Free Dead Pigeon by William Campbell Gault

payroll. It’s possible he was trying to protect that cousin of his who runs that kooky cult in Venice. Some bartender down there told Tim that you were questioning him regarding a murder. Frankly, I didn’t think the two of them were that close.”
    “Neither did I. Who told you about the fuss we had in Tessie’s Tavern?”
    “Tim did. Why do you ask?”
    “Because Tessie and a police officer and the officer’s informant were the only other people in the place. And the informant was killed today, murdered.”
    “And the police suspect Tim?”
    “I have no idea. They don’t confide in me.”
    “Well, they can’t pin it on Tim. He’s been here all day.” He hung up.
    Another lie? I had no way of knowing. But the man had no reason that I could think of to put me on his hit list. If he hoped to move up to the majors, Tim Tucker would probably have to be dumped. He was the relic of another time.
    Half an hour later, Lars phoned. He said, “Jerry Levy dropped in to tell me what happened to you. You okay?”
    “I’ll live. Do you think the man who slugged me was Clauss?”
    “I do. Levy doesn’t. He thinks I’m on a crusade.”
    I didn’t comment.
    “About tomorrow, Brock. I got a lot of static about my piled-up paperwork when I came back to the station and a few nasty remarks about jurisdiction. I’ll call you when the paperwork is cleared up.”
    “Okay. Good luck. Keep the faith.”
    My head was aching. I took a couple of aspirins and a long, warm shower, trying to wash away the frustrations of this day. Mike was dead. Finding his killer wouldn’t bring him back. How long could I stay on the hunt?
    The combined efforts of Callahan, Hovde, Sadler, and the Santa Monica Police Department had come up with nothing. Lars was back to his paperwork; the SMPD must have decided by now that they had spent too much time on a low priority case, a dead pigeon.
    Sadler phoned before dinner to tell me that he, too, had come up with nothing of substance. And, he added, his wife had decided that not all of his vacation time should be spent in sleuthing. They were going to Palm Springs for the weekend. Was that okay with me?
    I assured him that it was and I might go home myself.
    “You’re not quitting.”
    “Not yet.”
    Lars had probably not checked out the present whereabouts of Tony Gorman. I didn’t phone him to ask if he had; Clauss was his current obsession.
    Heinie was familiar with that case. Heinie was familiar with all of the major cases I had worked down here. And it had been twenty-four hours since I had feasted on his sirloin steak and cottage fries.
    There were only four booths occupied when I entered. Jose was behind the bar. Heinie was sitting with a couple of sports writers from the local papers.
    He left them and went to get a pitcher of Einlicher to bring to my booth. “Your usual?” he asked.
    I nodded. He went to the kitchen to order it. When he came back to sit across from me, I asked him, “Do you remember Tony Gorman?”
    “I do.” He frowned. “You’re not thinking that he might be the guy who aced Mike?”
    “He could be. Do you know where he is now?”
    He shook his head. “He must still be in the slammer. Didn’t he get six years?”
    “Three years ago.”
    “I see what you mean. I’ll ask around. That was a Beverly Hills pinch, wasn’t it?”
    “It was. You’ve got an in there, haven’t you?”
    “Only with the day watch,” he said. “I’ll go there tomorrow.”
    I ate and we yacked about this and that, none of it worth recording, and then I left. The boys at the bar were already into their game of liar’s poker. By leaving now I would still be ahead from last night.

CHAPTER NINE
    H EINIE PHONED IN THE morning to tell me Gorman had been released from prison two weeks ago and was now living at a halfway house in the San Fernando Valley. The name of the place was Second Chance. He gave me the address.
    There had been certain discrepancies in Gorman’s trial that had