JO03 - Detour to Murder (5 page)

C H A P T E R 
6

It wasn’t the heat that
got me down, though that was surely part of it—the thermometer hovering around the 100º mark—it was the drive out to Chino, back to the prison. It seemed to take forever. A Sig Alert had been issued. The Pomona Freeway, north of Diamond Bar, was jammed again; three lanes were blocked due to an overturned big rig.

The State had hired me to represent Roberts only at the parole hearing, nothing else. So before I could officially act on his behalf regarding matters not related to the hearing, he’d have to sign an attorney/client retainer agreement. Maybe I should’ve asked Mabel to travel out here instead to get his John Hancock on the form. Yeah, sure…

Because my visit wasn’t considered confidential, I met Roberts in the crowded visitors’ meeting room, a large well lit area with a half dozen rows of long tables placed end to end. Prisoners sat on benches with their visitors across from them. Several guards roamed the spaces between the tables and one guard, a sergeant, stood at parade rest next to the only door leading in and out of the room. The low murmur of voices reverberated off the concrete walls as inmates and their visitors—a few men, but mostly women—leaned into one another and talked. Some held hands across the table, and some had tears in their eyes, but for most it was blank stares from hollow faces.

One of the guards escorted me to Roberts. He sat bunched with prisoners in the middle of a table placed along the far wall. He didn’t say anything, just nodded, when I squeezed in tight between a man on my right and woman on my left and sat facing him. The guy to my right, a slab-sided Hispanic with tattoos up and down his arms, gave me a quick look and squirmed in his seat before turning his attention back to the inmate he was there to see.

After explaining to Roberts that I needed his signature on the form in order for me to continue to represent him, he perked up, looked around and whispered, “Someone finally gives a shit about my case. I don’t understand why, but I’m grateful just the same.”

I caught the eye of one of the roving guards and raised my hand. “I have a paper for the prisoner to sign,” I said in a loud voice. The guard came over, took the form, and after giving it a cursory examination, passed it on to Roberts. He also handed him a ballpoint pen that he pulled from his uniform pocket.

“Sign on the bottom, where it says
client
,” I told Roberts.

His hand shook a little as he scrawled his signature on the paper. He didn’t bother to read it before handing it back to the guard, who then gave it to me. They have a lot of rules in prisons, and this was one of them. It would’ve been a crime for me to pass anything directly to an inmate.

“They pay me ten cents an hour. I work in the laundry three days a week and I get a small tip from the warden when I play the piano for him at a party.” Roberts said when the guard wandered away. “Ain’t much, and I can’t pay your fee.”

“Just tell me this, Al, and give me a straight answer. Did you kill Vera? I know you didn’t murder Haskell, but—”

Roberts exploded. “I didn’t kill nobody! Haskell or Vera. Goddamn it, I was framed.” He started to stand.

The whole room became quiet and everyone, inmates and visitors alike, looked at Roberts and me for a moment before turning away, pretending not to hear the outburst.

“Sit down and shut up,” I said. “I just had to be sure, that’s all. Hey, I’m willing to take a chance on you. And if I can get a new trial, and if you’re released, and if you get a job, then you can pay me on the installment plan. That’s a lot of
ifs
, but I’m willing to give it a shot. But here’s one more
if
—if you lie to me, even one tiny detail, then I’m off the case. It will be over, finito, and you can rot in here forever. Understand?”

He hung his head and didn’t say anything for a beat, then mumbled, “My mother taught me never to lie.”

“I hoped she also taught you never to kill people. Because if you’re guilty, it will come out. Your story will probably get a great deal of attention in the press. With all the renewed publicity your chance at a future parole will be nil.”

“You gotta believe me,” he said.

“Yeah, Al. I know.”

It was almost four p.m. when I drove out of the prison parking lot, heading back to Downey. I flipped on the radio; it looked like the Sig Alert was going continue right through the rush hour.

Everyone jumped off the Pomona Freeway and headed east on Grand Avenue, where I just happened to be, creeping along behind a loaded hay truck. I thought of the long drive to my office and decided to grab a bite to eat before fighting the traffic all the way back. Pulling into an In-N-Out burger place on Grand Avenue, a couple of miles from the prison, I ordered a Double-Double with cheese, and fries. Taking my food order to one of the picnic tables outside, I sat and faced the parking lot and started in on my food.

