Justice at Risk (25 page)

“I wish I could help you, Ben—”

“You can. By telling me what the hell is going on, fitting the pieces together for me. All of them, starting fifteen years ago.”

She shook her head resolutely, but her eyes were frightened. “No, I can’t. I can’t.”

“You’d better rethink that one, Cecile.”

“Please leave. Now.”

“I’m not going away, no matter how much that inconveniences you, or the cozy life you’ve created for yourself with Tiger Palumbo.”

Her eyes flashed with a deeper, more dangerous fear.

“Why can’t you just leave us alone? We love each other, we have something good together. Do you have to destroy that?”

“I have to know the truth. All of it.”

“Why?”

“What an odd question to come from someone in your line of work.”

“It’s sad what happened to Tommy Callahan. I mean that sincerely. But he didn’t mean anything to you, Mr. Justice. You’d never even met the man. Can’t you just leave it alone?”

“And Byron Mittelman? He doesn’t matter, either, Cecile? Shall I tell Melissa Zeigler to forget about the murder of her fiancé so you and Winston Tsao-Ping can continue to play out your masquerade?”

“You know the truth about my past then—about both of us?”

“Yes, I’ve figured that much out.”

Her eyes filled with conflict for a moment. Then she pulled herself up tall, raised her chin defiantly, and squared herself to face me.

“You’re terminated, Ben. You’ll be paid the second installment on your contract, and that ends your involvement with us. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

I grabbed her roughly by the upper arms, which were slim and soft, and looked into her troubled eyes.

“You’re in this awfully deep, Cecile. Both you and Winston Tsao-Ping. I’m running out of patience. I don’t care which one, but one of you had better start talking to me.”

I drove away from my encounter with Cecile Chang wound tighter than the copper coiling on an armature, charged with energy that had nowhere to go. When I came down out of bucolic Laurel Canyon into busy West Hollywood, I felt darker currents surge through me as I spotted a billboard warning of HIV transmission and urging early testing and treatment.

More references to the virus caught my attention as I made my way along Sunset Boulevard to Norma Place: advertisements on bus stop benches, placards in store windows, leaflets tacked to telephone poles, even an outlandish, comic-style condom reminder rising on a tall wall above Tower Records:
No Glove, No Love!

I felt that every message was directed at me personally, yet the last thing on earth I wanted to face was the possibility that I might be infected. How ridiculous, how utterly senseless, to become infected now, this late in the game. HIV and AIDS had been the one thing I felt I’d left behind, along with countless others in my community who had somehow survived. After living nearly two decades in crisis mode, with a crisis mentality—and all the emotional havoc that implied—the crisis was supposed to be behind us. It was supposed to be a time of celebration, of living again, as the old century wound down and a new one beckoned, bright with promise. It seemed so unreasonable to be facing the plague again now, so improbable and unfair. If I was infected, how would I explain it to anyone? How could I justify it? Live with it?

I felt some relief as I turned off Sunset and dropped into the pleasant neighborhood of the Norma Triangle, where the quaint little houses and well-tended yards offered a sense of order and safety, none more so than the fifty-year-old Craftsman on loan to me by Maurice and Fred while they idled away in Europe. That feeling of security was quickly shattered, however, when I realized that during my brief absence that morning, someone had broken into the house.

It was a neat, professional job, a quick, clean in-and-out. The intruder had broken in through the back door, past a dozing, half-deaf Maggie, who slept these days as if she were in a coma. Nothing in the house was messed up and not much had been taken—just my copy of the fifteen-year-old police report on the beating of Winston Tsao-Ping and the notes I’d been making, trying to connect that incident to the murders of Tommy Callahan and Byron Mittelman.

I immediately called Templeton at the
Sun
, ignoring the telephone messages collected on my machine.

When she picked up, her voice was as edgy as chewed nails.

“I’ve been leaving messages for you, Ben. Things have gotten really weird down here.”

“What’s going on?”

“I got laid off, for one thing. Which isn’t all that surprising, I guess. The strange part is that my computer files have been virtually erased, or else transferred elsewhere. When I went to retrieve some files, I discovered someone had been in my system, plundering as they pleased.”

“Roger Lawson.”

“I can’t imagine who else. Harry kept a number of reporters’ passwords in one of his files, in case of emergency. I had no problem with that, just as he had no problem with me knowing his.”

“I warned you not to give Harry’s password to Lawson.”

“I don’t need a lecture right now, Justice.”

“So Lawson got into Harry’s system, found your password, and decided to clean out your files, as long as he was giving you the pink slip. Maybe take a look through them to see if there’s anything he doesn’t want anyone else to see.”

“My computer files aren’t the only thing missing.”

I took a guess.

