A Death In Beverly Hills (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

It was six o'clock and Steve hadn't a clue what to do next. Since Lynn had died it seemed as if his life had been shuffling along on autopilot, each day blending seamlessly into the next. Once or twice he thought about calling his old friends or joining a singles' club but then he visualized the moment when someone asked what he did for a living and he told them that he was a semi-disbarred attorney whose license had been suspended because people thought he had murdered someone. In his mind's eye he watched their smiles harden as they searched for an excuse to escape. He glanced at the kitchen clock which ticked loudly and snapped forward to 6:01. He had to do something, anything, to get out this apartment. Grabbing a light windbreaker he headed for the door.

Entering O'Malley's Pub was like pushing through a curtain of sound -- shouts, the clink of glasses, laughs and groans. TV's were tuned to ESPN and ESPN2. In spite of the no smoking law a layer of blue haze floated above his head.
Who were these kids?
Steve wondered, feeling older than his years. He grabbed a small table in the corner and waved at one of the waitresses who worked her way through the crush.

"Do you still make the lamb stew?" Steve asked, shouting over a sudden roar in response to a three pointer that was all net.

"Irish lamb stew with dumplings? Sure."

"Bring me that and a Gordon Biersch."

The girl nodded, scratched something in her pad, and disappeared into the crowd already two deep at the bar.

Whatever happened to Artie McKay?
Steve wondered. They used to come down here after work almost every Friday, before Artie met that girl, what was her name, Olivia?
He's probably put on twenty pounds and fathered a couple of kids
, Steve decided. Probably living out near Silver Lake and trying to decide whether to buy the Voyager or the Grand Voyager.
Shit. Life goes on. And where's yours going?
the little voice inside him taunted.

Steve shifted his chair and tried to track the game but the players dissolved into blurs of color bouncing around in random motion like the ping pong balls in the lottery bin. The waitress, Jennifer according to her name tag, returned with his beer, a coaster, a napkin and a bowl of pretzel sticks. Steve found himself staring at her sidelong. She was maybe twenty-two or three, rounded in the right places, pretty in a wholesome sort of way, cute, the way a puppy is cute, and no more romantically attractive to him than one. Steve remembered a time, a few years before he met Lynn, when he would have already been halfway to getting Jennifer's phone number. Now he couldn't care less.

"I'll bring your stew in a minute. Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked giving him a big smile.

"That'll be great, thanks." Her smile slipped the tiniest bit and she turned away. For the next ten minutes Steve tried to immerse himself in the aura of the place, the shouts, the laughs, the cheers when a dunk was made, the groans when a shot was blocked, but found it impossible, as if he were psychically insulated from the people around him. He felt like an invisible observer, a member of the audience watching a play.

Stolidly, he ate his stew and let his eyes wander over the crowd, now and then trying to guess someone's occupation or some detail about their lives. He made it into a game. That guy, a secret agent enjoying a drink before his next mission? That girl, the heiress to a paper products empire? And what about himself? What would one of them imagine about Steve Janson? Cold-blooded murderer and semi-disbarred attorney? He almost wished he had a mirror handy so that he might peer into it and answer his own question.

When was the last time he had been here? BLD or ALD - Before Lynn Died or After Lynn Died? His eyes unfocused as he forced his memory to reel back over the years. Finally it hit him. The last time he had been here was the last time he had seen Irwin Shapiro. It was July, not long after the cops had identified Alan Lee Fry as Lynn's murderer, only a few days after his boss, Arnold Finestein, had told him that Fry had fled the country.

* * *

"We'll get him back," Finestein said weakly, "but it may take a while."

"He's disappeared?"

"Oh, no. We know where he is." Finestein glanced down. "Havana."

"Then what's the problem?"

Finestein had the decency to look embarrassed. "According to the Feds Fry's father was a British Communist who emigrated to Cuba in the sixties. His political ties and family money convinced them to grant him Cuban citizenship. He married a local girl but apparently his wife didn't share his love for the Communist way of life because she escaped to Miami in '73 when she was pregnant with little Alan. Because he was born in the U.S. Fry's got duel American and Cuban citizenship. Now he's back home and the Cuban government won't extradite a Cuban citizen to the United States."

"But he's a serial killer!"

Finestein ineffectually raised his hands. "Maybe when Castro's gone a new regime may be more cooperative but given our current relations with Cuba extradition is out of the question. We're exploring other options. The State Department has promised to look into it."

Washington bureaucrats were going to solve this problem? The 'Would you like another cup of tea?' pencil necks were going to bring Fry to justice? Steve wanted to hit him.

* * *

That conversation with Finestein had torn at him all week and by Friday night he was ready to twist off somebody's head. A pitcher of Sam Adams had done nothing to calm him down. Then Irwin Shapiro wandered through O'Malley's door. Shapiro always looked like someone haphazardly assembled, arms and legs too long, torso too short, big hands, a long face and small ears. Irwin paused just inside and glanced around as if plotting each patron's position on an invisible map. Shapiro was really Lynn's friend and Steve knew him only by association. He had been her father's roommate at Yale and they had stayed close, Shapiro becoming Lynn's Godfather, Uncle Irwin, Lynn called him. But he was a shrink and cops and shrinks were natural enemies even more so than cops and lawyers. Steve put up with him for Lynn's sake. She loved the old guy.

Shapiro spotted Steve alone with his almost empty pitcher of beer and shambled over as if his arms and legs were connected by elastic strings.

"Can I join you?"

Steve looked up, red-eyed and a little wobbly, and waved at an empty stool. "Funny, you don't look Irish." Steve gave Shapiro a twisted smile.

