The Brimstone Murders jo-2

by Jeff Sherratt

  “Cathy, this is important.” I paused for a moment to let the woman gather her wits. “If she had never been arrested, the FBI wouldn’t have her fingerprints on file. Burt was lying.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Listen to me,” I said. “The girl I saw behind the Harvey House was real. She told me her name was Jane. Cathy, the teenager I met looked just like the girl’s mother in the photo. The police lied to you about her prints. You didn’t actually see Jane’s face. You didn’t actually identify the body, did you?”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I could hear her breathing. I let her mull over what I’d said and didn’t interrupt her thoughts. Finally, in a quiet voice she asked, “But whose body was on the table?”

  “I dunno, and we may never find out. I have a hunch what’s going on, and it’s ugly. But I know now Jane is alive…”

  I didn’t finish the sentence. Cathy let out a whimper and I heard the phone receiver thump as it hit a hard surface.

  Tom spoke up. He had been listening on the extension. “Oh, my God, Mr. O’Brien.” An agonized sound crept into his voice. “What can we do to help get to the bottom of this?”

  “Tom, listen to me. Your safety is at stake. It is extremely important that you two keep quiet about this. Sol and I are working feverishly to get a handle on the situation, but these monsters will stop at nothing. They have already murdered several people. I’ll keep you informed, but please-”

  “Say, no more. I understand.”

  I hung up the phone. Rita stared at me, her eyes wide. “Oh, Jimmy, I’m frightened.”

  “It’s scary, that’s for sure.” I looked down at the yellow piece of paper on the table.

  “What are we going to do?” Rita pushed the yellow paper aside and picked up the telephone receiver. “Jimmy, we have to call the FBI, right now!”

  “Put the phone down. Sol already did that. They won’t listen. They said they’ve checked on those people, and they said the base is legitimate, some kind of a gun club.”

  “But now with the new evidence, won’t they take another look?”

  I leaned forward, took a sip of chicken soup and tried to figure out where I was going with this. Other than sore ribs, a headache, and the nagging tick in my brain, physically I was starting to feel better. The soup went down smoothly, stayed down, and tasted good. After considering the facts at hand, I knew it would be hopeless to go to the authorities with what we suspected.

  “What evidence, Rita?” I ate some more and put the spoon down. “You’re a lawyer.” I leaned back in the chair. “You know how facts can be twisted. What do we really have? Think about it. Some guy-a murder suspect-claims he saw a dead girl. A woman who identified her body eight years ago now changes her mind. And to top it off, the chief of police is a crook working with a thug who owns a bunch of mines in the desert. C’mon, Rita. The cops hear that they’ll think I’m the one going for an insanity defense.”

  “What about Robbie and the teen drug center?” She glanced at the yellow paper next to the phone. “They’d know you didn’t make that up.”

  “What drug center? It’s a gun club. And what does Robbie have to do with something that happened years ago in Barstow? Hazel Farris is my only link between the drug center and Robbie, and she’s dead.”

  “Jimmy, we can’t just sit here.” Rita turned the paper over. “We have to do something.”

  I shrugged. “Sol and I will get to the bottom of this, and when we have tangible evidence we’ll bring in the authorities.”

  “What’s this?”

  “What?”

  “This note.” She picked up the paper. “It’s hand-printed and the guy used a red crayon. It says, ‘First warning. Quit snooping around. Next time you’re dead.’”

  “Lemme see.”

  She handed me the paper. Just as Rita had said, the writer used a red crayon when he printed the note in block letters. A popular mystery novelist, in one of her books, postulated that an expert couldn’t authenticate the handwriting if the ransom or threatening notes were written with a crayon. I didn’t know if that was true, and until now I had never heard of such a note being written in crayon. Maybe Ben Moran read mystery novels. Maybe his thugs read coloring books.

  Rita put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God!”

  “It’s a prank. The paper was on my face when I woke up after the fight,” I said.

  Her back stiffened. “You lied to me.”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “It wasn’t a mugging. You knew all along who attacked you, didn’t you? You knew it had to do with the case, with Robbie Farris. You got beat up and you didn’t tell me why!”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  Rita stood there glaring at me, doing a slow burn.

