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

by J. L. Abramo

  “When?” Jimmy asked.

  “We’ll wait a few hours, give him time to settle in at his office, to savor the belief he dodged the bullet,” Nate said. “It’ll give us time to take Pam home.”

  “We’ll drop you at Meg’s Café, Pam,” Jimmy said. “I’ll feel better about your safety there.”

  “The café?” Meg said.

  “I spoke to Meg. I told her what you did last night and what you were going to do this morning. She wants to see you. It’s going to be okay, Pam,” Jimmy said.

  Jackson Masters was holed up in his office, doing all he could to avoid the commotion that permeated the entire Criminal Courts Building.

  His grandfather had phoned while he was meeting with Pam Walker. The old man would want to know why his grandson had failed to pick him up at the airport the previous evening, had sent a limousine instead.

  Masters put off returning the old man’s telephone call.

  Instead, he leafed through the newspapers, a morning ritual that had been interrupted earlier by Pam Walker’s call. He read all of the Los Angeles newspapers and the Santa Monica Outlook, which he had asked his secretary to pick up each morning for the past few weeks. Fairly deep inside the Los Angeles Times, a short piece on the body of a woman found in an abandoned building, the victim not yet identified. Then the photo of the woman on page two of the Outlook stopped Master’s heart and the text below the photograph destroyed his hope. The Outlook believed the woman could have knowledge related to the murder of Ed Richards, a staff reporter. A reward of one thousand dollars was offered for information about the woman. Who, what, where.

  The phone on his desk rang loudly, startling Masters.

  “Jimmy Pigeon is on the line,” his secretary said. “He would like to meet with you today. Mr. Pigeon said he had questions about Frank Raft, Pam Walker and a shopping bag.”

  “Please tell him I can’t see him today, make an appointment for tomorrow morning.”

  Masters booted up his desktop computer and he opened a new text document.

  Occasionally, he looked down at the woman’s photograph as he typed.

  “He’s stalling,” Nate said.

  “Maybe. Probably. He might be tied up, need time to think. He got the message, he agreed to a meeting tomorrow morning. We don’t have much choice. We have to wait,” said Jimmy. “There’s no way we’ll get into that building to see him without an appointment. The place is like the Bastille, surrounded by hungry, storming reporters. I think you should get back to San Diego. Cady did quite a job on your face. Your wife needs to know it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “You’ll call as soon as you’re done with Masters, or if you hear anything from Sam Stephens or Hank Fellows?”

  “First thing,” Jimmy said.

  The gunshot had Jackson Masters’ secretary screaming from the office into the hall. Two LAPD officers reached her quickly.

  The uniforms entered the reception area with weapons drawn and moved slowly toward the closed door to Masters’ private office. One of the officers swung the door in and both entered with firearms extended. Jackson Masters was in his chair, his head on the desk, blood flowing from the wound at his temple, a gun on the floor near his seat. A copy of the Outlook, open to page two, was on the desk at his head. On top of the newspaper sat a sealed envelope.

  Sam Stephens caught the call and he was standing in Master’s office fifteen minutes later looking down at the body. His temporary partner, Stevie O’Brien, was out in the reception area interviewing Masters’ secretary. The two officers first on the scene were outside in the hall, keeping everyone out until the medical examiner arrived.

  Stephens spotted the envelope immediately. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, removed the sheet of paper from the envelope and read.

  He took the note to the copier, made a copy, put the note back into the envelope, placed the envelope into an evidence bag and placed the copy into his inside jacket pocket.

  Later that afternoon, his shift over, Stephens phoned Jimmy Pigeon from Ray Boyle’s hospital room.

  “Jackson Masters put a bullet into his head earlier today,” he told Jimmy. “His secretary told us you called Masters not long before he checked out.”

  “Fuck,” was all Jimmy could say.

  “I’m with Ray at the hospital. I have something here. I’m so certain you’ll want to see it, I bent the rules a bit so you could see it soon.”

  “I’m on my way,” Jimmy said.

