JO03 - Detour to Murder (20 page)

3:28 a.m., October 1944

Sue Harvey sat at her makeup table in the makeshift dressing room at the Break O’ Dawn Club, New York City. Her head was bowed, her hands folded in front of her as if in prayer. Off to the side lay the business card handed to her by a Hollywood bigshot.

Al Roberts’s piano music drifted in from the dining room. She felt the beat of his improvised boogie-woogie in her toes. She knew he liked to mix it up. Every now and then he’d throw in a lick of Chopin, shift the tempo while keeping the rhythm, his own arrangement. The customers ate it up and showed it by laying a little bread in the tip jar at the end of the piece.

It’d break his heart. But she couldn’t go through with it, and with the date looming she had to tell Al tonight. The engagement would have to be delayed. The marriage would not take place Saturday as planned.

Part of her gig was to dance with the customers between sets. A little over a week before the big day at City Hall where Al and she were scheduled to tie the knot, a well-heeled customer slipped his card to her and whispered, “Look me up if you’re ever in Hollywood. Baby, I could make you a star.” He told her she had the voice of an angel and the body of a goddess. Johnny Hyde, the famous talent agent, had promised to launch her movie career.

How could she pass up this once-in-a-lifetime chance at making it big? But what about Al? she wondered. Would he follow her to Hollywood, as she wanted him to, or would he stay behind, too proud to take a backseat to her fame?

She rearranged the lip gloss, foundation powders, and brushes on the table and thought. Al could tag along. He could be her accompanist. She’d see to it. She’d demand that Al be put on the studio payroll. Maybe not at first, but as soon as she hit the big time.

She glanced once more at her image reflected in the mirror. Makeup okay, but there wasn’t much she could do about her hair now. She quickly adjusted the orchid pinned in her blonde swirls and stood.

All eyes in the room followed as she made her way to the bandstand. She stopped at a few tables and laughed it up with the customers, mostly old, withered guys with plenty of dough. But every now and then a sailor or soldier on leave would wander into the club. She’d have to be careful with these boys. They’d been away a long time and now they all liked to play a little game of grab-ass as she moved on by. They meant no harm, and it didn’t bother her. But Al, watching from his piano stool, would always throw a fit.

When she ascended the two steps of the small stage for her next set, the spotlight shifted to her. She drifted to the mike and glanced at Al. His eyes found hers, he beamed, and his fingers switched from the upbeat tempo of the blues to the bittersweet harmony of the romantic ballad,
“I Can’t Believe That You’re In Love With Me.”

Even though she ached inside—the sad, long walk home with Al later that night when she’d have to explain her new plans weighed heavily within her heart—she gave a bright and cheery smile to the audience. She was a pro, instinct took over, and her body swayed rhythmically with the music as she performed the number.

Your eyes of blue,
Your kisses too,
I never knew what they could do…

Lovers always had a song, it was part of the deal, and that one was theirs. The title spelled it out, as far as they were concerned.

But now that would all change.

5:30 a.m., November 1955

Willy maneuvered the gearshift lever, cranked the wheel, and adroitly backed the huge sanitation truck into the small alley behind the celebrated Formosa Café on Santa Monica in West Hollywood. As the truck slowed, his route partner, Nat, jumped from the passenger seat, ran back and started wrestling the trash containers. The well-toned muscles of his sleeveless arms gleamed like polished black granite as be grabbed the first container and effortlessly rolled it out to line up with the truck’s dump hopper. He darted back and pulled the second bin away from the pink stucco wall.

“Holy shit!” he called out. “Willie, get yo’ ass back here.”

Willy slid out of the seat, grumbling, “You need help? That ain’t the deal. This week I drive, you dump—”

“You best hurry, man.”

“Don’t flip your lid. I’m a’comin’.”

Willy lumbered around behind the rig and saw Nat facing the back wall of the restaurant, standing frozen and staring slack-jawed at the ground, “Hey, Nat, let’s get a move on.”

Nat pointed. “Take a look.”

Willie’s gaze followed Nat’s outstretched arm. He almost gagged. A white female body lay sprawled in the filth behind the bin. The woman had been savagely beaten. Her battered face was bloated and caked in dried blood and vomit. The dark roots of her blonde strands were tangled and enmeshed with the garbage overflowing the containers.

