JO01 - Guilty or Else (6 page)

Marilee came to our booth with a plug-in phone. “Mr. O’Brien, you have a call. Would you like to take it here at your table? The caller said it’s urgent.”

I looked at Bobbi. “Do you mind?”

“No, of course not.”

Marilee plugged in the telephone.

“Jimmy, I’ve got news. Big news.” Sol, who else? “I know you’re having lunch with the Ice Princess, doubtless she’s at the booth with you right now. True?”

“Yeah.” Muffled racetrack noises echoed in the background. I heard the announcer call, “And there they go!”

“Did the race just start?” If Sol had a bet riding, he wouldn’t talk until it ended.

“I’m not down on this one. Maiden fillies,
meshugas
.”

I was eager to hear the news, but I didn’t want Bobbi to know I was talking to Sol. I turned my head and said in a low voice, “What’s up?”

“Jimmy, I’ll be brief. I know you can’t talk in front of Miss Rigid Frigid, and they have a policy about phones here at the track. All outgoing calls are taped. Bookmakers, you know—a plague on society, you know.”

“C’mon, tell me.”

“What?”

“You know. What you called me about.”

“Oh, you mean the news I heard.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Okay, hang on to your seat…” Sol paused for dramatic effect. He always did that. “It seems Senator Goody Two-Shoes Welsh was
shtuping
the victim, having an affair with her. The info comes from a tipster, whose identity shall remain undisclosed. But I’ll tell you this: the tip came from an extremely reliable source.” Then he whispered, “She was a long-lost friend of Gloria Graham.”

“You just whispered the person’s identity.”

“I wanted you to know.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But, what?”

“You said the phones were tapped. Oh, never mind. But, are you sure she’s on the level?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit. I’ve known Berry Welch a long time. He’s always on the prowl, looking for someone to jump. Maybe it’s an occupational hazard, these power-mad politicians.”

I glanced at Bobbi, sitting across from me. She reached into the butter bowl and removed one of the foil-wrapped pats. With her polished fingernails, she delicately removed the wrapper and put the butter on her bread dish. She pretended not to eavesdrop.

Sol’s news shook me to my core, but I had to play it cool. “Uh huh,” I said to him as he continued to ramble on about Welch’s sexual peccadilloes.

“Jimmy, I gotta go. Angie and Burt just arrived. You know, Burt as in Bacharach?” Sol said. “Their table is next to mine. They’ve got a horse in the Crosby Stakes, and I need some info.” He shouted away from the phone, “Hey Angie, baby—” and the line went dead.

While I was on the phone, a busboy had zipped over and scooped up the dishes, including my untouched salad. I turned back at Bobbi. Her face held a mischievous smile.

“You look a little perplexed,” she said. “Something you ate? Or perhaps it was Silverman’s message?”

“Whose message?” I said.

“Sol Silverman, the investigator. The guy who’s helping you with the case.”

“Silverman? Helping me? Bobbi—”

“C’mon, Jimmy. Everybody knows you retained him. Not a bad move, if I may say so.”

How did she know about Sol so fast? Maybe she had spies too. Maybe everyone had spies. Christ, maybe I was the only one who didn’t have spies.

“You spying on me?”

Bobbi laughed. “You should be so lucky.”

I was a little unnerved that Bobbi knew about Sol and wondered what else she knew about me, or the case. I quickly ran through my mind the jailhouse discussion with Rodriguez. Was there anything we said during the interview that she could use? Not much. Everything we discussed would just help our side.

It would be a violation for the sheriff’s deputies guarding the jail to turn over to the D.A. anything overheard or recorded during a lawyer/client conference. But I knew it happened from time to time. Even if the information gleaned in this manner couldn’t be used in court, it could help the prosecution plan their trial strategy. Sometimes, the deputy D.A.’s had integrity and refused the proffered information, but that was an uncommon occurrence.

Bobbi had beauty and brains, but I wondered about her integrity. Would she play it straight? “Remember, Bobbi, we’re going to be square on this, no tricks. Right?”

“No tricks, he says, and coming out of the gate, he goes running to Silverman.”

“I’m not saying I did, but hypothetically, so what?”

“He knows more tricks than Rex the Wonder Dog.”

“Just a minute ago you said if I hired Sol it’d be a smart move.”

