Eureka

CHAPTER 18

I put on the red flasher, tweaked the siren, and made it to Pacific Meadows in a little under twenty minutes. I didn’t say anything on the way. Instead, my mind was working overtime. I was thinking of Verna Wilensky’s last minutes.

She draws a hot bath, lights a candle, folds her bathrobe neatly, and puts it on the toilet seat. She tests the water with her toe. Then lowers herself carefully in the tub, settles, takes a sip of her gin and tonic. Lights a cigarette.

Sinatra murmurs a love song on the radio.

She doesn’t hear the window in the living room slide up, doesn’t hear or see the figure slip through.

He walks across the room, peers around the corner of the bedroom doorway. He sees cigarette smoke swirling in the light from the candle. He slips into the bedroom.

He takes off his gloves and suit jacket. Lays them on the bed. Rolls up his sleeves. Flexes his fingers. He sidles up to the bathroom door, peers around the corner.

Verna lolls in the warm water. She takes another drag on the cigarette and snuffs it out, drains most of her drink. She is feeling light-headed. She closes her eyes, hums a little tune.

She doesn’t see the shadow wriggling on the wall as the candle dances to the movement the killer makes walking into the room. He walks up to the tub. Stands over her, flexes his fingers again.

His knuckles crack.

She opens her eyes. Looks straight up and sees the shape of her killer hovering over her. Before she can scream, he grabs a handful of her hair and thrusts her head underwater.

She begins thrashing.

Her killer is a shimmering silhouette filtered through water.

He plunges his other hand in the water and shoves her body against the bottom of the tub. The water roils as she fights to free herself.

She reaches up, scratches the killer’s hand. He pulls it away and her head breaks the surface of the bath for a moment. He plunges his hand down and shoves her head underwater again.

She is kicking and flailing her arms.

The last pain she feels is her toe, breaking against the side of the tub.

Bubbles burst from her nose and mouth.

She looks up through heavy eyes, sees her deliverer’s arms, wriggling as the bathwater floods into her lungs.

Then blessed sleep.

The killer holds her under until the bubbles stop. Until the thrashing stops. He stands up, looks down at his work. The music ends and the disc jockey’s funereal voice comes on. He begins to introduce a Glenn Miller tune.

The killer leans on the shelf, jogs it, feels the screws rip loose from the wall. He jumps back, holding his hands over his head.

The radio splashes into the tub, hits her on the jaw as sparks pop from it. The water sizzles for a second.

Then it is quiet.

The killer, satisfied, returns to the bedroom. He wipes his arms free of water but does not dry them with a towel. He rolls down his sleeves, puts his gloves and jacket back on, leaves by the window.

A dog barking.

Too late.

“Jesus, look out!”

Ski’s voice snapped me out of it. I was in the opposing lane. I swerved back just as the city bus rumbled by, its horn bellowing angrily.

“My mind wandered for a minute,” I said.

“Yeah, so did the car.”

“I was just thinking about the case.”

Bones had already dispatched Oachi Okimoto, his best man, to the Wilensky house with a forensics team, and I had called radio dispatch and asked for King and Garrett to be assigned to us for the day. I told them it was for a neighborhood canvass but left out all other details.

Oachi Okimoto was already on the job when we got there. Okimoto was a short, thin, Japanese fellow with close-trimmed black hair, yellow eyes behind horn-rimmed bifocals, and delicate, manicured hands. He had on a white shirt with a striped bow tie, dark pants, and loafers. Okie was a pleasant little guy and very good at the trade. He had a map of the entire area spread out on the dining room table when we got there.

“Hi, boys,” he said in a soft, very precise voice. “Big surprise, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Ski.

I explained that I had two uniformed cops on the way and would round up two more teams as quickly as possible. His three assistants were busy dusting everything in the house but the ceiling.

“Don’t forget the toilet,” Ski said. “Maybe he had to take a leak. Nobody wears gloves when they take a leak and flush.”

Okie told us that Bones had already pulled the dead woman’s prints for comparisons.

“She lived alone and, from what I gather, didn’t have many visitors except maybe the people next door. They were close.”

“I’ll get prints on them,” Okie said. The front door opened and Officer King stuck his head in. “Hi, Sergeant,” he said, “what’s up?” I motioned him in. Garrett was sitting in the squad car. King came in and stood at attention. He did everything but click his heels.

“This stays under your hat for now,” I told King. “Wilensky is now a murder one.”

“Wow,” he said. “How?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Ski said, with a touch of sarcasm. He didn’t like King; Ski didn’t like attitude.

