Omerta

by Larry Darter

“Get you anything?” Ortega said to Hargraves. “Coffee or water?”

  Hargraves pulled out a bottle of Evian water. “I’ll drink this if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’m very nervous.”

  “Relax,” Ortega said.

  “How can I relax? This room is so small, and I’m a little claustrophobic.”

  The man, who looked to be in his mid-forties, had a mustache and goatee. Gray flecked his dark hair. Hargraves seemed jittery, continually running his hands through his hair.

  “Didn’t Wambaugh work here?” Hargraves said.

  “No,” Ortega said. “He worked at Hollenbeck.”

  “Didn’t LAPD had someone who was a five-time Jeopardy champion?”

  “Yeah, a patrol sergeant,” Ortega said.

  “Mr. Hargraves, the sooner we get to the reason we asked you to meet with us, the sooner we can get you out of here,” Drew said to steer the interview back on course.

  “Okay, sure,” Hargraves said. “I’m just nervous.”

  “Can you tell us a little about your relationship with Fiona Silverman?” Drew said.

  Hargraves nodded. “I saw Fiona at her house every Tuesday and Thursday for the past six months. I was paying her to edit a screenplay for me.”

  After Hargraves said that he saw Silverman every Tuesday and Thursday, Drew asked him about the Saturday meeting before Christmas Eve he’d found recorded in the day planner.

  “If I ever wanted to change our appointment, Fiona would spend thirty minutes excoriating me,” he said. “She’d tell me she couldn’t trust me, that I made her feel threatened. All because I wanted to change our meeting time. But I guess it was okay if she changed it. She called me the Wednesday before and said she couldn’t meet me on Thursday. She rescheduled our meeting to Saturday.”

  Hargraves sipped water from the Evian bottle. “This whole thing freaks me out. She said she owed me a session and told me to come the Saturday before Christmas. I planned to go, but it was Christmas, and I needed a break. So, I didn’t show up. I also didn’t call because I didn’t want to get berated over it. What if I’d showed up? If I’d been there, I’d have been toast.”

  Hargraves seemed to hyperventilate for several moments. “There were times when I was at her place and thought, if anyone wanted to kill Fiona, I’d be screwed being here.”

  Drew looked at him in surprise. “What made you think that?” he said.

  “She was always saying stuff like, ‘The only time I feel safe is when you’re here.’ Paranoid stuff like that. Paranoia is contagious.”

  “Why did she feel unsafe?” Drew said.

  “She told me once some guy was stalking her,” Hargraves said. “One day while I was at her house, she had received a letter and ripped it up. ‘Someone is stalking me,’ she said. But she never mentioned it again. That’s all I know about it.”

  “Do you know her agent, Nelson Welch?” Drew said.

  “Fiona mentioned his name a few times,” Hargraves said. “I never met him. I know nothing about him or anything much about any of Fiona’s friends. We only had a business relationship. I paid her to edit my work.”

  “Who do you think might have killed Fiona?” Drew said.

  “I could have killed her,” Hargraves said.

  Drew stared at him a moment in surprise. “Did you?” he said.

  “No, no, no,” Hargraves said, laughing nervously. “I have receipts up and down San Vicente where I was doing Christmas shopping Saturday.”

  Ortega smiled. “We had to ask,” he said.

  Hargraves gulped water from his bottle. “Fiona was brilliant, but she was crazy. That’s what I meant when I said I could have killed her. Sometimes she made me want to throttle her, like when she castigated me over wanting to change a meeting time. You know what I’m saying? I’m sure you’ve dealt with people like that.”

  Drew nodded. “Back to the question, Mr. Hargraves, who do you think might have killed her?”

  Hargraves leaned in and said in a conspiratorial tone, “About three or four weeks before she died, I came to the door. Fiona said, ‘I just got the worst news. My best friend, Bill Hurst, got charged with murder for something that happened almost twenty years ago. I can’t talk about it.’ She got hysterical and disappeared into another room. I heard her talking to someone on the phone. We didn’t even discuss my screenplay.”