  Jimmy and I had been in his apartment for hours, since leaving Meg’s Café after dinner. Drinking espresso, smoking cigarettes, sipping brandy. Jimmy talked, I listened.

  I tried to imagine the life he had led...did lead.

  I was the son of radical college professor and a grade school teacher. I grew up in Brooklyn, but had avoided the darker, more violent corners of the city. And as an actor, my brushes with crime and punishment, deception, danger and revenge had all been pretend. Jimmy’s story fascinated me, even excited me.

  And it frightened me.

  “It was a suicide note,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Jimmy walked over to a desk in the corner of the room and pulled a sheet of paper from the center drawer.

  “Read it yourself,” Jimmy said, handing the note to me and reaching for the Brandy bottle.

  Jackson Masters’ parting words.

  I met Natalie Levant in Sacramento. I was attending a week long California Department of Justice conference. We began a sexual liaison. I saw Natalie two more times afterward, in Los Angeles, before finally deciding the affair had to end. She did not take it well. Ultimately she called me, threatening to make our relationship public if I didn’t pay for silence.

  I arranged a meeting at my grandfather’s mansion in Beverly Hills. He wasn’t home at the time. I bowed to her request, telling her the money would be provided. I used Detective Frank Raft to hand over the cash. I had met Raft when he was investigating the Mendendez case for the DA’s office. Raft was an ambitious man and was very willing to assist me. He saw me as the future chief DA and himself as my lead investigator. He was asked only to carry the money. All of his subsequent actions were results of Raft’s madness, but I realize I’m responsible. I attempted to hide my infidelity to protect my career, to save my wife, children and my father from the damage, the embarrassment and the disappointment my selfish acts would bring about. In the end, I have hurt and disappointed those I love so much more.

  “Was that the end of it?” I asked.

  “Disappointed, Jake?”

  “I don’t know if that’s the word for it. But to think all those people were killed, and so many others suffered, because Jackson Masters couldn’t control his libido. Well, it seems like there should have been a better reason.”

  “There are never good reasons, it’s always senseless,” Jimmy said. “But I admit I felt the same way. I was disappointed. I wanted it to be something huge, wanted to uncover a monumental secret. I wanted to solve the mystery Lenny Archer had died trying to unravel. I was seduced by visions of grandeur, allowed myself to forget that solving a crime does not diminish its effect, does not control its infectiousness. I had forgotten this before, when I killed Will Cady. I read Masters’ note again, later that evening, here alone in this room. I felt great sadness, a sense of loss, but the anger and the disappointment lost hold.”

  I thought at first that Jimmy was giving me a warning; attempting to tell me something about the business he was in, the work that intrigued me, that had brought me to see him. I came to know, in short time, that this was not Jimmy’s way. He was not a preacher. He taught by example, good and bad. And he was not talking about the life of a private investigator, he was talking about the life of an imperfect being; a human being.

  “So,” I said. “That was the end of it.”

  “Not quite,” Jimmy said, “but it is for tonight. I’m tired. I haven’t talked this much in years. You’re welcome to spend the night. T
he couch opens to a bed, it has clean sheets and I’m told it’s very comfortable. It’s had a lot of use.”

  “Angel Rivas and Nate Archer.”

  “To name a few. We can pick up where I left off over breakfast.”

  I took Jimmy up on the offer.

  The next morning, Jimmy told me the rest of the story.

  And Jimmy was right.

  Although the secret concealed was much more explosive than Jackson Masters’ final words had professed, neither its concealment nor its revelation were any nobler.

  THE KEY

  On Tuesday, the day after Jackson Masters took his own life, Jimmy Pigeon received a phone call from Hank Fellows.

  “Jimmy, I just paid one thousand dollars for a locker key. The locker is at Los Angeles International Airport.”

  One of the young boys who had stumbled upon the body of Natalie Levant in the basement of an abandoned building had picked the key up from the ground near the corpse. He had seen the photo of the dead woman in the newspaper and he delivered the key to the Santa Monica Outlook hoping to collect the reward.

