[Lady Justice 03] - Lady Justice Gets Lei'd
Page 12
“They do, but that takes a while. In the meantime, you’re all they’ve got.”
“So I’m in jail, my wedding is canceled, and my life is a mess because a skeleton was found in a building I own? Is that all they’ve got?”
“Not exactly.”
“Great! What else?”
“They found a Teamsters’ Union pin with the body.”
“So what’s that got to do with me?”
“How long were you a realtor?”
“Thirty years. I bought the building my first year in the business.”
“So that would have been around 1980?”
“Yeah, that’s about right.”
“What did you do the ten years before you were a real estate agent?”
“Let’s see. I was in college, then I worked for the post office for four years, then … then I ran a route for Wonder Bread for two years.”
“You drove a truck for Wonder Bread?”
“Oh crap! I see where this is going. I was in the Teamsters’ Union for those two years. I had no choice. If you wanted to drive, you had to be in the union. But I never even attended a meeting.”
“But you can see how it all ties together.”
“Ozzie, can you get me out of here?”
“Maybe. Everything they have is circumstantial. They are going to want to grill you, but after that I can get you out on bail.”
Grill was certainly an appropriate term. After hours in which authorities looked under every rock in my life, I was released on bail with the admonition, “Don’t leave town.”
I called Maggie immediately. She had been out of her mind with worry. She had picked up the phone after my abrupt departure, and Dad had filled her in on what he knew.
After I gave her the gory details of my incarceration, I told her to hang tight and try to enjoy her vacation.
I also assured her that her betrothed was not an axe murderer.
It was not much comfort under the circumstances.
My next stop was the office of Stewart Title Insurance. I knew that I didn’t bury the body, so it had to be someone who owned the building before me. I needed to run a chain of title.
I had given hundreds of transactions worth a bundle to Stewart Title over the years, so I figured they owed me a favor.
Ester Waterman had been my favorite title examiner over the years. She had closed many a transaction for both Maggie and me.
“Hi, Esther. How’s the title business?”
“Walt! So good to see you. Business is so-so. I’m keeping busy.”
“Not too busy to do me a favor, I hope.”
“Just name it.”
“I need you to run a chain of title, back to, say, 1960.” I gave her the address.
“Isn’t that your building?”
“Yep. You’ve got a good memory.”
“I just hope our computer records go back that far.
If not, it would be a real pain to have to dig it out by hand. That would take some time.”
“Time isn’t something I have in abundance right now, so good luck.”
She poked around on the computer for a few minutes and finally announced, “You’re in luck. We go back to 1955 on that property, and let’s see. Looks there have only been three owners since that time. You bought the building in 1980 from Arnold Gobel, and he bought it in 1977 from Nicolas Civella. That’s as far back as we go.”
“Can you print that out for me?”
“Absolutely. Hey, wait a minute. Aren’t you supposed to be in Hawaii marrying Maggie McBride?”
“It’s a long story.”
I thanked her and headed home to boot up the computer.
On the way home, my cell phone beeped.
“Walt, it’s Ozzie. I have some news. I don’t know how much help this will be, but the cops have released the information that the skeleton was not intact when they found it. It looks like the body was dismembered before it was enclosed behind the wall.”
“Swell. I suppose now they will want to check out all my hand tools for body parts.”
“Actually, I think they may have already done that.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m afraid you may find your apartment in kind of a mess. They’re not real careful when they search a place.”
When I arrived home, Dad and the professor were sitting on the porch. They wouldn’t let me pass until I had brought them up to date on the investigation.
“Look, guys, I’ve got to get to my computer and look up the two previous owners of the building. This has got to be connected to one of them.”
“What are their names?” Dad asked.
I opened the printout that Esther had given me. “Arnold Gobel and Nicholas Civella.”
Dad and the professor exchanged knowing looks.
“What? Are these names supposed to mean something to me?”
“Well, I don’t know about that Gobel fellow, but Nick Civella should ring a few bells.”
“How so?”
“The Civella family, Nick and his brother, Carl, ran the Kansas City mob for years, starting in the early seventies.”
“Well, that certainly could explain a lot of things.”
Then the professor chimed in, “In addition to gambling, prostitution, and the usual mob stuff, they also operated legitimate businesses that they used to launder their illegal money.”
“And don’t forget the teamsters,” Dad said. “They had Roy Lee Williams, the president, in their pocket and financed all kinds of things with loans from the teamsters’ pension fund.”
“I need to find out more about those guys. I’d better get to the computer.”
“I think I can do better than that,” the professor said. “My old friend from the university, Professor Winkle, studied crime in Kansas City extensively from the early Pendergast years clear through the debacle in the River Quay. He can tell you more than you will ever find on Google.”
“Great! Hook me up.”
Professor Winkle lived in the Brookside area in one of those stately Victorian homes covered with ivy and gingerbread molding.
“Professor Skinner filled me in on what you’re looking for,” he said as he led me into his library. “The Civella family has quite a history in Kansas City.”
