Chasing Charlie Chan - Special Edition: Includes Catching Water in a Net

by J. L. Abramo

  “I can’t blame Meg. She cares a lot about you and I nearly got you killed.”

  “You couldn’t know,” Jimmy repeated. “Now you know better. Could I ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course, Jimmy. Come on in.”

  Jimmy sat on a stool at the counter separating the kitchenette from the one-room living area. Pam stood on the other side of the counter and poured coffee.

  “Tell me exactly how Raft approached you,” Jimmy asked.

  Pam Walker first saw Raft the day after Lenny Archer’s body had been found.

  Raft and his partner had come into Meg’s Café, taken a booth and ordered lunch; arriving not long after Jimmy left the café late that Tuesday morning.

  Pam served the two men. Raft had been openly friendly and she had been tipped well. Walking to her car following her shift, she was stopped by Raft. Walker recognized him from earlier that day and she was initially alarmed by his sudden appearance. Raft quickly identified himself as an LASD detective and he asked if he could have a few minutes of her time. Satisfied with his police ID, Pam agreed to walk and talk.

  Raft claimed he was working a crime investigation for the LA District Attorney’s office. He claimed no one in the Sheriff’s Department, not his Commander or even his partner, was aware of his assignment. He reported directly to an Assistant DA since it was suspected that LASD police officers might be implicated. Raft asked Pam to watch and listen whenever Jimmy Pigeon visited the café. He claimed Pigeon was being uncooperative and unforthcoming in regard to knowledge he might have or might discover about Archer’s death. There was money in the investigative budget for her service. Whether or not she decided to assist, she was not to tell anyone about this or subsequent meetings with Raft. Doing so would threaten to undermine the investigation and put Raft and his co-investigators in danger. Pam thought it over. It sounded exciting, she believed it would do no harm, felt it was her civic responsibility and she could use the money. She casually asked Pigeon about the progress of the Archer murder investigation, overheard conversations between Jimmy and Meg, took note of who came into the café with Jimmy and she reported it all to Raft.

  Pam Walker’s last tip to Frank Raft helped him finally locate Angel Rivas.

  “Did Raft happen to mention a name, the Assistant DA he was working for?” Jimmy asked, just in case there was a morsel of truth in Raft’s mountain of deceit.

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Probably doesn’t matter,” he said.

  But something in his voice told Pam it did matter.

  “Was I any help at all?” Pam asked.

  The woman appeared eager to help, as if she needed to help. It had Jimmy thinking about Vinnie Strings, who was probably going stir crazy waiting to help. But Jimmy had another stop before going to pass the laptop off to Vinnie. He needed to have a short talk with Ray Boyle.

  “You were a great help, Pam,” he said.

  “More coffee?” she asked.

  “I’ve got to get moving.”

  “Jimmy?” she said as he moved to the door.

  “Yes.”

  “When you see Meg...”

  “I’ll put in a good word for you, Pam.”

  Jimmy walked into the hospital room to find Ray Boyle screaming at the television from his bed.

  “Calm down, Ray, your head looks like it’s about to explode.”

  “Fucking Dodgers. I don’t know why I fucking bother. Every time I watch a game they lose.”

  “I think you’re overestimating your influence, Ray.”

  “I’ve watched the last two games on that piece of shit they call a TV and the fucking bums lost both. I’ll wager if I keep watching this game, Colorado will destroy them.”

  “You don’t want to bet against the home team.”

  “A sure bet is a sure bet, Pigeon, and what does it fucking matter? If the Dodgers stay in first place, the player’s strike is a sure thing.”

  “You need to get out of here, Ray.”

  “Tell me about it. The fucking food is deadlier than two gunshots in the gut. I’m guessing you saw the LA Times. It looks like you’ll get a medal for killing a cop. What a fucking world.”

  “There are more bad guys out there, Ray. Raft had someone running him. You know it as well as I do.”

  “I don’t know if I give a shit.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “What do you want, Jimmy?”

  “What are the chances Raft was working some kind of covert investigation for the DA’s office?”

