by J. L. Abramo
“Am I supposed to know who the woman is?” Sherman asked.
“I haven’t asked you about the woman yet. I’m asking about the photo; about when you first saw it. When Edward Richards first showed it to you.”
“Are you sure about that? Are you sure it wasn’t someone else?”
“I’m absolutely sure. In case you haven’t heard, Edward Richards was killed two days later. And you’re not going to get any work done at all until we get this little chat over with. So, talk to me or talk to the LAPD.”
“Are you trying to scare me?”
“Trying to waste as little time as possible fucking with you, Harry. I’m guessing that would suit you also.”
“Good guess. Okay. The guy comes in, says he’s a news reporter, shows me the photo and offers fifty bucks for an ID. I give him the woman’s name and her room number. He heads off to use the house phone. He comes back, hands me his business card and a note for the woman. And that’s the last I ever saw of him.”
“Did you deliver the note?”
“No, I gave it to the cop.”
“What cop?”
“Not long after the reporter left, a detective turned up asking about the same woman.”
“Did he ask about her by name?”
“No, but he described her very well. Well enough. I said something like, ‘She’s a very popular lady.’ When he asked me what I meant, I mentioned the reporter and showed him Richards’ business card and note. The man had a large, impressive badge. I was interested in cooperating. I also told him the woman was not in her room. The cop took the card and note and he walked out.”
“Did you get his name?”
“No, I didn’t. He assured me it was none of my fucking business. I took his word for it,” Sherman said. “The guy looked very dangerous.”
“Did you see him again?”
“No.”
“What happened to the woman?”
“I don’t know. I went off at three that day, it was a Friday and I didn’t come back to work until Sunday morning. The woman was gone. I never saw her again.”
“Can you tell me who checked her out? Who may have seen her last before she left?”
Sherman scanned the hotel reservation records on the computer at the end of the counter.
“No one checked her out. She just left her key in the room.”
“That’s all of it?”
“That’s all of it,” Sherman said.
“Can you tell me about the credit card she used for the room?”
“You know I can’t.”
Jimmy did know.
“So, can I get back to work now or are you going to grab me by the lapels and try to shake it out of me?”
Jimmy picked up the photograph, refolded it, slipped it into his pocket and headed out to his car.
Minutes later he was driving out toward the hospital to see Ray Boyle.
Jackson Masters sat at one end of a long dining table. His father sat at the other. The housekeeper had cleared the lunch dishes and William Masters confronted his only son.
“What is it, Jackson? You’ve hardly said a word.”
He had tried, time and again while they dined, tried to speak out, tell his father about how his life had been turned upside down in the past few weeks. He needed help; the kind of help only a father could provide. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He couldn’t make his father culpable for crimes the man had no prior knowledge of.
He would not expose his father to the disease that had mercifully skipped generations.
“It’s just the madness downtown,” he said. “The double homicide last weekend, the media frenzy and the pressure on the office to start building a case. Everyone from Garcetti down is afraid of screwing up.”
“It’s times like this I’m glad I am not Governor. Try staying clear of that one. It’s bound to be messy. So, is that all it is, son? Is everything okay at home?”
“Great, Dad.”
“Good. Now, maybe you should get back to your family. I appreciate your coming to see me today, but I’m sure your own children will want time with you on Father’s Day.”
Father’s Day.
Jackson hadn’t realized it was Father’s Day. He had slept late, after the restless night thinking about the phone call from Pam Walker. His wife and his two children had already left for church and hadn’t returned before he took off to visit the Governor.
His children. Would they be spared? Could he protect them from the disease?
“Son?”
“You’re right, Dad. I should get home.”
The two men walked together to the front door.
“I suppose I should give my father a phone call,” William Masters said. “When he returns from New York this evening.”
“I’m sure Grandfather would like that,” Jackson said.
Much more than my grandfather will like the phone call from me, he thought.
“Happy Father’s Day,” the Governor said at the door.
“You too, Dad.”
“I’m very proud of you, son.”
Masters manufactured a smile and turned to walk to his car. He felt his father’s eyes on him as he moved away.
And he felt the disease eating him up inside.
Nate Archer left Meg’s Café after another huge meal. He decided to walk it off before heading over to Jimmy’s apartment to wait for Pigeon. He walked the Third Street Promenade and then strolled out to the Santa Monica Pier.
Archer settled on a bench on the pier and looked out over the bay. It was Father’s Day, his first as a father. Annie had done everything possible to make it a special day for him. She had dressed the baby in a tiny shirt with the words I Love Daddy across the front. She had fixed a large breakfast. Waffles, eggs, fresh fruit, shamefully expensive Hawaiian coffee, even a Bloody Mary for the man of honor.
Nate had appreciated the effort and the attention, and he had shown his appreciation. But Annie knew her husband, knew when there was something troubling him and had a good idea about what was distracting him.
“I have another surprise for you,” she had said that morning.
“Oh?”
“A free trip to Santa Monica, no strings attached. I expect you back here safely, preferably by tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Go talk to Jimmy. See what he’s learned. It’s Father’s Day. Your father would have wanted you to follow up, to find out why his son Lenny was killed.”
