“Rita, I’m proud of you. You’ll make a fine lawyer.”
“Ah, Boss, I knew you’d say that. But I haven’t been tested yet, haven’t had to make the hard decisions. I don’t know how far I’d go to protect my clients.” She stopped talking line for a moment, then she said in a low voice, “Like you’re doing for Mr. Rodriguez.”
I thought about the tape. Would I really make it public? Would I do that even to set Rodriguez free? Would I be willing to sacrifice my career, and be convicted of a crime? Did I have that kind of courage?
“Wait for Sol’s call, okay? I’ll check back on the hour.”
“I’m sure he’s okay. He’ll call. Don’t worry.”
I shot north on Firestone and drove past Harvey’s Broiler, the drive-in restaurant where we cruised in our hot cars when we were high school kids. My buddy’s father owned the Chevrolet dealership in Downey, and one night, the kid drove though the drive-in, sitting smugly behind the wheel of a brand new ’54 red and white Corvette. The convertible top was down as he slowly glided between the rows of parked cars. He was like the Pied Piper. Even my date jumped out of my jalopy and chased after him.
I arrived at the South Gate Police Department and walked to the front desk. “Who’s the graveyard shift dispatcher?” I asked the cop working there.
“Who wants to know?”
I handed him my card. “O’Brien, criminal defense lawyer, investigating the Graham homicide.”
“Yeah, I remember you,” he responded, tapping the card on the counter. “Mitch is the graveyard guy.”
“Is he here? I need to see him for a moment.”
The officer glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind him. “His shift’s over. Got off at nine, but let me check, might still be in the locker room.”
He retreated to one of the battered steel desks, pushed an intercom knob and spoke into it. A few seconds later, he came back and said Mitch would be right out.
“You waiting for me?” Mitch looked more like a surfer than a cop. He had on a Hang Ten T-shirt, cut-off Levis, and open-toed sandals. His hair was streaked blond from the sun.
“You’re the officer who took the anonymous call involving the Graham murder?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Got a minute? I need some information.”
“Who in the heck are you?”
I reached out to shake his hand. “Name’s O’Brien. I’m a lawyer now, but used to be on the LAPD, worked night watch out of Newton Street.” I figured I’d toss out the cop routine, maybe develop some rapport-just one of the boys. “I’ve got a couple of questions. Won’t take long. Can I buy you a cup of coffee, some breakfast?” I wanted to get him out of the station before Hodges spotted us talking.
“Newton, huh? Tough division. How long on the job?”
“Since before the Watts Riots.”
“Wow, I was in junior high at the time. Must’ve been rough. What was it like?”
“C’mon, I’ll tell you over breakfast.”
“Sure, why not?”
We took separate cars to the Pancake House, a down-home type of place on Atlantic, south of Firestone. The tired, clapboard restaurant had been there forever. The place had Formica tables, sticky with syrup, the wooden chairs didn’t match, and the overweight waitress was probably named Flo. It seemed all these diners had a waitress named Flo.
The waitress came and poured coffee into cups that were already on the table. “The special this morning is pigs-in-a-blanket, two eggs, dollar-ninety-five,” she said as she passed the menus to us. Mitch ordered the special. She looked at me.
“I’ll just have coffee, Flo,” I said.
“Who’s Flo?”
I laughed at my slip of the tongue. “I’m sorry, Miss.”
“The name’s Jacqueline, but you can call me Jackie.” She turned her head slightly to the side and lifted her chin. “Some people say I look like my namesake, Jackie Kennedy.”
She looked more like Jackie Gleason than Jackie Kennedy. “Yeah, Flo. I can see it, except she has dark hair. Otherwise, dead ringer,” I said.
She smiled and rushed away to fetch the food.
Mitch shook his head and laughed. “Did she say Jackie Kennedy? Jesus.”
“Ah, Mitch, maybe she looked like Jackie O thirty years ago, who knows. I think when we get older, we still see ourselves as we were when we were in our prime. Nothing wrong with that.”
