JO01 - Guilty or Else, page 18
part #1 of Jimmy O'Brien Series
“And we don’t know who he is, also correct?”
“Yep.”
“Be easier to find him if we know who he is.”
“Sol, please. I think you know who he is. Just tell me what’s going on. Okay?”
“No. First we’ve got to figure out how we’re going to fight those phony charges against you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m off the hook.”
“You’re off the hook? You didn’t tell me.”
“How could I? You were going on and on about the fish, and jiving André about the wine like some kind of connoisseur.”
“Hey buddy boy, I drink enough of the stuff to be an expert.”
“No argument about that.”
“Now, tell me how you got the charges dropped.”
In between bites of fish, I told him about my telephone call to Detective Farrell.
“I knew you could beat those farmisht charges.”
I set my fork down. “Lot of smooth talking.”
“I’ve been using my yiddisher kop, been busy.” Sol drained his wine glass.
“Busy doing what?” I asked Sol.
“We found out last Monday that Fischer was dead.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“I didn’t want to tell you until I had things worked out.”
“So I gather.”
“Now I’m going to explain how the world’s foremost detective operates.”
“That would be you,” I said.
Sol gave me a look that said, isn’t it obvious. “I’ve had his girlfriend’s apartment staked out for a while, but pulled my men off when we found out the guy’s a fugitive. He ain’t coming back.”
“The guy’s a fugitive, running from the law? What’s his name?”
“Let me finish,” Sol continued. “As soon as I found out the real Fischer was dead, I got in touch with a friend in the FBI. I asked him to get me the Federal Aviation Agency’s list of all the pilots that are Cessna Citation rated. Remember, Karadimos’s jet is a Citation.”
“I know.”
“To be able to fly the plane, unless you’re military trained in jets, you’d have to take a course at the Cessna factory. It’s a very sophisticated airplane; regular private pilots wouldn’t be able to fly it.”
Sol stopped talking and angled his head close to the table. He jabbed at something on his plate with his fork, then held it up and inspected the tidbit impaled there. “Hey,” he said. “This doesn’t look like an almond. Where’s André? This is a goddamned walnut.”
“Sol, forget the walnut. Tell me about the pilot.”
“Okay, hold on.” He popped the walnut into his mouth.
“Not bad,” he said. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah, when you pass the Cessna course, you get a type rating. The factory notifies the FAA and they send you a new license.”
“Must’ve been hundreds of pilots.”
“No, very few. The Citation jet just came out this year. Karadimos’ plane is one of the first. Anyway, we ran a check on the pilots to see if any of them had a record. Remember, his girlfriend said he had some trouble with the law.”
“I see where you’re going with this, but how did you know the imposter would use his real name to get the rating?”
“To take the course, you need a multi-engine pilot’s license. Couldn’t use Fischer’s ticket, he was dead before the Cessna Citation was introduced to the public. Also, you need to pass a medical exam to get the license.”
I laughed. “I doubt that a medical examiner would certify a dead guy; might look bad.”
“Wouldn’t look good.” Sol chuckled.
“How many names fit the profile?”
“Only eight.”
“That’s all? Just eight people?”
“Yep, that’s all. And only one guy’s a fugitive,” Sol said.
“He’d be our guy.”
“Yes, indeed. We have his name and a mug shot.”
“What’s his name?” I asked again.
“Kruger. Danny Kruger. Now all’s we’ve got to do is find him.”
“How long will that take?”
“We’ll find him in time for the trial, that’s for sure.”
“I know you will. I’m counting on you, Sol.”
He paused for a moment, pulled a cigar from the vest pocket of his jacket, and set it on fire with a solid gold blowtorch. “I’ve been thinking about your theory of the murder,” he said as smoke from his cigar swirled to the ceiling. “I have some ideas. You wanna hear them?”
“Absolutely.”
“Remember what Gloria said to Bonnie: ‘The Greek might be on to me.’ She was talking about the money, right?”
