The other one was coming at me from behind and I gave him a backward elbow sharp in the chest. His pal was still doubled over and deciding whether or not to puke, and Christ I hoped he wouldn’t because that smell would linger, when the other one, who’d taken a couple steps back, got a gun out from somewhere, off his hip I guess, and showed it to me. It was dark in there but not that dark. I knew a .38 revolver when I saw one. Even in silhouette.
When the bad moment passed—the one where I wondered if it was my last—the guy who almost puked picked up my suit coat and tossed it at me while the other latched onto my right arm and they marched me out into sunshine and to their car, where they threw me in back.
Not thugs. Worse.
One guy was a rangy redhead with blue eyes and the other had pockmarks and actor teeth.
LAPD intel.
CHAPTER 18
We rode in an unmarked car, of course, with both intel boys in front, and me in back like a perp, but no handcuffs. I asked no questions and made no comments, wise-ass or otherwise, not inquiring about my rights or was I under arrest or even what the fuck time is it.
For their part, they had said only one thing—the redhead, anyway, who early on glanced back from the passenger seat to offer: “The captain wants to see you.”
Since I’d just assaulted two police officers, however unintentionally, the professional tone and demeanor of the ride did encourage me. Still, it was an inherently unsettling journey.
They could have been taking me anywhere—the Intelligence Division was not known for standing on ceremony—and even in this enlightened age, I might find myself beaten in a basement somewhere.
I’ll spare you the interminable trip, and instead provide a touch of background about my least favorite division of the LAPD. Intel consisted of something like forty officers dedicated to keeping out-of-town mobsters out of town. Both Parker and Hamilton made proud public statements about the extra-legal nature of the division’s activities. Like the three-man squad who’d memorized every nasty La Cosa Nostra face in their files, and worked the airport full-time, just watching, ready to refuse entry into Parker’s closed city.
Intel’s files weren’t just filled with mob guys. Potential Commies were in there, too, since Chief Parker frequently went on public record about his desire to “protect the American philosophy of life,” particularly from the Russians. Parker’s man Hamilton and the boys and girls of the Intelligence Division went after such subversives as labor leaders and reporters who’d failed to genuflect before the chief. My favorite was when they gathered intel on mayoral candidate Norris Poulson, trying to prevent his election.
But when Poulson did win the election, and the new mayor failed to fire Hamilton and disband the intel division, there were those who scratched their heads. Why would Poulson hold on to Hamilton and the division that had just tried to smear him? Others understood that the big bad files kept in the captain’s big fat safe made changes of administration irrelevant in LA.
There’d been a time when a ride downtown meant City Hall and a dank cellar cell where the likes of Hamilton and his crew would beat out a rubber-hose rhumba on the likes of yours truly. But times had changed. My chauffeurs were hauling me underground, all right—they were driving through a crowded lot toward an underground parking garage.
The seven-story very modern Police Administration Building sat like a big derailed boxcar pointing at nearby City Hall and other Civic Center buildings. Of course, hardly anybody called the facility by its actual name—to cop and crook alike, this was the Glass House, though that moniker had never prevented any stone-throwing, figurative or otherwise.
We took the elevator up to the fourth floor and they paraded me down a narrow, high-ceilinged, fluorescent-lit green hall through a door where a small black sign with white letters said INTELLIGENCE DIVISION, right across from ROBBERY HOMICIDE. The redhead took the lead, with me following, and the pockmarked dick behind me. In case I made a break for it.
The intel bullpen might have been a classroom: pale green walls, blonde-wood desks, white file cabinets and green ones, too, framed maps of the city and sections thereof. The office labeled (white on black) CAPTAIN JAMES HAMILTON had no receptionist.
The redhead knocked, didn’t wait for a reply, and stuck his head in. I could hear his muffled: “Got ’im, Cap.”
“Send his ass in,” Hamilton said. Not so muffled.
The redhead closed the door and came over to me and his partner.
