Empty Places, page 18
The inside of the house was dark, stuffy and hot. It smelled of stale booze, trapped tobacco smoke and old cooking. The living room was the size of a large closet, with a smaller closet off to the right serving as the only bedroom. A kitchenette made up the back wall. The condition of the interior paint was only slightly better than the paint outside. Photographs of naked women clipped from magazines made up the only artwork. Empty beer cans littered the floor, most crushed in the middle. A half empty bottle of Jim Bean stood on a counter between the living room and the kitchenette. A black-and-white TV played noiselessly in a corner.
In the center of the living room stood an empty wheel chair. Lying next to the chair was the body of a short, elderly man with dark weathered skin and a bloody patch of gray hair where his skull had been caved in. A detective bent over the corpse, outlining it with white tape. Another detective photographed the body from various angles.
Jefferson took a large cigar out and lit it. "Know him, Brandt?"
I leaned down and studied the deeply lined face. I was pretty certain who it was the instant I saw the body. "Yeah," I said, straightening. "His name's Tex. I used to use him as a source when I worked for the paper here. Never knew him as anything but Tex." I paused, then added as an afterthought. "The wheelchair's new."
"His real name is Elmer Witikins," Shorty said, reading from a notebook. "El-mer." Shorty looked up, shaking his head. "No wonder he called himself Tex." He started reading from the notebook again. "One of our dicks knew him. Used to be a snitch until about two years ago. Somebody broke both his knees bad. Put him in that wheelchair and dried him up as a snitch."
Shorty held up the plastic bag with my card again. "This doesn't look like an old business card, Brandt."
"It's not." I told them about the gas station and the mechanic named Ralph. "Ralph called this morning and left a message on Matt's machine saying we could meet Tex here."
"What'd you want to see old Tex here for?" Jefferson asked between puffs on his cigar.
I shrugged and smiled crookedly. "Just looking up an old friend."
Bull Dog grunted and puffed on his cigar. He turned to Matt. Matt crossed his arms and pretended to be totally involved with watching the technicians search the crime scene. I turned to Shorty and asked, "You know who broke his legs like that?"
Shorty looked at his notes, shaking his head. "I asked that of our man whose snitch this guy used to be. He said the only thing Elmer here would say was something about—and this is his exact quote, supposedly—'that goddamn spic.'"
Jefferson didn't pick up on the diversion. "Cut the bull, Brandt," he said. "What the hell did you want to see this geezer for?"
I lit a cigarette and shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know," I said. "Just a blind shot. I thought maybe he heard something on the streets about my ex-wife’s murder. I didn't know he was holed up in a wheelchair."
The coroner's men came into the house and asked if they could take the body. Shorty gave them the okay, and we all watched in silence as the two men in dark jumpsuits lifted Tex and slipped him into a plastic body bag. One of the coroner's deputies took a plastic bag from his pocket and a set of forceps from a tool holster and began picking small pieces of torn scalp and shattered bone from the carpet beneath where Tex had fallen. When he finished, he placed the small baggy into the body bag with Tex and zipped it up. Then they both hefted the body onto a gurney and rolled it out the door.
"Maybe he did know something," I said.
"Don't go jumping to conclusions, Brandt," Shorty said. "These kinds of killings go on all the time. Most likely some con this guy snitched on in the past just got out of prison and came looking for revenge."
Jefferson grunted and stomped away. I heard him mutter, "Another unsolved mystery."
This time Shorty and Matt heard it. Matt gave Shorty a look that said more than spoken words could. Shorty bowed his head and scratched his chin with his notebook. "Yeah, he's right," he said. "But you know how it is, Matt."
"I do?" Matt answered.
"Look, we've got a lot more murders occurring these days, and not anymore manpower than when you were with us. A lot of them never get solved." Shorty raised his hands in gesture of futility. "Hey, management decides how best to use our manpower. If some things get swept under the carpet, that's not my decision."
"Not at all," Jefferson muttered as he walked out the door.
We watched the empty door for some time before Shorty spoke again.