A black Buick Century pulled in and parked not too far from my table. I set the cheeseburger down and looked at the two big guys lounging in the front seat. No one got out of the sedan. The guy on the driver’s side wore a striped Polo shirt, stretched tight across his massive chest. His buddy had on some kind of Deadhead T-shirt,
Skull & Roses
—the Grateful Dead’s new album—plastered on the front.

They seemed to be staring at me, giving me the once-over.

At first it bothered me a little. Then I figured I was being paranoid, having just left a prison where everyone pinned both the guard and me as we walked along the prison corridors to meet Roberts in the visiting room.

But why were the two guys just sitting there in the sedan in this heat without getting out and ordering anything to eat? They were hard looking, serious, like cops. But they weren’t cops. Cops didn’t wear Deadhead T-shirts, at least while on duty—unless they were undercover. And undercover cops worked alone, not in pairs.

The Buick had no front license plate, no number. Anyhow, what would I do with it? Find a phone booth and call it in? “Hey, Sol, can you run a plate? Very suspicious, two guys are parked at an In-N-Out without a burger in their hands.”

Looking out at the guys in the Buick staring at me put a dent in my appetite. I picked up the box holding my cheeseburger and fries and changed tables.

I didn’t see her approach, but I turned when I heard the pleasant lilt of her voice. “Hey, fella, got a light?” Five-foot-nine of feminine beauty, a figure in a mini-skirt and a semi-transparent ghost of a flowery blouse stood next to my table. She had the look of a woman who’d stepped out of a forties movie, the femme fatale, not the loving wifey type. I dropped my burger and sprung to my feet. She held a cigarette in two fingers out in front of her face, a face that would make a dead man dance.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, fumbling in my pockets. I pulled out a book of matches that I kept for such emergencies and lit her cigarette.

Without taking her eyes off of me, she took a long drag. She exhaled and the smoke curled out slowly through her parted lips. Her face, backlit against the sun, seemed to glow and her bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle when she smiled. She glanced out at Grand Avenue.

“Traffic’s bad, huh?” she said.

“Yeah, the Sig Alert, big rig flipped over. It’s a mess.”

“Where you headed?” she asked. Was she just making small talk?

“Downey,” I said without adding anything.

She studied me for a moment. “Hmm, never been to Downey.”

“I have an office there.”

Her smile grew. “I knew you were a professional man. You have that look.”

Was she coming on to me? That would be wild, more than wild. Maybe I should’ve worn a nicer shirt. “Thanks, I’m in the law business.” I didn’t want to mention the word lawyer. Some people get spooked, or they start asking my advice, whip out their insurance policy and want me to read it, or something.

“Law biz, huh? Well you must be smart.” Her eyebrow arched a bit, like she was asking for a confirmation of her remark.

“Do you live around here?” I asked, with illusions bouncing in my brain. I wondered what it would be like to sleep with her. The word
fantastic
came to mind.

“Just passing through.”

I gestured toward the takeout window. “Hey, are you hungry? Can I buy you a Coke, a burger, some fries?” Big spender Jimmy, a girl like her probably turns down proposals for lunch at the Ritz, and I offer her a burger from a takeout joint. “Or, maybe, we could—”

She took another drag on her cigarette. “That’s sweet of you but I have to get along.”

I brushed back my hair with my hand. “Yeah, I understand,” I said, but then wondered why she stopped here if she wasn’t hungry.

“Bye.” She smiled again and my gaze followed the slow rippling of her hips as she sauntered away. If I could package that walk and sell it three for a buck, I’d make a fortune. She headed back toward the parking lot, walking to a red Mercedes convertible parked a few spaces to the right of the Buick. The two big guys hadn’t moved.

I stood there for a moment taking in her beauty, knowing I should say something, but words wouldn’t form.

She stopped at the Mercedes sports car and over her shoulder, glanced back at me. She dropped the cigarette, grinding it out with the pointy toe of her stiletto boot. Then she opened the door of the convertible and slipped into the bucket seat. In a smooth motion, flashing a little thigh, she swung her incredible, almost mythical legs in and closed the door.

She guided the Mercedes to within a few yards of my table. With a long slender finger, she beckoned me over.

“You’re Jimmy O’Brien, aren’t you?” she asked, looking up at me.

How would she know my name? I didn’t recognize her, except in my dreams. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“I have a message for you.”

