JO01 - Guilty or Else (15 page)

“I told you, I had to explain to them guys who I am.

Don’t think they’ll be back.”

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to my inner office. “There’s a little blood in there. Couldn’t be helped.”

I moved toward the office door, but stopped. “Hey, Jake, did the visitors say anything about the break-in? They must have noticed the mess.”

“They didn’t have no time to notice nothin’ but my fists.”

This wasn’t the random act of vandalism that it was supposed to be. When Rita told me that the only thing missing was the Rodriguez file, I thought I knew who had sent the thugs. But why would Karadimos send thugs to scare me off the case during business hours, if he’d sent them to trash the office during the night? Could someone else also want me off the Rodriguez case?

C H A P T E R 
21

Rita had returned and tried
to create some order out of the chaos. Jake sat at my desk while I rummaged through the debris looking for the checkbook and my old tax returns. I’d carefully put the torn baseball picture in my car. I didn’t care about the rest of the stuff.

I gave some money to Rita. “Go over to the All American Home Center and buy a rake, the kind you use for leaves, and rake up this trash and toss it. Okay?”

She stood with her hands on her hips. A little lock of hair—a curl—slipped down on her forehead. She looked cute as she glanced around the room. “Yeah Boss, we can start all over. Your filing system was no good anyway.”

“When you leave, call Mabel at the service. Ask her to take the calls. I’m going out with Big Jake. We’ve got to talk.”

“Do you don’t think whoever did this will come back?”

“Nah, they got what they wanted. They won’t be back.”

I told her she could have the rest of the day off after she got rid of the junk. “Thanks Jimmy, but I’ll stay and tidy up a bit before I leave.”

Jake moseyed out of my office. “Hey, O’Brien, gonna gab all day? I want to chow down. Let’s go.”

The four-hundred-pound muscle machine needed fuel but I had a lot to do and really didn’t want to go to lunch.

However, I needed to talk to him about our deal. He suggested Marmac’s, the prime rib joint on Florence, behind the Union Oil gas station. I agreed, but insisted on separate cars. I left and Jake followed close behind. A banner hung across the front: Marmac’s. All You Can Eat Buffet, Prime Rib, $3.95. I pulled into the parking lot and Jake pulled in next to me. We walked in together.

Inside, patrons formed a swarming, slipshod line in the hallway leading to the dining room. The line led to the buffet station and it grew longer by the minute. Customers picked out their food cafeteria-style before passing into the dining room. By noon this place would be packed.

“Coming through. Get outta the way. Hey, pal, move it.” People stepped aside as Jake pushed past the line into the dining room. I followed in his wake.

We moved to a roped-off area and sat at a table reserved for eight customers. One of the roving cocktail waitresses, dressed in a plain black skirt and white blouse, spotted us.

She rushed to our table. “Hey, guys, you can’t sit here. This area is closed. You’ll have to move.”

“Sweetheart, bring me a double Jack Daniels on the rocks, tall glass. What do you want, O’Brien?”

“Now wait a minute, sir!”

“Coke,” I said.

A $20 bill appeared in Jake’s hand. He waved it in front of the waitress’s face.

“Well helloooo, Mr. Jackson.” She snatched the cash.

“Yes, sir, double Daniels on the rocks and a Coke.” Her teeth flashed. “Now what else can I get for you fine gentlemen?”

“After you get the drinks, get me a big plate of beef, rare, extra portion.” Jake gestured in my direction. “You gonna eat, O’Brien?”

“I had a late breakfast.” I lied about that, but I couldn’t eat with Jake. Thinking about how he wolfed down the donuts killed my appetite.

The waitress did a little curtsy and departed to get the order.

“We’ve got to talk,” I said.

“So talk.”

“No offense, but you can’t hang around me all the time.”

“Say it like it is. You don’t like us, don’t like what we do, and you’d get a bum rap hanging with wise guys.”

“Yeah, my credibility would suffer. I can’t be seen with you all the time. It wouldn’t look right to certain people for me to be constantly seen in your company.”

“Change of plans, gotta clear it with Joe.”

“Talk to Joe, okay?”

“I’ll call him right now. Watch my food when it comes.”

Like someone would steal this guy’s food. “Sure, I’ll watch it.”

