Sunset Express

by Robert Crais

  “No kidding.”

  Men and women in business suits hurried in both directions, some carrying files, others long yellow legal pads, still others small Styrofoam cups of what I took to be coffee. Nine in the morning, and everyone looked tense. I guess tension is a way of life when you’re trying to give people the best possible defense. Especially at five hundred dollars an hour.

  I said, “Are all of these people working for Teddy Martin?”

  “Oh, no. The firm is involved in over two hundred active cases.”

  “Mm.”

  “Jonathan only involves himself in the more, ah, trying cases.” He gave me a sly smile.

  I nodded.

  He looked at me. “ ‘Trying.’ ”

  “I got it.”

  Truly looked disappointed. “Oh.” Lawyer humor.

  We turned down another hall and then into a conference room about the size of Rhode Island. A breakfast buffet had been set up at one end of the room with coffee and mineral water and enough lox and bagels to sink the Lexington. Six men and three women were crowded around the buffet, talking in soft whispers. Everyone had coffee, but no one was eating. Probably too tense. Truly said, “Would you like something to eat?”

  “Just coffee.” Elvis Cole, at one with the team.

  “Let me introduce you. Jonathan will be along in a moment.”

  We got the coffee, and Elliot Truly introduced me. Everyone in the room was an attorney except me. While the introductions were under way, yet more attorneys arrived. I stopped counting at fourteen. The large lesser attorney came in, followed by the small lesser attorney, both of whom were wearing beige linen Armani suits. So was Elliot Truly. I said, “Beige.”

  Truly said, “Pardon me?”

  “Nothing.” Jonathan Green would be wearing beige, too. You could bet your house on it.

  Thirty seconds later Jonathan Green came in wearing a beige linen Armani. You see? I said, “Shucks.”

  Truly glanced at me and whispered, “What?” Now that Jonathan was here I guess we would whisper.

  “No videographer. I was hoping for more air time.”

  Truly blinked at me, then seemed to get it. “Oh, right. Ha-ha.” Ha-ha. We’re just a riot at nine A.M.

  Another man came in behind Jonathan. He was a little shorter than me, but his arms were as long as backhoe shovels and his shoulders so wide they looked like they had been built of steel frame girders. The arms and the shoulders didn’t go with the rest of him, as if they had once belonged to King Kong or Mighty Joe Young or some other large mammal, and now this guy was using them. He was carrying a manila envelope.

  Green smiled when he saw me and offered his hand. “Thank you for coming. This is Stan Kerris, our chief of security. Stan, this is Mr. Cole.” Stan Kerris was the guy with the shoulders. He had a monstrously high forehead, sort of like a Klingon’s, and eyes that looked at you but gave you nothing, like windows to an empty room.

  Truly said, “Let’s get started.”

  Jonathan Green took his seat at the head of the table with Stan Kerris sitting next to him. The two lesser attorneys elbowed each other to sit nearby. Like the lesser attorneys, everyone else tried to jockey as close to Jonathan Green as possible. Truly sat next to me. When everyone was down, Green crossed his legs and smiled at me. “So. Elliot tells me that you’ve found no corroborating evidence to Mr. Earle’s claims.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the same for Mr. Haig?” He raised his eyebrows in a question.

  “That’s right. I spoke with Haig and with Earle, then with Earle’s mother. I did a cursory background check on Earle, and reviewed the Internal Affairs investigation into the funny money bust. IA found that Rossi made a quality bust.”

  Truly was shaking his head. “What does that mean? Of course, they would say that.”

  “No, Mr. Truly. They wouldn’t. LAPD takes these things seriously.” I looked at Green. “I concur.”

  Green laced his fingers across a knee and settled back. “Please tell us why.”

  At least seven of the assembled attorneys copied what I said. I started with Raymond Haig and worked my way through Eddie Ditko and Rossi’s condo and my interviews with both LeCedrick Earle and Louise Earle. I told them about LeCedrick’s past record, including his close association with Waylon Mustapha, and I described in detail how Louise Earle’s version of events matched with Rossi’s police report. I spoke for close to twenty minutes, and for twenty minutes pens scratched on legal pads and Jonathan Green sat unmoving. His eyes narrowed a couple of times, but mostly he watched me as if he could absorb the details without effort and assimilate them. Or maybe he was just bored.

