Carr puffed. He turned his head away from Gertrude Wallace and blew out smoke.
"It's funny," she said. "I smoked for many years, but I can sit here and watch you smoke and I haven't the slightest urge. Not the slightest."
"Thinking back to a month or so before the burglary occurred ... other than close friends and relatives, who visited your home?"
Gertrude Wallace touched the palm of her hand to her cheek. She sat that way for a moment. "Come to think of it," she said finally, "I had just hired a new man to clean the pool. But I'd used him before, off and on, and never had any problems ... and there was a group of ladies from the Cancer Foundation. I showed them all through the house. Certainly it couldn't have been them."
"I agree," Carr said. "Was there anyone else?"
"Just my therapist. He's the one who cured me of my smoking. He's a psychiatrist."
"How long have you known him?"
"Just for a few weeks, but he was recommended to me by a close friend. He's very well thought of ... the highest recommendations. He's highly respected in his field."
"I see. Had you ever met Detective Bailey before the burglary?"
She shook her head. "We've never been burglarized before."
Carr stood up. He took a final puff and carefully mashed the cigarette into the delicate ashtray. Having slipped a business card out of his shirt pocket, he handed it to her. "If you remember anything else," he said, "I'd appreciate a call."
"Certainly." She rose and followed him to the door.
"You're at the right age to quit smoking," she told Carr as he opened the door. "Mature people have more self-discipline. Dr. Kreuzer told me some of his best patients were-"
"What did you say his name is?" Carr interrupted. He felt his heart race.
"Kreuzer," she said. "Dr. Emil Kreuzer. He's a hypnotherapist. He's been a savior to me ... a real savior. I used to smoke until I had a sore throat."
"How would I get in touch with him?" Carr tried to avoid sounding too eager. Could Emil Kreuzer have been released from prison already?
"Just a moment." Gertrude Wallace returned to the living room.
As Carr stood in the hallway he remembered being told by a veteran T-man more than twenty years ago to never be surprised when investigation after investigation ended up focusing on the same crooks. As the old trooper told him, "There are only so many bad guys in town. So when a case gets tough, check your old arrest cards."
Gertrude Wallace quickly returned and handed Carr a business card with Kreuzer's name and a Wilshire Boulevard office address. Carr slipped it in his shirt pocket.
"I must warn you though," she said pleasantly, "he's always booked up weeks in advance, but he's worth the wait."
Carr stepped off the elevator in the office building. He wandered down a hallway to a pair of high polished wooden doors bearing brass letters that read Probe Incorporated-Doctor E. Kreuzer.
Carr opened the door and stepped into a reception area furnished with leather sofas. A young girl who looked to be high school age sat at the reception desk. She hurriedly shoved the paperback book (nurse hugging handsome man on the cover) she was reading into a desk drawer.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, as she'd obviously been trained to do.
Carr shook his head and showed her his badge. She looked up at him in awe. "Wow."
"I'd like to see Doctor Kreuzer for a moment," Carr said.
"Is that like the FBI?"
Carr nodded. The girl hurried into another room. On a wall behind one of the sofas Carr noticed a framed photograph of Emil Kreuzer shaking hands with the president of the United States. He could tell by the slight blurring of the hands that the photo was a composite fake.
Moments later Emil Kreuzer followed the girl out of the room. He approached Carr.
"Remember me?" Carr said with a disarming smile.
Kreuzer smiled back. "Of course."
As they shook hands, Carr noticed a flicker in the con man's carotid artery. His palm was sweaty.
Kreuzer ushered him into another office and closed the door. There was a large desk and a black leather Danish-modern sofa with a matching pillow. The walls were decorated with hypnotist's spirals and framed diplomas. Kreuzer offered him a chair.
"How's business?" Carr said, sitting down in front of a large desk.
"Emotion still rules reason," Kreuzer said. He laughed nervously.
"Seen any of your old friends since you've been out?"