“I love you.”
“I love you. I understand you don’t want to leave me and the baby so soon, even for a day. And it means a lot to me that you feel that way. But until this is resolved, until you know why your brother was murdered and who else is responsible, I’m afraid a part of you will always be somewhere else.”
“I’ll be back tonight.”
“If you can. Just be careful and call me.”
A seagull landed on a bench across the pier, flapped its wings and took off again. A bearded man in a Red Sox baseball cap approached Nate, holding out a battered paper cup. Nate placed a five-dollar bill into the cup.
“Thank you, brother,” the man said. “Happy Father’s Day.”
“How do you know I’m a father?” Nate asked.
“We are all fathers,” the man said. “They are all our children.”
The sun pushed out from behind a small white cloud.
The man tipped his hat and walked away. Nate watched the man move toward the end of the pier. Archer stood up, stretched, and began moving off the pier, headed for Jimmy Pigeon’s apartment.
Jimmy rushed into the hospital room. Sam Stephens was there, visiting Ray Boyle. Ray was out of his bed, sitting in a chair, an IV slowly dripping painkiller into his arm. Jimmy quickly dispensed with the formalities and shoved the photograph at Boyle.
“We need to find this woman, Ray.”
“Did the Dodgers win?”
“Yes,” Jimmy said.
“What did I tell y
ou, Sam? I didn’t watch the fucking game and the bums finally won.”
“Ray,” Jimmy urged.
“What is this, Jimmy?” Boyle asked, finally turning his attention to the photo.
“Maybe a case-breaker, Ray. We need to find her and talk with her.”
“Nice looking woman. I’m in no condition to do much for you, Jimmy,” Boyle said. “And I really can’t tell how much sympathy I can generate in the department.”
“Let me see that photo,” Stephens said. He took the photograph from Boyle. He looked from the photo to Jimmy and back again. “We’ve already found her, Jimmy. Killed. There wasn’t much left of her face, but I’m sure this is the same woman.”
“What?” Jimmy asked.
“We found her body yesterday in an abandoned building. Shot. Twice. No identification,” Stephens said. “So, who is she and what case was she going to break?”
“Jesus,” Jimmy said. “I think Raft killed this woman and the cover-up led to all the other killings, from Lenny Archer on. I think you’ll find the slugs that killed this woman came from the same gun that killed Sedway and wounded you, Ray.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Jimmy?” Boyle said.
Jimmy ran the entire story by them, ending it with his visit to the Beverly Crescent.
“We’re running the woman’s prints now,” Stephens said. “No hits yet. I’ll run the name, Natalie Levant. Are you sure that was her real name?”
“The clerk wouldn’t let me see her credit card info,” Jimmy said.
“We’ll get a court order to look at the hotel records, but it won’t be until tomorrow.”
“I need to see Hank Fellows at the Outlook. Richards worked under Fellows at the newspaper. I’m hoping there’s still time; hoping Hank can get this photo into the morning paper. Maybe someone saw or knew something about the woman and will come forward,” Jimmy said.
“Give me a minute to call in to Parker. I’ll initiate a search on the woman’s name and I’ll talk with ballistics about comparing the slugs against Raft’s weapon,” Sam said. “Then I’ll go with you to see Hank Fellows, help give your request a little extra urgency and legitimacy.”
“And what do I do,” Boyle complained, “while you guys are out having all the fun.”
“You’re doing it, Ray,” Stephens said, before grabbing the telephone to make his calls.
Seth Cady was jolted awake by a hard slap across the mouth. A dream. A memory.
Seth was eight years old. It was a Sunday afternoon. His father was home for a change, sitting in his armchair, reading the Sunday paper, working on his third tall glass of whiskey. Or fourth.
Seth Cady saw very little of his father, who bartended in a downtown Oakland saloon, drank away his tips after his late shift, stumbled home in the wee hours to be greeted by his wife with profanities that woke both Seth and his older brother nearly every night.
Seth had pleaded with his father for a game of catch. His father had turned him down. The boy sat on the couch, tossing a baseball into the air, watching it drop into his leather mitt. The ball got away, bounced off a table and knocked the whiskey glass to the floor. His father jumped up and slapped Seth sharply across the face. The boy went down hard.
Seth’s sixteen-year-old brother, Will, pounced on his father. Will brought the man down with two punches to the gut and landed on his father with both knees. He gave his father a left and right to the head and pinned him down on the floor. He pressed his forearm into his father’s neck, until the man was gasping for breath.
“If you ever lay a finger on Seth again, I’ll fucking kill you.” Will stood up and took Seth’s hand.
Seth was trembling, his father didn’t move.
“C’mon, kid, let’s go out and throw the ball around,” Will said.
His father had never touched Seth again.
Seth heard a phone ringing. He reached out and picked up the receiver.
“It’s five, sir,” the desk clerk said. “I was told to call your room at five.”
Seth Cady placed the receiver down. He sat up in the bed and lit a cigarette. He picked up Al Linger’s handgun and checked the cylinder. Six chambers full.
