by David Bishop
We had long known of Malloy as a burglar. We had also known he abhorred violence and had no respect for those who used violence in burglaries and robberies. Malloy had often given us information he had gleaned in his world about those kinds of crooks—saying they gave the honest business of burglary a bad name.
A few days into the case, we were anonymously delivered the jewels taken from the store and the written plan for the heist. There was an unsigned note saying the sender had seen our names in the paper as being in charge of the case. It took us a while to find enough linking the home owner to the robbery and murder, but it never would have happened without Malloy pointing us at the guilty guy. It’s not worth rehashing all the details, but eventually we were able to build a case, and the guy got life for the murders. As for the home burglary, we recognized Malloy’s excellent planning and exacting execution, but we didn’t pursue Malloy for burglarizing the crook’s home where he had recovered the jewels and plans.
The law often lets an arrested criminal go if he can give up something bigger. Other times, the D.A. will plea bargain down to a lesser charge in return for evidence or leads involving a bigger case. So Fidge and I saved the system a lot of time and took it upon ourselves to let Malloy walk on the house burglary he had effectively confessed to by sending us the jewels and building plans. Malloy had gotten away clean after the safe job. So, we weren’t about to jam him up. Malloy retired right after that. We figured he used the cash from the safe job to buy the locksmith shop. The jewelry store got back its jewelry, and the owner had listed only a modest amount of cash as having been taken. The substantial cash Malloy had gotten from the safe had apparently come from other unknown criminal dealings. So, we had a murderer in jail and had contributed to converting Malloy from a burglar into an honest small businessman. On balance, it seemed an acceptable real-world mix of right and wrong.
Malloy had gotten to the beach first. When I arrived he was watching the moon glisten off the breakers. It took no more than a couple of minutes to let Malloy know what I wanted done and how I wanted it staged.
“Piece of cake, Sergeant,” he said, “not a problem.”
“I’m not a sergeant anymore.”
“To me you always will be.”
I gave Malloy the building address and the Talmadge condo number, as well as the location of the building supervisor’s office. I also gave him the name of the local reporter I wanted to get the story. The last thing we discussed was the timeline for the job. I wanted it wrapped up and delivered while I was in France.
* * *
The next morning, I boarded the plane with the early Long Beach paper under my arm. The lead story was about Clarice Talmadge and her promiscuous behavior. The first paragraph talked about her claiming to have been at my place. That was followed by a brief and generally accurate account of my career in law enforcement, my justice-on-the-courthouse-steps shooting, and then some about my being a mystery writer. They even mentioned my latest novel. That was good, and the rest was old news. The next few paragraphs quoted one unnamed source that referred to Clarice as an old-fashioned trollop, while another, also hiding behind anonymity, called her a harlot. I figured the two unnamed sources both lived in my condo building. As a writer I’d have picked a different slur because harlot and trollop are suggestive of a prostitute, and I doubted Clarice ever took payment beyond pleasure. And she gave as much pleasure as she received; in most cases probably gave more, and we all know it is better to give than receive.
Chapter 13
My British Airways flight touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris a few minutes after noon, local time. My only luggage, a carry-on, was a big leather sports bag which I had bought at an auction. The guy standing next to me while I was bidding said it had once been owned by Tiger Woods. The black bag was one of those with zipper compartments on the ends as well as the big zipper down the center top of the bag. Tiger Woods’s bag, eh, so I bid, and given my competitive nature, kept bidding with the hope that somewhere inside might be a forgotten list of a few of Tiger’s ex-girls-on-the-sly, complete with phone numbers. As you’ve likely already guessed, there was no list, if it had ever been Tiger’s bag to begin with. The auction had been to raise money for scholarships for the children of American soldiers killed in Middle East conflicts. I’m at peace with the whole thing, even if the shill who kept egging me on to bid again and again remembers me as a chawbacon. I love that word, chawbacon. I don’t remember where I first heard it. The dictionary says it’s a word to describe a rube, a yokel, a bumpkin, and I had been all of that when I had allowed myself to be led into believing the bag had once been owned by Tiger Woods. But then, everyone active in sports owned at least one sports bag, so who knows, maybe it had been one of Tiger’s. Yeah, okay, I had been a chawbacon.
