Dead Pigeon Read Free

Hovde. I was informed by the desk sergeant that he was not available at the moment. I gave her my name and phone number and asked that she have Lars phone me as soon as he was available.
    The phone rang less than two minutes later. “Where the hell were you; in the toilet?” I asked him.
    “I get a lot of nothing calls,” he explained. “I’d be on the phone all day if I answered them. What are you doing in town?”
    “I came down for Mike Gregory’s funeral. You still single?”
    “Temporarily. What’s on your mind?”
    “I thought maybe I could buy you an expensive dinner and we could discuss the murder. Any suspects?”
    “None yet. Not that it’s any of your business.”
    “Okay. Buy your own dinner. Who needs you?”
    “Brock!”
    “You ornery bastard,” I said, and hung up.
    The phone rang seconds later. He said, “Since you left this town, my jock friend, we have a new lieutenant in homicide who hates private eyes.”
    “Okay. I won’t invite him to the dinner.”
    “You win,” he said wearily. “Where?”
    “Right here at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
    “I’ll be there at seven,” he said. “I get off at six.”
    Good old Lars, two hundred and fifty pounds of Norwegian out of Minnesota, a welcome addition at any poker table, a man who draws to inside straights and three-card flushes. He was also a welcome addition to any police department. He knew his lacks, so relied on his instincts, the same as I did. He had served in other police departments before moving to Santa Monica. He was not an officer who got along very well with his superiors. It was a few minutes short of four o’clock when Joe Nolan phoned. He had sorted out his priorities, he said, and decided to tell me what he suspected.
    “But,” he added, “I have reasons for not informing the police. It might hurt some innocent people, one of whom is one of my clients.”
    “I see. Are you still with Hutton?”
    “No. I opened my own office six years ago.”
    I told him about my dinner date with Lars and suggested, “Why don’t you come over now. You can tell me what you suspect. And if you decide to stay for dinner we—”
    “I won’t be staying for dinner,” he interrupted. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. My office isn’t far from the hotel.”
    He knocked on the door fifteen minutes later, still looking doubtful.
    “Should I order up a couple of drinks?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “I’m in AA, like Mike was. He must have been in and out a dozen times. He was out when Hutton had to fire him, the damned fool!”
    I nodded. “Booze and broads, those were Mike’s failings. I suppose there are worse.”
    “I guess.” He went over to sit in a chair near the window. “That man who delivered the eulogy is a client of mine. I don’t know what his original name was. He now calls himself Turhan Bay.”
    “Like the old movie actor, Turhan Bey?”
    “B-a-y, not B-e-y. Maybe that’s where he got it. Anyway, he runs a cult called Inner Peace and is doing very well financially. What his congregation doesn’t know and wouldn’t tolerate, he is also sharing bed and board with a former hooker named Crystal Lane. Do you remember her?”
    “Yes. She was one of Mike’s girlfriends. But she wasn’t a hooker then, so far as I know.”
    He shrugged. “So far as we both know.” He took a deep breath and stared at the floor.
    He looked at me. “Add it up. Maybe Mike knew earlier, or later learned about Crystal. And wouldn’t Turhan’s followers desert the flock if they learned? Wouldn’t Mike have strong grounds for a blackmail threat?”
    I shook my head. “Not Mike. Never. No!”
    “You didn’t know him, Brock, in the last few years. He was into drugs then—and they cost money.”
    “That I didn’t know.”
    “Do you see my dilemma?” he asked. “If I give this to the police, Turhan could find out and I’d lose a million-dollar account.” His smile was dim. “I may worship in the temple of Mammon, but