“Diddle-daddle?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Hard to be creative on an hour of sleep.”
“Why would I kill her?”
“Hired,” said Sunset.
“Spurned,” added Preston.
“Accident,” said Sunset.
“Wouldn’t pay blackmail,” said Preston.
“Enough,” I said. “Let me make a call.”
“You see a phone?” asked Preston. “I mean one you didn’t tear off the wall?”
“I didn’t do it, Preston,” I said.
Brummel, the first cop, came back. About twelve minutes after that a bunch of cops came in, and I was escorted from the apartment by Preston, who said his wife would make him sleep in the guest room tonight if he ever got home. I told him I felt sorry for him. He thanked me.
10
The Bayfront Police Station wasn’t on the bay and barely deserved the title “station.” The core of the station was an old red stone building that looked as if it had once been a firehouse. It had been added to over at least three generations, each generation contributing a different color of stone. The wing to the left of the entrance was gray brick, and the right wing a combination of reds, yellows, grays, and even almost-blacks.
A sergeant named Cunningham with red hair, suspenders, and very bad teeth took my wallet, comb, and the lint from my pockets less than a minute after we went in. A half-asleep Amazon woman in a blue uniform took my picture, and then Preston and Sunset led me up a flight of stairs to a small interrogation room with yellow walls that reminded me of my brother’s office in the Wilshire Station back in Los Angeles. Preston and Sunset spoke to me sincerely for about twenty minutes, letting me know I was in very deep diddle-daddle.
“Peters,” Preston leaned over and whispered, “you are nailed. You wanna give us some details so we can all get a night’s sleep?”
“I didn’t kill her,” I said. “I was there to protect her from someone. Stokowski hired me to protect, not murder, remember?”
“You did good work,” sighed Sunset, looking around for something to use as an imaginary bat.
“Who?” asked Preston, wearily drinking something hot from a paper cup. “Who were you protecting her from? Oh, yeah. The Phantom of the Opera.”
“Maybe,” said Sunset brightly, sizing up a rolled San Francisco
“Forgive him,” Preston said to me quietly.
“He’s forgiven,” I said. “What about me?”
“Not so easy,” sighed Preston. “You didn’t do it, who did? Doorman says she told you to come up. Few minutes later we find you with the body, scratches on your face, phone in your hand ripped from the wall.”
“She said a couple of guys named Rance and Johnson and a woman named Minnie did it.”
“Minnie?” Preston groaned, kneading the bridge of his nose.
“She also said I should ask Miguelito,” I added.
“Miguelito?”
“Her dog.”
Sunset, who had moved behind me, hit me with the rolled-up newspaper. My head jerked forward.
“Sorry,” Sunset said. “Big fly on your head.”
“Cut that shit,” Preston ordered, stepping behind me so I had to turn my head to watch the two cops. Preston was smaller, but older and presumably wiser. Sunset shrugged and came back in front of the table to hit a few imaginary balls through the grimy wall.
“Thanks,” I said over my shoulder to Preston.
He ran a hand through his graying hair and threw his empty coffee cup in the general direction of the overfull wastebasket in the corner. The wastebasket had one of those paper liners two sizes too big for the basket.
“And I want a phone call,” I said.
“Who’s stopping you?” asked Preston, pointing to the phone on the table. “Hey, make two, three calls. No long distance.”
“All you had to do was ask,” said Sunset.
I picked up the phone and called information. I got Lundeen’s number. The phone rang six times before Lundeen answered.
“It’s me, Toby Peters,” I said. “Are you sitting?”
“Whenever I can,” he said with a deep sigh.
And I told him. I’ll give him credit. He didn’t say much. He did groan from time to time, and his voice wasn’t steady, but he said he’d have a lawyer there as quickly as he could.
“Peters,” he said with a tear in his voice, “I must say this. I never really liked Lorna. I didn’t know her well, but I didn’t like her and now … You didn’t kill her?”
“John,” I said, “why the hell would I kill her?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I … Lord, ‘O happy dagger. This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.’”
“Beautiful, John,” I said. The two cops looked at me with weariness in their drooping eyes.
“Gounod,” he said. “
“John, find Gunther, Jeremy, and Shelly,” I said. “Tell them not to come here, to stay on the job. Got it?”
“I have it,” he said.
“And send a lawyer, fast,” I said. “You have Vera’s number?”
He had it. Or rather he knew the hotel she was staying at and looked up the number while I waited. When he hung up I called. The phone rang six times and then a man answered. It was Martin Passacaglia. I heard a dog yapping behind him. I hung up.
I passed the time waiting for the lawyer feeling sorry for myself. Preston and Sunset played scare-the- suspect.
“Open …” Preston began.
“… and shut,” Sunset agreed. “Witnesses say he entered about ten. We get a call that a murder is in progress seconds later, dispatch a car, and catch him with a mess-scratches on his face, and a very newly dead body. Open …”
“… and shut,” Preston finished.
I didn’t say anything.
Preston sang a medley of Russ Columbo, Harry Cool, and Bing Crosby songs.
“What do you think? Could have been a crooner?” he asked.
“Lovely voice,” I said. “None of the new guys have the timbre. Maybe Buddy Clark, Perry Como.”
When Preston started “Just One More Chance” for the third time at about two-thirty in the morning, Sunset left, announcing that he “had to take a leak.” Preston took the news solemnly and sat across from me, waiting with his arms folded.
“You like baseball?” I asked.
“I like singing and I like quiet,” Preston said. “I like being home with my wife and kids when my shift is over. I don’t like catching murder calls, and I don’t like talking baseball with out-of-town private dicks.”
I shrugged and shut up. He sat quietly, arms folded, out of songs.
The lawyer arrived at a little after three, escorted in by Sunset, who smiled at Preston and me. I didn’t like the smile. The lawyer was a little Mexican guy about sixty-five. His back was straight, his face clean-shaven except for a mustache, his three-piece beige suit recently pressed, his tan shoes highly polished. He nodded at me and the two cops and placed his briefcase on the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said.