“We’ll keep the scuffle to ourselves,” he said quietly. “You don’t want the captain knowing you swung on his officers, and I don’t wanna waste time confirming or denying havin’ to pull a gun on you.”
I nodded. “Deal.”
Behind me, the pockmarked guy said, “I didn’t agree to this crap.”
He was the one who’d taken the brunt of it, an elbow in the face, which had given him a welt, and my shoe in his gut.
The redhead said, “Let it go, Larry. Sometimes when you make an omelet, the yolk’s on you.”
Har de har har, as Ralph Kramden used to say. Still, kind of nice having one cop crack wise at the other cop, and save me the trouble. And risk.
Anyway, Larry let it go, and the redhead opened the door for me and made an after-you gesture and winked. Smart-ass. Being one, I didn’t much care for the rest of the breed.
The chair waiting for me in front of Hamilton’s desk was metal with a padded green vinyl seat. The captain was occupied with a file, so I got my bearings.
Not a big office, though not as sterile as some in the Glass House, Hamilton displaying numerous awards, citations, and even framed newspaper clippings on his walls. A big old iron safe—a relic from earlier, grittier days—squatted against the wall at my right, between metal filing cabinets. The fabled repository of the dirt that Chief Parker and his favorite police dog had dug out and assembled on one and sundry. And were continuing to do so.
The safe was not my favorite decorating touch, however—right above it hung a large framed photographic portrait of Chief William H. Parker, one of those pastel hand-tinted jobs that always made its subjects look slightly unreal and the men somewhat feminine. It was like Hamilton was displaying a portrait of his best girl.
I chose not to share this observation with Hamilton, who looked no less big sitting behind a big blonde desk that was arrayed with files, mug shots and circulars, standing family photos, a multi-line phone, and a much-used ash tray. His craggy face had a naturally sorrowful cast, but the small hard eyes seemed strangers to pity.
He tossed aside the report like a wadded napkin and said in his distinctive husky baritone, “I think I made a mistake the other day.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” I said.
“I threw you out over at the Monroe house. I should have been … more polite. We should have had a talk.”
“I’m here now. Your men asked politely. So I came, even though I don’t believe I’m under arrest … am I? Not a material witness, or—”
“No. This is voluntary.” He smiled. It did nothing to improve the rolling prairie of his face. “I’m sure the fellas made that clear.”
“Yeah. They were nice.”
He studied me. I don’t know how to fully drain the sarcasm out of me, but I can drain it out of my voice, which makes it hard for the recipient to tell, sometimes.
He found a pack of Chesterfields on his desk, offered me a smoke. I declined and he lighted one up, shrugging. “We don’t like each other. You don’t like me. I don’t like you.”
“See, you are a detective.” Didn’t bother disguising that one. He’d asked for it. And anyway, this office, with tinted-cheeked Parker looking on, was no place to conduct a beating.
“We had a run-in or two,” he said, sighed smoke, brushed it away from his face, “and I am not naturally enamored of people in your business. It’s a shady trade. Sleazy.”
“Tacky, too,” I contributed. “But it can pay well.”
He made a noise that might hav
e been a laugh. “Hell of a lot better than a real cop’s pay. But I digress. Fact is, you and I … we have a common basis in friendship and cooperation, if we just care to admit it.”
“Sure. What?”
He gestured with an open palm, his expression telling me the answer was obvious. “You worked with Bob Kennedy back in the old days.”
This was no revelation—my first run-in with Hamilton had been back then, when we were both supposedly on the same side. I thought at the time he was an unpleasant cross between a bully and a bureaucrat, and I still did.
“Bob’s a friend,” I said. “And I know you two get along. So, now … you want us to be friends, Captain?”
He sighed more smoke. “Let’s say I want us not to be enemies.”
“Okay. Why don’t you make the first move.”
He shifted in his swivel chair, then leaned both elbows on the desk, clutter be damned. Rested his cigarette in the tray.
