Sunset Express

by Robert Crais

  Lyle laced his fingers and leaned toward me, getting down to serious journalistic business. “How is it that one man working alone was able to uncover these things when the entire Los Angeles police department working for three months couldn’t?”

  “I followed a tip that Jonathan Green’s office received on the hotline. If LAPD would’ve gotten the tip, they would’ve made the same discoveries, and probably sooner.”

  Lyle chuckled good-naturedly. “Sounds like you’re being modest to me.” The chuckle vanished and Lyle turned serious again, cocking an eyebrow to let everyone know just how serious he was. “Tell us, was it dangerous?”

  “It’s just meeting people and asking questions, Lyle. It’s no more dangerous than crossing the street.”

  Lyle made the chuckle again, then twisted around to smile at Marcy Bernside. “Marce, I’ll tell you, I’ve never met the real McCoy who liked to blow his own horn, have you?”

  Marcy Bernside said, “Never, Lyle. Real men let their deeds speak for themselves.”

  Lyle twisted back to me. “Theodore Martin has proclaimed his innocence from the beginning. Many people are now saying that your discovery proves him right.”

  “It’s another piece of the puzzle.”

  Lyle leaned toward me, serious and professional. “Many people are also saying that the LAPD botched this investigation, and now they’re unwilling to admit their mistake.”

  “LAPD is the finest police force in the nation, Lyle.”

  Lyle nodded as if I’d just laid out the Unified Field Theory. “Well, sir, we’ve checked into your background and learned that you certainly have an excellent reputation, even among members of the police department and the district attorney’s office.”

  “Those guys. Did they really say that?”

  Lyle nodded gravely. “Personal News Eight is told that this isn’t your first high-profile case. Apparently, you’ve worked in a confidential capacity for some very high-profile celebrities.”

  “I never discuss my clients, Lyle. That’s why it’s called ‘confidential.’ ”

  Lyle squinted approvingly. “A man of integrity.” He gave an encouraging smile. “Most of us see private eyes on television or in movies but never get a chance to meet the real thing. Tell me, is it as exciting as it seems?”

  “No.”

  Lyle laughed. They paid him seven hundred thousand dollars a year for that laugh, and I wondered if he practiced it. “Looks like you’re a truthful man, as well. How does it feel to be compared to that famous, fictional Los Angeles detective, Raymond Marlowe?”

  Marcy said, “Philip Marlowe.”

  Lyle looked confused and twisted to look at her again. I guess she’d said her bit and he hadn’t expected her to speak again. “What was that, Marce?”

  “Raymond Chandler created Philip Marlowe.”

  Lyle laughed again, but this time the laugh was strained. Guess you weren’t supposed to correct the anchor while you were on the air. He twisted back to the camera and said, “Well, it looks as if Los Angeles has found its very own Sherlock Homes, and, unfortunately, that’s all the time we have for this segment.” Lyle Stodge offered his hand to me, and we shook as if he had just awarded me the Congressional Medal of Honor. “Mr. Cole, it’s been my privilege to meet you. Congratulations, and thank you for taking the time to talk with us.”

  “Thanks, Lyle. It’s been personal.”

  The floor director raised both hands. “In promo. We’re clear.”

  Lyle Stodge glared at Marcy Bernside. “You fucking cunt! Don’t you ever do that to me again on air!”

  Marcy Bernside gave him the finger again. “It’s Holmes, moron. Sherlock Holmes. With an L.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Sure.”

  Kara Sykes unclipped my lapel mike and helped me off the set. No one gave me a second glance.

  We followed Kara Sykes back to the lobby, then left the building and walked to the car. Lucy hugged my arm. “That was almost as much fun as Beverly Hills.”

  “Un.”

  She stepped back and looked at me. She cocked her head. “Are you okay, Studly?”

  I said, “Luce?”

  “Mm?”

  “If Truly wants me to do another of these, I’m going to shoot him to death. Will you represent me?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Oh, you know that I will, hon. You shoot him all you like.”

  “Thanks, Luce.”

