by jpg] [htm
"I hate having my life controlled by other people," he complained to Steinhart.
David didn't want to alienate Steinhart. He loved the guy, and he needed him. Steinhart with his "Plan A"'s and "Plan B" 's. Hell, Steinhart was even telling him that his biker buddies were making fun of him, calling him soft because he was doing so much for David—for nothing. David had to give him something back.
So he gave Steinhart half of the directions to his desert treasure. He had lied to Steinhart before about where the money was. "I tell everyone, you know, that it's out by Barstow?"
"Right," Steinhart said, waiting.
"It's not—it's only up that way. Do you know where Yucca Valley is?"
"Sure."
"Okay. Are you familiar with the road up the hill that you take to get to Yucca Valley? Do you go the Palm Springs route?"
"Yes."
David went into specifics. Steinhart was to follow Flat Land dose to the windmill generators. After he passed the K Mart, he was to look for a bowling alley on the left, and then a "monument thing" that was either marked "29 Palms" or "Joshua Tree." "That's where you turn left—and that's where my property is."
Steinhart waited for the rest, but that was all David was
going to give him for the moment.
Newell and Bonis decided it was time to think seriously of getting Steinhart out of jail. He was being held as a material witness only. Newell didn't think that Steinhart was going to run on them, or on Rick King's case. He had kept all his promises so far. By now, Newell doubted that
Steinhart had ever killed anyone. "He had a core of good in him all the time, but he tried to hide it."
On February 7, Steinhart appeared again before Judge David Carter. With Deputy DA Rick King's approval, he was released on his own recognizance. He was out of jail, under the California protected-witness program.
David Brown remained in jail, but he did not expect to be there long. He was smug in his faith in Steinhart. In fact, he felt that Steinhart was deferring to him more, that his ability to plan had impressed the hell out of him. Every time he got to feeling antsy, he reminded himself of that.
Things were dovetailing beautifully. They were almost ready. But Steinhart and David had to have two women to wipe out Patti as a witness—one to kill her, of course, and one to refute any of her taped statements and the transcripts of her preliminary testimony against David. In essence, even dead, Patti might still be a threat.
David waited eagerly for a visit from the woman Irv Cully called Smiley and Happy Face. She would pretend she had been in jail with Patti and testify that Patti was a liar.
On February 8, things really started moving. Even from jail, David felt that his executive ability was getting the job done.
First of all, David's brother Tom delivered $10,000 to Steinhart and "Animal" in the parking lot of Bennigan's at five minutes after three in the afternoon. Tom Brown, who worked as a foreman at All West Plastics, huddled behind the steering wheel as the big detective and the martial arts veteran approached his car. Animal leaned in to talk to him, while the guy with the ponytail and the biker's vest counted the money.
The transaction was recorded by hidden video cameras.
And at six-thirty that evening, David had a visit from Smiley. He marveled that Cully's girl had found him the perfect witness. In reality, the "Smiley" Newell had selected was a policewoman, an undercover narcotics agent, with a wire transmitter tucked in her bra. She smiled shyly as she told David that she had already been in jail with Patti, that she knew Patti slightly. That was great as far as David was concerned. There was no need for her to lie about being with Patti!
Smiley thanked David profusely for the $500 and said it had really helped with her rent. (In truth, Irv Cully's girlfriend had kept it.)
David was thrilled to see that Smiley was a looker. In fact—as Smiley asked him for details of how she was supposed to testify—he kept interrupting her with suggestive comments. He casually dropped the information that he was worth over five million dollars. "Every million of it is in cash right now. ... The thing is, I didn't want to remarry until I find somebody I like. That's one of the things I like about you. What I heard—okay—is that your preference is a lot like my wife's were."
"Oh, really?"
"We had a dynamite marriage, I'll tell you."
He was speaking of Linda, his dead wife, not Patti— whom he denied ever marrying. "She's deceitful. She forced my real daughter to kill my wife ... her little shtick was that I told them to. I didn't tell them to. I loved my wife."
Smiley played it dumb. Even her grammar was that of a woman who'd spent more time in jail than in school. She asked again and again for David to explain exactly what she was to do. Slowly, it seemed to dawn on her. "Okay," she repeated. "I tell them that when I was in jail, I talked to Patti and she told me that you're innocent and that she lied?"
That was it. David asked Smiley to repeat certain details, to expand on her "friendship" with Patti. He didn't want her to lie really, but he told her she would be saving an innocent man and returning him to his child. He would be so grateful if she would talk to his attorney soon and arrange to testify on his behalf.
"And there's no way that they could trace it back to me at all?" Smiley asked. "How about if they want to put me on a lie detector?"
"It is not admissible in court," David said confidently. "Tell them, 'Fuck off, fella!'"
Smiley was worried about being recorded. She wondered if there were little wires in the phones they talked on as they looked at each other through plate glass. David laughed and shook his head. "No, they can't. I hope they don't have a reason to—because that's why I arranged to have my kid here." He gestured to where Krystal was waiting with Manuela to visit him.
"Why did you have your kid here?"
