JO01 - Guilty or Else (22 page)

“You get a receipt?”

“Embezzlers rarely give receipts.”

“Let me get this straight,” Farrell said. “You’re saying you just paid Vogel a labor charge. Is that correct?”

“That’s it.”

“And Vogel pocketed the money.”

“He sure did, Detective. There was no intent on my part to falsify evidence. There was no motive to do that. Alone, the fact that the plane had been flown extra hours wouldn’t do me any good with the jury. I needed that information myself, background. I wanted the truth. If the plane was flown those extra hours, then I would look for the person who was on the plane that night.”

“So you’re saying you had no motive. No evidence could come from the plane itself.”

“That’s right. I had no motive to falsify anything, but Vogel had a motive.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, he put the money in his pocket, and your case rests on my word against his.”

“I see your point, but why would the Deputy D.A. ask me to investigate if it was that simple?”

“I’ll let you in on something, but don’t put it in the report.”

“What?”

“It’s a personal matter between Miss Allen, the deputy D.A., and me.”

“Personal matter?”

I paused. Watch out, I told myself. I had second thoughts about bringing up my feelings toward Bobbi. I felt guilty about my outburst in court, saying that she asked me out. I really didn’t want to hurt her.

“Nah, not really personal, this is her first murder case and she wants to do a thorough job, I can’t blame her.”

“Okay, I’ll file my report,” the detective said.

“What’s it going to say?”

“You know I can’t answer that.” He stopped talking but didn’t hang up. I remained silent. Finally, he said, “Look, O’Brien, I’m not supposed to tell you this but you’re an ex-cop and you know the score. I’m going to recommend that we drop this thing. It’s a pissing contest between you and the Deputy D.A. and I have real crimes I should be working on. There’s a four-inch stack of complaints on my desk right now, including a few murders, and more coming every day.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You didn’t hear it from me, but this thing is over. I don’t see where any crime has been committed. You hadn’t called the guy to the stand and paid him to lie. Maybe you would’ve, but the point is you hadn’t. ”

I hung up. Sol still hadn’t arrived, so I had time to think a bit. I figured the State Bar charge would also disappear when the criminal complaint was dropped.

Did I feel better? No, not really. Bobbi still thought I was guilty. That’s what mattered, and that hadn’t changed.

When Sol arrived, he had a drink in his hand and a file under his arm. He set the file on the table and slid into the booth across from me.

“You were on the phone so I had a drink at the bar. That new piano player is hilarious,” Sol said.

“I heard him.”

“Guy’s terrific, huh?”

“Sol, the guy sucks.” I’d told enough lies for one day.

“Well, screw you,” he said. “Not everyone can be Louis Armstrong.”

“True,” I said.

Sol glanced around the room, then leaned forward. “I got the call I’d been waiting for, you know, the lead on the pilot, Ron Fischer.”

I straightened up. “What did you find out?”

“First we eat,” he said, looking around. “Hey, did they bring the menus?”

My stomach did somersaults. “What?”

“The menu. What’s the catch of the day? Feel like a nice sautéed sole or—”

“Goddammit, Sol, you do this every time.”

“I think you should eat before I tell you the news.”

“Why? Will the news kill my appetite?”

“Fischer is dead.”

“Oh my God! What are you telling me?”

Sol just looked at me.

I reached across the table and grabbed his arm. “Tell me you were kidding about Fischer. I need his statement. He’s gotta tell me who was on the plane that night. Christ, he can’t be dead.”

“Jimmy, Ron Fischer’s been dead for over a year.”

C H A P T E R 
32

Sol insisted we eat first
then we’d talk about Fischer. I knew from experience that it’d do no good to try to change his mind; food and wine always came first. I also knew there was more to the story about Fischer being dead than what he just told me. There had to be a postscript, an explanation of some sort. Sol and his games…

He ordered lunch for both of us: salmon almandine. He’d have Mondavi Chardonnay with his. I’d have coffee. André brought Sol’s wine draped in a linen towel. After uncorking the bottle with reverence, he poured an ounce or so into a glass that seemed to appear magically from his free hand. Sol sipped and nodded and told him some crap about the fruity aroma having the essence of a romantic melody.

