Dead Pigeon Read Online Free Page A

Mike’s girlfriend?”
    He shook his head. “Are you suggesting that Turhan Bay was involved in Mike’s murder?”
    “Maybe, maybe not. He gave the eulogy at Mike’s funeral.”
    “That’s really weird, Brock! Where’s the connection?”
    I shrugged.
    “The funeral was in Westwood,” he said. “That’s outside of our jurisdiction. So is Brentwood, where Bay lives, and so is Venice, where he runs his con. The LA Westside Station is where you should go with your weird theories.”
    “I’m not welcome there. They remember me from the old days.”
    “That was before you moved. Tell ’em you’re rich now.”
    I sighed. “You are one cynical bastard, Lars.”
    He didn’t answer, munching away at his double cheeseburger. I gave my attention to my more refined avocado-and-bacon sandwich on rye toast.
    Over our coffee, I said, “Bay is giving a lecture tonight on inner peace and outer space. It might be interesting. Would you like to come with me?”
    “I don’t work nights.”
    “It wouldn’t be work. Maybe it would help you attain inner peace. You could use some of that.”
    “Watch it, acid tongue!”
    “Screw you!” I finished my coffee and stood up. “Thanks for the lunch.”
    “Dear God, now we get the petulance bit. I’ll check that license number and phone you. When will you be back at the hotel?”
    “Around five.”
    “I’ll phone you there.”
    I smiled down at him. “Thanks. Buddies again, Lars?”
    “Hell, yes,” he said, “but I don’t know why.”
    Two hours later, after a fruitless search of my former informants in the area, I drove to the hotel and put in a long-distance call to Tacoma. Jan answered.
    “I’m still in smog town,” I told her, “and I miss you.”
    “I’ll bet you do! With all those bimbos you used to know down there?”
    “Jan, I had lunch with one cynic today and one is more than enough.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Lars Hovde. Remember him?”
    “That big man from Minnesota, that Santa Monica detective?”
    “That’s the man. How are things in Tacoma?”
    “Not so good. Aunt Alice has a cold and needs a lot of rest. I may come home a little later than we’d planned. You are not going to get involved in that murder, are you?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Brock—!”
    “I’ll say one thing and then we will drop the subject. Mike Gregory was my friend.”
    “And fellow womanizer.”
    I considered reminding her that she was not a virgin when we first met, but decided not to.
    About a half minute of silence from Tacoma and then she said, “I apologize. I can be bitchy, can’t I?”
    “It’s one of your charms. I adore you, feisty.”
    “It’s mutual. You keep that fly of yours zipped shut.”
    “Even in the toilet?”
    That got a laugh out of her. Then, “Aunt Alice is coughing again. I have to go. You be very careful down there!”
    “I will. That’s a promise.”

CHAPTER THREE
    L ARS PHONED A FEW minutes after five o’clock. The Jaguar, he told me, was listed as the property of Turhan Bay. “Now maybe you can tell me what the connection is with Mike’s murder.”
    I told him the theory held by Nolan.
    “You’re reaching, aren’t you? Did one of your brainwashed stoolies feed you that script?”
    “Nope. I dreamed it up all by myself.”
    “Blackmail? Mike—?”
    “It could be a bad script. The lady at the Inner Peace place told me that Bay was a very close friend of Mike’s and tried to help him. What I can’t believe is that he would try to help anybody who couldn’t afford to pay him.”
    “Not unless he had reason to.”
    “He could have reason. Blackmail could be a strong reason for a man as broke as Mike. Mike didn’t even belong to that kooky outfit. And we both know a heavy habit needs heavy money.”
    “That makes sense,” he admitted.
    “And,” I pointed out, “it’s not outside your jurisdiction. Mike died in Santa Monica.”
    “Okay, okay,” he said wearily. “I’ll ask around.”
    “Thanks, Lars.