  After another sip of water, Hargraves continued. “During the next few sessions, instead of sitting in the living room with me, Fiona stayed in a back room, making furtive phone calls. I think she was calling Bill Hurst, the best friend she’d mentioned. I believe he killed Fiona. That’s what I told my girlfriend as soon as I read about it in the paper. She doesn’t believe it because she doesn’t think Hurst would kill his best friend. I told her she was so naïve.”

  Ortega asked Hargraves to excuse them for a moment. He said he needed to have a word in private with his partner. The detectives left the room. In the hallway, Ortega said, “That guy is plenty weird, but I don’t like him for the murder.”

  Drew nodded. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

  “But, to be on the safe side,” Ortega said, “I want you to surprise him by asking him if he will take a polygraph exam. Just to see how he reacts.”

  “Okay,” Drew agreed.

  When the detectives returned to the interview room, Hargraves explained his theory that William Hurst was the killer.

  “Before I started writing screenplays, I was a high school teacher,” he said. “Back then, whenever I attempted to determine who had cheated on a test, I examined three variables—motive, opportunity, and history. That was my system. That’s why I think Bill Hurst did it. He had all three things. If he did it, this is going to be huge. It could be as big as that Boston murder case involving Claus Von Bulow.”

  When Hargraves continued to ramble, Drew cut him off and asked, “Mr. Hargraves, would you be willing to be polygraphed?”

  “Sure, why not?” Hargraves said emphatically. “I told you I didn’t kill Fiona. I have nothing to hide.”

  Drew glanced at Ortega. They were both surprised by how readily Hargraves had agreed.

  “Okay, anything else you can tell us about Fiona you think might help us?” Drew said.

  Hargraves seemed to think about the question for a moment. “Only something that might help you better understand Fiona, the sort of person she was,” he said.

  “Okay,” Drew said.

  “Have you read her memoir?” Hargraves said.

  Both detectives shook their heads.

  “Okay, well, there is a passage in the book that makes it all very clear,” Hargraves said. In the manner of a high school English teacher lecturing a class of teenagers, Hargraves quoted the passage from memory: “There are scars within me that will probably never heal. I have uncontrollable anxiety attacks that occur without warning. Death and love seem linked forever in my life and fantasies.”

  Hargraves canted his head and said, “That’s Fiona.”

  Drew concluded the interview and told Hargraves they would circle back to him if they decided the polygraph was necessary. Then he escorted the man back to the lobby and out the front exit doors. He met his partner back in the break room.

  “He’s the first person to finger Hurst,” Ortega said. “Everyone else we’ve talked with has dismissed him as a suspect. Of course, he bases his theory on the behavior of high school test cheaters. Not exactly overwhelming evidence.”

  Drew laughed. “Maybe not, but I think Hargraves may be on to something,” he said. “I think everyone who has steered us away from Hurst doesn’t see the motive. Maybe they don’t have all the information needed to understand it. I think the motive might be there. And, according to Hargraves’ theory, maybe the history. What we need to find out is whether Hurst had the opportunity. We need to find out whether he was in L.A. or close by when the murder occurred.”

  “Good luck with that,” Ortega said. “You talked to his lawyer. I have little hope we will
be interviewing Hurst anytime soon unless we find enough evidence to arrest him for the murder.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Well, it’s past Miller time,” Ortega said. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll start again fresh in the morning.”

  The detectives left the station for their cars and the drive to their respective homes.

  * * *

  Drew’s mobile rang right after he got in his car. The screen said: L. Tomlinson. He answered.

  A female voice said, “Detective Drew. You never write, you never call.”

  Drew smiled. “Hey, Lucy, what’s up?”

  “Some people from the shift are getting together over at Formosa Cafe,” Tomlinson said. “You want to come?”

  “Um… ”

  “That’s okay,” Tomlinson said. “I just thought maybe you’d like to have a drink or something.”

  “I would,” Drew said. “Actually, I could use one. I just don’t feel up to doing the group thing at a bar.”

  “Well, what are you thinking then?”