“Yeah, the money.”
“Here’s the way I figure it. We have two suspects and two possible motives. Each separate from the other. The first motive and suspect is the one we’ve been working on—Welch. He was having an affair with Gloria. He sent her the letter dumping her, didn’t need the baggage now that he’s running for re-election. Gloria got it Saturday. She called and threatened him. He flew down and killed her, and immediately flew back to Sacramento. But Welch has an airtight alibi.”
“Yeah, the alibi is a big problem,” I said.
Sol looked at me, nodded, and puffed on his cigar. “Now here’s a second theory.”
“Go ahead.”
“Gloria was involved with Karadimos in his money laundering scheme, and she skimmed some off the top.
Karadimos found out. He was on to her—Bonnie said so—and he flew down and killed her.”
“Then he stashed the murder weapon in Rodriguez’s truck, and made the anonymous call,” I said, finishing his theory. “But if that were the case, wouldn’t he just have one of his henchmen take care of the problem?”
“I dunno. Maybe he wanted to get his revenge personally. But when I find the pilot, he’ll tell us who he flew down, Karadimos or Welch, and we’ll have the murderer,” Sol said.
“But we still have to tie the motive in with the flight.
The passenger could come up with some other reason for sneaking back into town.”
“We’ll have to blow the lid off Karadimos and Welch’s secret enterprise. That would show motive.”
“Motive, means, and opportunity, it all fits. And we know Welch and Karadimos are working together,” I said.
“That’s probably why the pilot took it on the lam. Must’ve figured he was hot, and Karadimos would get rid of him because he knew too much.”
“I’ll have to find the guy before Karadimos does, or he’ll be a goner.”
“I’ll head over to Gloria Graham’s house and snoop around. Even though the police have combed the place, and would have bagged any evidence by now, maybe I’ll spot something.”
“Can’t hurt, and you’ll be talking to Welch at Chasen’s, at the fund raiser.”
“Yeah, who knows, maybe he’ll say something.” After a pause, I added, “So how do you intend to find the pilot?”
“People can change identities, but they rarely change their old habits, hobbies, and skills. If he’s hiding out, he still has to eat, still needs a job. I have ways of finding guys.” Sol pulled the mug shots of the pilot out of the file and handed it to me. “Danny Kruger had a lot of odd jobs other than flying, but mainly bartending.”
I gazed at the photos, both the front and side views. The sign around his neck said, Houston Police Department, Danny Kruger, arrested 4/17/71. There was a booking number under his name.
Kruger looked like a million other guys who grew up in the mid-fifties listening to the King’s immortal classics—
“Heartbreak Hotel,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” “You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog.” He had a full pompadour, well oiled, and cut long, Elvis-style. He didn’t look like the Presley impersonators who worked for Karadimos. Kruger looked more like the young Elvis, when the singer was first starting out. I figured that if you wanted to get a job with Karadimos, all you had to do was grow sideburns and dress up like the King.
“What was he arrested for?” I asked.
“The shmuck got caught trying to fly drugs across the border. First offense, his folks posted bail, he assumed Fischer’s ID, and then split. Pop and Mom lost the house.
Nice guy, huh?” Sol said.
“Probably likes pepper in his soup,” I said.
C H A P T E R 33
We finished lunch at two o’clock, but before we left Rocco’s, I stopped at the phone booth, called the district attorney’s office and asked to speak with Bobbi Allen. After the encounter in the courtroom, she was the last person I wanted to talk to, but I had no choice.
I had filed a motion asking the court to grant me access to the Graham house. The motion had been approved, which meant I had a legal right to visit the crime scene. But in order to cross the police line legally, someone from the D.A.’s office would have to accompany me.
“What do you want, O’Brien?” Bobbi’s voice had the same harsh tone I’d heard in the judge’s chambers.
“I’m going to the Graham house. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“It’s still a crime scene.”
“I want an escort.”
“I’m too busy.”
“Send someone.”
