Who Murdered Garson Talmadge (15 page)

Chapter 22

Brad’s legal assistant said the man could see me at ten-forty-five. He would be free from then until noon, but he had a lunch appointment. I showered, dressed, and made it to his office with no time to spare.

“How was Paris?” he asked for openers. “Did you have any more trouble from the FBI or the Paris Prefecture of Police?”

“Not exactly.” The furrow in his brow deepened as I told him about the gunshot warning and the damage done to the bedposts in my hotel room, not to mention my neck and sense of well-being.

“You weren’t hurt?”

“No. They shot up the bed bedposts, not me.”

“Did your trip bear any fruit?”

I handed him Camille’s affidavit and sat silently while he read it. Then he said, “The diary?” I handed it over and went back to being quiet. After a few minutes, he said, “I can’t read all of this right now, but I will. Have you read it?”

I nodded. “In the plane. It’s interesting and clearly supports all that we hoped it would. Susan and Charles are not Garson’s children. The father was a French big shot. It appears his identity died with Garson. We don’t know whether he’s a maker of weapons or a government official who was paid to grease the wheels for the deals.”

“Can we find him?” Brad asked.

“Sure. All we need is DNA from a couple hundred or so men in powerful positions, including those who have left industry or government, and throw in those who have died since Garson’s children were born.”

“Oh. That ought to be easy,” Brad said while shaking his head. “I’m betting the real father is still alive and still a big shot. He’s the guy who ordered the shot across your bow and the visits in your hotel room.”

“I agree. Maybe the FBI knows,” I added as an afterthought.

“You know someone there who might talk to you?”

“Maybe, there’s a woman agent in the L.A. field office who helped me a bit on one of my stories last year. I got to know her, strictly professionally speaking. With Garson being here, the L.A. office likely is heading up whatever inquiry the FBI is making.”

“Can we be sure they are even making an inquiry?”

“FBI Agents Smith and Jones hauled me in for a chat when I got to Paris. That didn’t happen without somebody’s approval, not unless they’re on our bad guy’s payroll.”

“Tell me more about Camille Trenet. If we fly her in, will she make a good witness?”

“Camille is a lady who likes to take a drink, even if she has to knock you to the sidelines to get to it. But, yeah, keep her off the hooch for a couple of days, and I think she’d do okay. She comes across as honest. Your biggest problem is she hates Garson. I had to promise to take her by his grave so she could spit on him. She wants to help Clarice even if she iced Garson. You’ll need to coach her to call him Garson while she’s on the stand.”

“What does she call him?”

“That worthless man. She never said his name once the whole time I was with her.”

Brad and I talked around the case a while longer, but nothing we discussed had much meat on it. Then Brad left for his lunch appointment. His assistant had tracked down the names Sappho and Charaxus. Turns out Sappho was an ancient poetess on the Island of Lesbo who had first written of a woman’s right to love another woman. Charaxus had been her brother. We still had no idea why Garson had chosen those names. My guess was sick humor.

* * *

When Brad left at eleven-thirty, I headed for the supermarket where I blew a c-note. After stopping home to unload, I gassed up my car and headed for the Los Angeles office of the FBI that was located on Wilshire Boulevard between Sepulveda Boulevard and Veteran Avenue. I parked in their free parking, which meant I paid for it as a taxpayer, rather than as a specific visitor.

The office was high up enough to give me a choice of vertigo from an elevator ride or a heart attack from trucking up the stairwell. Fortunately, this elevator was larger and less rickety than the one I had ridden to see Two Dicks at the Long Beach Police Department. That helped some, but not enough to keep me from holding my breath as well as the hand rail while the box shimmied up its cable. I hope you aren’t getting the idea that I’m some wimp. I’m not. I have faced a mess of fearful situations, even listened to my bed posts getting shot up in Paris, but elevators do cause me to cower a bit. Still, I suck it up and handle it when there is no reasonable alternative. That should count for something, shouldn’t it?

At the front desk I asked for Maria Martinez, one of the L.A. office’s four special agents in charge. Maria had been kind enough to generously give me time last year when I needed to confirm a few details regarding the FBI for one of my novels. This time I had come unannounced; I only had to wait about three minutes.

“Hello Mr. Kile. It’s nice to see you again.”

“Thank you. But you’ve forgotten my name. It’s Matt.”