“Is she… dead?” Nat asked.

“Goddamn if I know.” Willie crept closer to get a better look. It had been cold during the night, he knew, and she had nothing on but a thin, almost sheer cotton dress.

He leaned in and shuddered as he looked at her face. He could only guess her age, somewhere between thirty and fifty, he figured. Too bad, at one time she might’ve been a looker. He raised her arm and with his thumb and forefinger felt the back of her wrist, checking for a pulse. He jumped back.

“Nat! Quick, get a cop. She’s alive.”

C H A P T E R 
32

I jumped up from the
table, spilling my coffee. Kathie had a startled look on her face; I must’ve frightened her. But I had to get to Roberts fast.

“Where is he? Damn! Don’t you know I’ve been trying to find him?”

“He asked me not to tell a soul where he’s staying.”

“I’m his lawyer, for chrissakes. You gotta tell me!”

“I gave my word—”

“Kathie, don’t you realize the police are out gunning for him? If they find him before I do, there will be trouble. He could get hurt.”

“They would use force?”

“Of course they would! They think he’s a mad-dog murderer.”

“Oh, my God. If anything happened to Al Roberts it would kill my mother.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s staying in a hotel close to the rest home where she’s living.”

I started for the door. “Take me there right now!”

She grabbed her purse and jacket. “I’ll drive,” she said.

While riding in her red Mercedes to the hotel located close to Vista Del Mar Estates, an assisted living facility in Laguna Beach, she told me why—at first—she’d tried to convince me to drop the Roberts case. It was obvious to me now that she’d been trying to protect her mother’s mental health as well as her father’s image.

“Roberts had been sending letters to my mother. We moved her several times, but he’s always been able to find her.”

“What’d she say about the letters?”

“She never saw his letters. We told the staff to destroy them.”

“Why?”

“She was in bad shape at the beginning, but over the years she seemed to be making a little progress. The doctors said any mention of Roberts—or anything about her past, for that matter—would probably set her back. All the tragic mistakes she had made would come to the forefront. They felt that the horrible events of her past life would be lived over again in her mind. She’d descend into that dark place where she stayed for so many years.”

I sat still, looking out the window and watching as the white lines on the dark freeway unfurled before us.

Finally, Kathie broke the silence. “We couldn’t take the chance. I knew if Roberts were released he’d find my mother.”

“It wasn’t your decision to make. It was hers.”

“You don’t understand. She was almost like a zombie. I’d visit her nearly every day and she’d just stare at me, no expression or anything. She’d just sit there and stare at me. There were days, weeks on end where she wouldn’t even get out of bed. The doctors said—”

“The so-called doctors were feeding you a line of crap, damn it. They pumped her full of drugs and kept billing your old man’s trust fund. Didn’t they?”

“Yes,” she said. “I know that now.”

“The sons-of-bitches were warehousing her. So she wouldn’t make trouble. Couldn’t you see that?”

Kathie shook her head violently. “I just didn’t know what to do. She was so helpless. Oh God.”

At night, with no traffic, we made good time. About a half an hour after we left my apartment we turned off the Santa Ana Freeway onto Laguna Canyon Road and wound through the darkness, heading toward the coast.

With her eyes focused on the road, Kathie continued to talk about Roberts and Sue. “I know now how wrong I was, Jimmy. Al Roberts came to see my mother a few days ago and he’s been with her every day for hours on end. He only goes to the hotel to sleep.”

“Roberts got there three days ago?”

“Yes, and since then it’s almost like a miracle has happened. My mother’s been alert and active. She gets up in the morning and puts on her makeup while humming an old love song she used to sing. She even took a long walk with him on the beach yesterday.”

Looking up at her in the rearview mirror, I could see the smile on her face. “They hold hands like a couple of teenagers in love,” she added.

Questions flooded my mind. How did Roberts get clear down here to Laguna without being spotted? Did he hitchhike the final leg of his journey, which had begun all those years ago back in 1945? Another thing: how did Roberts know where to find her? But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was how soon it would be before the cops figured out where to look for him.

“How much farther?” I asked Kathie.

“He’s staying at the old Laguna Hotel. We’ll be there in a few minutes… I’m picking up his tab,” she said quietly, almost as an afterthought. “You know it never had a bell?”