"Look, I'm going to have to ask about your whereabouts this morning and afternoon," he said, apologetically. He opened his notebook. We related our activities for the day, leaving out the more delicate details. We told him about my stay in the hospital, which we emphasized could be confirmed by Jefferson himself. We explained how Matt had come along on an "interview" I had with Assemblyman Jonathan Manchester and how, later, we discussed collecting some of my ex-wife’s remaining effects with her news director, Steve Casey. Shorty scribbled it all down, without asking any questions. Then we left the dark little house with its smell of stale booze, smoke, and food, and now its stench of death.
Shorty stopped us on the doorstep. "Listen, Matt," he said, "I'd like to hear that phone message if you haven't erased it, yet. This Ralph sounds like a likely suspect."
Matt's eyes flashed and his mouth widened into a grin. "That's good thinking," he said. "If no one's called and left a message over it, I'll bring it down to the station first thing in the morning."
We left Shorty on the door step and walked toward the car. "That boy will make a great detective someday," Matt said proudly. "I train them good."
"I don't think Jefferson would agree with you," I said.
"That asshole."
The reporters and cameramen had gone. Bull Dog Jefferson was waiting for us, leaning against Matt's car, puffing his cigar and looking mean.
"Ever notice the county never has any black deputies?" he said. "Not even a token black like me. Not a one." The hawser-size stogie in his mouth flared angrily. "Maybe that's why they have so many unsolved murders. Too many dumb white honkies."
Jefferson shrugged, then stretched.
"Speaking of dumb white honkies and unsolved murders, I got called in by the chief this morning, right after getting back from talking to you two. Seems he got a call from the mayor complaining about this trouble-making reporter named Brandt—who, by the way, the mayor seems to dislike a great deal. Seems this reporter Brandt's been going all over town bothering people about his wife's murder. The mayor wanted the chief to put a stop to it."
"Tom Wilson said that?" I asked.
"What other mayor has The Springs had over the last decade?"
"Tom Wilson said I've been investigating Robin's murder?"
"What's the matter, Brandt," Jefferson demanded. "Isn't my English good enough?"
I didn't answer Bull Dog. My mind was trying to penetrate the fog of the night before, the run-in Laurie and I had with Wilson. I hadn't said a word about Robin or anything else. Laurie only said I was in town to attend Robin's funeral. It was beginning to seem that Matt and I were becoming the talk of the town.
"To make this long story short, the chief wants me to tell you two to cool it, so he can get the mayor off his back. The chief hates that honkey like spit." Jefferson's cigar flared and sizzled. Smoke bellowed out of his nostrils. "I told the chief that I had, coincidentally, talked to you this very morning and advised you both to leave it lay. Didn't I advise you that?"
"Yes, sir," I said dully.
"And yet where do I find you next? At the scene of a murder talking about your wife again."
"Ex-wife," I corrected.
"Why don't you go pack your bags and go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under, so my detectives can have some peace and quiet and my chief don't have to talk to no dumb honkey mayor?"
"Why don't you just back off, Jefferson," Matt growled.
"You hold it right there, Banyon," Jefferson barked, pointing the stub of his cigar at Matt like a pistol. "You're no cop anymore, Banyon. I am. I can make life hard for you just for carrying that piece you got tucked under your shirt. Retirement shield or no shield. Permit or no permit."
Matt crossed his arms and glared at the black detective. Jefferson glared back. They looked like two snarling dogs, each waiting for the other to strike first. Suddenly, Jefferson began grinning. A long, wide closed-mouth grin with all the evil in the world written across it. He turned and started walking toward his car. A few feet away, he stopped and turned back to us.
"I'll tell the chief the mayor was mistaken." He took the cigar from his mouth. "I'll say Peter Brandt is leaving town immediately and his pal Banyon is going back into retirement. I expect it to be the truth." He stuck the stogie back into his mouth and walked to his car.
Matt didn't move until the detective drove away. Then he walked to the spot where Jefferson's car was parked and studied the ground. Jefferson's car had left wide tracks in the dirt. The tracks looked familiar, like the one Matt found at the scene of Robin's murder.
"Blue Streaks?" I asked.
