JO03 - Detour to Murder (16 page)

We stepped cautiously inside. Light streamed in from the opening.

“Is this the way the shed looked when you were here with Hathaway?”

“No, someone broke in.”

“Do you see the soapbox that held her files anywhere?” the lieutenant asked.

I moved farther into the shed and looked around carefully.

The huge White King Soap carton was missing.

I silently shook my head.

Lt. Brodie looked at me. “We have an APB out on Roberts, armed and dangerous. When we catch up with him I hope he doesn’t try to run.”

C H A P T E R 
24

The Sergeant dropped me at
my car in the lot at the South Gate Court. Instead of heading to Downey and my apartment I took the Ventura Freeway and set off in another direction.

My first inclination was to just let it go, let the authorities handle the murder. But I felt strongly that Roberts hadn’t killed the old woman, and figured when the cops found him—and if he hung around L.A. they certainly would—he’d probably get shot while trying to escape. At least that’s the way the report could read.

At this point, I trusted no one.

I’d been worked over by thugs driving a black Buick, been warned to quit messing where I don’t belong by a femme fatale—the mystery woman in a mini-skirt at the In-N-Out burger place on Grand Avenue—and threatened by a billionaire at the Reagan fundraiser. Even Rinehart, the current District Attorney, said he was keeping an eye on me.

People were going to a great deal of trouble attempting to cover up a commonplace murder that happened almost thirty years ago.

And now they were killing people.

It dawned on me—if I kept digging—that I could be next.

But I couldn’t stop now.

Roberts had been framed in 1945 and I had no doubt that he was being set up again. But if he was innocent, what about the clothing tag from his dress-outs found at the scene, the evidence all sealed up in the plastic bag that the lieutenant, with a gotcha look on his face, had pulled from his pocket and slapped down on the table?

The clothing tag could’ve been a counterfeit, forged by someone who had access to the number listed in Roberts’s files. That meant someone inside the prison, or someone connected with the DA’s office, was involved in the setup. I couldn’t image that anyone on the prison staff had anything to do with framing Roberts; nothing to gain. So that could only mean—if the tag was in fact bogus—that someone inside the DA’s office had planted it.

I figured the only way for me to get out of this mess would be to find Roberts and hustle him out of town,
pronto
. Then I’d be done with it, and maybe I could get off the hook. I’d do what I had to do to save myself while at the same time fulfilling the commitment I’d made to my client. But how in hell would I find him in L.A., a county of seven million people? I had one idea. If Sue Harvey was still alive and living here, I figured Roberts would try to hook up with his old flame.

I felt from the beginning that something fishy was going on with Roberts and Sue. Just the look on his face every time I’d mentioned her name led me to believe that she was still alive. I ran through the possibility that she might have been in contact with him while he was incarcerated, perhaps recently. The prison would have records of his visitors, but they wouldn’t let me access them without a court order, and to get a judge to grant one, I’d have to disclose who I was looking for, which would tip off the DA’s office about Sue. I for sure didn’t want to do that. The cops would find him first, then I’d be right back where I started.

With so many cops looking for Roberts, and powerful people on
my
ass about the case, I’d have to be cautious and nimble-footed to navigate this mine field.

And that was my reason for driving halfway through the San Fernando Valley: I wanted to see Frances Q. Jerome. He could’ve been mistaken when he said Sue Harvey was dead,
or he could have lied about it
. Again, I couldn’t afford to trust anyone.

He’d said a convict named John Barr had killed Sue. But the county had no record of her death. Rita couldn’t find any documents that proved she had died. As for John Barr, he’d been convicted of killing his wife years later. No one had accused him of murdering Sue. Like Roberts, maybe Jerome had some reason to keep her under wraps. But why?

Jerome was the only person I knew of who’d had personal contact with Sue after she’d come to L.A. Maybe he knew more than he told Rita and me. Maybe he knew where she could be found.

At best my theory was slim, but I had to question Jerome one more time, go eyeball to eyeball, and see if he blinked.

