JO01 - Guilty or Else (30 page)

“Can you give me the names of the two guys who were shot?” I asked with some reluctance.

“Yeah, just a minute.” He retrieved a notebook from his car. “The wounded guy had a gun permit.” The lieutenant fingered through a couple of pages of his pad. “Name’s Cohn, Jacob Louis. Let’s see, oh yeah, the fatality was Fischer, Ronald.”

Fatality. The words hit me like a Winnebago. I slumped against the cop car. Sol looked at me for a moment, and then turned back to the lieutenant.

“The dead guy’s real name was Kruger,” he said.

C H A P T E R 
46

A jackrabbit jumped in front
of my Corvette as I turned the car around to head back to the hotel. The creature froze in the middle of the road and stared at me, its ears straight up, as if to ask, “What now, Jimmy?” Without Kruger there’s no case. I had no answer and the rabbit bounced away, disappearing into the scrub.

We were quiet on the drive back to the hotel. At the Sahara, Sol and I walked slowly through the entrance doors. In the lobby, before we parted ways, Sol said, “So long, Jimmy. See you back in Downey.” He paused and put a hand on my shoulder. I guess my anger and disappointment was written on my face. “Can’t win them all, my boy. But don’t worry. We’ll come up with something.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ll come up with something.” But I knew how hopeless it would be to develop a new angle now, especially with time running out. Karadimos had won.

Sol said he’d drive to the sheriff’s office and give them a statement. He would tell them what we knew. It wasn’t much. Karadimos’s men gunned down Kruger to keep him quiet, but we had no proof to offer the law. The shootout would go into the books as another gangland dispute, or a drug deal gone sour. That would be that, case closed.

Later that afternoon I checked out of the hotel. The valet gave me directions to Valley Hospital, and I drove there. The white concrete building was awash in the bright Nevada sun, and the hot blacktop in the lot was soft underfoot as I walked toward the entrance.

In the stark lobby, people slouched in functional furniture, waiting the endless wait for news of loved ones engaged in life-or-death struggles. In here the shameless fantasy of the Las Vegas pleasure palaces ended and the harsh reality of life played out. Like the gambling tables, there are winners and losers, but there are no comp’d drinks or show tickets. They even have clocks on the walls.

A young woman with curly short hair and blue eyes greeted me at the information desk. “May I help you?” she asked politely.

“I need to see Jacob Cohn.”

She thumbed through a large Rolodex. “I don’t see anyone with that name here. When was he admitted?”

“Sometime earlier this afternoon. Gunshot wounds.”

“Oh yes, the police brought him in. Are you a relative?” The woman studied me with raised eyebrows. “Or an associate?”

I handed her my business card. “I’m a lawyer. I need to see him.”

She sighed. “Of course. He hasn’t been assigned a room yet; still in surgery.” She leaned over the counter and pointed to the right. “You can wait in the waiting room down the hall. I’ll tell the authorities you’re here.”

I hadn’t eaten anything since the previous night. “Do you have a cafeteria around here?”

“Yes, go to your left and follow the arrows painted on the floor.”

The hamburger was dry and lifeless. The patty must have been made with oatmeal and lard. The fries were limp, the coffee cold and weak. Welcome back to reality. I thought about checking to see if my Corvette had turned into a pumpkin.

After finishing my meal, I wandered to the waiting room and browsed through a six-month-old issue of Modern Maternity. It was that or a medical journal with no pictures.

Time passed slowly, but eventually a man in a wrinkled brown suit came in. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie loose. He looked like a cop who could use some sleep.

“You the lawyer?” the man said. “Here to see Cohn?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Anderson, homicide, sheriff’s department.”

I stood and handed him my credentials. He took a quick glance at my bar card and gave it back. “Follow me,” he said. “You’ll only have a few minutes.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Doc says critical. Might not make it.”

I entered the small, cold intensive care unit. There were six beds lined up against the wall. Big Jake lay in the second bed from the door, an array of tubes stuck in him, supplying painkillers and life-giving fluids, I figured. Yet they had him cuffed to the bed rail. It seemed absurd. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The cop stared at Jake over my shoulder. I turned to him. “Detective Anderson, this conversation is privileged. I could use a little privacy.”

He backed away. I leaned close to Jake’s face.

