Probable Cause

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by Ridley Pearson


  “You don’t want the runaround.” She toyed with the bangles. “I’ll help where I can.”

  Dewitt opened a stenographer’s notebook and scanned a list he had prepared. He added, “People are tempted—family especially—to color the past of those who’ve died. That doesn’t help anyone. It’s too late to invent John Osbourne’s reality.”

  She crossed her legs, maintaining her excellent posture. “I will do my best, Detective.”

  “I guess the best place to start is to ask if you know why John Osbourne was in this area.”

  She considered this, and it disappointed Dewitt, because when people thought too long, they generally edited their comments. “I could say he was passing through, which makes sense, doesn’t it? But you asked for honesty, and quite frankly, I have no idea.”

  “You were close to John?”

  “Closer than the rest of the family, which is to say we were on limited speaking terms. He was the black sheep, Detective. He communicated with his mother through me. They were estranged. They haven’t spoken directly in… it must be several years now.”

  “No idea at all?”

  She shook her head.

  “Any guesses?”

  “He loved the area. My guess would be a stopover either on his way to or from Orange County.”

  “We understand he was a lobbyist. That means someone paid his travel expenses, and yet we found no receipts on him or in his belongings. Does that surprise you?”

  “I wouldn’t know about his accounting practices. I’m sorry.”

  “But he was a lobbyist? Is that right?”

  “Only in the loosest sense of the word. He represented entertainment interests in Sacramento. Composers of rock music mostly. Tax reform, accounting practices, copyright law. He worked extensively with insurance interests because, as I understand it, liability insurance has gotten out of hand for the big concerts and it’s hurting the live-music industry.”

  “But he wasn’t too serious about it?”

  “That is my opinion. John was a frustrated musician himself. He enjoyed the Los Angeles side of the business, the Hollywood side, better than the Sacramento end. He liked to be seen with the big names in the business, sit in on recording sessions, be backstage at the concerts. A groupie, I guess would be the term. A grownup groupie.”

  “That can mean drugs, can’t it?”

  The blush began at her collarbone and crept lusciously up the sides of her neck. A blush is an invaluable investigative tool. Dewitt didn’t place much confidence in a lie-detector test, but a blush seldom failed. “I think a lot of that has changed,” she said, cleverly avoiding an answer.

  “I made a phone call to the LAPD. Would it surprise you that your cousin’s name shows up on some Narco lists? Narcotics, Ms. Laughton. No charges filed. No arrests. But he’s on their lists. You understand the implication.” He waited. The color of the sea changed slowly like the skin of a chameleon; if he blurred his vision, it appeared as if he was looking out across the treetops of an endless forest.

  She refused comment, seated firmly like a model posing for her portrait.

  “One of Jessie Osbourne’s campaign planks this year is a strong antidrug bill, isn’t it?”

  “Jessie’s always been a leader against street drugs, yes.”

  She said it as if she was addressing a news conference.

  “Was John suicidal?”

  “No. My first reaction to that is, no, he was not. But who is suicidal? We often don’t know until they’ve done it, isn’t that right? He lived in an artificial world. The music business is… different. In some ways, he was manic-depressive. These last few years, no one could get close to him. Not even me, and well, we were close once, brother and sister close.”

  “Money?”

  “His nemesis, I’m afraid. Initially, the source of his estrangement from Jessie.”

  “A family like the Osbournes… I mean, they’re part of California history… there’s family money, isn’t there?” he asked, looking around the room.

  She laughed in a contrived, predictable confidence. “There is, certainly. This, however, is the result of the work of a wonderful divorce attorney.” The Priscilla Laughtons of this world never called them lawyers. “My husband was in the market.” She pronounced it as a woman from Boston would: without the r. “He still is, actually.” She grinned, loving every minute of it, every cent.

  “Had John been cut off?”

  “John was no longer supported by the trust.”

  She was getting on his nerves. Too much of this seemed prepared text, as if she was reading a TelePrompTer mounted just behind his head.

  “We didn’t find a suicide note,” Dewitt said. “That bothers me. Any idea where he stayed when he was in the area? Did he ever stay here with you?”

  “No, not here. He phoned me not long ago. From Seaside. Asked to see me. I drove all the way over there, but you should have seen the place where he wanted to meet! Believe me, I didn’t even get out of the car.”

  “A bar?”

  “A dive, is more like it. Just awful! Ick. Motorcycle types.”

  “Do you remember the name of the place?”

  “The name?” she cackled. “You must be kidding!”

  “And that was?”

  “You mean when exactly? Oh, God, a year or so ago.”

  “Friends in the area?”

  “Not whom I’m aware of.”

  “But he did stay in the area occasionally?”

  “I assume so. And if his choice in motels was anything like his choice of bars, I wouldn’t choose to know where.” She studied him. “You appear disappointed, Detective.”

  “This area is a little long on motels, Miss Laughton. If we knew where he had stayed, we could look for a note. We might turn something up.” Dewitt studied his pad, wondering whether there was anything to get out of Priscilla Laughton other than the traces of sweet perfume and alluring sideways glances.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she told him.

  “May I speak openly?” he asked.