I remained patient during the wine pouring ceremony, but I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Sol, for crying out loud. Tell me about Fischer.”

“Sure, my boy, but first sit back and relax; everything’s going to be okay. I have it worked out—”

“Goddammit, Sol! What about Fischer?”

“As far as I know, Karadimos’s pilot is still alive, but he’s an imposter. He’s not Ron Fischer.”

“Thank God, he’s not dead. But why do you always play games? You had me crazy.”

“Ah, Jimmy, my boy, a little suspense in your life is like pepper in your soup.”

The food thing again. Suspense, he says. Bad guys following me around, cops on my ass, and a woman who dumped me before we even got started because she thinks I’m a crook. That’s right; a little suspense is what I needed.

Still, a wave of relief flowed over me knowing the pilot was not dead. “Yeah, pepper in my soup. I hate soup,” I said. “But anyway, who are we looking for now?”

Sol opened his file and read from it. “The real Ron Fischer died in a car crash last year in San Diego. The guy was a Navy fighter pilot, flew off aircraft carriers at night—very dangerous.” He looked up. “The guy had nerve.”

“And he died in a car crash,” I said.

“Yeah, ironic, isn’t it?”

Janine appeared with our food. The appetizing aroma triggered within me a hunger that I did not think existed. Sol and I tucked into the salmon, and after several mouthfuls, I asked him, “You said you have it worked out?”

He swallowed. “You bet. We have to find the guy, correct?”

“Of course.”

“And we don’t know who he is, also correct?”

“Yep.”

“Be easier to find him if we know who he is.”

“Sol, please. I think you know who he is. Just tell me what’s going on. Okay?”

“No. First we’ve got to figure out how we’re going to fight those phony charges against you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m off the hook.”

“You’re off the hook? You didn’t tell me.”

“How could I? You were going on and on about the fish, and jiving André about the wine like some kind of connoisseur.”

“Hey buddy boy, I drink enough of the stuff to be an expert.”

“No argument about that.”

“Now, tell me how you got the charges dropped.”

In between bites of fish, I told him about my telephone call to Detective Farrell.

“I knew you could beat those
farmisht
charges.”

I set my fork down. “Lot of smooth talking.”

“I’ve been using my yiddisher kop, been busy.” Sol drained his wine glass.

“Busy doing what?” I asked Sol.

“We found out last Monday that Fischer was dead.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I didn’t want to tell you until I had things worked out.”

“So I gather.”

“Now I’m going to explain how the world’s foremost detective operates.”

“That would be you,” I said.

Sol gave me a look that said, isn’t it obvious. “I’ve had his girlfriend’s apartment staked out for a while, but pulled my men off when we found out the guy’s a fugitive. He ain’t coming back.”

“The guy’s a fugitive, running from the law? What’s his name?”

“Let me finish,” Sol continued. “As soon as I found out the real Fischer was dead, I got in touch with a friend in the FBI. I asked him to get me the Federal Aviation Agency’s list of all the pilots that are Cessna Citation rated. Remember, Karadimos’s jet is a Citation.”

“I know.”

“To be able to fly the plane, unless you’re military trained in jets, you’d have to take a course at the Cessna factory. It’s a very sophisticated airplane; regular private pilots wouldn’t be able to fly it.”

Sol stopped talking and angled his head close to the table. He jabbed at something on his plate with his fork, then held it up and inspected the tidbit impaled there. “Hey,” he said. “This doesn’t look like an almond. Where’s André? This is a goddamned walnut.”

“Sol, forget the walnut. Tell me about the pilot.”

“Okay, hold on.” He popped the walnut into his mouth.

“Not bad,” he said. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah, when you pass the Cessna course, you get a type rating. The factory notifies the FAA and they send you a new license.”

“Must’ve been hundreds of pilots.”

“No, very few. The Citation jet just came out this year. Karadimos’ plane is one of the first. Anyway, we ran a check on the pilots to see if any of them had a record. Remember, his girlfriend said he had some trouble with the law.”

“I see where you’re going with this, but how did you know the imposter would use his real name to get the rating?”

“To take the course, you need a multi-engine pilot’s license. Couldn’t use Fischer’s ticket, he was dead before the Cessna Citation was introduced to the public. Also, you need to pass a medical exam to get the license.”

