by Jack Adler
"I belong to an informal group of people who discuss public issues and events," Professor Cabral said, taking Val by surprise. I figured she thought she should have known about these get-togethers. "We're going to meet Sunday night here. Would you both like to come? We usually have interesting discussions."
"Definitely," I said as Val nodded.
We thanked the professor and left, perhaps a bit wiser. I immediately planned to use this meeting to convince Wolcott to let me stay at least another day beyond my Sunday deadline. Meanwhile, Val agreed to have dinner the next night. I was glad she didn't have other plans. The more time we spent together, the more I wanted to be with her, and it was frustrating to conceal my feelings, if indeed I was. I decided it was too late to call Wolcott back east and I’d be able to offer more details with late newscasts and the morning paper. No mention had been made of Holly, but my gut told me she was involved in Lebon’s death.
As we drove off, I spotted a car that seemed to be following us as I again navigated the tricky curves of Sunset Boulevard to the San Diego Freeway. I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t say anything to Val.
Seven
FRIDAY
Darkness shielded them as Bender and Luke set up shop a block from the Los Angeles Times building in downtown Los Angeles. Lights shone on each floor of the massive building, but the streetlights cast little light on the empty streets. From their angle at the corner, they had a direct shot at the building’s lobby.
“We have to move quickly,” Bender said. “There are probably police patrols in this area.”
“I’m almost ready,” Luke said, aiming the grenade launcher.
“Let it go,” Bender ordered.
The grenade crashed through the heavy front door of the building, creating a huge hole in the lobby. Weakened foundations caused the second floor to come crumbling down on the lobby. Sirens sounded immediately as Luke revved up the car and fled toward the nearby freeway.
“We made it!” Bender cried exultingly as he looked through the rearview mirror. “No one behind us.” He hesitated a moment as Luke found the ramp onto the freeway. “There’s probably not too much damage to the building or personnel, but the city’s psyche is another thing.”
“Do you think this will do it?” Luke asked. “Will the city give in now?”
“I don’t know,” Bender said, shrugging. “What’s the matter? Are you getting tired of all the fun?”
Luke gave Bender an exasperated glance but kept his eyes on the freeway, which was beginning to show signs of early morning traffic.
It was getting to be a grim wake-up routine: turn on the television and discover the latest HAP outrage. Today, though, it was a doubleheader. A grenade had done considerable damage to the Los Angeles Times building, but remarkably only one person was injured. His condition was considered critical, but he was expected to survive. The normal route was still intact. The news was more grim concerning the murder of Art Lebon, the radio talk show personality whose name sounded vaguely familiar when I first heard of his demise on the car radio with Val. Now there were more details, and they were all bad. The police had conducted a fingerprint search and found Holly’s prints on Lebon’s body. I didn’t believe she had killed Lebon any more than she had murdered Ashley Wells. It puzzled me, just like it had Professor Cabral, why Lebon was killed at all. He was a popular disc jockey with an early morning show that enjoyed a large number of loyal listeners. His show ran in several West Coast cities, but it wasn’t syndicated, at least not to the New York market. And now that a bullet had scattered his gray matter, it never would be.
Another strike against Holly. Just what I wanted to hear. I suspected it was another setup, but I didn’t have a scintilla of proof—yet.
When I tried to reach Wolcott, he was in a meeting with DeCosta, so I left a message. The senior Baxter was probably fuming, and I had no idea what developments might have come up on the legal scene. I was out of that particular loop—at least at the moment.
The new manifesto, which I read in the newspaper while having a quick breakfast, threw out some more of the same garbage. The HAP took responsibility for everything, stating the removal of Lebon was necessary to further their legitimate aims and that it regretted the need for the action. I was immediately struck by one paragraph:
It’s time the role of the media was better defined. We believe media has a responsible role to fulfill in reporting the news rather than making it. And media should not be any more exempt than any other segment of society from the review of selected members from other fields. No group, especially those who represent authority and influence public opinion, should be free from careful civil review.
Who would do the selection? Was this common sense or a prelude to fascism? They were key questions the HAP left unanswered. But this probably explained why poor Lebon was a victim.
The manifesto ended with another reminder that the sooner the city agreed to their terms, the sooner the “daily actions,” as they euphemistically put it, would end. Urban blackmail!
It was all disturbing news, which I couldn’t help personalizing. Wolcott wasn’t about to change his mind when he learned about this development. DeCosta was probably complaining about the lack of results from me. The second murder was an obvious escalation, not auguring very well for the city or Holly.
I drove to the television channel, where I was sure reporters had added to their original list of questions.
Waiting in the lobby of the television channel for my interviewer, I read Gail Wooten’s article. She had been accurate, but as expected, the headline and her lead were designed to generate interest—maybe too much interest, I wondered. I had to fax the clip to Wilcott later in the day.
Tramerica Investigator Disputes Police Theory About Holly Baxter
LOS ANGELES -- Derry Greene, a staff investigator for Tramerica, the New York-based travel concern on whose tour package Holly Baxter was traveling, disagrees with the police that the heiress, being sought by the authorities for murder and bank robbery, is a willing accomplice of the HAP, the terrorist organization that has given the city an ultimatum to agree to its demands or suffer more violence.
