Sullivan's Law

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

The corporate office for the chain of golf stores owned by Nolan Houston was located in a high-rise office building off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. Wanting to make certain Houston was available, Hank had called Monday morning and made an appointment to see him at ten, claiming he was an Internal Revenue agent.

  “Works every time,” he told Carolyn, a sly smile on his face. “Tell them you’re a cop, and they give you the runaround. Mention IRS and they piss their pants.”

  Once they were on the road, Carolyn removed her compact from her purse and dabbed on some lipstick. “Remember the physics professor? The man who bought the house down the street? I asked him to take a look at the papers from Daniel’s room at the Comfort Inn. He faxed them to one of his colleagues at Caltech.”

  “Oh, yeah?” the detective said, adjusting his rearview mirror.

  “I didn’t tell him whose work it was,” Carolyn continued. “But get this, they thought he was a candidate for a professorship.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Paul wants to set up a meeting with some of the faculty members at the university. To evaluate Metroix’s work, not to consider him for a post at the university. What do you think?”

  “I saw Metroix at the hospital Friday evening,” Hank told her. “Granted, he was in pain and doped up on morphine. Don’t get me wrong. I feel sorry for the guy, but I don’t think he’s a genius. I’d be surprised if he could find his way out of a paper bag, know what I mean?”

  Typical reaction, Carolyn thought. Daniel’s unique abilities were beyond the average person’s comprehension. His illness and the time he’d spent in prison also put a dent in his credibility. “All I want is your permission to allow Caltech to evaluate his work. If nothing comes of it, then at least we know where we stand regarding the situation with Warden Lackner.”

  “It’s Metroix’s property,” Hank told her. “Don’t you think you should get permission from him instead of me?”

  “This could turn out to be evidence,” Carolyn said. “I know the warden isn’t one of our primary suspects. What if we rule out Armstrong and Houston, along with Harrison and Downly? Then we’re back to square one.”

  “So find out what it’s worth.” The detective exited the freeway and took the off-ramp leading onto Wilshire. Locating the building, they pulled into an underground structure and parked.

  “What do you make of this?” The photo that had been with Daniel’s papers had fallen out on the seat when Carolyn had opened her purse. She handed it to the detective.

  Hank shrugged. “It’s a snapshot of two kids. Why? Do you think it has some bearing on the case?”

  “Probably not,” Carolyn said after they’d parked and began walking toward the building. “Rebecca found it on my nightstand yesterday and thought the girl was me.”

  They made their way to the twelfth floor where the corporate offices for Hole in One were located. “I’m glad you decided to talk to Houston first,” she told him. “I had a bad experience with Liam Armstrong.”

  The detective looked surprised. “You know him?”

  “I used to,” Carolyn told him, taking in the large gold letters on the glass doors. “I went to high school with Houston and Armstrong. This is a fancy place, Hank. Look how I’m dressed.” She was wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and a studded denim vest. “I look like a cowgirl. I doubt if what I’m wearing is customary attire for Internal Revenue agents.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We’re going to tell Houston we’re cops once we get our foot in the door.”

  Nonetheless, Carolyn could tell Hank was also intimidated. They entered the lobby where two attractive young receptionists were seated behind a long console, both of them wearing headsets and speaking on the phone. A distinguished-looking man in an expensive suit, carrying a black leather briefcase, was seated on a sofa thumbing through the pages of a glossy magazine.

  A tall, handsome black man dressed in a green golf shirt with the Hole in One logo emblazoned on the front, his arms bulging with muscles, burst through the doors and walked briskly down one of the side corridors.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Houston,” Hank told a receptionist, pulling out his badge, then placing it back inside his jacket before she had a chance to read the words Ventura Police. He watched as the woman’s eyes darted toward the corridor where the man had gone, confirming his suspicions that the individual who’d whisked past them had been Nolan Houston.

  A slender blonde with large blue eyes, the woman held up a finger for him to wait until she had concluded her phone call, then moved the microphone away from her mouth. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Houston?”

