probably had more debts than cash? Lois had adjusted easily to the comforts money brought. I didn’t see her abandoning them for passion. But as a widow, she could have both.
Tomorrow I would talk to Jeffrey. But tonight I could at least check up on Ralph Palmerston’s brouhaha at Trent Cadillac.
When I got back to the station, I left instructions for Carol Grogan’s beat officer to make a preliminary check on Lois Palmerston’s alibi, then got out the phone book and dialed the home number for Jacob Trent. It was late to be calling a witness, but I wanted to talk to him before a night’s sleep dulled his memory of Ralph Palmerston’s outburst.
He answered on the fifth ring.
“Mr. Trent, this is Detective Smith, Berkeley Police.”
“Is something the matter?”
“I’m investigating the death of Ralph Palmerston. He was in your repair shop this afternoon.”
“Jesus. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. What do you mean calling me at this hour?”
“Ralph Palmerston has been murdered.”
There was a silence. “Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what does that have to do with me? We just repaired his car. The guy hassled us as it is. Look, lady, I don’t have enough trouble? I got Sam Nguyen, my best mechanic, wanting to go to Hong Kong for Chinese New Year. New Year’s in February. Nguyen wants to leave in December. Two months, I ask you. Then I got a detective bugging me about one of the salesmen, and now you calling me about Palmerston. And Palmerston himself throwing his weight around.”
“Exactly what happened to Mr. Palmerston today?”
“Lady, I have no idea. By the time I realized anything had happened, Palmerston was barging into my office, shouting for all the world to hear. I was on the phone—business—how do you think that sounded?”
“What did Mr. Palmerston say happened?”
“He was shouting that Sam Nguyen stalked off the floor when he wanted to talk to him.”
“How do you know it was Sam Nguyen?”
“I saw him. Besides, he’s a little Oriental, couldn’t be more than five-two. The other mechanics are big, husky guys. They’ve got light hair. Is that enough difference for you?”
“What did Mr. Palmerston want to talk about?”
“He never said, and believe me, I didn’t ask. Palmerston may not be in business himself, but he’s got a lot of connections in the business community. He’s done a lot of charity work. He knows people. He can call in favors. I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. I’ll tell you the truth, lady, if it was another customer, I wouldn’t have taken the time I did to calm him down. If it was any other mechanic, I would have fired him.”
“What shape was Mr. Palmerston in when he left?”
“He was okay. I let him talk about the proper respect for customers awhile. That calmed him down. He’s an old-school guy; he expects business to be conducted with a certain grace. God knows how he’s survived in Berkeley this long. I told him I’d pass on his message to Nguyen and have Nguyen get back to him.”
“And did you?”
“He said not to bother.”
Thanking him, I turned back to my notes. It wasn’t till I came back from the dictating cubicle that I noticed the message in my IN box. It was from Pereira: Surprise! I couldn’t find out anything about Shareholders Five, but the phone number belongs to our old friend Herman Ott.
CHAPTER 6
O UR OLD FRIEND H ERMAN Ott was about forty. He was blond and sallow-complected, with a short trunk, spindly legs, and a noticeable gut; and he perpetually wore a yellow sweater. He looked like a canary.
What Herman Ott was, was a private detective. He had begun his student days at Cal during the sixties. During those years he had gotten a job, part-time at first, with a detective too old to do his own legwork. He moved out of the dorm and rented two rooms in a shabby Telegraph Avenue building. Sometime later those rooms had metamorphosed into the office of the Ott Detective Agency. He’d
Tomorrow I would talk to Jeffrey. But tonight I could at least check up on Ralph Palmerston’s brouhaha at Trent Cadillac.
When I got back to the station, I left instructions for Carol Grogan’s beat officer to make a preliminary check on Lois Palmerston’s alibi, then got out the phone book and dialed the home number for Jacob Trent. It was late to be calling a witness, but I wanted to talk to him before a night’s sleep dulled his memory of Ralph Palmerston’s outburst.
He answered on the fifth ring.
“Mr. Trent, this is Detective Smith, Berkeley Police.”
“Is something the matter?”
“I’m investigating the death of Ralph Palmerston. He was in your repair shop this afternoon.”
“Jesus. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. What do you mean calling me at this hour?”
“Ralph Palmerston has been murdered.”
There was a silence. “Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what does that have to do with me? We just repaired his car. The guy hassled us as it is. Look, lady, I don’t have enough trouble? I got Sam Nguyen, my best mechanic, wanting to go to Hong Kong for Chinese New Year. New Year’s in February. Nguyen wants to leave in December. Two months, I ask you. Then I got a detective bugging me about one of the salesmen, and now you calling me about Palmerston. And Palmerston himself throwing his weight around.”
“Exactly what happened to Mr. Palmerston today?”
“Lady, I have no idea. By the time I realized anything had happened, Palmerston was barging into my office, shouting for all the world to hear. I was on the phone—business—how do you think that sounded?”
“What did Mr. Palmerston say happened?”
“He was shouting that Sam Nguyen stalked off the floor when he wanted to talk to him.”
“How do you know it was Sam Nguyen?”
“I saw him. Besides, he’s a little Oriental, couldn’t be more than five-two. The other mechanics are big, husky guys. They’ve got light hair. Is that enough difference for you?”
“What did Mr. Palmerston want to talk about?”
“He never said, and believe me, I didn’t ask. Palmerston may not be in business himself, but he’s got a lot of connections in the business community. He’s done a lot of charity work. He knows people. He can call in favors. I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. I’ll tell you the truth, lady, if it was another customer, I wouldn’t have taken the time I did to calm him down. If it was any other mechanic, I would have fired him.”
“What shape was Mr. Palmerston in when he left?”
“He was okay. I let him talk about the proper respect for customers awhile. That calmed him down. He’s an old-school guy; he expects business to be conducted with a certain grace. God knows how he’s survived in Berkeley this long. I told him I’d pass on his message to Nguyen and have Nguyen get back to him.”
“And did you?”
“He said not to bother.”
Thanking him, I turned back to my notes. It wasn’t till I came back from the dictating cubicle that I noticed the message in my IN box. It was from Pereira: Surprise! I couldn’t find out anything about Shareholders Five, but the phone number belongs to our old friend Herman Ott.
CHAPTER 6
O UR OLD FRIEND H ERMAN Ott was about forty. He was blond and sallow-complected, with a short trunk, spindly legs, and a noticeable gut; and he perpetually wore a yellow sweater. He looked like a canary.
What Herman Ott was, was a private detective. He had begun his student days at Cal during the sixties. During those years he had gotten a job, part-time at first, with a detective too old to do his own legwork. He moved out of the dorm and rented two rooms in a shabby Telegraph Avenue building. Sometime later those rooms had metamorphosed into the office of the Ott Detective Agency. He’d
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