“The police said you would try to see me. They told me I don’t have to talk to you.”
“That’s true, you don’t-but I’m just trying to clear up a few points. Get the facts straight in my mind. It won’t take long.”
“They said that you would try to trick me.”
I smiled and held my arms out, spread my fingers and twisted my open hands a few times. “I haven’t any tricks up my sleeve. I’m just a lawyer trying to do my job, not a magician.”
“You seem like a nice man, but I already told the detectives everything I know.”
“Mrs. Wilson, I’m sure you did, but it’s up to me to make certain they wrote what you told them correctly in the report.”
“You think they’d lie?”
“No, not at all,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster. “I just want to ensure that an innocent man doesn’t go to prison because of a clerical error.”
“Oh, my…”
“You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”
“No, I guess not…” Her voice trailed off, and she was quiet for a moment, then she said, “It’s hot outside. C’mon in.”
She closed the door, released the security chain, and opened it again. Mrs. Wilson, in her late sixties, had gray hair cut short in an attractive manner. She wore a light blue housedress and only a touch of makeup. I stepped into her small living room and sat in a wicker armchair.
“Would you care for a cool drink?”
“Sure.”
“Jamaica?”
“Pardon me?”
“Jamaica, it’s a delicious drink. My late husband, Raul, taught me how to make it. I just brewed a fresh batch. It’s served chilled, like iced tea.”
Why didn’t she brew coffee like everyone else? “Oh, I’d love some.”
Mrs. Wilson left to fetch the refreshments and I let my eyes wander around the room. The place was spotless. But a number of modern paintings hung on the walls-if you could call them paintings. They looked like someone’s nightmare, dark and gloomy with red streaks running through them. A sick mind at work.
I automatically sat up straighter when Mrs. Wilson returned. “Do you like my paintings, Mr. O’Brien? I never took an art course or anything, just paint what comes to me in my dreams.”
“They’re wonderful.” Okay, I lied.
“You’re too kind.” She held a platter. On it were two tall glasses filled with ice cubes floating in a reddish pink liquid. She handed me one of the glasses. I took a sip. Delicious! How long has this stuff been around? I asked myself.
“This is a great drink,” I said. “What’s it made from?”
“Hibiscus flowers. I grow them in the backyard.”
I set the glass down on the coffee table in front of me. Mrs. Wilson sat prim and proper, taking little bitty sips of her hibiscus concoction, smacking her lips from time to time. I asked her about the argument, and she proceeded to tell me what I already knew from the police report. The truck was in the driveway, where it stayed past her bedtime. Gloria and Rodriguez argued, she said, for about ten minutes. She had spotted them earlier in the evening arguing on the driveway. After the argument ended, around six, Gloria went back into the house. Mrs. Wilson went to bed at ten, took a sleeping pill, and didn’t hear or see anything after that.
“Did you hear what they were saying when they argued?” I asked.
“No, I wasn’t listening. I just heard a loud voice.”
“Whose voice was it? Miss Graham’s or the accused?”
“Gloria’s. She seemed very agitated. You know, waving her arms around and shouting.”
“But you couldn’t hear what she was shouting about, is that correct?”
“No, I was too far away.”
“What was Rodriguez doing?”
“Rodriguez?”
“The accused.”
“Oh, he just mostly listened.”
“Didn’t he shout back?”
“I couldn’t hear. I was too far away.”
“Did he look angry or upset in any way?”
“His back was to me. I couldn’t tell if he was upset.
Couldn’t see his face.”
“Was he jumping up and down, waving his arms around, anything like that?”
“If he did, I didn’t see it,” she said, shaking her head slowly.
I didn’t want to press too hard. Maybe I should ease up a little.
“I just have a few more questions, Mrs. Wilson.”
“You can call me Vera, that’s my name.”
“Vera, you’ve been very helpful. You have a keen sense of observation.”
“I’m not a busybody or a snoop.”
“Of course not,” I said. “But you’re doing the right thing, volunteering the truth. No one else in the neighborhood came forward like you did.”
“I just want to be a good citizen.”
“I understand. Now let’s see if you and I can figure this thing out, together.”
“I’ll help if I can.”
“Of course you can. Now let’s review: Gloria seemed furious and Rodriguez just stood there. He told me Gloria wanted the trees moved. Do you think that made him angry, fuming mad? What do you think?”
“I don’t know if he was angry or not.”
“Well, it takes two people to have an argument. Do you think maybe it was only Gloria who was upset?”
“She seemed upset.”
“Upset about a few trees? Rodriguez moved them. He said it was no big deal.”
“Maybe she was upset about something else,” she said.
“But not at my client?”
“Perhaps not. I don’t know.”
“Telephone records show that Gloria called her boss’s hotel that afternoon. Sometimes bosses can upset people.” I let the last statement hang in the air and waited for Mrs. Wilson to respond.
We just sat, looking at each other. After a few moments, Mrs. Wilson started to fidget. She reached over to the end table and picked up a framed photograph, an older guy.
“My late husband, Raul would get calls from his boss here at home once in a while. He’d get upset.” She smiled at the picture and put it back.
“Perhaps rant and rave a little, after the call?”