  “Rita, even if it was them, do you think I’d just quit and walk away…”

  “You lied to me.”

  She silenced me with a stare chiseled in granite. There was nothing more I could say. Rita was right. I’d lied to her, and she knew it. After what seemed like a long time, she turned and started for the door. Halfway across the room, she stopped and said, “Gimme your car keys. I’ll get someone to help me bring it back. I’ll leave it in the carport. Your keys will be under the seat.”

  I tossed her the keys. “Listen, Rita-”

  Her eyes cut deep. “Don’t ever, ever lie to me again,” she said and walked out the door.

  I sat at the table and stared at the cold soup. What she said had hurt. It felt like my blood had turned to dust, like somewhere along the line it became easier to lie than face the truth. I knew I’d have to face up to it and come clean with Rita about the gun Mabel had stashed, and I’d have to let her know about me sneaking onto the base; after all, she was my lawyer now. I’d sat there and listened to her little lawyer speech about being totally open and had implicitly agreed with her terms. Anyway, I just didn’t want to lie anymore. But right now my mind only had room for one thought: find Robbie and bring him back.

  After she left, I made two phone calls. The first one was to Sol. I wanted to let him know of my suspicion that the chief of police was in cahoots with the gang at the base. He wasn’t in, so I left a message with Silvia, his wife. I told her I had new information, but it would keep until I met him at the dairy tomorrow night.

  I made my next call to Mabel at her home and told her briefly about the fight. Then I told her I wouldn’t be in Monday, but would clue her in on what I was up to when I returned to the office on Tuesday.

  What she told me put a chill up my spine. “Jimmy, the police are talking to all our neighbors, even friends of mine. And guess what? The phone isn’t ringing. People are not going to hire a lawyer who the cops think is a murderer.” Mabel sighed. “In their predicaments, I can’t say that I blame ’em. The people who call us are crooks, for chrissakes. They don’t want anything to do with the police snooping around.”

  “Yeah, they wouldn’t like that.”

  “I was going to tell you about this yesterday, but I didn’t want to spoil your weekend. What the hell, seeing as how your weekend is ruined anyway, I suppose it’s okay to mention it.”

  Burning acid churned in my stomach and welled up in my throat. “Hey, we get most of our business from the county, and Rita’s got a few clients, doesn’t she?”

  “Just one, and if he doesn’t sell any aluminum siding soon, he won’t be able to pay his bill. Anyway, she got a continuance for the guy and isn’t taking on anyone new. She said that she needs to work on your case full time. I’m sorry about your problems, Jimmy, but Rita won’t be bringing in any cash either.”

  “Mabel, don’t worry about it. Things will get better.” I tried to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “Forget about the cops. They’ll go away soon. They’re just harassing me. Cops and defense lawyers are natural foes, like foxes and rabbits. I’m the fox.” I tossed out a chuckle. Mabel didn’t catch it.

  “I don’t think so
, Mr. Fox. The cops told the travel agent next door that you’re gonna be arrested any time now.”

  “Bye, Mabel.” I hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER 27

  The smog blanketing the L.A. basin couldn’t be seen in the dark of night, but it was evident in the tinge of the burnt-orange gibbous moon drifting above the horizon in the east. At a little before ten o’clock on Sunday night, the streets were deserted as I drove along Atlantic Avenue in South Gate, heading to Van Hoek’s milk bottling plant. From three blocks away, the tall Sunnyville Farms stainless steel milk tank gleamed in the sky. The huge, shiny tank was lit from the ground by beacons spotlighting a twenty-foot rendering-painted high on the side-of a fat cow grazing in front of a red barn, the dairy company’s logo.

  Though early, everyone was there waiting for me. Sol and his men Cubby and the Deacon and Peter Van Hoek were gathered in a circle on the loading dock at the rear of the plant. A couple of guys in white uniforms rolled two-wheeled dollies stacked with cartons of milk toward a refrigerated truck backed in against the dock. I scrambled up a ramp, waved at Sol, and shouted lightheartedly, “Hey, where’re the cows?”