  “Have you checked it out?” Jimmy asked.

  “I thought you might want to ride along. I can come to get you.”

  “Give me thirty minutes,” Jimmy said. He told Hank Fellows where to pick him up.

  The locker at the airport held a journal, handwritten by Virginia Hill, describing events in her life from early childhood. Of particular interest to Jimmy Pigeon and Hank Fellows were entries for the dates leading up to, and those immediately following, June 20, 1947. The day Bugsy Siegel was killed in the mansion on North Linden in Beverly Hills.

  June 15

  Joey Adonis came to see me today. Joey said he’s worried about me, he still loves me. He warned me to stay away from Ben. Ben is still in Las Vegas, I’m supposed to go back to join him in a few days.

  “Charlie Luciano wants Ben Siegel out of the picture,” Joey said. “Charlie thinks Benny is a liability, can’t be trusted.”

  “Meyer would never allow it.”

  “Lansky is over a barrel. He has his hands full in New York and Siegel is not considered a good bet. Meyer can’t afford to back a loser, he may have to look the other way.”

  “Charlie will have a hard time reaching Ben from that pile of rocks in Sicily he calls his family estate,” I said.

  “Luciano has very long arms. Jack Dragna would love to see Ben disappear. Mickey Cohen could go either way.”

  “How about Moe? He’ll watch Ben’s back, always has.”

  “Moe Sedway is not stupid. He knows if he’s standing too close to Siegel, he could get caught in the crossfire.”

  “Where do you stand, Joey?”

  “As far away from Siegel as possible, and I’m begging you to do the same. I think it’s too late for Ben, I don’t think anyone can save him. And I know you can’t save him, Virginia, but if you’re careful you might survive him.”

  June 16

  I phoned Reggie today, he is in London promoting the latest Charlie Chan film. I have been seeing him in secret for a few months, once or twice a week, when I’m in LA and Ben is in Las Vegas. He is intelligent, refined and funny in ways Ben could never be. At the same time, he has the same movie star looks. He is so like Benny physically, they could be brothers. Height, weight, eyes, smile. The same rugged handsomeness, commanding voice and take charge attitude. His wife divorced him nearly ten years ago and left California with their infant son. He has been married to his work since. It is his uncanny resemblance to Ben that has made the affair so difficult. When I look at Reggie I see Ben and realize how much I still love Benny. Reggie had planned to return from Europe at the end of the month, I phoned to tell him I had to see him as soon as possible. I told him I couldn’t wait. I said Ben was leaving for New York on the nineteenth, he would be gone for two weeks and we could be together the entire time, could use the house on North Linden. Reggie said he would meet me there on the twentieth. I told him not to announce he was cutting his trip short, so no one would be competing with me for his time. I told him I wanted him all to myself.

  June 17

  Moe Sedway and I drove out to Las Vegas today. It was a terrible trip, as usual, made worse by the fact I barely said a word and Moe kept asking me what was wrong. I couldn’t help wondering if Moe knew anything about what Joey had told me on the fifteenth.

  When we arrived, Ben was in a hurry to talk with Moe. Talk about the mess the Flamingo was in. I begged Ben to talk with me first. I told Ben about what I’d heard from Joey Adonis. I told Ben he was in big trouble.

  “Adonis is a liar,” he said. “He would do anything to put distance between you and I, so he could slip right in.”

  “Joey wouldn’t care if you fell out of a plane, would probably throw a party,” I said. “But I do believe him, he does care about me. He came to warn me, not to help you or hurt you. Let’s leave, Ben, run away. Far away. There’s enough cash lying around here to keep us hidden for a long, long time.”

  “I’m Ben Siegel. No one is going to make me run.”

  “Please, Ben, they’ll kill you.”

  “If I can’t be in Los Angeles, I would rather be dead. It’s the only place where I’ve ever felt at peace, the only place that’s ever really excited me. LA and Hollywood.”