  “Please.” She leaned forward, suddenly more interested.

  “Sooner or later, I’m going to have to speak with Jessie Osbourne. The more involved making those arrangements becomes, the longer the case drags out and the more likely the press will stay with it.

  “We would like to wrap this up,” he continued, “as I’ve said. Quite frankly, her avoidance is somewhat curious at this point. As a parent, I would want to speak with whoever was in charge of my child’s investigation.”

  “Avoidance is a strong word, Detective. Jessie and John had gone their separate ways long ago.”

  “One I chose carefully,” he said. Didn’t this kind ever offer you something to drink? “Well, I guess that about does it.”

  “May I ask you something?” she inquired. Dewitt cocked his head as if to say he didn’t care.

  “A name of a policeman, a detective, came up… last weekend at a party I was at. I’m not sure he’s still a policeman… actually… but he was once, and he is evidently in consideration for a job to help my friends… well kind of a security consultant, really. You know, decide what their place needs in terms of a security system, do a little research for them. Not private detective work, but kind of a consultant. And I wondered, since you’re in the same fraternity, if you might know him and be able to give me a reference.”

  “I might, if he’s from around here,” he said, sensing in her for the first time an insecurity. She was improvising. “What’s his name… or her name,” he added quickly.

  “His name is Howard Lumbrowski.”

  Dewitt exhaled in disgust and glanced out the windows. Gray green waves undulated in slow motion. A tiny ship of unrecognizable purpose slipped slowly along the horizon.

  “You do know him,” she stated.

  “Someone put you up to this?” he asked, his voice acerbic and clipped.

  “No. I take it that means you would not recommend him?”

  “I�
�m the wrong person to ask,” he said.

  “No. Please. I’m interested. I don’t want her, my friend, making a mistake. She seems to think him quite capable.”

  “It’s personal. I’m the wrong guy to ask, that’s all.”

  “Anything you could tell—”

  “It’s personal!” he repeated harshly, struggling forward to be free of the plush couch, frustrated by the way it seemed to hold on to him. “What do you feed this thing?” he asked her.

  “Are you seeing other people yet?” she asked somberly, standing.

  “What?” Incredulous. His own words came back to haunt him: Death should be a personal thing. His name—his life’s story—had been in the papers for months. Laughton was clearly up on her current events. For a few weeks back in late September, he had probably been the topic of cocktail-party conversation; the thought revolted him.

  “Would you call me sometime? I mean for something other than an interview?”

  If he had been anywhere but California, Dewitt might have been surprised. He had lived in the state for nearly fifteen years now, and he still wasn’t used to this kind of aggressive sexuality, this open-book philosophy of “hang it all out there and go with your feelings.” The avocado toothpaste and open-collar crowd still rubbed him wrong. “You know what we cops call Carmel, Miss Laughton?” She stared. “Disneyland without the rides.”

  “I see. And Pebble Beach?”

  “I can find my own way out,” he said, adding after walking a few feet toward the huge front door, “I think.”

  “Call me if I can be of any help, Detective.”

  ***

  That evening, with Emmy at home attempting to complete her schoolwork during marathon phone conversations, Dewitt reached the Community Hospital after visiting hours. It didn’t bother him. He had a system all worked out. He drove around back, following signs for deliveries, and entered through the loading bay by the kitchen, where the door was left unlocked to facilitate the dumping of trash. He hurried down a back hallway, passing storage rooms, an employee lounge—empty at this hour—and the housekeeping department. He allowed himself to believe that none of the nurses, none of the security guards were aware he sneaked in after hours, this despite the fact he had been busted on numerous occasions—found asleep in a chair by his daughter’s bedside.

  He cracked open the fire door, peered into the patient-room hallway, and made a dash for Room 114, two doors down. Once inside, he was illuminated by the eerie glowing and flashing from the myriad of life-support machinery. He located a towel and blocked the gap at the bottom of the door before switching on the overhead room lights.

  The enormous stainless-steel bed resembled a Ferris wheel, rotating clockwise ever so slowly. It’s purpose, ostensibly, was to reduce bed sores, though it did much more than that: It dehumanized her entirely. His younger daughter lay strapped in its netted grasp, her body curled like a wilting leaf, bone thin, her skin ash gray. Emmy called the contraption a gerbil cage.

  This room, humming with a mechanical dissonance, felt more like a futuristic research laboratory than a place to heal his little girl. Mustn’t dwell on it, he reminded himself. Acceptance was his watchword.

  Anna’s was borrowed time. At first, the advice had been to transfer her. Now it included what to James Dewitt was an unthinkable option: Pull the plug.

  Using the controls, he brought the bed around so Anna lay horizontally. He unfastened the restraining net and touched her cool face gently. Sliding open the bedside drawer, he removed the pink plastic hairbrush, lowered the stainless-steel restraining bar, and sat close to his daughter. He brushed what had once been a full head of hair, now a few wispy patches that pulled loose with his efforts. He leaned closely to her and spoke softly to her. He knew for a fact that recovered coma patients reported having been able to hear and understand conversations that had taken place while people presumed them unconscious. He considered these one-way conversations therapy.

