“This is Detective Stringer, L.A.P.D.,” he said. “I’m calling about Mister Victor Watson’s homicide investigation. I believe you’re a friend of Mister Watson’s?”
“He’s an old client,” the car dealer said. “And yes, we’re friends.”
“We’re having some problems with this case,” Otto said. “Mister Watson said you informed him that his car showed up in your store on the day his son was murdered.”
“Yes, that’s right. My service manager, he uh, he identified a picture of Jack that Victor … that Mister Victor Watson showed him.”
“I wanna talk to that service manager.”
“He, uh, he’s … I don’t think he’s available. He may be off today. I’ll have to check and call you back.”
“Listen,” Otto said, “this is a very serious investigation. There’s been lots and lots a man-hours expended and lots and lots a blind-alley chases. I wanna know something, and be absolutely sure when you answer me. Could you be … mistaken? That is, could your service manager be mistaken?”
“Uh, how do you mean that?”
“What if it Was some other Rolls that came in that day? What if some other young guy was driving? Is it possible he’s confused? It would be a serious matter if a police investigation was geared around a … mistake. Someone could even get in trouble.”
There were several seconds of silence and then the car dealer said, “Well, anything’s possible.”
“I know anything’s possible. Is it maybe more than possible that your service manager is mistaken?”
“It’s … at least very possible,” the car dealer said shakily. “I would … I’d have to talk with him.”
“Thanks very much,” Otto said. “If we have any more questions, we’ll call you.”
“Do you think you’ll have more questions?” The car dealer sounded ill.
“I doubt it,” the detective said.
When Sidney Blackpool came back to the suite, Otto was all gussied up in his best golf outfit, the one with the pink argyle sweater. He was in the sitting room reading the newspaper.
“Thought you might still be asleep,” Sidney Blackpool said. “I went for a ride. Stayed longer than I thought.”
“We playing golf today, Sidney? Or we gonna set up roadblocks and start searching cars for the murder gun?”
“What’s wrong?”
“You see, partner, I’m just an old narc and a brand-new dead-body dick, but even old narcs can figure things out after a while.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I been wondering why you didn’t wanna go to that Rolls-Royce dealer to verify the hot new clue about the Watson kid driving the Rolls to Hollywood. But I just figured, well, Black Sid’s the homicide cop. Me, I’m just the new kid on the block, so I didn’t say anything. But I got to thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“Thinking that you’re working this case like it’s the Lindbergh baby snatching, not a no-clues homicide where we’re supposedly just going through the motions.”
“So what’ve you decided?”
“I decided to call the Rolls dealer who’s a pal of Victor Watson. I could get more sincerity from a wedding chapel in Las Vegas.”
“And?”
“And he’s about as reliable as a Pravda editorial. Watson cooked this thing up with his pal just to get L.A.P.D. drawn into a Palm Springs case. Am I right?”
“I didn’t call the car dealer. You did.”
“Look, Sidney, I’m not a Mensa, but I’m not real dumb.”
“You’re not a bit dumb, Otto.”
“You figured all along that Watson set it up to bring us in. You wanted to be brought in.”
“Let’s say you’re right.”
“Hey, I don’t care if you did it because you wanted a Palm Springs holiday. I don’t care if you figured he’d lay some expense money on us. Maybe you even knew it’d be ten grand. I don’t know what-all’s behind it, but I think if I’m riding shotgun, I got a right to know if I’m gonna get waylaid by hostiles.”
Sidney Blackpool lit a cigarette and straddled his chair and looked away. Then he said, “Okay, Otto, you’re right. I did figure from the git-go that Watson cooked up the Hollywood connection, but I went along. And not just for a fun-filled week in Palm Springs.”
“So far, we ain’t having much fun. We’re working.”
Sidney Blackpool took a big hit on the cigarette and blew a cloud through his nose, saying, “I didn’t know he’d give us ten thousand, but that’s not what’s making me take a run at this case. Watson offered me a job if I could impress him.”
“What job?”
“Security director for Watson Industries. Hundred grand a year. Travel. Country-club privileges. Perks. I won’t be super rich but I can live rich.”
“Every cop’s hope and dream,” Otto whistled. “How to turn twenty years of shit into sunshine.”
“It’s the first thing I’ve been a little stoked about in a long time, Otto. It’s something to … go for.”
“Go for? I’d kill for it. You shoulda told me.”
“Sorry, partner.”
“So now I know, let’s forget the golf. I’ll work all week if that’s the payoff for you. I can always play golf in Griffith Park.”
Sidney Blackpool grinned and said, “Thanks, but guess what?”
“what?”
“We’re gonna hit the links today.”
“All right!” Otto said. “Which course?”
“You pick it. We got three to choose from.”
“Eeny meeny miny Tamarisk! Let’s go play Tamarisk Country Club.”
“Kay by me,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Hey, guess what I saw out in the desert?”
“What?”
“A bird I saw in the desert magazine. A butcher-bird they call it. It impales mice and lizards on thorns and barbed wire, then eats them. Beautiful songbird. Teal-colored back. Gray cap, black mask, wings silver gray like a Mercedes. With white pinstriping. A gorgeous deadly little songbird. Reminded me a my ex-wife.”
“Sidney, puh-leese!” Otto said. “You promised not to get so morbid!”
The clubhouse at Tamarisk was brand-new but the golf course was old. Along with Thunderbird Country Club, it was the oldest posh club in the desert. The detectives weren’t certain what to do, but started lugging their own clubs until a kid saw them and took their golf bags, directing them to the locker room where they changed shoes.
The new clubhouse was perfect for the desert: lots of glass and space, decorated in desert pastels. There was a membership roster on the wall inside the lobby. Otto saw Gregory Peck’s name and began getting panicky. He half expected to run into Yoko Ono.
Although he’d played an occasional game of golf over the years, Otto had never really gotten interested in the game until he started working with Sidney Blackpool, a pretty good golfer. In their months together, Sidney Blackpool had managed to get them some play at a few of the second-line private clubs in Los Angeles County, which were goat tracks compared to the manicured perfection of the desert country clubs.
“Oh, my God, Sidney!” Otto said when they were standing with the club pro looking at the eighteenth green. “I never seen anything like this. It’s … It’s … I used to date a girl with a pussy like that!”
“Green?” said the club pro.
“Velvet,” Otto said. “It looks like velvet around that pin. And look at the fairways, not a blemish. Do you use Clearasil on them, or what?”
“Have fun, fellas,” the pro said. “You’ll make a threesome with Mister Rosenkrantz. He’s on the first tee warming up.”
“Thanks much,” Sidney Blackpool said, needing to take Otto’s elbow to get him away from the eighteenth green. The boy already had their clubs loaded on an electric golf cart and was wiping down their woods.