  Van Hoek heard my question. “In Chino,” he said. “Used to keep them across the street.” He pointed in the general direction of Atlantic Avenue. “Had two thousand head over there, but the city finally forced us out. Moved ’em to a new farm in Chino.”

  “Yeah, and made a few million on the real estate when you sold the land,” Sol said.

  “That was my dad. But he didn’t leave me none of it. Blew it all on gambling, booze and broads. The old snollygoster.” A big grin spread across his face. “What a guy,” Van Hoek said, the admiration evident in the tone of his gravelly voice.

  Sol, with a nod of his head, indicated for me to follow him. We walked along the dock, a few paces away from the others.

  “Okay, Jimmy, what gives?”

  I knew what he was referring to. The jagged scar on my forehead wasn’t exactly a poster for Healthy Living magazine. “Got in a little tumble, that’s all.”

  I didn’t want to mention the yellow paper with the warning on it. Knowing Sol, he’d call off the plan. He’d be concerned about my safety.

  “Look, Jimmy, don’t feed me a line, I’ve been around. Somebody worked you over. It has to do with this case. A professional bone-crusher, a strong-arm guy jumped you. Didn’t he?”

  “No.”

  Sol held his silence, waiting.

  “There were two guys.”

  He continued to wait, his eyes boring into me.

  “Yeah, I guess they were trying to scare me off,” I said.

  “Look, Jimmy, maybe we’d better call this off. I know it was my idea, but it’s a longshot, and it probably won’t work, anyway.”

  “Hang on, Sol.”

  He stood there with an eyebrow raised.

  I glanced around, looking up and down the dock. “Sol, listen to me.” I wanted him to understand exactly how I felt. “There’s a lot going on here. It’s not just Webster’s threats, charging me with the Section 32 thing, or Hammer’s murder investigation that worries me the most. If that’s all there was to this, I’d quit now and fight them in court, and I’d win. But there’s more to it than that. There are madmen out there killing people, and the bastards are locking up kids in a bogus drug center. Don’t forget, Robbie’s still my client. He could be at the base. He could be in danger, and anyway, he still needs a lawyer. And what about Jane…?” I paused, letting my words sink in. “I can’t get her out of mind. A dead girl shows up alive, and now, because she talked to me, she’s going to get a beating. Christ, she could be killed. Murdered, just because she talked to me! We can’t let that go. Can we, Sol?”

  “Jimmy, I’m more concerned about your safety. What kind of lawyer are you going to be for Robbie if you’re dead?”

  “Better than most.”

  Sol laughed. “You crazy idiot. Okay, you win. You’d probably go anyway, but you’re going to carry protection.” He reached under his suit coat and brought out a.45 automatic. “You’re gonna take this with you.”

  I didn’t argue. “Put it in the truck. I’ll keep it with me, just in case.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, just in case. By the way, the gun has no serial numbers anymore. It’s not traceable.” He walked back to his men.

  I put on a milkman’s cap, which would cover the scar on my forehead, after changing into a white uniform that I grabbed from an employee’s locker. ‘Chip’ was the name embroidered above the left breast pocket. Then I got a knockdown on the peculiarities of the route from the regular driver, Roger. I asked him if he saw teenagers being mistreated at the base. He said he saw youngsters working in the commissary, but he didn’t know if anyone mistreated them. He figured they just worked there, like kids work at McDonald’s. He had never been beyond the commissary, though. The commissary building was close to the main gate, and the security was tight: men in uniforms with guns. They would only let him out of the truck to unload his order. Roger wished me luck; he was happy to have the day off.

  I’d be Chip for the day, and I’d be working Roger’s route. I’d have to make ten stops before the last one, Rattlesnake Lake Sportsmen’s Rod and Gun Club. The milk order seemed fairly large for a gun club. More than most of the other restaurant stops that I was supposed to make. They had to be feeding a lot of people out there at Rattlesnake Lake, and I hoped Robbie was one of them.

  I walked back to the dock and met up with Sol and his men. Van Hoek had left, allowing us the privacy we needed to plan our strategy. The Deacon, Cubby, and I huddled at the cab of the large bobtail truck and, of course, Sol took charge.

  “Chip,” he said, noticing my nametag. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing. Just go along on the route like you do every day…”

  “Sol, I’m a lawyer, not a truck driver.”