“Oh yes.” She had a tender look in her eyes.
“But not really directed at you, of course,” I said.
“No. Raul was just blowing off steam.”
“Maybe that’s what happened with Gloria. What do you think?”
“Yes. Maybe that’s what happened,” she said.
“So, perhaps Rodriguez and Gloria hadn’t been arguing at all. Gloria could have been just blowing off steam,” I said.
“Well, the police said they were arguing.”
I almost jumped out of my skin. “The police? They weren’t there at that time. Didn’t you tell the cops that they were arguing?”
Her eyes opened wide and she said in a startled voice, “No, I just told them what I saw. They said it sounded like an argument.”
I sat down. “Mrs. Wilson-I mean Vera?”
“Yes.”
“There was no argument, was there?”
“Gloria was just blowing off steam.” Mrs. Wilson sat there with a blank look on her face, sipping her red drink, and rocking back and forth ever so slightly.
After leaving Vera Wilson’s, I drove around for a while. I was tired of the police and their hard-nose tactics. Tired of lying cellmates. Tired of guys like Fred Vogel selling me out. Tired of getting nowhere. And I was tired of being tired.
Without thinking, I found myself going south on the Long Beach Freeway. I instinctively exited at the Willow off-ramp and headed for the airport. Vogel had lied to the police. I knew for a fact the plane had been flown those extra two hours. Karadimos and his gang of Elvis impersonators had gotten to him, I was sure of it. But how did Karadimos find out so fast that I had talked to Vogel?
I wondered if he’d see me. Probably not. I wanted to knock him on his ass. Ma
ybe he’d knock me on my ass, but I still wanted to confront him face to face. I wanted him to tell me about Karadimos.
I pulled into the Executive Aviation parking lot, sat in my car, and thought. Would it do any good to challenge him? If I got tough with him, would I be accused of trying to intimidate the witness again, making the situation worse? The cops might even start investigating the bribery charge all over again. The way the circumstances stood now, I couldn’t call him as a witness for the defense. He’d obviously lie on the stand. I’d look like an idiot and lose the case.
I went into the building. “Vogel here?” I asked the clerk working the reception counter.
“Ain’t here,” the scrawny kid said. “He’s on vacation.”
“Don’t give me that crap, he was here yesterday. No one starts their vacation on Thursday.”
He ignored my statement for a moment. Then without looking up at me he said, “Called in this morning, said he’s taking a few weeks off.”
I felt my temperature rising, the pressure building. I needed a release. Suddenly, I lost it. I reached over the counter and grabbed the guy by his shirtfront. I pulled him across the ledge. His head snapped back and his eyes opened wide in surprise.
“I want to see Vogel. Now, Goddammit! Get his ass out here,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Hey, lemme go!” he shouted. “I’m not kidding, mister. He’s not here. Go and see for yourself.”
What in the hell was the matter with me? I looked around the lobby; people stared at me. I felt foolish. I was acting like an out-of-control juvenile. I let go of the kid.
“Nah, I believe you. If he calls in tell him to get in touch with me.” I tossed my card on the counter.
The clerk tried to straighten his uniform shirt while backing away. “Don’t bet on it, asshole,” he said.
C H A P T E R 35
I arrived at the office early Friday morning. Rita wasn’t in and I needed a cup of coffee. I saw the new coffee pot sitting there, gleaming with its buttons and lights and all its automatic doohickeys. You’d have to be a mechanical engineer to fire the thing up. I didn’t even know where you were supposed to load the coffee. Or even if I knew, how much would I have to put in the thing? Great, I thought, I don’t even know how to make a cup of coffee anymore. If I touch the pot, it’d probably blow up in my face like everything else. The hell with it; I decided to head over to Dolan’s Donuts. I ordered two glazed and a large coffee to go.
I put the bag in my car and shot back to the office.
I was starting on my second donut when Rita came through the door. She had on tight jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of Mickey Mouse, one arm around Minnie. Mickey had his other arm raised, and two of his fingers formed a V. The caption under the cartoon said, Make love not war.
I glanced up at Rita’s angelic face. She had the type of complexion that didn’t require make-up, and she wore very little. It gave me a boost to see her cheery smile.
“Hey, Boss. Want some coffee?”
“I have some, but thanks anyway.”
She saw the printing on the cup and arched an eyebrow. “When we have time, I’ll show you how to work the coffee pot.”
“Thanks, but first we have to prepare a discovery request. We have to find out about Rodriguez’s cellmate. I’ll need to break him down on cross. Prove he’s lying.”
“We’re out of discovery forms. In fact, we’ve never had any.”
“Yeah, I know, never needed them. You can pick up a few at the legal stationery store on Firestone. Ask Mike the owner for some carbon paper, too.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out my bankroll. I gave half to her. “Here’s a few bucks, should be enough.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Rita said. “I’ll fill out the discovery forms, but you tell me what you want to say, what to ask for. Then later, I’ll show you how to work the coffee pot.” She smiled. “Who knows, maybe you’ll want to make the coffee now and then.”
“You went to law school. Use your own words on the request.”
“What about the coffee pot?”