He left to find a payphone. While he was gone, the waitress brought the order. Jake’s plate was heaped with slabs of semi-raw meat. The sauce dripped over the edge, creating a rust-colored stain on the white tablecloth.

Jake soon returned, grabbed a fork and a small butcher knife. He hacked off a couple hunks of meat and shoved them in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and started to cut off another big piece.

“Here’s the deal,” he said. “Two things. First, we’re doing Silverman a favor protecting you.” He talked and ate at the same time. He finished chewing, grabbed the drink, and downed half the glass. “Second, you do your job, maybe Karadimos will be outta business.”

“That’s right, I think—”

“Hear me out!” he demanded, his mouth half full of rare prime rib.

“Okay, sorry.”

He looked at me sideways and set the cutlery down with a bang. “So anyway, we’re not going to get in your way.” He tossed back the rest of the Jack Daniels.

“Good, and if I need you, I’ll just give you a call.”

He swallowed. “You don’t call nobody, goddammit.”

“Okay! I won’t call.”

“I ain’t gonna hang around all the time no more. I ain’t no lousy bodyguard, but when it gets serious, I’ll be there. He lowered his voice. “And believe me; you’ll be glad I came.”

He leaned back and belched.

C H A P T E R 
22

We left the restaurant. I
said goodbye to Jake in the parking lot. He grunted something. We each got into our cars and drove off. I headed east on Florence. Jake followed for a couple of blocks. I didn’t see his Caddie in my rearview mirror when I turned right on Woodruff Avenue.

Karadimos’s pilot, Ron Fischer, lived on Newville Ave. in a two-story apartment building. The street was lined on both sides with pastel stucco, box-like structures dating back to World War II. The building that Fischer lived in had splotches of gray plaster showing through its pink color. It looked like somebody had painted the building with strawberry Kool Aid, one coat.

After parking at the curb in front, I climbed the outside stairway and walked along a railed balcony to unit 6. I rapped on the door, no answer, knocked again but still nothing.

I went down the stairs and walked to a rickety carport in the back. The parking area was divided into sections with numbers. Parked in stall number 6 was a dirty, white El Camino. Two other cars were parked in the carport, a beat-up red Pinto with no hubcaps, and a twenty-year-old Ford station wagon.

I found the manager’s unit and knocked. A drowsy old guy opened the door. “You here about the apartment? It’s rented.” He started to shut the door.

“No, wait,” I said. “I’m looking for Ron Fischer.”

He held the door half open and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“His car is back there.” I nodded my head toward the parking area. “But he doesn’t answer his door.”

“Yeah, so what?”

The old guy’s TV blared inside, a soap opera. “I need to find him.”

“What’s this about?”

“Official business.”

He scratched his rib cage. “You some kind of bill collector?”

“No, I just want to know if you’ve seen him around.”

“Hey, fella, I mind my own business. As long as they pay the rent and don’t cause a ruckus.” The manger closed the door.

“Mister, you looking for Ronnie?” a hushed female voice asked.

I turned. A twenty-something woman with dyed blonde hair stood before me. The dye job needed a retouch. “Yes, I am. Do you know him?” She had a dynamite figure, but a rather plain face. A trip to the dermatologist would help.

“We’re kinda friends,” she said.

“Have you seen him lately?”

“No, and I’m worried. I haven’t seen him for about a week.”

“He’s a charter pilot,” I said. “Maybe he’s on a flight.”

“I don’t think so. I have a key to his apartment…” She paused. Her eyes seemed to focus on something faraway. After a moment she continued: “He always takes his flight case when he’s on a charter. It’s still here.”

“You two are pretty close, huh?”

“Sorta. We go out sometimes.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last Monday, or maybe it was Tuesday, I dunno.” She held up a blue bag, which had the words dirty duds stenciled on it. “I was going to the laundromat. I do his wash too. What are friends for, huh?” She glanced down.

“You do his laundry?” I wanted to keep her talking.

“Yeah, it’s no big deal.”

“Sure, no big deal.”

“Last week I went to his apartment to get his stuff. Ronnie rushed outside and left. He walked right by me, didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Got in a cab and took off.”

“You don’t know where he was headed?”