  When I finished Kerris said, “Anything we can use in the Miranda?”

  “What do you mean, use?”

  Truly smiled. “Was there anything in her action indicative of malice aforethought or a willingness to commit an illegal act?”

  I took the reports that Eddie Ditko had faxed me from my file and passed them to Truly. I told them about the guys with the machetes. I described what had happened at the Burrito King. “They let both these guys walk and Rossi took the heat for it. I don’t think there was much forethought to blowing out her career at the end of a high-speed chase because of an adrenaline rush.”

  Truly smiled again and shrugged at Kerris. “Guess not.”

  Jonathan Green said, “You’re sure about these things?”

  “Yes, sir. There is no evidence that this woman has ever done anything illegal or even improper other than the Miranda beef, and she stood up for that one. She wouldn’t have had to set up LeCedrick Earle. He’s a career criminal.”

  Green nodded. “Then you don’t believe that she could’ve planted the hammer on Theodore’s property?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We should abandon this as a legal theory?”

  “That would be my opinion, yes, sir.”

  Jonathan Green nodded again, then stared at the far wall for what seemed like several minutes. No one moved, and no one spoke. All of the other attorneys stared at Jonathan as if he might suddenly utter some dictum and they would have to act on it. Apprehensive.

  I looked at my watch. It was nine forty-two, and the staring continued. Maybe Jonathan Green had lapsed into a trance and no one knew it. Maybe he would continue to stare all day and I’d still be sitting here when Lucy and Ben landed at LAX. I drummed my fingers on the table and Elliot Truly looked horrified. I guess it just wasn’t done.

  Jonathan Green suddenly spread his hands, then placed them on the table and leaned forward. “Well, that’s that. Better to know now than embarrass ourselves in court. You’ve done an outstanding job, Mr. Cole. Thank you.”

  The other attorneys breathed as one and broke into large smiles, saying what an outstanding job I’d done.

  Green swiveled toward Truly and said, “It was one theory, and there’s still plenty of ground to cover. We’ll just have to roll up our sleeves and try harder.” Green swiveled back to me and leaned forward again, absolutely serious. “I remain convinced of Teddy’s innocence, and I’m determined to work all the harder to prove it.”

  The fourteen other attorneys around the big table nodded, and I guess I could understand why. Green seemed to bring it out in you. I wanted to nod, too.

  Jonathan Green said, “Mr. Cole, I know you were hired for this specific part of our investigation, but it’s very important to me that people of your caliber work with the team.”

  Elliot Truly said, “Here, here.” Really.

  Green gestured toward Kerris. “We’ve been absolutely overwhelmed with people calling our hotline, haven’t we, Stan?”

  Kerris nodded, but the nod conveyed nothing, sort of like his eyes. “We’ve gotten several hundred calls from people claiming to have information about the kidnapping. We can dismiss some based on the phone interview, but most have to be checked. We’re dividing these things up among our investigators.”

  Green said, “Stan, give him th
e envelope, please.”

  Kerris pushed the envelope down along the table to me. I opened it. Eight single-sheet interview forms were inside.

  Jonathan said, “Each sheet contains the name, phone number, and address of a person claiming to have information about Susan Martin’s murder. If you could see your way clear to staying with us on this and checking these people out, we would appreciate it.”

  I looked at the sheets. I slipped them back into the envelope. “I have guests coming into town.”

  Truly shrugged. “There isn’t a rush with this, Cole. Sure, sooner is better than later, but you know the justice system.”

  “Okay.”

  Green broke into a wide smile. “Well, that’s just great. That’s fabulous.”

  The assembled attorneys told me how great it was.

  I glanced at my watch, thinking I could knock off three or four interviews before Lucy’s plane. The more I finished before Lucy’s plane, the more time I’d have for her.

  Truly said, “We don’t know anything about these people. As Stan said, our screeners were able to rule out the obvious cranks, but you never know. We want you to use your best judgment to determine if they have anything of merit to offer.”

  “Judgment. Okay.” I looked at my watch again. “I’ve got it.”

  Truly spread his hands. “And when you’re done with those, of course, there’s more.”

