Omerta

by Larry Darter

  After a while, he could tell from her even breathing that Lucy had fallen back asleep. Drew eased out of bed, careful not to wake her. Grabbing his boxers, he slipped them on. Then he went to the kitchen to brew coffee and wait for the sun to rise.

  Chapter 14

  Drew drove into the police lot at West Bureau at a quarter past six. He parked next to Lucy’s Mustang. They had spoken little on the drive.

  “Sorry for the freak show last night,” Drew said.

  Lucy smiled, then leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. “Nothing to apologize for,” she said. “I had a nice time, Howie. Thank you.”

  “I had a great time,” Drew said.

  Lucy smiled and flashed the electric blues over the top of the Ray-Bans. She opened the door and got out of the car. Instead of closing the door, she leaned in and said, “Don’t forget we have a date tonight, Detective,” she said with a grin. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  Drew smiled. “I won’t be,” he said. “Promise.”

  Lucy gave him an air kiss and closed the door. Drew got out and watched her get in the Mustang. She started the car, revved the engine, gave him a wave, and wheeled out of the lot.

  “That looked like that brunette getting out of your car, Youngblood,” Ortega said from behind him.

  Drew turned and gave him a sheepish grin.

  “I thought your date was tonight,” Ortega said.

  “We had a trial run,” Drew said, his ears burning.

  “You better not be too tired to get your work done,” Ortega said with a grin. He handed Drew a paper cup of coffee. Then they walked inside.

  A little before nine, the two detectives went to Lieutenant Walsh’s office to give her a status report on the case.

  “You think Welch is your guy?” Walsh said.

  “I like him for it,” Ortega said. “My young protege disagrees. He thinks Hurst was the shooter.”

  “Well, the polygraph should give you a better idea,” Walsh said. “Why do you think Welch isn’t the guy, Drew?”

  “I’m not sure he isn’t,” Drew said. “I’m just not ready to dismiss Hurst yet. For one thing, at least as far as we know now, Hurst seems to be the one with a motive.”

  Walsh nodded. “Maybe the polygraph will change your mind,” she said. “You two have made progress. That’s good. But so that you know, I can give you only another week on Silverman. After that, you two go back on rotation. Everyone else is getting hammered.”

  “But we’re keeping the case?” Ortega said. “Right, LT?”

  “As far as I am concerned,” Walsh said. “You will just have to strike a balance if you catch another case. But I’ll be straight with you guys. If you don’t make an arrest by the end of next week, the deputy chief will start getting pressure from the PAB tenth floor. If that happens, with all due respect, the deputy chief will fold like a cheap tent. He will kick the case downtown to open-unsolved to get the pressure off him.”

  “Well, maybe we will clear it today,” Ortega said. “If the polygraph fingers Welch.”

  “That would be the best outcome,” Walsh said. “But if it doesn’t break that way, I want you both to know what the future holds.”

  “If it isn’t Welch, then it has to be Hurst,” Drew said. “Even though Rudy is leaning towards Welch, we still both see it that way. It looks like if it turns out to be Hurst, command would want us to clear the case.”

  “It’s politics, Howie,” Walsh said. “Politics is the bane of homicide work because homicide cases often take a lot of time and resources. It sucks, but the reality is command cares more about the department’s image than they care about clearing cases. They would rather move a tough case to open-unsolved, let it gather dust, and hope people forget about it. As long as we’re working it as an active case, it stays in the news. That’s above all our pay grades.”

  “She’s right, Youngblood,” Ortega said. “It’s not right, but it’s the way it is. Best we can do is bust our asses and try to solve it before the end of next week.”

  “Then I guess that’s what we must do,” Drew said.

  “Thanks, gentlemen,” Walsh said. “Keep me posted.”

  Ortega and Drew left the office.

  “I’ll call the Polygraph Unit to make sure they are set up and ready to go,” Ortega said. “Then I’ll bring the car around so we’ll be ready when Welch gets here.”