"As a matter of fact I haven't. And I'm not just saying that. I've broken all the old ties. I guess it's because of my age. Doing a deuce or a trey in the joint didn't seem like much of a jolt when I was thirty, but it seems like one hell of a lot at this stage in life. Believe it or not, I've cleaned up my act."
"I could tell by that photograph of you and the president in the other room."
"Just because the picture is a phony doesn't mean that I am. I use that as a psychological tool to gain my clients' trust for the purpose of hypnosis. The photo, being in their subconscious, helps them to relax and go into a trance. The photograph violates no law. If I'm asked about it, I always tell the truth." He drummed his fingers on the desk.
"Mrs. Wallace told me that you cured her of her smoking habit."
"Wallace?"
"She lives on Coventry Circle in Beverly Hills." Carr stood up and walked to the window. On the street below he observed the crowds of people, many who seemed to be alone, as they roamed about and window-shopped in the exclusive business district. Few carried packages.
"Of course," Kreuzer said. "Mrs. Wallace. Her husband is the director."
"Her home was burglarized." Carr continued to stare at Wilshire Boulevard. Finally, he returned to his seat.
Kreuzer had stopped drumming his fingers.
"I appreciate the help you gave me on that case a few years ago," Carr said. "I really mean that."
"I have no compunction about ratting on someone when it benefits me in the long run. I've been around too long to be stupid enough to ride a beef for someone else. I'm a realist. I pride myself in being able to say that. On the other hand, I'm far from being what you people call a police buff. I'm not into cooperating with the Feds or the cops in order to earn a merit badge. You know that. You should know that very well."
Charles Carr took a fresh package of cigarettes from his coat pocket and opened it. Kreuzer shoved an ashtray toward him on the desk. Carr crumpled the wrapper and dropped it into the ashtray. "I don't want to cause problems for you," he said, pausing to light a cigarette.
Kreuzer made a wry grin. "What kind of problems are we talking about?"
"Conspiracy to commit burglary. He who sets up a burg is guilty of conspiracy."
"That's a very difficult crime to prove," Kreuzer said. "If someone hit me with that kind of beef, I think I'd probably go on trial and let the chips fall where they may. Conspiracy is hard to prove, particularly if the other conspirators are stand-up guys. Without one or two good witnesses who'll testify about the whole thing, there's no way to get a conviction."
There was a pause before Carr spoke again. "I wish you'd have given me a call about all this. It would have been a lot simpler if you'd have given me a call. We could have worked something out... found a way to keep you off the witness stand, but still made the case. I know how you hate to testify against people. I can't say that I blame you. There's always an element of risk."
"I don't like these kinds of conversations," Kreuzer said. "I prefer to be up-front about things. If you've come here to accuse me of something, then go ahead and accuse me. If you're going to arrest me, then have at it. Otherwise, we're wasting each other's time. We're sitting here in my office jerking each other off while my patients are lined up outside."
"You're got guts, Emil. I've always admired that," Charlie Carr said. "You're not afraid of the dark."
"Fuck all this bullshit." Kreuzer obstinately folded his arms across his chest.
Carr stood up again, walked to the
wall behind Kreuzer and examined a diploma from a university he'd never heard of. Emil Kreuzer remained seated with his arms crossed.
"This is the last chance you'll get," Carr said to the phony diploma. "If I walk out of this room right now without your help, I'm going to work twenty-four hours a day at putting you back in the joint. I'll stir up things at the Federal Parole Office, interview your patients. I'll Teletype your name and address to every police agency in the U.S. I'll frame you if I have to. I'll do whatever I have to to ship you back. If you want to be Mr. Big in this thing that's fine with me. I'll close my case the day you process in at Terminal Island. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to settle for missing some of the players in a case."
Emil Kreuzer sat without moving for what must have been a full minute.
Carr checked the other diplomas on the wall. He moved toward the door.
Kreuzer rubbed his temples. "I want to ask you a hypothetical question," he said.
Carr nodded.