“You’re all right, O’Brien. I like your attitude.”
“Can I ask you about that call?”
“Well, I guess so,” he said, hesitantly. “What do you want to know?”
“Can you describe the voice?”
“Male, adult, no accent or out of the ordinary characteristics, just a voice,” he said slowly, obviously thinking.
I already knew the time that the call was made, around four in the morning, and I had the exact words the caller had said. The information was in the police report, but I confirmed it with Mitch just the same. It would’ve made things easier if the South Gate Police Department had recorded the call, but unlike the LAPD and Sheriff’s Department, they weren’t equipped to do so.
When Jackie arrived with the food, I remained silent. After she left, I asked, “Would you recognize the voice if you heard it again?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He thought for a moment, “I might be imagining this, but the guy had a familiar voice, like I heard it before, just can’t place it. It’d help if he said some of the same words. You know, dead girl-gardener did it, stuff like that.”
Mitch could’ve heard Welch’s speeches on television a few times, and that could be why the voice had sounded familiar. I thought about the tape. I made a mental note to call him at the police station tomorrow night when he’d be on duty and play a small portion of it to see if he could I.D. Welch’s voice as the anonymous caller.
“You must get a lot of calls,” I said.
“Quite a few, but this is the only one I’ve had involving a murder. The caller’s voice is still ringing in my ear. When he said dead girl, I froze for a second. Yeah, if I heard the guy’s voice I’d recognize it. Why? You got a recording of a phone call, or something?”
“Nah, just thinking ahead. Trial coming up, you know.”
“Guess you lawyers have to cover all the bases. I’m thinking of going back to school someday, become a lawyer like you.”
“How long you been on the force, Mitch?”
“Three and a half months. Not counting the academy.”
He wouldn’t make it to four months if Hodges found out he’d talked to me without his authorization. “A regular veteran,” I laughed. “I think it would be a good idea to keep this discussion between ourselves.”
“Think so? Why?”
“Because I’m going to solve the case and when I do, I’ll let you have the collar. Boost your career. Don’t want Hodges hogging all the glory.”
“Thought they already had the guy.”
“Got the wrong guy. Anyway, what do you have to lose? If I find the real killer, you got the collar. If I don’t, well, so what?”
“Nothing to lose. Okay,” he said. “I’ll keep quiet.” We stopped talking for a moment, then he added, “You know, there’s one more thing about the call that night that I just remembered. But I don’t think it’s important.” Mitch took a sip of coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Think I should tell Hodges about it?”
“Mitch, at this point, I wouldn’t tell him anything. He’ll just get pissed and make it hard on you. But, anyway, what about the call?”
“It was long distance. When I picked up the phone, the guy was putting the last of the coins in the slot, quarters. I could hear them drop.” He nodded and took a bite of his sausage. “Now tell me about the riots.”
C H A P T E R 43
I made it back to the office from South Gate in record time. “Sol?” I asked Rita as I opened the door and walked in.
“Sorry,” she said. “Haven’t heard a word.
”
Now I was really worried. I grabbed the phone on Rita’s desk and dialed Mabel at the answering service. No calls. I phoned Joyce, Sol’s secretary. She hadn’t heard from him either. We’d just have to wait.
“I’ve got something else for you to take care of,” I said to her. “Can you check with the phone company, the one that handles the Sacramento area? I need to see if any long distance calls were made to South Gate from a payphone, probably somewhere near the airport. Can’t be too many calls, it was made about four in the morning, the morning after the murder.”
“Okay, Jimmy. I’ll have to use an associate from that area. It’ll take a day or so.”
I put the receiver down and glanced at Rita. “What are you typing?”
“A memo to the landlord.”
“Oh?”
“The air conditioner needs to be repaired; it rattles. Can’t have that kind of racket when we’re interviewing clients,” she said.