“Somebody snatched your copy of the police report on the Tsao-Ping beating, the one with Fairchild’s signature.”

“How did you know?”

“Someone broke into the house this morning and got mine.”

“We should have made extra copies.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“I’d tucked mine away in a special file I’d deliberately mislabeled, thinking it would be safe. They got it anyway. Someone had to want it very badly.”

“We need to talk to Katie, have her contact her source at the Hall of Records and get another copy.”

“I already did, Justice. It was the first thing I thought of.”

“I hope you’re not going to tell me what I think you’re going to tell me.”

“When her friend went to check, the original report was gone. Someone had removed it.”

“So, for all intents and purposes that report doesn’t exist anymore, and never did.”

“They’re covering their tracks fast, Justice. Whoever they are.”

“Have you tried to confront Lawson about any of this?”

“He’s incommunicado on one of the upper floors. They’ve brought in special security to keep people out, claiming that with all the layoffs they have to be extra careful. I can’t get near the sonofabitch. Which might be good, considering how I’m feeling. I’ve never scratched a man’s eyes out, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“If you claim he stole your copy of the report, or had someone do it, he’ll just deny it, say that you’re a disgruntled ex-employee making crazy charges.”

“No doubt.”

“I’d like to know why he’s stooping to this kind of nonsense. He’s taking some risks himself, treating a reporter like that.”

“I did some checking along those lines, too. I have a source over at Parker Center, fairly high up, who’s been in the department twenty-three years. He tells me that back in the late seventies, when Lawson was a police reporter with the Southland News Service, he regularly got pulled over for driving while intoxicated. Back in those days, the press and the police were a lot cozier, especially the reporters who worked the cop shop. It was routine for reporters to have their parking and traffic citations taken care of by a contact person within the LAPD.”

“I’ve heard that from Harry, when he was talking about the old days.”

“So guess who took care of Lawson’s tickets.”

“Felix Montego?”

“Higher up.”

“Taylor Fairchild himself.”

“That’s what my source says. Fairchild even got Lawson out of the drunk tank one night, without charges being brought, after Lawson had been involved in a minor hit-and-run.”

“So Lawson owed Fairchild.”

“Big time, considering Lawson’s ambitions in journalism and how the attitude toward drunk driving has changed in recent years. It would be a black mark that certainly wouldn’t help his career.”

“It looks like Fairchild decided to call in his debt, use Lawson to tidy up the mess where he could. I think that’s what they call the old boys’ club in action. Kind of inspires you to search out a manual on how to make bombs.”

“Speaking of explosives, I found something interesting in the public documents filed by the Documentary Channel. Jacob Kosterman may have used some of his own money from
On Patrol
as seed money to build his corporation, but he’s got a major silent partner.”

She gave me the name of the shareholding company and I wrote it down.

“This is a communications company? I’ve never heard of it.”

“You’re not supposed to. It’s one of the numerous companies set up by the late Harrington Cahill Maplewood.”

“Rose Fairchild’s father—the one who liked doing business with dictators.”

“The very same. Of course, the company’s now in her hands, a small piece of the Fairchild empire.”

“Which makes her Jacob Kosterman’s partner in the cable venture.”

“His primary financial backer.”

“Maybe I’ll have another talk with Kosterman.”

Templeton’s voice softened.

“Maybe you should pull back for a while instead.”

“Now? After what they’re doing to us?”

“I don’t like that craziness I hear in your voice, Ben. And you seemed a little shaky at the hospital yesterday.”

“Is that you talking, or Oree?”

“He mentioned it. He’s concerned. But I could see it too. What’s going on?”

I had to tell her something, so I thought fast.

“I’m also out of work, as of today.”

“What happened?”

“I pressed too hard, and Cecile Chang cut me loose.”

“You think Chang’s involved in all this?”

I told Templeton about the jade earring I’d discovered in Tommy Callahan’s motel room, and the elaborate steps Chang had taken to cover up its disappearance. I also told her that Oree Joffrien hadn’t been straight with me about his old friend from NYU, that there was a lot more to her than met the eye. I didn’t get more specific than that.

“You sound angry, Justice. No, that’s not it. Bitter, you sound really bitter.”

“Bitter doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling.”

“Something’s happened that you’re not telling me about.”

“How’s Harry?”

“You’re throwing up that old wall, Justice. The one you were warning me about just a couple of days ago.”

“The subject’s Harry.”

“He’s pretty much the same. Still unresponsive.”

“I’ll go see him.”

“He probably won’t know you’re there.”

“I’ll go anyway.”

“Maybe I’ll run into you. We’ll get some coffee or something.”

“Sure, we could do that.”

“This whole thing really troubles me, Benjamin.”

“Be careful from now on, Templeton.”