"Would you rat on a policeman? If you were someone who'd been around the horn a time or two, who knew how the system worked ... murderers getting bail, defense attorneys hired just to find out who the informant is, million-dollar dope dealers sentenced to probation ... would you actually take the witness stand and testify against a policeman?"
Carr shook his head. "Probably not."
"Then how the hell can you come in here and ask me to?"
"You wouldn't have to testify."
"I've heard that before. But when the case gets right down to the nuts and bolts, I'd have to testify."
"You have my word you won't have to testify."
The men stared at each other for a moment.
"What would I have to do?" Kreuzer said.
"Do you deal directly with Bailey?"
"Yes. We're still speaking hypothetically, of course."
"Of course. Then, hypothetically, I might ask you to wear a microphone and meet with him to talk about some things."
Kreuzer shook his head. "I won't wear a wire. I know that means I'd have to take the witness stand. The only reason for a recorded conversation is to play it for a jury. I will never wear a wire. I'd rather go back to prison than wear a wire."
"We might be able to work around that."
"How?"
"I'll figure a way."
"I'm sure you will." Kreuzer rubbed his temples again. "If you had a plan that would keep me out of the soup... I mean completely out of the motherfucking soup all together, I might go along with it. Not that I will go along with it, but just that I will give consideration to any plan you have. I want to help. I think you can see that, but on the other hand, you have to appreciate my position."
"I'll be in touch," Carr said. He opened the door, then paused. "Did Bailey kill her himself?" he turned to face Kreuzer again.
"You're talking about murder now. Violence is something I've never been involved in. Nor do I intend to. You can check my record. You'll see that I have never even been questioned about any heavy-handed shit. It's against my nature. I really mean that."
"I'm not asking you who made it happen," Carr said. "I already know that. I just want to know if he did it himself or contracted it out."
"Off the record, you'd probably be safe in assuming the former rather than the latter." He stared at the palms of his hands. "I want to cooperate. I'm sure you can see that. It's just that this isn't your average drop-a-dime-on-a-pal operation. You're asking me to rat on someone who carries a gun legally. He could walk in here right now and blow my brains out. He'd beat the rap in court. He'd just say I reached for a gun."
"I guess I could do the same thing," Carr said.
"That's not funny."
"I'll be in touch." Carr opened the door and walked out.
Though it was 8:30 P.M., the summer heat had not diminished. The weather was par for the course for Los Angeles-anyplace else it would be a portent of a summer storm-but rather than distant thunder, there was only the hum of air conditioners.
In the small patio at the rear of the house, Charlie Carr sat at a wooden table with Kelly and Higgins. They were dressed similarly: short-sleeved white shirts, loosened neckties. Kelly wore a T-shirt and Bermuda shorts. The table was littered with beer bottles. Kelly's young sons, armed with toy swords and squirt guns, chased each other in and out of the backyard.
Carr finished recounting his meeting with Emil Kreuzer. He picked up his beer and finished it.
"He could double-cross us," Higgins said. "He could go straight to Bailey."
"He will double-cross us," Kelly said. "One way or the other he'll double-cross us. When we used him as an informant in the Larry Phillips case, he played both ends against the middle. That's the kind of an asshole he is."
"But I don't think he'll double-cross us yet," Carr said. "I think he'll wait to see how the land lies. He'll wait to get more information from us before he sets his course. Right now there are too many unknowns for him. He doesn't know enough about what kind of a case we have at this point because I didn't tell him."
"There's no predicting a confidence man," Higgins said.
"Anything can happen," Kelly said.
Carr drank more beer. As if on cue, the others drank from their bottles.
"The surveillance isn't doing us any good," Higgins said. "Bones hasn't been going anywhere except the supermarket and to work at the Blue Peach. Women drop by his apartment now and then and he usually takes one home with him every night from the Blue Peach. He likes skinny broads with short hair. We've been on him twenty-four hours a day for four days and that's all we've come up with: skinny broads with short hair. I mean really short hair. My wife says it's the latest movie-star style."
