by David Bishop
I wanted to call Helen, tell her I hoped she had not cried because of me. I didn’t want to be the reason for her being sad, but I guess I was. When in hell will that woman forgive me? After pouring a cup of coffee, I dumped it in the sink, turned off the pot, tossed Chunky’s still unread report on the counter and went out. I was hungry and didn’t feel like preparing anything at home, there wasn’t much to prepare even if I did. The truth was my daughter’s call had rattled my cage and I couldn’t sit still.
It would have been a good morning to have Axel around. Many nights he had indulged me in our cell while I talked about Helen. Why she had never come to see me, whether some day she might. It would appear the governor’s pardon had no impact on the sentence she had given me. She would keep me emotionally incarcerated as long as she felt it appropriate. I doubted she knew any more than I how long that might be.
In the lobby I ran into Clara Birnbaum, an old maid retired elementary schoolteacher with dried crust on her personality. She lived three doors down from Axel’s small condo on the floor below mine. We were both there to pick up our mail. Axel had been doing some grocery shopping for her. When he picked up our mail, he got hers as well and dropped it off at her condo. This morning he left before the mail carrier arrived so Clara and I both made our own mail runs. Maybe Axel was becoming indispensable, certainly Clara would say so. In return, Clara had promised Axel she would bake us a pie every other week, whatever kind we wanted on condition Axel bought the fixings.
I explained why Axel didn’t get her mail. Clara replied, “Then why didn’t you pick it up for me, Mr. Matthew Kile?”
“Well, I don’t know, Clara. I just didn’t think about it I guess, Axel not being here and all. Besides, Axel offered to get the mail for you, I didn’t.”
“In return I baked an apple pie and promised to bake a pie every other week, apple, cherry or cream. Did you eat part of the apple pie and do you plan on eating some of the future pies, Matthew?”
“Well, yes, ma’am, I do.”
“Then if you’re sharing in the spoils, you need to do your part. From now on, you pick up my mail when you’ve sent Axel away so he can’t. Do we understand each other, Matthew?”
I felt like one of her students claiming my dog had eaten my homework. “Yes, ma’am, I guess I do. Your pies are very good. So, yes, we understand each other. How about banana cream this week?”
“Your choice, Matthew. I’ll have it ready the day after I get the fixings. When will Axel be going to the store for me, or will you be going this time?”
“Let me get with Axel and he’ll let you know. Would you like me to escort you back to your unit, Clara?”
“I’m not feeble, Matthew. I can get my own self upstairs and inside. Besides, then you’d want to come in and it’s time for my stories.”
“Of course, Clara, I meant no disrespect. Goodbye.”
*
“Buddha,” Axel said, “it looks like this Eddie Whittaker is doing a Bill Murray Groundhog Day. His routine’s the same as yesterday: breakfast out, go by his stockbrokers, and after lunch the handball club, yesterday the golf course. That’s no real difference. Then he puts on glad rags and has dinner with some fox. Last night a blonde, tonight a blackhead; I don’t like that word, it makes her sound like something you’d squeeze.”
“I’d like to squeeze her,” Buddha said.
Axel frowned while shifting his eyes toward his big driving teacher.
“Both nights when he takes them home he goes in for an hour or so,” Buddha said. “This prick knows how to live. Sure different than before we did our time, when we was younger.”
“He turned south toward the docks.”
“What the fuck’s this about?” Buddha asked.
“That’s what we’re here to find out. Stay with him.”
“No sweat.” Buddha kept his distance as he eased into the same turn. “He’ll lose his wallet before he loses me.”
After a while, Buddha turned into a chainlink fenced yard in front of one of the industrial buildings, swung around and came out through a different gate. The traffic was light enough that he could still see Eddie Whittaker’s Lexus about a quarter mile ahead. “I did that to give him a change in the pattern of headlights behind him.”
Five minutes later, Buddha pulled to the curb. “He’s going into the lot for that biker bar. What’s an uptown swell like him doing going in that kinda joint?”
