JO03 - Detour to Murder (12 page)

C H A P T E R 
18

“Why do you think Bugliosi
wants Sol to call, Jimmy?”

On the drive back to the office, Rita kept talking about Bugliosi. I told her to forget about it, the case was over, but she wouldn’t listen.

“I’ll tell you again, Rita. It’s over, finished, done, all wrapped up.”

“What do you suppose Bugliosi meant when he said he has information?”

I decided to change the subject. “Hey, Rita, did you notice that Buick isn’t following me around anymore?”

She gave me a funny look. “What Buick?”

Oops, forgot. I didn’t tell her about the thugs tailing me in the Buick. I told her my bruises came from some hothead after a fender-bender. “Oh, nothing… forget it.”

“Are you going to ask Sol to call him?”

“Look, Rita, Sol worked hard for us. For no money, I might add. Let’s not impose on him anymore about something that’s not going to help us now. But, tell you what, I’ll mention Bugliosi and he can decide whether to call him or not. Deal?”

She smiled. “It’s a deal.”

I walked past Mabel, polishing her fingernails while sitting at the reception desk, stepped into my office and started to close the door. Rita pushed it open.

“Mabel says no one called all morning. I’m getting worried—”

We both turned our attention to the welcome ringing of the phone and held our breath. Perhaps a client? Mabel answered. “Law office.” We could hear her through the open door. “Hang on a sec.” She pushed the telephone hold button. I could see it flash on my desk. “Jimmy, it’s for you. Sol’s on line one.” We exhaled.

“Hi, Sol. What’s up?”

“I got news, Jimmy. You’re going to meet Raymond Haskell. He’s agreed to talk to us. It’s all set.”

Raymond Haskell, the long-deceased Charles Haskell’s younger brother, had been in the news lately, his picture plastered all over the
Times
. Last week he dedicated a new hospital wing; the money for the construction was donated by his foundation.

There were a few questions I would’ve liked to ask him regarding his brother’s death. I wanted to know if he realized that Roberts hadn’t beaten his brother with a blunt object and caused his heart attack, as the Los Angeles DA at the time had stated in his report.

Charles Haskell had died after picking up Roberts in Arizona, but according to the Yuma County autopsy report, he had died of the heart attack
before
he received the blow on his head. He’d struck his head on a rock falling out of the car after he died—just as Roberts had said.

But my job was finished. My client would be released soon. There were a lot of questions that would be left unanswered.

“Sol, the case is over. There’s no point—”

“I’ve been trying to arrange a meeting with Haskell. The
groisser putz
wouldn’t give me the time of day. But listen to this: do you know who Mickey Rudin is?”

“I’ve heard the name.”

“He’s a
macher
, Frank Sinatra’s personal lawyer. You should have such clients,” Sol said. “Anyway, Rudin’s a friend of mine.”

“That’s great—”

“Shut up and listen, Jimmy. He sent me tickets to the formal dinner, Friday night. And the three of us are going—you, Rita, and I.”

“What dinner?”

“The Reagan for President Dinner at the Beverly Wilshire. My wife refused to go with us. Blew a gasket when I told her we were invited to the kickoff dinner for Reagan’s campaign. I told her I didn’t buy the tickets, didn’t give him a damn dime. But it wasn’t the money she was
kvetching
about… Anyway, Rudin is hosting the event. And, of course, Haskell will be there, sitting at our table. Rudin set it up. After the speeches, we’ll get face time alone with him. With Rita at your side, you won’t look like a lawyer on a mission. You’ll look like a normal young couple, won’t spook the other guests.”

“Sol, what good would it do to talk to Haskell now? It’s all set. Roberts will be released as soon as Reagan signs the papers.”

“Too late. It’s a done deal. We have to go.”

“Why?”

“Look, Jimmy, I’d been working on this before the commutation thing came about. It’d be a tremendous embarrassment to my friend Mickey Rudin if there were empty seats at his table. Anyway, I’d like to have a few words with that phony son-of-a-bitch, Haskell. He’s a crook from way back. Can’t prove it, but it’s true.”