  “See, goddamn it, that’s what I mean. You’ve gotta get into the role. Forget about being a goddamn lawyer. You’ve gotta make sure those hooligans out there think you’re the goddamn milkman, or you’re gonna be a goddamn goner.”

  “Thought I wasn’t supposed to worry.”

  Sol let out an exaggerated sigh. “Shut up, Jimmy. Now where was I? Oh yeah, Cubby, show Jimmy the gizmo.”

  Cubby held up a rectangular gadget. It was black, about the size and shape of a pack of cigarettes, and appeared to be made of metal.

  “It’s a beauty, military issue, the latest technology,” he said.

  “Tell, him how it works.”

  “It’s magnetized and sticks to steel.”

  “He knows a magnet sticks to steel, for chrissakes,” Sol said. “Just tell him what it is.”

  “It’s a radio tracking transmitter. We’ll hide it on the truck, and we’ll be able to follow you in the limo.”

  Cubby pointed to Sol’s tricked-out black limousine parked close by. After Sol had seen his first James Bond movie and saw how Q had rigged Bond’s cars, he’d outfitted his fleet of company limos with the latest available spy doohickeys. He also installed a couple of doohickeys that weren’t so available. He had sources.

  “The device transmits on an FM frequency,” Cubby continued. “And the signal can be picked up within a half-mile of the subject vehicle. We have a direction finder in the limo.”

  “Yeah, it’s an XB-7, special issue. Terrific.” Sol beamed. “Anyone with an FM radio can get the signal, but unless you have the corresponding direction finder, you’re out of luck. We’ll be right behind you the whole time, but we’ll be out of sight. Tell him about the panic button, Cubby.”

  “Okay. The gizmo broadcasts on 106.7 FM and normally sends out a beep like this.” He licked his lips. “Beep… beep… beep.” He articulated the beeping sound in a slow steady manner. “But if you flip the switch we’ve hooked to the dash on the truck…” He pointed out a small toggle switch screwed under the dashboard in the cab of the milk truck. “…the receiver in the limo will hear a signal like this, beep-beep, beep-bee
p.” He sounded like the Roadrunner. “So, if you need help, flip the panic switch and we’ll close the gap.”

  “Yeah, you flip that switch, buddy boy, and we’ll be there, guns blazing,” the Deacon said, a big grin spreading across his face.

  Sol shot a glance at the Deacon, whose eyes fell. He then looked at me. “Well, what do you think, Jimmy? I mean about the tracking thing?”

  “Provocative.”

  I climbed in the cab of the bobtail. A clipboard with the route customers and instructions lay on the seat. The.45 rested on top of it. I quickly shoved the gun under the seat.

  Sol climbed on the running board and leaned in through the open door. “Don’t forget, Jimmy, in and out. If you spot Robbie, snatch him. It’s legal-he’s an escaped fugitive-but Jane’s another story. If she doesn’t want to go, leave her there.”

  We had assumed Jane Simon would be working in the kitchen where I was to unload the milk order. I might spot her even without snooping around the base. Nonetheless, if I grabbed her and she didn’t want to leave with me, then I could be nailed with an additional kidnapping charge on top of the Section 32 thing and the murder rap.

  I sat there looking out the front windshield, my hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. “I won’t be stupid. I’m no hero, Sol.”

  He didn’t say anything, just studied me for a moment. He didn’t have to say a word; I knew what he was thinking. Friends know things like that about each other.

  Finally, he hopped down from the running board and turned back to Cubby and the Deacon. “We all know you’re not a hero, don’t we, boys?”

  The men nodded in unison. Sol turned back to me, smiling. “But I’m a little worried about the stupid part.” He laughed. Then he suddenly grew serious. “Be careful, my boy, and remember, we’ll be right behind you. Unseen, but we’ll be there.”

  Four hours later I was over the hill, down the mountain, and cruising east on the new I-15 freeway, heading deeper into the Antelope Valley. My ribs hurt, my head throbbed and, after unloading dozens of cases of milk at several convenience stores and restaurants in San Bernardino, I felt like a punch-drunk fighter making his last stand.