I exited the Ventura Freeway at Mulholland Drive. The sun’s glowing arc slipped behind the Santa Monica Mountains and trees cast long shadows as I entered the grounds of the Motion Picture and Television Country House, curved around the Administration building, and headed for the parking lot on the north side of the complex.

Only a few random cars were parked in the lot. I wondered if the staff would let me talk with the retired movie star this late in the day.

My eye caught the glimmer of the dying sunlight reflected from the windshield of a shiny red Mercedes 450 SL. The car, parked a dozen spaces to my right, had pulled in only moments before.

A woman climbed out. She turned to lock the car door and glanced at me as I crept by.

Oh, my God! My heart pounded. Was it her? Was she the mysterious beauty I’d met at the burger place in Chino?

I stepped on the gas and continued down the parking lot. My mind spun. Was it really her? If not, it could’ve been her twin sister. She looked right at me. Did she recognize me?

I quickly glanced around; no black Buicks were in sight,
thank God
.

I parked in a stall out of sight of the Mercedes and darted through the shrubbery that lined the parking lot. I moved quickly back toward the administration building for a second look. I wanted to make sure she was the same woman.

Keeping out of sight, I crouched in silence behind a shrub. Through the leaves and branches I watched her walk up the path, moving with a smooth stride toward the entrance.

She had blonde hair, incredible legs, and her dynamite figure was tightly packaged in a mini-skirt. As she glanced back over her shoulder before entering the building, I saw her bright blue eyes sparkle in the receding sunlight. She was the mystery woman, all right. Perfection in a female form.

I continued to stare at the front doors as they slowly closed behind her. I figured I’d wait a few minutes, then ease into the building lobby and ask the attendant on duty to tell me what the enchantress was doing there. Did she come to see someone? Who? I’d slip him a couple of bucks and maybe he’d also tell me her name.

But I stayed hidden behind the shrub a moment too long.

Something solid tapped my shoulder.

Jumping up, I faced a square-built man wearing a dark blue security uniform. He stood stiff-legged while holding a police baton in his hand. A ridge of scar tissue protruded above his brows and he had a nose that had been broken a few times, an ex-prizefighter.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, Mac? This is private property.”

I had to think fast. I obviously didn’t want to get into any long explanations about the mystery woman, Jerome, or the Roberts case. I couldn’t tell him I was a lawyer, hiding behind a bush. He’d hit me with his stick.

“Aw, yeah. Well, you see, I’m an autograph collector and I heard Miss Mary Astor lives here. I have all the stars from The
Maltese Falcon
, but hers—Bogart, Sydney Greenstreet, and, would you believe, I even have Elisha Cook, Jr.” I kept at it, chattering like a magpie on speed. “He’s the little guy, played Wilmer, you know—”

“You about done?”

“Bet you don’t know who played Effie Perrine. I do—”

“Okay, that’s enough, buster. That your car parked over there?” He pointed at my Corvette with his baton.

“Yeah.”

“Get in it, and get the hell outta here. I catch you snooping here again, it ain’t gonna be pretty.” He gave me a slight nudge with his billy club.

“Lee Patrick was Effie,” I said.

He raised his baton. “Beat it, wise guy.”

As I wheeled slowly by the red Mercedes on my way out of the parking lot, I glanced at the plate and memorized the number.

Edging along with the evening freeway traffic, driving back to Downey, I couldn’t get the mystery woman out of my mind. It wasn’t just her dynamite figure that I dwelled upon, although her looks were surely part it. My thoughts were mainly focused on one question: what was she doing at the movie retirement home? She approached me at an at the In-N-Out burger, a short distance from the prison, right after my first meeting with Roberts, warning me off the case. And now she shows up at the place where Jerome lives. I wondered, could there be a connection?

Did she go there to visit Francis Q. Jerome, my only lead to Sue Harvey?