“I want that angle soft-pedaled,” I went on. “I’m trying to keep this out of the papers for now, although it gets less likely by the minute. The story is: there was a heist in the neighborhood, we’re looking for strangers starting early Monday morning up until say ten Monday night. On foot, in a car, you know the drill on that. Kids’ll be a good bet, there’s a lot of them in the neighborhood, they’re all over the place on bikes. Be careful with them, though; they tend to make up things to get in on the act. I have to go back to the precinct now. Ski will be in charge. Okie has a map of the whole neighborhood. Use it to plan the canvass.”

I jerked a thumb at the house on the corner. “Start next door and work this block first.”

“The folks on the right are out of town,” King said.

“How do you know that?”

“I checked when we came on the scene the other night. According to the Clarks, they left for San Francisco on vacation early Saturday morning. Be gone two weeks.”

Ski walked to the living room window and stared thoughtfully at the house. “Bunch of papers on the porch,” he said. “Apparently they forgot to put a hold on it.” Then he turned suddenly and walked to a low, flat, coffee table near the front door. He picked a key off the table.

“I noticed this key when we came in that night,” he said. “I figured it was an extra key to the front door, but maybe the vacationers gave it to Verna in case she needed to get in the house while they were gone. Neighbors do that.” He handed the key to King and told him to check the door but not to go in the house if it worked. I left for the office.

Louie was washing a radio car when I pulled into the garage. The cream puff looked like it belonged in a circus. It was rain- and mud-streaked, and the busted window gave it the appearance of something you’d find on the back row of a used-car lot. Louie looked at it, then at me, then back at the car. Then he saw the window and his eyes bulged out of his head.

“What’s that?” he said, doing a little nervous jig and pointing at the window.

“I had a little problem.”

“What problem! Look at that window!” he said, and tears began to form. “Just look at that damn window!”

“A bird flew into me,” I lied, handing him the keys.

“A bird! What kind of bird did that, a friggin’ ostrich? A flying elephant? Did Dumbo fly into the car?”

He was still raving when I headed upstairs to the squad room. Moriarity was on the phone scowling when I walked in. He wiggled a finger at me and hung up the phone as I entered his office. I sat down across from him.

“Maybe you oughtta be in the hot seat,” he snapped, for openers. “Louie just called me. What’s this about a bird the size of Beverly Hills busting the window in the car?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Just give me the Reader’s Digest version. I only got six hours left on this watch.”

I gave him a blow-by-blow, starting with the black Pontiac following me, including my chat with Howland and the tour of the Hill with Culhane, and ending with my run-in at the diner.

“A couple of his cops tried to beat you up?” he said, his face storming up.

“I’d say that was on their mind.”

“I’ll call that son of a bitch and…”

“Hold on a minute. There’s more…”

“I don’t want you going back up there,” he said flatly. “And forget Verna Hicks or Wilensky or whatever her name is. Frankly, I don’t give a damn if she gets buried or not. I don’t care if they embalm her and hang her off the city hall flagpole. And if you got a thing for dead broads, go over to the morgue and pick out a different one.”

He was standing when he finished, his brow furrowed like a freshly plowed field. Then he added, “I like the trick with the gun and badge. That was inspired, Bannon.” He started pacing, a bad sign. “Christ, I told you not to waste time and money going up there,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

“As I was about to say, there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Wilensky’s lungs were full of water.”

He flat-mouthed me. “She drowned, fer crissakes. What’d you expect to be in there, hundred-proof Scotch?”

“I just left Bones’s office. He completed the autopsy. Verna drowned alright-before the radio ever fell in the tub.”

He stared at me, letting that sink in. While he was working on it, I explained how drowning and electrocution work.

“Jesus. Aw, Jesus-fucking-Keerist!”

“Bones has sent a team from forensics back to the house, and I dropped Ski off there. I got two uniforms casing the neighborhood but we really need at least two other teams. We got a homicide now, Lieutenant. I say Ski and I go back up to San Pietro and get serious with those people.”

“Damn it. Damn it, damn it.” He paced the room again, this time for a full two minutes, running both hands through his meager hair. “The captain’s gonna have a baby right in his office over this.” He paced some more. “You know the politics involved here, don’t you?”

I nodded. “It’s a murder one. Politics doesn’t have anything to do with it anymore.”

“Oh, yeah. Tell that to McCurdy. He’s gonna be gettin’ it from Chief Holman, and he’s gonna be gettin’ it from the mayor, who got it from the governor, who got it from God-knows-who. I know what’s on your mind, Zeke. You’re gonna try and pin this on Culhane, who is about to announce his race for governor, and that, pal, is gonna reverberate all the way to Alaska.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You think whoever killed her was the payoff guy, right? The five-C’s-a-month guy through all these years?”

“Or had her iced. Yeah. That’s a pretty good supposition.”

“And you got your eye on Culhane for this, don’t you?”