“Careful how?”

“Who you talk to and what about. We probably shouldn’t even be talking on the phone like this, given the LAPD’s wiretap capabilities.”

“There’s not much more I can do with it now, anyway. Without that police report, without a job. Maybe you should lie low for a while too, Ben. Until things quiet down.”

“It’s a little late for that now.”

“What do you mean by that? Dammit, Justice, talk to me!”

When I didn’t reply, she repeated my last name again, more insistently, but by then I was hanging up the phone.

With some daylight left, I called Jacob Kosterman to tell him I’d thought about his offer and wanted to see him again. I didn’t know exactly why I wanted to see him face to face, other than a vague feeling of anger that was growing combustible and a restlessness that had me crawling the walls. Also, answers; I wanted answers.

Kosterman’s office told me he was out, but relayed my message to him at the Getty Center, the massive museum complex that sat on a Brentwood hilltop overlooking the city, where Kosterman was in a business meeting. The center, built for a billion dollars, served as the new home of the J. Paul Getty Trust, which was endowed with more than four billion dollars from the Getty oil fortune, making it the world’s richest private art institution, with roughly three billion left over for the oil magnate’s heirs. Kosterman called me back personally and suggested we meet there at 6 p.m., in the Central Garden.

I pointed the Mustang west along Sunset Boulevard, past Bel-Air Estates and UCLA, then turned north on Sepulveda Boulevard until I reached Getty Center Drive a half mile farther on. I swung left and crossed under the freeway, then climbed the roadway that had been carved up the side of the mountain, as the center’s beige-colored buildings loomed larger above me. Because of the museum’s popularity, parking reservations were recommended, but Kosterman had left a special pass in my name at the main gate, which got me into the parking garage. Minutes later, I was riding a slow, winding tram the rest of the way up the mountain. At the top, I stepped out into an expansive plaza paved with stone.

The Getty Center was truly Olympian, a villa-like complex built from massive travertine blocks and curving aluminum panels that sprawled across more than a hundred lushly landscaped acres. The buildings were Modernist in design and somewhat austere—neutral in color and geometrically precise—but nonetheless breathtaking in their scope and imaginative use of space and light. They included a monumental museum comprised of five pavilions, a research institute that housed nearly a million books, restaurants with sweeping views, a lecture and performance hall, and two enormous buildings to the north and east that were closed to the public and housed the offices of the Getty Trust, which was required by law to spend roughly four percent of its wealth each year to acquire, preserve, and support international art and culture.

I’d been here once before, with Templeton, and pretty much knew my way around. It was a quarter to six by my watch, so I walked to the Central Garden, which was situated in a canyon between the angular Getty Museum and the drum-shaped Research Institute. The garden, which provided expansive city and ocean views at the top, was in the general shape of a terraced amphitheater, but unlike any other horticultural creation I’d seen, as imaginative and fantastic in design as the dramatic structures above it were institutional and aloof. Hundreds of plant species were visible along the terraced slopes, but the most vibrant colors were provided by bougainvillea, iceberg roses, and azaleas, hardy, long-blooming plants that were tended five days a week by several gardeners, yet seemed to grow in wild profusion. The bowl-shaped garden was anchored at the bottom by an intricate maze of flowering azaleas that appeared to float on a pond fed by a waterfall, and drew both the eye and the mind deeper and deeper, away from the fortress-like buildings and awesome vistas above, toward something more personal and serene.

I recognized Jacob Kosterman’s bald dome as he stood gazing down at the waterfall, and started toward him, descending along a gently sloping path. It zigzagged across a meandering stream and clusters of large, natural stones placed artfully in the hilly terrain. When I was standing beside Kosterman, I noticed that his pierced ear displayed neither the ring nor the stud I had seen on him previously, and he was wearing a conservative tie with his well-cut business suit. The effect was to age him several years and blunt his distinctive look, no doubt for the sake of doing business with an organization as formidable as the Getty Trust.

When I was standing beside him, he looked over at me, then back to the floating azalea maze below.

“It’s nice to see you again, Justice. Have you been here before?”

“Once.”

“It’s a remarkable achievement, isn’t it?”

“The garden, or all of it?”

He looked up, swept his hand.

“Everything. A fantastic legacy, a priceless gift to mankind.” Then he was looking at me again. “Something only great wealth could achieve.”

“Wealth at what cost, and to whom?”

His eyes stayed on me a moment, before they turned back to the floating flowers.

“I suggested we meet in the garden, Justice, because I felt it would appeal to the more—how shall I put it—the more free-spirited side of your nature.”

I glanced around at the lush flora, listened to the falling water.

“I find it makes me contemplative.”