C H A P T E R 
25

I tossed and turned throughout
the night, dreaming strange dreams, all mixed up: insane nightmares. The mystery woman, Jerome, and Mrs. Hathaway would drift in and out in ghostly apparitions, warning me about some unknown doom waiting for me if I didn’t pack up and move back in with my folks on Lubec Street, where I lived during my high school years. The images told me to quit pretending I was a lawyer. That I should stay at home and become a better son to my parents. But no one heard my protest when I shouted that both my mom and dad were dead. Roberts appeared briefly, laughing madly like the Joker in the
Batman
comic books.

In the middle of the night, well past midnight, I awoke to a clanking sound coming from outside my window. I lay in the tangled sheets, groggy, sweaty, and thirsty. After a minute or so, I pulled the blanket back, swung my feet over the side, and sat there with my face buried in my hands, thinking about the dreams. Maybe
I’m
the Joker. Maybe my subconscious was saying I’d been a lunatic to get involved in this mess.

Dragging myself into the kitchen for a glass of water, I stopped when I heard the metallic clatter again. But this time the noise was followed by the rumble a truck makes as it shifts gears and drives away. Now I was curious. The racket seemed to be coming from the parking area behind my apartment building. I went back to the bedroom and peeked through the blinds covering the rear window. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just the shadow of the carport lean-to in the quiet darkness of night. Whatever had caused the disturbance had disappeared.

In the morning as I gulped my first cup of black coffee before heading out the door for the office I mulled over the list of phone calls Vera had made from the motel room, particularly the ones to MGM. Jerome was a contract player with Metro at the time. It was more than possible that Vera saw the photo in the movie magazine, the one taken at Ciro’s with Sue Harvey and Jerome cuddling at a cocktail table. She knew about Sue’s connection with Roberts. Maybe that’s why she made the call. Maybe she wanted to talk to Jerome, let him know Roberts was in town. Maybe she had an angle, figured it might be worth a few bucks somehow.

But then again, it could’ve have been Roberts who’d made the calls. After all, they were staying in the same bungalow.

After being caught by the security guard at the movie retirement home, I decided to ask Rita to drive out to Woodland Hills and talk with Jerome. He liked her, and she would probably get more out of him than I would, anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to have Rita ask Jerome if he remembered talking to either Vera or Roberts back in the summer of ’45. She could also ask him if he had a recent visitor. Maybe a blonde in a mini-skirt. If so, would he tell Rita the woman’s name and what she had to do with him and Roberts?

I drained the coffee, took the last bite of a leftover pizza slice and thought about my day ahead. Later in the morning, after Sol arrived at his office, I’d ask him to run the mystery woman’s license plate; that might shed some light. But most of my morning would be spent untangling the mess at the bank. I also made a mental note to call Millie. I checked my wallet. No problem, I had enough cash to take her to Burger King, hopefully making up for my no-show yesterday.

I set the cup in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes and left the apartment. When I got to the carport in the back I stood slack jawed, staring at the empty slot where my Corvette was supposed to be parked.

My car had been stolen
.

I darted around to the front of the building and looked up and down the street. No car.

“Goddammit,” I shouted as I dashed back into my apartment and called the Downey Police Department.

After being transferred to burglary detail, I explained to the detective on the line what happened, giving him the make, model, and license number of my missing Vette. The cop put me on hold, but came back in about fifteen seconds.

“I got good news and bad news, Mr. O’Brien.”

“What are you talking about? Did you find my car? Was it damaged?”

“No, that’s the good news. It wasn’t stolen.”

“What do you mean, not stolen? It isn’t here. It’s gone!”

“Well, that’s the bad news. It’s been repossessed. They towed it away last night.”

“That can’t be! I made the payment. Maybe a little late, but I paid it.”

“The repo jockey dropped the docs off this morning at about three a.m. The papers indicate you broke the contract, late payments.”

Christ almighty. “Repossessed?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

My next call was to the finance company. The account rep told me my contract had been sold. Selling contracts was common practice in the industry, it seemed.

He stated that his firm had nothing to do with the repossession. He gave me the name and number of the outfit that now held my loan, Los Angeles Bank and Trust. I called them.

