JO01 - Guilty or Else (26 page)

After fifteen minutes, the maître d´ approached my table. “Mr. O’Brien, Maude Chasen said it would be all right to use her office for your meeting with the Senator. Please follow me.”

I got up and spotted Karadimos standing in the middle of the crowd, glaring at me. I could almost feel the hatred that flowed from his blazing eyes. When I raised my glass in a mock toast, he turned and walked away. The maître d’ took me through the busy kitchen to a small office off to the side. The plain office held a desk, two leather armchairs, and a sofa.

The maître d’ said he’d inform Welch that I was waiting. When he shut the door, I opened my briefcase, took out the tape recorder, turned it on and put it back. I snapped the briefcase shut and placed it next to the sofa. Leaning back, I folded my hands in my lap.

Of course, I wouldn’t tell Welch he was being recorded, and because of that little detail, I couldn’t use the tape in court. In fact, I would be fudging the law just recording him without his permission. But what the hell, I was defending a murder case. Anyway, I’d just use the tape for my notes and then quickly erase it.

A few minutes later, Thomas French entered and held the door for the Senator. Welch had a slender build, stood about six-foot-one and had an immaculate tan, like a movie actor. I wondered if it came out of a bottle. When would a guy like him have time to hang out at the beach? His dark, slicked-back hair glistened as it caught the light of the wall lamps when he moved farther into the office. I stood, and he came over to me.

We didn’t shake hands. Instead, he nodded toward French and told me, “I hope you’re not going to have a problem with my attorney being here.”

“Nope, I have a few questions for him too,” I replied.

French waved his arms in front of his chest. “Oh no, just the Senator. That’s the deal and you’ve only got ten minutes.” He glanced at his watch then pointed a finger at me. “Starting now.”

Welch sat in one of the armchairs and crossed his legs. “I think I can save some time here.” He tugged at his pant leg a little so as not to wrinkle the razor sharp crease. “I did not kill Gloria. That’s why you’re here. That’s what you wanted to ask me.”

“I have other questions, as well.”

“I was in Sacramento in a room full of people at the time she died.”

“I think you were sleeping with her, having an affair.”

French waved his hands again. “What kind of remark is that? He wasn’t involved with the girl. The very idea.”

Welsh spoke in a soft voice, “God knows I tried. What a gorgeous body.” He picked a piece of lint off his suit jacket. “I couldn’t get anywhere. I think she was hung up on someone else.”

I thought I saw a flicker of truth in his eyes. I didn’t think he’d lie about not having an affair and then admit that he made a move on her.

“Didn’t you send her a letter? She got it Saturday. You dumped her. I found the envelope at her house, handwritten. The cops could check your handwriting.”

“Let them check. I’ve nothing to hide.” He didn’t seem to be bothered about the envelope.

Perhaps he wasn’t involved with Gloria after all. Maybe the envelope was nothing. His denial carried a ring of truth. “Are you saying you were not having an affair?”

“Asked and answered,” French shouted.

“Shut up, French,” I said. “This isn’t a courtroom.”

“Nope, I’m sorry to say,” Welch said. “
Jesus
, she was hot stuff.”

I could feel my theory about the case slipping away, but I continued: “Did she call you the day she died? Between four and five in the afternoon?”

“No, she didn’t.” Welch glanced at the ceiling. “The only call I got on Saturday was from Phil Rhodes, our PR guy. He’d hired a comedian for the dinner and the prick cancelled at the last minute. Phil wanted me to ask Goulet to sing an extra set to cover for him.”

“Graham called the hotel and talked to someone for twenty minutes,” I said.

“Not me.” Welch glanced at his buffed fingernails. “Let’s see. Yeah, between four and five, I was in the bar with Tom Brokaw; he’s the news guy on Channel 4 here in L.A. He’s doing a piece on the 1974 governor’s race. He’ll verify it. He paid the bar tab. I’m sure he put it on his expense report.”

French jumped in. “Why don’t you get off the Senator’s back? It’s obvious that he had nothing to do with Miss Graham’s unfortunate death.”

“Why did you pressure Judge Johnson to force my client to plead guilty?”

“That’s enough, O’Brien!” French snapped. “You’re crossing the line with these insinuations.”