She glanced at her open-toed sandals. A moment later, she looked up at me. Her mouth quivered. “No, I don’t know where he went. But I think something’s wrong.”

I glanced at a monarch butterfly, its wings doing a slow flutter as it rested on the flower box in the window of the apartment next door. I didn’t tell the girl I also thought something was wrong, very wrong.

“Two guys came looking for him later that day,” she said.

My head snapped back to her face. “Two guys? Do you know who they were? Seen them before?”

“No, but they were mean lookin’. One guy had a jagged scar on his face, you know, like he’d been in a knife fight. And the other guy, well, he was mean too. I could tell.”

“Maybe they were cops?”

“No way. I’m a…well, I’m, a modern dancer at the Kozy Kitty on Pioneer Boulevard. I know cops when I see them. They’re our best customers.”

So she was a stripper. She had the body for it, that’s for sure.

“Did you file a missing person report?” I asked.

“No, Ronnie wouldn’t want the cops looking for him.” She hesitated a moment then continued. “He’s been in trouble before. It’s behind him now, but he’s got a thing about cops.”

“Do you have a picture of him? Might help me find him.”

“He had a thing about having his picture taken, too. One time I brought a Polaroid camera with us when we…” She shook her head. “No, I don’t have any.”

I gave her my card, the real one, not George Biddle’s. I asked her to call me if he turned up. I told her I was working on a case and Fischer was a witness. She didn’t ask and I didn’t tell her what the case was about. She gave me her number, said her name was Tracy, and asked me to call her if I found out anything about him.

I said that I would.

I hurried back to my office to make some calls. When I arrived, Rita was gone and the place was clean. Everything was put away and the office seemed to be in order. She’d done the best she could on the bloodstains in my office, but I could still see a few rust-colored spots on the carpet.

Picking up the receiver, I remembered the warning Sol had given me about the phones being tapped. I set it back down.

It was almost two o’clock and I hadn’t eaten all day. Foxy’s on Third St. had a good hamburger and the place was spotless. I’d grab a bite at the coffee shop and make my calls from their payphone.

I drove to the restaurant, entered, and sat at the counter. The waitress arrived and I ordered a burger and fries, then went to the payphone.

“Joyce, I’ve got to talk to Sol. It’s important.”

“He’s not in,” Joyce said. “But I can get him a message.”

“Tell him I’m at Foxy’s, here in Downey. I’ll wait for his phone call.”

I went back to the counter and polished off my meal. Helen brought me another cup of coffee. While waiting for Sol to call, I wrote facts about the case on a paper napkin.

Fact one: Welch was having an affair with the victim.

Fact two: the plane was flown back on the day of the murder.

Fact three: Welch pressured Judge Johnson to wrap up the case.

I looked at what I had written and reflected on it. One problem: Welch had a hundred or so witnesses who were with him in Sacramento at the time of the murder.

Another thing: why was Karadimos pushing me so hard to stop the investigation? If Welch were guilty, why wouldn’t Karadimos just drop the Senator from his payroll and replace him with the next stooge that came along? Karadimos would know if Welch were guilty. After all, it would’ve been his pilot, Ron Fischer, who flew him back to Southern California that day.

The waitress interrupted my thoughts. “Jimmy, you have a call. You can take it in the office.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I picked up the phone receiver resting on top of a small stack of invoices scattered across the desk. Sol said, “Jimmy, my boy, got a pencil?”

“Yeah.”

“Here’s the phone number for that
shiksa
you’re so hot for.” He gave me Bobbi Allen’s home number. I wrote it on the back of one of my business cards.

“Thanks, Sol, but—”

“Jimmy, gotta go. Having lunch with a
macher
. Tell you about it later.”

“Wait. That’s not why I asked you to call.”

“You want more favors? You want I should call her for you?”

“No, this is about the case.” I told Sol about the jet. How it had been flown the extra two hours without being logged. And I related my discussion with Tracy, the pilot’s girlfriend.

“I think you’re on to something. Something big,” Sol said.

“We need to run a skip-trace on Fischer. I want to call him as a hostile witness.”

“How do you know he flew the jet back here? He could’ve flown the plane anywhere. Isn’t it rule number one, never put a witness on the stand and ask him a question that you don’t know the answer he’ll give?”