“Jimmy, you’re going to need all the help you can get. But, my friend, I’m still going to pound you into sand.” She flashed a half-second smile. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I said. “But with Rex the Wonder Dog on my side, how can I lose?”

The County picked up the lunch tab. I offered, but Bobbi insisted on paying. She said she had an expense account. We left the restaurant together; she went her way, and I went directly to Angelo’s Fat Burger for a real meal without the pompous bullshit. I asked the fry cook where he got his salt.

“From the bag in the backroom,” he answered.

I figured I’d survive.

C H A P T E R 
8

“Gotta go, honey, the boss
just came in.” Rita hung up the phone.

“That your boyfriend?” I asked.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Just a guess. Listen, Rita, I’m going to work here a while longer. There’s no need for you to stick around.”

“Thanks, Boss. By the way, a reporter from the
L.A. Times
called.” She scoured her desk for the message. “Richard Conway. Wants information on the Rodriguez case.” She handed me the slip of paper with the number on it. I knew it would only be a matter of time before the story broke.

“
The Los Angeles Times
,” I said. “That’s big time.”

“Are we gonna be famous, Jimmy?” Rita winked. “A little publicity for the firm?”

“I don’t know.” The press could be a big help if I could pull it off, but I’d have to be prepared, have snappy one-liners at my fingertips, and know the case thoroughly, backwards and forwards. One slip and the newspapers would crucify me. The trial would be over before it began.

“Shall I get him on the phone for you?”

“Let’s wait on this, if he calls back, tell him I’m not in.”

She placed her hand over her heart. “You want me to lie to the press?”

“Cut it out, Rita. Just tell him I’m not here, okay?”

She looked disappointed. “Seriously, you don’t want to talk to him? The PR could help.”

“Not yet, but I’ll hang on to the number.” I stuffed the pink message in my pocket. “I’m sure we’ll use him before it’s over. I want to be prepared, that’s all.”

I walked into my office and moved to the desk, carrying the Rodriguez file. At this point, I had nothing to offer the media, but I was eager to dig into the file. Perhaps it contained hidden information that would help me point the finger at Welch. Without evidence, speculation about the senator wouldn’t fly. Even Sol’s news couldn’t be used at this point. I’d need more than rumor and innuendo before accusing him in the press of having an affair with Gloria. I’d need hard facts to support my theory that Gloria threatened to go public, and when she did, he killed her.

I cut the rubber bands and spread the work on my desk. Photos of the dead woman jumped out at me. Lots of them. I looked them over carefully. The vivid color photographs were an assault to my eyes. The file contained dozens of clinical photos taken at the morgue. They would be used to back up the autopsy. The file also held horrendous pictures shot at the murder scene. Her once pretty face was battered almost beyond recognition, its frozen expression one of silenced terror. Her dull eyes stared directly at the camera. Large glossy pictures showed where sharp steel had sliced her torso, almost cutting her in two.

Obviously, the murder wasn’t the result of a robbery gone wrong. It was personal, an act of revenge. If Welch did it, he must’ve hated her. Maybe he hated all women. But there was one thing I knew for sure: Rodriguez didn’t fit the profile. Couldn’t the police see that?

“I thought you’d be working late so I made some coffee.” Rita entered, carrying a steaming mug. “I hope it’s okay. I never made just half a pot before.” Her vibrant face brought me back to the living world, where I wanted to stay. I put the photos back in the file.

“Thanks, Rita. I’m sure it will be fine.” I took a sip and felt my toes curl.

“Is it too strong?”

Strong, she asks. The coffee made Big Foot look like a wimp. “No, it’s fine,” I said. “You know, Rita, when you’re a lawyer you won’t have to make the coffee any longer.”

“Oh, Boss, you’re always kidding around.” She smiled. “I don’t have to make it now.” She turned and walked away.

I heard the front door slam, Rita had left for the day, and I edged back into the file.

Senator Berry Welch and his wife had flown to Sacramento on the Thursday afternoon two days prior to the murder. They flew as guests of a guy named Andreas Karadimos, owner of the Acme Refuse Corporation. They flew in his Citation business jet. Riding in the plane with the businessman, the senator and Mrs. Welch were Judge Johnson and his wife. Another couple—Thomas French, the attorney, and his wife traveled with them. The only other person on the plane that day had been the pilot.

