The PI Who Knew Too Much-03
Previously, on
The PI Who Knew Too Much—
More interesting were a passport for someone named Samuel Barlow who looked exactly like Bezier, a bundle of C-notes (I didn't bother to count them), a .38 revolver, and a box of ammo. Most interesting was a small journal, about the size of a pocketbook novel, filled with page after page of precise handwriting, just the sort you'd expect from an accountant.
Carefully wiping each item with my handkerchief, I put back everything except the journal and the money, which I tucked into my coat pocket. Still using my hanky, I cleaned the telltale powder from the scratch and replaced all the cleaning supplies just as I found them. I went back and wiped off everything I had touched in the main room, then let myself out.
Resisting the temptation to start reading the journal, I drove back to my office, told Lupe to hold my calls (another running joke), and sat down to start reading.
--§§--
READING ISN'T QUITE the right word. It was more like decoding. Bezier's handwriting was precise, but small. Very small. Every 20 minutes or so I had to stop squinting to give my eyes a rest. I needed Sherlock Holmes's magnifying glass.
Making it even tougher, Bezier didn't write any dates or leave any breaks between entries. The whole book was one giant paragraph. Once in a while he changed ink or pens, but it wasn't always between subjects, so that didn't mean anything. It was the damndest thing I'd ever seen, but I was finally able to dope it out. It answered a lot of questions.
After a couple of hours, Lupe opened the door and stuck her head in. "Leaving early, boss. Juana's got a hot date and I don't want to leave Ileana alone. Want me to lock up?" Her cousin Juanita watched her daughter Ileana at Lupe's place after school. I nodded.
"Sure. Say hi to Juanita, and hug Iliana for me." That earned me one of her brilliant smiles.
"Will do, Boss. Don't work too hard." She closed the door quietly, then closed and locked the outer door. I went back to reading, and perked up when he started talking about something besides his usual boring routine.
Ernesto Silva came into the office this afternoon and said he had some questions about his income tax return. I thought that was odd since it was not due for several months, and he had not yet given me all the information. It turned out he did not really have any questions about his taxes, he asked about my other clients—what sorts of services they wanted, how often they were audited, what I charged a typical client, and so forth. I was not comfortable with some of the questions, particularly when he ventured into some gray areas of tax law. I did not want to offend him, so I answered as best I could without betraying the confidence of my other clients. He seemed satisfied and said he would be back for more discussions like this one.
The next sentence began the description of a new supplier of pens, pencils, and account books he liked. That's how the whole book went, he would jump from one topic to another with no warning, no break. Most of it could be prescribed as a cure for insomnia, then he'd drop something startling.
He sure as hell didn't have any illusions about his wife. Funny, she was paying me to check up on him, but she was the one who was cheating. It didn't seem to bother him much. Well, it turned out that they both were cheating. That didn't seem to bother him much, either.
Lorelei believes that I am unaware of her peccadillos, which is almost as insulting as her casual infidelities.
Peccadillos? Infidelities? Pretty uptown vocabulary for a bean counter. I'd have said she was sleeping around...no, I'd have said screwing around.
Does she think I did not notice the times she dressed more fashionably, even provocatively, than usual? The days when without explanation she had not had time to prepare a dinner and we had to eat out? The time almost a year ago when she started turning me down each time I wanted to have sex? Apparently she believes that I spend all day every day in my office. Her ignorance, or arrogance, made it quite simple for me to follow her to several trysts. At least she is selective; they all look to be well dressed professionals—probably lawyers, who are not encumbered by any bourgeois notions of honesty or trust. I wonder when it will occur to her that I have not attempted to initiate spousal relations since the first few times she turned me down?
A few pages later, after some fascinating entries about changed tax regulations and a new dry cleaner he discovered, I discovered the reason for the Trojans.
Silka—so many of them choose such improbable names—was worth all of the $75 she charged for two hours in the Rosslyn Hotel room. Even though I wore a prophylactic, she brought me to completion three times, one time using her mouth. Lorelei never achieved such a feat in so brief a span of time, and certainly never with her mouth. This is the second time Silka has managed such a performance, thoroughly justifying both my specifying her this time when I contacted the agency and my $25 tip. I shall continue to ask specifically for her.
That was followed by three pages of business lunches, telephone calls, and how hard it was to find a reliable cleaning service. Then he relieved my boredom by returning to the subject of Mr. Ernesto Silva.
I finally received some results from my inquiries about Ernesto Silva. Apparently he has some connection with an organization in East Los Angeles that is involved in extralegal activities, such as bookmaking, gambling, and prostitution. That could explain some of the vague answers he occasionally gives me about some income sources. The information contained little more detail than that, but included a suggestion where I might be able to learn more. There was also a hint that it might be profitable for me to inquire further. Perhaps I might do so.
I stopped, leaned back, and rubbed my eyes. Not only was it a strain to dope out this guy's tiny handwriting, if something could be said in three words he used at least ten. Sure enough, the next four pages were filled with more complaints about the cleaning service, breathtaking descriptions of telephone calls, and his opinion of various clients.
