Guilty or Else jo-1

by Jeff Sherratt

  “Oh yes, the police brought him in. Are you a relative?” The woman studied me with raised eyebrows. “Or an associate?”

  I handed her my business card. “I’m a lawyer. I need to see him.”

  She sighed. “Of course. He hasn’t been assigned a room yet; still in surgery.” She leaned over the counter and pointed to the right. “You can wait in the waiting room down the hall. I’ll tell the authorities you’re here.”

  I hadn’t eaten anything since the previous night. “Do you have a cafeteria around here?”

  “Yes, go to your left and follow the arrows painted on the floor.”

  The hamburger was dry and lifeless. The patty must have been made with oatmeal and lard. The fries were limp, the coffee cold and weak. Welcome back to reality. I thought about checking to see if my Corvette had turned into a pumpkin.

  After finishing my meal, I wandered to the waiting room and browsed through a six-month-old issue of Modern Maternity. It was that or a medical journal with no pictures.

  Time passed slowly, but eventually a man in a wrinkled brown suit came in. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie loose. He looked like a cop who could use some sleep.

  “You the lawyer?” the man said. “Here to see Cohn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Anderson, homicide, sheriff’s department.”

  I stood and handed him my credentials. He took a quick glance at my bar card and gave it back. “Follow me,” he said. “You’ll only have a few minutes.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Doc says critical. Might not make it.”

  I entered the small, cold intensive care unit. There were six beds lined up against the wall. Big Jake lay in the second bed from the door, an array of tubes stuck in him, supplying painkillers and life-giving fluids, I figured. Yet they had him cuffed to the bed rail. It seemed absurd. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  The cop stared at Jake over my shoulder. I turned to him. “Detective Anderson, this conversation is privileged. I could use a little privacy.”

  He backed away. I leaned close to Jake’s face.

  In a raspy voice barely above a whisper he said, “Sorry kid, I let you down.”

  “What happened?”

  “Surprised us, shotguns…one guy had an automatic rifle. Door burst open, shots fired…everybody ducked, dropped to the floor. Kruger…tied in a chair, I tried to block the shots, got hit a few times…went down. Kruger nailed. Ten seconds…all it took-” Jake’s body convulsed. He grimaced, coughed, and let out a deep moan.

  “Take it easy, Jake.”

  He tried to roll on his side but the handcuffs held him tight. “You were right, O’Brien…about Kruger. He knew what was goin’ on.”

  “Kruger talked?”

  “With a little…persuasion.”

  My mind reeled. “What’d he say?”

  “Welch and Karadimos…in business together. Drugs, money laundering, phony companies…teen prostitutes. Welch got Karadimos a bank license to handle the cash. Has some stooge in Downey front it for him-”

  He coughed again, twice. “Has a place in Mexico, farm or ranch, something like that. Grows cantaloupes, front for drugs, has partners down there. They hollow some of the cantaloupes…fill ’em with smack. Karadimos and Welch…they got an import company in the states. They import the cantaloupes.”

  Big Jake paused, closed his eyes, and swallowed hard a couple of times. “Yeah, okay, we’re bad guys…I’ll admit, but this asshole…rotten, like his cantaloupes.”

  “Did he tell you why they killed Gloria?”

  “She got whacked…had information, papers, files, records. Payoffs to her boss and other pols. She was the bag lady, carried the cash to Welch and his buddies. She…stole from them. Skimmed a little off the top, got caught, threatened to ratfink on Karadimos and Welch. She was gonna…call the cops.”

  “What happened then?”

  “After the fundraiser, Kruger…he was supposed to work her over and get the files. They figured she had the papers at her house. One of Welch’s workers saw her take a big aluminum case from the office…Friday night.” Jake arched his back when another wave of pain hit.

  “Funny thing though,” he gasped. “Kruger said he didn’t fly…plane back that Saturday night. But Karadimos got the fuel bill and called him Monday about the flight… Kruger knew he was in trouble. Figured the Greek wouldn’t believe him. So…he took it on the lam.”

  I could see Big Jake was starting to falter; his eyelids were closing and his voice grew weaker. But I needed more information.