I sailed through customs with my Tiger bag strapped over my shoulder. At least I did until a female French immigrations officer stepped in front of me. “Your presence is requested in that room.” She pointed.
“What is this about? Your immigrations desk found my papers to be in order.”
“They will explain, Mr. Kile. Please follow me.” She went on ahead and I followed, which was not a wholly unpleasant experience. She opened the door to a small room, looked back and smiled, then walked out of my life. The room was empty. The walls held no pictures. Not even a promotional poster for French champagne. Totally empty other than a small table and three unfriendly chairs, two on the far side of the table and one nearest me. I dropped my Tiger bag along the wall and sat in the lonelier chair, facing the two empties.
My instincts told me I was being watched. I’d say maybe even videotaped, but that might sound paranoid at this point, so I won’t say it. After another minute I rose and started to leave, but found the door through which I had entered locked. I looked around. The door on the other side of the room remained closed. I sat back down in the same single chair. I considered trying that other door, also kicking through the door into the terminal from whence I had come. But, for now, I wanted to project a frustrated traveler with nothing to hide. Then again, I had nothing to hide. Well, maybe I had a little to hide. The truth being I had quite a bit to hide.
The worst case scenario went like this: French officials and power brokers involved in Garson’s weapons deals knew why I had come, and they held sufficient sway with French immigration authorities to make my visit start out prickly.
Then the door in the back wall opened. The one behind the two chairs across from me. Two men came in, one short, stocky and black followed by a tall, thin white guy. Together they gave off the image of a bowling ball closing in on the corner ten pin. They flipped open their leather badge holders: Federal Bureau of Investigation. Their manner in some ways reminded me of Charles Talmadge, only these guys had the badges that could back up their acting tough, and they likely had more grit to begin with. The FBI is supposed to be the good guys. Our guys. I’m an American, so it’s okay for me to think of them as our guys. But what were they doing working in concert with French immigration to intimidate a fellow American?
The ten pin complimented me on my leather sports bag. Over time I’ve learned to stop telling the Tiger-bag story. Everyone, even me, eventually tires of being laughed at and called a sap. So, I gave him one of my easy smiles and said, “Thank you.”
“Your business in France, Mr. Kile?” the bowling ball asked.
“The French have found my papers in order and welcomed me into their country. Why is an American law enforcement agency harassing a traveling American citizen? Beyond its jurisdiction I might add.”
The ten pin answered. “We aren’t harassing you, Mr. Kile. We just have a few questions. You’d like to help your government, wouldn’t you?”
“I do everyday day. I obey the laws. Stop at red lights. All that stuff. In a more direct way, I pay my taxes. Very big taxes too, I might add. I’m even back to voting, and with the choices we’ve been given lately voting is tough duty. And now you want more help?”
�
�We do have a few questions, yes,” the speaking ball said.
I got up and noisily jiggled the handle on the still locked door. “I am being forcibly detained,” I said, indignantly. “That is harassment, if not abduction. Unlock that door or have someone with the appropriate authority in this country arrest me. Then you may contact our embassy and tell them of my incarceration.” I stood quietly next to the door, my arms folded.
“Mr. Smith,” the ten pin said, “how in the world did that door get locked. If you have a key, please do unlock it. Mr. Kile has every right to leave if he wishes.”
“Smith? I suppose his name is Jones,” I said to the Mr. Smith while he unlocked the door. Then I returned to the table and sat in the chair from which I had risen. “Now how can I help my government?”
