Dead Pigeon Read Online Free Page B

Give my best to your latest.”
    “Latest what?”
    “Female conquest,” I said, and hung up.
    I hadn’t planned to sit through tonight’s lecture. My hope was that I could talk privately with Bay and sort of test the way the wind was blowing.
    The lecture was scheduled for eight o’clock. I phoned at six-thirty and a woman answered. I gave her my phony name and asked if she remembered my visit.
    “I certainly do, Mr. Ramsay,” she said.
    “Could I speak with Turhan tonight before the lecture?”
    “He will be here at seven.”
    The black Jaguar was on the small parking lot that flanked the temple. I parked next to it.
    There was no one in the foyer. I walked down the middle aisle past the rows of benches. There was a closed door in the wall next to the rostrum and voices from behind it. I knocked. The woman I had talked with that morning opened the door.
    “Come in,” she said. And to Bay, “This is Carlton Ramsay.”
    He was standing behind his desk, a thin, fairly tall man with cold blue eyes. He said, “Have a seat, Mr. Ramsay,” and nodded at the woman.
    She left and closed the door. I sat in a straight chair near his desk.
    He stared at me for a few seconds. “That was a strange story you told my secretary this morning. Why would the Santa Monica police claim Mike was murdered if he wasn’t?”
    “It’s possible that he was. It is also possible that he committed suicide. And that is what I hope to clear up. Do you believe he was despondent enough to take his own life?”
    “I do.”
    “Do you think he did?”
    He shrugged. “That’s what I don’t understand. No weapon was found.”
    “Not yet,” I said. “Mr. Bay, I worked for the Arden Investigative Service in Santa Monica for twelve years. I finally had to leave the town and the agency. I uncovered some shenanigans that were going on in the Department and was harassed constantly by them after that.”
    He smiled. “And now you are on a vindictive crusade? That is a waste of time and effort. They have the clout in court and they are the law.”
    I agreed with a nod. “And if you think Mike could have committed suicide—?” I took a breath. “But I remember the riot guns the Department used in those days. They were sawed-off shotguns and that was the kind of weapon that probably blew away Mike’s face.”
    He stared at me. “Are you suggesting that—”
    “I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Bay. You’ve learned all that I know. I want to thank you for the help you tried to give Mike and your kind words about him in your eulogy.”
    I heard the door open behind me and turned. And there she stood in the open doorway, a shade heavier and a touch older, but as beautiful as ever—Crystal Lane.
    She smiled at me. “Brock Callahan, as I live and breathe! It’s been a long time, honey boy.”
    I brushed past her and hurried down the aisle. I was in the car, feeling like a country bumpkin, when Crystal came out the front door. She shouted something I couldn’t understand. I didn’t stop.
    My current investigative techniques were no longer as sharp as they should be. Soft living and too many misspent hours on the golf course in San Valdesto had obviously dulled them.
    I stopped at Denny’s for a glass of Einlicher. He had, he told me, asked around about Bay this afternoon and got a lot of mixed reports on the man. He seemed to have gained favor with the women in the neighborhood, but was not generally admired by the men. I told him where I had been and what had happened.
    Denny sighed. “Have you ever thought of retiring, Brock?”
    “Not until tonight.”
    The man standing next to me at the bar, a large man in cheap clothes, said, “Brock? Brock the Rock?”
    Denny nodded.
    “You were the greatest,” the man said. “Can I shake your hand?”
    We shook hands.
    “This Turhan Bay you mentioned, is he a friend of yours?”
    “No way! Do you know him?”
    He shook his head. “But the wife thinks he’s God. She’s down there right