  Drew nodded, and they went back to the squad room. When Drew got back to his desk, he got some good news. Rowan Zuckerman had called and left a message telling him that Fiona Silverman’s memorial service was set for 11 A.M. on Tuesday at the Writer’s Guild Theater. That meant they would get the chance to interview William Hurst before the deadline looming the following week. Drew felt more confident they would clear the case, even if they determined Welch wasn’t their guy.

  Nelson Welch arrived fifteen minutes late at ten-fifteen. The detectives had already started to worry he would not show. Welch wore a black Western button-down shirt, jeans, and black cowboy boots. Ortega left to bring his car around to the front from the police lot while Drew went to the lobby to meet Welch.

  When Drew greeted him in the lobby, Welch appeared as unfazed as he had the previous day.

  “Did you remember to bring your day planner?” Drew said.

  “No, sorry, I forgot it,” Welch said casually. “But I checked, and I had nothing written down for Friday or Saturday.”

  “Okay,” Drew said. “We’ll run you downtown to the Technical Investigation Division for the polygraph test, and then we’ll bring you back here to pick up your car.”

  “You can’t do it here?” Welch said impatiently.

  “No, the polygraph unit is downtown at Piper Tech,” Drew said. “We do all the examinations there.”

  “You know, my friends say I shouldn’t take a polygraph because they are not reliable,” Welch said.

  “We’re asking you to take a polygraph because that’s how we’re clearing those who were closest to Fiona,” Drew said. “If you’re innocent, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Drew was worried Welch was going to back out and ask for a lawyer. He looked at Welch intently, waiting for an answer. Welch shrugged and nodded weakly. “Sure, okay,” he said.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, the detectives walked Welch into the LAPD Polygraph Unit at Piper Tech on Raimerz Street. A civilian examiner seated Welch in the chair inside a small polygraph cubicle and attached the sensors. Ortega and Drew monitored the test via the feed from a video camera inside the polygraph cubicle from another room. Welch sat on the edge of his chair. For the first time, he appeared nervous. Welch kept crossing and uncrossing his legs. He tugged anxiously at an earlobe.

  “Look at him,” Ortega said gleefully. “He’s nervous as a whore in church. I think we’re going to solve this case.”

  The examiner, who had previously consulted with the detectives, asked four simple questions to establish the norms for Welch’s signals. He then started asking the real questions.

  “Did you shoot Fiona Silverman?”

  “No,” Welch said.

  “Were you inside Fiona Silverman’s room at the exact time she was shot?”

  “No.”

  Welch squirmed and tapped the toes of his boots on the floor as he answered the questions.

  “Were you inside Fiona Silverman’s house at the exact time she was shot?”

  “No.”

  “He’s fucking lying,” Ortega said. “Look how he is behaving.”

  The polygraph examiner asked about a dozen more questions. Welch answered no to all of them. After the examiner concluded the polygraph examination, he left the cubicle to talk with Ortega and Drew.

  “He didn’t tell the whole truth,” the examiner said. “He was deceptive. I certainly can’t clear him. My gut feeling is he did it, but something is missing.”

  A second examiner in the room who had helped grade the results for quality control purposes said, “He did
n’t completely blow the test, but something is going on with him.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have much of a conscience,” Drew said. “I got that vibe when we interviewed him yesterday.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” said the examiner who conducted the test. “The only way to find out what is going on is to hit him between the eyes. But, if I do that, he will probably ask for an attorney.”

  “I think we have to take the risk,” Ortega said. “I think he did it, but we don’t have enough to make the arrest yet.”

  “Okay,” the examiner said. He went back to the polygraph cubicle.

  “You failed the polygraph,” the examiner said to Welch.

  Welch blanched and said, “What?”

  “I can’t smile and say everything will be okay,” the examiner said. “How you handle this is very important. You have to cooperate with us and tell the truth.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Welch said. “I did nothing.”