“Yes, evidently he used to own the building that I now own, and I’m wondering what other ties he had to local businesses.”
“Let’s take a look,” he said as he opened a thick notebook. “In addition to several apartment buildings like yours—let’s see—they also had ties to a trucking company, some bars and strip clubs, a construction company, and a medical waste disposal company.”
“Well, the construction company could certainly be a tie-in. Do you have addresses for all of the places?”
“Certainly, but understand, this was forty years ago. Those businesses most likely don’t even exist today.”
After listening to an hour of Kansas City crime history, I thanked the professor and headed home. As I drove, I kept going over the ties to the Civella family. There was something there that seemed to be tugging at me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Then it struck me.
Just before we had left for Hawaii, there had been a major story in the Kansas City Star about a local company that disposed of medical waste.
I had never really given it a thought before. What do they do with the stuff they take out of you at the hospital? Do they just put your old appendix down the garbage disposal?
And what about the folks that are organ donors? What happens to the leftovers?
Nowadays, the stuff is labeled “biohazard medical waste” and is shipped to facilities where it is incinerated.
The stink came when containers filled with body parts arrived in Kansas City, Kansas, and it turned out to be the remains of somebody’s loved one who was supposed to have been cremated and sitting in an urn on the mantle.
Who was actually in the urn was anybody’s guess.
Who keeps track of all this stuff?
If I were an underworld crime boss, I couldn’t think of a better operation to own to get rid of the remains of some poor sap I just had whacked.
I parked and was headed for my apartment when Jerry collared me in the lobby.
“Hey, Walt. Your dad told me about your problems. Any breaks yet?”
Naturally I had to retell the whole story.
Jerry followed me upstairs. The doors were still sealed with crime scene tape, but I had been told that the authorities were through processing the scene.
I opened the door, and—yikes! I think ‘processing’ may have been an understatement.
Every drawer and cabinet stood open, their contents strewn about. Chairs and the couch were overturned, and the bed was totally disassembled.
This, along with the construction debris, gave the appearance that Hurricane Iniki had made a curtain call. I realized my mistake immediately when I said as much out loud.
Jerry pounced on that one immediately. “Walt, do you know what one palm tree said to the other as the hurricane approached?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Hang on to your nuts; I think we’re in for a big blow.”
I just love being Dean Martin to his Jerry Lewis.
To Jerry’s credit, he pitched in, and an hour later the place had been restored to some semblance of order.
I was about to boot up the computer when the phone rang.
“Walt, Captain Short here. I have some good news for you.”
“Terrific. I could use some good news about now.
Do you know what those goons did to my apartment?”
“Yeah, sorry about that, but maybe this will ease your pain. I pulled in some favors and got a rush on the carbon dating on the skeleton. While they can’t pinpoint the exact time of death, it does appear that the body was sealed up prior to your ownership. Looks like you’re off the hook.”
“That is good news, but why couldn’t they have done all that before they drug my sorry ass all the way back from Hawaii?”
“Yeah, that’s a real bummer. Anyway, they’re now going to take a hard look at the previous owners of the building. They now figure that the Teamsters’ pin probably belonged to the victim rather than the killer.”
“I think I can help with that. By the way, am I free to rejoin my lovely bride?”
“Absolutely. Go with our blessing.”
I briefed the captain on my title search and meeting with Professor Winkle.
My first call was to Maggie. She was overjoyed with the news.
We still had three days left on Kauai before we were scheduled to fly to Maui. I told her to call Sammy and see if Uncle Larry was still available, and I would catch the first available flight back to the islands.
I called Dad, Jerry, and the professor together to share the good news.
After I brought them up to date on the status of the investigation, Jerry and the professor were all smiles and congratulations, but Dad just sat there deep in thought.
“What’s up, Dad? What’s on your mind?”
“So now they think the body was buried sometime prior to 1980 and that the victim was a teamster?”
“That’s the way I understand it. Why is that important?”
“It’s probably nothing. Naw, it just couldn’t be.”
“What couldn’t be?” Now Dad had me curious.
“Well, I know of a teamster who disappeared in 1975, and his body was never found.”
The professor bolted upright. “You don’t think—no, it’s just too incredible.”
“But the timing is right,” Dad said. “Sonny, didn’t you say Civella owned the building until 1977?”
“Yes. Now what are you talking about? Who is this mystery victim?”
Dad and the professor said the name simultaneously.
“Jimmy Hoffa.”
“What? No way.”
“It’s a stretch,” the professor said, “but let’s consider some facts. Hoffa was president of the teamsters until he was convicted of jury tampering in 1964. It was no secret that he was connected with the mob. When he went to jail, he selected Frank Fitzsimmons to lead the union.
“He served five years and was given a pardon by Nixon in 1971. He had to wait five more years before he could try to assume his old position as president of the union.”
“Yeah,” Dad said, “and he didn’t waste any time.