The group flew to Sacramento to attend a thousand-dollar-a-plate Welch re-election dinner, which was held Saturday night. The group returned in the same jet after gathering for a Sunday morning brunch, which had been held in the Senator’s suite at the Sacramento Inn.

I leaned back in my chair. Welch’s alibi was ironclad. Saturday night at the time of the murder, he was four hundred miles to the north at the Sacramento Inn doing the money shuffle with a couple hundred of his supporters, glad-handing, backslapping, and for all I knew kissing babies, or maybe even making them.

Damn, the killer had to be Welch. No one else in the report had even the slightest motive to murder Gloria. But how could I prove it? Juries hadn’t bought the premise that a person could be in two places at once. I doubted I could convince them otherwise.

I stood, stretched, and walked to the window. Night crept over the horizon. Cars whizzing by on Lakewood Blvd. clicked on their headlights and the neon sign atop the Broadway in the Stonewood Center blazed red against the darkening sky.

Sitting at my desk again, I continued to study the file. I needed to know more about the victim—about Gloria—but there wasn’t much in the report. She’d been born in Kansas and had family there. She moved to L.A. after high school.

While attending UCLA, she’d met a guy who became her boyfriend. They both majored in political science, but split up when the guy hit the big time, assistant to Congressman Chet Holifield. The cops found out about him from Gloria’s coworkers. They called him, but he had an ironclad alibi. He’d been even farther away than Welch had been at the time of the murder. The ex-boyfriend was in DC working the phones on the day of Gloria’s death, raising money for Holifield’s campaign. He was making calls from the congressman’s office, phoning plutocrats who did business with the government.

The telephone company had the records. The file contained Gloria’s phone records, as well. Only two long distance calls were made from her house on the day of the murder, one at three-eighteen in the afternoon to a Kansas number, and another to the Sacramento area at four fifty-three. I called the Sacramento number. An operator at the Sacramento Inn answered. I hung up. The call must’ve been made to Welch. If so, other than Rodriguez, Welch would’ve been the last known person to speak with her. I combed the files, going through them over and over. Several more hours flashed by. Still nothing to crack Welch’s alibi.

My stomach rumbled. I glanced at my watch: eleven P.M. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since the Fat Burger at lunch—except Rita’s coffee that I’d chewed on earlier.

Luigi, the owner of Luigi’s Italian Deli on Paramount Blvd., greeted me as I came through the door. “Hey, Goombah, whaddya know, whaddya say?”

“I don’t know much, and I’m saying less.” I grabbed a table up front and plopped down in a chair.

Being here felt great. My migraine was waning, and I liked Luigi. There was something genuine about him, and his food.

“You wanna eat, my friend?”

“I’ll have a pizza. The one with lots of anchovies. And a Coke.”

“You got it.” He turned his head and shouted to his wife in the back, “Hey, Momma, one number six pie. It’s for Jimmy, double the anchovies.”

“You and Maria working late tonight?” I asked.

“Yeah, the night guy, he didn’t show. I stayed. Momma won’t go home without me.” He leaned in close. “
Donna Bella
, they’re all after my bod,” he whispered. A furtive grin filled his face. “Momma has to protect her interests.”

The bod that all the beautiful women lusted after stood about five foot-six, weighed in at around two hundred-fifty pounds, and waddled when it walked.

“Yeah, Luigi, she can’t be too careful.”

I glanced around the deli and looked out at the parking lot. There weren’t any other customers in the place, but there were two cars in the lot: mine, and a blue Buick sedan. I thought I saw a shadow inside the car. The shadow moved.

Someone sat behind the wheel.

I called to Luigi, wiping down tables across the room. He waddled over and I pointed to the Buick. “Hey, Luigi, is that a customer out there?”

He looked out the window. “Dunno, but I’m getting ready to close.”

He went outside and spoke to the guy in the car. Shortly after, the engine started and the Buick pulled away slowly.

Luigi came back in and went directly to the kitchen. A few minutes later, he emerged and walked to my table, carrying the pizza and Coke.

Curious about the sedan, I asked him, “What did the guy in the car say?”

“He was trying to decide if he wanted to come in and eat, but I told him he’d better hurry and make up his mind, that I’m closing soon.” He sighed. “It’s been a long night.”