Capital Crimes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “You don’t like lesbians?” Amanda asked.

  “What’s to like? They’re homos and they’re perverted.”

  “Did you ever write a letter to State Representative Davida Grayson?” Amanda asked.

  “Aha!” Modell jabbed a finger upward. “Now I see what this is about. The lesbo representative.” Big smile. “But that happened up north.”

  “We’re from up north,” Amanda told him. “Berkeley PD.”

  “You came all the way down just to see little ol’ me? Lady, I’m flattered!”

  “You did write to her,” Barnes said.

  “Fuck yeah I wrote to her. I wrote to her many times. The pervert was not only a lesbo, she was trying to cut up unborn babies for her own selfish purposes.”

  Amanda said, “Stem-cell research.”

  Modell seemed to levitate out of his chair. “Stem-cell research bull! Nothing good will ever come from butchering human babies, young lady, and I certainly don’t want to pay for such shit with my tax dollar.” He sank back down. “Yeah, I wrote to that sodomite, told her what I thought of her bull and of her being a lesbo. Told her everything she needed to hear.”

  “Which was?”

  “Women got no business being in politics, it turns them into perverts like Grayson. I’m certainly not mourning Grayson’s demise, but if you think I had anything to do with her murder, you are seriously misguided and as stupid as she was.”

  Barnes loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Amanda gave him a tissue from her purse and both of them mopped their brows. She said, “Politicians receive negative mail all the time, sir, but your letters were especially nasty.”

  “Lady, I’m a nasty, God-driven man. I don’t deny it. But last I heard you can’t arrest someone for that.”

  “You can arrest someone for threatening harm.”

  “I didn’t threaten harm, mister. I just told her the truth…that she was going to burn in hell for eternity, two seconds flat her flesh would look like pig cracklings and her insides would boil like soup. I told her she was so far gone even Jesus wouldn’t know what the hell to do for her. You want to arrest me for truth-telling, go ahead and give me the entertainment and the publicity and maybe I’ll start another church. Do one of those websites.”

  Amanda said, “Is there anyone who can verify your whereabouts for the last couple of days?”

  “Lady, I’m damn flattered that you think I have enough energy to fly up to that pinko city and pop the lesbo. Fact is, I’m eighty-four, for the last ten of those wheelchair bound and a good day for me is when I wake up and move my bowels without straining.”

  “You could’ve hired someone,” Barnes said.

  “I could go to the novelty shop, buy a big nose and say I was a Jew—listen, you two, just because I decided to use my First Amendment privileges and tell the perverts what I think of them doesn’t mean I have to sit hear and listen to your bull. Your bosses will be hearing from me. Get the fuck out of here before I run you over with my chair.”

  Barnes started the engine and let it idle while he pulled out his cell phone. “Other than providing entertainment for the old bastard, that was a colossal waste of time.”

  “Had to be done,” Amanda said.

  He fooled with the phone, scowled. “Can’t get my messages. No reception in this dump.”

  “Thought you liked rural living.”

  “Rather have twenty rooms with a view. Let’s go back to the West Valley and see if anything’s up with Bledsoe. Unless you want to grab something first? We can eat in the car.”

  “Nutrition sounds good as long as it’s not hamburgers.”

  “What’s wrong with burgers?”

  “Larry got a new barbecue. Turbo-powered and he’s collecting marinades.”

  “Boy needs a hobby, huh?”

  She shrugged. “He’ll find something.”

  “I’ll find a Subway or something. It ain’t Chez Panisse but what is?”

  14

  Delicately, Marge Dunn unwrapped the wax paper that held together a turkey and cheese sub. “Wow, thanks for thinking of me. I’m hungry.” She steadied the sandwich then took a big bite. “Mmmmm…that’s good.”

  “Amanda’s idea, she’s the considerate one,” Barnes said. He was sitting shotgun in an LAPD unmarked; Amanda was in the backseat and Marge was at the wheel.