“Yeah?”

The beauty wasn’t smiling this time. “Certain people want you to stop messing around where you don’t belong,” she said as she the convertible’s engine came to life.

There are over forty sphincter muscles in the human body, all of mine tightened. “Who are these
certain
people? And just exactly where is it that I don’t belong?”

She didn’t answer. She shoved the Mercedes in gear and raced away. Was it my imagination, or did she glance at the men in the Buick, nodding once, as she turned onto Grand Avenue?

Sitting at the table again, I wondered what the hell that was all about. I picked up the remains of my cheeseburger, which now didn’t seem so appetizing, and dumped it in the trash bin.

After climbing back into my Vette, I pulled out of the parking lot and turned left on Grand, in the opposite direction of the woman. I adjusted the rearview mirror. The Buick was gone.

C H A P T E R 
7

Back on the road again,
I limped along on Grand Avenue, making little progress. I finally turned at Payton and drove south. It would be a bit out of the way, but I figured I’d beat the traffic by traversing the Chino Hills via Carbon Canyon Road. Then I’d catch Imperial Highway, which in a roundabout way would take me back to Downey. Plus, I knew I’d enjoy the scenic drive with its little-known, two-lane road wandering through the pass. So as not to spoil my ride, I vowed to put the woman’s message out of my mind. Maybe it was a hoax, but I doubted it. Those guys in the Buick were real and they looked like thugs. They were part of her warning. They meant to be noticed. It wasn’t a joke, and the clowns in the car weren’t laughing.

California oaks and dry chaparral covered the hills on each side of the narrow road, and as I drove along, I couldn’t get the mystery woman out of my mind.

The intimidation was over for now, but I felt that I hadn’t seen the last of those two guys in the black Buick. Maybe I hadn’t seen the last of the beauty with the dynamite figure either.

But who the hell was she? I knew she was just a messenger. But for whom? And what was I doing that bothered someone enough to send a gorgeous babe in a skirt like that to give me a warning?

Could it be one of my cases? Didn’t have many, just a few misdemeanors. Couldn’t have been Kelley with his bounced checks—banks were ruthless, but they didn’t hire thugs to collect on bad paper. They didn’t have to; they’d send the FBI. How about Crazy Charlie and his moral turpitude charge? I had to chuckle, Charlie spitting at Mayor DiLoreto when the city council refused to let him park his trailer on his front lawn after Charlie’s wife kicked him out of the house. I doubted the mayor would send the mystery woman and the bruisers in the Buick because of a little spit.

That left the Roberts case. But how could it be about Roberts? He’d just signed the retainer agreement less than an hour ago. Whoever sent the warning wouldn’t have had enough time to set anything up. And, Christ, he’d been in prison almost thirty years. Surely no one would care about him now.

I quickly ran through my mind everyone I’d told about the case: Rita, Mabel, Sol… Millie knew about it, of course. But before I finished that thought, I realized it was ridiculous to think my friends would try to scare me off. Hey, what about the judge who assigned the case to me, or her staff, her bailiff, all the people she told? And how about all the guards at the prison that saw me with Roberts?

It was after six when I finally made it back to Downey and pulled into the parking lot at my office. No other cars were there. Rita and Mabel had left for the day. Sitting at my desk, rummaging through the day’s mail, ads and junk mostly—Mabel had already taken care of the important stuff and filed it away—I picked up an envelope, an ad for a membership in the Starlight Gym, beautiful girls without an ounce of fat, but boobs bigger than their heads, graced the glossy brochure;
get your flabby butt in shape by Christmas, $19.95 per month
. I dropped it in the wastebasket and thought some more about who could’ve known my plan to investigate the Roberts affair. I remembered mouthing off at the hearing—about the possibility of filing for a new trial. That would mean anyone in the room at that time could’ve known, including the board members, the prison guard, even the Deputy DA. I shook my head. Was there anyone who hadn’t heard that I’d taken on the Roberts case? Some blind monk in the mountains of Tibet, I supposed.

I massaged my temples with the knuckles of my two forefingers. What am I missing here? Wait a minute! Roberts also knew. Maybe he told his cellmate and the word got out through the prison pipeline. No, that would take too long. The dark-haired beauty had to be waiting for me at the prison. She had to have followed me to the In-N-Out from there. But what about the thugs in the Buick? They showed up at the burger joint, too. And that had to have been pre-planned. They had to know about me taking Roberts as a client even before he signed the form. These people had to be mind readers.
My God, who were they?