  17

  Lucy, Ben, and I spent the next two days seeing Disneyland and Malibu and the Griffith Observatory. We saw Ronald Colman’s house. We shopped in Beverly Hills. I called Jonathan’s office twice each day, asking to speak with either Jonathan or Truly, but neither was ever available. Busy, they said. In meetings. No one returned my calls.

  I stayed away from my office because of the press. The answering machine was flooded with so many interview requests that I deleted them without playing them. The eat-me lady called back twice.

  Elliot Truly’s assistant phoned to arrange three more television interviews and two appearances on local talk radio. It’s important to Jonathan, she said. We need our side of it known, she said. I asked her about Pritzik and Richards. I said that I wanted to know what was going on. She said that she would talk to Jonathan and get back to me. She didn’t.

  News reports questioning LAPD’s investigative techniques appeared with greater frequency. A summer marine layer moved in, filling the morning sky with an oppressive layer of dark clouds. Sometimes they burned off by noon, but not always.

  On the morning of the third day, Peter Alan Nelsen took Ben to spend the day on the set of his new movie and Lucy was dressing for her second meeting when the phone rang and Elliot Truly said, “We’re meeting with Teddy Martin at ten this morning in the Men’s Central Jail. Teddy wants to meet you, and Jonathan would like you there. Can you make it?”

  I said, “What in hell is going on, Truly? How come no one returns my calls?”

  “You’re not the only investigator we have on this, Cole. We’ve been swamped. Jonathan’s working sixteen hours a day.”

  “I’m an investigator. I investigate. If you don’t want me to investigate anymore, fine.” I was feeling sullen and petulant. Mr. Maturity.

  Truly said, “Look, talk about it with Jonathan at the jail. One other thing. Jonathan’s having a get-together at his home tonight, people who’ve been behind Teddy through this thing, some press people, like that. Jonathan personally asked me to invite you. You can bring a date if you want.”

  I cupped the phone and looked at Lucy. She was standing in the kitchen, dressed and Guccied and ready for business, eating peach yogurt. “Would you like to go to a party at Jonathan Green’s house tonight?”

  Lucy blinked at me and the spoon froze between cup and mouth. “Are you serious?”

  “Truly just asked.”

  She shook her head, the spoon forgotten. “I don’t have anything to wear to meet Jonathan Green.”

  I uncupped the phone. “Forget it, Truly. We can’t make it.”

  The yogurt cup hit the floor and Lucy grabbed my arm. “I didn’t say that! I’ll get something!”

  “My mistake, Truly. We’ll be there.”

  Truly said, “Great. I’ll see you at the jail. Ten o’clock.”

  I smiled at Lucy. “How about that? You’ll get to meet Jonathan.”

  Her eyes were glazed and distant. “Ohmigod, what am I going to wear?”

  “Wear what you have on. You look great.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I’m going to meet Jonathan Green.”

  I said, “You’ve got time. Go to your meeting, then go into Beverly Hills. You’ll find something.”

  Lucy looked miserable. “I wouldn’t know where to go. It could take days.”

  “Call Jodi. Jodi can tell you.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened and she latched onto my arm again. “That’s right. Jodi can save me!” I guess these things are relative.

  Lucy set about arranging her sal
vation, and I drove down to my office. I hadn’t been there in three days and wanted to check my mail and return calls. There weren’t any news vans parked at the curb. Maybe my fifteen minutes of fame was over. Live in hope.

  I locked the door in the outer office, then answered mail. Most of the mail was bills, but even World Famous Private Eyes have to pay their Visa charges. When the bills were done I was getting ready to return calls when the phone rang and I answered, “Elvis Cole Detective Agency. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep. Beep.” The detective as Natural Born Wit.

  There was a pause, and then a muffled woman’s voice said, “You’re not a machine.” The eat-me lady.

  “Who is this?”

  “That weevil-dicked fuck James Lester is fulla shit. You find out about Stuart Langolier in Santa Barbara.” She was speaking through cloth, but I’d heard the voice before.

  “El-ay-gee-oh …” Spelling it. “No, wait … Capital el-ay-en-gee-oh-el-eye-ee-are.”

  I said, “Jonna?”