  Marge spoke over her shoulder. “Thank you, Considerate One.”

  “No prob.”

  The car fell silent until Barnes grumbled, “You think this joker is going to show?”

  Marge wiped her mouth. “I don’t see why he’d leave if he came down to be with Mom for the holidays. And if he does leave, that tells us something.” She regarded Barnes. “I really like the silverwork on your belt buckle. What kind of stone is that? Green turquoise?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Nice.”

  “Got it in Santa Fe. Ever been there?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I go there a lot. Sometimes during opera season, if my daughter’s schedule permits.”

  “Never been to the opera.”

  Amanda said, “Will’s into Buck Owens.”

  “Me, too. I’m eclectic. Big loss, Buck.”

  “Dwight Yoakam’s carrying it on,” said Will.

  “He rocks but still, it’s not the same.” Marge finished her sandwich and stowed the trash in a plastic bag. “The opera house is really special. It’s outdoors with this beautiful view of the mountains. Sometimes crickets sing along.” Big smile. “Sometimes, they’re on key. They’ve got great chamber music, too. And country at some of the casinos. Great little town, culture-wise.”

  Barnes sneaked a quick look at Marge’s left hand. No ring. “Whole Southwest area is a pretty part of the country.”

  “Magnificent…a real break from LA.” Marge turned around again. “Have you ever been there, Amanda?”

  “Once and it was gorgeous.”

  Barnes said, “I remember the food being good.”

  “That, too,” Marge said. “If either of you go again, give me a call, I’ll tell you some good restaurants.”

  Barnes said, “I just might do that.”

  The two of them swapped brief smiles. Further interchange was cut short by a black pickup truck tooling down the road. Instinctively, all three detectives slouched down in their seats.

  Marge said, “Let’s wait until they’re out of the car.”

  The truck pulled into the driveway. A man got out on the driver’s side carrying several bags of what looked to be groceries. Seconds later, an older woman opened the front passenger door. She was pear-shaped, gray-haired and slow-moving. He had wild unkempt hair and several days of dark beard growth. He wore a white T-shirt, a denim jacket and jeans, white sneakers. She had on a long gray sweater, a blue turtleneck, and black polyester pants. Her sneakers were black.

  With Bledsoe’s hands occupied, the situation for arrest was ideal.

  “Let’s do it,” Marge said.

  The three detectives jumped and swarmed the unsuspecting duo.

  “Police, Mr. Bledsoe, don’t move,” Marge barked. As soon as Barnes relieved Bledsoe of his bags, the women brought his arms around his back and Marge slapped on the cuffs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bledsoe, we have a bench warrant out for your arrest for outstanding traffic warrants—”

  “You’ve got to be shittin’ me.” Bledsoe’s voice was lazy.

  “No sir, I am not.” Out of the corner of her eye, Marge saw something blurry coming at her nose. She ducked, but a hard object made contact with the left side of her forehead. Flailing fingernails. The contact stung.

  Amanda caught the old lady’s arm midair. Laverne Bledsoe’s breath was ripe with liquor and garlic.

  “That was really stupid.” Amanda spun Mom around. “Now you’re under arrest for assault on a police officer.”

  Laverne responded by trying to stomp on Amanda’s shoe. Amanda stepped back, but the old woman caught her on the tip of her toe. She wres
tled Granny down to the ground and snapped Laverne’s hands behind her back maybe a little more forcefully than necessary. The cuffs clicked.

  Bledsoe remained completely passive, watching from the sidelines. Almost amused. “Are you going to arrest my mom, too?”

  “Looks that way,” Amanda said, bringing the squalling woman to her feet.

  “She’s sixty-eight.”

  Barnes said, “She assaulted two police officers.”

  “That’s bogus. This whole arrest thing is bogus.”

  The old lady began cursing but Bledsoe stayed quiet. Marge patched in a call for transport.

  Laverne looked at her son with panicked eyes.

  Bledsoe spoke in a monotone. “Calm down, Ma, it’s not good for your heart.”