  Drew checked his watch. It was five-thirty.

  “Depending on if you’re up for making the drive, we could get some dinner at El Compadre and have a drink there,” Drew said.

  “I love that place,” Tomlinson said. “And I could go for one of their margaritas. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll meet you there.”

  “I’ll be there,” Drew said as the phone beeped. Tomlinson had ended the call without waiting for a reply from him.

  Chapter 9

  El Compadre Restaurant was an institution that had been serving Mexican cuisine and margaritas to the denizens of Hollywood—both famous and infamous since 1975. Located along trendy Sunset Boulevard, it was founded by lifelong friends. The restaurant’s vibe had the look and feel of an old-world hacienda. Lined with clay roof tiles, wrought iron lanterns, and stained glass chandeliers, its walls celebrated Mexican heritage with paintings, artifacts, antiques, and vase floral trimmings.

  As Drew and Tomlinson came into the restaurant, a hostess greeted them, whisked them to a red leather booth, and left them with menus. A server who recognized Drew came over to take their drink orders. They both ordered margaritas on the rocks.

  Drew and Tomlinson small-talked about work and the details Drew was willing to share about his case. It surprised Drew how quickly he felt at ease with Tomlinson, having talked with her only once before. By the time the server brought over their margaritas, they were chatting like old friends.

  Clinking their glasses together, Tomlinson said, “Cheers!”

  “Yeah, cheers,” Drew said. They both took long drinks from their glasses.

  “How was your shift?” Drew said.

  Tomlinson slumped a little and shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” she said. “Just the usual.”

  “Nothing exciting?”

  Tomlinson shook her head. “Just the usual—chasing the radio, taking reports, domestics,” she said.

  Tomlinson took another drink. Drew watched her. Indecision showed her eyes—like she wanted to say something more but wasn’t sure she should.

  “Did you have a rough day or something?” Drew said. “I mean, if you want to talk about it.”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s more like I don’t want to think about work or talk shop.”

  “Okay, if you don’t want to talk about— ”

  “No, it’s okay,” Tomlinson said. “I’m getting tired of patrol. I mean, I hate domestics and the routine grind, you know? It’s call to call, douchebag to douchebag, and we’re not making any difference out there. It’s like spitting on a dumpster fire. How did you make it through, Howie?”

  Drew knew what she was saying. Every cop in uniform went through it. It seemed you waded through a cesspool all day and never had anything to show for it. It was why Drew knew he could never go back to working patrol.

  “Did you expect it would be different? When you decided you wanted to become a cop, I mean?”

  “I don’t know what I thought,” Tomlinson said. “I guess I thought maybe I’d be able to help people. Now I’m not sure I can keep doing a job where it feels like I’m not making a difference.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Drew said. “You have to learn to adapt and maintain a long-term mindset. The first few years are tough. But you dig in and pick your path. You won’t be in patrol forever. You’ll do fine.”

  “Maybe,” Tomlinson said. “But let’s talk about something else.”

  Drew nodded. “Sure, okay.”

  He took a long drink from his glass, trying to think of another topic of conversation. The server provided a reprieve when she returned to take their food orders. Tomlinson ordered the chicken quesadillas. Drew had his usual combination plate. They both ordered another margarita. After the server left, Drew put his empty glass down, turned, and smiled at Tomlinson.

  “Well, I know so little about you,” he said. “You could tell me more. That should be a safe topic of conversation.”

  Tomlinson laughed. “Yeah, and a boring one too.”

  “So what did you do before you became a cop?”

  “Well, I went to college, and then I took a gap year and spent six months backpacking through Europe with a couple of friends.”

  “That doesn’t sound so boring,” Drew said. “Where did you go?”

  “The usual,” Tomlinson said. “France, Italy, Spain, the UK.”

  “So there you were, taking selfies in front of the Eiffel Tower, and you said to yourself, ‘Self, I think I’ll become a cop.’ “

  Tomlinson laughed again, seeming to shake off the earlier job-related blues.