  There was another pause, and then Jonna Lester hung up. I listened to the dial tone for several seconds, then called an investigator friend of mine named Toni Abatemarco who works at a large agency in Santa Barbara. Toni had worked as an investigator since the day she was old enough to get the license and had hammered out twelve-hour days for years, building her small agency into one of Santa Barbara’s finest. Then she met a guy, fell head over heels, and decided that she wanted a small herd of children. She sold the small agency to a larger outfit, had four little girls, and now worked three days a week for the organization that had bought her. She loved investigating, she loved being a mom, and the little girls often accompanied her to the office. They would probably grow up to be investigators, also.

  I gave Toni the name, asked her to see what she could find, and then I went to jail.

  The Men’s Central Jail is an anonymous building behind Central Station, less than ten minutes from the Criminal Courts Building in downtown L.A. I parked in a neat, modern underground parking structure, then walked up steps to a very nice plaza. Nicely dressed people were sipping lattes and strolling about the plaza, and no one seemed to mind that the plaza adjoined a place housing felons and gangbangers and the wild men of an otherwise civil society. Perhaps because this is L.A. and the jail is so nice. There’s a fountain in the plaza, and it’s very nice, too.

  Truly was waiting for me in the jail lobby. “Jonathan and the others are in with Teddy. Come on. I’ve checked us in.”

  “I’m carrying a gun.”

  “Okay. Sure.” Like Terminal Island, you can’t bring guns into the interview room or the holding areas.

  We crossed the lobby past the deputies at the information desk to the gun locker, then went through the metal detector and flashed our IDs at the security gate. The guard there sits behind bulletproof glass and controls the metal doors that let you into or out of the interview area. He’s the last guard that you’ll see in the jail who has guns. He has shotguns, pistols, tasers, and CS gas. Preparation is everything.

  The guard threw switches and the metal door crawled to the side. We stepped through into a room like a gray air lock, and then the door closed. When the door behind us was closed, the door in front of us opened and we stepped through into a large room sporting two long tables lined by metal stools. The tables were narrow and dark, sort of like public-school cafeteria tables, only with low vertical partitions running lengthwise down their centers. Inmates in orange jumpsuits sat on stools along the inside of each table, staring across at the attorneys who sat opposite them. The vertical partition was supposed to make it hard for illegal contraband or weapons to be passed from one to another. Sometimes it worked. Another deputy sat behind glass in the far corner, keeping track of who came and who left and making sure that no one was stabbed to death. Sometimes that worked, too.

  Everyday dirtbags had to sit in the big room at the long tables and talk about their cases with no privacy, but high-profile defendants like Teddy Martin rated a private interview room. I followed Truly along a short hall, then into a room that was not dissimilar to the one in which I had seen LeCedrick Earle at Terminal Island, only older and uglier and smelling of urine.

  Jonathan Green said, “Here he is now.”

  The interview room was small and crowded. Stan Kerris, Green’s chief of security, was leaning against the glass with his Fred Munster arms crossed. Jonathan Green was seated at a worktable with one of the lesser attorneys and Teddy Martin. I had never met Teddy Martin before, but I knew him from his picture. Teddy Martin had a round, boyish face, a steeply receding hairline, and pale, soft skin. Theodore Martin looked like someone’s younger brother grown older; a kind of nonguy who just happened to have built six family-owned hot dog stands into an empire. Truly said, “Elvis Cole, this is Teddy Martin. Teddy, the man.”

  Teddy Martin came around the table and offered his hand. He said, “I don’t know what to say except thank you.” His eyes were wide and kind of frantic. “I did not kill my wife. I loved her, Cole. I tried to save her, do you see? They’re blaming this thing on me, and it feels like you’re the first one who’s done anything to help me.”

  “I’m glad we could finally meet.” He gripped my hand with both of his and pumped hard, as if hanging onto me was the most important thing in his life.

  Green said, “Theodore.”

  Teddy Martin seemed to realize what he was doing and flushed. “Sorry.” He let go and went back to the table.

  I said, “Why did you have me come down here?”

  Green patted Teddy on the shoulder, much the way that he had patted me. “Twofold. Teddy very much wanted to meet you, and I’ve arranged a press conference to take place in the plaza. The core of the team will be there, and I’d like you to be there, too.”

