Read Online Little Dog Laughed by Joseph Hansen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Hansen
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enough, we found the hundred thou in a brown envelope. And sure enough, the bank confirmed they had given it to Streeter in exchange for a cashier’s check from some TV producer.”
Dave fixed his own coffee. “A setup,” he said. And told Leppard what Hunsinger had told him. “They didn’t break in to steal anything,” he finished, and sat down, holding the mug. Pigeons cooed and strutted on the windowsill. He watched them. “They broke in to leave something. That airline ticket.”
Leppard took a Dunhill cigarette from a dark red box. He lit it with a Dunhill lighter. Smoke trickled through his smile. He shook his head. “The ticket clerk at the airline counter at LAX saw his picture and gave us a positive ID. The man even showed his passport. Mike Underhill bought that ticket.”
Dave tried the coffee. “And his passport was lying there on the table by the typewriter with the ticket—am I right?”
“You’re right,” Leppard said.
“So a slender man in his forties, five eleven, brown eyes, thinning black hair, and olive skin, flashing Underhill’s passport—unnecessary, but so he’d be remembered—bought a ticket to Algiers, climbed through Underhill’s window, left both items in his house, and then phoned you to come arrest Underhill.”
“Underhill worked for Streeter.” Leppard studied Dave across the desk, across the coffee mugs, through the cigarette smoke. “You know associates kill associates far more often than strangers. Who told you about the camouflaged dudes?”
“A witness I’m inclined to believe,” Dave said.
“Underhill claims Streeter gave him all that cash to—”
“Buy an aircraft from a man named McGregor down the coast,” Dave said. “It’s not a bad story. McGregor will confirm it.”
“We can’t find him,” Leppard said. “He’s disappeared.”
“Which ought to suggest something to you,” Dave said. “A boy who lives in a condominium near Streeter’s, Dan’l Chapman, told me Streeter was planning to buy a plane.”
“He’ll make a good witness for Underhill,” Leppard said.
“Unless he disappears too. The couple whose apartment faces Streeter’s across the patio with the swimming pool—people name of Gernsbach—they’ve disappeared. Did you know that? Within hours of the time Streeter was killed. Don’t you find that interesting? I do.”
Leppard sighed impatiently. “The DA likes Underhill for this, a con man with a record of outsmarting himself.”
“A man can be a lot of bad things,” Dave said, “and still not be a murderer.” He swallowed coffee again, grimaced, set the mug on the desk. “Find Gernsbach, sergeant. His windows look straight across at the room where Streeter died. Maybe he saw who did it and ran away in fear. Find him.”
Leppard’s big hand came to rest on a stack of manila file folders on the desk. “With all this to do? We have a lock on Underhill. No need to look further, no time for it.”
Dave took a deep breath and told Leppard about Streeter’s hot story. “I think he learned the identity of the people who snatched Cortez-Ortiz, and they killed him before he could write it—or broadcast it.” He told about Streeter at the television station. “He knew they were after him. That was why he was packing his bags.”
“If you were a terrorist”—Leppard delicately scratched his head—“and made that kind of coup, wouldn’t you tell the world instead of keeping it secret? Ask for an exchange of prisoners for him? Or money to run your revolution?”
“No one has,” Dave said. “That seems to answer that.”
“It still doesn’t make plausible the idea that Central American terrorists are climbing condominiums at the L.A. marina and prowling the streets of shacky old Venice beach in combat boots and berets, breaking into bungalows—now does it?”
“Before they broke in,” Dave said, “they rang Underhill and asked him to meet them somewhere, didn’t they?”
“Down at the fishing
Dave fixed his own coffee. “A setup,” he said. And told Leppard what Hunsinger had told him. “They didn’t break in to steal anything,” he finished, and sat down, holding the mug. Pigeons cooed and strutted on the windowsill. He watched them. “They broke in to leave something. That airline ticket.”
Leppard took a Dunhill cigarette from a dark red box. He lit it with a Dunhill lighter. Smoke trickled through his smile. He shook his head. “The ticket clerk at the airline counter at LAX saw his picture and gave us a positive ID. The man even showed his passport. Mike Underhill bought that ticket.”
Dave tried the coffee. “And his passport was lying there on the table by the typewriter with the ticket—am I right?”
“You’re right,” Leppard said.
“So a slender man in his forties, five eleven, brown eyes, thinning black hair, and olive skin, flashing Underhill’s passport—unnecessary, but so he’d be remembered—bought a ticket to Algiers, climbed through Underhill’s window, left both items in his house, and then phoned you to come arrest Underhill.”
“Underhill worked for Streeter.” Leppard studied Dave across the desk, across the coffee mugs, through the cigarette smoke. “You know associates kill associates far more often than strangers. Who told you about the camouflaged dudes?”
“A witness I’m inclined to believe,” Dave said.
“Underhill claims Streeter gave him all that cash to—”
“Buy an aircraft from a man named McGregor down the coast,” Dave said. “It’s not a bad story. McGregor will confirm it.”
“We can’t find him,” Leppard said. “He’s disappeared.”
“Which ought to suggest something to you,” Dave said. “A boy who lives in a condominium near Streeter’s, Dan’l Chapman, told me Streeter was planning to buy a plane.”
“He’ll make a good witness for Underhill,” Leppard said.
“Unless he disappears too. The couple whose apartment faces Streeter’s across the patio with the swimming pool—people name of Gernsbach—they’ve disappeared. Did you know that? Within hours of the time Streeter was killed. Don’t you find that interesting? I do.”
Leppard sighed impatiently. “The DA likes Underhill for this, a con man with a record of outsmarting himself.”
“A man can be a lot of bad things,” Dave said, “and still not be a murderer.” He swallowed coffee again, grimaced, set the mug on the desk. “Find Gernsbach, sergeant. His windows look straight across at the room where Streeter died. Maybe he saw who did it and ran away in fear. Find him.”
Leppard’s big hand came to rest on a stack of manila file folders on the desk. “With all this to do? We have a lock on Underhill. No need to look further, no time for it.”
Dave took a deep breath and told Leppard about Streeter’s hot story. “I think he learned the identity of the people who snatched Cortez-Ortiz, and they killed him before he could write it—or broadcast it.” He told about Streeter at the television station. “He knew they were after him. That was why he was packing his bags.”
“If you were a terrorist”—Leppard delicately scratched his head—“and made that kind of coup, wouldn’t you tell the world instead of keeping it secret? Ask for an exchange of prisoners for him? Or money to run your revolution?”
“No one has,” Dave said. “That seems to answer that.”
“It still doesn’t make plausible the idea that Central American terrorists are climbing condominiums at the L.A. marina and prowling the streets of shacky old Venice beach in combat boots and berets, breaking into bungalows—now does it?”
“Before they broke in,” Dave said, “they rang Underhill and asked him to meet them somewhere, didn’t they?”
“Down at the fishing
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