"Actually, I came to see you. I tried calling you a couple of times to see how you were doing."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is."

"Because," Irwin said as if Steve had not spoken, "as a friend I wanted to offer any help I could."

"Now, now, none of that shrink stuff for me, Irwin. I'm okay."

Shapiro caught the truculence hiding beneath Steve's placid expression, and gave a little shrug. "Can I join you for a beer?"

"Good idea." Steve waved at the waitress and held up his empty pitcher, then pointed to Irwin. A moment later she arrived with a new pitcher and a second glass. "
L'chaim
," Steve toasted, clinking mugs.

"Is there any word on the man who . . . on the suspect?" Irwin asked a moment later.

"Oh, there's word. There's word all right." Shapiro stared, waiting. "The word is," Steve took a long swallow, "that they're working on it."

"Working on it?"

"That's exactly what I said! You see, he's escaped to Cuba, the land of his ancestors. So the D.A. and Interpol and the State Department are all working on it." Steve banged his mug on the table.

"They're going to bring him back for trial?"

"No. No they're not."

"But . . . ."

"In light of the state of U.S.-Cuban relations, Cuba will not extradite a Cuban citizen to the U.S. so he's untouchable." Steve took another gulp.

"But there must be some way . . . ."

"The State Department has asked the Cubans pretty please to send him back and they've said, very politely, 'No.' But, we have a plan. Our plan is to wait for a year or two or three or ten until Fry gets tired of Cuba. They figure that eventually he'll try to sneak back into the United States under a forged passport and then we can grab him, if we can find him. Isn't that a great plan?"

"And there's nothing anyone can do?"

"Oh, there's something somebody can do," Steve said with a vicious grin.

"What do you mean?"

Steve poured himself another glass. "Somebody could get justice for Lynn. Somebody could do the right thing. Somebody," Steve said, banging the half-empty mug on the scarred table, "who cared about Lynn could go down there and see to it that the son of a bitch pays for what he did!" A couple of people at nearby tables glanced over uneasily and Steve lowered voice. "How about you, Irwin? Do you want to do something about this unfortunate situation?"

"Steve, you've been badly hurt. We all have."

"Oh? Did you find your wife's murdered body on your bedroom floor?"

"I was there the day she was born, Steve. I was there for every birthday, every soccer game, every school recital. I loved her like my own child. Don't tell me I'm not in pain."

Steve gave Irwin a long stare then a little nod of surrender. "Yeah, sorry, I know, I know you loved her. We all loved her and that . . . bastard . . . ." Scowling, Steve turned away.

"I understand you may not be comfortable taking counseling from me, but I could give you the names of some very good people." Steve stared at the TV. "They could help you, Steve."

"Do you know what's going to help me? Seeing him dead. That's going to help me."

"What are you saying?"

"He's a monster and he needs to die," Steve said, staring evenly into Irwin's eyes.

"He'll be punished. At the right time, in the right way."

"You're right. He will be punished. Every day that animal lives is like a knife in my heart. I swear to God, all I want to do is put a gun to his head and pull the trigger."

"If you keep thinking that way you'll destroy yourself. Hate is a poison."

"Oh, I'll stop hating him all right, as soon as he's dead. Once I blow his brains out, there'll be nothing left to hate. Problem solved."

Over the years Shapiro had learned to distinguish an idle boast from a serious threat and what he saw in Janson's eyes frightened him.

"Killing him would destroy your life." Janson looked down at his glass. "Steve, if you were to kill him, you'd still hate him, both for what he did to Lynn and for what killing him will do to you. People who aren't psychopaths can't just kill someone face to face in cold blood and then forget about it. That's something that affects you as long as you live and not in a good way."

"If that's what it takes," Steve said as if resigned to a terrible fate. "He has to pay."

Shapiro cocked his head to one side and studied Janson.

"What happened between you and Lynn?"

"What?"

"This self-destructive obsession to punish Fry, it's more than just wanting revenge. Did something happen between you and Lynn? Was there some problem--"

"Shut up! You shut up about her!" Steve shouted, half rising from his chair.

Shapiro reached over and patted Steve's hand. "I loved Lynn and she loved you. I care about you too, Steve. Let me help you. Please, before you do something you can't undo."

"Will you help me kill Alan Fry?" Steve asked, deadly serious.

"No."

"Then there's nothing you can do for me."

"I
can
help you. If you would just come in--"

"I don't need my head shrunk. I need justice."

"You won't find justice in the barrel of a gun."

"That's where you're wrong, Irwin. That's where we always find justice if we're strong enough to look for it." Steve gave Shapiro a rueful smile. "You know the old saying, 'Heroes find splendor where cowards fear to tread.'"

Irwin's long face twisted in pain. "Please don't do this."

"I'm doing it for Lynn."

"No, you're not. You're doing it for some other reason, something you don't want to talk about, something you don't want to face up to--"

"Shut up! No more shrink crap!"

"Steve, please--"

"You need to leave now, Irwin," Steve said softly, his hands knotting into fists.

"Don't--"

"Now, Irwin."

Slowly, Shapiro stood, then dropped his card on the table. "Please call me, any time. . . . I loved Lynn too."

"Goodbye, Irwin."

Shapiro tried to speak then turned and shambled out the door. Steve carefully tore Irwin's card into a dozen tiny pieces then began to form his plan to track down and kill Alan Lee Fry.

* * *

Steve looked up at the TV. The uniforms had changed colors. Apparently the old game had ended and a new one had begun. Well, Fry was dead. He had gotten justice for Lynn. Why wouldn't it all go away? Could Irwin have been right? Steve had no answers. He finished his beer and went home.