In order to have my car released, the bank employee explained, I’d have to pay off the loan balance completely and cough up a myriad of additional fees, the towing bill, cost of storage, substantial late charges, and so on.

Then he said, “But I think we can work something out. Give me a moment to check your file.” I heard the rustle of papers in the background. “According to my report the repossession order came directly from our corporate owners, in fact, straight from the Tower.” He paused for a moment. “Hmm… this is strange. There’s a notation. It says, ‘No compromise allowed.’ I wonder why.”

“If that’s the case I want to talk to someone at your corporate headquarters. What’s the phone number and who do I talk to?”

“Sorry, Mr. O’Brien, but they won’t discuss the matter with you.” He chuckled at the absurdity of my request.

“Why not?”

“Because our bank is owned by a private trust and they simply won’t talk to anyone. Especially someone who just had their car repossessed.”

“I’ve got to get it back! I’m a lawyer. I need my car. Just tell me who owns your bank. I’ll look up the damn number myself.”

“Have it your way, Mr. O’Brien. We’re owned by the Haskell Foundation.”

After banging my fist on the wall and feeling sorry for myself for a minute or two, I called Rita at her apartment, hoping she might still be there and would give me a lift to Rent-A-Wreck. I caught her just as she was rushing off to meet her client, the kid with the marijuana rap.

“I’d be happy to pick you up, but I’m due at a conference with Bennie, my client,” she said after I explained about my car being in the shop for repairs.

“I thought the kid’s retainer had been canceled.”

“Yes, but Bennie likes me, wants to keep me as his lawyer. He doesn’t care what his uncle thinks. It’s his decision, after all. Don’t worry about the fee, Jimmy. As soon as I get the charges dropped, he’s going to get a job and pay us on the installment plan.”

“We don’t have an installment plan.”

“Oh, Jimmy, you’re always kidding around. Of course we do. I told Bennie it would be okay. Gotta go. Call Mabel, she’ll pick you up.”

Another call, this time to the office.
“The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected
—”

I slammed down the phone.
Goddammit!
After taking several deep breaths, I called the phone company. Repair service transferred me to someone who said her hands were tied, and after being placed on hold several times and getting the runaround for an eternity, I finally got a supervisor on the line.

“We canceled the service due to reports of illegal activity associated with this number.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Frankly, Mr. O’Brien, we were informed that the line was being used to facilitate an illegal horse wagering establishment, and according to the PUC code we were obligated to terminate the service immediately.”

I was shocked. “You’re calling me a bookie?”

“I believe that’s the term.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m a lawyer with a three-person firm. My God, what the hell’s wrong with you—?”

“Sir, I don’t have to take your verbal abuse. But I will say this: if you only have three people in your office, how come you ordered the installation of thirty new phones recently?”

“I didn’t order the damn phones. The guy just showed up—”

“You got a beef, call the PUC. Goodbye.” The line went dead.

A guy with the Public Utilities Commission located in downtown L.A. explained the routine: I’d have to drive to the office and fill out a complaint form. Once the form was officially filed and approved, the commission would do a complete investigation. If they found in my favor the phone would be turned back on. The man I spoke with added that it usually didn’t take long at all to get these types of issues straightened out, a couple of months at most. Jesus!

Thirty minutes later, after hoofing it to Sol’s building, I was ushered into his office by Joyce, his private secretary.

Sol, sitting behind a desk the size of New Hampshire, glanced up at me when I entered. He waved his hand and pointed to a leather armchair facing him. A man, dressed in a white uniform, stood in front of the desk holding a pink box.

“Have a seat, Jimmy. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He faced the guy in white. “What do you mean, you’re bringing me crumpets?” Sol asked.

“Your secretary said I was to give them to you myself.” The man, obviously a baker, placed the pink box on Sol’s desk.

“She didn’t have the courage to bring me the damn things herself,” Sol said, lifting one of the porous yeast cakes out of the box, holding it up gingerly between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. He handled it like he had a dead mouse by its tail.