Just when I was about to call it a night, things got very interesting. For almost 9 pages, he described gang activities all around LA: Santa Ana, Fullerton, Watts, East LA, Compton, Torrance, then a big jump out to Oxnard (with a branch a few miles back down the 101 in Thousand Oaks). He gave a detailed picture of every gang and their operations without mentioning a single name. I was curious as hell where he got all the dope, but he carefully avoided any clues about his sources.
Cops aren't my favorite people. I know too many who are crooked as a dog's hind leg, or just bullies who wanted the job because it lets them hide behind the uniform and badge, drive fast, and carry a gun. A few, though, like Wilkes, aren't like that. They aren't on the take, they really do take their job seriously. He needed to know the stuff I just read, but I didn't want to give the whole journal to him. It would become part of an evidence package, available to anybody in the cop shop.
They didn't need the personal details about Bezier. It wouldn't help them find who killed him, let alone who shot his wife. Besides, I didn't trust some of those crooked sonsabitches. Who knew how they would use it? They didn't need to know that he got it from me, either. I trusted the average cop about as much as I trusted the average hoodlum.
I figured I could trust Wilkes to keep my name out of it, but I wasn't sure how to get just the gang stuff to him. I'd read just over half the journal, so there might be even more stuff to pass along. I decided to finish reading it that night and figure out how to tell Wilkes the next day.
Because it was so tough to read, I couldn't just skim through the boring parts. It took me a couple of hours to finish. Not quite an hour into it, the boring parts stopped. Turns out that Silva came back and sounded out Bezier's willingness to skate past IRS regs. When Bezier hinted he didn't always insist on following the letter of the law, Silva took a chance and said his organization needed help in "straightening out" their money trail.
To make a long story short, Bezier agreed and became the CPA of record for Silva's "organization." He was very good at it. So good, in fact, he not only made their revenue look legit, he figured out how to divert some of it to himself. His visits with Silka got more frequent; apparently he was getting either horny or well-heeled.
He didn't say how much he was skimming, but it seemed to be more than a bit. He didn't say where he hid it, either. He did, however, note periodic trips to banks scattered around southern California. Without saying why he went to the banks, he cheerfully announced that he could finally stop all the running around to different banks.
As they say in those western movies, I finally struck paydirt at the Whittier Bank of Commerce. They promise they can provide as many as I need. Now all I have to do is make sure the transactions are anonymous. I should be able to take advantage of their source at least every other week, making my life much simpler. I called to make a celebratory appointment with Silka, and might even buy her an expensive gift. Lord knows she deserves it more than my slutty, cheating wife.
Then he made what I figured was a stupid, maybe even fatal, mistake. He contacted one of the players in a different gang. After some delicate negotiations, he started working their books, too, but didn't bother to tell either client about the other. In one of the last entries, he speculated about contacting a third gang. This guy may have been a clever accountant, but he was dumb as a post about how the world works.
It went back to several pages of his usual. The final entry was still another complaint about the cleaning service. I was beginning to think he deserved to die.
My eyes were burning, my back and neck were stiff and sore, my brain was mush. I put the journal and the stack of bills in the locked drawer with my .45, then stood up and tried to stretch out the kinks. I wasn't going to get anything else done, so I locked up and went home. Tomorrow promised to be a busy day.
--§--
HOME WAS TWO rooms in a house a couple of miles from the office. It started life as a mansion and ended up one step above a flophouse. The kitchen was a hot plate on a shaky shelf and the bathroom was down the hall. I've lived in better, lived in worse. Lots worse. Hell, I haven't seen a rat here in two, no, almost three months.
I heated a can of chicken noodle soup and ate it sitting at my rickety kitchen table. Flipping open my Zippo, I lit a Lucky and tried to figure out how to get the gang info to Wilkes without revealing where I got it. Pretty soon I was getting as tired and sleepy as a stripper with a day job. Jewish penicillin might be good for a cold or the flu, but it's not much of a stimulant.
Stubbing out the cig, I went over and lay down for a minute on my lumpy couch. The minute lasted until the early morning sun won its daily battle with the grime on my window and fried my eyes. I felt like death warmed over, stiff and sore, and hadn't had a drop to drink. I washed down half a handful of aspirin with yesterday's cold coffee and smoked a couple of Luckies.
Didn't help, so I stripped, put on my ratty robe, grabbed a towel and shaving kit, and headed down the hall. It was too early for the drunks and grifters I had to share with. I hoped that was a sign that the day might actually go well. After the shower, I brushed my teeth, shaved, went back and got dressed. The shirt I dug out was semi-clean, so I tied a proper Windsor and brushed off my sport coat. I actually splashed on a little Old Spice before heading back to the office.
It was early enough that Lupe wasn't in yet. I put on the coffeepot and unlocked the bottom desk drawer. Hoping for some inspiration, I opened the journal and stared at some notes I'd made yesterday. As I got up to check the coffee, I glanced again at my notes, and was struck by an inspiration: I could copy the stuff in my own handwriting and give that to Wilkes. He'd have to promise not to tell anyone where he got it, of course, but like I said, we trusted each other. Most of the time. Sort of.
