The Gumshoe Diaries (3 page)

“How did it happen,” he pressed half
heartedly.

“Do you really want the details,” I
asked?

“No, I suppose not, at least not this minute
anyway,” he replied bitterly.

“Why don’t you wait for the police report Lu,
it would better if you get the official story,” I said folding my
arms and huffing out a sigh.

“Where is she now?”

“Not far from here, she’s been nearby all
this time,” I answered.

“How near?”

“Pretty near Lu, pretty near.” He began to
weep, softly at first.

“What kind of uncle am I, she was my
responsibility? What will I tell her mother and father,
my
brother?
”

There just wasn’t anything else to say. You
can tell when a conversation is over; you can feel it in your
bones. I walked over to my grieving friends and placed a hand
softly onto each of their shoulders, then turned to let myself out.
I paused by the bar and contemplated seriously about pouring myself
one for the road then thought better of it. So I walked to the
elevator without looking back and pressed the button on the wall.
It was 3:30pm according to the Timex on my wrist. I had about three
hours to kill before I went back to Sally’s apartment building and
looked up her neighbor. I was anxious to start peeling this onion.
Lu had a right to know the truth and I felt an obligation to get it
for him. Me, I’m just a curious cat with a predilection toward
using up my nine lives, which is exactly what would happen if Lt.
Oscar Celaya caught me snooping around his crime scene!

****

( “…people are strange when you’re a stranger, faces
look ugly when you’re alone…”…The Doors…1967)

Chapter Three

Casey’s Irish Pub, South Grand Ave, Los
Angeles…Monday, Feb16, 2009…4pm

Some people go to the beach or the park or
the library or go home and sit in the dark in a favorite easy chair
to do their thinking and figuring. Me, I go to the pub, the noisier
the better. Nothing clears the head like a couple pints of Guinness
with a Jameson chaser. At least that’s how Whitey Roode does his
important brainstorming. That makes Casey’s over on Grand the
perfect establishment. The place was old timey enough to have the
ornately sculpted mahogany bar, as well as being close to the USC
campus, so you were guaranteed a lively crowd, especially when
there’s a game on the box,
and there’s always a game on in this
town
. Today the small crowd of coeds I passed on the way to the
bar was cheering on the Red Sox (note to self, wash mouth with
soap) as they beat up on my beloved Yankees 9 to 0 at Fenway. Why
does everyone in this town hate the Yanks anyway?
Whatever,
I stopped pouting over that years ago. I ordered
the usual from Timmy behind the bar and then plopped myself down in
a corner booth to mull things over.

“
Is that you Roode,”
shouted a
familiar voice over the ball game chatter?

A large grizzly bear of a man staggered my
way and leaned heavily onto the table on two anvil-like fists. He
stared me down for a moment with coal black eyes and shook his
head. I’d have been nervous if this wasn’t an everyday occurrence.
It didn’t even bother the patrons who had seen it all too often as
well. These little exchanges had become part of the ambiance.

“Hello Johnny, how’s tricks,” I asked with a
wink?

The giant threw back his twelve pound bowling
ball of a head and laughed heartily. He plopped down in the seat
opposite me and made himself comfortable, or at least as
comfortable as a man of his girth could be in such a cramped space.
His face was round and covered with a five day beard which was his
personal look. Exhaling deeply he motioned with his hand for me to
lean in closer as if he had a secret to tell. Knowing better I did
not.

“Whitey my friend, why are you here alone
drinking poison and not at “Bella Terra” drinking Chianti with your
pals,” he slurred?

“I could ask you the same question Paley,” I
answered.

“Ahh, you are right of course. Do not mix
words with a detective, when will I ever learn,” he sighed, leaning
back in the booth as much as he could.

“So, you will be by later as usual? It is
Monday and there will be Osso Bucco on the menu,” he asked,
tempting me with my favorite Italian dish.

“Probably Johnny, but later, I’m sort of
working a case right now. I’ve got some snooping around to do
first.”

The big man slapped the table top and stood,
spilling a wee bit of my Guinness as he did so.

“
Good!
Then I will set
aside a plate and tell Angelo to expect you.”

“Fair enough, why don’t you let me buy you
one for the road, what are you drinking,” I asked?