  “Slim to none. I can’t think of anyone in the District Attorney’s office who would give Raft the time of day. Why would you ask? Who tried selling you that bill of goods?”

  “A little birdie told me Raft was trying to sell it. I figure it for another line of crap, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to run it by you.”

  “I don’t see it, but I can ask around. Might as well take advantage of my currency. It won’t last long. It seems like other cops and prosecutors are a lot more willing to help when you’ve just been shot.”

  “That’s cynical, Ray.”

  “Truth often is.”

  “Does the name Reginald Masters mean anything to you?”

  “Did your little birdie say Raft was snooping for Jackson Masters?”

  “No. She didn’t have a name. But I asked you about Reginald Masters, who is Jackson Masters?”

  “Jesus, Pigeon, do you live in Santa Monica or on fucking Mars?”

  “Somewhere in between.”

  “Reginald Masters is a legend. The man practically owned Hollywood for thirty years. His son is ‘Big Bill’ Masters.”

  “Former Governor Masters?”

  “Yes, and Jackson Masters is the Governor’s son; a fast-moving assistant DA with his eye on Gil Garcetti’s seat. Do you have something that puts Jackson Masters into Frank Raft’s cesspool?”

  “No. I don’t know. Not really.”

  “What’s this all about, Pigeon?”

  “Who was the man Raft killed before he shot you?”

  “Nick Sedway.”

  “Any relation to Moe Sedway?”

  “Don’t know. Why? What the fuck is this?”

  “I don’t know, Ray. A bunch of random notes Ed Richards was putting together before he was killed and a few words on a postcard from Lenny. I’m hoping Vinnie can help me cut through the haze.”

  “Vinnie? Are you that desperate?”

  “He’s a smart kid, when he’s not at the racetrack. He’s been doing his homework. This whole thing is tied somehow to ancient history. Hollywood, after the war,” Jimmy said. “Vinnie is a student of the period.”

  “You want to know about Hollywood in the forties, you need to look up your old friend Roger.”

  “Why Rollins?”

  “He was with the Hollywood Division during the heyday. You’ve known him your whole life, worked with him. He never talked about his run-ins with Ben Siegel and Mickey Cohen?”

  “It never came up. That’s interesting.”

  “What’s interesting is I’m watching the fucking Dodgers lose again. Find Rollins. He’ll love the chance to reminisce. I’ll see if I can tie Jackson Masters to Raft somehow. Let’s keep in touch. With any fucking luck I’ll be out of this fucking asylum in a few days.”

  “I think that’s the first time you ever asked me to keep in touch, Ray.”

  “I’m so fucking bored, I’ll probably start wishing my stock broker keeps in touch. Find Roger, bring a bottle of Scotch along and Rollins will talk all night. Fucking Colorado Rockies, can you possibly believe this shit?”

  “Thanks for your time, Ray,” Jimmy said, trying to work his way to the door before Boyle blew up again.

  “All I fucking have is time,” Boyle said, hurling a cup of water at the TV screen.

  “That’s Virginia Hill. I’ve seen her picture in a few of these books,” said Vinnie, looking at the laptop screen. “Who is the woman on the right?”

  “Don’t know.”
<
br />   “Looks a lot like Hill.”

  “Yes, she does,” Jimmy said.

  They were sitting side by side in the dining room of the Stradivarius home. Vinnie Strings in his wheel chair, pushed under the dining table as far as it would go.

  A number of library books, opened and closed, were scattered on the table around the computer.

  Jimmy had patiently listened to the kid for thirty minutes, Vinnie had nearly a week’s worth of reading to summarize for Pigeon. It was interesting from a purely historical point of view, but there was nothing there to answer the question Jimmy needed answered.

  “From all I’ve read,” Vinnie said, once Jimmy moved their attention to Richards’ files, “Virginia Hill was a real piece of work.”

  “The school teacher gave me a quick bio,” Jimmy said. “Hill supposedly skipped the country with two million Mob dollars the day before Ben Siegel was assassinated up in Beverly Hills. The popular opinion is that one thing led to the other.”