“Hang on a minute, Sol.” I turned to Rita, sitting on the edge of my desk. “Hey, do you want to go to a political dinner Friday night. Might be fun.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to?”

“It’d look funny if we didn’t show up. It’d embarrass Sol’s friend.”

“What’ll I wear?”

“Something nice. It’s formal.”

“Okay, Jimmy, I’ll go,” she said, hesitation in her voice. “But a political dinner—oh gosh.”

“Thanks Rita. I owe you one.”

“Don’t forget, tell Sol about Bugliosi,” she said.

“Was that Rita?” Sol asked. “What about Bugliosi? He’s a friend of mine too, you know.”

Christ, I thought, was Sol chummy with all the big shots? “We met him at the Regency. He wants you to call him. Said he trusts you and has information that might help the case.”

“Okay, I’ll call him. See what he has.”

“Sol, the case is over.”

“It’s not over yet, Jimmy, my boy. Not until Reagan signs the papers.”

Thursday went by quietly. A few calls came in inquiring about our firm. Did we handle divorces, wills, things of that nature. Mabel told them no, our firm specialized in criminal law. Then she came into my office and told me we’d better rethink our game plan—might be a good idea to handle a few civil cases, you know, diversify.

She continued to lay out the facts: more clients, more money, everyone happy. I feigned great interest in what she had to say. Leaning forward, I rubbed my chin and said, “Hmm… Interesting concept. Could be a winner.” But it’d be a loser for my sanity.

She got my attention, however, when she added, “Our reserves are dwindling and if it continues going the way it has for the last couple of months, we’ll run out of cash sooner than you realize.”

But the thought of handling mind-numbing civil cases brought on a mild migraine. Next thing you know, she’d have me chasing ambulances, then debt collections. I’d find another profession first.

I sat back, stared at the phone, and debated calling Millie. Obviously she was serious when she said Judge Balford had dropped me from her database of criminal lawyers willing to take court-appointed cases.

Millie controlled the list and I knew Balford would pretty much go along with her if she pressed the issue. But I couldn’t explain to her right then, without jeopardizing the deal, that my behavior had actually won Roberts his commutation.

Maybe I stretched it thinking I had a hand in the decision. But who knows, maybe my rant at the hearing did have something to do with the DA’s offer. I decided to wait until after Monday—after I dropped Roberts at the bus station—to call her and make an effort to smooth things over. I’d take her to lunch someplace nice. Not Burger King this time. I’d take her to Denny’s Coffee Shop.

Sol was just as curious as Rita about what Bugliosi had to offer. He’d said he would call him right away and get back to us. That was yesterday and Sol hadn’t called back, but Bugliosi said it might take a while to get in touch with him. What the heck, I was curious, too. But more than likely the ex-Deputy DA just had some dusty old files from way back when, which wouldn’t help determine who had actually murdered Vera. Anyway, by the time we got the files Roberts would be long gone. He’d be New York or wherever trying to build a new life.

Friday evening, I picked Rita up at her apartment on Florence Ave. We decided to drive to the dinner together to save double parking fees and such. Sol had business in the city. He’d meet us in the hotel lobby at seven-thirty.

Rita looked stunning. I hadn’t seen much of her during the day and now I understood why. She must’ve spent hours at the beauty salon. Her dark hair gleamed in the latest style. She wore it up, twisted and curled on top with little locks descending on each side of her angelic face. She wore a tight, coral turtleneck gown with bare shoulders and arms and a diving back. I held her lace wrap and sighed, glimpsing her figure, as she turned to fold it around her shoulders.

When she smiled at me, my heart melted. I almost wished we were actually having a date—a real date, not just two legal associates gathering evidence by pretending to be a carefree couple going out on a Friday night.

Even though I was seven years older and technically her boss, there were times when I’d considered asking her out. But it wouldn’t have been right, working together and all. Besides, I figured she probably would’ve turned me down. She’d most likely see me as just another old guy trying to take advantage of the situation.