God, the woman was dumb, he thought. That was okay. She was the best-looking thing he had seen in months. "Because, hopefully, they won't record me talking to my kid—you know, 'I love you, Dada, I love you, Dada, come home, Dada,' and that."
Krystal was only four; already her father was using her.
And then, business over with Smiley, David turned on the charm. "You're beautiful. ... If you want to get to know me a little better, I could take care of you for the rest of your life. I take care of people; that's how I've managed to get ahead."
Smiley pretended to say a reluctant good-bye, letting David believe she would be back. She left the visiting booth and went immediately to have her hidden wire removed.
The net was tightening around David Arnold Brown.
He didn't know. Instead, David was elated. He had a new woman. He was convinced she found him attractive and that she had been interested when he mentioned the extent of his fortune. The next day, he called Steinhart to crow: "I have a woman interested in me, real interested." He seemed more excited about that than he was about using Smiley to destroy Patti's credibility.
Steinhart feigned enthusiasm and told David that the second female, the hit person, had been dropped off at the
Orange County Jail. She was, at that very moment, in Patti's module, ready to carry out her hit—just as soon as "the two cops" were killed. "Fortunately, this girl's done this—on the professional side ... she's got a track record."
Patti Bailey's death was a fait accompli to David, almost old news to him now. He wanted to talk more about his new woman. "She's a good-looking gal."
"Right on." Steinhart laughed.
"She's got a mouth that God designed for blow jobs," David whispered.
Steinhart laughed. "Right on. Well, hey, we'll have to go out on a date when we all get out."
In his conversations with David, Steinhart sounded as laid-back and cool as ever. But in truth, he was not faring well on the street. His old weaknesses were tripping him up. Within twenty-four hours of his release, he was back with his woman, a woman who was beautiful—but heartbreak-ingly addicted to speedballs, a deadly combination of heroin and cocaine.
Newell shook his head remembering. "We were halfway through our phone trap with David Brown. We had to move Richard out of the first motel in the middle of the night because the Hessians who were looking for him had located him. Then he called us from the new place and said he needed help. When we got there, there was blood all over the walls, in the bathroom, in the bedroom. Steinhart's girlfriend was mainlining.
"He turned her in to save her life. It just about killed him. I spent a whole day either sitting in my car or in a coffee shop, with Richard crying and me trying to convince him he'd done the right thing."
And yet, talking to David, Steinhart sounded as controlled and happy-go-lucky as always. He missed only part of one long, bad day. Animal had to take his calls from David. Detective Moran—as Animal—growled at David, leaving him convinced that Steinhart truly had hired a killing machine.
By February 10, Steinhart had a new motel, and two new roommates, Newell and Tom Borris, who moved into a motel on the Pacific Coast Highway in Newport Beach with him.
It was almost time to trip the net release.
Newell, Borris, and Steinhart had a two-room suite. The hotel was instructed to accept collect calls from David Brown and put them on Steinhart's bill. When David called, his voice sounding more and more elated, Newell and Borris were listening in and taping his calls.
David Brown, the master manipulator, could never have imagined that his great and good friend Goldie was sharing a motel suite with his archenemies. But then Jay Newell had never imagined that he would be voluntarily sharing accommodations with the man who held a contract on his life. The hunted and the hunter had become friends, a friendship forged in the middle of a grueling investigation. Now, they slept in connecting rooms. Newell never had a nightmare.
Tom Borris did. Or rather, he would have had he been able to get to sleep. He woke Newell just before dawn the first morning and said he hadn't slept all night. He pointed to a figure standing in the open doorway between the two rooms, a figure silently watching them. "It was spooky the way he stood there," Newell recalled. "We figured either Steinhart had flipped or someone had managed to get into our suite."
One hand on his gun, Newell turned on the light.
The "assassin" was only their suit jackets hanging there in the doorway.
Officially, Newell and Borris had to be sure that Steinhart didn't disappear on them, while at the same time protecting him from a number of people who stalked him. Unofficially, the three men got along amazingly well. "I gave him a pair of shoes," Newell remembered. "All Richard had was thongs, and it was cold—our feet were the same size."
Steinhart was a fascinating roommate. "His stories were great," Newell recalled. "We didn't buy them all, but they kept us entertained. He'd told us he worked as Jerry Lewis's bodyguard, and we kind of doubted that one. And then, sure enough, we were waiting for Sunday brunch in the hotel and Richard sees some guy in line and waves him over. The guy's diamond-studded, and he greets Richard like an old buddy. Then he pulls out pictures of Richard and Jerry Lewis!"
Borris and Newell wore "soft clothes" and blended easily into Steinhart's lifestyle. So well, in fact, that Deputy DA Tom Borris was offered a chance to buy the "best Thai sticks you've ever had" by a man who sat on a stool down the bar. Newell, head of the Narcotics Enforcement Team, choked on that one, but he let it go by.
"We had a good time, considering," Newell remembered. "But it was time to close it down. I wanted to be home with my family, and David was demanding action on his 'hits.'"
It was Friday, February 10, 1989.
Steinhart assured David that it was all coming down on Monday, the 13th, or Tuesday. Tom Brown was to deliver the final payment of $11,000 after David got word that the first part of the "job" was done. Animal would then head off on his own, and Steinhart would start working on passports and ID for David.