  “That murder case was never solved,” Vinnie said. “No one cared. Everything I’ve looked at tells me Ben Siegel’s death was celebrated from coast-to-coast. That was forty-seven years ago, Jimmy. Almost to the day, in fact. I’d say its ice cold.”

  “We’re looking for Lenny Archer’s killer. I couldn’t care less about Benny Siegel, unless it relates. I need you to go through all of Richards’ files, cross-reference what he was collecting with what you found in these books. We need to find whatever it was that Ed Richards found, or thought he found, that would move someone to stop him dead. And I need you to highlight any references to the Masters family, any of them. The movie mogul, the former Governor and the Governor’s son, Jackson Masters. He’s an assistant DA here in LA County.”

  “Governor and Assistant DA, what’s that about?”

  “I don’t know. It may be nothing, but we need to find out if it’s about anything that led to Lenny’s death. Raft and Tully paid, but there’s a bigger fish out there and we need to drag the pond. Work as quickly as you can without letting anything slip through the net.”

  “It sounds like you’re not going to stick around.”

  “I need to drive out to Tahoe to see an old friend,” Jimmy said.

  “For help?”

  “Yes. Someone who was around when the Bugsy Siegel murder case wasn’t so cold.”

  “Okay. I’m on this, Jimmy.”

  “Stay on it,” Jimmy said. “Find a motive.”

  Pamela Walker paced nervously, smoked cigarettes, drank coffee and paced nervously for nearly two hours after Jimmy Pigeon’s visit. All that time looking to the telephone and away again, unable to decide whether or not to make the phone call.

  She wondered why she had lied to Jimmy.

  While she had been describing her contact with Frank Raft, Pam had suddenly felt a strong resentment; one she hadn’t realized she was harboring. She had been hurt and castigated, treated like a criminal by interrogators and lost a job that had been extremely important to her, all because she had agreed to help an officer of the law.

  She had begun to see herself as a victim as she talked to Jimmy; to see herself as proof of the adage that no good deed goes unpunished. Then, without warning, she found herself withholding information from Jimmy. Pigeon had asked for a name, anyone in the DA’s office who Raft may have mentioned. Pam hadn’t considered it important until she heard the urgency of the question in his voice. And she had said no, without really understanding why she had lied. Now she understood she had held back because she wanted something for herself, felt she deserved compensation, reward not punishment for her good deed.

  Now, she thought she might have something of value.

  It was the night when Raft first approached her. They had walked for a while and she returned to her vehicle.

  She found the card on the ground, had spotted it under the car as she unlocked the door. She reached down to pick it up. A business card. She read the name on the card and guessed Raft had dropped the card when he took out his shield to identify himself.

  She paced nervously, looking at the telephone, holding the business card, trying to decide whether or not to phone Assistant District Attorney Jackson Masters, to ask Masters what it might be worth to have his business card back.

  Ray Boyle didn’t know he had drifted into sleep until Sam Stephens’ booming voice woke him. It was like a sharp smack across the face. Stephens, barging in, ranting.

  “What a fucking week. Parker is a zoo. The jailhouse is literally crawling with fucking reporters. And you will not believe the scene I just came from.”

  “Try me,” Boyle said to his partner.

  “Picture this, if you will,” Stephens began. “A guy calls in a delivery order to Fazio’s Pizzeria on South San Pedro near East 2nd. Large pie. Sausage, onion and green pepper.”

  “I appreciate the attention to detail.”

  “It’s important. The delivery kid knocks on the door of 4D, top floor of a four-story apartment building on East 5th, and the guy opens the door. He keeps the kid waiting in the hallway while he ‘goes to get his wallet.’ He comes back to the door with a slice of pizza on a plate, he holds it out to the kid and he says, ‘Take a bite of this fucking thing and tell me if its sausage, onion and green pepper.’ The kid says he’s not really very hungry and he can tell just by looking that its pepperoni and mushroom. The guy pulls a .44 magnum on the kid and he insists the kid taste it just to be certain.”

  “He forced the kid to eat pizza at gunpoint? Is that a felony?”