The sun descended in the west, pulling down an orange sky as we cruised north on the Santa Ana Freeway, heading for Beverly Hills and the hotel. After a few miles, Rita turned on the radio and we listened to the soft rock hit by the Eagles, “The Best of my Love.” Beautiful faces and loud, empty places…

Next came, “One Hell of a Woman,” by Mac Davis. But when the Barbra Streisand hit, “The Way We Were,” started to play, I popped my Beatles tape into the 8-track. “Hey Jude” blasted from the speakers, seven minutes of perfection. I sang along with the na-na-na part. Rita tapped me on the shoulder, laughing.

Soon we strolled into the Beverly Wilshire lobby.

I turned to the wide-eyed Rita. “Pretty swank, huh?”

“Oh my gosh, when we walked under that arch in front and through the doors it seemed like we were entering an eighteenth century European palace, and now this.” She glanced at the elaborate décor, her gaze settling on the enormous chandler.

“Did you happen to notice the way the doorman looked at me? Like he hadn’t seen a suit from Sears before,” I said, fingering my jacket lapel. “But when he saw you, he smiled and even did a little curtsy.”

“Maybe he liked my new dress.”

“Oh, I think he liked more than that.”

People, mostly in formal attire, were milling about. A few couples meandered toward the entrance of the Grand Ballroom. Sol stood a few feet in front of us holding a drink in one hand and jabbing his finger in some guy’s chest with the other. He hadn’t noticed us yet.

When we moved a little closer I said, “Hey, Sol. Nice place. Hope the food’s as good as the surroundings.”

“Aw, Jimmy, banquet food. What can I say?” He turned to Rita, and for a moment I thought he was going to pass out. “My, God! Is that you, Rita?” His voice became solemn. “You’re not a child anymore, my dear. You look beautiful.”

Rita beamed.

Sol leaned into me and whispered, “Called Bugliosi. Wasn’t in. Left a message.” He then looked up, smiled, and introduced us to the man he’d been talking with. “Rita, Jimmy,” he said in a loud voice, “meet Congressman Del Clausen. He’s going to get to the bottom of this water thing.”

“What water thing?” I said.

“What do you mean what water thing? You know, how the restaurants don’t give you a glass of water anymore unless you ask for it.”

Muted chimes sounded. Rita and I waited while Sol went to refresh his drink. Then the three of us walked through the huge double doors into the Grand Ballroom. The maître d’, checking our invitations, nodded politely and pointed toward the front of the room. “Table four,” he said. “Down front, close to the stage.”

As we worked our way through the crowd of dignified but noisy people Sol would stop every so often and whisper a few words in the ear of a guest. Gray-haired men, stiff in their formal attire, cast lustful glances at Rita as we threaded our way closer to the stage.

A few feet from our destination, Rita stopped dead in her tracks. She let out a gasp. Her hands started to tremble.

She must have noticed the same thing I did. The table was set for eight and three reserved seats—with name cards resting on the plates—were vacant. The other five people had arrived and were chatting and sipping drinks. It appeared that Rita would be sitting next to the only man there without a female escort: Frank Sinatra.

I noticed something else. The man sitting across from Sinatra was staring at me.

Only it wasn’t a movie star with those cold eyes, it was Raymond Haskell.

C H A P T E R 
19

I had read that Sinatra
had a temper, could be rude, even downright abusive. But not that night. He was gracious, polite, and had a sense of humor reminiscent of his headline Vegas act with the Rat Pack.

Rita had immediately captured Sinatra’s interest and she responded, laughing and flirting without being the least bit self-conscious or shy. Before the food arrived, he took her by the hand and worked the room, introducing Rita to a host of celebrities. And at times throughout the meal he leaned in close and whispered something to her. The wives of the other two men—Haskell and Mickey Rudin—seemed miffed at the admiration she received from the Chairman of the Board, as Sinatra was known. But I don’t think he gave a damn.