"Nothing else," Matt said. "Wouldn't expect him to have anything else." He followed the tracks for a short distance, then began shaking his head. "I don't see that mark in the tread."
We walked back to Matt's sedan and climbed in. "You still think a cop was involved in Robin's murder, don't you?"
"Yeah," Matt said, nodding. "Some way."
"You think Jefferson could be that cop?"
This time Matt only shrugged.
"But Jefferson's tread didn't have that mark in them."
"He could've had the dinged tire replaced." Matt's voice trailed off and he stared out of the front window, his mouth half opened. "That might be worth checking out," he said softly, almost to himself. Then he shrugged and started the car.
"He's as good a suspect as we got," he said. "At least for now."
✽ ✽ ✽
The first thing Matt did when we arrived back at Robin's apartment was call his house and listen to the message tape. Danbury’s and Ralph's messages were still there. Matt let the messages play through and left the tape advanced, so any new messages would not record over the old ones. When he finished, I dialed Fred Danbury’s Orange County number while Matt concocted drinks from Robin's small supply of alcohol.
"It's about time you got back to me, Pete," Danbury said. His voice betrayed irritation. I could imagine Danbury’s expression, the sharply angled mustache stretched out at one side by the disdainful curl of the lip, the normally dark, empty eyes acquiring a glare. The tall, ex-CIA pilot had flown covert missions for the Company's proprietary airline, Air America, in both Vietnam and the Congo. Now he made an avocation of training pilots to fly the same kind of missions for the Nicaraguan Contras. When he wasn't training Contras in Honduras, where I first met him, he was acquiring and reconditioning old aircraft to add to the rebels' small air force.
Fred Danbury was not a man you wanted irritated at you. I was appropriately relieved when I realized his annoyance was focused elsewhere.
"I don't know who this guy you wanted me to check out is, but I do know he's a fake," Danbury said gruffly. "We've heard of this Tinnerman before, but he's no benefactor to the Freedom Fighters. Not unless he's making ten-dollar donations to the widows and orphans fund."
I fumbled for a pen and something to write on. "Rumor is he's been running stuff to them, maybe guns." I found a small pad and Matt handed me a pen.
"Yeah, well you news guys know how rumors go," Danbury said. "You print enough of them."
"Be nice, Fred," I said. "I've had a hard day. Tell me what you know about him."
"Pisses me off," Danbury said. "Half the goddamn world is trying to take credit for our work. First Ollie North, and now this guy Tinnerman."
"Go on," I said. Matt made a racket dishing out ice cubes from the freezer. "How's he taking credit?"
"Spreading these rumors about him helping the rebels. Some of our guys have heard them, too. But the only time they know he supposedly helped the Freedom Fighters, he tried to rip them off."
"How?"
"Tried to sell them a shipment of small arms," Danbury said. "Real junk stuff. The kind of stuff you'd go plinking with. And tried to charge them up the ass for it. Could've bought enough assault rifles and ammo to arm a company for a year for what he was asking. We intervened and put a stop to that fast. He hasn't tried doing anything for the Freedom Fighters since." He paused for a moment, then added. "Rumor has it he's still flying something north or south. What, I don't know. But that's just bar talk. Nothing for print."
"I understand," I said. "Anything else?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
"His name's not Carlos Tinnerman."
I said nothing for several seconds. Matt banged around in the freezer some more. Then slowly I asked, "What?"
"Least, he's the not Carlos Tinnerman who flew in the Bay of Pigs. I checked with an old pal of mine from Air America. This guy trained the Cuban pilots for that fiasco. He knew Tinnerman, and he says Carlos Tinnerman is dead."
"Dead? How?"
"Took a bucketful of flak over the island."
"You're friend's certain of this?" I asked. "I mean, he's not confusing Tinnerman with someone else?"
"Not likely," Danbury said. "My friend flew an A-26 in that raid. Tinnerman was his right seater. A burst of flak knocked out his starboard engine and killed Tinnerman instantly. My friend had to ditch in the ocean. Everyone got out, but Tinnerman's body went down with the ship."
"And he's certain there wasn't another Tinnerman in the outfit?"