"Sounds more like Bones is having auditions," Kelly muttered.
A sedan drove into the driveway and parked. Because of the hat, Carr could tell it was B. B. Martin.
Martin climbed out of the car. His sleeves were rolled up and though his trousers hung below his ample paunch, his gunbelt stretched neatly across his midsection. From the belt hung a patrolman's holster that held a six-inch revolver. He walked over to the table, thumbed his hat back on his head and sat down.
Jack Kelly opened another beer and handed it to Martin. Martin drank fully three-fourths of the bottle. He set the bottle on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Something funny happened tonight," he said.
"On his way to the Blue Peach, Bones stops off at a French restaurant on La Cienega. I set up down the street where I can keep an eye on the front door. He's in there about ten or fifteen minutes. Then he steps out the front door with another guy. I was too far away to tell who it was, so I do a drive-by. Bones and this other dude are standing on the sidewalk in front of the place. As I'm cruising past, the other cat is definitely giving me the eagle eye. I just keep my eyes on the road all the way up to Sunset. Then I turn off and circle back to the restaurant. When I got there, Bones was gone."
"What did the man look like?" Carr asked.
"He looked like Travis Bailey, but I can't say for sure. I was too far away." Martin finished the rest of his beer with one swig.
Kelly popped open another bottle and set it in front of him.
"I checked the parking lot," Martin said as he fondled the fresh beer. "Bailey's car wasn't there, but he had time to leave by the time I returned. So I went to a pay phone and dialed the restaurant. I asked the maître d' if Mr. Bailey was still there. He says, 'No, he just--' then catches hisself and says that there was no Mr. Bailey in tonight. It sounded fishy, so I head over to the valet parking lot at the place. I buzz the attendant and he tells me that he notes the license number of every car he parks on the valet parking ticket stub. I look through the evening's ticket stubs. The license number of Bailey's car was written on one of them."
"It was him," Carr said.
"I think he made me," Martin said. "He stared right at me as I went by."
"Now what the hell are we going to do?" Higgins said.
&nbs
p; Carr stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets. As the other men bantered, he strolled to the front of the house. Dusk was changing to dark; the streetlights came on. As he stood in front of the house, he again went over the facts in his mind. Gradually the plan took shape and he knew exactly what he was going to do.
Carr walked to the backyard and sat down again. He pulled a pen and some three-by-five cards from his shirt pocket, then wrote "PRESS RELEASE" on one of the cards. After some scratch-outs, he completed the following paragraphs:
Federal Agents have been following leads in what is believed to be a foiled Mafia-style contract murder of a prominent Beverly Hills banking official. Preliminary investigation has shown that Jerome Hartmann, president of the Beverly Hills-based Bank of Commerce-Pacific was the proposed target of an organized crime hit man. A federal informant in Chicago has recently told federal authorities that the July sixth break-in at Hartmann's Beverly Hills residence may have been instigated by organized crime figures who stood to gain from eliminating Hartmann as a witness in a counterfeiting case in which Hartmann was a potential government witness. A shoot-out at Hartmann's residence resulted in the death of convicted burglar Leon Sheboygan and the wounding of U.S. Treasury Agent John Kelly.
Sources within the U.S. Treasury Department, which is investigating the case, have stated that a major organized crime figure in the Los Angeles area may be called before the federal grand jury in the near future. "Progress has been made in narrowing down the motive for the attempt on Hartmann's life," one veteran Treasury agent said. "Since Mr. Sheboygan is deceased, it is doubtful whether we will ever know the complete story. This is not the first time that La Cosa Nostra has tried to thwart an ongoing investigation."
Since it was dark, Carr read the press release out loud to the others.
"That should help Bailey sleep a little better," Higgins said.
"He may not buy it," Kelly said.
"Who'll cover for us on the Chicago angle?" B. B. Martin opened another bottle of beer.
"Bob Tomsic was just transferred there," Carr said. "He'll back up the informant story if it ever comes down to it."
To Die in Beverly Hills Page 19