“Matt. How can I help you? Another novel in the works?”

“There’s always another novel in the works, but that’s not what brought me here today.”

“You’ve got me curious.”

“Your office is working a case. I’m not sure the exact content, but it involves a recently deceased American, Garson Talmadge. Mr. Talmadge is a former French citizen and reputed arms dealer. But I’m telling you things you already know. I’d like to find out your interest in Mr. Talmadge. I’d also like to know why the bureau had interest in my recent trip to Paris, France.”

“Give me a few minutes, Matt? I’d like to see what I can find out that we can talk about.” Maria left.

After ten minutes, Special Agent Maria Martinez returned together with a man I didn’t know. Maria introduced him as Kenneth Washington, the assistant director in charge. The title meant he was the FBI top man in this field office, including the several satellite offices in the metropolitan area.

“Special Agent Martinez tells me you are inquiring about whether or not we are looking at the activities of Garson Talmadge,” Assistant Director Washington said. I nodded. “What makes you think we have an interest in Mr. Talmadge?”

“Please. Let’s not waste each other’s time or insult one another’s intelligence. Garson Talmadge is a former arms dealer who brokered weapons and related materials to Saddam Hussein. He retired here and became an American citizen. He’s now dead. All of which we both know. At your request, I’m guessing, Agents Smith and Jones detained me in Paris to ask me about my visit there. Later, two detectives from the Paris Prefecture of Police tossed my hotel room and hurried my departure from France. And that doesn’t include someone shooting at me on the streets of Paris, an event known to the Paris Prefecture only minutes after it happened. It took connections to get those things done to an American citizen traveling in Paris. You are also talking with Garson’s daughter, Susan Talmadge, with respect to said weapons deals.”

“And from that you are figuring what, Mr. Kile?”

“That you directed Agents Smith and Jones to get in my face. Either the two French detectives, whom I call Tweedledee and Tweedledum, or the bureau’s Smith and Jones returned to my room the next night. There I was accosted, threatened, partially strangled for effect, and forced to watch my bed posts being shot full of holes to put the fear of France into me.”

“Certainly, you do not believe the FBI fired a shot at you on the street, or was involved in beating you?”

“It is interesting that your question, ‘you do not believe the FBI fired the shot,’ is stated in the singular.”

“I believe you described the event as ‘a shot.’”

“Check the recording you are making of this meeting. I did not. I referred to it in a manner that did not identify one shot. Your knowing means either that one of your agents fired the shot, or, more likely, you have been briefed by someone in France who knows the particulars.”

“I can assure you the FBI would not be a party to having even one shot fired at you, or any citizen, for any reason.”

“Yes. Well, I’d also like to think the FBI would not stand by while an American citizen, Clarice Talmadge, Garson’s widow, is tried for a murder you know she likely did not commit.”

“Who do you figure took the shot at you, Mr. Kile?”

“I figure the shot and the other intimidations were done at the direction of French munitions manufacturers or government officials who were involved in Talmadge’s weapons deals. I figure they felt squeezed a little by my visit, but even more so by your investigation. Now it’s your turn to do some of the talking. Tell me, am I right or am I right?”

“Essentially you are correct, Mr. Kile.”

“You need a bit more show and tell than just ‘essentially you are correct, Mr. Kile.’ Brad Fisher, the attorney for Clarice Talmadge will be filing the appropriate demands to gain access to your files. His defense will include the likelihood that the powers behind my being harassed in Paris killed Garson to shut him up. Logic says they did so because the bureau was getting close to muscling Garson into coming clean to keep his good standing as an American citizen.”

“I agree with your reasoning as to why Garson might have been murdered. I may also tell you we have nothing probative on who shot Garson Talmadge. We are not prepared to stand up in court and say that Clarice Talmadge did not murder her husband.”

“Then you can expect Mr. Fisher will give you a chance to testify at her trial that you know Garson ran weapons and that you have no evidence that Mrs. Talmadge did kill her husband. And also, that you find credible Mr. Fisher’s argument that Europeans involved in the weapons trade may have killed Garson. In any event, I simply don’t believe you would help convict an innocent, grieving widow in order to protect your precious file.”

“Mr. Kile, there are others with interest in the matter of weapons sales to Saddam Hussein, and some of those parties are unaware we are interested. The testimony you are suggesting we give would tip those people off and possibly put an end to our ability to close in on them. In return, we would have nothing.”