In a raspy voice barely above a whisper he said, “Sorry kid, I let you down.”

“What happened?”

“Surprised us, shotguns…one guy had an automatic rifle. Door burst open, shots fired…everybody ducked, dropped to the floor. Kruger…tied in a chair, I tried to block the shots, got hit a few times…went down. Kruger nailed. Ten seconds…all it took—” Jake’s body convulsed. He grimaced, coughed, and let out a deep moan.

“Take it easy, Jake.”

He tried to roll on his side but the handcuffs held him tight. “You were right, O’Brien…about Kruger. He knew what was goin’ on.”

“Kruger talked?”

“With a little…persuasion.”

My mind reeled. “What’d he say?”

“Welch and Karadimos…in business together. Drugs, money laundering, phony companies…teen prostitutes. Welch got Karadimos a bank license to handle the cash. Has some stooge in Downey front it for him—”

He coughed again, twice. “Has a place in Mexico, farm or ranch, something like that. Grows cantaloupes, front for drugs, has partners down there. They hollow some of the cantaloupes…fill ’em with smack. Karadimos and Welch…they got an import company in the states. They import the cantaloupes.”

Big Jake paused, closed his eyes, and swallowed hard a couple of times. “Yeah, okay, we’re bad guys…I’ll admit, but this asshole…rotten, like his cantaloupes.”

“Did he tell you why they killed Gloria?”

“She got whacked…had information, papers, files, records. Payoffs to her boss and other pols. She was the bag lady, carried the cash to Welch and his buddies. She…stole from them. Skimmed a little off the top, got caught, threatened to ratfink on Karadimos and Welch. She was gonna…call the cops.”

“What happened then?”

“After the fundraiser, Kruger…he was supposed to work her over and get the files. They figured she had the papers at her house. One of Welch’s workers saw her take a big aluminum case from the office…Friday night.” Jake arched his back when another wave of pain hit.

“Funny thing though,” he gasped. “Kruger said he didn’t fly…plane back that Saturday night. But Karadimos got the fuel bill and called him Monday about the flight… Kruger knew he was in trouble. Figured the Greek wouldn’t believe him. So…he took it on the lam.”

I could see Big Jake was starting to falter; his eyelids were closing and his voice grew weaker. But I needed more information.

Detective Anderson put his hand on my shoulder. “Time’s up.”

“I have one more question—”

“C’mon, let’s go.” He pulled me back, but I twisted free.

“Jake, can you hear me? Did they find the files?”

His monitor beeped rapidly. The nurse rushed into the room. “Please, you people must go,” she ordered.

“O’Brien, the guy’s dying. Leave him alone.” Anderson grabbed my shoulder again.

I turned to leave. “No,” Jake boomed. I dashed to his side and leaned down again. He whispered in my ear.

“Kruger never went over there. After the murder cops was all over the place. And Monday he did a rabbit.”

Anderson pulled me away, but when I got to the door, I turned back again. The nurse hovered over Jake. His eyes were shut, his breathing shallow and intermittent.

“So long, friend.” I hoped he heard me.

As I started through the door I heard Jake say, “Be careful, Jimmy. I won’t be there…to protect you.” I stopped for a beat, then left.

C H A P T E R 
47

I left the hospital, my
nerves stretched so tight that I was afraid I’d snap. I walked slowly to my Corvette. But before I got in, I walked to the edge of the deserted parking lot and looked out across the city, thinking about Jake. He took four bullets trying to keep Kruger alive for me. Did I feel any guilt? No, I thought, after mulling it over. I felt a deep sorrow for him, of course; but he had chosen his life, a life of violence.

I reflected on Kruger’s confession, trying to make sense of it. The bank that Kruger told him about had to be the one that Joyce had mentioned: the Mutual something or other. The import company could only be Hartford Commodities. The stooge, the front man for these companies, had to be Thomas French.

I knew it would be impossible to prove in court that Karadimos had an overwhelming motive to murder Gloria based on Jake’s statements. Even if Big Jake lived, he wouldn’t testify. He’d be liable for all kinds of charges if he did. I couldn’t use his testimony anyway. Kruger’s statements were obtained under duress and a judge wouldn’t allow them, even under the dying-declaration exception to the hearsay rule. No, I wouldn’t be able to call Jake to the stand.