It was a long lead, and not that easy to digest, but it certainly compressed a lot of material. The article dramatized what I had said; Wolcott might not be a happy camper after reading it.
The article didn’t mention Lebon’s murder, as that day’s paper had gone to print before it happened. But the general tenor of the piece wasn’t likely to sit well with the police. That was OK, though, as long as it led the HAP to slip up somehow.
Lanny Yudell, a tan, good-looking man in his thirties with professionally whitened teeth, came into reception with a hearty smile and a strong handshake. He led me into a studio for the interview. There was no makeup applied to my face, which was just as well. He sat me before the cameras and placed a small microphone around my neck.
“So you disagree with the police?” Yudell started after introducing me. My name and that of Tramerica, I was sure, would be flashed across the bottom of the screen from time to time. I could look at the monitor television off to the side and see for myself, but I wanted to concentrate on my answers.
“Let’s say we have strong reservations. But let’s see what happens.”
I was using the plural; I thought it would have more impact.
“What do you think will happen?”
General questions got general answers, but this one was a bit tricky. “Hopefully Holly Baxter will be found unhurt and we’ll learn all the details.”
“There seems to be a lot of incriminating evidence against her, with the deaths of the tour guide and now Art Lebon,” Yudell said. “She was also seen robbing the bank.” Doubt over her innocence showed on his face like an outline in a coloring book as he inserted an unwelcome editorial spin. Challenging my response to some extent, he had a patented earnest look, and I wondered if it was natural or cultivated. But nonetheless, he had zeroed in on a real issue.
; “None of this is conclusive,” I argued. “She could be used as an unwilling tool.”
The HAP had used the situation to escalate the matter, and I thought perhaps I should, too. I was due to go back to New York, and Wolcott could always put out a counterstatement or a more diplomatic statement. Of course, I could be completely disavowed, too. Without hesitation, I added, “The evidence is so obvious that I think it may be orchestrated.”
Yudell looked at me with surprise. But he had to be aware he was getting what he wanted: some controversy in an exclusive instead of safe, bland comments. No doubt he’d take credit for striking through my weak defenses to elicit a powerful scoop.
The rest of the interview, mercifully short as most television interviews are, covered familiar territory. With a general wrap-up platitude, Yudell went on to the next raging topic: a series of dog kidnappings in Santa Monica. I drove to our office, hopeful that my pale face with my dingy teeth was now known to everyone and had been taped by Corinne so it could be sent to Wolcott. Of greater import, I hoped that the interview might provoke the HAP and cause it to make a mistake. I was also looking forward—more than I knew I should—to finding out what Val thought of the TV interview. I also hoped I could attend the meeting at the professor’s house on Sunday night; I wondered what might come out of it.
“OK,” Deputy Chief Johnson said to members of the task force investigating the HAP. “We have two murders now, and the shit from the mayor’s office is about to bury us. Are we getting anywhere?”
Johnson looked around the small room full of uncomfortable armless chairs, and no one looked him in the eye. “Anyone,” he pleaded, “any leads?”
Detective Ray Saskin, a portly man in his early forties, said, “We have drawings of the pair at the bank and radio station circulating around the city. They’re driving, so they must get gas. The drawings are all the gas stations. We’ve also circulated the drawings to every car rental outlet, but they might have their own car. One or more cars have been stolen and not left, and no one has seen anything; it’s like the fucking city is blind.”
“Well, someone might spot them yet,” Johnson said, “but we can’t depend on that. And they’re probably in some disguise.”
Saskin shrugged and went on. “We also gave the drawings to every neighborhood watch group and asked them to contact us if they see any strangers living in a house in their area or any who have just moved in. We believe they’re moving from one safe house to another.”
“Good,” Johnson said sighing, as if he were a bit encouraged by this tactic.
“Security is tight at every government building,” volunteered Detective Ed Hague, a lean man in his late thirties. “And at all airports and other terminals.”
“Likely targets,” Johnson said, nodding. “Anything else? What about the toll-free line?”
Saskin shook his head. “Nothing worthwhile as yet. Too many crank calls, even one about aliens. We’re checking any decent ones out.”
“OK,” Johnson said. “Now, someone tell me who this asshole Greene is who criticized us on TV this morning.”
Detective Ruiz spoke up. “He came to see me, chief. He’s some sort of investigator for Tramerica, the travel agency whose tour Holly Baxter was on. I told him to back off.”
“Well, he didn’t listen,” Johnson frowned. “What gives him the right to shoot his mouth off? Son of a bitch! Ruiz, keep an eye on the jerk. See if you can get him off our back. We have enough problems.”
“Yes, sir,” Ruiz said as if he would enjoy the assignment. “I have been watching him, but I think I have to clue him in.”
I walked into the office, and Stacy introduced me to Frank Conrad, a stocky, muscular man with a bristly mustache and blue eyes that studied me while his lips showed the trace of a smile. He stood by Corinne’s desk. I didn’t know where she was.