“In return, you will have self-respect from knowing you saved a widow from being jailed for a crime she did not commit. Certainly protecting American citizens is part of the FBI’s mission statement.”

“We aren’t ready to proceed in that direction at the moment. Let’s see how this develops over the next few weeks before the trial begins.”

“So for now, we leave this poor woman grieving in jail, without her freedom, afraid for her life, because doing so is tactical?” It was a question for which no answer was offered.

I sat looking at Assistant Director Washington and Special Agent in Charge Maria Martinez. They sat looking at me. Then Washington asked, “Is there anything further we can do for you today, Mr. Kile?”

“Yes. I’d like the names of the French industrialists and government officials you have identified as having been part of Garson Talmadge’s weapons deals.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot provide those names. In part because we lack clear evidence of their complicity, and in part because our European counterparts, who are working that part of this inquiry, have not shared those identities with us. They will not do this until they are more convinced those citizens of their country are guilty.”

“So, they are protecting their citizens while the FBI throws one of its citizens to the wolves?”

“We’ve explained our position at the moment on this matter.”

“Obviously, we’re talking about people of power and influence in France.”

“Is there anything further, Mr. Kile?”

“For now, no. Oh, by the way, you are aware, aren’t you, that Susan and Charles Talmadge are not Garson’s children.”

Assistant Director Washington smiled as he stood and extended his hand. I shook it and left. I had done most of the talking, but I doubted I had told them anything they didn’t already know, and that told me quite a bit.

Chapter 23

I had called Susan and invited her out to dinner. She countered with the suggestion that we eat in, at her place. I got there around six. She met me at the door with a short glass in which a small lemon wedge rested on crushed ice that peeked above a pool of Irish whiskey—the color is unmistakable. An hour later the three of us were enjoying medium-rare T-bones and salads. Asta skipped the salad and ate only steak, on the floor below the table. Susan had cut Asta’s steak into bite sized pieces. She hadn’t cut mine.

Susan asked about my trip to France, whether it was fruitful. I talked around the rough stuff, but told her about Chantal having died. She took it harder than I expected.

After the steaks and salads, we had Irish coffee. I took a sip and asked, “How long have you known that Garson was not your father?”

I had tossed that one out unexpectedly to get her honest reaction, and I got it. “For nearly four years,” she said. “Charles took the news harder than me. Papa explained it to both of us.”

“After all those years, why did he tell you?”

“He didn’t. For some reason, I had always wondered. I don’t exactly know why, but I did. In law school I took a class that included information on DNA evidence. It wasn’t hard to put together what was needed for the tests.”

“Did you also learn the identity of your real father?”

“No. Papa would not say. I pressed him, but no dice. He said he had given his word and that he didn’t want his enemies to become my enemies.”

We talked all that around and around, including how his reference to “his enemies” might support a theory of someone from that world killing him. She understood that Brad Fisher would use all that in a Plan-B defense for Clarice.

Oh, in case you wondered how Susan was dressed, well, she was all woman and proud of it. As for me, I was just proud she wanted to put me into her trophy box. Although, I had to admit, her reasons for wanting to do so would not be clear until after the case. I had never taken a bribe, and I wasn’t about to start now, even though her bribe, if we can call it a bribe, would be more tempting than any I had been offered while on the force. The character of her come-on would be clear after this case wrapped. Call me a silly romantic, but I’ll wait.

Before leaving I asked her how Garson went about discussing issues with her and her brother. She admitted that her papa, not always, but regularly, discussed matters with her before he made a final decision. And that he rarely did so with Charles.

“Rarely or never?”

“Well, never,” she admitted. “I often encouraged him to include Charles in our discussions, but he didn’t.”

“So he talked most everything over with you, not Clarice or Charles, informing them of his decisions after they were made?”

“Yes, except that he told Charles of most decisions, but rarely told Clarice. He was an old-fashioned man. Charles and I had worked for papa all our lives so he was used to our being in the loop. Clarice was a recent entry whom he saw only as part of his personal life, not business or investment.”

“One more thing, I’ve heard all kinds of opinions about when Garson stopped dealing in weapons. What is the truth?”

