Fugitive Nights (31 page)

After Lynn and Nelson sat down on the floor pillows, George Tibbash said, “If you'll permit me, I'll order for you. Unless you're familiar with the cuisine?”

“Not me,” Lynn said. “I survive on Dunkin' Donuts and Fritos. You know, all that nighttime crime-fighting fuel.”

“Me too,” said Nelson. “I can't jist say no to McDonald's. A major grease abuser is what I am.”

“We'll start you with harira, a Moroccan soup, and a bastella appetizer,” George Tibbash said, “That's a pie of minced chicken, almonds and eggs. Then I think chicken tagine. It's flavored with saffron, pickled lemons and ginger. And couscous, naturally. That's steamed semolina topped with a lamb stew. How about drinks?”

“Scotch rocks, tall,” Lynn said.

“Bottle a beer,” Nelson said. “Any kind.”

“Coming up, gentlemen,” George Tibbash said. “And I'll be joining you as soon as I can. Our purveyor hasn't shown up with tonight's order, so it's crisis time. Meanwhile, enjoy yourselves.”

Nelson looked around with a big grin and said, “See? See why I wanna work Palm Springs P.D.?”

“This ain't Palm Springs, it's Cathedral City,” Lynn reminded him.

“I know, but it ain't the back a the bus with all the diesel fumes neither.”

A black man wearing a djellaba brought the drinks on a copper tray. Nelson figured he was probably just some local guy from north Palm Springs until he said with a Middle East accent, “Who gets the Scotch, please?”

After he was gone, Lynn took a gulp of the Scotch and said, “I can't see how I let that guy get away last night. I mean, I had him backed up like bad plumbing, and all of a sudden I was bunking with Denny O'Doul.”

“You're not that young anymore.”

“How charming of you to remind me.”

“Maybe you lost a step or two since you were a young guy patrolin a beat. It happens.”

“The guy knows what he's doing, that's all I'm thinking.”

“Then why didn't he jist blow you away? That's what a self-respectin terrorist shoulda done in that situation.”

Lynn said, “He's been up against two cops already, and he only did as much as he
had
to do.”

“You tryin to say he's not a killer? What's he gonna do to John Lugo, cure his duck hook?”

“Permanently,” Lynn said, “but maybe he's not anxious to do fatal damage to anybody else.”

“Unless he has to.”

“Unless he has to.”

“You'll recognize him if you see him again, won't ya?”

“If he was in a scuba suit and snorkel I'd know him,” Lynn said. “How bout you?”

“I didn't really look at his face when we walked past him at the mortuary,” Nelson said.

A different waiter brought mint tea along with a brass basin and ewer for hand washing, as well as another round of drinks.

When the food arrived the waiter said, “The harissa is for the couscous. It is sauce of red chili.”

Nelson looked around for utensils and said, “Don't we get chopsticks or something?”

When they were in the middle of lunch, and their hands were gooey with cinnamon and powdered sugar, the belly dancer returned. In age, she was somewhere between Nelson and Lynn, that is to say, experienced but not over the hill, with the kind of belly muscles that could roll a quarter from below her navel to her breasts, a trick she saved for the Japanese.

She did a bit of bumping and grinding and swaying in front of Nelson, who grinned and blushed. The delighted Japanese kept shoving currency inside her costume, while the zils, tied to her writhing fingers, rang like chimes in their overheated ears.

George Tibbash did not return until Lynn and Nelson had dipped their fingers in bowls of lemon water and dried them on towels supplied by the waiter. When he did return, he was carrying a demitasse cup of tea. Nelson admired the way he held the cup when he sat down. His little finger was curled slightly and he kept his elbow down. Nelson never trusted guys who drank with their elbows up. The little cop wondered if George Tibbash was a dunker.

Lynn squirmed into a more comfortable position with his legs straight out. His knees were aching from having sat cross-legged.

“You get used to it,” George Tibbash said, indicating the floor pillow. “Tourists love it.”

“I guess Leo Grishman explained the whole deal?”

“That's one of the reasons I've left you alone,” George Tibbash said, his eyebrows peaking. “I've been searching my memory for something, anything. Leo said you suspect some sort of connection between John Lugo and a man from either Spain or the Middle East?”

“Maybe,” Lynn said, with a glance at Nelson.

“I really can't think of anyone who'd want to hunt down John Lugo. In the first place—”

“Everybody in town knows who he is and how to find him,” Lynn said.

“That's right. And not just this town. He's done business in Los Angeles and many other places. I was only involved in the Puerto Rican resort project, and for a time I was a limited partner in the vending machine business. As far as I know, I'm the only person from the Middle East that was ever associated with those projects.”

“How bout the Canary Islands?” Nelson asked.

George Tibbash paused and said, “Now that you mention the Canary Islands, I think there was a man who headed up a rival consortium on the Puerto Rican project.… Yes, I'm
sure
of it. We outbid them and got it. Yes, the Canary Islands.”

“Was his name Francisco V. Ibañez?” Nelson asked quickly.

“Ibañez,” George Tibbash said. “Perhaps. Of course, he had a Spanish name, but I don't speak the language. John Lugo did all of the Spanish-speaking when we were down in San Juan. He might remember the man's name. It
could
have been Ibañez.”

“Did you have any more dealings with the man?” Lynn asked.

“No, John may have, but I did not. I returned to L.A. and John stayed for about a month, as I recall.”

“I think we'll have to talk to John Lugo right away,” Lynn said to Nelson.

“You'll have trouble this week,” George Tibbash said. “John's a fanatical golfer and he's playing in the Bob Hope Classic.”

“He's gotta stop after eighteen holes,” Lynn said.

