Slow Squeeze (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 2) Page 26

  “I been busted,” the boy yelled after his friends, who looked back, then kept running. “The hero got me, man!”

  “Some friends you got there,” Greenwood said.

  “I’m down with my crew,” the boy said with his bottom lip extended.

  Greenwood started to release his grip on the boy, who tried to make a run for it. Greenwood lobbed his big hand onto the boy’s arm. “Your crew’s gonna be watching you cool your heels at the police station.”

  The boy twisted in Greenwood’s grasp. “They’re not rankers. They’ll be back tonight to mob that wall. Seek and destroy.”

  “The only thing that’s gonna be destroyed is the paint on that wall…by you.”

  “No way! I’m not buffing my own tag.”

  “Are you going to get in the car or do I have to handcuff you?”

  The boy looked up at Greenwood. “You really gonna make me buff my tag?”

  “The whole wall, my friend.”

  The bravado passed out of the boy like the departure of a possessing spirit. He glanced at the small crowd that had gathered. “I’ll get in the car.”

  Greenwood walked the boy to the passenger door and sat him inside. He started to back the car out. “What’s your name?”

  “Frisbee.”

  “What’s your name?” Greenwood asked again with irritation.

  The boy made a sucking noise of disgust and writhed his head back and forth as if he were in pain. “Darryl. Darryl Thompson.”

  Greenwood pulled into the police station’s driveway and parked in the lot in back.

  The station was a1960s-style white stucco, flat-roofed cracker box built to replace the original 1888 station a few blocks away, which was now a tourist attraction. Even though the current station had been built in the sixties, it was still known around town as the “new” station. The new station’s sole external decorations were the two knee-high, brick flower boxes on either side of the front door, which Greenwood personally kept in bloom with seasonal flowers.

  Frisbee spotted Barbie’s red Mercedes convertible with the white leather interior. “Cool steel. But the red and white is tacky. It yours?”

  “That tore it,” Greenwood said, picking up a leather portfolio from the front seat. “You’re cooling your heels with us today.”

  “You can’t do that. I have things to do. You’re violating my civil rights.”

  “So sue me.” He took the boy inside, pulled out a hard wooden chair, and pointed at it. The boy sat.

  Greenwood handed him a piece of paper and a pen. “Write down your address and a phone number where I can reach your parents. Jerry, I caught this fellow spray-painting on Bowen’s Hardware. Name of Darryl Thompson, aka Frisbee.”

  Kosnowski squinted at the boy, arching one of his overgrown brown and gray eyebrows, the skin above his eyebrow folding into the same shape. “Destroying private property, huh, young man?”

  The boy copped a jaded attitude, looking bored and staring out the window.

  “How was L.A., Charlie?” Kosnowski asked.

  “I probably should have stayed another day, but I couldn’t take it. The whole place feels like a balloon that’s been blown up too tight. Got some good leads, but I might have to go down there again. Hi Marion,” Greenwood greeted the dispatcher on the morning shift, who sat in a glass-enclosed office.

  “Better do it before that trial’s over,” Kosnowski said. “If they let those cops go after beating up that black guy, there’s gonna be hell to pay down there.”

  Greenwood turned on a boom box that was on top of a bookcase. Heavy metal music blared from it. “Officer Coleman changed my station again.” He rolled the dial and located his sunny country station. A song twanged about love that was soon to be lost. “That’s better. Hear back from your father-in-law over at the Highway Patrol?”

  “Yep. There just might be a place for our Officer Coleman.”

  “That would suit our officer. He could carry a gun and drive fast.” Greenwood unzipped his portfolio and took out a stack of papers. “I’ve got Barbie’s phone bills.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  Greenwood shuffled through the bills. “There’s only four months of them. Lots of calls to Art Silva and Iris Thorne. One very interesting call. To Lorraine in Salt Lake City. About two weeks ago at three on a Sunday morning. I called the number and got Lorraine’s answering machine. If it’s not an emergency, you only call someone at three in the morning if you’re sittin’ around, maybe feeling a little lonely, a little sorry for yourself…”

  Marion leaned through her office window. “Or checking to see if someone’s home.”