“It’s time, Will,” he said aloud. “Get even time.”
Pam Walker finally gave up the battle. Since speaking with Jackson Masters twenty-four hours earlier, Walker had been entrenched in an inner struggle; weighing the anger of her unfair treatment against her morality. Being misled by Detective Raft, recruited to inform on her friends, was one thing. Blackmail for personal gain was something entirely different. She wouldn’t do it; couldn’t do it. She liked Jimmy Pigeon, always had. Though she had been unaware, she had nevertheless put Jimmy in danger. And she had lied to him, without excuse. She had felt used, and rightfully so. But since talking with Masters, Pam had felt something much worse.
Dirty.
She would try to make it right.
Pam decided not to telephone Jimmy; she wanted to speak to him face to face.
She grabbed her wallet and car keys from the kitchen counter and picked up Jackson Master’s business card from where it sat beside the phone.
She walked out of her apartment and down to her car.
She lit a cigarette to calm her nerves, started her engine and pulled away from the curb; on her way to tell Jimmy Pigeon the truth.
Nate Archer walked to the kitchen to refill his coffee cup. He was waiting for Jimmy to get back. He hadn’t heard any word from Jimmy or Meg. He had called his wife, Annie, to let her know where he was. He was making himself at home at Jimmy Pigeon’s apartment.
He carried his coffee cup over to Jimmy’s bookcase and scanned the titles, again. He had leafed through a copy of The New Yorker, from cover to cover, and now he was looking for something else to pass the time as he waited. Something to keep him from wearing out the rug.
He took a worn paperback copy of The Three Musketeers down from the shelf and opened the book to the front page. He found an inscription: Jimmy, whenever I need a reminder about what courage is, I return to this book. I hope it does the same for you. Love, Dad.
Nate thought of his own father, who had died fighting a California wildfire when Nathan was fifteen; leaving him to look after his eleven-year-old brother. The cost of his father’s courage had been very high and Nate had taken his responsibility very seriously. He had cared for Lenny, had strived to provide a good example, had tried to protect the younger boy. He had done well. His brother had grown into a fine young man, a young man who would have made his father proud.
Then Lenny went to Vietnam and everything changed. Though Nate wouldn’t recognize the extent of the damage until many years later. And, in the end, Nate couldn’t protect his brother from the nightmares and he couldn’t protect his brother from an assassin’s bullet.
Nate had been roused from a deep sleep at four that morning, his infant son was wailing from his crib. Nate had jumped from bed, run into the child’s room, took the baby into his arms and coaxed his Lenny back to sleep.
When he had returned to bed, Annie had turned to him, half-asleep. And with a smile on her face she had mumbled, “Happy Father’s Day.” At that moment he knew what he needed to do and later, at breakfast, Annie knew it also.
He needed to know why his brother had been killed.
Nate settled into Jimmy’s reading chair and turned to Chapter One of the Dumas novel.
Out in the hallway, Pam Walker approached the door to Jimmy’s apartment. She stopped to take a deep breath and raised her arm to knock on the door. A large hand covered her mouth, a gun was shoved roughly into her ribs and she was slowly eased back away from the door.
“Make a sound and I’ll kill you,” Seth Cady said.
DEADLINES
Seth Cady guided Pam Walker into the stairwell off the hall. He turned her around to face him, keeping her mouth covered and pressed the barrel of the gun to her cheek.
“I’m going to take my hand away. Don’t make a sound unless I
tell you to and then only loud enough for me to hear you where I’m standing. Understood?”
She nodded. She felt faint. He removed his hand from her mouth.
“Was that Pigeon’s apartment?” Cady asked.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Shut the fuck up, just answer the fucking question,” Cady said. It sounded much uglier whispered. He pushed the gun forcefully against her chin.
“Yes, it is his apartment,” she said, softly.
“Are you a friend of his?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to stay alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are going to help me get through that door,” Cady said.
He quietly explained to Pam what he wanted her to do.
Jimmy had called ahead from Parker Center, telling a telephone receptionist at the Santa Monica Outlook that he had to speak with Hank Fellows immediately, insisting it was an emergency, finally being put through to Fellows, imploring the Editor to Hold the Presses.
Fellows’ response was equally melodramatic.
“Shake a leg.”
They decided to take one car. Sam Stephens lobbied for his unmarked police sedan.
“If we run into heavy traffic, we can slap the nifty red flashing light on the roof,” he said.
“How did you get stuck working on Father’s Day?” Jimmy asked while they rode. “What ever happened to seniority?”
“Actually, I’ve got the day off. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have the luxury of a joy ride to Santa Monica.”
“Shouldn’t you be home with your family?”
“We all had brunch together. A late Sunday breakfast, according to my eldest son, the attorney. Two sons, their wives, two grandchildren, we couldn’t get rid of them soon enough. After they all left, my wife chased me out of the house. ‘Go visit Ray,’ she said, ‘if you keep playing with that TV remote I’m going to shove it down your throat.’ I married the woman thirty years ago and it’s just as if we met yesterday afternoon.”
“Thirty years.”