"We're not talking a big air force here, Pete," Danbury said. "Everyone pretty much knew everyone else."
I thanked Danbury and hung up the phone. I stared at my notes for some time, soaking in what Danbury had said.
"You won't believe this, Matt," I finally said. "This guy tells me Tinnerman is no great friend of the Contras. Not only that, but Tinnerman may not even be his name. The real Carlos Tinnerman who flew in the Bay of Pigs was killed during the raid."
Matt's voice was unusually soft. "My, but it's been a day for surprises, hasn't it?"
I turned around. Matt was standing next to the open freezer. Frost drifted out of the icebox in long swirling, wispy strands. Matt held a small plastic bag in his hand. In the bag was an audio tape cassette.
"Where'd you—"
"Hidden under the ice cubes in the ice bucket."
"Is it dry?
"Sure, looks it," Matt said. He removed the tape from the bag and examined it. He handed it to me, nodding his head.
I jumped from the breakfast counter to the living room and began fumbling with the stereo tape deck.
"You know how to use that thing?" Matt asked.
"I bought this thing."
I dropped the cassette into the tape door and closed it, then punched the play button. The first noises from the machine were soft moans, a man's and a woman's. There was the sound of wet kissing, then Robin's voice.
"Do you have any more of that stuff?" she asked.
"Got all I want, all I need, baby." The voice was guttural, childishly macho. And familiar. The bed springs squeaked, there were scraping noises, then the man's voice again. "Here you go, baby. Sweet candy for a sweet pussy."
Robin laughed. Then there was the sound of a deep, quickly taken breath. Then the same sound again.
"Sounds like they're snorting something," Matt said. "Probably coke."
I nodded.
Robin sighed long and luxuriously. "Oh, Jerry," she said. "Where do you get this stuff?"
"That's my little secret, baby. But I can always get enough to make you happy."
Robin giggled. "But that's not all I need to make me happy," she cooed.
"I got more of that, too," the man said.
"I know you do," Robin said. More kissing noises. The man moaned, echoed by Robin's voice, now farther from the microphone. "But I know where to get that."
The man inhaled sharply, then moaned. "Oh, yeah."
"But where do you get all of that stuff." Robin's voice trailed off and became muffled. The man moaned again.
"Oh, oh, baby," he said. "We get all we want. Fly it in on our planes. Oh, God."
Several seconds passed with just slurping and sucking noises. Then Robin's voice, still far from the mike, still muffled. "But that's dangerous, isn't it? I don't want you to get busted, Jerry."
Jerry groaned some more as the slurping sucking noises continued.
"No worry—oh, baby. No, we got . . . we got the cops tied up with us. Yeah, oh that's good. That's great. We got our guy on the inside. Oh, Jesus."
The rest of the tape was filled with moans and small screams of delight. I was paralyzed by what I was hearing, unable to move away from what I didn't want to hear. Matt pressed the stop button. I still didn't move.
Matt laid his hand on my shoulder. I turned and took the drink he offered me and drank half of it down in one gulp.
I ran my hand over my mouth, then across my face and rubbed my eyes. The scar over my eye began to throb.
"So—" My voice cracked. I tried again. "So, we know why this damned tape is important enough to kill Robin," I said. "But who the hell is Jerry?"
"I think I know," Matt said. "I recognize the voice. It's Jinx Morgan."
"Jinx?"
"Jerry's his real name," Matt explained. "He used to be with the S.O. He got his nickname because his first partner got shot and his second partner got crushed in an on-duty car crash. Both times, Jinx got away without a scratch."
"Must've been real popular," I said.
"Like a leper," Matt said, sipping his drink. "He stayed with the department because Miles Hampton adopted him as his butt kissing protégé."
Matt wiped his mouth as if something distasteful were stuck to his lips.
"He left a few years ago and started his own private security company. He hires a lot of ex-cops and some ex-Marines from Twenty-Nine Palms. Offered me a job once. I told him to screw himself."
"Security company?" Matt nodded. "You mean Morgan Security?"
"That's it," Matt said, nodding again. "You know it?"