“It’s okay, Tom. I’ll answer him.” Welch started to climb out of the chair. “It’s true. I had lunch with Johnson on the Monday following the murder, but I didn’t pressure him. My assistant had been murdered. They caught the guy who did it, and I wanted to make sure they got the right person, that’s all.”

“It was in your best interests to have the case closed as soon as possible,” I said.

“Okay, that’s it, O’Brien. He told you he didn’t pressure anybody.” French shook his head. “Interview’s over. Goodbye.”

“Thought I had ten minutes. It hasn’t been that long.”

“You’re questions are inappropriate. The Senator hadn’t agreed to be slandered.” French started to move toward me.

I looked into Welch’s eyes. “What about Hartford Commodities and Karadimos? I know you’re connected with him. You too, French?”

That caught their attention. Welch raised his eyebrows slightly and his mouth opened as if to speak. No sound came out, but French piped up: “The Senator’s business interests are in a blind trust. Karadimos is a large contributor. He just wants quality government. Now, this meeting is over. Please leave.”

“Welch, I think you’re in up to your neck with the Greek.”

“You’re outta here, O’Brien.”

“Senator, answer my question.”

“Don’t say anything, Berry.” French stepped quickly between Welch and me. “Now, do I have to call someone, or are you leaving?”

I moved to the door and put my hand on the knob. Turning back, I looked at Welch and French. “I know about the cantaloupes,” I said and left the office.

C H A P T E R 
39

“Mack the Knife” reverberated from
the bar as I walked back into the dining room. The crowd was whooping it up for all they were worth. I found a spot where I could see the kitchen passage, and waited. Waiters scurried in and out, and after a long while—at least it seemed like a long while—French and Welch emerged.

They brushed by me without looking and joined the group in the main dining room. I glanced around. The coast was clear. I raced into the kitchen and maneuvered around the prep counters, chefs and busboys nearly slipping on the tile floor, then darted though the double doors, heading back toward the office.

When I reached for the knob, I paused. I hadn’t planned to leave my briefcase with the recorder running in the office after I left. I told myself I didn’t actually mean to eavesdrop on Welch and his lawyer. But I knew better. And I’d have been a fool not to take the opportunity when it popped up.

The remark about cantaloupes came to me in a flash imports from Mexico. If the produce business was on the up and up, Welch and French would pass the remark off as a non-sequitur. But if they responded to it, I’d know for sure that they were partners, engaged in some sort of illegal activity.

I opened the door and dashed into the office. Grabbing my briefcase, I darted through the kitchen again. I just wanted to get out of the restaurant—fast. Go somewhere and listen to the tape. I headed toward the front and pushed my way through the crowd. When I got closer to the main room, I saw Karadimos shoving guests aside as he elbowed toward me.

Our eyes locked. I saw his fury and knew he must have figured something wasn’t right. He charged at me like a raging bull, bellowing; even his nostrils flared.

A shout from the crowd rose above the clamor, “Andy, wait!”

Karadimos jerked his head to the side and I followed his gaze. French shook his hand slightly, and nodded toward the small group with a TV camera in a circle of lights gathered around Mayor Sam Yorty. Karadimos would draw unwanted attention if he kept coming at me.

He stopped. Looking around, he snapped his fingers at a couple of heavyweights leaning against the wall by the entrance. He pointed at me, and then made furious jabbing motions with his finger toward the front door. The hoods came alive like puppets on a string. They sprinted past the maître d’s station and pushed their way outside.

I backed up a few feet, turned, picked up my pace, and retraced my steps through the kitchen, running for the rear. The back door opened onto an alley littered with trash containers and empty boxes. I shot around the corner of the restaurant and entered the parking lot. My Corvette was parked close to the front near Beverly Boulevard.

One of the parking guys ran toward me. “Hold it. What are you doing back there?”

I pulled the car keys from my pocket, holding them in the air. “Going to my car.” I pointed to my Corvette. “I came out through the back door.” I kept moving. The valet turned and walked back toward the front of the lot.

Karadimos’s men loitered on the sidewalk by the street. I spotted them and they spotted me. I made a dash for my car. I got there fast, but too late.

One of the thugs grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. He came back with his right hand and took a roundhouse swing at me, but I blocked it with my forearm.