  Detective Anderson put his hand on my shoulder. “Time’s up.”

  “I have one more question-”

  “C’mon, let’s go.” He pulled me back, but I twisted free.

  “Jake, can you hear me? Did they find the files?”

  His monitor beeped rapidly. The nurse rushed into the room. “Please, you people must go,” she ordered.

  “O’Brien, the guy’s dying. Leave him alone.” Anderson grabbed my shoulder again.

  I turned to leave. “No,” Jake boomed. I dashed to his side and leaned down again. He whispered in my ear.

  “Kruger never went over there. After the murder cops was all over the place. And Monday he did a rabbit.”

  Anderson pulled me away, but when I got to the door, I turned back again. The nurse hovered over Jake. His eyes were shut, his breathing shallow and intermittent.

  “So long, friend.” I hoped he heard me.

  As I started through the door I heard Jake say, “Be careful, Jimmy. I won’t be there…to protect you.” I stopped for a beat, then left.

  C H A P T E R 47

  I left the hospital, my nerves stretched so tight that I was afraid I’d snap. I walked slowly to my Corvette. But before I got in, I walked to the edge of the deserted parking lot and looked out across the city, thinking about Jake. He took four bullets trying to keep Kruger alive for me. Did I feel any guilt? No, I thought, after mulling it over. I felt a deep sorrow for him, of course; but he had chosen his life, a life of violence.

  I reflected on Kruger’s confession, trying to make sense of it. The bank that Kruger told him about had to be the one that Joyce had mentioned: the Mutual something or other. The import company could only be Hartford Commodities. The stooge, the front man for these companies, had to be Thomas French.

  I knew it would be impossible to prove in court that Karadimos had an overwhelming motive to murder Gloria based on Jake’s statements. Even if Big Jake lived, he wouldn’t testify. He’d be liable for all kinds of charges if he did. I couldn’t use his testimony anyway. Kruger’s statements were obtained under duress and a judge wouldn’t allow them, even under the dying-declaration exception to the hearsay rule. No, I wouldn’t be able to call Jake to the stand.

  That wasn’t the worst of it. In his confession to Big Jake, Kruger stated he hadn’t flown the plane back from Sacramento that night. He had no reason to lie. So that meant I didn’t have anything to tie the flight to the motive, and I had no leads as to who flew the plane that night. Anyway, without Vogel the mechanic, I couldn’t even prove that the plane had been flown.

  I climbed in the Vette, started the engine, and eased out of the lot. In downtown Las Vegas, I drove the full length of Fremont Street. Vegas Vic waved his neon arm slowly from side to side. I waved back. “Adios, Vic,” I said as I passed the Golden Nugget, heading for Highway 93 and home.

  At Baker, I turned into the Standard Oil gas station, filled the Corvette with Ethyl, and went inside the attached cafe for a cup of coffee. The place was packed. It was easy to tell the difference between the motorists going to Vegas and the ones returning. Those on the way were full of life, happy and joking. The poor folks heading home were glum and ordered aspirin with their coffee.

  I got back onto the highway, wondering about Gloria Graham’s file. If Karadimos didn’t have it, and the police hadn’t found it at her house, where could it be? She hadn’t sent the papers to Bonnie Munson, he
r friend in Kansas. Bonnie would’ve told me if she had. She could not have rented a safety deposit box. She took the documents out of Welch’s office Friday night after the banks were closed, and banks weren’t open on weekends.

  I’d run out of ideas and didn’t know what to do next. I turned on the radio and twisted the dial until I picked up a Barstow station that played standards from the ’30s and ’40s. I was about to turn it off when “Easy Street” came on. The line at the end of the song summed up exactly how I felt.

  About ten miles east of Barstow, I saw flashing lights strung across the highway in the distance. I started to slow. A sign said, Agricultural Inspection Station, One Mile Ahead.

  I rolled to a stop under the station canopy and rolled down the window. A female inspector leaned down. She had a pretty face, a warm smile, and even though she wore a drab green outfit, I could see she had a nice figure. Even in my dark mood, it felt nice to be greeted by a government official like her.

  “Welcome to California, sir,” she said. “Where are you coming from?”

