came.”
“Blackmail?” I asked.
He nodded. “He threatened to tell my followers about something that could lose me my ministry.”
“Your Chicago history?”
He nodded again. “And some other things he knew about me which I do not care to discuss. He told me he had lost his job and needed the money.
He was here for two hours. I had to wait for the bank to open. He wanted cash. He claimed he had to get out of town. I’m sure he lied about that.”
“Maybe not. His former boss is a hoodlum and it’s possible Tim did something the man didn’t approve of.”
“I hope so.”
“If he comes back again,” I said, “call the police. He’s involved with a man named Emil Clauss, a former cop who is suspected of Mike Gregory’s murder. Clauss worked at the West Side station before he was fired.”
“One of my people is a detective there,” he told me. “I’ll phone him.”
When I came back to the car, Dennis asked, “Anything?”
“Blackmail,” I said.
I didn’t tell him about the “other things” Bay had alluded to. I could guess what they were. That would be his secret. Revealing it would bring me down to the Tim Tucker level.
He asked, “Do you think Tucker was lying about having to leave town?”
“Maybe. I wonder if the Valley cops questioned him after Lars alerted them?”
“Lars would know,” he said.
“Let’s prowl for a while,” I said.
He smiled. “Still on the outs with your buddy?”
“No comment.”
We drove back to the warehouse where Clauss had been holed up, to see if had left anything incriminating there. The odor that assailed us as we entered was not foreign to me. It was the same as the odor from our septic tank when the winter rains caused it to overflow.
The water had apparently been turned off when the building was deserted. There was a concrete pit in one corner that could have been used for oil drains if this had once been a garage. It was now serving as a toilet.
We found nothing that would help us in our short search before the odor drove us out.
In the car again, I told Dennis what Peter Scarlatti had told me about attorney Winthrop Loeb.
“Do you think Gillete has a Mafia connection?” he asked.
“Not yet. But that could be why he dumped Tucker. Tucker wouldn’t be an asset to the mob, not these days.”
He shook his head. “Clauss and Tucker I might be able to handle. But I don’t want to tangle with the big boys.”
“We might not have to. Loeb is now being investigated by the Feds. That could include Gillete if they’re working together.”
We stayed in the Venice and Santa Monica area, from the mean streets to the better ones and down all the alleys. The day was getting warmer and the car hotter.
We were close to desperation time when we spotted the yellow pickup truck in the poorer section of Santa Monica. When we got closer we could read the license number. It was Tucker’s truck.
It was parked on a pitted blacktop driveway in front of an ancient frame house badly in need of paint. A sign on the parched front lawn stated that the place was available for sale or rent.
“I’ll take the front door,” I said. “If the place has a back door, you can watch that.”
He studied me doubtfully for seconds before he nodded.
There were two low and worn steps in front of the doorway. The door was ajar. There was no sound from inside. I pushed the door open a few more inches. The floor was uncarpeted in this, the probable living room. The air was musty. The window in the right-hand wall, which I could see, was almost opaque with dust.
I stepped in. The only furniture in the room was an old mission oak sideboard, topped with a cracked mirror. The kitchen sink was visible through the opened doorway at the far end of the room. There was another doorway in the wall to the left.
There was still no sign or sound of life. I moved along the left wall and peered in.
It was a small room. There was an open sleeping bag on the floor in the center
“Blackmail?” I asked.
He nodded. “He threatened to tell my followers about something that could lose me my ministry.”
“Your Chicago history?”
He nodded again. “And some other things he knew about me which I do not care to discuss. He told me he had lost his job and needed the money.
He was here for two hours. I had to wait for the bank to open. He wanted cash. He claimed he had to get out of town. I’m sure he lied about that.”
“Maybe not. His former boss is a hoodlum and it’s possible Tim did something the man didn’t approve of.”
“I hope so.”
“If he comes back again,” I said, “call the police. He’s involved with a man named Emil Clauss, a former cop who is suspected of Mike Gregory’s murder. Clauss worked at the West Side station before he was fired.”
“One of my people is a detective there,” he told me. “I’ll phone him.”
When I came back to the car, Dennis asked, “Anything?”
“Blackmail,” I said.
I didn’t tell him about the “other things” Bay had alluded to. I could guess what they were. That would be his secret. Revealing it would bring me down to the Tim Tucker level.
He asked, “Do you think Tucker was lying about having to leave town?”
“Maybe. I wonder if the Valley cops questioned him after Lars alerted them?”
“Lars would know,” he said.
“Let’s prowl for a while,” I said.
He smiled. “Still on the outs with your buddy?”
“No comment.”
We drove back to the warehouse where Clauss had been holed up, to see if had left anything incriminating there. The odor that assailed us as we entered was not foreign to me. It was the same as the odor from our septic tank when the winter rains caused it to overflow.
The water had apparently been turned off when the building was deserted. There was a concrete pit in one corner that could have been used for oil drains if this had once been a garage. It was now serving as a toilet.
We found nothing that would help us in our short search before the odor drove us out.
In the car again, I told Dennis what Peter Scarlatti had told me about attorney Winthrop Loeb.
“Do you think Gillete has a Mafia connection?” he asked.
“Not yet. But that could be why he dumped Tucker. Tucker wouldn’t be an asset to the mob, not these days.”
He shook his head. “Clauss and Tucker I might be able to handle. But I don’t want to tangle with the big boys.”
“We might not have to. Loeb is now being investigated by the Feds. That could include Gillete if they’re working together.”
We stayed in the Venice and Santa Monica area, from the mean streets to the better ones and down all the alleys. The day was getting warmer and the car hotter.
We were close to desperation time when we spotted the yellow pickup truck in the poorer section of Santa Monica. When we got closer we could read the license number. It was Tucker’s truck.
It was parked on a pitted blacktop driveway in front of an ancient frame house badly in need of paint. A sign on the parched front lawn stated that the place was available for sale or rent.
“I’ll take the front door,” I said. “If the place has a back door, you can watch that.”
He studied me doubtfully for seconds before he nodded.
There were two low and worn steps in front of the doorway. The door was ajar. There was no sound from inside. I pushed the door open a few more inches. The floor was uncarpeted in this, the probable living room. The air was musty. The window in the right-hand wall, which I could see, was almost opaque with dust.
I stepped in. The only furniture in the room was an old mission oak sideboard, topped with a cracked mirror. The kitchen sink was visible through the opened doorway at the far end of the room. There was another doorway in the wall to the left.
There was still no sign or sound of life. I moved along the left wall and peered in.
It was a small room. There was an open sleeping bag on the floor in the center
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