“This Monroe matter is potentially embarrassing,” he said. “To our mutual friend.”
“Did you say Monroe murder?”
“Matter. Matter. It’s no murder, Jesus. We all know that poor girl took her own life, and whether intentional or not, it’s a sad goddamn thing, but what can you do? Done is done.”
Interesting point of view for a police detective.
“Captain, I understand wanting to help Bob out. His younger brother’s running for the Senate, and his older brother wants to keep being president. The two of them handing that woman around like a drunken cheerleader after the big game, well, that getting out wouldn’t reflect well. Of course, boys will be boys.”
The lumpy face glowered. But he said nothing.
“Still,” I said, “she deserves better than what you fellas are providing. She was a big star, a public figure, and incidentally a human being. And she doesn’t even get an inquest? And you turn the investigation over to some civilians at UCLA?”
“Why don’t you drop by the chief’s office,” Hamilton said, damn near growling it. “I’m sure he’d love to hear your suggestions.”
Too bad—our friendship was already strained.
“What I’m saying,” I said, “is that within reason, I’m all for keeping the Kennedy name out of the mud. They like to tramp around in the mud, which makes helping them tricky. But I’m for it. So what can I do for you?”
The average observer would call his demeanor calm. But those eyes, small to begin with and hooded, were taking me apart the way a kid in biology class does a frog.
“You can stop nosing around,” he said simply.
“I don’t know what you—”
“Lying to me isn’t smart.” He jerked a thumb toward the safe. “Your file’s already foul enough, Heller. Lie to me, play me, and see what happens.”
“I hope nothing goes on my permanent record,” I said.
The eyes closed. I half expected steam to come out of his ears, like Yosemite Sam. Why the hell did I insist on needling this bastard? Did I think I’d win him over with laughter?
“Sorry,” I said, and waved a hand. “You’d figure at my age I’d have outgrown this case of smart mouth.”
“You would figure.” He drew deep on the cigarette. Let it out like steam—not from his ears, though. “What were you doing at Fifth Helena Drive Sunday morning?”
I shrugged. “I’d been doing some security work for Marilyn, the last month or so. I heard about her death on the radio and came right over. Felt a responsibility.”
The little eyes managed to narrow further. “You were up at five in the fucking morning, Heller? And heard it on the radio?”
“If this is about me needing an alibi, I want my phone call first.”
He shook his head. He was struggling, too. Having to talk to me was no fun at all. How Hamilton must have longed for that cellar cell across the street. And a rubber hose.…
“Now,” he said, making that innocent word a guilty accusation, “I hear you’ve been bothering one of our people. Sergeant Clemmons.”
I would bet big bucks he hadn’t heard it from Clemmons.
“Just trying,” I said, no confrontation in my voice, “to fill some things in for my personal satisfaction. Begins and ends there.”
“Really. Then why, while my boys are out picking you up, do I get a phone call from Arthur Jacobs saying you were at his office, bothering him about it?”
“If that was Mr. Jacobs’ impression, I apologize to the both of you. I worked for Marilyn, he’s her publicist; I just wanted to know what the official story was.”
“Official story?”
“The party line. I feel a certain loyalty to Marilyn. Did I mention she was my client? I want what’s best for her.”
He grunted a non-laugh. “Nothing’s best for her now. You should worry about your friend Bob. He’s still breathing.”
I sat forward. “Tell me he didn’t ask you to—”
“No! No.” He waved that off; that and some of the smoke he and his cigarette were manufacturing. “I’m just looking out after his interests as best I can.”
“Like I am Marilyn’s.”
He sat back. Sighed through his nose. No smoke. He looked like a weary bull wondering whether goring this petty toreador was worth the bother.
“You were seen this morning talking to Flo Kilgore,” he said.
Christ—either they were good, or I was sloppy. Had the intel boys been tailing me? And I didn’t notice? Maybe the Musso’s waiters were undercover men. It would explain the service the tourists got.