  The lesser attorneys chuckled and someone said, “A lot more.” Even Jonathan Green chuckled at that one.

  Green stood and everyone stood with him, and I was hoping I hadn’t been too obvious with all the watch-glancing. Jonathan came around the table and offered his hand again, and this time when we shook he held it. He said, “I want you to know that I appreciate the good, fast work you’ve done, Mr. Cole. It’s important to me, and it’s important to Teddy, also. I spoke with him yesterday and told him that you’re on the team. You’re going to like Teddy, Mr. Cole. Everyone does.”

  “I’ll look forward.”

  “Good hunting.” He tried to let go of my hand, but this time I held onto him, not realizing that I had. In that instant he smiled warmly and I let go.

  Jonathan Green swept out in a wave, Kerris beside him and the lesser attorneys in his wake, jostling each other to better their positions.

  9

  It was a little before ten when I followed the trail of security men down to my car, then zipped to the Virgin Megastore, bought the new k.d. lang and a collection of Louisiana hits called Cajun Party, then sat in the Megastore’s parking structure and went through the envelope of hotline tipsters. I had almost seven hours until Lucy’s plane; plenty of time for the world’s fastest detective to do his marketing and work his way through a significant number of interviews, especially if he attacked his investigatorial responsibilities in a methodical and professional manner.

  I organized the twenty statement forms by location and decided to start with those people who were closest and work outward.

  I went back into the Virgin, got change from a pretty young woman with a pin through her nose, then found a pay phone on Sunset Boulevard to arrange the interviews. A homeless man with a shopping cart filled with neatly folded cardboard squares was seated beneath the phone, but he graciously moved aside when I told him I needed to make some calls. He said, “Please feel free. It is, after all, a public instrument.” He was wearing spats.

  I fed in a quarter and dialed Mr. C. Bertrand Rujillio, who lived less than five minutes away. A man with a soft, raspy voice answered on the fourth ring and said, “Who is this?”

  “My name is Cole, for the law firm of Jonathan Green. I’m calling for Mr. C. Bertrand Rujillio, please.”

  There was a pause, and then the rasp came back. “Do you have the money?”

  “Is this Mr. Rujillio?”

  Another pause, softer. “The money?”

  “If you mean the reward, that won’t be paid unless the information you provide leads to the arrest and conviction of Ms. Martin’s murderer.” Truly said that the phone bank operators had explained all this. Truly said I wouldn’t have to worry about it. “I need to take your statement, Mr. Rujillio. Can we arrange that?”

  The pause again, and this time the line went dead. I stared at the phone for a couple of seconds, then hung up and scratched C. Bertrand Rujillio’s name off the list.

  The homeless man said, “No luck?”

  I shook my head.

  Of the next three calls, two reached answering machines and one went unanswered. Nobody home. I said, “Damn.”

  The homeless man said, “Four out of four is poor luck.”

  “It can’t last forever.”

  “Will you have many more calls?”

  “A couple.”

  He sighed and looked away.

  Two more calls and two more answering machines and all the nearby people were done. So much for efficiency. So much for my plan of starting in close and working out. I said, “Well, hell.”

  The homeless man said, “Tell me about it.”

  I looked at him. “I had a plan, but no one’s home.”

  He made a sympathetic shrug, then spread his hands. “Flexibility, my friend. Flexibility is the key to all happiness. Remember that.”

  I told him that I would and shuffled through the witness forms and decided to hell with starting close. I called Floyd M. Thomas in Chatsworth. Chatsworth was a good forty minutes away. Floyd M. Thomas answered on the third ring in a fast, nervous voice and told me that he had been expecting my call and that he would be happy to see me. I hung up. The homeless man said, “You see? When we force events we corrupt them. Your flexibility allowed events to unfold in a way that pleases you. We know this as synchronicity.”

  “You’re a very wise man. Thank you.”

  He spread his hands. “To possess great wisdom obliges one to share it. Enjoy.”

  I drove to Chatsworth.