“His official position is that he stopped when he decided he would come to America. Later that got revised to his stopping before he applied for U.S. citizenship. I suppose all that doesn’t matter a great deal any longer. The truth is he didn’t stop until the U.S. invaded Iraq; that’s also when the French manufacturers stopped being willing to sell to Saddam Hussein.”

“And Garson would discuss these weapons deals with you up until that point?”

“With me, yes. Charles’ role was more that of a courier of sorts as he would carry verbal information between Papa and France. As you can imagine, very little went into writing. Charles would pass the information to a flunky in France who would then tell the French principles. That way, Charles never needed to know the identity of the French and Middle Eastern players.”

“And you?”

“Papa never gave me their names either. The things he discussed with me could effectively be discussed and decided without names. He would just say its best you not know. He would also say that the people at the other end knew I did not know their identities.”

* * *

By fifteen after ten, Fidge and I were sitting at the redwood picnic table in his backyard. He had come out with his fingers through two empty circles in a plastic six-pack ring that still clung to four cold beers. The urgency of his message was about the fact that in the morning, Two Dicks was going to the D.A. Once there, he planned to pitch his idea of tossing me into the mix alongside Clarice even though the department didn’t have anything more than some conjecture. The D.A.’s case was built on Clarice murdering Garson, but Clarice had claimed, and I had confirmed she was with me, so Two Dicks reasoned we did it together and would hang tough on our exchange of alibis. Fidge admitted that under orders from Two Dicks, he had canvassed my building. Two of my condo neighbors were ready to testify they had seen Clarice coming or going from my condo in the wee hours of the morning on several occasions.

“I had no idea Two Dicks hated me that much.”

“I’m sorry, Matthew.”

“Not your doing. If you hadn’t done it, Dicks would have replaced you on the case. The same things would have happened, only I wouldn’t know about it. Thank you for telling me, you’re the best friend a man could have.”

We finished our beers and opened the last two, then I said, “Is that the man’s full argument? Clarice was with me during some of the time in the range of hours during which Garson was murdered, so I must have helped her murder him. And for proof, he’s got my neighbors willing to say that Clarice was in the hallway some nights coming from my place?”

“It’s pretty flimsy.”

“It’s tissue paper, Fidge. The D.A. can’t make that stand up.”

“Matthew, you told me you only had a one-night stand with the woman, and that was before you knew she was married.”

“That’s the truth,” I said. “She came down other nights, just as she did the night Garson was murdered. I know it may be hard for you to believe, but all those visits were about friendship. She and I were not lovers. You and I both know Clarice is a real looker with a permanent open-for-business sign, but, well, she was married so I didn’t fool around with her.”

“You see, Matthew, while that could be seen as admirable, it can always be painted to show you and she were crazy about each other and wanted the old man out of the way.”

“I know that. But it’s not enough to get more than suspicion of infidelity on her part. Last time I looked, that’s not a capital offense in California, and nobody has been arrested for infidelity since the days of the inquisitions or whenever.”

We had opened the last two beers before Fidge said, “So, what’re
we
going to do?”

“You let me handle that. Your nuts are in a vise already. We gain nothing good by adding your name to Two Dicks’ shit list.”

“So what are
you
going to do?”

I told him it was best he not know. I hugged the biggest and the best friend I ever had before walking back to my car; I had parked around the corner. It was the first time we had ever hugged, and we did it knowing it was against the real-men-don’t-hug creed. Then again, we didn’t touch cheeks, which definitely would have been over the top. The hug creed has unwritten exceptions for things like winning the World Series or other championships, or trying to keep your best pal out of prison for a second time. Lesser things, like sinking an eagle putt, only get a fist bump, which has largely replaced the high five. But either is okay because they don’t involve men touching each other’s bodies. But then there are exceptions to that as well, but only in sports where the guys slap each other on the rump all the time for good, but not earth-shattering achievements. I know it’s confusing. I also know I’ve likely done nothing to help clear it up in your mind.

* * *

When I stepped around the masonry wall to approach the stairs that went up to my floor, something hit me. I went down where whoever it was hit me two more times with whatever he was hitting me with. At that point I didn’t know anything other than where the blows struck. The first hit my middle back, the next two the thigh of my left leg. The weapon felt like a baseball bat, not just the hardness, but also the width and how it felt. Other sounds suggested there was two involved in the attack. That made sense because thugs rarely worked alone.