  “When I’m joking with someone, I laugh,” the examiner said. “You see me laughing? This is probably the worst trouble you will ever face in your life.”

  Welch sighed. “My friends warned me these things are unreliable,” he said. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this. This is absurd.”

  “This is real,” the examiner said. “This is your life we’re talking about. It’s not going to just go away. I’m giving you a chance to cooperate. You have no criminal record—“

  Welch interrupted him. “I’m at a loss here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about shooting Fiona Silverman to death,” the examiner said. “That’s what I’m talking about. Why did you shoot her?”

  “How can you say such a thing?” Welch said, glaring at the examiner.

  Welch exhibited little emotion. He didn’t stridently deny he had committed the crime. Instead of jumping up from the chair, shouting, and waving his hands wildly, he seemed almost calm. He didn’t scream at his accuser. The second examiner and the detectives watching from the other room knew those were the normal behaviors of people accused of murder, even if they were guilty. But Welch showed almost no reaction to the accusation the examiner had leveled. He simply stared blankly at the examiner.

  “You’re like a person sinking in quicksand, and I’m reaching out to you,” the examiner said. “If you keep slapping my hand away, there will be nothing I can do for you. I’m trying to help you do the right thing.”

  Welch fiddled with the heel of his boot for a moment. “I’ve been doing the right thing,” he said. “I don’t understand any of this. It’s crazy. I’m totally flabbergasted you think I could have had anything to do with what happened to Fiona.”

  Welch’s voice wavered, and his lips trembled as he continued. “How can I be blamed?” he said.

  When the examiner said nothing, Welch regained his composure. “I don’t believe I failed the test,” he retorted. “I don’t believe any of this.”

  The examiner left the cubicle and went back to the room where Ortega and Drew had been watching the video screen.

  “I pulled back because I think he was right on the verge of invoking,” the examiner said. “Have you ever seen anyone accused of murder sit there so long with hardly any reaction at all? I would have been out of that chair in a second screaming my innocence.”

  “Welch is one of the weirdest suspects I’ve ever dealt with,” Ortega said. “Howie, go get him and bring him in here.”

  Drew nodded and left for the cubicle to retrieve Welch. When he got back to the room with him, everyone sat down at the table.

  Welch glared at the men across the table from him. “Is this for real?” he demanded.

  “It’s for real,” Ortega said, trying to sound sympathetic. “We want to be fair with you, Nelson. You can talk to us if you want. We can try to find a way to resolve this.”

  Welch sighed. “I should probably speak to an attorney,” he said. “I have nothing else to say.”

  The detectives knew the interview was over. Once Welch had invoked, they couldn’t ask any further questions.

  “Okay,” Ortega said. “We will give you a ride back to pick up your car.”

  * * *

  A half-hour later, Ortega stopped in front of West Bureau, where Welch had parked his car earlier. Drew got out and opened the rear passenger door. Welch got out without a word, got in his car, and pulled away from the curb. He drove away down West Venice. Drew got back in the Crown Vic, and Ortega drove into the police lot and parked.

  “We were so close,” Ortega said. “I thought he was going to admit it.”

  “I don’t know,” Drew said. “I’m still not sure he is our guy.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Ortega said. “I’m going to write a search warrant for his house. It’s all we can do at this point. We don’t have enough to arrest him, and now that he has invoked, we’re dead in the water.”

  “Then lunch?” Drew said.

  “Nah, I was thinking,” Ortega said. “We have two hours of overtime coming from the other day when we interviewed Zuckerman over at Hollywood. If the lieutenant doesn’t have a problem with it, let’s comp it and take off early today.”

  “Works for me,” Drew said, thinking that would give him plenty of time to drive home to shower and change before he picked up Lucy at seven.

  “Speaking of Zuckerman,” Drew said. “He left me a message this morning. Silverman’s memorial service is Tuesday morning at eleven.”

  “Great, that has Tuesday covered,” Ortega said. “You have anything set up for Monday?”