“I can’t spare anyone. Try back in a few weeks.”
“I’ll be at the house in twenty minutes.”
“Better not cross the police line.”
“I’m going in, with or without someone to escort me.”
“You cross the line without an escort and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll see if I can send someone,” she said before slamming the phone down.
She knew I would file a complaint with Judge Koito. It would make her look bad. But she wasn’t going to make anything easy for me.
It took me twenty-two minutes to drive to Gloria Graham’s house on Rosewood Avenue. I parked at the curb but didn’t see a cop or anyone from the D.A.’s office. I decided to wait, but I wasn’t going to wait forever. From the inside of my car, I surveyed the neighborhood.
Rosewood was a pleasant enough street. Mature elm trees shaded the sidewalk in front of well-maintained tract homes. A late model black Ford pick-up truck, polished to a mirror shine, was parked in a driveway a few doors away. A man wearing a sleeveless undershirt and khaki chinos stood in his front yard sprinkling his lawn and smoking a cigar. A woman in the doorway of the house shouted something to him, but I was too far away to hear what she said. I sat in the car for fifteen minutes, waiting.
To hell with Bobbi, I’m going in. Let her file the complaint. I’ll get a slap on the wrist, so what.
Gloria’s property was bound up, trussed, with yellow police tape. The tape wound around the perimeter of her yard, driveway, and house. Printed on it repeatedly were the words, “POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS.” The tape fluttered and twisted in the breeze and offered no resistance to my intrusion as I slipped under it and entered the crime scene. Doing a slow shuffle up the driveway with my eyes on the ground, I kicked a dirt clod that rested on the concrete. It disintegrated into a spray of dust.
The police investigators would have picked the scene over and bagged, tagged, or photographed any piece of evidence that would help their case against Rodriguez. I too had the right to have any article I found at the scene tagged and placed in the evidence locker. I doubted that I’d find anything, but still, I wanted to get a feel of the place.
Walking around the corner of the house to the backyard, I sidestepped the faded white spray-painted outline of her fallen body where the police had marked it. I thought of the pretty girl in the cheerleader’s outfit. The girl in the photograph at the Munsons’ home. The girl, young and full of life, the girl with dreams of a future filled with happiness. Her future wasn’t much, just a ghostly image sprayed on the uncut grass with two cents worth of white paint.
The trees that Rodriguez had planted—just sticks really—were flourishing. On one of the trees, a few baby green leaves, still tightly curled, sprouted from tiny buds on the web-like branches. Glancing around the yard, I noticed Rodriguez’s shovel lying on the grass. A lemon-colored hose snaked from a bib at the side of the house, its nozzle resting on a circle of dirt. There were two other dirt patches next to it, each about two feet in diameter. I figured this must have been where Rodriguez had originally planted the tress.
My feet left deep impressions in the grass as I walked across the lawn to the house. It needed mowing. Who would do that now? I wondered as I mounted the porch steps that led to the house.
The screen door hung by a single hinge. I pushed it out of the way and tried the knob of the back door, the one that opened into the kitchen. Locked. I descended the steps and heard the sound of someone approaching.
“Hold it right there.” A police officer in uniform stood a few feet in front of me, his legs spread, his right hand resting on his holstered gun. He stared at me with a severe expression on his face.
“Bobbi Allen send you?” I asked.
“You’re in the middle of a crime scene.”
“I’m the defense lawyer on this case. I have a right to be here.”
He waved his fingers at me in a come-on manner. “Let’s see some I.D. Slowly remove your wallet and hand it to me.”
“I called the D.A.’s office and told Miss Allen I was going to be here.”
“You should’ve waited until someone got here before you busted in and contaminated the place.”
I passed my driver’s license and bar card to the cop. “I didn’t contaminate anything.”
He handed back my ID. “Lotta talk about you at the station, O’Brien. Now, did you mess with anything here?”
“I’m an officer of the court, for chrissakes. What do you think? I’d plant some false evidence? Especially after the forensic team has swept this place clean?”