As soon as he was released, he started lining up support for his takeover. Unfortunately for him, the mob liked working with Fitzsimmons. Hoffa was a real hard ass and difficult to control. Fitzsimmons was easier to handle. It was a tough time for us rank and file members. Hoffa was one of those guys you either hated or loved. There was no middle ground.”
“Hoffa disappeared on July thirtieth, nineteen seventy-five,” the professor continued. “He was in Bloomfield, Michigan, and was supposed to be meeting with some mob guys from Detroit. He was last seen in a car owned by Joe Giacalone, who ran the Detroit operation. Authorities found Hoffa’s DNA in the car, but Giacalone had an airtight alibi.”
“Everyone knew that the mob whacked him,” Dad said, “but there was never any direct evidence, and his body has never been found.”
I started putting the pieces of the puzzle together.
“So what you’re saying is that the Detroit guys nabbed him, dismembered the body, and shipped it to Civella’s medical waste facility here in Kansas City? Why didn’t they just burn it along with the other medical waste?”
“Who knows about those mob guys. They had so many ways to dispose of bodies. You’ve heard of the ‘cement shoes’ on guys dumped in the river, and bodies have been found cemented into the foundations of old buildings and on and on. Maybe it was just Civella’s way of immortalizing the infamous Jimmy Hoffa for his own purposes. Civella had his own problems, and if push ever came to shove, he could use Hoffa’s body as his ace in the hole.”
“You said that the authorities had Hoffa’s DNA?”
“Yes, they do.”
I knew it was a long shot, but what the hell? I called the captain and shared our theory. I suggested that they might run a comparison of the skeleton DNA with that of the missing Jimmy Hoffa.
To this day, I don’t know if the comparison was ever run.
All I know is that the last call I made before boarding my flight back to Hawaii was to the brass running the case.
I foolishly asked if the body found in my building was the long-lost Jimmy Hoffa.
Their curt reply was, “At this point in our investigation, we cannot confirm or deny the identity of the victim.”
What do you suppose that meant?
CHAPTER 13
As I settled in on the long flight back to Kauai, I reviewed the events of the past year. They had unfolded like an old Mickey Spillane novel.
Maggie and I had been kidnapped, mugged, beaten, and nearly roasted; I feared more was to come, remembering the dire warning of Uncle Ray.
I silently wondered if Maggie was having any second thoughts. When we met we were both realtors, and the worst thing we had to endure was the wrath of an irate homeowner who was upset because his home hadn’t sold yet.
She hadn’t signed up to be Dale Evans to my Roy
Rogers.
I had always imagined the golden years to be peaceful and serene, and I had pictured us walking hand-in-hand in exotic places and curled up together in front of a fire on a cold winter’s night.
Instead, I had given her a steady flow of murder, mayhem, lowlifes, and scumbags.
She had every reason in the world to make a hasty exit—stage left.
These ruminations made for an uncomfortable ride back to paradise.
My fears, however justified, were allayed when Maggie greeted me at the terminal. There was no mistaking the absolute
conviction of her hug as she threw herself into my arms and pressed tight against my body.
It brought to mind the old adage, “Worry is the interest paid on trouble that may never come due.”
On the ride to the Marriott, I gave her the gory details of the mysterious skeleton in my closet, and she filled me in on what I had missed during my incarceration. It was comforting to hear that while Waimea Canyon and Hanalei Bay were beautiful, they lacked the one thing that would have made them perfect—me!
I wanted to stay up with Maggie, but my poor body that had crossed four time zones twice in three days suddenly shut down. My biological clock was so screwed up that the only apparent solution was to press the reset button, and I conked out.
When I awoke fourteen hours later, I thought maybe I had died and gone to heaven.
The warm sun was streaming in the window, and my beautiful bride-to-be was sitting by my bed with a room service tray filled with warm pastries, fresh fruit, and an omelet the size of a football. After partaking of this sumptuous feast, I showered and shaved and finally felt like I had rejoined the human race.
Maggie took my hand and led me to the living room, and we sat together on the couch.
“Walt, tomorrow is the big day. Unless you pull another crazy stunt, we may actually have a chance to be married, but I think I have something here you should see.”
Maggie had shared with Sammy our misgivings about beginning our new life together amid the ruins of the hurricane-ravaged Coco Palms. There are hundreds of beautiful places in the islands where we could be married, and I had wondered several times why we had chosen this one.
“Sammy gave me these tapes,” she said. “I think we should take a look.”
The Coco Palms had been one of the premier Hawaiian resorts in the sixties. Its luxurious grounds with lagoons surrounded by two thousand palm trees was the perfect setting for the wedding scene in Elvis’s Blue Hawaii.
Larry Rivera, a young boy during the filming of the movie, became close friends with Elvis and eventually became the featured performer at the resort’s lounge.
The first tape featured Uncle Larry and his family performing for a huge crowd during the resort’s glory years. We sat mesmerized, listening to Uncle Larry singing all the traditional Hawaiian favorites. We especially enjoyed the songs he had written: Kamalai, Beautiful Rainbow, and Limahuli. We realized that a very special person was planning our wedding.