  “Or you’re drunk enough to call an enemy,” Kosnowski said.

  Greenwood walked the phone bills to Kosnowski’s desk, which faced his own. “Follow up for me?”

  “Sure. What else happened?”

  Greenwood described his meetings with Iris and Art. “Their stories jibed, almost word for word. It seemed a little too pat. I watched the video from the Susie Santé show this morning. Iris was fine, cool and calm, until that Susie Santé kept prodding her about the McKinney Alitzer murders. Then she lost it.”

  Marion leaned through her office window. “Charlie, you think this Iris is hiding that embezzled money somewhere?”

  “I don’t know. The important thing might be whether Barbie thought she had it. Wilkin thinks Barbie was a con artist. If so, she was good enough never to get arrested.”

  “She only had about three hundred bucks on her,” Kosnowski said. “Where’s her stash?”

  “Either the murderer robbed her or she’s got it hidden somewhere.” Greenwood took the small white box out of the portfolio and opened it. “Both Iris and Art are sticking with their story that they weren’t conned. So why did Barbie take souvenirs?”

  Greenwood scooped Art’s college ring onto his index finger and held it toward Kosnowski. “Art looked at the jewelry a long time before admitting this was his. Said he’d given it to Barbie as a gift.”

  “His class ring?” Kosnowski asked.

  “What every lady over the age of sixteen desires, right? But Iris admits that Barbie stole this brooch from her.” Greenwood put the lid back on the box. “Called Lorraine’s parents. They haven’t heard from her for a couple of days. Iris has. Lorraine called her last night and threatened her.”

  The station’s back door opened and slammed closed. Heavy footsteps pounded down the corridor and turned into the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened.

  “Putting away the sack lunch his wife made him,” Kosnowski said.

  The refrigerator door slammed closed.

  “Man can’t close a door without slamming it,” Greenwood said.

  The kitchen was quiet for a minute.

  “Popping open his can of Coke,” Kosnowski said. “Now he’s gonna come in here and change your radio station.”

  Officer Coleman clumped down the corridor, holding a can of Coke Classic in his paw, mumbled “Good morning,” avoided looking Greenwood straight in the eye, walked to the bookcase, and reached his hand toward the boom box’s tuning knob.

  “Anh, anh, anh,” Greenwood warned.

  Coleman made a face as he pulled his hand back. He flopped into a Naugahyde and chrome chair in the corner of the room; it squealed in complaint. Coleman was a big guy, not overweight but thick, with a broad neck and heavy eyelids. He wasn’t yet thirty. He’d carried his boyish squat nose and apple cheeks into adulthood. They were always sunburned.

  “You’re late again, Officer Coleman.” Greenwood punched the number that Darryl had given him into the phone.

  Coleman sat in the chair with his legs sprawled out. He took a drag on the Coke. “Wasn’t late, Chief. Was checking out a traffic accident up on the One-oh-one.” He sucked on the can until it was empty, then crushed it with his hand.

  “You should have called it in.”

  “Fender-bender. Wasn’t nothing.” He dragged himself out of the chair and started to clump b
ack into the kitchen. He noticed Darryl sitting on the hard wooden chair. “Frisbee! What up my man?”

  “Hey, Coal-man,” Frisbee said. “The hero busted me for tagging.”

  “Charles Greenwood. Las Pumas’s long arm of the law.”

  “Your mom told me to let you sit there until she gets off work at five,” Greenwood said.

  “Five!” Frisbee protested. “That’s all day.”

  “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime,” Kosnowski said portentously.

  “Old fart,” Frisbee said.

  “Yep.” Kosnowski walked to the coffee station, which was set up on a little table in a corner, poured coffee into his mug, then held up a hot pot. “Tea?”

  Greenwood shook his head.

  Kosnowski walked back to his chair and set his mug on a windowsill stained with many brown coffee rings. He snapped open the Las Pumas Star. “Did you see today’s paper? ‘Progress Slow in the Purple Negligee Murder.’ The guys down at the Star are having a field day with this.”

  “Did you see anything about the murder in the L.A. papers, Charlie?” Marion asked.