  Floyd Thomas lived in a studio apartment on the second floor of a ten-unit garden apartment just off Nordhoff. Scaffolding was rigged around the front and sides of the place, and Hispanic men in baggy pants were chipping away cracked stucco. Earthquake repairs. Thomas himself was a thin, hunched man in his early fifties who opened his door only wide enough to peer out at me with one eye. When he opened the door a cloud of moist heat oozed out around him like a fog. I slipped in a card. “Elvis Cole. I called you about the Martin murder.”

  He looked at the card without taking it. “Oh, yes. Floyd Thomas saw that. Floyd Thomas saw exactly what happened.” Floyd Thomas. Don’t you love it when they speak of themselves in the third person?

  “That’s great, Mr. Thomas. I’ll need to take your statement.”

  He unlocked four chains and opened the door just wide enough for me to enter. If it was in the high nineties outside, Thomas’s apartment must’ve been a hundred ten with at least three industrial-strength humidifiers pumping out jets of water vapor. Stacks of newspapers and magazines and periodicals sprouted around the room like some out-of-control toadstool jungle, and everything smelled of mildew and body odor. I said, “Hot in here.”

  “Floyd Thomas chills easily.” Sweat leaked down out of his scalp and along the contours of his face and made his thin shirt cling to his skin. Thirty seconds inside his apartment, and I was beginning to sweat, too.

  “So what did you see, Mr. Thomas?” I dug out the form and prepared to take notes.

  He said, “We were over the Encino Reservoir. They were in a long black convertible. A Mercury, I think.”

  I looked at him without writing. “Over the Encino Reservoir?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. I saw them with a woman in their car, and I’m sure it was her. She was struggling.” His eyes shifted side to side as he spoke.

  I put down the pen. “How were you over the reservoir?”

  His eyes narrowed and he looked suspicious. “They’d taken me up in the orb to adjust the chips.”

  “The orb?” I said. “The chips?”

&nb
sp; He pulled back his upper lips so that his gums were exposed. “They force chips into my gums that no one can see. They won’t even show up on X-rays.” He made a tiny laugh. Hee-hee. Like that.

  I said, “You believe you saw Susan Martin in a black Mercury convertible when you were up in the orb.”

  He nodded again. “There were three men in black and they had the woman. Black suits, black ties, black hats, dark glasses. She had seen the orb and the men in black had to make sure she was silenced. They work for the government, don’t you know.”

  “Of course.”

  “When will I get the reward?”

  “We’ll let you know, Mr. Thomas.”

  I thanked Floyd Thomas for his time, then drove to a nearby 7-Eleven and made five more calls, which resulted in three more interviews. Mr. Walter S. Warren of Van Nuys was a retired general contractor who was convinced that his younger brother, Phil, was behind the kidnapping. He revealed that Phil had once eaten in Teddy Martin’s Santa Monica restaurant, had cracked a tooth while enjoying the steak tartare, and had promised to “get that prick” for what had happened to his tooth. Ms. Victoria Bonell, also of Van Nuys, was an extremely thin woman who shared her ranch-style home with seven pug dogs and nine million fleas. Ms. Bonell described an elaborate scenario in which “lipstick lesbians” and “power dykes” were behind Susan Martin’s murder, information she had overheard while having her hair colored at a place called Rosa’s. I dutifully noted these things, then went to see Mrs. Lewis P. Reese of Sherman Oaks, who offered me tea and finger cakes, and who clearly knew nothing of Teddy Martin, Susan Martin, or the kidnapping. She was elderly and lonely, and I stayed twenty minutes longer than necessary, chatting about her dead husband. The detective does his good turn.

  I left Mrs. Reese at twenty minutes after two, bloated on tea cakes, itching from fleas, and smelling of Floyd C. Thomas’s pod-person environment. I thought that if I was going to make any more calls maybe they should be to Jonathan. Maybe I should ask him if he really wanted to spend his money having me interview these people?

  I stopped at a Ralph’s market, bought Tide, Downy Fabric Softener, two Long Island ducklings, enough salad ingredients for a family of nine, and was home by ten minutes after three. The airline told me that Lucy’s flight was expected to arrive on time. I put the ducks into a large pot, covered them with water to thaw, and put the pot in the refrigerator. I showered, shaved, put on fresh clothes, and made a last-minute check of the house. Spotless. Pristine. Free from embarrassing dust bunnies.