  I looked at Kerris. The empty eyes were unimpressed. “Press conferences are fine, Jonathan, but what about the investigation? I’ve called you guys five times, and nobody returns my calls.”

  Jonathan Green’s face stiffened ever so slightly, as if he wasn’t used to being questioned and didn’t like it.

  Truly said, “We’re swamped. I told you.”

  Jonathan waved his hand, cutting off Truly. “What would you like to do?”

  “Follow up Pritzik and Richards. Run down more hotline tips.”

  Kerris shifted against the glass. “I’ve got other people on Pritzik and Richards. I can give you all the hotline tips you want.”

  Jonathan made the hand wave again. “Let’s not waste Mr. Cole’s time with that.” He left Teddy and sat on the edge of the table.

  I said, “The police and the feds are looking for Pritzik and Richards. We can launch a collaborative effort with them. The cops aren’t our enemy.”

  Jonathan spread his hands. “If you want to work with the police, fine. If it helps us free Teddy any sooner, that’s all to the good.”

  I looked from Jonathan to Kerris to Truly. They were staring at me. The lesser attorney was staring at me, too. I said, “There’s something else. A woman I believe to be Jonna Lester called me. She said that James Lester was lying. She said that I should check into someone named Stuart Langolier.”

  Jonathan nodded. “By all means.” He looked at his watch. “We really should be going now. Can’t keep our friends in the press waiting.”

  We said our good-byes to Theodore Martin and walked out. Jonathan walked beside me. When we were out the door and down the hall, Jonathan said, “A proper criminal defense effort is an enormous managerial task, akin to staging the Normandy invasion or launching the Gulf War. All the pieces will come together. Trust me on that.”

  I nodded.

  “Elliot tells me you’ll be joining our little soiree this evening.”

  “That’s right. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “I understand you have a lady friend.”

  “She’s an attorney, also. She’s excited about meeting you.”

  “Well, who can blame her?” Jonathan made
a little laugh. “Ha-ha.” I glanced at Truly and Truly was nodding. Serious.

  Jonathan said, “We’ll discuss the team’s progress and direction. I want you to be a part of that meeting. I don’t want you to feel left out.”

  I said, “You don’t have to handle me, Jonathan.”

  “I know that, son. I respect you.”

  I recovered my gun, then we stepped out into the plaza and a wall of people and cameras and microphones surged forward and enveloped us. I thought that maybe this wasn’t the jail anymore and maybe I wasn’t me. Maybe I’d stepped through Calvin and Hobbes’s transmogrifier and I was no longer a detective and Green was no longer a lawyer. Maybe we had just discovered life on Titan. Maybe we had found the cure for AIDS and were about to tell the world. Why else would so many people be here shouting questions?

  Jonathan went to the microphones. “We’re not here to answer questions, but I want to make a short statement.” He spoke in his normal voice, and the crowd shushed itself to hear him.

  Jonathan’s expression turned somber, and then he looked at me and again rested his hand on my shoulder. He said, “As you all know, three days ago Mr. Cole found important evidence that both the police department and the district attorney’s office failed to uncover, evidence that we believe supports our client’s claim of innocence. Both the police department and the district attorney’s office promised to evaluate this evidence, and act on it, but they have not.” He let go of my shoulder, and the somber expression turned fierce. “We demand that the police stop their foot-dragging and issue immediate arrest warrants for Stephen Pritzik and Elton Richards. Concurrently with this, and in consideration of the state’s weakened case, I hereby request that the district attorney stop this injustice, admit the failure of his investigation, and dismiss all charges against Theodore Martin. In lieu of that, we have filed a motion with the bench to set bail so that Mr. Martin might be released.”

  Reporters in the back were tossing out questions as the reporters in front pushed their microphones even closer.

  Jonathan’s voice grew, and the fierce expression became outraged. He grabbed my shoulder again, and all the grabbing was making me uncomfortable. “The tyranny of evil men cannot be hidden from the light of truth! We have not only uncovered evidence of a specific crime, but also of gross incompetence, negligence, and a police department all too willing to obfuscate the truth in an attempt to hide their own shortcomings.” Still cameras were clicking and videocameras were panning, and they seemed to be panning toward me.