“The boss says Eddie used to have a Harley and ride with the general’s chauffeur who has one. That they used to hang sometimes with the rough bike crowd. That’s how he met his fiancee, this Ileana Corrigan woman who got murdered over ten years ago. Eddie got arrested for it, then released a few days later.”
“How’d that happen?” Buddha asked. “The cops don’t go around arresting people for murder until they’re pretty sure they got ‘em by the short hairs.”
“They thought they had him cold. Then some citizens came out of the woodwork. Solid folks whose testimony trumped the couple of witnesses they had who claimed having seen Eddie murder his woman. Well, one claimed he saw the murder. The other placed him nearby.” Axel shrugged. “So, Eddie walked.”
“And the case now?”
“An unsolved cold case.”
“So, is Mr. Kile trying to nail him for it again?”
“Not particularly. The boss wants to find who did the broad in. Doesn’t care whether it’s Eddie or someone else.” Buddha opened his driver’s door. “Where do you think you’re going?” Axel asked.
“Check the place out. Make sure Eddie Whittaker didn’t go out the back door. Maybe get me a beer.”
“No drinking and driving. You stay put. You’re not exactly someone who looks like a lot of other folks. If Whittaker sees you, he’ll remember. That’ll put the kibosh on our following him on foot should the need arise.”
*
I was turning onto the ramp for the underground parking below my condo building when my cell rang. I pulled to a stop before entering and backed out to the street to be sure I held the signal.
“Mr. Kile, the general wishes to see you. Now. Tonight.”
“Charles, it’s nearly ten-thirty. I mean, I don’t mind, but is he in shape to do this?”
I knew what Charles would say. Whether he was in shape for it or not, that decision had been made before Charles dialed my number. I left for the general’s home and arrived a few minutes before eleven.
“Charles, are you sure this is a good idea? It’s almost eleven.”
“I know, Mr. Kile, but the general is the general. When it’s time to do something, he wants to get it done. He’s waiting in his private study. You know the way. Go ahead up. He’s already ordered your Irish. I’ll bring it in right off.”
I patted Charles on the shoulder. “You’re a good man.”
“The general’s standing order whenever you are here, only this time he ordered two.” I looked at Charles. The question on my mind must have been on my face. Charles shrugged.
I took the stairs two at a time and walked into the private study. “Hello, General. You wanted to see me? If you prefer, I can come back in the morning.”
“Sit down, Matt. We’re wasting time. Let’s talk.”
A small brass lamp with a black shade sat lit on the side table, the only light in the room. I took a seat and gave him some body language for you called the meeting. You start.
“What about this murder of Cory Jackson? It must tie in somehow.”
“Seems like it should, doesn’t it? Do you have any thoughts on it, General?”
“I’m afraid it points at Eddie. That he killed Ileana. Had I just stayed out of it in the beginning justice would have likely been done and this Jackson fellow would still be alive.”
“Now hold on, General. You might be rushing out ahead of your troops.”
Right then the expected two light knocks on the door followed by Charles entering. As usual he carried the pewter tray, but this time it held two short frosted
glasses. I took one. Charles stood straight and looked at the general who motioned him impatiently. Charles went to the general who took the other glass. Charles glanced toward me, and then left the room.
“General, why?”
“For the past year I’ve been watching you and a few others drink, enjoying it vicariously. I’m sure Charles told you that the doctor estimates I’ve got maybe a week, give or take. So what the hell is drinking this going to do? Drink up, Matt. Let’s have one together.”
The general leaned forward, his glass in hand. I got up and leaned across his desk to clink our glasses together. Man’s ritual, born in ancient times and shared since without change other than an evolution from ceramic or pewter mugs to modern glass. I sat back down and watched him take in a modest sip. You could see it ease down his withered throat. His eyes closed. Then he smiled and uttered a slight, “ah,” the two expressions so close I couldn’t tell which preceded the other. Both expressed joy. A moment later, he opened his eyes and took a second sip, this time without the ritual.