I laughed. “I doubt that a medical examiner would certify a dead guy; might look bad.”

“Wouldn’t look good.” Sol chuckled.

“How many names fit the profile?”

“Only eight.”

“That’s all? Just eight people?”

“Yep, that’s all. And only one guy’s a fugitive,” Sol said.

“He’d be our guy.”

“Yes, indeed. We have his name and a mug shot.”

“What’s his name?” I asked again.

“Kruger. Danny Kruger. Now all’s we’ve got to do is find him.”

“How long will that take?”

“We’ll find him in time for the trial, that’s for sure.”

“I know you will. I’m counting on you, Sol.”

He paused for a moment, pulled a cigar from the vest pocket of his jacket, and set it on fire with a solid gold blowtorch. “I’ve been thinking about your theory of the murder,” he said as smoke from his cigar swirled to the ceiling. “I have some ideas. You wanna hear them?”

“Absolutely.”

“Remember what Gloria said to Bonnie: ‘The Greek might be on to me.’ She was talking about the money, right?”

“Yeah, the money.”

“Here’s the way I figure it. We have two suspects and two possible motives. Each separate from the other. The first motive and suspect is the one we’ve been working on—Welch. He was having an affair with Gloria. He sent her the letter dumping her, didn’t need the baggage now that he’s running for re-election. Gloria got it Saturday. She called and threatened him. He flew down and killed her, and immediately flew back to Sacramento. But Welch has an airtight alibi.”

“Yeah, the alibi is a big problem,” I said.

Sol looked at me, nodded, and puffed on his cigar. “Now here’s a second theory.”

“Go ahead.”

“Gloria was involved with Karadimos in his money laundering scheme, and she skimmed some off the top.

Karadimos found out. He was on to her—Bonnie said so—and he flew down and killed her.”

“Then he stashed the murder weapon in Rodriguez’s truck, and made the anonymous call,” I said, finishing his theory. “But if that were the case, wouldn’t he just have one of his henchmen take care of the problem?”

“I dunno. Maybe he wanted to get his revenge personally. But when I find the pilot, he’ll tell us who he flew down, Karadimos or Welch, and we’ll have the murderer,” Sol said.

“But we still have to tie the motive in with the flight.

The passenger could come up with some other reason for sneaking back into town.”

“We’ll have to blow the lid off Karadimos and Welch’s secret enterprise. That would show motive.”

“Motive, means, and opportunity, it all fits. And we know Welch and Karadimos are working together,” I said.

“That’s probably why the pilot took it on the lam. Must’ve figured he was hot, and Karadimos would get rid of him because he knew too much.”

“I’ll have to find the guy before Karadimos does, or he’ll be a goner.”

“I’ll head over to Gloria Graham’s house and snoop around. Even though the police have combed the place, and would have bagged any evidence by now, maybe I’ll spot something.”

“Can’t hurt, and you’ll be talking to Welch at Chasen’s, at the fund raiser.”

“Yeah, who knows, maybe he’ll say something.” After a pause, I added, “So how do you intend to find the pilot?”

“People can change identities, but they rarely change their old habits, hobbies, and skills. If he’s hiding out, he still has to eat, still needs a job. I have ways of finding guys.” Sol pulled the mug shots of the pilot out of the file and handed it to me. “Danny Kruger had a lot of odd jobs other than flying, but mainly bartending.”

I gazed at the photos, both the front and side views. The sign around his neck said, Houston Police Department, Danny Kruger, arrested 4/17/71. There was a booking number under his name.

Kruger looked like a million other guys who grew up in the mid-fifties listening to the King’s immortal classics—

“Heartbreak Hotel,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” “You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog.” He had a full pompadour, well oiled, and cut long, Elvis-style. He didn’t look like the Presley impersonators who worked for Karadimos. Kruger looked more like the young Elvis, when the singer was first starting out. I figured that if you wanted to get a job with Karadimos, all you had to do was grow sideburns and dress up like the King.

“What was he arrested for?” I asked.

“The shmuck got caught trying to fly drugs across the border. First offense, his folks posted bail, he assumed Fischer’s ID, and then split. Pop and Mom lost the house.

Nice guy, huh?” Sol said.

“Probably likes pepper in his soup,” I said.