Smith and Jones retook their seats across from me, smiled and handed me their cards: Special agents Tim Jones and Carl Smith. Darn. American phone books are filled with Smiths and Joneses, so I guess it wasn’t that odd for two of them to be here with me. Still, it felt odd. I just don’t know why it felt odd.
“Why are you visiting France?” Agent Smith asked.
“I am a fiction writer and I’m considering a story set partially in France. I also love French food and wine. And there are so many famous historical places here that I’ve never seen. Don’t you think it’s about time I do? Particularly if I decide to make reference to them in the story I am researching.”
“Mr. Kile, let us stop wasting your time. Your government has a continuing interest in the activities of the deceased Garson Talmadge. We aren’t concerned with your defense of his wife in his murder. We just request that you stop digging into his past.”
“You won’t have any trouble with me.”
“No,” said Agent Jones, with a joyless smile. “I doubt we will.”
“Is it possible,” I asked, “that circumstances lingering from the past may have played a role in the death of Mr. Talmadge?”
“We aren’t concerned with that, Mr. Kile.”
“What? Garson Talmadge died an American citizen. He was murdered. You are an American law enforcement agency. How can you sit there and say you have no interest in the solving of his murder?”
“It’s a local police matter, Mr. Kile.”
“Then why are you talking to me about it, Agent Smith?”
“As Agent Jones said, we have an interest in the past activities of Mr. Talmadge, and we assure you there is no connection between those activities and the murder of Mr. Talmadge.”
“Then who murdered Garson Talmadge?”
“We have no idea, Mr. Kile.”
“Then you cannot state with certainty that there is no connection between his murder and his past activities. Can you?”
“We know all about you, Matthew Kile, former tough-guy cop. Shot a man who was officially only a suspect, but who likely deserved it. Now you write, if you call that stuff writing.”
“Now just a darn minute, Special Agents Smith and Jones, you can denigrate my mother, question my patriotism, even tell me I need to lose a few pounds, but don’t insult my writing. Not if you want us to remain friends.”
“Our apology, Mr. Kile,” Agent Jones said. “Your books sell well. Americans love a great mystery.”
“Speaking of that, please tell me about the past activities of Garson Talmadge to which you referred.”
“I’m afraid we have no information for you, Mr. Kile.”
“Well then, Special Agent Smith, I guess my answer is the same; I’m afraid I have no information for the FBI.”
“How quickly do you expect to leave France?”
“Soon.”
“What does soon mean, Mr. Kile?”
“Not in the next fifteen minutes, but before later.”
“How would you describe your attitude toward us, Mr. Kile?”
“Tolerant, Special Agent Jones. The FBI is interfering in the free movement and activities of an American citizen, and doing so, I might add, in a foreign country without the presence of a law enforcement official of that country.”
Agent Smith repeated one of their earlier questions, “Why are you here, Mr. Kile?”
“Asked and answered, Agent Smith. Research for a possible story. Sightseeing all those wonderful things here in France that we Americans keep getting invited over to see.”
“No other reasons?”
“There are a couple of people to whom I wanted to say a big heartfelt, ‘how do you do.’ I read somewhere that a big percentage of Europeans still think of the American West as the wild, wild west popularized in the movies. Have you heard that Special Agent Jones? I know I have.”
“And who would these people be, Mr. Kile?”
“Aw shucks, now. That ain’t very neighborly of y’all. Just folks who know folks I know. Just a plain old simple howdy. Sure can’t be of any consequence to our big old government. Do you have anything more you wish to ask or can I mosey on up the trail?”
“So, this is your western side we’re hearing from now?”
“The novel I’m working on is a western.”
“A western set in France?”
“Yeah. Exciting ain’t it?”
Their expressions tattled that the agents wanted me to tell them a lot more, but that they had no leverage.
They stood.
We shook hands.
I moseyed.