  “Just a tiny article in the back of the first section. But over weekend down there they had five drive-by shootings, busted a neo-fascist group that was planning on starting a race riot, and had a murder-suicide where a guy took out his whole family and the baby-sitter. Guess they had bigger fish to fry. But it’s sure getting the press up here in the Central Coast.”

  Officer Coleman finished his second can of Coke, crushed it, and threw it in the bin Greenwood had set up for recyclable refuse. He stood up, stretched, and yawned expansively, displaying his dental work. “Think I’ll go work the One-oh-one. Found a new hiding place, just past the Mariposa off ramp.”

  “Good,” Greenwood said. “The city can use the revenue.”

  The station’s front door swung open and Mayor Luther Fox came in carrying a flat of strawberries. He was wearing golf pants in a pink and lime green plaid and a lime green knit shirt. His year-round tan had grown deeper during the few days of spring sunshine they’d had before the storm had rolled in, especially on top of his bald head, where his remaining white hair was combed down around the perimeter. Mayor Fox’s midsection was flat and smooth but had an overstuffed look. There was speculation around town that he wore a girdle.

  Mayor Fox slid the strawberries onto Greenwood’s desk without asking permission and began to speak without a greeting or preamble. “Ken over at the county coroner’s office asked me to give these to you. His family owns that strawberry ranch in Arroyo Grande.”

  “I’ll have to call and thank him,” Greenwood said. “Officer Coleman, would you mind putting these in the kitchen on your way out?”

  Coleman picked a big strawberry off the top and took a bite. “Delicious,” he said with his mouth full. He grabbed the shallow, square box under one arm and walked toward the back of the station.

  Mayor Fox handed Greenwood a copy of the Las Pumas Star. “I imagine you’ve seen this. I was just over at the senior citizen’s center and they’re very upset that this Lorraine person is on the loose. They didn’t retire in Las Pumas to be terrorized by a murderer in their midst.”

  “Lou, Lorraine is long gone from Las Pumas,” Greenwood said. “And the only one’s she’s terrorizing is Iris Thorne. There’s an all points bulletin out. We’ll get her.”

  “Before our reputation as a safe community is ruined? That reminds me, Mr. Yajima would like you to remove that blasted police ribbon from the Cabin in the Woods. The tourist season is starting. Certainly there’s no further need to keep the cabin roped off.”

  “I will, just as soon as I determine there’s no further evidence to be found.”

  “I want that police ribbon off that bungalow. Remember, I still write your paycheck, and I can still turn this investigation over to the county. I’ll expect to hear back from you later today.” He turned on his heel and stomped out the front door, closing it solidly behind him.

  “Well, I guess I’ve got my orders,” Greenwood said.

  “I’ll get started on these phone bills, Charlie,” Kosnowski said.

  “I want to go home,” Frisbee wailed.

  “Okay, Darryl. I’ll drive you to school,” Greenwood said. “But we’ve got a date Saturday morning to repaint that wall.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Greenwood walked across the Mariah Lodge’s flagstone lobby, past the Navajo rugs decorating the walls, in search of the lodge’s manager, whom everyone called Mr. Stanford and only Mr. Stanford. No one in town knew anyone who addressed him by his first name.

  The concierge told Greenwood that Mr. Stanford was making his rounds, greeting guests as they breakfasted in the restaurant. It was a display of the personalized attention that had helped the lodge earn its three-star rating in a respected travel guide. In Mr. Stanford’s ten years at the lodge, however, try as he may, the distinguished four-star rating had eluded him.

  The restaurant had an outside deck. Lodge guests sat at stylish, pale wood tables and chairs, lingering over coffee and enjoying the spring flowers that bloomed in the many flower beds and the ocean spray released by the crashing waves below. Polo shirts, khaki, and madras plaid abounded. In the evening, the guests dressed for dinner and the deck was lit with candles. If a gentleman was not wearing a jacket, one was provided.

