Detour to Murder jo-3

by Jeff Sherratt

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “Mrs. Hathaway had a big soapbox that she stored in a tool shed behind one of the bungalows. The box held papers and files dating back to the ’40s, insurance policies, phone numbers, that sort of thing. At first I thought the phone numbers might have some significant value, but when Roberts’s sentence was commuted I more or less dropped it.”

  Brodie jumped out of his chair. “Make your phone call right now. Because when you’re finished, you and I are going to take a ride out to Los Feliz. I want to show you the crime scene and maybe you can verify a hunch.”

  The lieutenant escorted me to a pay phone in the lobby and stood at a discrete distance, smoking a cigarette while I called the office.

  “Mabel, I won’t be back this afternoon. Did anyone from Balford’s court call today?”

  “No, no one called. But listen, we’ve got a serious problem here. You’ve got to take care of it right away.”

  Christ, what now? “What’s the matter, Mabel?”

  “Remember Rita’s client, the kid growing marijuana?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, simply put, the five-hundred retainer check is no good.”

  “What do you mean no good? Jesus.”

  “I deposited the check in the bank, then mailed out a bunch of our bills, four-hundred and ninety seven dollars’ worth. And now all the checks I mailed, every frigging one of them, are going to bounce. I’m not going to jail for writing bad checks, no sir, not me. Goddamn it!”

  “Calm down, Mabel. You’re not going to jail,” I said. “Let me figure this out. How could the retainer check come back so fast? It normally takes a few days for a check to be returned.”

  “It didn’t bounce. The asshole put a ‘stop payment’ on it. He sent a message by courier, canceling our services.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he found out that you had some sort of trouble with a judge, your reputation is not stellar, blah, blah, blah. Then he said the five-hundred-dollar check had been stopped. Rita doesn’t even know yet. But I don’t give a damn about that. You’ve got to cover all those checks I wrote.”

  “Look, Mabel, everything is going to be fine. Now do as I say. Call the bank and tell Mac what happened. Tell him I’ll be in tomorrow to straighten it all out somehow. None of our checks are going to bounce.”

  “We’ll still need fresh money coming in.”

  “I’m working on that, too.”

  “How’s the new client, the one we got from Balford, working out?”

  “He’s in good hands.”

  “I hope she’ll give us a lot more cases.”

  “I do too. Anything else going on?”

  “No… Wait, there is something. It’s kind of funny.”

  I could’ve used a laugh right then with all the crap that kept raining down on me.

  “A telephone guy showed up this morning. Had thirty new phones. Wanted to hook them up. I said, “Do we look like a bookie joint?” I told him to take a hike. We didn’t order any goddamn phones. Big company like that botches their orders… I guess we’re not the only ones who goof up occasionally, huh?”

  “Yeah, everybody screws up once in a while.”

  Including Roberts, I said to myself.

  “Wait, before you hang up, Sol called wants you to call him, said a guy named Bugliosi called-”

  Lt. Brodie ground out his cigarette on the floor and started moving toward me. “Mabel, I gotta go. I’ll call Sol later.”

  I felt a little relieved, certainly not about the retainer going bad. Those things happened. Fortunately, I had just enough left in the emergency reserve fund to cover the checks Mabel had sent out. So that wouldn’t be a problem. But more importantly, Balford hadn’t called and left a message saying I was toast. Balford was the firm’s primary source of income and it would be a disaster if she removed my name from the list again. The judge didn’t issue idle threats. She meant it when she said if she dropped me once more it would be permanent.

  I hung up the phone and walked with Lt. Brodie to his car. I’d worry about Mabel’s checks, the bank, and Balford tomorrow. It would be too late by the time I returned from the motel to do anything about them today. I didn’t think Bugliosi’s information would help at that point, but I’d call Sol as soon as I had time.

  We were driving north on the Hollywood Freeway, heading for the Hathaway motel when it dawned on me that I had missed my lunch date with Millie. I felt a tinge of guilt, but there was nothing I could do about it now. Obviously, I had a good excuse for standing her up, but I should’ve called her. I figured it’d be just one more problem I’d have to take care of tomorrow. I’d call her and explain the situation, right after I cleared up the mess at the bank. I was sure Millie would understand.

  Twenty minutes after we left downtown, we pulled up in front of Dink’s Hollywood Oasis on Los Feliz Blvd. A single police unit was parked haphazardly in front of the motel. We got out of the car and ducked under the yellow police tape that marked the property as a crime scene.

  No cars belonging to customers were parked in the lot. Except for the lone cop on guard, the place was deserted. The crime scene investigation team must’ve already completed their tasks and left. The coroner would’ve removed the body by now.

  Lt. Brodie spoke to the uniformed officer on duty. “We’ll only be here for a few minutes, Ernie. Continue with what you were doing.” The uniform moved back to his position by the motel office.

  Our feet crunched on the pea gravel covering the lot as Brodie and I made our way down the line of small bungalows. We darted into the weed-infested space between the bungalows numbered 5 and 6.

  In back of number 6, I saw the corrugated tin tool shed. The door was smashed open, the cardboard cartons inside scattered about, all of them torn open with the contents spilling out on the floor.

  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.”

  CHAPTER 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 s
omeone 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?

  CHAPTER 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 beh
ind 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.