Stuart Kaminsky - The Fala Factor

“So the dead guy is a vet named Olson,” Downs said, looking down at his notes as we stood in the hallway downstairs. He was dark-suited, thin, weary, and wore a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

“Roy Olson,” his partner, a squat redhead, filled in.

“Right,” Downs said. “You had some beef with him or something sick going. You were in the tub together and things got out of hand. All a mistake, right?”

“That’s not what happened,” I said, shaking my head patiently. “Ask Mrs. Olson. Where is she?”

“No Mrs. Olson here. Nobody but you,” Hindryx said, nodding back into the house.

For a second time, I explained what had happened. The two cops wrote it down dutifully so that my two tellings could be checked against each other and whatever additional tales I might tell. Hindryx wrote it, grunted occasionally, and put his notebook away.

“Where’s your car?” said Down.

I told him and he decided it would be fine right there until it could be checked out.

“Cop who found you said you’re Phil Pevsner’s brother, that right?” said Downs.

“It’s right,” I said.

“He’s an asshole,” said Downs, looking at me for contradiction.

“You want me to tell him you said that?” I answered.

Downs shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, shifting his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

The next hour was a trip down memory lane. Printed, booked, checked for priors, questioned again, and headed for the lockup. I had a single call I could make. I told the cop at the local that I wanted to make a few calls, that there was no law that said I could make only one, that the cops got that idea from William Powell movies, but he didn’t budge. One call it would be.

I’d been through this before. I wouldn’t get a bail hearing on a murder charge so there was no point in calling Gunther to get me out. They’d want to keep me for a psychiatrist to talk to after what had happened. So I called the Wilshire District station. Veldu was still on duty, a double shift he explained as the lockup cop checked his watch to be sure I didn’t take too much time. Phil was home but Seidman was still there. I talked to him and gave him a quick explanation.

“Steve,” I said when he didn’t answer. “You there?”

“I’m here,” he said wearily, “but I’m not sure you’re all there. I’ll tell Phil and see what he wants to do.” He hung up and I gave the phone back to the lockup officer.

It was night and the cell I was taken to was small and smelled of nightmares. There were two bunks in the cell and a weak light in the ceiling. On the wall between the bunks was a chalk drawing of Smokey Stover. Someone was lying on the bunk on the left. Doc Olson’s clothes and I took the bunk on the right.

“I didn’t do it,” said the voice from the other bunk. The guy in it was lying on his back, his right arm across his eyes.

“I believe you,” I said, checking the bunk for bugs.

The other guy began to snore and I lay back trying to think. Had I stumbled into some unrelated murder? Had some jealous hulk that Anne Olson picked up strangled her husband, and I just had the dumb luck to walk in at the wrong time? Where was Anne Olson? Had Olson been knocked off because of the kidnapping of the president’s dog? Why? I knew I was too edgy to sleep, but knowing is not the same as feeling. I was asleep in minutes. My body had been through enough in forty-seven years to know when it needed a break, even if my mind didn’t.

I dreamed that Guy Kibbe and I were sitting on Doc Olson’s naked stomach. He was floating and we were out in the middle of the ocean. From a faraway island, a woman’s voice called, “Out here damned spot.” Using our hands, we paddled for it on the bouyant corpse. When we reached the island, my ex-wife Anne and Koko the clown were hand-in-hand, dancing on the beach. We got off of Olson, and the four of us watched him float out to sea. For some reason, it was a tender moment. Something was about to happen. Anne was about to speak and tell me something important, but she never did. Someone shook me awake and I was back in the cell.

“Come on,” said Seidman.

“She was going to tell me the answer,” I said, sitting up and looking over at my cellmate, whose arm was still covering his eyes.

“Sure,” said Seidman. His jaw was slightly swollen.

“You snore,” said the guy from the other bunk.

“You did it,” I answered, following Seidman out of the cell.

Some bookwork, discussion, and dirty looks passed between Seidman and Downs, but in a few minutes the final touches were made and I was on my way, seated next to Seidman.

“I got the report from Hindryx,” he said, heading into the night. “That the way it was?”

“The way I said it.”

That was all we said for the next half-hour till we got to the Wilshire station. It was four in the morning according to the clock downstairs and the night man had replaced Veldu. I didn’t know the night man so we exchanged nothing. We bypassed the squadroom and went to an office in the hall with CAPTAIN LOWELL B. PRONZINI stenciled on the door in black letters that were peeling off from years of scratching and a few dozen washings. Lowell B. had just retired. It was, I found, the office of Captain Phil Pevsner. It was bigger than his old one, had three chairs besides the one behind the desk, and probably looked out on the parking lot. I couldn’t tell. It was too dark. The desk was just as old as the last one and there were two battered file cabinets in the corner.

“Coming up in the world, ain’t you Rico?” I said to Phil, who sat rocking in his new swivel chair behind the desk.

“What’s Eleanor Roosevelt got to do with this shit?” he said, still rocking.

Seidman took one of the chairs, moved it to the corner, and sat down to swallow a pill and massage his right cheek, beneath which lurked the work that Shelly had done on him.

“Nothing,” I said.

Phil stopped rocking for a second, looked forward at me, a day’s stubble of gray beard on his chin. He said nothing and went from rocking to swiveling in his chair.

“Try again,” sighed Seidman from the corner.

Phil paused, looking bored, and reached for the metal cup of coffee on his desk. He discovered it was empty, got mad at the cup, and threw it in the garbage can near the desk. The garbage can was brown, metal, and not new.

“Ruth can make some curtains,” I said, “turn this into-”

“Eleanor Roosevelt,” Phil said, rubbing his temples.

“Eleanor Roosevelt,” I agreed, and told him everything, her fears, the dog, everything. “You believe me?” I concluded.

Phil’s hands went up in a resigned gesture of indecision. He looked at Seidman, whose tongue was in his cheek testing his inflamed gums. He had no opinion.

“Go home,” Phil said, swiveling away from me to look out of the dark window.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to stop looking for the dog?” I asked. “To keep out of it, to-”

“Would it do any good?” Phil said.

“No,” I agreed, “but that’s the routine. Aren’t we partners anymore?”

“We never were, “sighed Phil. “Downs and Hindryx gave me four days to come up with something or they’re pulling you back in. I leaned on them a little. They’re a pair of shits.”

“They have great respect for you too,” I added.

“And they’ve got a friend in the Wilshire who’ll be watching things for them,” Seidman added behind me.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Cawelti? Hell, Phil, just pull in Anne Olson. She must have panicked. She’ll back my story.”

“Go home,” said Phil. “Now.” He spun around, stood up, and turned his red face to me. The tie was back on. Old habits.