Hagopian’s eyes. “He’s at Disneyland with Pam. They took my Jaguar and left a note saying I was free to use his truck. He was putting in these shrubs at a place up the hill from me when Pam met him this afternoon.” He circled Easy’s desk and took the client’s chair. “I might buy a truck like that. It handles better than the XKE.”
“The shrubs make good ballast,” said Easy.
“I heard over KNX that you found one of the San Amaro gang dead,” said Hagopian.
“Yeah, I was just going to check back with the San Amaro cops now.”
Hagopian knifed two fingers into his pants pocket and produced a folded slip of memo paper. “Call Judy Teller.”
Easy studied the writer’s wrinkling face. “Does this have anything to do with the case?”
“Would I play pimp for a lady TV columnist?” Hagopian dropped the memo, unfolded, onto Easy’s desk. “There’s her private unlisted number. She wants to see you, to talk about Jackie McCleary. I’ve had a lot of experience with untruthful broads, John, and I’d say she’s not fooling around. She phoned me again after Mitch Stammsky’s death was on the news. She sounds to be really worried, frightened. Even a little of her old Long Island accent has come back.”
“Okay,” said Easy. “First let me call the San Amaro police.” He lifted the black phone and dialed.
“Did you like the sandwich I left for you?”
“It was fine.” Into the phone Easy said, “Lt. Frimac, please. John Easy calling. Yeah, I’ll wait.”
“Good, because I was a little dubious about this particular delicatessen,” said Hagopian, slumping back slightly in his chair. “Because it’s run by Japanese. I guess they really can do anything.”
“Frimac,” said a burred voice in the phone.
“John Easy.”
“Listen, Easy, I’m going to want to talk to you again.”
“What was Stammsky shot with?”
“A .32 caliber gun. Just like you and I figured,” answered the San Amaro police lieutenant. “Can you get back down here later this evening?”
“Did you get the slugs compared yet?”
“Yes, I did. That’s why you’re going to have to talk to me some more,” said Lt. Frimac. “They match those that killed Booth Graither, fired from the same gun. Now, what I want to talk about is how you knew to suggest trying to match them. Easy?”
“A hunch.”
“That’s enough crap. What’s Stammsky got to do with Graither and this dead girl you say you’re looking for?”
“I’ll come in tomorrow and talk, lieutenant,” Easy said. “Trust me.”
Frimac said, “Tomorrow early,” and broke the connection.
“Something?” asked Hagopian as Easy set down the phone.
“Mitch Stammsky and Booth Graither were killed with the same gun.”
Wrinkles climbed Hagopian’s high forehead. “Who do you figure’s been using that gun? Jackie McCleary?”
“No.” Easy took up the phone again and dialed Judy Teller’s private number.
The phone rang seven times, and then a tentative voice said, “Yes?”
“Judy, this is John Easy.”
“Finally,” said the girl. “I was starting to think maybe you were a rat after all.”
“You want to talk to me.”
“Yes, can you come over now? Or soon? I’ve got a cottage in Westwood.” She gave him the address.
“Yes, I can be there in a half hour,” Easy told her. “What do you want to tell me?”
“I’ve decided I’d better tell you what really happened to Jackie McCleary.”
XV
A HOT, DRY WIND pressed branches and dark leaves thick against the windows of the cottage. Judy Teller was sitting in a black butterfly chair next to the small, empty living room fireplace. She was wearing a short, dark skirt and a white shirt-blouse, her knees tucked under her and a half-empty drink glass cradled in both slender hands. “Snug,” said the red-haired girl.
Easy nodded his head at the beam-ceilinged living room. “Yes,” he agreed. He was leaning back in the middle of a low, stark sofa, watching the small, pretty
“The shrubs make good ballast,” said Easy.
“I heard over KNX that you found one of the San Amaro gang dead,” said Hagopian.
“Yeah, I was just going to check back with the San Amaro cops now.”
Hagopian knifed two fingers into his pants pocket and produced a folded slip of memo paper. “Call Judy Teller.”
Easy studied the writer’s wrinkling face. “Does this have anything to do with the case?”
“Would I play pimp for a lady TV columnist?” Hagopian dropped the memo, unfolded, onto Easy’s desk. “There’s her private unlisted number. She wants to see you, to talk about Jackie McCleary. I’ve had a lot of experience with untruthful broads, John, and I’d say she’s not fooling around. She phoned me again after Mitch Stammsky’s death was on the news. She sounds to be really worried, frightened. Even a little of her old Long Island accent has come back.”
“Okay,” said Easy. “First let me call the San Amaro police.” He lifted the black phone and dialed.
“Did you like the sandwich I left for you?”
“It was fine.” Into the phone Easy said, “Lt. Frimac, please. John Easy calling. Yeah, I’ll wait.”
“Good, because I was a little dubious about this particular delicatessen,” said Hagopian, slumping back slightly in his chair. “Because it’s run by Japanese. I guess they really can do anything.”
“Frimac,” said a burred voice in the phone.
“John Easy.”
“Listen, Easy, I’m going to want to talk to you again.”
“What was Stammsky shot with?”
“A .32 caliber gun. Just like you and I figured,” answered the San Amaro police lieutenant. “Can you get back down here later this evening?”
“Did you get the slugs compared yet?”
“Yes, I did. That’s why you’re going to have to talk to me some more,” said Lt. Frimac. “They match those that killed Booth Graither, fired from the same gun. Now, what I want to talk about is how you knew to suggest trying to match them. Easy?”
“A hunch.”
“That’s enough crap. What’s Stammsky got to do with Graither and this dead girl you say you’re looking for?”
“I’ll come in tomorrow and talk, lieutenant,” Easy said. “Trust me.”
Frimac said, “Tomorrow early,” and broke the connection.
“Something?” asked Hagopian as Easy set down the phone.
“Mitch Stammsky and Booth Graither were killed with the same gun.”
Wrinkles climbed Hagopian’s high forehead. “Who do you figure’s been using that gun? Jackie McCleary?”
“No.” Easy took up the phone again and dialed Judy Teller’s private number.
The phone rang seven times, and then a tentative voice said, “Yes?”
“Judy, this is John Easy.”
“Finally,” said the girl. “I was starting to think maybe you were a rat after all.”
“You want to talk to me.”
“Yes, can you come over now? Or soon? I’ve got a cottage in Westwood.” She gave him the address.
“Yes, I can be there in a half hour,” Easy told her. “What do you want to tell me?”
“I’ve decided I’d better tell you what really happened to Jackie McCleary.”
XV
A HOT, DRY WIND pressed branches and dark leaves thick against the windows of the cottage. Judy Teller was sitting in a black butterfly chair next to the small, empty living room fireplace. She was wearing a short, dark skirt and a white shirt-blouse, her knees tucked under her and a half-empty drink glass cradled in both slender hands. “Snug,” said the red-haired girl.
Easy nodded his head at the beam-ceilinged living room. “Yes,” he agreed. He was leaning back in the middle of a low, stark sofa, watching the small, pretty
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