Sol opened his fingers and the crumpet dropped to his desk. “Where are my goddamn apple fritters that you’re supposed to deliver every morning?”

The baker answered, “Mrs. Silverman called earlier, sir. Said you’re on a diet and to change the standing order to crumpets instead of fritters. She also said, well sir, she said…” His voice tailed off.

“What else did she say?” Sol demanded.

“Aw, well, she said…”

“C’mon, tell me, damn it.”

“That you’re too goddamn fat.”

Sol cracked up.

As soon as the baker left, I took one of the crumpets out of the box. Sol sat in his desk chair and peered at me while I ate it.

“What’s bugging you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t come here just to eat a crumpet.”

“I didn’t know you were going to have crumpets.”

“Look, Jimmy, we’ve been friends a long time and I can tell when something’s on your mind. Maybe I can help.”

“Yeah, Sol, I got a little problem. But I’m not going to bother you with it.”

He let out a small laugh. “Yeah, sure. You just happen to pop in here, nothing to do today, so you thought you’d say hello. And, what the hell, as long as you’re here, may as well eat a crumpet. Is that it? Is that what this is all about?”

“I thought you’d have fritters—”

“Jimmy, goddammit, out with it.”

Just because Sol and I worked together on legal cases didn’t mean it wasn’t hard for me to ask him for help on personal matters. But, I had nowhere else to turn and I knew he’d be there for me.

I hung my head and said, “My phone’s been disconnected.”

“You didn’t pay the bill?”

“Nah, that’s not it. They think I’m a bookie.”

Sol started to laugh, harder this time. “Well, hell, that’s not a bad idea. Christ, you could make more money than you do now if you just took my action.”

“Sol, that’s not funny.”

“Yeah, sorry. But why would the phone company think that you’re in the gambling racket?”

“I think it had something to do with my car being repossessed.”

“Jesus, you’re car was snatched, too.”

“Yeah, by a bank that’s owned by the Haskell Foundation.”

He leaned back in his chair, interlocking his hands across his belly. “Obviously Raymond Haskell’s behind your
tsores
.”

“That’s what I figure.”

“Well, what did you expect?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You shouldn’t threaten billionaires in public restrooms, Jimmy. I figured you would’ve known better.”

“But, Sol—”

“You have
chutzpah
, my friend. I’ll say that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Chutzpah,
it’s Yiddish, means—”

“I know what it means. But we were both there at the dinner. Haskell wanted to meet us in the restroom. You said we should—”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s a
putz
and I’m glad you read him the riot act. He moved forward in his chair. “I’ll handle this stuff for you. But, that’s it, right? Nothing else going on?”

“Yeah, Sol, that’s it.”

“Okay, no problem. But, goddammit, Jimmy. When things like this come up, call me right away. That’s what friends are for. I’ll never forget what you… well, you know.”

“Do you really think you can get my phone back on? They said I’d have to go to the PUC.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh, like I’d question the obvious. “You hide and watch,” he said, as he buzzed for Joyce.

Her voice came over the intercom. “Do you need something, Sol?”

“Yeah. Get in touch with our guy at the phone company and tell him I want Jimmy’s office phone turned back on, and tell him I want it on right now!”

“Will do,” Joyce said and clicked off.

“Thanks, Sol.”

“A lawyer without a phone is like a monkey without a banana.” He chuckled, then said, “By the way, my friend Vince returned my call. He’s on his book tour right now, but will be back shortly. He’s wants to meet with us as soon as he’s in town.”

“Vince?”

“Vincent Bugliosi.”

“Oh yeah. With all that’s been going on I almost forgot about him.”

“He has some info that might help you get the DA, Joe Rinehart off your back.”

“Rinehart’s not on my back. It’s all over as far as he’s concerned. He’s the one that decided to cut Roberts loose.”

“Doesn’t matter. We have to meet Bugliosi. The guy’s doing you a favor.”