A Deadly Legacy
Page 19
The door to the interrogation room opened, and one of the junior detectives motioned for one of us to step outside. Since I was closer, I did the honors. In a moment I was back inside.
“Matt, when was the last time you saw Rob?”
“Friday night. Why?”
“Rob Chambliss is in the wind,” I told Alex. “He was arraigned last Tuesday, and missed his preliminary hearing this morning.” I turned to Matt Chambliss. “You hear that? He’s gone, Matt. Rob’s in the wind. Where would he go? Where would Rob take off to?”
“I don’t know. You think if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you?”
“Of course you would, buddy,” I lied. “Of course you would.”
“Meyers is bad news.”
“How so?”
“He intimidated everyone. If he and Rob sold you the shit, you were hooked, and he took advantage. Guys would get desperate for product, and he’d up the price, then Rob would take the heat for it. Meyers is a prick.” And here, I thought the guy was just dumb. Shows what I know.
“You think Jackson Bennett was murdered?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But I think David did.”
††††
We put out a BOLO—a Be On the LookOut—on Rob Chambliss, then headed for the address we had on him. The neighborhood, located on Mar Vista Hill, consisted of mid-level homes (mid-level for this area being near the one million mark) on winding streets, most with views of the ocean four miles to the west, or Century City and downtown to the east.
The house was a one-story modern number, with a closed steel gate surrounding the property. The gate was unlocked.
“Good,” I said. “I hate announcing myself.” I opened the gate and we walked up a pathway paved in gray flagstone. The grass had been recently cut, the bushes trimmed.
“If I knock, do you think Mr. Chambliss will answer? I’m dying for a cup of coffee.”
“He’s brewing some French roast just for you, pendejo,” Alex groused. He wanted done with this case, and so did I.
I knocked on Rob Chambliss’ front door, waited three point-two seconds, then tried the knob. Locked.
“Around back?” I suggested, and without waiting for an answer, I went around the side of the house. The steel gate, meant to keep intruders out, did not do the job. The lock was broken. We stepped through and around back, where we found a door pried open, and the crowbar that was used to accomplish this latest in a series of lucky strikes, lay on the ground.
“Amateurs,” I muttered.
“Honest to Christ, Johnny, it’s this kind of stupidity that solves most of our cases for us. I wish it was our smarts and cunning, but it just ain’t the case.”
“Sometimes it is, buddy. Sometimes it is.” We stepped inside. “Nice house,” I commented. “Early Ikea.” The house was not large, but every available floor space was littered with stuff. The house had been ransacked. I called for the SID folks to check the drains for blood. I looked around some more.
The closet floor in the master bedroom was a mess. Whatever the intruder had been looking for, he found it here. Bits of cardboard lay strewn all over the closet, as if boxes were ripped into. Smaller boxes lay torn open, and on one, I could just make out the words: Masteron. I handed the torn box to Alex.
“Anabolic Steroids.”
I pulled everything down off the shelves in the closet. A small, heavy box fell at my feet, almost conking me on the head. The box fell open on impact, and a couple dozen .38 caliber bullets rolled out.
“Ooops.”
“Yeah, ooops. SID can compare these to the bullet found in Crane’s head, and the gun found in the creek.”
“Now, padna . . . do you really think they’re gonna find a match?”
He laughed. “Johnny, it just fuckin’ doesn’t get better than this, right here.”
“So, Chambliss is up on the street, as the shooter. Who’s in the creek?”
Alex smiled. “Let’s go get Meyers.”
“You read my mind.”
††††
We headed back to the boathouse. Calling first to find out if Kevin Meyers was actually there would have saved us time, but it would have interfered with the stealth attack we had planned.
“He hasn’t been in for about three days, detectives,” Bill Grayson told us. We met in his office. “He called in sick on Monday, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
Yeah.
“Coach, let me ask you, when staff is hired, is a background check done, fingerprints, maybe?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Was a background check done on Kevin Meyers?”
“No. He started coaching while he was still a student.” He stood and went over to a row of steel file cabinets. “But Kevin was fingerprinted. He ran a camp the last two summers. Sailing.” He pulled out a file. “There you are,” he said, handing the file over.
“He sails, too, huh?” I said looking inside the file.
“He’s been around boats all of his life. Sailboats, power boats, racing . . . you name it.”
“Can I take this with me?” I asked him.
He looked from me to Alex. “I believe in two things, Detective Testarossa. God Almighty, and the honesty of men. I want to ask you now if you think Kevin had something to do with David Crane’s death.”
“We don’t know. Rob Chambliss is missing, we think they might be together. We talked to Meyers on Monday and have since found some . . . discrepancies with his statements . . .”
“You mean, he lied to you.”
“Yes, sir, he did.” A young, well-muscled girl came into the office.
“Coach?”
“Just a minute, Creighton.”
I continued. “He told us that he spoke to David Crane on . . .” I pulled a small notepad out of my pocket. “August third, and David said he’d be here the next day—Saturday—for the tournament.”
“Right.”