“But he doesn't,” George Tibbash said, finishing his tea. “John will be with the golfing crowd from the moment he arises until he goes to bed at night, and he may even have a famous golf professional staying at his house. If you want to see him you'll have to go to whichever golf course he happens to be playing. On Saturday, the last day for amateurs, he'll be at Indian Wells, I believe. Then on Saturday evening he'll have a huge party in his home on Southridge for all the professionals that care to come, along with hundreds of friends from his country club, as well as some of the amateur players from the tournament. He does the same thing every year without fail.”

“Can you think of anybody from your past association with John Lugo, anyone from any foreign country, who'd want to hunt him down? Does he have enemies?”

George Tibbash smiled and said, “A man like John Lugo would have to have enemies. He rose from the barrios of Los Angeles to Southridge, to the top of the mountain overlooking all of Palm Springs. But I would think he's outlived most of his enemies. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to my kitchen. And I
do
hope you've enjoyed our food and that you'll tell your friends about us and come again.”

After they'd thanked George Tibbash and were walking toward the door, Nelson said to Lynn, “Wait a minute. Got a couple bucks I can stick inside that dancer's bra?”

Lynn reached in his pocket reflexively, but then shook his head, saying, “I got a roll a dimes, but they're at the house. I got a credit card, but it's more overextended than Poland.”

The dancer's entire body glistened with an oily sheen when she did a sweaty, groin-throbbing shimmy right in the face of the oldest Japanese.

Nelson stopped to gawk, but Lynn grabbed his sleeve, saying, “C'mon, kid. They're all alike. They make you beg for admission to that thing, but the truth is, Jacques Cousteau could use it for a shark cage.”

“W
hat's our next move?” Nelson wanted to know, during the drive back to Palm Springs.

“I'd say we phone car rentals and hotels for Francisco V. Ibañez,” Lynn said. “There's nothing else to do till we get a chance to connect up with John Lugo.”

“Wish we had an office,” Nelson said.

“We do,” Lynn said with some hesitation. “Breda's.”

“Let's get started on those calls.”

“On second thought, it might not be a good idea to bother Breda.”

“She's a nice lady,” Nelson said. “She wouldn't even mind long distance calls.”

“I gotta admit, she's worth a couple grand over blue book in a tight market,” Lynn said. “Okay, I'll risk it.”

Nelson said, “Ain't police work funny? We got the power to deprive people of their freedom. We got the power to take a human life. But we gotta get permission from our sergeant to make a long distance phone call!”

Breda was wearing a blazer the color of a smoke tree, a blouse just a shade more smokey, and cuffed rayon and linen trousers with a check pattern. It was the kind of thing she could mix and match, and had bought after laborious searching at department store sales. The entire outfit had cost $115, but looked plenty expensive.

She was also wearing her strawberry eyeglasses, and was busy at the computer when Lynn sheepishly followed Nelson into her office.

Before Lynn could say anything to her she said, “I've been trying to reach you at your house. Jack Graves wants us to interview Clive Devon at six o'clock tonight.”

Lynn was delighted that she was behaving in a seminormal fashion toward him. He gave her the happiest smile he had with him that day, and asked, “What's it about?”

“Jack says he might be able to clear the case. He wants us to question Clive Devon about the guy from Painted Canyon. I'll pick you up at your house at quarter to six. Any problem with that?”

“No problem,” Lynn said, still beaming. “I'm glad to be of help.”

“It's because you're gonna have to flash a badge. Otherwise I'd be doing it myself,” she said with a look that could deflect .38 hollow-points.

Flashing the badge again! When he'd started this job, she'd promised that he'd never have to use his official position in any way. Yet in the last forty-eight hours he'd shown his badge to half the registered voters in Riverside County. That pension had better come fast.

After Nelson told Breda about their interviews with Bino Sierra, Leo Grishman and George Tibbash, he said, “We're down to calling car rentals and hotels for our guy from the Canary Islands. So can we use your phones?”

“Help yourself,” she said, and went back to the computer, without so much as another glance at Lynn.

“I'll take the car rentals,” Nelson said, handing Lynn a phone book.

“How come I always get screwed like a June bride,” Lynn grumbled. “There's probably a couple hundred hotel listings.”

“I'll help you if I don't make a score with the car rentals,” Nelson said.

It was going to be a very long afternoon but Nelson never lost enthusiasm for a moment. He'd pick up the phone and say, “Hello, this is Officer Pacino from the police department calling. We think we might have a car a yours that was impounded. The tow driver failed to give us the license number and make, but it was rented to Francisco V. Ibañez. Is he a recent customer? No Francisco V. Ibañez? Must be some mistake. Thanks anyway.”

Lynn's calls were delivered with far less vivacity: “Hello, this is Sergeant DeNiro from the police department. We've found a wallet belonging to a tourist we think is staying at your hotel. Francisco V. Ibañez from the Canary Islands? No? Wrong hotel. Thanks.”

And so it went for an hour.

Lynn made a try at conversation
once.
He said to Breda, “In a state with a hundred and forty thousand lawyers, a state that leads the universe in bodily injury claims, in the insurance-fraud capital of the galaxy, I'd think you'd be able to get more insurance company clients. I'm gonna talk up your name to every lawyer I know.”

Breda didn't even look up.

Then, while Lynn tried to get up the guts to ask her if she'd like a diet Coke, Nelson leaped from his chair and snapped his fingers to get Lynn's attention while he talked into the phone and wrote down a hotel's name: “Yes! Yes! No, there's no real problem with the car! We just have to talk to him about a found wallet in the car! Yes! Thanks!”

That got Breda out of the computer. She said, “A score?”

“We
got
him!” Nelson cried, hanging up and showing Lynn the name of the resort hotel.

“We got him,
maybe
,” Lynn said. “If he gave the correct local address when he rented the car. That's a huge hotel. I wouldn't've expected him to stay at a place like that.”