Clients. “Okay,” I said and went to my office. I had nothing to do now but wait. So I messed around with the Rodriguez file, looking for some sort of revelation that might come to me. Some speck of information that I may have overlooked. Nothing. An hour later, I asked Rita if she wanted to have lunch. She called Mabel at the answering service and told her to pick up the calls. We’d be back in an hour.
We left for Foxy’s at noon. We had a pleasant lunch, hamburger combos for both of us. It was good to laugh a little and to let the tension evaporate. Rita was wide-eyed and excited about going to a lunch with an older man, she said. And she was excited about becoming a criminal defense lawyer eventually.
We returned from lunch at one-ten. Rita went to the bank to pick up the signature stamp, and I called the answering service again.
“Any calls, Mabel?”
“Just one, long distance,” she said. “I’ll read it: ‘I’m in Las Vegas, call as soon as possible.’” She rattled off the number. “It’s from Sol Silverman.”
I immediately dialed the number. Perhaps Joyce was right. Sol is in Las Vegas, so maybe he has a lead on Kruger.
“Good afternoon, the Sahara Hotel,” a perky female voice said.
“Sol Silverman, please.”
“One moment, please. Mr. Silverman is in the casino. I’ll connect you now.”
I waited less than fifteen seconds and Sol came on the line.
“Jimmy, my boy, how you doing?”
“Jesus, Sol! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“Where in the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m doing your work, Jimmy. That’s where the hell I’ve been.”
“Christ, you could’ve let me know.”
“What? You’re my Jewish mother now? Shut up and listen.”
“Okay, Sol. I just-”
“Forget it. Now listen, you’ve got to get up here, fast.”
“You got a line on Kruger?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Joe Sica’s brother, Freddie, found him. He’s bringing up some boys from L.A. and they’re going to snatch him tonight when he shows up at his job. When they nab him, they want us here, in town.”
The butterflies in my stomach were beating their wings to the 1812 Overture, fireworks and all. “I’m on my way.”
“Better go pack a bag first. Don’t know how long we’ll have to hang around. They’re going to take him to a secret location, and then they’ll call us.”
“Where will I meet you?”
“Here at the Sahara. Johnny Hughes, head casino guy, comp’d our rooms. You won’t need to stop at the bank to cash a check. Everything’s on the house. You’ll only need money if you want to gamble.”
Gamble? Was he nuts? My whole life was a gamble.
I looked at my watch. “It’s almost two. I’m leaving now. I’ll see you up there at about six, six-thirty.”
Before hanging up, I told Sol about the tape. I wanted him to listen to it. Maybe he’d pick up a new slant, the way a word was said, something like that, maybe something I missed. Maybe I could call Mitch the cop from the hotel and play the tape.
Rita returned and I briefly explained the situation.
“Don’t worry, Boss. I’ll run the store while you’re gone.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a fantastic job.”
She flashed a sunny smile, but then a cloud darkened her pretty features. “Please be careful, Jimmy.”
I shot home, tossed the tape recorder and a few clothes into a duffel bag and was on the road in minutes.
It’s a three hundred mile drive to Las Vegas through the blazing hot Mojave Desert. I felt uneasy about driving that far when the temperature on the highway was over a hundred degrees. I stopped to check the oil and water at the Union Oil station before charging out on the Interstate.
The 605 ended at the San Bernardino Freeway and I headed east toward Barstow. The Corvette ran smooth. The temperature needle stayed in the green, but I kept the speed below eighty. Why take chances? I told myself. If I kept the speed down, everything would be okay.
The Cajon Pass loomed before me, a five thousand foot summit. My car climbed steadily, reaching the high point of the pass then rolled smoothly down the backside of the mountain. The temperature needle stayed in the green. I shot past Hesperia, Apple Valley, and Victorville.
In Barstow, I made a pit stop at a Standard Oil station. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Big Jake’s Caddie idling at the curb as the attendant filled the Vette’s gas tank. I pulled out of the station and saw a sign on top of the Barstow First National Bank building, 103?. It could’ve been worse; it could’ve been 104.