“Forget about it,” I said. “Oh, after you’ve filled out the forms, don’t forget to serve them on the D.A.’s office. Then file the papers with the clerk at the court.”
She turned to leave. “See you in a bit.”
“Wait,” I said. “I’ll need some cash.” I’d need money for the fundraiser at Chasen’s. Although the dinner was paid for, I’d still need a few bucks for parking and maybe a tip or two. “Bring me the checkbook. You can stop at the bank on your way back. I’ll sign your paycheck now, too.”
“I used the balance of the money you gave me from the racetrack winnings, to catch up on the back rent and telephone. And now, after my pay, we’ll have less than two hundred in the bank,” she said as she laid the book on my desk. “And your car insurance bill is in the drawer.”
“The insurance company can wait; somehow they’ll make it without my check. Might have to hold off on building a new skyscraper this week, though.”
“Boss, you’re crazy, but nice.” She flashed me one of her world-class smiles.
“Rita, I just thought of something. When I was in the Sav-On the other day, I saw a Phillips mini-tape recorder on sale. It’ll fit in my briefcase, and it comes with those new cassettes.” She gave me a bewildered look. “Pick one up on your way back from the bank. Okay?”
“How much?”
“Sixty bucks.”
“Jimmy-”
“I know, but I’m meeting Welch tonight. It cost Sol a lot of money to set it up and I want to record the interview.”
“Do you think the senator will let you tape him?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“Are you going to tell him he’s being recorded?”
“We’ll see.”
“You’re the boss.” She sighed.
I signed the checks. Rita left just as the phone rang. I answered it. “Law office. O’Brien speaking.”
“Hi, remember me? Tracy Spencer, Ron Fischer’s girlfriend? Remember you talked to me the other day at the apartment?”
“Yes, Tracy, I remember.”
“That’s my stage name, Tracy Spencer, get it? Spencer Tracy, the movie star. I wanted people to remember my name, but then he died…” Her voice trailed off, probably a moment of silence in remembrance of her fallen namesake. “I guess I’ll have to change it again. What do you think of Hoffy Dustman?”
I took a sip of coffee. “What is your real name?”
“Bertha Weems.”
“What can I do for you, Tracy?”
I felt sorry for her. I knew her boyfriend, the pilot, was most likely gone for good. I knew firsthand how it felt to be lonely. However, with her looks and her job, I also knew she wouldn’t be lonely for long.
“You seemed so nice the other day I thought it would be okay to call you.” I reassured her, and she continued: “Yesterday I got a postcard from Ronnie. He said everything is okay. He’s got a temporary job, didn’t say where, said he had to leave town for a while, but not to worry, he’d be back.”
My hand started to shake. The coffee splashed on my desk. I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm.
“Mr. O’Brien, are you there?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m here. By any chance did you notice the postmark on the card?” I tried not to show my excitement.
“No,” she said.
My heart sank. “Do you still have the card?” Holding my breath, I crossed my fingers.
“I put it in the drawer. Do you want me to get it?”
I exhaled. “Yes, that would be nice.”
A few seconds later, she told me, “It was mailed from Las Vegas, but I’m confused.”
Las Vegas! I had to call Sol fast and tell him where to start looking. But I tried to remain calm. “Sounds like he’s okay. Why are you confused?”
“I came home from work last night and noticed Ronnie’s El Camino was broken into. And I think someone went through his apa
rtment too. The door was unlocked. But I know I locked it after I dropped off his clothes. You think I should call the cops?”
Cops, my God! They’d arrest him before I could get the answers I desperately needed. “No, don’t call them,” I almost shouted.
“Why?”
“Oh, I’m sure it was just kids fooling around.” It bothered me that it had become so easy to lie.
“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“Remember, Tracy, you said he had some trouble in the past. I don’t think he’d like the cops snooping around.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Now listen to me. This is very important. Do not, I repeat, do not tell anyone about the postcard or this phone call. Do you understand?”
“You sound scary. What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, but your boyfriend is hiding out for a reason. We don’t want to tip off anyone that might be out to harm him.”
“You think he’s in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Will you help him?”
“If he asks me, I’ll help. But first I’ve got to find him.” We said goodbye and my hand trembled as I hung up the telephone.
I immediately dialed Sol’s office number. It was still too early for him to be in, but Joyce said he’d be there shortly. I left a note for Rita. I told her I was going to Sol’s office and she could start filling out the discovery form. I’d review it when I returned.
I ran to my Corvette. If Karadimos found Kruger first, he’d disappear for good. Sol said Kruger had been a bartender before he was a pilot. A bartender, I thought as I drove.
Where would we start to look? Las Vegas was the drinking capital of the world. There had to be a million bars.
The trial date was bearing down on me. I was running out of time and I was out of money. I needed Kruger’s testimony.
C H A P T E R 36
I entered the lobby of Sol’s office complex. Telephones rang off the hook, people bustled about with papers in their hands and files and folders under their arms. Their footsteps were muffled by an array of lavish antique Persian carpets. Flaming reds, vibrant greens, and golden silk threads were woven together to form intricate designs that told ancient stories. The rugs didn’t mention where I could find Kruger.
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