  “Sure do,” Hank said, winking at Carolyn as he leaned sideways against the counter. “We’re with the Internal Revenue. I suggest you call your boss and tell him we’re here. And you might want to mention that we don’t care much for waiting.”

  While the woman called Houston, the detective stepped aside with Carolyn. “I don’t know about Armstrong,” he whispered in her ear, “but this guy has one hell of a lot to lose.”

  With floor-to-ceiling windows behind him overlooking the Los Angeles skyline, Nolan Houston glared out at them from behind an ornate desk. His office walls were covered with oil paintings, and several bronze sculptures stood on white marble podiums.

  “I could sue you people for misrepresentation,” Houston said, furious. “I was scheduled to play in a charity golf tournament at the Los Angeles Country Club. You may not consider something like that important, but golf is my business.”

  “I don’t think suing us would be in your best interest,” Hank told him, one corner of his lip curling. “We’re here to discuss the death of Tim Harrison.”

  Carolyn watched Houston’s face, looking for his reaction. He didn’t so much as blink. Due to all the years that had passed, she hadn’t expected him to remember her. This was a cold, calculating man, she decided. It wasn’t surprising that he’d become successful in the business world. Houston might not remember a girl he’d attended high school with, yet how could he forget the tragedy of a young boy’s death? He reached for a silver pitcher sitting on a tray, along with four cut crystal glasses.

  Nolan Houston poured himself a glass of water, but made no move to offer the same to his guests. “Tim Harrison died twenty-some years ago,” he told them, holding the glass so it obscured the lower half of his face. “Isn’t the man who killed him in prison?”

  “Right now he’s recovering from a gunshot wound,” the detective said, reaching inside his jacket for a toothpick. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Of course not,” Houston said, a flicker of fear surfacing. Moments later, the steely look returned. “Was it in the newspaper? I don’t recall reading anything. I don’t generally follow that kind of thing. Besides, I haven’t lived in Ventura for fifteen years.”

  Hank stuck the toothpick in his mouth, then moved it from one side to the other, wanting some time to pass before he spoke again. “What makes you think he was shot in Ventura?”

  Houston made a jerky movement, causing his chair to squeak on the plastic mat beneath it. His brows furrowed and there was a slight tremor in his hand as he set the crystal glass down on his desk. Carolyn noticed a coaster, but Houston hadn’t used it. She exchanged glances with Hank, wondering if he’d picked up on it as well. Little things occasionally revealed more than a person realized.

  “I assumed, okay?” Houston said, hissing the words through clenched teeth. “Why are you here, Detective? Certainly you don’t think I have anything to do with this man’s shooting.” He paused and sucked in a deep breath. “To be perfectly honest, you’re not going to find any sympathy here over this Metroix fellow. They should have never kicked the bastard out of prison.”

  Carolyn decided it was time she stepped in. “Do you remember me, Nolan? We went to Ventura High together. I dated Liam Armstrong.”

  “You dated Liam?” he said, placing his hand on his throat as i
f he were having difficulty swallowing. “What’s your name again?”

  “Carolyn Sullivan,” she said. “I’m Daniel’s Metroix’s parole officer. I believe the same person who shot Metroix tried to run my daughter and me off the road last night. Not only that, Metroix’s motel room was wired with explosives. I was there when they went off.”

  Hank asked, “Have you seen your friend Liam Armstrong recently?”

  “I saw him about two years ago,” Houston said. “Are you going to pay him a visit too?”

  Neither the detective nor Carolyn answered. She felt certain Houston would call and alert Armstrong the moment they left his office. What they wanted to know was whether the men had worked in concert, or if only one was responsible for the recent events. Houston clearly had the funds to contract a murder for hire, but would a man of his caliber be callous enough to try to kill a female probation officer? She corrected herself. Success didn’t equate to honor and decency. Only a short time and even she had become bedazzled by Houston’s opulent surroundings.