“It’s a pretty good supposition.”

“Stop saying that. It’s giving me a stomachache.”

I closed up again and sat there.

He whirled, and jabbed a forefinger at me. “Okay, why now? Why pay off for all these years and then suddenly pull the plug on her?”

“You just said it, Culhane’s running for governor. The price of silence suddenly went up.”

“I suppose you already got a candidate for the guy who shoved her under, too?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Well, ain’t that a surprise. It’s your idea got us into this mess in the first place.”

“You’re getting steamed up over nothing,” I said. “Maybe they all hate Culhane. Maybe they’ll promote you.”

“Yeah, and maybe the swallows will pass up Capistrano this year and fly into the garage downstairs and crap all over Louie’s goddamn cream-puff sedan.”

“It’s a murder one, Dan; what do you think they’re going to do, shove it under the carpet?” I shifted in my seat and that hot wire lashed across my ribs again. I winced. “Damn it!”

“Christ, you’re a wreck,” he said. “You seen a doc?”

“Bones checked my ribs. I’ll be okay in a day or two.”

“In answer to your question, no, they’re not gonna sweep it under the rug, they’re gonna look for a fall guy-which is you-which leads to me. I’ll end up mowing the grass at city hall until I retire; and you? You’ll be collecting garbage down in Tijuana. You’ll have to turn wetback just to get back across the border to get a decent meal.”

He went back behind his desk and sat down and lit one of his sugar-coated cigars. Silence tiptoed around the room.

“Did it occur to you that maybe, just maybe, this don’t have anything to do with Culhane?” he said finally. “Maybe she was shacking up with some guy, and his wife came over and did her in. Maybe she was running dope across the border on weekends and her Chicano pals gave her the bath. See what I mean? There could be a lot of scenarios. You got some coincidences workin’ here and it looks like a closed case to you. Think about it, Bannon; you got to find the killer and tie him to Culhane and tie it all back to something that happened over twenty years ago.”

“It’s all we got for the present,” I said. “Bones is going to misplace the autopsy report long enough for me to go up there and lay the story on Culhane and see his reaction. That will tell me a lot. Then if the banks want to keep playing hide-and-seek, we’ll run over to Santa Maria and get Judge Wainwright to give us a search warrant. The money trail leads up there.”

“And if it peters out?”

“We lose nothing. We take it to McCurdy when the post is released and let him tell us how to deal with it.”

“I really don’t like it when you fast-talk me, Zeke.”

“It’s logical.”

“So was Custer’s Last Stand.”

“So what do we do? Shall I call Bones and tell him to send over the post? I’ll do a report and then take it to McCurdy before it goes on file for the press?”

His eyes brightened when I mentioned that idea. He puffed on his cigar and stared across the desk at me. “You got five minutes to convince me otherwise.” He looked at his watch.

I said: “When Culhane became sheriff he promised to clean the mobsters out of Eureka, which is what San Pietro was called then. That meant getting rid of Arnie Riker and his number two, Tony Fontonio. Riker was arrested and convicted of murdering a young girl named Wilma Thompson. It was a solid case because, among other things, they had an eyewitness named Lila Parrish. The case went to appeal, and Riker’s sentence was reduced from death to life-no-parole because Lila Parrish vamoosed right after the trial and nobody could find her. Then a year later, Eddie Woods knocked off Fontonio, Eureka turned into San Pietro, Culhane had the Fontonio case dead-docketed, and everybody lived happily ever after.

“Now get this: Woods was in charge of the Riker investigation and Woods burned Fontonio.”

“And you think you can get all that together in an airtight package? That’s what it’s going to have to be, Zeke. No holes, and right now all I see is Swiss cheese in that story. For one thing, you’re assuming that Lila Parrish was lying and the Riker case was a frame and Eddie Woods set it all up. How the hell do you plan to put that together? Your chief witness, if it is Lila Parrish, is probably the dame on the slab in the morgue.”

“All I need to do is find one person who can identify the person who sent the checks to Verna Hicks.”

“And prove it was a frame. And Hicks and Parrish are one and the same. And Woods did the number on her. And Culhane sanctioned it.”

I didn’t answer that.

He shook his head. “So far you haven’t broken a lot of ice on that pond,” he said.

“It wasn’t a homicide until this morning. That’s a pretty good icebreaker.”

More cigar smoke puffed out of his mouth. He spun his chair around and looked through the plate glass walls of his office into the squad room for a long minute, then swung back.

“You plan to take Ski this time?”

I nodded.

“I told you to take the National Guard the first time you went up there.”

“Ski’s better.”

He sighed joylessly.

“When do you want to go?”

“Is this Thursday?”

“It was when I got up this morning.”

“I got a date tonight. How’s tomorrow morning sound?”