With Rita fetching all of Sinatra’s attention, there was scant small talk going on among the rest of us. Mary Carol, Rudin’s wife, tried to be polite and asked me what I thought about Reagan’s chance of winning the upcoming election.

I murmured something impartial. But Sol jumped in. “He hasn’t got a Chinaman’s chance in the primary,” he said. “Ford is the incumbent and Republicans will back the president.”

Adele Haskell, Raymond’s wife, seemed shocked at Sol’s outburst. “President Ford can’t possibly win,” she said. “Not after pardoning Nixon. No, Sol, take it from me, Ronnie will be our candidate.”

Sol pulled a wad of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and slammed the bankroll on the table. “I’ll tell you something else; the Republicans haven’t got a shot in ’76. And I’m willing to back up what I’m saying with cold cash. Teddy Kennedy will be our next president.” He looked at the people sitting there gawking at him with their mouths agape. “Any takers?”

No one accepted, especially after Mickey Rudin said in a commanding voice, “Goddamn it, Sol may have something there. He’s the smartest son-of-a-bitch I know. I wouldn’t touch his bet with somebody else’s dick.” Then he chortled as Mary Carol cringed.

Raymond Haskell didn’t say much and pretended not to notice me. Finally he glanced my way, looking at me as if I were something stuck to the edge of his shoe. I could tell he wasn’t happy with the deal forced on him by Rudin. And it seemed he couldn’t wait to get the meeting with Sol and me out of the way as fast as possible. Especially after Sol alienated almost everyone with his off-the-wall political rhetoric. But hey, that was Sol.

The orchestra played subdued jazz standards, accompanied by Count Basie, during the meal. The men in their tuxes and the women rife with jewels seemed amused.

Although I’ve never been much on politics, I’d been to a couple of Democrat shindigs in the past. But those affairs were nothing like this. Lots of booze, a little grass, and hot dogs grilled on a backyard barbecue with Rock 'n Roll blasting away. The hoi polloi, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, danced the Twist, shaking their booty with reckless abandon. And five bucks, all you can eat. I’d have to say if they took a poll, I’d lean toward the Dems.

Finally Rudin excused himself, hopped up on the stage, and welcomed the man of the hour, Ronald Reagan. He introduced him as a great leader, a humanitarian, and as “The next president of the United States.” Shouts of “Hear hear,” “Bravo,” and applause accompanied the proclamation. Later, Nancy and Ronnie got up and danced, and the throng cheered the Reagans’ quick-step gaiety. I took a quick glance at Adele Haskell as she gazed at the handsome couple moving gracefully about the dance floor. Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.

At first only a few couples timidly ventured out of their chairs to dance, but when the orchestra struck up a lively waltz by Jerome Kern, the floodgates opened and couples streamed onto the floor, including Rita and Sinatra. I didn’t know she could move the way she did. I had never seen her happier.

Haskell motioned to Sol. He flicked his head toward the back of the room and mouthed, “Follow me.” He climbed out of his chair, tossed his napkin on the table, and started to walk away. Sol and I followed in his wake. With the music and laughter fading, we marched through the doors at the back of the room, and when we did, two bruisers stepped up beside Haskell.

Sol whispered to me, “Bodyguards. He gets them from Pinkerton.”

We continued to follow the three men down the hallway.

When we came to a men’s restroom, Haskell turned to his bodyguards. “Stay outside and block the entrance. I don’t want anyone interrupting us.”

The heavyweights folded their arms across their chests and took a position on each side of the door.

We entered the restroom.

An attendant waited with a towel folded over his arm and a whiskbroom in his back pocket. Haskell slipped the guy a twenty and told him to go buy himself a cup of coffee. “And stay away for ten minutes,” he added.

When the attendant left, Haskell dusted an insignificant piece of lint off the satin lapel of tux, saying, “Mr. O’Brien, do you like sticking your nose in other people’s affairs?”

“Not as a rule.”

Sol jumped in. “Don’t get smart, Haskell. He’s just doing his job. We’d like to have a friendly chat, that’s all. And ten minutes will be more than enough time.”