  Carolyn tried to reach into the past and envision the night of Tim Harrison’s death. Liam, Nolan, and Tim Harrison were three of the most popular boys at Ventura High. Because his father was a police chief, the Harrison boy had enjoyed a certain status. As she recalled, all three drove nice cars, wore good clothes, and the girls were all dying to go out with them. The very nature of the game of football may have additionally played a role in the crime. It was an aggressive sport in which players were taught to take advantage of their opponents’ weaknesses. They might never know what had happened in the days preceding Tim Harrison’s death. Maybe one of the boys had taken a tongue lashing from a coach, or something else had occurred to make him feel inferior. What better way to pump up a wounded ego than to pick on a mentally ill individual like Daniel Metroix, whom fate had placed in their path?

  She seriously doubted if Liam or Nolan had intended to kill their friend. Overall, however, their actions had been despicable. After beating and degrading Metroix, the situation must have gotten out of control. Daniel had recalled the three boys fighting, even claiming that he thought it was Harrison who set them off, upset that his father might find out what they had done. An elbow here, a misplaced slug, or a charge like she’d seen on the football field—it wasn’t hard to imagine how Harrison could have gone flying into the dimly lit street, not providing an oncoming driver with adequate time to brake. Not only was she convinced that Liam Armstrong and Nolan Houston had failed to tell the truth about their assault against Daniel, she believed they’d allowed the man to sit in prison for twenty-three years for a death they had more than likely caused.

  For Houston to say he had no sympathy for the person he’d used as a scapegoat made Carolyn feel like ripping his throat out. Once again, she glanced around his office, deciding he didn’t deserve so much as the glass he’d selfishly sipped his water from.

  “What about Charles Harrison?” Houston said weakly, the prolonged silence from the officers having served its purpose. “If anyone wanted Metroix dead, it was Tim’s father. Liam and I were worried he might shoot the guy in the courtroom.”

  “Right,” Carolyn said, giving him a look of contempt. All these two boys had been concerned about was themselves.

  “Chief Harrison is dead,” Hank said. “He died Friday night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Houston told them, staring at a spot over their head as he struggled to regain his composure. “What about his wife? Did she ever come around? She had a nervous breakdown. Tim was their life. Right after he got killed, Mrs. Harrison had to have a hysterectomy. After that, she was never the same. Maybe if they’d been able to have another child, it would have been easier to accept what happened.”

  Hank stood, then tilted his head toward the door, letting Carolyn know it was time for them to leave. They were halfway across the room when he turned around, catching Houston already reaching for the phone. “New information has come to light,” he said. “Daniel Metroix swears you, Tim Harrison, and Liam Armstrong attacked him that night. He even recalls the Harrison boy arguing with you after you beat up Metroix.”

  “That’s a damn lie,” Houston barked, a line of perspiration popping out on his forehead.

  “Since someone has attempted to take Metroix’s life, as well as Ms. Sullivan’s,” the detective continued, “the investigation has been officially reopened. Of course, now there’re three new crimes involved. You’re an intelligent man, Houston. Didn’t you think the truth was going to come out eventually?”

  Nolan Houston froze, the phone clasped in his hand. The blood drained from his face. “I need an attorney,” he mumbled without thinking.

  Hank flung open the door, then waited for Carolyn to pass. He leveled his finger at Houston. “If anything else happens to Carolyn Sullivan, I’ll come gunning for you myself. Are we clear, Houston?”

  Once they were in the elevator, Carolyn asked the detective, “What do you think?”

  “Dirty,” he said, popping his knuckles.

  “Are you certain?”

  A bell pinged as the doors to the elevator opened on the ground floor. “Nothing in life is certain,” Hank told her, his face softening into a fatherly expression. “At least we accomplished something. If Houston is guilty, he’ll think twice before he tries to hurt you or your family again.”

  Chapter 21

  Hank turned to Carolyn when they reached his police unit after leaving the building on Wilshire. “Let’s stop somewhere and have lunch. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you put anything in your mouth outside of those stupid protein bars.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Carolyn said. “I eat all the time. I thought we had a one o’clock appointment. It’s already past twelve. Where are we meeting Armstrong?”

