Gerald Petievich - To Die in Beverly Hills

Carr stood up. He pushed the chair back to the table. "You called me over here to argue," he said on his way out the door.

"Don't be surprised if I never call you again," she called after him, her voice cracking. "I mean that."

Carr met Higgins in the parking lot of the West Hollywood Sheriff's Station. After a brief discussion, they drove to Hartmann's bank and picked up the key to Peckham's house. They made a quick stop at a delicatessen on Hillcrest and bought lunchmeat and bread. By the time they made the short drive to Peckham's hillside home it was dusk. As Hartmann had described, there was a locked mailbox on a post at the entrance to a descending driveway.

Carr made the sharp turn and proceeded down the driveway past an elevated tennis court on the right. The house itself was a sprawling one-story structure balanced on hillside struts. It had a four-car garage. Higgins climbed out of the sedan and used a key to unlock the garage. Carr steered into an empty space between a Rolls-Royce and a Maserati and parked.

They carried shotguns, radio transmitters and the sack of groceries into the house. The living room was an expanse of deep black carpeting leading to a semicircle of glass windows covered by sheer curtains. Outside the windows was a plank-floored patio that looked down onto Beverly Hills and West Los Angeles.

Higgins followed Carr through the huge master bedroom and into a study with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The facing wall, behind a mahogany desk, was covered with photographs of the square-jawed Greg Peckham in scenes from various movies. The most imposing photograph was a color shot of Peckham costumed in pirate's knickers, gold earring and a colorful puff-sleeved shirt as he stood on the prow of a sailing vessel. He wore lipstick and heavy makeup.

Higgins stared at the photo. "Can you imagine wearing a costume like that all day to earn a living? All actors must be queers."

"Could be." Carr stepped out of the study and made his way down a hallway lined with oil paintings of Peckham in various flattering poses. The other bedrooms off the hallway were decorated in strikingly different motifs. The walls of one room were covered with zebra skins.

After surveying the entire house, they returned to the living room.

Carr picked up a shotgun, pulled shells from his coat pocket and thumbed them into the magazine. "How would you break in?" he said.

"It's a toss-up between either kicking in the front door or coming around the side of the house. But I don't think he'll hit the windows. They look fairly secure."

"The front door looks like the weak spot to me."

Without discussion, they took positions catercorner from one another in the living room. As it grew dark inside the house the city below became alive with lights. In the distance the flashing red lights of airplanes descended slowly in an arc toward Los Angeles International Airport.

For once, Carr mused, the night was clear. He remembered being on guard duty in Korea. It had been foggy and pitch dark. He knew that if the enemy had approached his position, he would probably feel a bayonet before seeing it. Consequently, he stood as still as possible through his tour of guard duty, knowing that the enemy might be close enough to hear him. Sitting across the room from one another in the darkness, Higgins and Carr bantered about the case. Around 10:00 P.m. they shared a meal of bologna and bread, which they ate under flashlight illumination at the kitchen table. After finishing their sandwiches, they returned to their posts.

"When you talked with Kreuzer," Higgins said from across the room, "did he sound confident that Bailey would take the bait?" It was the same question he had asked in a number of different ways through the course of the evening.

"He said Bailey reacted the same way he always does when he gave him an address for a score."

"We might end up sitting here all week."

"I was afraid if I told Kreuzer to say that the house would be vacant for any shorter period it might sound like a setup."

"You're right," Higgins said. "It was the best way to do it. It's just sitting here not knowing whether he'll ever come. That's the hard part. The thought of wasting a week sitting here for nothing."

The conversation became even more banal after midnight.

During the morning hours they alternated taking catnaps. Finally, the sun came up.

Carr stretched. He phoned the Field Office and left a message for No Waves that he was on a stakeout at Tony Dio's home. Higgins called his captain and did the same. They took quick showers, changed underwear, ate more lunchmeat and bread, made a joint command decision to make a pot of Greg Peckham's coffee. When it was brewed, they drank the entire pot. For a while they discussed whether it was worth taking the chance of separating long enough for one of them to drive to a store and pick up a morning newspaper. They decided against it.

They spent the rest of the day playing gin rummy. After dark, they continued playing by arranging a flashlight on the dining room table. Finally, at 11:00 P.M., Carr ginned and Higgins said he'd played enough cards to last him the rest of his life.

At Higgins's suggestion, they watched the eleven o'clock news on TV with the volume turned down. After the news, they found themselves meandering about the darkened house like prisoners in an exercise yard. Carr found himself standing on the patio again staring at the city lights. He thought of Sally, and of the case, and about how he would busy himself if he retired.

And the hours passed.

Eventually Carr returned to the living room, where he found Higgins lying on the sofa.

"Most burglars work during the day," Higgins said. "They ring the door bell. If no one's home, they shim the door and do their thing."

"That's what they say," Carr agreed. He remembered Higgins making the same comment the night before.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.

Carr grabbed the shotgun, ran to the kitchen window and peeked out. He saw the figure of a man climbing out of a sedan and cautiously approaching the front door. He carried an axe.

Higgins trotted down the hallway toward the den.

There was the sound of metal against metal at the front door. A snap. The door opened slowly.

Carr ducked behind the kitchen work counter.

A beam of a flashlight preceded the man as he passed through the front door. With the light leading his way, he walked through the living room and down the hallway. Carr stood up, tiptoed behind him.

As the man reached the door of the den, Carr flipped on the hallway light. Higgins, holding his pistol in a combat stance, stood in the doorway. "Surprise," he said.

Bones Chagra backed up in fright. His back touched the barrel of Carr's shotgun. He dropped his flashlight and axe and his hands flew over his head. "Please don't kill me," he cried. "Please don't kill me."

Higgins reholstered his revolver. He stepped from the doorway and slammed Chagra against the wall. After frisking him thoroughly, he grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him past Carr into the kitchen, where he shoved him violently into a chair. He yanked a pair of handcuffs off his belt and snapped one cuff on Chagra's right wrist and attached the other to a table leg.

Carr unloaded the shotgun and returned it to his sedan. Back in the kitchen he prepared coffee in an electric pot. He set the pot and three cups on the kitchen table. As he did this, he glanced at a wall clock.

It was 3:00 A.M.

At 8:00 A.M. they were still sitting around the kitchen table. The coffee pot was empty. Carr had filled an ashtray with cigarette butts.

"It's like I said," Chagra said in a fatigued manner. "I've been bullshitted before by the cops."