  “Las Vegas.”

  “Are you carrying any fruits, vegetables, trees, or plants?”

  “Nope.”

  The inspector stepped back and motioned for me to move forward. I gave her my best winning smile, but she didn’t jump in the car with me.

  I edged slowly back into traffic. Off to the side of the highway, three CHP cruisers stood ready to charge out and run down anybody attempting to smuggle a Florida orange into the Golden State.

  I made my way through Barstow, keeping my speed at forty miles per hour as I drove down Main Street. It seemed like walking after traveling at seventy on the highway. I passed the Red-Spot Cafe and thought about stopping for a hamburger, but I wasn’t hungry.

  The good-looking inspector at the Agricultural Inspection Station played into my mind. She had long black hair, high cheekbones, and beautiful dark eyes. She spoke with a southern accent that I was couldn’t place: Georgia, Arkansas, something like that. She asked about fruits, she pronounced vegetables with only two syllables, and when she’d said-

  It came to me like an epiphany. I saw white, almost a flash. I stomped on the gas and roared through town. She’d said trees!

  I pictured Rodriguez’s shovel lying on the grass at Gloria’s house next to the patches of dirt where he’d dug three holes for the trees, which he’d later moved. Gloria could’ve buried the files in one of the holes in a waterproof case. A case like the one filled with money that she’d sent to Bonnie Munson. I was sure of it. That’s why she wanted the trees moved. It gave her an opportunity to bury the package in one of the holes Rodriguez had dug. She could do it without anyone noticing.

  I knew I couldn’t sleep until I checked out my theory. I wrapped my mind around the idea and thought about it some more. Yeah, it was a long shot, but I had to find out tonight if she’d actually buried the files there.

  I pulled up to the curb in front of Gloria’s house on Rosewood Avenue after midnight. The police tape was still stretched around the perimeter. There was no moon out and nothing moved in the dark silence; no dogs barked, no footsteps, no late night TV-nothing, just dead quiet.

  Switching on the small emergency flashlight that I kept in my car, I swept a dim cone of light around the backyard. I found the shovel and began to dig. I picked the middle patch of dirt for no logical reason. After digging down four feet, I gave up. I then started on the bare circle of dirt to my left. At two feet, I hit something solid. My heart raced.

  I dropped to my knees, took a deep breath and held it. I reached into the hole and dug with my hands like a dog after a bone. I tried to free the case. It wouldn’t budge. Digging frantically, I finally loosened the case and pulled it out.

  After wiping the dirt off it, I sat the aluminum briefcase upright on the grass. I jammed the shovel’s edge into the seam where the two halves came together. It popped open.

  I knelt down next to the case, which overflowed with documents. Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I rifled through the papers, spilling some on the grass. “Holy Christ,” I said out loud.

  I set the flashlight on the grass, scrambling to scoop up the papers and put them back in the case. I didn’t need to study the files right now. I knew what I had found. I felt like Alfred Nobel. I had discovered dynamite!

  “Freeze, asshole,” a voice said. “Don’t make a sound.” I felt a gun barrel jammed against the back of my head and heard the ratcheting sound of a hammer being cocked.

  C H A P T E R 48

  “What the hell!” I shouted

  “I said keep quiet,” His voice was guttural and harsh. “I’ll drop you right here, motherfucker!”

  “Okay, okay. I’m cool.”

  “Stand up.”

  With my hands in the air, I struggled to my feet. The gunman rammed the barrel into the small of my back. “Pick up the case and walk slowly to the car. It’s on the street.”

  I bent over, closed the briefcase, and tucked it under my arm. We left the backyard and moved down the driveway, then marched toward the blue Buick sedan parked a couple of houses away.

  “You’re not a cop,” I said.

  “No such luck, O’Brien.”

  “You know me? Karadimos sent you?”

  “We’ve been following you since Vegas.”

  “Vegas?”

  “Almost lost you when you stomped on it in Barstow,” the gunman said, “but the Buick Electra with 455 cubes and a McCulloch supercharger held its own against the Vette. Too bad you have a small block in your machine. Should’ve coughed up a few bucks more and got the big 427.”