“From what I heard, it wouldn’t have been the first time you tried something like that.”
“What’s your name anyway?”
“Officer Kemp, Leon Kemp.”
“You’re out of line, Kemp. Those charges were dismissed.”
“Yeah sure, just don’t try it here. You won’t get away with that sort of thing while I’m on the job.”
I shook my head and sighed.
Kemp unlocked the kitchen door and moved aside. I opened it and the thick and strong, sour stench of mold and rot engulfed me. I moved slowly into the dark kitchen. The shades were drawn. I exhaled slowly as I flipped on the light switch. The room was a mess. Patches of black powdered graphite covered the cupboards, tabletop, and drawers, places where Rodriguez’s fingerprints might have been found.
Nothing in the room seemed to have been changed or altered since the night of Gloria’s murder, except for the disturbance caused by the police investigation. Dirty dishes from her final meal were still in the sink. A full trashcan sat next to the door. A broom leaned against the table.
I stood in the center of the kitchen and glanced around. But I knew right off that several little things didn’t seem right. The cabinet doors were partially opened, some drawers were pulled out about an inch, and four ice cube trays were on the countertop.
Walking into the living room, I had the same feeling as I did in the kitchen. I darted into the bedroom and looked around. The closet door was open, her clothes were in a heap on the floor, and her dresser drawers were pulled out an inch or so. Then I remembered the police report. It said that the house had been searched. I knew what was troubling me.
After murdering Gloria, why would the killer toss her house? What did he hope to find? And, I wondered, did he find what he was looking for?
My eyes swept the small bedroom. A dresser rested against the wall, close to her bed. A mirror mounted over the dresser had photos and other memorabilia tucked into the edges. Her pretty face smiled at me from the pictures: at the beach, the mountains around a campfire with friends. She looked young and carefree, a girl full of life, not like someone who had been embezzling from a criminal enterprise. Ticket stubs to a concert—the Grateful Dead at the Hollywood Bowl—a few cards, a scattering of dried flowers rested on the dresser.
When I picked up one of the pictures to take a closer look, a small card in an envelope, the kind used when sending flowers, fell out from behind it. I picked it up by its edges.
The card inside wasn’t signed, but there was a quote written on it: “Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you.” The quote sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I wondered if Welch had sent the card. The D.A.’s office obviously knew the card couldn’t be used in their case against Rodriguez, or it would have been tagged and bagged. But, I made a mental note to petition the court to have it marked as evidence for the defense, if needed.
I walked over to the desk on the other side of the room. Papers littered the top; open bills were tossed about. The wastebasket next to the desk was turned over, the trash spilled out onto the floor. I bent down but didn’t see anything incriminating. I righted the wastebasket and saw an empty letter-sized envelope that must have been under it. I picked it up and flipped it over. It was addressed to Gloria, handwritten, and postmarked Friday from Sacramento, the day before she died. The envelope didn’t have a return address, but the handwriting on it matched the writing on the little card with the quote—tall and spidery, with exaggerated loops. It looked like the scrawl of an egomaniac, but maybe it was just my mood. I would want the envelope tagged and dusted for prints.
Kemp tapped me on my shoulder. “You through? My shift’s about done.”
I tossed the envelope on the desk. “Yeah, let’s go.”
Hodges’s theory about the case stated that Rodriguez killed Gloria in a rage because she resisted his sexual advances. But how’d he explain to the D.A. that Rodriguez searched the house after he supposedly killed her? He didn’t kill her in a fit of passion and then decide to burglarize the home. Gloria’s TV and her stereo had been untouched—and what kind of burglar leaves behind a box full of jewelry? Was Rodriguez looking for his lawnmower? I didn’t think so.
I left the house and walked back to the Corvette. When I reached my car, I sat behind the wheel and let my gaze drift down the street. The guy in the undershirt was gone, but his hose, lying on the grass, continued to gush.