“Perhaps you contemplate too much. There are times when one must accept reality as it is.” He smiled. “Go with the flow, as we used to say.”

I said nothing, and he posed the question I’d expected.

“Have you thought about what we discussed the other day at lunch? Your future in the telecommunications business.”

“About that lunch, Kosterman.”

“Yes?”

“The sushi was excellent, but there was a little too much obfuscation in the conversation for my taste.”

“I thought I answered your questions rather clearly, once we had an understanding.”

“You told me Taylor Fairchild had a rough time of it when his father was killed in the line of duty.”

“He did.”

“You implied that was the reason he might later have gotten off the straight and narrow, trying too hard to be one of the boys.”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“You failed to mention that he’d been sexually molested by his uncle in the year following his father’s death.”

There was a pause, filled by the babbling of the artificial brook behind us and the splash of water below.

“I don’t see that that’s any of your business, Justice. Or mine.”

“It was enough of your business for you to tell your parents about it, and enough of their business to report it to Rose Fairchild.”

“I thought someone should know.”

“Which is to your credit. Too often, that kind of abuse gets ignored.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you also think someone should know when the uncle died under mysterious circumstances in a boating accident a few months later? Not unlike the two robbery suspects had died in prison, the two men involved in Captain Fairchild’s death.”

“You’re treading in deep water, Justice.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Kosterman.”

“It never occurred to me to wonder about the uncle’s death. I was very young at the time, still in my teens.”

“It hasn’t occurred to you since?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“You don’t find the convenient deaths of the three men a rather strange coincidence?”

“I’d hoped this meeting might be more productive, at least from my standpoint.” He raised the sleeve of his jacket, glanced at his gold Rolex. “It’s getting late. I’m meeting my wife for dinner. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me.”

“That’s a fine timepiece you’re wearing, Kosterman.”

“Yes, it is. A gift from my wife, if it matters.”

“What does a watch like that set you back? Ten grand? Twenty?”

“In that range, I suppose.”

“You probably don’t have to be concerned with price tags anymore, do you, Kosterman? You can pretty much have what you want.”

“Fortunately, I’ve done well.”

He turned to go.

“Having Rose Fairchild pour some of her millions into the Documentary Channel must have eased your burden.”

He stopped in his tracks, regarding me coolly. I mentioned the name of the company Templeton had found in Kosterman’s corporate reports.

“When we had lunch, you neglected to mention that Rose Fairchild is your business partner.”

“She’s an investor, yes.”

“The primary stockholder.”

“As I said before, she’s an old family friend. I gave her the opportunity to become involved. Just as she invited me to do some documentary work for the Getty. Which is why I’m here today.”

“Rose Fairchild set up your meeting?”

“Rose Fairchild was at the meeting, Justice. Her friendship with certain families connected to the Getty Trust goes back many, many years.”

“I should have guessed that.”

“In a way, she’s with us at this moment, sharing the experience of the Central Garden.”

He glanced up the sloping hillside to a stone bench where Rose Fairchild sat, resplendent in a dark red business suit. Next to her was a man who looked familiar, but whose face I couldn’t place. Kosterman filled in the blank.

“That’s the mayor beside her, in case you’re wondering.”

“She gets around, doesn’t she?”

“She’s quite a remarkable woman, Justice. In a position to accomplish a great many things.”

“Like helping you put the truth back in television?”

He smiled.

“Her investment in my cable venture was fortuitous. I won’t deny that.”

“You have no problem taking blood money, Kosterman? No problem getting fat off the backs of the third world?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have no connection to any of that.”

“It’s all connected, Kosterman, and you know it. Every bit of it, right down to that fancy gold watch you’re wearing.”

His smile was smug now.

“Does this mean you won’t be coming to work for me?”

“It’s even connected to the beating of Winston Tsao-Ping, and the murders of Tommy Callahan and Byron Mittelman. All of it’s connected, all of it neatly covered up. And you played your part, Kosterman. You’re still playing it.”

His smile froze, but the smugness was gone, replaced by contempt that looked like it might be dangerous.

“You’re trying to take on something that’s much bigger and more powerful than you or I will ever be, Justice. You’re a fool to think you can win, or that you can even alter it a whit.”

“You and Felix Montego seem to be working from the same script.”

“Maybe you should start paying more attention to the words.”

“Maybe I have, and that’s the problem.”

He turned and started up the pathway. I lost sight of him as he crossed the stream and rounded a green hillock where a bower of bougainvillea exploded with color. I raised my eyes, searching for Rose Fairchild. The bench where she’d been sitting was empty.

I listened to the falling water for a while, then climbed back up and took her place on the bench, gazing out across the megalopolis at a burnt orange sun setting on an azure sea, feeling moved by the beauty around me, but crushed by the hidden power.