“A bell? What are you talking about?”

“The Laguna Hotel has a bell tower, but it never had a bell.”

“That’s good to know,” I said, and thought, Christ, at a time like this who gives a damn about a bell. “Is there anything else I should know about the hotel? For example, does it have bulletproof doors? Because if the cops get there before we do…”

She stepped on the gas and soon we rounded the last curve of the canyon road and turned onto Highway 1. After going a couple of blocks I could see red lights flickering ahead. My heart sank when we slowed and saw cop cars, their flashers blinking, parked haphazardly in front of the hotel. A scattering of uniformed officers milled about on the sidewalk.

“Oh, shit!” I said under my breath.

Kathie stopped the Mercedes in the middle of the street about ten feet from a police car blocking the road. She turned to me. Her face showed what we were both thinking. “They got him, didn’t they?”

“I don’t know. Wait here.” I climbed out of the car and walked toward the hotel. I had to play it cool. If this wasn’t about Roberts, then I didn’t want to tip the fact that he was hiding here right under their noses. I approached the first cop I saw. “What’s this all about, officer?”

“A murderer on the run was holed up in the hotel. But we got him,” the young Laguna Beach cop boasted. “Half the agencies in southern California were looking for him.”

I shuddered, but tried to remain calm. “What was his name?”

“A guy named Roberts… say, who are you, anyway? Why do you care?”

Damn, they’d found him!
“I’m his lawyer. Where is he?”

He turned and shouted to a circle of plainclothes cops standing nearby. “Hey, George. This guy says he’s Roberts’s lawyer. Wants to know where they’ve taken him.”

A tall man in a windbreaker turned and studied me for a moment. He walked over slowly. Before he could say anything I told him, “I represent Alexander Roberts. What have you done with him?”

He remained silent for a moment and from the look on his face I knew it was bad news. “I’m Sgt. Coleman,” he said. “Roberts tried to escape. Must’ve heard us coming. Tried to beat it out the back of the hotel. My officer said he was armed. There was a shooting…”

C H A P T E R 
33

“A shooting?
What do you mean a shooting?”

But I knew what he meant: Al Roberts had been shot. I turned quickly to Kathie, who still sat in the car. Then I looked back at the cop. I heard a car door slam, and Kathie came running. She must’ve seen the look on my face and realized that something bad had happened.

The cop droned on about how the shooting was justified. “Roberts had been warned. He didn’t stop. He was running down the beach, and when he turned he had a gun in his hand. My officer had no choice—”

“What happened?” Kathie, now at my side, screamed.

“Roberts has been shot,” I told her. “They say he had a gun.”

“It happened about an hour ago, ma’am. They’ve taken him to Hoag.”

“How bad is he?”

“Can’t say, but when they took him away he didn’t look too good.”

Kathie tugged on my jacket sleeve. “Jimmy, let’s go!”

“Wait, Kathie. One second.” I turned back to the cop. “What kind of gun did he have? Where is it?”

If Roberts had a gun and it turned out to be the same one that had been used to kill Ida Hathaway, then his murder trial would be lost before it even began. He'd be convicted, and the only thing I could do for him would be to plead with the judge for mercy at the time of sentencing.

“We…uh, haven't found it yet.”

“What?
What kind of horseshit is that? Either he had a gun or he didn't.”

“When he was hit he kept running. He ran behind some rocks at the curve in the shoreline. He was out of sight of the officer for a few moments. He could have tossed the gun in the ocean or buried it somewhere. When the officer caught up with Roberts, he was down, unconscious and bleeding—”

He stopped in midsentence. An urgent call came over the police radio in his car. With the door open, Sgt. Coleman grabbed his mike. I could hear both sides of the transmission.

“Sarge, the hospital called. If you want to interview Roberts, head on over to Hoag
pronto
. He’s coming out of surgery now.”

Coleman replied, “On my way.”

Hearing the news about Roberts gave me chills, but I still had a job to do. “Hold it. Nobody talks to my client without me being there.”

“I take my orders from the lieutenant. He says interview him, that’s what I do. You got a problem with that, talk to the brass when we get to the hospital.”

“I want to see him, right now!” Kathie said.

“Then follow me. I’ll get us there fast.”