“That was the last time anyone saw or spoke to David Crane. Someone else spoke to him, here at the boathouse, a couple of hours prior to that, close as we can tell now. Were you here on that Friday?”
“Sure, we had a workout with the team, we discussed the race, the teams we would be up against, that type of thing.”
“So, you were here on Friday until what time?”
“Uh, let me think . . . until four o’clock, maybe.”
“Did it make sense that Kevin Meyers was still here after you left?”
“Sure. Why not? Kevin liked to row the course before a tournament. During regular season, he did it before every tournament. He also made sure all the equipment was clean and ready to go.”
“Meyers did tell us that he saw Rob Chambliss—Matt’s brother . . .”
Grayson rolled his eyes. “Right . . .”
“. . . take a girl out in a canoe . . . a blond girl.”
“Meyers better not have allowed that. . . .”
“Coach, he didn’t. Rob Chambliss can’t swim. We have it on good authority that this is something Rob Chambliss would have never done. See where we are here?”
“I do.”
“Excuse me, coach . . .”
Grayson turned to the girl. “Susan, a moment, please. . . .” He turned back to us. “Look, you take that file if you need to. If it turns out that Kevin is innocent in all this, that some horrible mistake has been made, then there’s no harm done, right?”
“We appreciate it. I can get a warrant, if that will keep you out of hot water.”
“Take it. Hot water is a familiar place for me.”
I stared into his clear blue eyes, and I saw a good man. I didn’t get the opportunity to meet that many. But I knew one when I saw one.
“Does Meyers own a boat, Coach?”
“Yes.” He sat at his desk and grabbed a slip of paper. “I oughta know. I’ve been out with him enough.” He handed the slip of paper back to me. “Go down toward Burton Chace park . . . you know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks a lot, Coach.”
“Call me Bill.”
In life, if we are lucky, the opportunity to touch and be touched comes often, and it comes more often if you are open to it. Thanks to the love of a beautiful woman, I was wide open at the time I met Bill Grayson, and I didn’t know it then, but he would touch my life in more ways than I ever dreamed possible.
††††
After I faxed Kevin Meyers’ fingerprints to SID, we followed Bill Grayson’s instructions. We parked and easily found gate forty-one A. A security guard opened it for us and we walked down the dock to the end. But I saw, before the gate was even opened, that the boat was gone.
We no sooner got back to the station, when we got a call from Coach Grayson.
“The young lady who interrupted us while you were here told me something very interesting,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“She says that she was here that night—Friday, after everyone had left. She says it wasn’t Matt’s brother who took the shell out.”
“Yeah?”
“It was Kevin Meyers.”
“Uh huh . . .”
“I reminded her that what she saw wasn’t so unusual, and she said that it wasn’t a girl he took with him.”
“Uh huh . . .”
“It was David Crane. She says they argued, Kevin grabbed David by the arm. Then David screamed. She said David was holding his arm, up near his shoulder, when Kevin practically threw him into the shell. Then, she says, they took off down the creek.”
“Did she say anything else.”
“Detective, all she was concerned about was getting out of there.”
“Why’s that?”
He chuckled. “Uh, this is where it gets tricky.”
“Go on.”
“It seems Susan was . . . with someone.”
“Who?”
“Uh, the women’s lacrosse coach.”
“Ah.” I paused. I felt a headache coming on. “Well, we’re going to want to talk to her anyway. Is this why she never came forward about seeing David Crane here . . . a guy the entire team knew had been dead for weeks?”
“Yes, I’m guessing so, detective. You see, the lacrosse coach?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s married.”
Christ. “We’ll be in touch, Bill. Thanks.”
“No problem. Can this get any more twisted?”
“Sure, it can,” I answered.
EIGHTEEN
The man drove up under the bridge and waited. He looked out over the water to the island his grandfather walked on so many years ago, and he wondered if the name was being honored the way his grandfather hoped it would be. A black Town Car pulled up and the man got out of his car and into the backseat of the limo. A man sitting in the backseat wordlessly handed him an envelope.
There’s more where that came from. He’d heard those words before, a long time ago. He opened the envelope, flipped through the stack of hundred-dollar bills. He remembered the envelope his father took from this same man so many years ago. He nodded, then opened the door to get out. The man grabbed him.
Shame about your father, John. Damn shame.
Thank you, Mister Vitello, he said. I appreciate that.
It was Saturday, and Karen had roped me into a black-tie event. It sounded, when she asked me to go, like something I should probably do—like going to Sunday dinner at her parents (although we were definitely NOT at that stage in our relationship, this still felt the same.) Things were going in the direction we both wanted things to go, and not too quickly, either—except I really don’t know what that meant, since I had never been in love like this before, and so quickly . . .
I don’t get many occasions to put on a tux, and even under the nicest of circumstances, I’d still rather be in a pair of track pants and a t-shirt. I arrived at her place and walked in without knocking, hoping I could have a drink before we rushed out the door. I left details to her, and arrived when she told me to. Nothing more.