“Now, as I was saying. The death of Cory Jackson argues that Eddie killed Ileana. He had to. My grandson knew I hired you to begin mucking about. You met with him. He saw in you a capable man who would be relentless. His killing Jackson eliminated the only person who saw him kill Ileana. There was no other evidence or witnesses who could connect him.”
“Yes, General, I’ve toyed with that thought myself. Still, there are a couple things arguing against it.”
“Such as?”
“Cory Jackson had already sworn to seeing Eddie. When the D.A. dismissed Jackson’s claim, in reliance on the testimony of Mr. and Mrs. Yarbrough and the retired school principal, Jackson’s eyewitness account was nullified. Jackson was no longer a significant threat.”
“What about those three witnesses? Have you talked with them? Confronted them?”
“Yes. The Yarbroughs admitted lying. They were coerced with threats of violence against other members of their family.”
“What? By whom?”
“They don’t know.”
“What about Flaherty?” the general asked while excitedly ringing his bell.
“Flaherty is solid. He is certain he saw Eddie in Buellton that night, just as he told Sergeant Fidgery eleven years ago. With Flaherty in his corner, Eddie should never again find the cops on his porch.”
“What’s your read on this Flaherty?”
“He was straight with me. He saw Eddie or believes he did. And if nothing has shaken that belief in eleven years, I don’t see him ever changing his mind.”
Two more light knocks preceded Charles entering with two more glasses. I took mine. Charles paused without stepping toward the general. “Damn, it, Charles, bring me my drink.”
Charles stepped toward him and leaned in, the tray just above the desktop. The general took the glass, licking some of the frost from the outside before taking a sip. His eyes were closed in pleasure as Charles latched the door shut. I waited until the general finished savoring the swallow, then he spoke.
“When the Yarbroughs recanted, it became Flaherty against Jackson and this Montoya fellow who claims he sold my grandson gas right after Ileana’s murder. No. It figures now that Eddie removed the only direct danger, the eyewitness.”
“General, you’re pulling a milk wagon with a race horse. Slow it down. The police see no connection between the murder of Ileana Corrigan and the killing of Cory Jackson. Jackson has a history of drug arrests, including one for selling. It appears he had cleaned up his addiction to drugs, but not to gambling. When he was killed he owed some bookies. Conjecture says it’s more likely those activities caused his death, totally unrelated to the murder of Ileana.”
“Are you telling me you think my grandson is innocent?”
“I’m not saying that either, General. Eddie could well be guilty. Eddie could well be innocent. I don’t know yet. Give it more time. Okay, General?”
After that I gave him more details about how the witnesses had been bribed to get Eddie arrested, and how the Yarbrough were set up to alibi Eddie, after the general paid the two million for the alibi.
The general didn’t speak, but he nodded, a new dose of hope showing in his eyes.
I got up to leave. With my hand on the doorknob, I turned back. “General, I’d like you to be around at the finish line. If you’d like to be, knock off the drinking.”
Chapter 23
Reginald Franklin the third had an office in one of those high rise buildings all dressed up in glass and concrete. The kind that said step lightly, be respectful, I’ll be here long after the world has consumed your bones.
I leaned into the shiny, L-shaped chrome handle pushing open the glass door and entered the two-story lobby. From there I walked on a tan terrazzo floor to the bank of four elevators across from the gift shop. The directory on the wall before the elevators showed Franklin’s office to be on the seventh floor. Elevators spooked me, but I was running late so I decided to face my fear. I pressed the button for seven, then for four after being asked to do so by a young lady wearing a black and white polka dot dress with red heels and purse. Her hair looked like she had come to the building directly from her hairdresser. Her lipstick matched her purse and heels. She could have been a secretary, a wife, a professional in her own right, or a high-end hooker making an office call. I couldn’t tell. She looked over and casually wet her lips. Her tongue, several shades lighter than her lipstick, appeared bumpy along the side I could see. She wore no wedding ring. I couldn’t tell her age closer than early thirties maybe. The modern woman could be asked if she was wearing a bra, but it remained tacky to ask her age, so my guess would have to do. I considered telling her I was a writer, not telling her I had been in prison, and asking for a lunch date. At the fourth floor, she got out before glancing back. I fumbled in my pocket, and then extended my hand holding one of my business cards. My arm aborted the door’s effort to close our relationship before it opened. She took the card, looked at it, then at me, then again at the card, then the elevator door closed on her smile. I had no idea how to reach her. It would be up to her whether this had been one of life’s vignettes or the start of something big.