"That's cool," Steinhart promised David. "I'm ready ... we're ready."
"Okay."
"I miss you," Steinhart threw out.
"I miss the hell out of you, Richard. God damn it. I don't believe how much I love you!"
"... I don't think we'll be needing that other five grand— for the escape," Steinhart said. "I think if we get rid of Patti and the two cops, and all your problems, you're going to beat this thing and walk anyway." "That's what I'm counting on ... we can do everything, no hiding man—that's what I'm so fucking excited about. ... I don't know if I can love you any more except for cruising on a bike ought to give me a new feeling. ... I really do miss you, Fat Bo."
"Fat Bo?" Steinhart laughed. "Okay. You're Hip Bo, Irv's Rat Bo, I'm Fat Bo—the Bo Brothers."
For a moment there, Newell sensed that David Brown was having more fun being one of the boys in jail than he had ever had in his life. But there was a yawning hole where David should have had some vestige of conscience. He had none at all. He was having such a great time as he awaited news of at least three cold-blooded murders.
Patti Bailey, his wife, the mother of his infant child, the woman who had given up everything for the love of him, was about to "back up on a knife."
At least, David believed she was.
David chafed at the wait over the weekend. He called Steinhart every time he got a free phone. On Monday, he called Steinhart at eight-thirty in the morning. "Hello," he said quietly, waiting.
"Hey, David!" Steinhart crowed. "David, it's done!"
"Say what?"
"I'm done. We're done. We're fucking done. Animal is in the garage right now—torching the pieces; he's melting the fuckers down right now. How did we do, huh?"
"You did great. . . ." David's voice was somehow hollow.
"Is that hot, or what?"
"Yeah, it's hot."
"Hey, man, how did we do, huh?"
"Wonderful. You're a good man."
"Wonderful? Is that all?"
David whispered that he was in a crowded area; people could be listening. His voice was flat as he listened to Steinhart describe the "murders" of Jay Newell and Jeoff Robinson. Steinhart said he even had Polaroids to show David. That frightened David. He wanted the Polaroids burned.
"Ah, man, we just walked in—I can't believe your timing."
"Shit, buy yourself an extra pizza on me!" David said.
".. . It went like clockwork. Bang! Bang! Right in the back of the head—both of them. Capped 'em both. I didn't have a chance to give them any last words from you though."
". .. That's all right," David stammered.
Steinhart thought the news should hit the papers soon— since the "hits" had happened right out in public. As soon as he and Animal collected the $ 11,000 from Tom, they would give the word on Patti.
"This is so fucking good, man, you won't believe it. They went so good."
"I love you," David said wanly.
And now, Steinhart needed the rest of the directions to the desert treasure. Hadn't he proved how loyal he could be?
Apparently so.
"You know where the left turn is?" David began.
"Yeah."
"You can only go left unless they've dumped some more development out there in the last couple of years. Turn left on that street at the landmark. You will pass the wash. It's less visible on the left than it is on the right. You're going to be headed north, okay? On the far side of the wash—on the right—it's like five, six foot high. Okay, you want to take the north side of the wash. Find a path up there. You will go exactly—on my odometer on a Nissan pickup—one and three-quarter miles. Okay. Then you head exactly north again. You may want a small compass for that because I made sure I was heading due north."
"Exactly no
rth?"
"Exactly one and three-quarter miles. Okay, three-eighths of a mile or thereabouts, you'll see a boulder and a yucca tree. I call it a boulder because it's a heavy motherfucker, probably three—maximum four—feet around."
"Okay."
"Um—it's exactly under the boulder. .. . It's on property I owned at one time, but I made sure it's near a survey marker so if anybody was going to fence it in, they wouldn't have any reason to dig or move that boulder."
"Is your property close by this landmark?"
"It's on the other side of the street that you use to get to the wash."
"What's your address?"
David didn't remember the street name, nor did he remember the numbers. "It's five digits long. It's eight eight eight. . . something." The property address didn't matter; the yucca tree and the boulder did.
David Brown's fortune was buried beneath that boulder. He was willing to share it now with Richard Steinhart. "God, I love you, Richard."
"I love you, too. Anything else I need to know?"
"I did think of something last night that I was going to warn you about."
"Which was what?"
"But apparently you didn't need it."
"Well, what was it anyway?"
"The investigator was armed."
Now David told him. Had David ever intended for Steinhart to survive the two hits? He had forgotten a fairly vital piece of information.
Steinhart's answer was unruffled. "Oh, yeah—they both were. One had one in his briefcase, and one had one on him."
"I never noticed on the attorney."
"Well, I'll tell you what," Steinhart said sardonically. "It don't matter now, does it?"
It was raining and hailing and the parking lot at Bennigan's in Westminster was almost empty as Richard Steinhart and Det. Bob "Animal" Moran waited in their Camaro for Tom Brown's blue Ford Escort to turn in. At ten-twenty A.M., David's older brother arrived. He remained seated behind the wheel as he handed over the last payment: $11,000 of David's money for whatever it was David was buying. David had him running all over the place on one errand or another.