  “I missed you last night, honey. Sorry about that. There’s a case, an investigation that I’m in charge of, and it has got me pretty well booked up. You’d like this one, I think. It’s different. I actually feel like a cop. I went to a beautiful house in Pebble Beach today. You would have loved it. View of the ocean and everything. Thing was so big, it had its own ZIP code. When you move from one room to the next, you change time zones.” He looked for even a twitch to her lips. Nothing. “I didn’t see any whales, but I saw a ship and it reminded me of all those times we went whale watching. You wake up and we’ll do that again, honey. It’s a promise.” He brushed her hair some more, his face and throat tight with memories. “Not much news since Monday,” he added. “Rusty got a bird, or at least he left part of one on the back door. Your sister misses you, sends you her love. She spends any more time on that phone, it’s going to have to be surgically removed.” He leaned back and studied her gaunt features, absentmindedly tugging the fine hair from the brush, which he returned to the drawer. He polished his glasses and took the paperwork into his lap.

  There would be no tears tonight; he was all but through with tears. He liked doing his paperwork here, enjoyed the company of his daughter, regardless of her condition, her reliance on this machinery. The paperwork seemed endless. This one was for the California Department of Justice—the DOJ. Male, Caucasian: He penciled in the two little boxes. Only 138 questions to go.

  3

  THURSDAY

  1

  Early Thursday morning, in the middle of a shave, James Dewitt was startled by the corrosive ringing of the phone. A sense of dread struck him, and he thought that physicians must suffer this same anxiety over unexpected phone calls. A vision of Osbourne spread out on the pavement floated before his eyes—the skin gray and pasty.

  Another ring or two and Emmy would answer it. She slept more heavily than any human on earth—something akin to bears in hibernation—but with the extension only inches from her head, even Emmy awakened after five or six rings.

  It had been a rough night for Emmy, her recurring nightmare waking her in screams and tears. He had spent most of the night with her, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her hand, staring at her with a father’s concern. Had the nightmare been fiction, it would have been easier, but of course it wasn’t. She had relived that moment in the courthouse a hundred times, probably had another hundred to go for all he knew. He took comfort in the thought that she had made it through what the experts deemed her most difficult months. There were several major leaps yet to make, perhaps the largest of which was convincing Emmy to do away with her mother’s ashes. That ceramic urn on Emmy’s bureau had come to symbolize her dependence on the past. Her father still prayed for her future.

  The disposable razor slipped into the sink and floated amid the icebergs of shaving cream. As he lifted the receiver, he noticed that the bedside clock read 6:30.

  “DBF at Del Mar,” Ginny said solemnly, her tone cautious, almost apologetic. “James?” she asked when he failed to respond.

  “Who’s on it?”

  “Nelson. Says he hasn’t touched a thing. Looks like your little lecture got through.” That was Ginny: Build you up when you needed it. Dewitt had used Wednesday’s roll calls to conduct refresher courses on the duties of the first officer. She was exaggerating his effectiveness: Nelson was the best uniform on the force.

  “A suicide?”

  “That’s right, sweetie. I wish I was callin’ to tell you you won the lotto, but I ain’t.”

  “Who’s been notified?”

  “You’re first, James. I got the list right here. You want me to wake up the commander?”

  “Capp? I guess you had better. And call Hindy, Ginny. Fill him in. Tell him I’m on my way over there.” That would ensure someone would look after Em this morning. “Call Zorro—Dr. Emmanuel—I want him there; and wake up Brian Marney and have him send an FI over. I want this handled as a proper crime scene this time. Better call the DA’s office; they may want to send someone down. We’
ll need more radio cars today. See who’s on-call. Use the phones. I don’t want anyone using the radios; we don’t need a zoo scene down there. Let’s detour Ocean up top. Same with Scenic.”

  “The wooden barricades?”

  “Please.”

  “Done.”

  They hung up. Dewitt turned and watched Rusty stretch by the door; he was oblivious to any of this. A dog’s life.

  Only half-shaved, Dewitt hurried into yesterday’s clothes, convinced that the dead body in the parking lot was no suicide; it was a one-eighty-seven—a homicide.

  2

  Upon his arrival at the Carmel Beach parking lot, which the patrolmen referred to as Del Mar, Dewitt said to the beefy Patrolman Buford Nelson, “Brutus, kill the lights on the radio car. No sense in attracting any more attention.” Nelson had the roof lights going. A small gathering of onlookers huddled by the parking-lot entrance. The roped-off lot contained the lone Chevy Luv truck, off-white with a battered camper shell. Its engine was running and blue-gray fumes escaped the cab. The two men stood inside the police tape and glo-cones.

  “Checked his neck for a pulse,” Nelson explained. “Nothing doing. Skin was cool. Didn’t touch anything but the driver’s door.”

  “We’ll get him out in a minute,” Dewitt said. “I’d like to wait a minute, get some photographs.”

  “Was careful where I walked, like you asked. Oh, yeah, and I found that same oil again. I drew a chalk mark around it.” He pointed out the circled area of pavement not five feet from the small pickup truck.

  “A triangle?”

  “Looked like the same thing you described to us yesterday at roll call.”

 

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