“Rudin pressured me to meet with you gentlemen. I agreed, so let’s get this over with.”

As far as I was concerned, Roberts was going to be set free, so there wouldn’t be any need to get heavy with Haskell. I figured we’d just ask him a few general questions about the case and that would be that.

I decided to take the opportunity to set the record straight regarding his brother, Charles. “Mr. Haskell, do you realize your brother died of natural cases? Roberts had nothing to do with his death.”

“Yes, it seems I heard about that. However, I don’t understand what my brother’s heart attack has to do with anything.”

What did he mean, he doesn’t understand? I started to get hot. But I tried to stay calm. “The man is rotting in jail because he figured he’d be blamed for his death. And you knew all along that he had nothing to do with it?”

“It’s my impression that he confessed to the murder of a prostitute,” Haskell said, then added in a low voice, almost to himself, “But she was going to die anyway. She was a druggie, and had TB—final stages. She didn’t have long.”

Sol asked, “How do you know she was a whore?”

He turned to Sol. It seemed he sniffed the air before he spoke. “Mr. Silverman, the woman was no good. From what I was told, she tried to run a confidence game on my father. Her death was meaningless.” He brushed his lapel again.

I hadn’t heard about any scam. What was Haskell talking about? Roberts couldn’t have known about Vera running a con on Haskell’s father, or he would have told me about it.

“What kind of scam did she try to pull?” I asked.

“Ancient history. Forget about it.”

“What was your father’s phone number back in ’45?” Sol asked.

“How could I possibly know that after all these years?”

Sol tossed out a bunch of old phone numbers with the old exchanges Madison, Vermont, and Popular. Haskell just shook his head and kept saying no, no, no.

I knew what he was referring to: the list of phone numbers, the calls Vera had made from the motel room.

Then Sol asked him, “How about: Crestview 6-5723?”

Haskell paused for a moment this time before saying no. The pause gave him away. He recognized the number.

Without seeming to discern Haskell’s hesitation regarding the last number, Sol came right back with, “Does this number ring any bells: 555-1212?”

“Are you being funny? That’s the number for time of day.”

“Just wanted to see if you knew any phone numbers.”

“What’s all this nonsense about, anyway?” Haskell asked.

“Just a hobby, old telephone exchanges.”

“I haven’t got time to play games.” He started for the door.

“Mr. Haskell, just a couple of more questions, please,” I said.

He stopped moving and glanced at the ten pounds of gold on his wrist that held his watch. “Make it quick.”

“Did Frank Byron, the Los Angeles District Attorney back then, keep your family fully informed during the investigation?”

Haskell shrugged. “Sure, why wouldn’t he?”

“Then Byron left public service and picked up a cushy job with your big rich foundation?” Sol asked.

That seemed to give him pause, although only briefly. “What do you want from me, anyway? I had nothing to do with all of this. Christ!”

“Maybe you killed Vera,” Sol said. “You said she tried to pull a scam on your father. Maybe you decided to take care of the situation. Be a tough guy in the old man’s eyes. He liked tough guys. Is that how it went down, Haskell?”

Sol practically accused him of murdering Vera and he just shook his head with a tight, thin-lipped smile stretched across his angry face. “You’d say a thing like that! I was a war hero. I went toe-to-toe with those Nazi bastards. Flew a B-17 in World War II, shot down over Germany, taken prisoner. Toe-to-toe! I risked my life for this country. You son-of-a-bitch.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? Your old man was a crook,” Sol said, “and so are you.”

So much for keeping it light. But Sol was pissed, and so was I—the cold bastard.

“Roberts spent the war playing the piano. He’s a bum and he murdered that woman. How dare you!”

“Your father was a slimy son-of-a-bitch, owned the largest illegal wire service in the nation. Big-time operator with ties to the mob. His company fed bookmaking parlors across the country race results in real time. Against Federal and state law.”

The pretense of a smile faded. “Hold it right there, you son-of-a-bitch—!”