Kathie and I ran to the Mercedes. “I’ll drive,” I said. “Used to be a cop. We’re gonna be moving. He’ll be running code three, red lights and siren.”

Kathie nodded. “Keys are in it.”

Sgt. George Coleman, driving a black-and-white with sirens blaring, led the way north to the hospital. With Kathie hanging on for dear life in the passenger seat, we followed in his wake. Upscale restaurants, art galleries, and yacht brokers’ offices were a blur as we raced through downtown Laguna, Corona Del Mar, and then the commercial district of Newport Beach. We drove without slowing or stopping at red lights.

From the hotel it was exactly 11.4 miles to Hoag Hospital, located on the edge of a bluff overlooking Balboa Bay, resplendent with million-dollar homes lining the shore, their multi-colored lights sparkling in the night. It was a straight run on the quiet nighttime highway and we made it to the hospital in nine minutes flat.

Only a few people were present in the hospital lobby when we arrived, one or two who looked like they had been there a while. A couple of uniformed cops hung around, drinking coffee. They must’ve been there to guard the prisoner.

We checked in with the receptionist, a middle-aged woman wearing a blazer with the hospital logo on it. “Sorry, but you’ll have to wait. The patient is being moved from surgery to intensive care, but the surgeon…” She glanced at her records. “…Dr. Hendricks, will be with you as soon as possible.”

“We’ll wait,” Coleman said.

“How bad is he?” Kathie asked.

“I’m sorry but I don’t have that information.” She smiled warmly. “Dr. Hendricks will fill you in.”

“Oh, God, Jimmy…” Kathie’s eyes searched mine looking for answers that I didn’t have.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the woman at the desk said, “but this is a formality. Does Mr. Roberts have any family members that should be notified?”

“No, not really,” I said. “But I’m closer to him than any relative. I’m his lawyer.”

She looked around at the cops in the room. “I understand.”

With Kathie clinging to my arm, I turned to Sgt. Coleman. I made it clear that if the doctor allowed Roberts to have visitors, then I’d be the first one to see him. If he wanted to make a statement, I’d allow it, but there would be no interrogation.

The cop nodded. “Okay by me. I was just supposed to ask him a few questions about the shooting. As you probably know, the Los Angeles DA’s office issued the arrest warrant. You won’t be dealing with us down here in Orange County on the murder charge. As soon as the doc gives the okay, Roberts will be transferred out of our jurisdiction. He’ll be turned over to the LAPD and moved to the jail hospital in L.A.”

A guy with a weathered complexion who looked like he’d just climbed out of bed and hurriedly tossed on his clothes entered the lobby. He marched up and introduced himself as Captain John Russo, adding that he’d be investigating the officer-involved shooting. He turned to Coleman. “Instead of taking Roberts to jail,” he said. “I wish they were taking the murdering bastard to the morgue.”

Kathie gazed up at me, her eyes filled with tears. “He’s got to pull through. Jesus, he’s got to make it!” She looked at Russo. “Goddamn you, he’s innocent.”

“You’d better pray he lives,” I told Russo. “Because if he dies I’ll file the biggest goddamn lawsuit you ever saw. I’ll name the city, the police department, and the cop who fired the shots. I’ll name everyone that had anything to do with this.”

Okay, so maybe I overreacted, but I didn’t like the way the scene was playing out. If the cop involved did in fact shoot an unarmed man, then it would be easy to sweep the whole affair under the rug. Why make a big hullabaloo about a bad shooting if the victim was a murder suspect with no family or friends? And a convict on top of that. Who’d give a damn?

I wanted it on the record that someone did care about Roberts, someone who knew the score, someone who wouldn’t let up until the truth came out.

Russo looked at me as if I were something the dog had left on his lawn. “You’d better hold on, O’Brien.”

I felt the blood rushing to my face. “No, you hold on—!”

“You want to know what happened, then hear me out.”

“Fine, talk to me.”

“Roberts was a murderer on the run with a warrant out. Officer Bochar—a rookie—identified himself as a police officer and commanded Roberts to stop. I just talked to Bochar back at the station. He’s shook up, said your client was armed. He fired his weapon in self-defense. I believe him. But we’ll still do a complete investigation.”

“Roberts wasn’t armed. He was shot in cold blood.”

“He had a gun and we’ll find it.” His voice bore a tone of finality.