“Clarice is innocent and I won’t stop until she’s freed.” I said this loudly, and then waited to hear the reaction I would get. If this attack was related to my investigation these two would likely react differently from how they would if this were a random mugging by a couple of druggies looking for money.

“Back off, Kile. This is a friendly warning. You won’t get another.”

The voice didn’t sound like Agent Smith or Jones or Tweedledee and Tweedledum from France. The good part was when they said, “Back off.” If they planned to put me down forever, back off would not be in their thoughts. So, I’d likely walk away from this. Well, limp away. But at times like this I’ll settle for crawl away.

“Did I meet you guys in France last week?” They didn’t answer. I didn’t really think so. The two instances in France had been finesse and calculated rough stuff. These two were long on muscle and short on brains. Still, I wanted to get them talking. The voice had sounded somehow familiar although forced deeper.

“Go back to your writing,” one of them said. “You’re no longer a cop. This is out of your league. We won’t tell you again. If you make us come back, next time will end with someone shoveling dirt in your face.”

They hadn’t bothered to frisk me. They knew I wouldn’t be packing a gun. While my inability to get a weapons permit was a matter of public record, I doubted these fellows read the public record. Instead, they worked for someone who knew. Clarice knew. So did Susan, which likely meant Charles, too. The FBI knew. And, of course, my old friend Two Dicks, who had made a personal appearance to speak against my being licensed to carry.

“Let’s just kill him now,” a different voice said. “Why trust that he’s got the message?”

“No. This is all you’re being paid to do.” So, the boss man is here. Then the first voice said, “You’ve been warned, Kile. Now stay where you are.” Then his voice changed like it would if he were facing a different direction. “I’ll leave now. You keep him here for five more minutes and then split.”

I lay there until I heard a motorcycle start up. Then I started a move that I hoped would allow me to stand. When I was part way off the deck, the motorcycle moved closer. The sound was not right at me, but near. Then a foot pushed me back down. The rider laughed and speeded away deeper into the underground garage. I did get to my feet, sort of got to my feet and headed toward the ramp that took cars up to the street. Then I heard the motorcycle tires squeal as the bike turned around. The rider had gone for the ramp that led up to the back street. Given the hour, that entrance had been chained closed. I heard the bike accelerate. The rider was coming back toward me, toward the ramp to the front street, the ramp toward which I staggered. I tried to hurry, but the effort was doomed to fail. The rider would reach me before I reached the street.

When I got near the little booth in the middle, I stumbled. The bike drew closer. I anticipated another kick from the rider. I dropped to one knee and lowered my head as the motorcycle got close. Then, just as the biker swerved to get near me, I stood, leaned against the little booth and quickly raised the chain that had been lying over the pavement of the ramp. The one the building super puts up to close the entrance side while leaving the exit side open. No one drove in through the exit side due to the angled spikes that would puncture tires.

The chain struck the rider across his chest. The bat he was still holding skidded and bounced across the cement floor until it reached the wall where the fat end made it roll in a tight circle, then lost its energy and went still. Meanwhile, his bike had continued up the ramp without him until it charged into a tangle of evergreen bushes.

I staggered over to pick up the bat, staggered back to the fallen rider and rolled him face up. When I pulled his mask off, all I could think of was Mr. Clean from the TV commercials. The guy was white, head shaven, and wore a small hoop earring in his right ear. I love the bikers who think they’re too tough to wear helmets. He was out cold.

I went through his pockets. No identification, but he had a cell phone. I took that, also three hundred he had in his pocket, likely the fee for working me over. I was insulted I came so cheap. Still, I figured I had gone through more to earn the money than had Mr. Clean, so I put the three hundred in my pocket next to the cell phone. He had no weapons other than the bat I now had. I always liked baseball. I had always liked smashing the ball over the wall. Unfortunately, I didn’t smash enough balls over enough walls to have a future in baseball, so I became a cop. Funny how life happens to us on the way to our dreams.

I considered pissing in his face to revive him. I would have except that damn DNA stuff has taken a lot of the fun out of such things. It wouldn’t be cool for a pardoned con to be charged with pissing on Mr. Clean. So, I did the next best thing, I used the bat to imagine I was smashing three home runs over the wall. The first smash went into the center of his back and the other two on the rear of his left thigh. Even in my pained and woozy condition, I was certain those three blasts would have all cleared the centerfield wall at Dodger stadium.