  “It wasn’t quite like that. But we did take selfies in front of the Eiffel Tower while we were in Europe.”

  “Well, it’s good to know you were a world traveler before you put on the badge and started living your best life.”

  Tomlinson smirked. “How about you?” she said. “You do any traveling abroad?”

  “A little, on Uncle Sam’s dime. I did my part in helping to spread democracy.”

  “Military?”

  Drew nodded. “I was in the army.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Kuwait, Iraq, a few weeks in Germany.”

  “Cool, what was that like? Did you see any action?”

  Drew’s smile vanished. He looked away and ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. Tomlinson picked up on his mood change.

  “Seems I found a topic you don’t like talking about,” she said. “Sorry about that.”

  Drew started to reply, but the server interrupted again, setting their food and fresh drinks in front of them. Drew took a long pull on his second margarita, and then they both ate in silence for several moments.

  “I’m the one who should apologize,” Drew said. “It’s just hard to talk about it. There wasn’t much about my time abroad that was enjoyable.”

  Tomlinson reached across the table and put her hand on Drew’s.

  “Hey, no apology needed,” she said. “A guy I went to college with spent time in Iraq. He couldn’t talk about it either. It must have been awful over there.”

  “Thanks,” Drew said, withdrawing his hand and lifting his glass for another drink. They ate in silence for a few more minutes. Drew felt angry with himself. He worried his issues from Iraq were spoiling what could be a good thing.

  “So what did you do between the gap year and the academy?” Drew said.

  Tomlinson smiled. He liked the way her eyes did the sparkly thing when she smiled. Drew felt better, thinking maybe he hadn’t ruined the evening.

  “I was as a paralegal with a civil law firm,” Tomlinson said. “I’d planned to go to law school after the gap year. But when I got back to L.A. I just couldn’t face another three years of school. So I enrolled in a paralegal certificate program and got the job after I finished.”

  “So you wanted to be a lawyer?” Drew said.

  “I thought I did for a while,” Tomlinson said. “Just lik
e mom. But I changed my mind.”

  “Your mom is a lawyer?”

  “Yeah, but don’t get excited,” Tomlinson smirked. “She does civil law, not criminal law. I worked at her firm, but for another attorney.”

  “What does your dad do?”

  “Dad is a cardiologist.”

  “Wow, two professionals for parents,” Drew said. “Why am I thinking they may not be thrilled with their daughter’s career choice?”

  Tomlinson laughed. “That would be an understatement,” she said. “Neither of them took it very well when I told them LAPD had hired me and I was starting the academy.”

  “They ever come around?”

  “Nope. Mom is still badgering me to go to law school before it’s too late. Dad doesn’t like me being a cop either, but he just doesn’t talk about it.”

  “You from L.A. originally?”

  “Born and raised. You?”

  Drew nodded. “Yeah, I was born at Kaiser. Grew up here and lived in L.A. all my life except during my army stint.”

  Tomlinson held up her glass, and they clinked. “To the Angelenos,” she said.

  Drew nodded and finished his drink. He was feeling relaxed. He enjoyed Tomlinson’s company, and it felt good to forget about work for a while.”

  “Born at Kaiser, huh?” Tomlinson said. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Silver Lake,” Drew said. “You?”

  “Don’t laugh,” Tomlinson said. “Beverly Hills.”

  “Beverly Hills? Well, I guess that’s not surprising since you have a mother who is a lawyer and a dad who is a cardiologist.”

  “How about we stop with the twenty questions for now?” Tomlinson said.

  “Sure,” Drew said. “And do what?”

  “I was thinking maybe we could go to your place,” Tomlinson said with a suggestive grin.

  Drew paused for a moment, looking at her sparkly eyes and perfectly straight teeth. Things were moving fast. The alcohol might have been part of it. But that’s the way it often went with cops, people who got up for work every day knowing that there was always the chance they might not make it home again at the end of shift.

  “Sure,” Drew said. “I could use another drink, but I never have over two when I’m out and have to drive. I’ve got booze at home. We can have another drink there.”