Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 03 Read Online Free Page B

“His place is number three, the cottages on the first ridge up the cliff from the foot of Newport in Ocean Beach.”
    “I oughta go see Laurel. Where’s she live?”
    “Dammit, quit using her name! Don’t you see? It makes her sound human .”
    Hickey lifted his hands a few inches, in surrender. “Where’s the Bitch now?”
    “Westwood, probably. She and Johnny got a place across the street from the botanical gardens at UCLA. The house down here they only kept for getaways and so the Bitch would have a hangout when she came to town to torment Casey and me. You see how she plays cat-and-mouse? That’s how the really evil ones do it, instead of just murdering you outright.” She looked up pleadingly, streams of eye shadow tracking rivulets down her face. “Get me out of here, Tom, and I’ll forgive you for everything.”
    “In lieu of dollars, right?”
    “You want money, you’ll get it.” Burying her face in her arms, she gave in to sobs and moans.
    Hickey patted her wild cinnamon hair. When her sobbing quieted, he rose and started for the door, but she flew up, snagged his arms, leaned close to his ear, and whispered, “If you’re tough enough, you could beat the truth out of Charlie. Or maybe you wouldn’t have to. He might come clean, to fix her for dumping him.”
    “Which Charlie’s that?”
    “Schwartz.”
    Hickey covered his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Charlie Schwartz?” he groaned.
    “Sure. Where’ve you been?”
    “In the woods, remember? And gossip’s not on top of my list of failings. So the Bitch dumped Charlie Schwartz. Which means they used to be an item?”
    “Charlie and the Bitch were tickling each other for years, almost since you locked me away. She got favors out of him, and he got a cheap imitation of me. Until the old slob bored her one time too many. Then she looked up Angelo. Charlie was one of the reasons Johnny socked her.”
    “Oh, yeah? When’d he sock her?”
    “Lots of times.”
    Hickey suddenly recalled what it meant to fraternize with Cynthia. Like a gifted preacher, every meeting she’d lure you a step deeper into her bizarre world. For now, at least, he’d gone far enough.
    “I’ll pay Charlie a visit.”
    He stood up, pocketed his pipe and tobacco, gave her a peck on the cheek, and left. He crossed the patio to the detectives’ office and found Lieutenant Palermo, a sleek fellow in a starched pin-striped shirt with suspenders, who ushered Hickey to a table and tossed him a file folder thick as the Bible.
    Hickey skimmed the transcribed statements of eight jazz musicians, all of whom swore Cynthia never budged from Marty Eschelman’s cottage between about 1 and 7 p.m. the previous Sunday. The ninth fellow told a different story.
    A trombonist named Jack Meechum claimed Cynthia’d stepped out twice. One time a drummer was hogging the john, he’d stated, and she ran squirming to a neighbor’s place. Later, she walked out to the cliff and stood a minute talking to a wino. Meechum claimed she gave the wino something.
    After digging through the pile for Cynthia’s statement, Hickey read twelve pages of her rage and denial.
    The wino, she argued, was a beachcomber named Teddy who’d stood outside motioning to her, looking so pitiful she’d finally gone out, verified that he was starving, and fed him. A plate of bologna and potato chips.
    The fire report was inconclusive, except that the investigator cited no apparent cause. He pointedly hadn’t ruled out arson. The detective noted on the bottom of the page that the house was only two or three hundred yards up the cliff trail from Marty Eschelman’s place.
    Last, Hickey read the sister’s statement. Laurel hadn’t exactly accused Cynthia. She’d claimed they’d fought like demons that morning when they met outside the Spic ’n’ Span Café on Bacon Street. Cynthia had raved for the hundredth time about Laurel’s supposedly murdering Superman, meaning Cynthia’s late husband, Carl Jones,