That wasn’t the worst of it. In his confession to Big Jake, Kruger stated he hadn’t flown the plane back from Sacramento that night. He had no reason to lie. So that meant I didn’t have anything to tie the flight to the motive, and I had no leads as to who flew the plane that night. Anyway, without Vogel the mechanic, I couldn’t even prove that the plane had been flown.

I climbed in the Vette, started the engine, and eased out of the lot. In downtown Las Vegas, I drove the full length of Fremont Street. Vegas Vic waved his neon arm slowly from side to side. I waved back. “Adios, Vic,” I said as I passed the Golden Nugget, heading for Highway 93 and home.

At Baker, I turned into the Standard Oil gas station, filled the Corvette with Ethyl, and went inside the attached café for a cup of coffee. The place was packed. It was easy to tell the difference between the motorists going to Vegas and the ones returning. Those on the way were full of life, happy and joking. The poor folks heading home were glum and ordered aspirin with their coffee.

I got back onto the highway, wondering about Gloria Graham’s file. If Karadimos didn’t have it, and the police hadn’t found it at her house, where could it be? She hadn’t sent the papers to Bonnie Munson, her friend in Kansas. Bonnie would’ve told me if she had. She could not have rented a safety deposit box. She took the documents out of Welch’s office Friday night after the banks were closed, and banks weren’t open on weekends.

I’d run out of ideas and didn’t know what to do next. I turned on the radio and twisted the dial until I picked up a Barstow station that played standards from the ’30s and ’40s. I was about to turn it off when “Easy Street” came on. The line at the end of the song summed up exactly how I felt.

About ten miles east of Barstow, I saw flashing lights strung across the highway in the distance. I started to slow. A sign said, Agricultural Inspection Station, One Mile Ahead.

I rolled to a stop under the station canopy and rolled down the window. A female inspector leaned down. She had a pretty face, a warm smile, and even though she wore a drab green outfit, I could see she had a nice figure. Even in my dark mood, it felt nice to be greeted by a government official like her.

“Welcome to California, sir,” she said. “Where are you coming from?”

“Las Vegas.”

“Are you carrying any fruits, vegetables, trees, or plants?”

“Nope.”

The inspector stepped back and motioned for me to move forward. I gave her my best winning smile, but she didn’t jump in the car with me.

I edged slowly back into traffic. Off to the side of the highway, three CHP cruisers stood ready to charge out and run down anybody attempting to smuggle a Florida orange into the Golden State.

I made my way through Barstow, keeping my speed at forty miles per hour as I drove down Main Street. It seemed like walking after traveling at seventy on the highway. I passed the Red-Spot Café and thought about stopping for a hamburger, but I wasn’t hungry.

The good-looking inspector at the Agricultural Inspection Station played into my mind. She had long black hair, high cheekbones, and beautiful dark eyes. She spoke with a southern accent that I was couldn’t place: Georgia, Arkansas, something like that. She asked about fruits, she pronounced vegetables with only two syllables, and when she’d said—

It came to me like an epiphany. I saw white, almost a flash. I stomped on the gas and roared through town. She’d said
trees
!

I pictured Rodriguez’s shovel lying on the grass at Gloria’s house next to the patches of dirt where he’d dug three holes for the trees, which he’d later moved. Gloria could’ve buried the files in one of the holes in a waterproof case. A case like the one filled with money that she’d sent to Bonnie Munson. I was sure of it. That’s why she wanted the trees moved. It gave her an opportunity to bury the package in one of the holes Rodriguez had dug. She could do it without anyone noticing.

I knew I couldn’t sleep until I checked out my theory. I wrapped my mind around the idea and thought about it some more. Yeah, it was a long shot, but I had to find out tonight if she’d actually buried the files there.

I pulled up to the curb in front of Gloria’s house on Rosewood Avenue after midnight. The police tape was still stretched around the perimeter. There was no moon out and nothing moved in the dark silence; no dogs barked, no footsteps, no late night TV—nothing, just dead quiet.

Switching on the small emergency flashlight that I kept in my car, I swept a dim cone of light around the backyard. I found the shovel and began to dig. I picked the middle patch of dirt for no logical reason. After digging down four feet, I gave up. I then started on the bare circle of dirt to my left. At two feet, I hit something solid. My heart raced.