“Let me finish. Your old man’s thugs put the squeeze on the poor bastards who owned the joints until they had to pay more than they could afford. He even had a few bookies bumped off when they didn’t cough up the dough. Good for business. Needed some examples. The basis of your fortune, Haskell, is steeped in blood.”

Haskell ran his hand through his silver mane. “There’s a rumor to that effect, but I wouldn’t know. I was barely twenty-eight when Father died. And who gives a damn about all that rubbish now?”

“Maybe, I do,” Sol said.

“Now you listen to me; I came back from the war in ’45, worked hard and built a one-hundred percent legitimate business empire—publishing, banking, real estate, oil. My refinery in Long Beach employs over a thousand people—”

Sol moved in closer to him. “Big fuckin’ deal. You got the money to start your company because your old man killed people for it.”

“I made more money than my old man could even dream about, all on the up and up. And now I’m giving it away: underprivileged kids, hospitals, you name it. With my money they may find a cure for cancer someday. What have you done with your life, Silverman? You’re just a fancy peeper. A snoop in a pinstripe suit looking in bedroom windows.”

Haskell turned away and muttered something. Though barely audible, I’m sure Sol heard the anti-Semitic remark the empire builder had expressed.

“Yeah, you built a business with your old man’s dirty money and Mafia connections, all right. Took all the bows, your name on buildings. People kissing your ass all over town. But there’s one problem. One really big problem.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“The money wasn’t yours. It was your brother’s. He was the first-born, first in line for the inheritance, and he died only a month before your old man croaked. Very convenient.”

“Bullshit!”

“Suppose you had a hand in your brother’s timely demise. Could’ve happened that way. You could’ve hired someone to do the deed.”

I jumped into the fray. “And suppose Frank Byron buried the evidence like he buried Roberts away in a cell for almost thirty years. Suppose he made your brother’s death just appear to be caused by a heart attack.”

“No statute of limitations on murder,” Sol said.

“What the hell’s the matter with you two?” Haskell’s face turned cherry-red. “You’re playing with fire talking like that. I could break you—”

“You’re a crook, just like your old man. Stole your brother’s inheritance and continued to do business in the same sleazy manner as your old man. Except you were smarter. You bought off Byron back then and you probably have the current DA in your pocket as well.”

The way Sol and Haskell were posturing, I expected that at any moment peckers would be whipped out and measured.

“Silverman, you piece of shit, if you breathe just one word in public of what you’re saying here, I’ll haul your ass in court and sue you for slander. I’ll own everything you got.”

He continued his tirade. We’d struck a nerve, and he couldn’t stop shouting.

“And you, O’Brien.” His fists were balled, like he was going to take a swipe at me, but silver-haired empire builders didn’t partake of such crude behavior. “Goddamn you, I didn’t murder anybody. My brother Charles died of a heart attack just as it said in the autopsy report. And suppose you tell me why are you concocting this outlandish fantasy now? Roberts will be released in a couple of days. That’s all that should concern you.”

Wait a minute. How did he know about the deal to release Roberts? Rinehart, the DA told him, of course. So much for secrets. But he was right—why bring it up now? We were through here. Sol got what he came for, the opportunity to vent at the big enchilada, a tycoon who happened to be a hypocrite and a liar.

I now knew that Haskell had been in bed with Frank Byron when he framed Roberts. He hadn’t admitted it out loud, but when he said he knew his brother had died of natural causes, he implicated himself. Only the District Attorney back in ’45 had known that Charles Haskell had died of a heart attack and that Roberts hadn’t clubbed him, that the wound on the head had happened postmortem.

It was obvious now why Joe Rinehart had pressured Governor Reagan to release Roberts. He was protecting Haskell. With Roberts out of prison and gone for good, who’d bother to check “ancient history”, as Raymond Haskell referred to the events that happened so long ago?

But as I told Sol when he first brought up tonight’s dinner, my job was finished. Roberts would finally get his freedom and that would be that. There was one thing that still troubled me, though. It annoyed me like an itch you couldn’t scratch.