I pulled back onto the highway and in about forty-five minutes, I raced past a sign on the side of the road that read, “Zzyzx Road, One Mile.” Zzyzx, what in the hell did that mean? In the rearview mirror, I caught a momentary glimpse of Jake’s car darting in, out and around other cars about a quarter-mile behind me. It felt good knowing he was back there.
I pulled under the elaborate portico of the Sahara at exactly six-thirty. Valet parking guys were all over the car.
Just as I climbed out, Big Jake’s Caddie pulled in behind my Vette. I waved off the parking guys and walked over to him.
Jake rolled down the window. “Karadimos’s goons would’ve reported to him by now.”
“Reported what?”
“He knows you’re in Vegas and he knows why,” Jake said.
I didn’t like the sound of that.
“I’ll have to warn Freddie. Karadimos is sending hoods lookin’ to shanghai Kruger. Could be trouble.”
“I thought the big guns back east didn’t allow gang violence in Vegas-bad for the tourist trade.”
“That’s just PR crap,” he said. “See ya around, O’Brien.”
“You’re not coming in?”
“Against the rules. I’m in the book.”
“I understand.” I said. “Thanks for the escort.”
The “book” was a list of gangsters that the Nevada State Gaming Commission circulated to all the gambling establishments in the state. No individual listed was allowed to enter any hotel with a casino, at least not through the front door.
I walked back to my car, still parked in front of the hotel, and took out a dollar to tip the parking valet, standing there at attention. The kid shook his head.
“Can’t take it, Mr. O’Brien,” he said.
Mr. O’Brien? Guess I was expected.
C H A P T E R 44
“Yes sir, we’ve been waiting for you,” the parking guy said. “The boss says you’re to get the treatment.”
“The treatment?”
“High-roller treatment. Full comp, friend of one of our honored guests, Mr. Silverman. By the way, Mr. Silverman said to tell you he’ll call your room after you get settled. He also said to tell you, ‘No word yet.’ I guess you know what that means.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Here, let me take your luggage, sir.”
He r
eached out for my duffel bag. I wasn’t about to part with the bag, not with the recorder in it. “Don’t bother. I’ll carry it myself.”
A blast of cold air hit me in the face when the valet opened the hotel door. The contrast of the scorching heat outside and the hotel’s artificially conditioned air perfectly mirrored the contrast between my real life and the fantasy world I now entered.
He ran to the registration desk to get my room key while I watched the patrons wandering about without a care. Some were dressed in formal evening wear, others in terrycloth robes and swimming suits. Women who looked as if they belonged on the cover of Vogue strolled arm in arm with men whose pictures would have been more at home on a wall at the post office.
“Your key, sir,” the valet said. “It’s a twenty-two suite. Compliments of the hotel, friend of Mr. Silverman,” he said again.
After he explained how to get to the room, I took a private VIP elevator to top floor. I opened the door, and the polished marble entry of the suite gleamed in the sunlight that pervaded the room. The west wall was all glass and the view was stunning. I held my breath for an instant and sidled into the room. A full-size bar that would rival the one at the Bistro Gardens in Beverly Hills lined the north wall. Built into the other wall were shelves that held a large TV and a stereo.
I dropped my duffel on the couch and walked into one of the two adjoining bedrooms. I wasn’t surprised to see an oversized fruit basket filled with all kinds of goodies and a bottle of Dom Perignon chilling in an ice bucket on the table.
I expected that, but what I didn’t expect was the ravishing blonde who sat on the round bed, her long and gorgeous legs crossed.
“Hi, I’m Candi,” she said.
“I bet you are,” I replied.
She had on a black, low-cut number with spaghetti straps that strained under the stress of the load. “The hotel sent me,” she said. “Thought you might be lonely. Can I fix you a drink, Jimmy?”
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