I went over to the bar and poured a scotch. I heard her walking back and forth in the next room. The air was humid from the shower, and the smell of her perfume filled the air. I walked into the bedroom with my drink, and saw her dress hanging in the doorway of the closet. It was a midnight blue number, long, sleeveless, with jewels around the neck. Matching shoes, also jeweled, sat on the floor beneath the dress. It was a rare day that I got to see a beautiful woman dressed like this, up close.
She walked out of the bathroom, naked, and jumped when she saw me. Her breasts swayed as she stopped short, the flush rising from her chest to her cheeks as she drew her hand to her mouth, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
“Did I scare you, bella donna?” I said, taking her in my arms.
“You sure did, but my what a lovely way to frighten a gal. You look gorgeous.”
“Is that an appropriate word for a man?”
“You have a lot to learn.”
“You’re naked, baby.”
“Yes.”
“You look gorgeous, too.”
“I’m not overdressed?” She pressed herself against me and kissed along my jaw.
“Birichina, unless you plan to stay exactly like this for the rest of the night, you’d better stop that.” I casually brushed my thumb across her left nipple, hoping she’d agree.
“Ummm,” she moaned. “Let me dress,” she said finally, pulling away. I swatted her behind and she gave me a coquettish look over her shoulder. “The limo will be here at six.”
“A limo?” I grumbled as I left the room.
“Uh huh. I figure we’ll be drinking, and parking will be a nightmare.”
I stood at the bar. “Do you want a drink?”
“Please.”
I made her a gin and tonic and poured another one for myself. She was pulling the dress over her head when I came in.
“Zip, please.” She stood before me and spread her arms out. “Well?”
“Wow, sweetheart, there are no words. Molto, molto bella, cara.”
“Thank you. I need to go put on my face.” She kissed me again.
“Your face is on already.”
“I need the other one tonight.” She disappeared into the bathroom. I stood at the large picture window in her bedroom and enjoyed the view. The sun was just going down, and because of the Santa Ana winds, the smog was sitting over the ocean instead of out east. The air quality changed for the worse during the Santa Anas, but it sure created great sunsets.
“So who are we raising funds for tonight?” I asked.
“Arthur McGann’s campaign.” She walked out of the bathroom, went inside her vast closet, and came out attaching a diamond to her earlobe.
“Arthur McGann?”
“Yes.” She stopped. “What?”
“Uh . . . no. No way. I’m sorry.” I walked out into the living room and set my drink down on the bar. She followed, attaching the other diamond to the other ear.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“I’m not going.”
“Why?”
“I can’t sit there tonight in good conscience, and raise a glass to that asshole.”
“Again . . . why?”
“History. Arthur McGann is no friend to the force . . . on so many levels.”
“Alright, so don’t raise a glass. Just go with me.”
I blinked at her. “Did you just hear me?”
“Yes—what am I missing?”
“The part where I said I wasn’t going.”
“Look, John . . . we’ve never discussed politics, and I don’t necessarily think he’ll make the best mayor, but . . .”
I chuckled, but I wasn’t even close to amused. “No . . . no, he won’t make the best mayor, not by a long shot.”
“Alright, so, can you overlook the politics for one night? The new trauma center at County has his n
ame on it, John. I’ll be overseeing the department. You see the link? I have to go.”
“I’m very clear on who you are, and what you have to do. I’m also very clear on who I am, and I don’t have to go. Name the place and I’ll go with you. But not to this. Not tonight.”
“I don’t know what to say, John. Really, I don’t. Can’t we forget the politics and just give the guy credit for doing some good?”
Mia donna bella, grasping at straws. She knew better, and I knew it. “Karen, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” The new look on her face told me I could have chosen my words more carefully.
“I don’t? Really? Huh.” She paused, winding up for the next zinger. “I had no idea you were interested in politics, John.”
My jaw clenched involuntarily. “Let’s cut the crap. You think you know this guy because he gave you a fancy new trauma center? When McGann was on the Board of Supervisors for his district, he let the corruption and abuse go on at King Hospital for years before they did something about it and shut it down. People went to that hospital for help, and died. He and the other board members sat back and let that place run amok because they were afraid of community backlash and accusations of racism. And McGann is black! He did this to his own people. He can’t just erase all that by donating millions to another county hospital and getting a brass plaque above the door. I don’t get how you don’t see this. How can you still go to this thing and raise your glass?”
“Because sometimes we have to swallow shit for the good of the whole. I’m in the business of saving lives, Johnny. I have to look past the icky stuff, because I can’t reattach a limb, or reinsert a crack-addicted hooker’s guts after a rough night, without certain equipment being available to me. McGann provided that, and so I’m going to a fundraiser so, if the voters think it’s wise, he can become the next mayor of Los Angeles. I’m sorry he got in your way over at the department, John. And I guess what I’m really sorry about is that all of this is more important than spending an evening with me.”
“I’m not asking you to choose between the fundraiser and me, Karen. I’m telling you to go, have fun. I will be here when you get home, as I said before. But I gotta stand for something here.”
“So, you’re taking some sort of moral high-ground now?”