“Hi,” Conrad said. “We’re sort of in the same business. I was retained by Marshall Baxter.”
We shook hands. His grip was certainly stronger than mine, and I wasn’t exactly weak. He was probably in his mid to late thirties with a craggy face that some might say displayed character; to me he looked like he had spent too much time in the sun worrying about his cases.
“Yes, I heard,” I said.
“Hope you don’t mind my dropping in. I had a chance to see your television interview. You were very good.”
“Yes, Derry, you were terrific,” Stacy threw in. From the approving looks she gave Conrad, I could see she wasn’t at all unhappy at his drop-in visit.
“Thanks,” I said to Conrad. “Why don’t you come into the conference room?” I offered, partially to escape Stacy. I think she got the hint and retreated to her office, but not before bestowing another appreciative look on Conrad.
“What can I do for you?” I asked as soon as we were both sitting across from each other at the semicircular mahogany desk.
Conrad gave me a quizzical glance. “Well, for starters, I think we ought to realize that we’re on the same side. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean for us to work together; I work alone. But I read the newspaper piece, and I saw the TV interview. You don’t buy the police bullshit, and I don’t, either, so maybe we can help each other.”
“How?”
“Well, maybe by saving each other some time. You only began a few days before me, but you might know something already. And maybe, just maybe, I’ve learned something you don’t know.”
“Frank—first names OK? – I’m not a licensed detective. I don’t carry a gun; I’m not licensed to.”
Conrad shook his head. “Not important. What is important is that you’re savvy enough to see through the police cover.”
He had an infectious grin, and what he said so far made sense. I found myself beginning to like the man, though I was generally impervious to compliments. I didn’t think Conrad was trying to stroke me. It was more his attempt to strike the right chord with me, and he was clever enough to succeed.
“That remains to be seen,” I said, letting myself smile for an instant, “but all I’ve learned is that it doesn’t appear the man in the bank robbery and at the radio station used to work for the LAPD.”
I figured it was OK to pass on that negative result, but I wasn’t going to bring up Val and the meeting with Professor Cabral.
“Worth checking,” Conrad nodded. “Well, I’ve extended that avenue a bit, looking nationally for both the man and the woman. But nothing has turned up yet.”
Conrad came across as a complete professional, I thought. He probably had more contacts with the police than Val did. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he were a former policeman himself. Many private investigators were. Maybe I should have brunch with Conrad, I kidded myself.
“I may not be around L.A. too much longer,” I finally admitted to Conrad.
“Oh?”
“My boss in New York wants me back at the beginning of the week. I’d like to stay longer, but . . . ”
“Well, maybe something will turn up over the weekend.”
“The only thing that will probably turn up is more HAP damage.”
Conrad nodded. “I think you’re right. The city is hanging tough, which is the right thing to do.”
“But the more the HAP does, the more Holly seems implicated, and I think that’s on purpose.”
Conrad looked at me as if maybe I were professional, too, even if I was unarmed. I couldn’t help feeling flattered. We exchanged phone numbers. It turned out he was in Philadelphia and also without a cell phone for local use, but he gave me a landline where he could be reached.
“Hey, Derry, I think we’re on the same channel,” Conrad said with a grin. Then he added, “But you look a lot better on the tube than me.”
No sooner had Conrad left that Stacy came into the conference room and said, “Before you got here, he asked a lot of questions, but I didn’t tell him anything.”
“Good,” I said. But Stacy lingered for a moment.
“Stacy, I don’t know if he�
��s married or not. We talked about other things.”
“Married, schmarried. You mean to say he didn’t ask if I was available?”
For a second I thought Stacy was serious, but then her face broke out into a grin. “Derry, I thought you knew me better.”
“I’m getting there,” I said. “But there are a few other things on my mind.”
“I’ll bet. By the way, I meant it when I said that you were good on TV. We have a tape.”
“Good. Send it and the newspaper clip to Wolcott by FedEx.”
Stacy nodded. “You were a bit daring in arguing with the police. . . . ”
“I didn’t argue; I just didn’t agree. Neither, for that matter, does Conrad.”
“Who’s Conrad?”
I stared at her with surprise. “The private detective you’re lusting after.”
“Oh, that one. I have so many that you have to be more specific.”
I had to laugh. Stacy was making the day more palatable. “Stacy, where’s Corinne?”
“She had a dental appointment. She should be here soon.”
“I want to make sure she changed my return flight to Monday.” I still had hopes of convincing Wolcott to let me stay longer than the extra night he had already granted to let me attend the professor’s soiree, but there was no point in letting Stacy know this.
Stacy nodded. “I’m sure it’s taken care of. Corinne’s very efficient. And we’ll miss you.”
“Likewise,” I lied. Stacy, I could see, had a way of growing on people, but my sights were set elsewhere.
Stacy looked truly sympathetic until she added with a straight face, “And does Wolcott know about my feelings for you?”
“Not yet. I’ll put it in my report.”
Stacy pouted, but she didn’t seem angry. Finally she left, and I phoned Wolcott. I brought him up to speed on Lebon, the TV interview and now Frank Conrad. I saved Professor Cabral’s soiree for last.