  “Yes, interviews with three more of Silverman’s friends and another cousin.”

  “Howie, don’t get your hopes up too high about interviewing Hurst,” Ortega said. “I sincerely doubt he will show up at the memorial service.”

  “Well, even if he doesn’t, we should get the chance to talk to some of Silverman’s New York friends,” Drew said.

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Ortega said.

  By 2:15 P.M. Ortega had finished writing the search warrant for Welch’s house, and both detectives left the bureau to get an early start on the weekend.

  Chapter 15

  On the stage at the Writer’s Guild Theater in Beverly Hills, between two gigantic red floral hearts, was a large easel with a blown-up photograph of Fiona Silverman and her trademark look—thick dark hair down to her shoulders and straight-cut bangs across her forehead that almost obscured her eyes. A video loop played on a screen above the stage, showing her book covers and clips of her screenwriting projects.

  Drew’s date with Lucy Tomlinson had gone so well, the two of them had ended up spending the entire weekend together. By the end of the weekend, Drew knew Lucy was swiftly becoming more to him than just someone he enjoyed dating.

  Ortega and Drew had spent Monday interviewing three more of Silverman’s friends and another cousin. They had learned nothing new. All four people had reaffirmed what they had already heard many times. Fiona was fastidiously careful about locking her doors and windows at home and never opened the door to anyone she didn’t know. All four had also steered the detectives away from William Hurst as a possible suspect in the murder.

  Tuesday morning had arrived almost before the detectives knew it. The last week their commander was allowing them to focus solely on the Silverman case was speeding toward an end. In less than a week, they would go back on normal rotation and have to face the prospect of the case being kicked downtown to open-unsolved. Ortega and Drew hoped that the memorial service would provide them the break in the case they needed.

  An eclectic mix of relatives, writers, actors, and film industry executives had gathered to say their respects to Fiona Silverman. William Hurst was also expected to attend. Besides the formal interview with Hurst Drew had planned, he also hoped to get Hurst’s fingerprints and a writing sample from him. He also intended to ask Hurst to take a polygraph exam.

  Nelson Welch arrived at the memorial with his aunt. He was care
ful to avoid making eye contact with the two detectives. He didn’t know that Ortega had a signed search warrant in his coat pocket and that the two detectives would search his house that afternoon after the memorial concluded.

  A half-dozen of the victim’s friends delivered eulogies, all emphasizing Silverman’s talent and mourning her loss. From childhood until death, several of them noted, Silverman could never escape the shadow of violence.

  “Death lapped at Fiona’s ankles in a way none of us can even imagine,” one friend said. “A sense of doom surrounded her.”

  The same friend read a section from Fiona’s memoir. After shutting the book, she said, “In the end, Fiona had only a desk, a chair, an ancient computer, and two cantankerous dogs. But she was convinced her luck would change. It very well might have.”

  As the service wound down, it seemed apparent William Hurst would be a no show. Drew stepped out into the lobby and called his cell phone number. When the call went unanswered, Drew left a message, but Hurst didn’t call back. Ortega seemed to take in stride that Hurst hadn’t shown up, but it disappointed Drew.

  Once the service ended, Ortega and Drew mixed with the crowd of mourners, hoping to salvage something from the time they had invested in attending the event. They spoke with Silverman’s friends who had come to Los Angeles from out of town for the service, some from across the country. Many of them had known Silverman for decades. To the surprise of the two detectives, many of them also viewed Hurst differently from her West Coast friends.

  One longtime friend, also a writer, told the detectives that although Silverman had always claimed Hurst had not killed his wife, the woman said without elaborating that she believed his family was involved in Hurst’s wife’s disappearance. The woman also told them, “A man came up to me before the service started, a guy who had known Fiona for a long time. He talked to me like he was unburdening himself. He said Fiona once told him Bill had killed his wife. He said when he asked her how she knew, she told him Bill had admitted it to her.”