  The detective smiled. “About five blocks from here.”

  “How did you arrange that?”

  “I told him that’s where I wanted to lease ten thousand square feet of commercial real estate for my new investment banking firm.” Hank pulled into a strip shopping center. “I don’t want to waste time. We need evidence. Kevin Thomas at the DA’s office should have the requests for warrants ready by the end of the day.”

  They entered a popular spot called the China Garden, taking a seat at the counter rather than waiting for a table. The restaurant was packed and noisy. They ordered their food, then Carolyn looked over at the detective. “If Houston called him, Armstrong probably won’t show.”

  “He’ll show,” the detective said, handing her an egg roll as soon as the waiter set down the plate. “Trust me, all Armstrong was thinking about when we talked were dollar signs. What difference does it make if he’s tipped off that we’re cops? The cat’s already out of the bag. I know where to find him.” A platter of rice mixed with shrimp arrived, and he spooned a large portion onto her plate. “Anyway, eat your food. You might be able to get away with only a few hours’ sleep, but you can’t live on air.”

  Carolyn spotted Liam Armstrong as soon as they stepped into the lobby of the Wilshire West Towers. “That’s him,” she whispered to Hank.

  Armstrong wasn’t as tall and fit as Nolan Houston. He walked stiffly and appeared to have a problem with his left leg. His face hadn’t changed that much. A few lines shot out around his eyes and mouth, and his hair was sprinkled with gray. Carolyn recalled how excited she’d been when he’d asked her out on their first date. Even now, he was an attractive man. Wearing a pin-striped suit, a royal blue shirt, and a matching tie, he was carrying a briefcase and had a cell phone plugged into his ear.

  “Are you Liam Armstrong?”

  “Excuse me,” he said, glancing at Hank’s inexpensive suit and scuffed shoes. “I’m in the middle of a conversation.”

  Hank reached over and jerked the earpiece out of Armstrong’s ear. Flashing his badge, he said, “Detective Hank Sawyer with the Ventura PD. Where can we go to talk privately?”

  Liam Armstrong gave Carolyn a curious look. “I don’t unders
tand,” he said, turning back to the detective. “You must have the wrong person.” He reached into his pocket and handed them both his business card. “I’m waiting for an important client. He should be here any minute. What’s the problem, Officer?”

  “Your appointment has arrived,” Hank told him, tossing Armstrong’s card into the closest trash can. “We’re investigating a number of serious crimes. They all seem to be connected to the death of Tim Harrison.”

  People were streaming through the double doors, returning from lunch. One of them bumped into Armstrong and almost knocked him to the ground.

  “Tim’s been dead for years,” he told them, limping to the far corner of the lobby. “The man responsible was sentenced to prison for life. Whatever crimes you’re investigating can’t have anything to do with me.”

  “We can either talk here or take a ride to the police station,” Hank told him. “It’s your call, pal.”

  Armstrong’s phone emitted a high-pitched sound. He reached in his pocket and turned it off. “I guess we could talk at the site,” he said. “The previous tenants have already moved out. This is a prime spot, the entire eighth floor. Space like this seldom becomes available along the Wilshire corridor.”

  Hank had told him who they were and why they were there, yet he acted as if he thought they were still interested in leasing space. Houston had been rattled, Carolyn thought, but Armstrong was either suffering from a serious case of denial, intoxicated, or high on drugs. She moved closer, attempting to see if he had alcohol on his breath. If he was a drinker, he must use a lot of mouthwash.

  “It’s been a long time, Liam,” Carolyn said once they were in the elevator. “I’m hurt that you don’t remember me. We dated when we were in high school.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I saw a lot of girls when I was in high school. What’s your name?”

  “Carolyn Sullivan,” she told him. “My father taught math.”

  They finally got a reaction out of him. “Certainly this isn’t about—”