“No my friend, I’ve had enough wine for the
afternoon. I need to get back to my kitchen before Manuel and his
progeny ruin Mama’s sauce and steal us blind,” he answered, sighing
heavily. I got a good whiff of whatever he was drinking as he
exhaled, and let me tell you, there was way more than a little
Chianti at work in that halitosis factory he called a kisser.
Johnny left as abruptly as he had arrived and I was finally alone
again with the noise, my libations, and my thoughts. I quickly
emptied my pint glass of half the Guinness and sipped a wee bit of
the whiskey, enough to cleanse my palate and then pulled out my
trusty short sized spiral notebook and flipped to a blank page. As
was my practice I jotted down what I knew, what I thought I knew,
and what I wanted to know. I wrote one sentence on each page as I
worked through my detective routine. It’s a slow process, but it’s
tried and true and has served me well since grammar school.

--

So, in a nutshell; what do I know?

1. Sally November was stone dead, or as the
Scots say,
tits up

2. Sally November wasn’t even Sally November,
she was Mei Li Teng

3. Sally November kept bad company, or at
least last night she did

4. Sally November died without a struggle,
there were no defensive wounds

5. It will be my ass if Lt. Celaya catches me
snooping around this case

--

What do I think know?

1. SN was too smart to be murdered by a
stranger, ergo, she knew the killer?

2. SN was too good to be bad all the time,
ergo, she lived in the light and the dark simultaneously. The two
worlds may have overlapped?

3. SN was fresh off the boat; too new to do
so well so fast, ergo, she had a partner or partners?

4. SN did not expect to die last night, ergo,
crime of opportunity, passion, or premeditation?

5. SN and her killer weren’t the only
witnesses to murder; somebody saw or heard something last night.
I’m betting that somebody lives next door?

--

What do I want to know?

1. Why did she choose to hide in plain sight,
literally around the corner from her family, why?

2. Why wasn’t there a cell phone or any phone
for that matter at the apartment, why?

3. Why wasn’t there a computer, I mean its
2010, even an old fart like me has a computer these days, why?

4. Why was her apartment so neat,
nobody
is that neat,
not even her Uncle Lu and his mate, why?

5. Why did that apartment full of expensive
furniture seem so empty, why?

--

I set the pen and pad down and removed my
specs to rub my tired eyes. It was almost six o’clock by my
wristwatch and I had killed better than an hour picking my own
brain. But that’s how every investigation starts for me. Who, what,
when, and where are always first, with why being the cherry on the
cake of each case. It was time to start chasing dub-ya’s beginning
with Sally’s nosey neighbor. The Guinness had warmed to room
temperature but then that was the beauty of my favorite stout; it
was good warm or cold. I finished my whiskey then guzzled the rest
of my pint. Timmy arrived at my booth the instant the glass touched
the table and handed me the tab, which I accepted with a raised
brow.

“Seems a little pricey Tim?”

“What can I say, Fat Johnny said you were
buying,” he replied chuckling as he waited for me to pull out my
wallet.

“Of course he did,” I sighed, and fished the
billfold out of my coat pocket. I handed him a couple of twenties
and got up to leave.

“Keep the change sport,” I said, patting his
shoulder as I walked passed him.

“Thanks Whitey, you’re alright mate,” he
replied in his thick Aussie brogue.

“Easy come easy go Paley,
easy come easy
go!
”

****

(“The colors of my life are all different somehow.
Little Boy Blue’s a big girl now…”)…”Killing Yourself to
Live”…Sabbath Bloody Sabbath…1973

Chapter Four

Los Angeles, California…Monday, Feb 16,
2009…7pm

It shouldn’t have taken an hour to hoof it
back to Sally’s neighborhood but it did. Maybe I was a little too
cautious, keeping to the shadows and trying to blend in with the
scenery lest a nosey flatfoot recognized me from his or her squad
car and tipped off the brass that old Whitey was planning to be his
usual pain in the ass. But hey, sometimes a little paranoia can be
a real life saver! Sally’s building looked pretty quiet;
understandably, it was minus all of the black and whites and the
Coroner’s wagon. The yellow crime scene tape had been removed from
the entry but odds were that it would still be blocking her
doorway.