I like women who make the first move, although this strategy, if it can be called a strategy, can result in long periods of celibacy.
Franklin’s office was no less grand than the building lobby except it lacked the two-story ceiling. The built-in front counter and desk combination was backed up by a lady with her hair stacked on top of her head and held there by a couple of those things that look like chopsticks. She was no less pretty than the lady in the elevator. Her outfit held no polka dots, but she did have cleavage. You know me well enough by now to realize that I would trade polka dots for cleavage any day. What man wouldn’t? I mean, I like Polka dots, but it’s no contest. After four years in a prison of men, I no longer took my appreciation for the female form for granted, honoring it at every sighting. I gave her my name and took a seat in the lobby hoping that Franklin and I would become great friends so I would have a reason to frequently visit this building. There are so many lovely ladies assaulting your senses at every turn. It’s like wanting an apple and waking in an orchard.
After a few minutes, Franklin came out to get me. I recognized him. He recognized me, although Charles had made that easier by calling ahead to remind the attorney that the general wanted everyone to fully cooperate with me. Keep no secrets from good old Uncle Matthew, especially anything you know that might shed light on who murdered Ileana Corrigan.
After chatting back and forth about everything and nothing, we took coffee in china cups brought in by the cleavage from the front counter. Styrofoam in this office would be a crime punishable by banishment from the ranks of the employed.
“Mr. Franklin, other than the general’s will, what legal matters do you handle for him?”
“I do the legal end of all his business dealings. Look over limited partnership agreements he might be considering
investing in. The leases he uses for a small apartment building he owns near the Long Beach traffic circle. He sometimes buys or sells real estate and a few times he has invested in a couple of small businesses. The last six months or so, he’s divested himself of many of those holdings.”
“Getting his estate in order?”
“Something like that, yes.” After a pause he added, “The general’s instructions were that I was to give you a copy of his latest will. It has been mailed to you.”
I nodded while mouthing the words, “I got it.”
“The general asked that I cooperate with you. What is it you’d like to know?”
“Has he recently changed his will?”
“No. We prepared the current will about five years ago, perhaps a little farther back than that.”
“I’d like a copy of the former will, the one he changed from, also the one in effect at the time of the murder of Ileana Corrigan.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Kile. The general said to give you a copy of his will. Then again, the general said to cooperate fully with whatever you wanted to know. All right, his former will dates back fifteen years so that would have been before the Corrigan woman’s death. Do you want anything farther back than that? I think we had one, but it involved Benjamin, his son, before his death.”
“Skip that one. The one I have and the former one executed fifteen years ago will be fine.”
Franklin buzzed his receptionist, told her what he wanted and we chatted about the L.A. Lakers until she brought it in. I left a few minutes later, resisting a desire to approach Franklin’s receptionist. At this point it seemed a little too strong a mix of business and pleasure. The polka dot dress in the elevator was still in play, although what might come from that would be up to her.
Chapter 24
Whomp. Whomp. Whomp. I opened my eyes to see a guy in a ski mask slamming his fist into my navel; it didn’t fit. The blows had somehow brought me around. I hadn’t felt anything before that, but the way his chest was heaving he had been working hard on me long enough for sweat moons to have formed under his arms. I knew I had taken more than three blows. My feet were off the ground, my hands tied above my head. That allowed me to swing back and forth a bit with each blow. He timed his punches so I would swing forward to meet each of them.