  Greenwood spotted Mr. Stanford standing near a table between a seated man and woman, a hand on each of their shoulders. He was smiling broadly, laughing pleasantly and sincerely. His smile faded when he saw Greenwood. Greenwood took a step toward him but stopped when Mr. Stanford held up his index finger. He left his guests, and walked quickly toward Greenwood. He placed his hand against Greenwood’s back and kept walking, steering him out of the restaurant and away from any guests.

  “Good morning, Chief Greenwood,” Mr. Stanford said, smiling tightly. “Thank you for coming by.” He was middle-aged and from one of the neighboring Central Coast towns but his mannerisms had an old-world quality. He had affected a British lilt in his speech. “Let’s talk over here so that we don’t alarm the guests.”

  “Alarm the guests?”

  Mr. Stanford looked intently at Greenwood. “You’re a popular figure in our city, Chief Greenwood. I’m sure you’re more notorious than you realize. In a positive way, of course.”

  Greenwood looked over his shoulder at the restaurant to confirm his suspicion that there were no blacks either dining or serving.

  They reached Mr. Stanford’s office. He closed the door behind them and sat at his desk. Greenwood remained standing.

  “Mayor Fox has told you that we would like to remove those crime scene seals from the door of the Cabin in the Woods and”—he shook his head as if he was smelling something distasteful—“get rid of that yellow police ribbon around the outside.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, even though they were alone. “It’s upsetting the guests. You understand.”

  Greenwood nodded and lowered his voice to match. “I understand completely. I’ll make a determination today whether we need to leave the area sealed a bit longer or not.”

  Mr. Stanford’s pulled his lips into a tight line. “A bit longer?”

  “It wouldn’t be more than a few more days.”

  “As you will, Chief Greenwood.” He picked up a pen, directed his attention to the papers on his desk, and spoke to Greenwood without looking up. “Please don’t disturb the lodge guests.”

  Greenwood had been dismissed. He opened his mouth to make a retort but closed it again and left the office.

  Most of the lodge’s guest rooms were in the main building, but there were several free-standing bungalows nestled in the forest. They were tucked between pine, cypress, and eucalyptus trees and were not visible from the road that traversed the lodge grounds.

  Yellow police ribbon was pulled around the base of the trees encircling the Cabin in the Woods. Greenwood ducked underneath and walked up the path leading to the bungalow’s front door. Two we
ll-fed squirrels sitting at the base of a tree rolled onto their hind legs as Greenwood approached. They were used to the lodge guests and watched Greenwood with curiosity rather than fear. A jaybird in a nearby tree scolded him. Other birds sang happily. The morning air was crisp. It was a beautiful day.

  Greenwood took a penknife from his pocket and slit the block of yellow adhesive paper that warned: CRIME SCENE. DO NOT ENTER. He pushed the door open.

  The air did not smell of death; it merely smelled stale. The body was gone. Barbie’s clothes and other effects were gone. So were the champagne glasses, the fruit and cheese platter, and the gardener’s shears. All that remained was the bare mattress stained with a small circle of blood from Barbie’s severed finger: a macabre chocolate brown Rorschach test. Even though the remnants of the crime had been removed, the atmosphere retained an uneasy tension, as if the walls had absorbed the horror that had transpired therein.

  Greenwood took a perfunctory look around, then dropped to his hands and knees and looked under the bed. He lifted the braided rag rug and had a peek underneath. He walked into a dressing area off the bedroom. There was a small refrigerator on the floor. He opened it, knowing it was empty.

  He walked into the bathroom. All the used towels had been bundled up and packed off to the county crime lab. They had found blond hairs that presumably belonged to Lorraine, and particles of vomit.

  “Nothing here,” Greenwood said to himself. “Guess they can have their room back.”

  He unlocked the back door and walked outside, inhaling the storm-cleansed air, trying to shake the bungalow’s atmosphere. The ground had been raked clear of needles, cones, leaves, and seed pods. The fine dirt displayed the even marks of rake tines.

  Greenwood walked out to the cliff, leaned against the sturdy wooden fence that bordered it, and looked down at the surf crashing on the rocks a hundred feet below. To his right, he could see the main building where gulls circled the deck. A guest threw bits of food to the gulls, who expertly snatched them from the air.