The other guy tugged madly at the briefcase. I held on, jerked it free, and took a swipe at his head with it. I missed.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fist coming at me, heavy and fast, like a freight train. I whipped my head back. The punch grazed my jaw.

All the color drained out of the night and the darkness turned white. I staggered, but I hung on to the briefcase when the other guy grabbed it again. Suddenly, I heard loud yells coming from everywhere. The noise reverberated in my head like shouts in a tunnel.

“Watch out!”

“
Jesus
! Crazy bastard—”

“He ain’t slowing down.”

“Get outta the way!”

The tugging on my briefcase eased. I didn’t know how I was able to hang on to it, but I did. I shook my head. My vision cleared enough to see Big Jake’s Cadillac bounce over the curb, hurtle toward us, and screech to a stop right in front of Karadimos’s men.

Before the thugs realized what was happening, Jake bolted from the Caddie. With his left hand, he grabbed the briefcase guy and flung him into a parked Bentley. The guy struck it hard and stayed down. Jake’s right hand was a steel fist that exploded violently into the other goon’s nose. It burst like an overripe tomato and blood pulsed out in a sickening stream. The guy dropped. He was down for the count.

Jake turned and ran back to his car. “Get outta here, O’Brien, ’fore the cops come.”

A crowd started to form. But they scattered when Big Jake stomped on the gas, screaming backward, without looking, at about ninety miles an hour right out of the lot and onto the boulevard. He whipped the car around, made a skidding U turn, and disappeared down the street. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.

I pulled my Corvette onto Beverly, turned right, and headed west. In my rearview mirror, I saw two squad cars, red lights flashing, swerve into Chasen’s parking lot. I glanced at the briefcase resting on the passenger seat, and my jaw didn’t hurt so much anymore.

C H A P T E R 
40

At Sunset Boulevard, I turned
left and drove west to PCH. I followed the coastline north and cruised past the Palisades, then Malibu, and soon I was beyond Point Mugu.

A jade green florescence shimmered on the breakers as they rolled onto the shore fifty feet to my left.

I merged onto US 101 and drove until I came to California Street in Ventura. I exited and stopped at the first motel I saw. After checking in, I dead-bolted the door. I had to get away and wanted to go away from Downey. I figured someone at Chasen’s might have gotten my license number, and I didn’t want the police pounding on my door.

I wanted time to analyze the tape and plan my next move. The motel was typical for a beach town: a dozen or so tiny cottages, built in the 1940s, surrounding a gravel parking lot. The neon sign in front by the office flickered and buzzed like fireflies gone mad. Each cottage had a double bed with a single thin blanket, a lamp with a forty-watt bulb that barely cast enough light to read by, and a black and white TV resting on a veneer-covered plywood dresser. The room was perfect.

I set my briefcase on the bed, sat down, and removed the recorder, anxious as I rewound the cassette. I hit the play button and skimmed the first part, where I was in the room. At the point where I made the remark about the cantaloupes, I hit stop. I stood, walked around the room, went into the bathroom, and splashed water on my face. Why was I stalling? I told myself to get in there and turn it on. I took a deep breath, sat down, and pushed the play button again.

I listened to ten or fifteen seconds of silence. Then Welch’s voice erupted, “What does he know?”

“Nothing, he’s fishing, that’s all.”

I’d been holding my breath, and when I heard what Welch and French said, I exhaled. Goddamn, I knew it. I stood, flexed my hands, and paced as I listened to the rest.

“What do you mean, fishing? Did you hear him, the cantaloupes? He’s not fishing; he’s off the boat and on the shore. I’m telling you he knows what’s going on, and I don’t like it—”

“Calm down, Berry. Karadimos has everything under control, but what was he talking about when he said something about a letter to the girl?”

“Who knows? I don’t give a shit about that. But, damn it, I’m concerned. Listen, French, you’re in this too. I thought you guys were gonna get rid of him.”

“Look, it isn’t that easy. We’ve tried. He’s got help from Sica’s gang.”

“Can’t you blow up his car or something? Jesus Christ Almighty!”

“Berry, we don’t want any more bodies lying around. We’re in enough trouble with Graham’s murder. We’ve got to snatch O’Brien and get rid of him in Mexico. Turn him over to our partners down there. Nobody will know what happened to him and I doubt that anyone will care.”