  “What if you could have it both ways?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I handed Ben an eight-by-ten glossy press photograph of Reggie Masters.

  “What’s this about?” he asked.

  “I have an idea, and as crazy as it might sound, it just might work. But first, I have to tell you something that could end it all for us, here and now.”

  I told Ben about my affair with Masters.

  The look in his eyes was terrifying. I had seen that look before and it was usually followed by violence.

  “How can I trust you, Virginia?” he asked, displaying self-control I had never seen in Ben Siegel.

  “I love you, Ben. It took this fling with Masters to remind me just how much you mean to me. You have to trust me, at least listen to what I have to say. There may be a way for you to get out of this and I’m willing to help you even if it means we can’t be together.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  I told him what I had in mind.

  He looked hard at the photograph of Reginald Masters.

  “And he’ll be back in LA on the twentieth?”

  “Yes, he’ll be at North Linden to meet me.”

  “I need to talk to Moe, alone,” Ben said.

  June 18

  Ben was awake most of last night, lying beside me in bed, staring at the ceiling in silence. I tried to talk to him, asked him what he had on his mind. I asked him what, if anything, he and Moe Sedway had decided. He told me to keep quiet, be patient and let him think.

  Mickey Cohen and Johnny Stompanato arrived late today. They met with Ben and Moe in Ben’s private office in the casino. I went down to the swimming pool, hoping I would be distracted, stop wondering what they were talking about and how it was going to affect me. It didn’t help. I was a bundle of nerves. They were at it for hours. Finally, Mickey and Johnny left, straight to their car and back to LA. I was sitting at the bar when Moe walked out of the office soon afterwards. Then Ben came out and joined me.

  “How about dinner?” he asked.

  I wanted to know what was going on. Joey’s words haunted me. It’s too late for Ben, no one can save him now, no one can be trusted. Not Mickey Cohen. Not Moe Sedway. But I couldn’t bring myself to question Ben. If he wanted to fill me in, he would, in his own time.

  To ask would only anger him.

  “Sure, I could eat,” I said.

  June 19

  Last night, alone in our hotel room, Ben told me what he wanted me to do. He handed me a briefcase, it held two million dollars.

  “You’ll stop in New York City first,” he said. “Give half of this money to Meyer. Tell him to get in touch with Mickey and Johnny
, to let them know I meant what I said to them, that if they spoke a word about our meeting today to anyone at all, there is no place in the world where they would be safe. Take the rest of the cash with you to Paris, the plane tickets are in this envelope, with the photo. Bring fifty thousand dollars and the photograph with you to the address I’ve written on the photo. Give it to Brandeau, tell him to expect me in a couple of days and to be ready. I’ll come to you at the hotel in Paris when I’m finished with the doctor. I’ll be driving you to the airport in LA today. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Don’t count on being back here in the states anytime soon.”

  “Is this going to work, Ben?” I asked.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” he said. “Find out if Ben Siegel is as invincible as he thinks he is.”

  At the airport, I imagined I was seeing Ben’s face for the last time.

  June 21

  I saw Meyer Lansky in his New York office yesterday. I brought the briefcase. He took half the money and placed it into a small shoulder bag, then handed the bag to me.

  “This is yours,” he said. “Consider it goodbye money, start a new life and don’t come back money. If you show your face again or talk to anyone about the past few days, no one will be able to protect you.”

  “Will Ben be alright?” I asked.

  “Ben Siegel is no longer your concern,” Lansky said. “Now, go.”

  I was nauseous during the entire flight to France, had been sick every morning for the last three days. I didn’t need a doctor to tell me I was pregnant and I didn’t need anyone to tell me the father of the child was Reginald Masters.

  I delivered the fifty thousand and the photograph to Brandeau this afternoon and returned to my hotel.

  I read the news in an international edition of the New York Times left at my room door. Ben “Bugsy” Siegel, born Benjamin Siegelbaum in Brooklyn, New York in 1906, was shot to death in Beverly Hills. Siegel was forty-one years old.