remember?”
“Yes, Chuck.”
“When?”
“In the Yellow Pages.”
“What?”
“You remember when you wanted to buy a motorcycle that time, and you looked in the Yellow Pages?”
“No.”
“We were sitting at the kitchen table and it was eight-thirty-three at night. And you opened it up and then you looked inside and I saw it. There was a sun and motorcycles. A picture.”
“A Yellow Pages ad?”
“I think so, Chuck.”
“Where’s a Yellow Pages around here?”
“There’s a pay phone outside the other door. The phone number on it is 818-883––”
“Wait here.” Chuck stood.
“What about lunch?”
Chuck took out his wallet. He had a ten dollar bill in it. He tossed it on the table in front of Stan. “Get whatever chicken this’ll buy.”
Chuck went out the automatic door at the west end of the store. The phone booth had a hanging Yellow Pages. He leafed through it. The Motorcycle section had big ads for Barger Harley and Kolbe Honda. Smaller ads for . . . there it was. Sun Cycles in Tarzana. Complete with sun logo.
He told Stan to eat the chicken himself, save the rest, and went to the street to catch the bus to Tarzana. His car was still parked outside Wendy Tower’s apartment. He would pick it up later.
This couldn’t wait.
Chapter 29
Sandy was wary of her Detective CO, Lt. Sean Brady. He was, on the surface, even-tempered and fair. Scratch a little below that, though, and you found the harder crust of the old boys’ network. Which meant he wasn’t going to go out on any low hanging limbs for her. Not that she expected him to.
She didn’t expect anything from the department anymore.
“Have a seat,” Brady said when Sandy entered his office, at his request. He was a shade over fifty, in good shape. Pumped iron three times a week before coming in. He had a salt-and-pepper mustache trimmed short to go with his closely mown hair.
“So how are things progressing on the Grant Nunn killing?” he asked.
“Working it.” Sandy dutifully plopped in a chair and looked at the wall behind him. Framed photos there, including one of Brady with the mayor, who was flashing his legendary pearlies like some Miss California all aflutter about world peace.
Brady said, “There a connection with this guy Samson?”
“There may be,” Sandy said.
“He was dinged on a drug charge, yes?”
“Felony manufacture, attempt.”
“And you’re going down to the courthouse and questioning him?”
“There a problem?”
“I don’t want there to be.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” Sandy said. She was not going to be pushed, those days were over. Come whatever hassle they wanted to shove her way.
“You’re making inquiries into something that happened outside our jurisdiction.”
Sandy said nothing, tried to read his eyes.
“I got a call from the Kern County Sheriff,” Brady said. “You’re pulling records on a DUI in Beaman?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty far afield.”
“I’m trying to make a connection. It wasn’t just a DUI. It was a hit-and-run, and killed Charles Samson’s wife.”
Brady’s face remained impassive. “I don’t see anything that connects that to the Nunn killing, except that Samson talked to Nunn and just happens to have a wife who got killed.”
“If I could just follow this through a little bit, maybe I can give you––”
“I don’t want you crossing over. Samson’s a defendant in a drug case. That’s none of your concern. Or an old accident out of Kern County, either. I want you to stick to your knitting right here.” Brady paused, then quickly added, “No sexist comment intended, as you know.”
Ah, there it was. A little good-old-boy needle, framed so innocently.
Sandy stood. “How much flexibility do I have?”
“Stay focused.”
“I need to tie up some loose ends.”
“You don’t have a lot of leeway.” Brady stood now, walked out from behind his desk. “You hearing me?”
Oh yes, very loud and very clear. He was giving her the
“Yes, Chuck.”
“When?”
“In the Yellow Pages.”
“What?”
“You remember when you wanted to buy a motorcycle that time, and you looked in the Yellow Pages?”
“No.”
“We were sitting at the kitchen table and it was eight-thirty-three at night. And you opened it up and then you looked inside and I saw it. There was a sun and motorcycles. A picture.”
“A Yellow Pages ad?”
“I think so, Chuck.”
“Where’s a Yellow Pages around here?”
“There’s a pay phone outside the other door. The phone number on it is 818-883––”
“Wait here.” Chuck stood.
“What about lunch?”
Chuck took out his wallet. He had a ten dollar bill in it. He tossed it on the table in front of Stan. “Get whatever chicken this’ll buy.”
Chuck went out the automatic door at the west end of the store. The phone booth had a hanging Yellow Pages. He leafed through it. The Motorcycle section had big ads for Barger Harley and Kolbe Honda. Smaller ads for . . . there it was. Sun Cycles in Tarzana. Complete with sun logo.
He told Stan to eat the chicken himself, save the rest, and went to the street to catch the bus to Tarzana. His car was still parked outside Wendy Tower’s apartment. He would pick it up later.
This couldn’t wait.
Chapter 29
Sandy was wary of her Detective CO, Lt. Sean Brady. He was, on the surface, even-tempered and fair. Scratch a little below that, though, and you found the harder crust of the old boys’ network. Which meant he wasn’t going to go out on any low hanging limbs for her. Not that she expected him to.
She didn’t expect anything from the department anymore.
“Have a seat,” Brady said when Sandy entered his office, at his request. He was a shade over fifty, in good shape. Pumped iron three times a week before coming in. He had a salt-and-pepper mustache trimmed short to go with his closely mown hair.
“So how are things progressing on the Grant Nunn killing?” he asked.
“Working it.” Sandy dutifully plopped in a chair and looked at the wall behind him. Framed photos there, including one of Brady with the mayor, who was flashing his legendary pearlies like some Miss California all aflutter about world peace.
Brady said, “There a connection with this guy Samson?”
“There may be,” Sandy said.
“He was dinged on a drug charge, yes?”
“Felony manufacture, attempt.”
“And you’re going down to the courthouse and questioning him?”
“There a problem?”
“I don’t want there to be.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” Sandy said. She was not going to be pushed, those days were over. Come whatever hassle they wanted to shove her way.
“You’re making inquiries into something that happened outside our jurisdiction.”
Sandy said nothing, tried to read his eyes.
“I got a call from the Kern County Sheriff,” Brady said. “You’re pulling records on a DUI in Beaman?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty far afield.”
“I’m trying to make a connection. It wasn’t just a DUI. It was a hit-and-run, and killed Charles Samson’s wife.”
Brady’s face remained impassive. “I don’t see anything that connects that to the Nunn killing, except that Samson talked to Nunn and just happens to have a wife who got killed.”
“If I could just follow this through a little bit, maybe I can give you––”
“I don’t want you crossing over. Samson’s a defendant in a drug case. That’s none of your concern. Or an old accident out of Kern County, either. I want you to stick to your knitting right here.” Brady paused, then quickly added, “No sexist comment intended, as you know.”
Ah, there it was. A little good-old-boy needle, framed so innocently.
Sandy stood. “How much flexibility do I have?”
“Stay focused.”
“I need to tie up some loose ends.”
“You don’t have a lot of leeway.” Brady stood now, walked out from behind his desk. “You hearing me?”
Oh yes, very loud and very clear. He was giving her the
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