“Everyone’s been pinning crap on Al Roberts for the last twenty-nine years. You won’t find anything, because he didn’t have a weapon. I think the rookie got scared, panicked, and started blasting away. And I think you know it.”

His face went through a series of contortions, settling on one that looked like the ugly countenance of a dyspeptic gorilla. Russo was obviously a man accustomed to getting his way, with everyone kissing his ass. “O’Brien, I’m in charge around here and I said we’ll do a goddamn investigation. In Laguna we do it right, we don’t screw around. Listen up, wise guy; I was on the job when you were a brat with shit in your diapers, sucking at your mama’s tit!”

Though totally pissed off I fought to maintain my composure, but the sanctimonious asshole was getting to me. “Yeah sure, you’ll find a weapon,” I said. “I was a cop once. I know how it goes. All of a sudden one of your men will find a gun with no serial numbers buried on the beach somewhere behind the rocks.”

Russo was, to put it mildly, appalled at my assertion. He jabbed his finger in my chest. “Don’t you ever accuse me of compromising an investigation! Down here we play it strictly by the book. I don’t care how they handle shit up there in big bad L.A. County.” He looked down his nose at me. “We don’t need to plant a gun. Roberts had one and we’ll find it, even if we have to dredge the whole goddamn Pacific Ocean.”

I walked away from Russo, taking Kathie with me. We stood at a window at the far end of the lobby and looked out at the black sea beyond the edge of shimmering lights. Putting my arm gently around her shoulders I said, “Al Roberts will make it. He’s too damn stubborn to die.”

She glanced up at me. “What will I tell my mother? I won’t know what to say. It will kill her if something happens to Al.”

“Tell her the truth. Treat her like a human being for once. It seems to me everyone has been dealing with her like she’s some kind of biological unit that must be fed, watered, and stowed away out of sight. First, your father used her as a sex object. Then he got tired of her and threw her out. Then it was…” Slow down, O’Brien, I told myself.
You’re attacking this girl’s family and it’s none of your business
.

I felt Kathie’s back stiffen. But she said nothing and continued to stare out the window.

“I’m sorry, Kathie. I didn’t mean to be so blunt.”

“I just don’t know what to do. I’m so confused,” she whispered, more to herself than to me.

“Maybe after your mother hit bottom, just maybe, if she had been given proper care she might’ve been cured a long time ago. She might’ve had a decent life.”

Her eyes flared. “How dare you? You have no idea what I’ve been through. All my life knowing my own mother had been a junkie and a whore. Left for dead in a gutter—”

“You have to understand, I’m not talking about you. You were just a kid when it all started and you came to the situation as an adult not all that long ago. I’m talking about Jerome, your grandparents, the doctors, and those damn trust fund trustees. You know what I’m saying.”

She put her face in her hands and leaned forward. With my arm still around her shoulders I could feel her silent, racking sobs.

Maybe it wasn’t the best time or place, but I had to speak my mind, get out what I felt inside. “Listen to me, Kathie. Back in 1945, your mother was a young, immature girl with stars in her eyes. She came to California with hopes and dreams. When she got here, she was used, abused, and tossed aside like a broken porcelain doll. Her only fault was that she was a beautiful young woman. You told me yourself about the change that came over her when, in just a few short days, Roberts showed her a little respect and attention. But even more than that he gave her his greatest gift—his love.”

She looked up at me again. “Oh, Jimmy. I know it’s been awful the way they’ve treated my mother. I wanted to help, and she was improving… but now, without Al Roberts… The shock alone…”

I squeezed her shoulder tighter. “This is important, Kathie. Regardless of what happens with Roberts, get your mother off the drugs, get her out of
Vista Del Muerto
, and give her a life, for chrissakes. She’s still young enough—”

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned. The surgeon stood behind me, still wearing his light green scrubs. He looked both drawn and serious. Captain Russo and Sgt. Coleman stood off to the side, watching us.

“Excuse me, but the receptionist pointed you out. You’re Mr. O’Brien, the lawyer.”

“How’d it go in surgery? Is he gonna live, doctor?”

“He’s awake, just barely. We told him that you were waiting. He wants to see you. Normally we wouldn’t allow visitors this soon after a major operation, but…”

“But what?”

“It doesn’t look good. He might not make it through the night.”