  “Shitheads!” Laverne screamed. “Manhandling an old woman!”

  Barnes saw blood on Marge’s temple. “Got a Band-Aid? She got you.”

  Marge touched her head. “Bad?”

  Barnes gave a slight shake of his head. As a black-and-white pulled up, Amanda tightened her grip on the granny. Carefully, she escorted the irate woman to the confines of the backseat. The uniforms wrote down basic facts and drove off.

  Barnes said, “That was something!”

  Marge got a Band-Aid and Neosporin from the first-aid kit in the unmarked’s trunk and Amanda tended to the wound.

  “I actually took the time to do my makeup this morning. What a waste!”

  “You look fine,” Barnes said.

  Marge smiled. “How’s your foot, Amanda?”

  “She’s no lightweight but I’ll survive.”

  Marshall Bledsoe said, “You calling my mom fat?”

  When no one answered, he said, “I need to be with her. To calm her down. Her heart’s not so good.”

  Marge said, “Why’s she so riled up anyway?”

  “One, she’s sick of you guys badgering me. Two, that’s just her. She riles easily especially when she’s had a few beers.”

  “How many is a few?”

  Bledsoe thought a moment. “I think she drained a six-pack, but that’s just getting started. In her prime, Ma could keg with the best of them.”

  A second cop car picked up Bledsoe and delivered him to the station. The detectives got there first and worked out the interview.

  Smoking and sipping coffee, Bledsoe slumped, loose-limbed, in a hard chair that he seemed to find comfortable. So relaxed he could have been zoned out in his living room watching the game. Marge was willing to let Laverne go, but the old lady refused to leave without her son, so she was in a room next door.

  None of the detectives had any idea what they’d get out of Bledsoe, but they had him in custody for a few hours until his traffic arraignment. The court had to add up all the fines and penalties. With skipping out on a warrant and some luck, there’d be jail time.

  Since it was LAPD territory, Barnes and Isis deferred to Lieutenant Decker. The big man announced he and Barnes would go in first and the women would do round two if there was anything worth pursuing. Decker opened the door, lumbered in and sat opposite Bledsoe. Barnes sat on Bledsoe’s right.

  “How are you doing, Marshall?”

  “How’s my mom?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “She needs to eat. She has yo-yo blood sugar.”

  “She had lunch on the taxpayers’ money.”

  “Any way we can rip off this illegitimate government is great.” Bledsoe shook his head. “Would you like to tell me what’s really going on?”

  “You’re a lousy driver,” said Decker. “You owe the city, the county, and the state a lot of money.”

  “You know that’s horseshit,” said Bledsoe, still without passion. “For the police to make a house call, you must think I know something important.”

  Decker leaned back in his chair. “And what important thing would you know?”

  Bledsoe stubbed out his cigarette. “I don’t have to talk to you clowns. All I have to do is lawyer up and that ends that.”

  “No curiosity?” said Decker.

  “What am I supposed to know?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s complicated,” said Decker. Now Bledsoe was confused and trying hard not to show it. Decker shot Barnes a nod.

  Barnes leaned in close to Bledsoe. “You’re known as a leader, Marshall. You give the orders, you don’t take them.”

  Bledsoe shrugged.

  Decker’s turn to lean forward. “We had a synagogue desecrated a few years ago. The guy who took the fall was some mope named Ernesto Golding. Definitely an order-taker.”

  “Who were his people?”

  “White Tower Radicals,” Decker lied. “An organization near and dear to you.”

  Bledsoe smiled and fluffed his beard. “If you’re asking me if I’m a member, I plead proud and guilty. But whatever you’re talking about, that Jew place or any other place, it wasn’t me.”

  “I didn’t say it was you,” Decker said. “Did I say it was you?”

  Bledsoe was quiet.

  “Marshall, I believe you. You know why? Something that important—trashing a Jew place—Ernesto had to be taking orders from a guy higher up than you.”

  Marshall blinked. “And who would that be?”