* * *
I found a bench outside the terminal at the de Gaulle airport and called Brad Fisher. He was behind the wheel on the way to his office. Brad agreed that the FBI being curious added credence to our theory that Talmadge had not stopped running guns ten-to-fifteen years ago or anything close to that. We also reasoned that the U.S. government might be tracing past weapons deals between French arms manufacturers and Saddam Hussein. We could see no other reason for their interest, and if they were focusing on those deals, that could well have touched a nerve that caused someone to decide Garson Talmadge was a loose thread that needed to be snipped off.
Brad would send a letter to the FBI demanding they cease interfering in his defense of an American citizen charged with the crime of murder, and requesting a copy of their file on Garson Talmadge.
Before hanging up, I asked Brad to have his paralegal look into the backgrounds of the unusual names Garson Talmadge had given his daughter and son, Sappho and Charaxus. Talmadge had named the dog he bought for his wife, Asta. That name was also unusual. Asta had been the name of the dog owned by the Dashiell Hammett character Nick Charles, the protagonist in The Thin Man series of books, movies and radio. It was possible Garson named his children similarly in some private joke. It might lead nowhere, probably would lead nowhere, but we were already chasing a bunch of maybes, so why not one more.
Chapter 14
“Captain, you wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Come in Sergeant Fidgery.”
Chief of Detectives Richard Dickson had a smile on his face that made Fidge go tense. The term shit-eating grin captured the look.
“How’s the Talmadge case progressing?” Dickson asked, without inviting Fidgery to sit down.
“I’m not sure I understand your question, sir. We have his wife, Clarice Talmadge, in custody. She has been arraigned. Other than coordinating with the DA as he develops his case, I’ve shut it down. As you know, we have no shortage of murders.”
“I understand, Sergeant, but we both know that Brad Fisher is defending the woman. We can expect him to present alternative suspects. Let’s figure out whom he might trot out for the jury’s consideration. We need to be sure you’ve given those folks a once over.”
“There is nothing clearly suggestive of any other killer.”
“Imagine you’re Fisher, Sergeant. Whom do you pick for the alternative shooter?”
“Fisher might toss Garson Talmadge’s kids into the ring. If their stepmother is convicted, she’ll likely lose her inheritance and the kids will split her portion. That could give the kids a reason to frame mommy.”
&n
bsp; “Forget that, Sergeant. Not even Fisher would think he could sell the jury on kids killing their own father, even for money. The jury will likely be parents themselves. Of course, that changes if Fisher gets some clear evidence. Could he have anything on that score?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Imagine, Sergeant.”
“Nothing I can imagine, sir.”
“Who else?”
Fidge thought of this case as a wrap, but Chief of Detectives Dickson was chewing on something. Fidge shifted his weight and spread his legs a bit farther apart. “No one else, sir. Well … maybe the idea that old man Talmadge, who in the past dealt in the international weapons trade, had been killed by someone from that world.”
“Why would they want to kill him? Your report states Talmadge had been retired for over a decade.”
“You asked for guesses, then you attack them for not being solid. Guesses aren’t solid, sir. That’s what makes them guesses. When Talmadge retired from running guns is uncertain, as is the case with any illegal activity. His children said he stopped fifteen years ago. Talmadge’s business attorney said his client had told him he stopped ten years ago. But, yes, I suspect Fisher will raise that idea, if only to cloud the jury’s mind. When the jury learns Talmadge was a gun runner, they may get the impression the old man was a first-class bad guy who got what he deserved. There are governments, including our own, still curious about where Saddam Hussein bought his weapons and just which weapons he bought. That could have gotten the arms dealers with whom Talmadge did business nervous enough to eliminate him. And, assuming Talmadge had truly stopped brokering weapons, those people might see Talmadge as expendable.”
“I agree, Sergeant. Fisher will raise that. No doubt. The D.A. will need to know if that theory will hold water. Look into it. Be prepared to testify you considered that theory and found it without merit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any other alternative theory?”
“No, sir.”
The CD’s chair squeaked as he leaned back, the shit-eating grin returning to his face. “Well I’ve got one for you.”