Mabel also left a note next to the mail. I glance at it and nodded. In her hasty scrawl she had written that Schlereth’s secretary called to let us know that the board had turned down Roberts’s parole. No surprise. A formal down letter would be sent to the prison authorities within a few days. The warden would’ve received a phone call about the decision, as well. He must’ve told Roberts the bad news by now. When it came in the mail, the official letter would go in his file and be buried there with the rest of the detritus of a failed life.

I got up and started for the door, but stopped when the phone rang. I picked it up. Sol was on the line. Background noise, ice cubes rattling, and the sound of a piano told me he was at a bar, probably Rocco’s. I knew he would ask me to join him and he could be persuasive, but I was too tired and had a migraine coming on. And I’ll admit it, the mystery woman with the face of an angel and those thugs in the Buick had me bugged. I wanted to head to my apartment, take some aspirin, and soak in a hot tub for a couple of hours. I’d take a pass with Sol and see him tomorrow. Yeah, I’ll tell him that I’ll catch him tomorrow, maybe for lunch.

“Jimmy, I’m at Rocco’s. Come on over. I have news about your case.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” The guy had a certain way about him. I couldn’t turn him down.

Everyone who walked into Rocco’s was hit immediately with music coming from the bar, located two steps down and to the right of the maître d’ station. And tonight was no exception.

The piano player, a short, spunky black guy, pounded the ivory and sang Gershwin classics, murdering them. When he sang “I’ve Got a Crush on You” it sounded like a steamroller crushing rocks.

I sat at Sol’s table and pulled my chair in close, leaning into him, so I could hear his voice above the racket.

“Isn’t the guy terrific?” he said, indicating the piano player. “When it comes to Gershwin the guy’s magic.”

The entertainer’s fingers were okay, playing George Gershwin’s music, but again, his voice pulverized brother Ira’s timeless lyrics. I wanted to say, “It ain’t necessarily so,” but in lieu of that I said, “S’wonderful. How long has this been going on?”

“Since a foggy day.”

“Fascinatin’ rhythm.”

“Nice work if you can get it.”

“But not for me,” I said.

“Well, Porgy, there’s a boat dat’s leavin’ soon.”

“Okay, Sol, I give.” We both laughed and the laughter chased my migraine away.

After a few more Gershwin numbers the piano player took a break and we moved into the dining room. We slipped into Sol’s private booth. Jeanine appeared, bearing two tall glasses of ice water. She whisked away the reserved sign and handed us menus. Sol ordered the rack of lamb. I ordered a hamburger.

“Chazerai
,” Sol said. “Do you live on hamburgers? Maybe I should call you Wimpy.”

“Nah, I eat pizza, too.”

“And donuts?”

“A few.”

After Sol finished his lamb and I’d eaten my hamburger, I sipped coffee while Sol worked on his dessert. Between bites of crème brûlée Sol told me his news about the Roberts case. “I’ve located Frank Byron, the DA who put your guy behind bars in ’45. He’s agreed to see us.”

“Hey, that’s great. When?”

“He’s retired, has a small ranch in Santa Barbara. We’ll drive out together tomorrow morning. One thing, though.”

“What?”

“He doesn’t know what this is all about. I didn’t think he’d talk to us if I mentioned the Roberts thing. So I had to make up something, told him you were a journalist. Doing a story.”

“What kind of story?”

“Told him you’re doing a piece on L.A. in the forties and wanted to interview him about his historic role in eliminating corruption in the DA’s office back then. I’m your assistant.”

The thought of Sol Silverman as an assistant journalist almost made me choke on my coffee.

“Christ, Sol. I don’t know a damn thing about corruption in the forties. How are we going to pull off a charade like that?”

“Just wing it and you’ll do fine, my boy,” Sol said. “We’re meeting Byron at eleven. Hey, there’s something else about Byron you might want to write about.”

“Sol, I’m not gonna write anything. I’m not really a journalist.”

“You can ask him what he did after he left office.”

“Didn’t he run for governor and lose?”

“After that.”

“What did he do?”

“Why don’t you ask Byron? Maybe he’ll tell you about the work he did for the Haskell Foundation.”