I decided to wait in the lobby of the
building across the street for 30 minutes or so anyway, just to be
on the safe side. It was one of those unmanned operations where you
dialed the number of whoever you might be visiting and waited for
them to buzz you in, just like the old brownstones in New York
City. It was perfect for what I had in mind which for the moment
was winging it. The elevator announced its arrival with a loud
clang and the doors opened revealing an old prune of a woman who
had to be at least a hundred and ten. Remarkably she ambled out
under her own steam without even so much as a walker or a cane, and
actually rather sternly nudged me out of her way with a boney elbow
and an authentic Brooklyn attitude. It was refreshing actually,
sort of restored my faith in humanity. I made a mental note to
shoot for a similar demeanor when I reached that age. The old woman
got in one last shot with her elbow as I attempted to hold the door
open for her, when I saw Sally’s nosey neighbor exit her building.
He was on foot and I had to scoot abruptly past the old lady to
keep him from getting too much of a head start. Let’s face it; I’m
not the agile rookie I once was. The old woman flipped me off as I
passed and I fought the urge to stop and give her an
atta-girl
hug. Just as well, she was probably packing heat
and it would be just my luck to be shot in the kneecap by a
geriatric dwarf!

Mr. Nosey Neighbor rounded the corner onto
Figueroa and I had to scoot to catch up, while keeping a
respectable distance of course so as to go unnoticed. I figured I
would tail him for a block or two before I made contact and picked
his brain. He didn’t seem like the nervous type, walking at a slow
and easy pace, not rushing by anyone in his path. He was content on
taking his sweet time and strolling along to wherever it was he was
headed. I used the time to size him up. Basically he was Joe
average. He was average height, average weight, with no
distinguishing physical characteristics to speak of. His hair
wasn’t too long but it wasn’t high and tight either. You couldn’t
actually call him tall but neither could you call him short. He
wasn’t fat or skinny. He wasn’t old or young. He was pretty much a
vanilla bean male Caucasian between thirty and forty years-old. He
would have just blended in with the scenery if we hadn’t passed
5
^th
street and headed into Mexican town. Now we both
stood out and that wasn’t good, especially when you’re trying to
hide in the crowd. And as fate would have it that was the moment he
turned and looked over his shoulder. He must have been reading my
mind because I could tell instantly that he was shifting into
escape mode. Before I could holler
hey you
a city
bus pulled up to the corner where he was standing at and opened its
doors.

“
OH CRAP,”
I exclaimed, and
started to sprint toward him before the bus closed the doors and
pulled away. I had taken all of about two long strides when an
unmarked cop car screeched to halt just ahead of me. I didn’t need
to see inside to know who was driving. It was LA’s most anal
flatfoot, and, my personal nemesis, Lt. Oscar Celaya from
Hollenbeck Station. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. If LA was
under the sea and we all had gills, Lt. Celaya would be a
prehistoric Great White swimming with blood in the water, and this
evening the blood was mine!

“
ROODE,”
he bellowed
getting out of his vehicle quickly!

“Oh, hello Oscar, what an unpleasant
surprise,” I replied sarcastically.

“Spare me loser, what are you doing around
here,” he barked, accusing me more than asking me.

“Just out taking a little walk officer
numb-nuts,” I answered in a voice sweet enough to inflict
cavities.

“Keep it up Whitey and you’ll spend the night
in the drunk tank.”

“That’s what I like about you Oscar, you’re a
giver.”

“I don’t want you poking your nose into this
girl’s murder Whitey.”

“You don’t want me showing you up Oscar,
that’s your beef,” I snarled.

“
Whatever Whitey
,
just remember what I said. The first time you stick your big Irish
nose where it shouldn’t be you’ll be mucking out the drunk tank in
your Joe Boxers, with a toothbrush,” he shot back!

Holding down my forefinger with my thumb I
shot him my patented
“whatever”
sign starting with three
fingers up (W) then twisting my wrist, three fingers sideways (E).
It was a gesture I learned from Rhonda,
I mean Ronald
,
during the married years. She, I mean he, had shown me that
gesture, among others, at least a million times during our brief
and rocky union, undoubtedly deserved on each occasion. Let’s face
it I wasn’t the most attentive of husbands due in large part to the
perils of marrying a cop, but also because I could be a real
insensitive prick at times. In any event, the gesture was met with
the reaction one would expect, an icy stare and the bird. Lt.
Celaya climbed back in his unmarked cruiser and sped off, leaving a
wee bit of rubber behind as he peeled out. I fended off the urge to
return the bird, taking the high road instead with a quick smart
salute that I know he watched from the rear view mirror. Sometimes
I crack myself up.