  “It gets better,” said Sam. “The guy takes the poor kid into the apartment and ties him to a chair. Clothesline. Then he calls the pizzeria and he tells the manager it’s the third time they’ve fucked up his order and if they don’t get the correct toppings over to him in twenty minutes, he’s going to blow the delivery kid’s head off. So much for don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “What’d I tell you? The manager calls Fazio at home and Fazio calls it in to 9-1-1. So me and Stevie O’Brien, this is who they put me with because you had to go and get plugged, run over to the pizzeria. O’Brien throws on a smock covered with tomato sauce and we take a pizza over to 5th Street.”

  “I can’t stand the suspense.”

  “Wait. We get to the place, O’Brien knocks on the door, I stand out of view of the peephole. The guy says through the door, ‘You look a little old for a delivery boy.’ Not to mention O’Brien looks less Italian than I do, his skin is the color of Elmer’s Glue. Anyway, Stevie starts winging it, rambling about how he owns the joint and he’s Irish, the name Fazio is a cover to make it sound authentic but don’t tell anyone because it could hurt business and the hostage in there is his sister’s son and she’ll murder him if anything happens to the kid and the pizza, which absolutely has sausage, onion and green pepper and is on the house, by the way, is getting cold.”

  “I’m exhausted just listening to this. Does the guy make the exchange?”

  “He opens the door. He’s got the .44 pointed right at O’Brien’s head.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “I’ve got to admit Stevie stayed cool. He takes a step toward the guy and he starts to open the pizza box. The guy asks Stevie what the fuck he’s doing and O’Brien says he wants to show the guy the pizza is as ordered so he can get his nephew the fuck out of there. Meanwhile, I’ve got my gun out and I’m wondering when this guy is going to take a look over and spot me. The next thing I hear is screaming. I jump into the doorway and this guy is trying to get hot mozzarella out of his eyes while O’Brien is tackling him to the floor, the .44 drops neatly into the pizza box, Stevie is trying to handcuff the guy, both their hands are slippery with marinara and I don’t know whether to try to help O’Brien or grab a slice.”

  “You arrest the guy?”

  “Oh, yeah. When I left the station they were still trying to figure out the charge. The gun wasn’t registered, but it wasn’t loaded either. If we call it a kidnapping, the
FBI rubs our faces it in until the end of time. And all along this guy is yelling about how he is going to sue the city and county of Los Angeles for burning his face with melted cheese. I mean, the cat’s cheeks look like they were used to buff a car. So, how are you doing?”

  “My body aches. I’m glad I missed everything, except maybe the sausage pizza. I’ve got a funny lead to follow and it hurts when I laugh. Would you by any chance happen to know if Raft had any connection to the DA’s office?”

  “I’m pretty sure he was assigned to the Menendez case. Doing investigative work for the DA during the first half of last year.”

  “The two kids who killed their parents?”

  “They weren’t convicted. Mistrial, five months ago. A new trial probably a year away. Raft would have been on it between the indictment in early December 1992 and the start of the first trial last July.”

  “Was Jackson Masters involved in the prosecution?” Boyle asked.

  “Masters is very careful to stay clear of high profile cases that have the chance of going south,” Stephens said. “And the Menendez case was a crap shoot from the start. Two juries, good-looking boy defendants. Masters is ambitious; he tries to avoid losing. He knows when to duck. I’ll bet he stays as far away as possible from the football player.”

  “Masters could have crossed paths with Raft during the Menendez investigation.”

  “Sure. If Raft was hanging around for six months, I’m sure they would have bumped into each other. Why? What’s this about?”

  “I’m hoping to be out of here in a few days, but I won’t be dancing for a while and I want to follow up the funny lead I mentioned. Could you help me out with a little leg work, very quietly?”

  “Sure.”

  “We want to find out if Frank Raft was involved with the District Attorney’s office recently and if he had more than a casual acquaintance with Masters.”

  “I’m off tomorrow, Ray. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Very quietly, Sam.”

  The pager on Stephens’ belt began beeping. He called into LAPD dispatch on the hospital room phone.