Buried Caesars by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

drapes and curtains in every room had been closed. The furniture was all new, modern stuff with lots of chrome. The walls in the Hying room were dark wood, with paintings of women tastefully spaced along them.
    The women looked fine. I didn’t care much for the furniture. The house wasn’t big but it wasn’t small either. I moved through the first floor, checking the living room, dining room and kitchen. I opened drawers, turned them upside down, turned the paintings around, unscrewed the bases of the lamps so I could look inside and, in general, did a pretty thorough job. Major Castle and his men had apparently done a good job of going over the place and putting everything back. The only clear sign of someone else having gone over the place was the fact that the screws in the bases of the lamps came out too easily, as if someone had recently turned them.
    I kept looking. The refrigerator was well stocked. Fancy cheeses, wine, juices, eggs. I opened everything and pulled the ice cube trays out to be sure nothing was in them but ice. The shelves were filled. I pulled down boxes, opened them, and sampled the contents of a jar of honeyed wheat germ. I had climbed up on the sink and was considering an assault on a jar of semi-stale cookies on a high shelf when I heard the front door open.
    Hammett came into the kitchen and looked up at me. His cheeks had some color in them and he seemed pleased with himself.
    “Not the first rube I’ve caught with his hand in the cookie jar,” he said.
    “They’re stale—macaroons. Want one?” I said, pushing the jar back and easing my way down with two macaroons in hand.
    “No, thanks,” he said, brushing back his white hair. “Someone wanted privacy in here the last few days.”
    “The drawn curtains,” I said.
    “Drapes, shades,” he said, looking around. “They’re usually open. You can see where the sun bleached out the rug in the front room.”
    I bit off a corner of macaroon and asked him what he had told the guards.
    “Two ways to go,” he said, crouching to look up at the underside of the kitchen table. “Blend in and get lost or make the lie big. We didn’t have time to blend. I told him I was Lansing’s uncle, that I had recently bought a home down the road, that I had just been hired as the attorney for the Los Angeles Police Department and that I was supposed to meet my nephew here at eleven to discuss redecorating his home.”
    “And who am I?” I asked, looking for a place to dump the cookie.
    “Interior decorator,” he said. “Your car is being repaired and you’re using your son’s for the day.”
    “And they bought it?” I marveled, locating the garbage can under the sink. There was garbage in it, including a few opened envelopes.
    “I told them that Andrew would be back soon and that they should tell him I’m here as soon as he arrives,” Hammett went on while turning over the kitchen chairs and checking their bottoms. “I hinted strongly to Arthur that my department was in need of reliable men like him, men with a military background. Arthur has reason to expect a call in the near future from a Lieutenant Flynn.”
    I was used to putting my hands in garbage. This time it wasn’t too bad except for the coffee grounds. The envelopes were all from bills.
    I led the way back to the staircase and headed up. Something moved in one of the rooms above. All the doors were closed. I pointed to a door directly in front of us at the top of the stairs. Hammett nodded in agreement. We took our time going up the final five steps. At the top of the landing, Hammett put his hand under his jacket and came out with his finger pointed and thumb up in imitation of a gun. I shook my head no. Hammett nodded and looked around. He quickly pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and quietly placed a handful of coins in the center of it. He twisted the handkerchief, tied the end and demonstrated a reasonably good homemade blackjack. The entire project had taken