  “Lousy gas mileage,” I said.

  “You’re a riot, O’Brien.”

  Christ, this was no time to chat about cars. I broke out in a sweat and tried to think of a way out, but nothing came. This wasn’t like TV or the movies; this was real. If I made a move on the guy, he’d shoot me dead before I could turn halfway around.

  As we approached the Buick a guy the size of the Goodyear blimp jumped from the driver’s seat. Another gorilla climbed out of the passenger seat. They called him Angelo. I remembered Jake mentioning Angelo, said he was one of Karadimos’s best persuaders.

  From their conversation I learned that the other two were Gus and Lenny. Angelo looked like a persuader, mean and ugly with a nose spread all over his face and small knotty protrusions on his forehead. He’d been a professional fighter once, and I had no doubt he could hurt people without a care. I recognized Angelo. He was the goon who followed me around in the Buick.

  Lenny took the case from me and placed it in the Buick. Angelo patted me down. He took the car keys from my pocket and tossed them to Lenny. “Get that Vette out of here, ’fore someone sees it.”

  “Hey, you sonofabitch, nobody drives my car.” Angelo hit me in the right kidney. I doubled over.

  “No one asked your permission.”

  My Corvette disappeared down the street. I wondered if I’d ever see it again. Gus, the gunman, backed up, still covering me, and opened the rear door.

  “Get in, O’Brien,” he said. “Angelo, you’re driving. I’ll watch him.”

  We climbed in. Angelo, the heavyweight, started the car, drove around the block, and turned right on Firestone Boulevard. We pulled up next to a phone booth at a closed gas station.

  “Tell the boss about the briefcase, Angelo,” Gus said without taking his eyes off me.

  Angelo made the call and was back in the Buick in less than a minute. “The Greek wants us to take O’Brien to the yard. He’ll meet us there.”

  “Looks like you’re going to taste a little garbage. You like rotten cantaloupes, O’Brien?” Gus asked.

  I clenched my fists. “Yummy,” I said.

  About fifteen minutes later we pulled into Karadimos’s trash yard on Atlantic Avenue. Angelo parked the Buick next to a black Mercedes in front of the old stucco office building. A dim yellow light highlighted the shade-covered window in front. Someone was inside. Had to be Kara
dimos.

  “Get out and head for the door.” Gus pointed to the office. “I’m right behind you.”

  I reached the door, felt the gun against my back, and heard him say, “Open it.”

  I did what he said. He pushed me hard, and I stumbled into the building. Karadimos sat behind his beat-up desk. “Well, Mr. O’Brien, what a pleasure,” he said in his nasal wheeze.

  I glared at him. “Can’t say the same.”

  “Now, O’Brien, let’s keep a positive attitude.”

  “Okay, I’m positive it’s not a pleasure.”

  “I see you came back to my yard. Do you enjoy the ambiance?”

  “It’s not a rose garden, but it does have a distinct odor.”

  “Glad you like it. Because it appears you’ll be spending the rest of your life here.”

  “This place is crawling with scum and germs. I haven’t had my shots.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be alive long enough to catch anything. Angelo, bring me the briefcase. Gus, keep the gun on his head and shoot him if he moves an inch.” Angelo obeyed, and Karadimos started rummaging through the case. “This is what I was looking for. You’re to be congratulated, O’Brien. A shame you didn’t listen to me; you would have been amply rewarded.”

  I remained silent, thinking. The only way I’d leave this place would be dead, or with the briefcase. I had to control my anger, not make any stupid moves, or I’d be history and Ernesto Rodriguez would spend his life behind bars.

  Karadimos tossed Angelo a roll of duct tape he pulled from the top desk drawer. “Tape his hands behind his back. Don’t cover his mouth. We’re going to have a nice little chat. Aren’t we, O’Brien?”

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  “Turn around and put your hands behind you,” Angelo demanded.

  With my arms behind my back and my wrists bound, Angelo shoved me into the chair facing Karadimos, who said, “I’m gonna ask you a few questions. If you cooperate, tell me what I want to know, then we won’t have to use extreme measures. Am I making myself clear, O’Brien?”