aluminum; the four chairs around it of the metal, folding type, painted the same red as the front door. One whole wall was covered floor to ceiling with pegboard painted in a bright yellow gloss, against which were displayed five electric guitars in various futuristic shapes, and one conventional acoustic guitar. All the instruments gleamed with good health and regular polishing. I saw nothing that resembled a Hockney, a faience, or a Paul Revere teacup, not tha
t I would have recognized one anyway, I am the first to admit.

  D. Gresham was just winding up his afternoon service when our diminutive hostess returned, wearing embroidered slippers and with her tresses tidied up into one long braid. D. Gresham emitted one last moan, then arose lithely. We introduced ourselves. I apologized sincerely for disturbing his reflections.

  "I was far from being disturbed," he said gently, blinking guileless blue eyes up at me. "Tin-Thieu, have you offered our guests some tea?"

  "No, no, really," I protested. "We'll only be here a minute, please don't put yourself out." I spun him my yarn about Kosher Katering; he stroked his whispy Fu Manchu mustache reflectively as he listened. I asked him if he'd seen anything at all suspicious. He thought for a moment, then shook his head regretfully.

  "I wish I could help," he said in his soft voice. "But I can't remember paying particular attention to anything about the caterers except they were perhaps a little short on vegetarian food."

  "Oh, darn," Momma said.

  "Ah, well," I said, getting to my feet. "C'est la vie. Thanks anyway, it was just a chance."

  "May I pop into the ladies before I go, dear?" Momma asked Tin-Thieu.

  "Sure," she said. She led Momma out of the room; I presumed that what Momma really wanted was a quick look around at the rest of the apartment. I told Finger-Lickin' Good how much I'd enjoyed his playing the night before.

  "Thank you very much," he said with becoming modesty. "It helps if you enjoy what you're doing."

  "How true," I said. We sat smiling at each other until the ladies came back.

  "You should see the bedroom!" Momma gushed. "It's so chic! So uncluttered!"

  "Take a bow, Tin-Thieu," D. Gresham said. "It's all her work."

  Momma went on raving about the bedroom all the way to the door and then back up the path. As soon as we climbed into the Olds again, she unlocked the glove compartment and switched on the police radio inside.

  "What's up?" I said. "Calling the cops?"

  "Right on, dear," she said. She got on to Control, identified herself, and asked for a patrol car to meet up with us a couple of blocks down the street, and directed Control to direct the patrol car to take a route that did not have it pass, sirens blazing, directly in front of D. Gresham's uncluttered bedroom.