“Flo and I are friends,” I said.
“She was at the Monroe place Sunday morning, looking for a story.”
“What newshound wasn’t?”
“Just a coincidence that you talk to her this morning,” he said, stabbing out the smoke, “and are out and about in the afternoon, poking around.”
“Marilyn was my client,” I said again. “I’m just examining a few loose ends, to my satisfaction. I’m certainly not trying to cause any trouble for our mutual friend, the attorney general.”
He shifted in the seat again, trying to get a different angle on me. “What specifically were you doing for Miss Monroe? Security-wise?”
I knew better than to lie. “She wanted a tap put on her phone.”
“Her own phone.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“She indicated it had to do with that mess with Fox. You know, her firing and the studio politics and all.”
“What became of the tapes?”
“… You don’t know?”
“I’m asking.”
“My understanding is that two of your intel boys grabbed those tapes from Roger Pryor. That’s who was working for me. And, uh, it was those same two detectives, I believe, who brought me over this afternoon.”
He was nodding; for the first time this afternoon, my answers were satisfying him. “We’ve been having a little difficulty locating Mr. Pryor. Would you have any idea where he is?”
Now it was time to lie.
“None,” I said. “He isn’t A-1 staff, you know. He’s a freelance operator.”
“Oh, I know.” Hamilton checked his watch. Apparently I’d begun to bore him. “Here’s what it comes down to, Heller. I want you to stop nosing around.”
“Am I breaking any laws?”
“Are you? Anyway, consider it a favor to me. Personal request. Now that we’re friends.” He selected a file from the cluttered array on his desk, thumbed it open, and began reading. Then he looked up as if surprised I was still there, and said, “You can go.”
I went.
Nobody offered me a ride, and I wasn’t about to ask for one. I figured a cab would do nicely. At the elevator, I was reaching to punch DOWN when a beefy hand slipped in and pressed UP.
Chief of Detectives Thad Brown—a big, balding, bespectacled guy in his early sixties with paunch enough to require his brown suit coat to hang open—gestured for me to get on as the door dinged open. The pleasant fac
e that resided on his egg-shaped head wore an oddly furtive expression.
We got on and he pressed 5.
“Am I invited somewhere, Thad?”
We knew each other a little.
“Don’t be alarmed, Nate. I’d like a private chat. If you don’t mind…?”
This was one of the three or four most powerful, honored police officers on the force, deferring to my wishes. Raymond Burr had played him on Dragnet.
“Glad to, Thad. But I just had a lovely visit with Jim Hamilton. I doubt you’ll top it.”
The elevator rose.
“Hamilton talked to you, huh? You’re lucky.”
“How so?”
“Usually he only talks to God and Chief Parker.”
The elevator dinged, doors opened, and I followed the bear-like chief of detectives down another narrow green hallway. We paused outside his office, and he waited as several plainclothes officers and secretaries went their various ways.
When traffic had lulled, and it was just the two of us, he walked me down to an interview room, placed the black, white-lettered INTERVIEW IN PROGRESS placard in its slot, and ushered me in.
This was a typical Glass House interrogation room—white soundproof-tiled walls, a blonde-wood desk with a phone and an ashtray, metal chairs on either side, and a big window with its vertical blinds shut, behind the witness chair, which was where Brown gestured me to sit.
I said, “Uh, Thad—or should I say ‘Chief’? This isn’t official, is it?”
“Anything but.”
“This room is wired for sound.…”
“So are a lot of rooms in this town, I understand.”
He had a point.
The big man sat down and I went around to the other side but didn’t sit yet. His smile was as reassuring as his mellow voice. “Nate, this isn’t being recorded. This is as off-the-record as it gets.”
“Nothing’s off the record in these cubicles.”
“This is.” He shrugged his slightly hunched shoulders. “Look, you don’t trust me? Door’s unlocked.”
Bye Bye, Baby Page 23