  “Ricky Moke—”

  “Ricky?” Bledsoe laughed. “Right.”

  “He’s the man, Marshall.”

  Bledsoe laughed again. “Don’t you turkeys know anything? Moke’s dead. He was eaten by a bear.”

  “A mountain lion.”

  “Either way he’s still animal shit. Before that, he was a peon.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  “Then you hear shit.”

  “Either way,” said Decker, “Ricky’s gone. You’re saying that makes you the big guy?”

  Bledsoe started to smile, cut it short, stayed silent.

  Decker said, “How did it feel having someone like Moke muscle in on your authority?”

  “Right.” Bledsoe huffed. “Ricky was a peon.”

  “So correct me, Marshall. Tell me what you know about the ransacking of the synagogue—straighten me out.”

  “I don’t know shit about it, never followed any of that. And since Moke is dead and Golding was popped, I guess you’ll never know what really happened.”

  “If you didn’t know anything about the case, how do you know Golding’s dead, let alone popped?”

  Bledsoe smacked his lips together and said nothing.

  “We can dance like this for a while but bottom line, you’re in trouble, Marshall. At this point, you could use someone on your side.”

  Bledsoe let out a lone chuckle. “Let me set you straight, man. I didn’t ransack any kikehouse down here, and that’s the truth. Theoretically, if I had been involved, it wouldn’t have been a ransacking. Something would have exploded and you can bet your ass, there would have been kikes inside—the younger the bet—” His chair flew out from under his butt and unceremoniously, he toppled to the floor. “What the fuck!”

  “Sorry, I tripped and knocked your chair.” Decker exchanged glances with Barnes. Barnes didn’t emote.

  Then the lieutenant turned to Bledsoe, gave him a tight smile and righted the seat. “Here, sit back down, Marshall. What were you saying?”

  Bledsoe got up from the floor, wiped off his pants, stayed in the corner.

  Decker was still smiling. “Have a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Have a seat.” Decker’s tone took on menace. Reluctantly, Bledsoe sat down. Decker continued, “Well, you might not have witnesses against you for the synagogue but Detective Barnes here has very good news for us. His witnesses against you are still alive.”

  “Witnesses against…” Bledsoe’s brow creased. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Two boys in the White Tower Radicals, Bledsoe,” Barnes said. “They nailed you on Davida Grayson.”

  “Who?” Bledsoe asked.
>
  “C’mon, we know you ordered the hit,” Barnes lied. “And those two boys are in custody and tripping over their feet to testify against you—”

  “Who the fuck is Davida Gray?”

  “She’s a state representative from Berkeley,” Barnes said. “She was found the night before last in her office with her head blown off.”

  Bledsoe’s expression made Barnes’s mood sink. Genuine puzzlement. It took the scruffy bastard a few moments to find his voice. “Uh…didn’t that happen up in Northern California?”

  “Yes, it did,” Barnes said. “I’m from Berkeley PD.”

  “You don’t have jurisdiction down here,” Bledsoe said.

  “But I do,” Decker said. “Ransacking a synagogue is one thing, Marshall. Gunning down an elected official is taking your shit to a whole different level.”

  Barnes said, “We can’t help you unless you start helping yourself. And you can start helping yourself by telling us what happened.”

  Bledsoe leaned back in his chair. “I honestly don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He crossed his arms. “You guys are throwing me shit and trying to make me think it’s perfume.”

  “Why would we do that?” Barnes said.

  “Because that’s what you clowns do. Let me tell you something. You and your Jew masters are all on borrowed time.”

  Barnes said, “Marshall, why would we waste our time coming down here unless we had you cold?”

  “’Cause you’re afraid of me and what I represent,” Bledsoe answered. “I don’t know anything about the dyke.”

  “How’d you know she was a lesbian?”

  “Because I read, Jack. Who are these imaginary fairies testifying against me?”

  “Your peeps, Marshall.”

  “Who?”

  “Ray and Brent Nutterly?”