One on One

by Michael Brandman

  “It would, wouldn’t it?”

  Chapter Forty-one

  “The post office,” Johnny Kennerly said.

  “What about it?”

  “Wall to wall.”

  “Perhaps you could be a tad less obtuse.”

  “Dragons, gargoyles, and a four-foot-high signature.”

  “Robber Xmas?”

  “The scourge returns.”

  We had just finished the four o’clock change-of-shift meeting and we had lingered behind in the squad room.

  “This one’s a bitch, Buddy. I say we ratchet up the surveillance.”

  “When do you want to start?”

  “Tonight,” Johnny answered.

  “Both of us?”

  “We can keep each the other awake.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  My Wrangler was parked a couple of doors down from the Noel bungalow. We had stopped at McDonald’s and were engaged in unwrapping our respective Big Mac cheeseburgers and at the same time, dipping into a large bag of sweet potato fries. Johnny’s takeout coffee was planted in one of the Wrangler’s two cup holders, alongside my large vanilla shake.

  “That should help keep you in shape for the big event.” He pointed to the shake.

  “What big event?”

  “One on one, baby. It’s all Helena talks about these days.”

  “She’s not really serious about this. She’s just pulling my chain, right?”

  “What are you smoking, Buddy? She’s been in training for weeks.”

  “Training? Nobody’s ever confirmed that this stupid game is even going to take place.”

  “Think again, big fella. The game is definitely on. She announced it in a widely distributed e-mail. All we’re waiting for is the date.”

  “This is insane.”

  “Correct.”

  I looked at the half-eaten cheeseburger and then sheepishly put it back in the bag. I had no idea she was publicizing this event. I glanced down at my slightly burgeoning stomach. I’m doomed, I thought.

  Johnny noticed my discomfort and a big fat grin lit up his face. “So what’s the date?”

  “Quit bothering me. Can’t you see I’m eating?”

  “I can see you’re weaseling.”

  “Stay out of it.”

  “Weasel,” he said, accusingly.

  “What weasel?”

  “You heard me.”

  It was then that the bungalow’s front door opened and Robaire Noel stepped outside and looked around. He was carrying a backpack. After several moments, he stepped over to the BMW, opened the driver’s side door, tossed in the backpack, then climbed in himself.

  “The monster appears,” I said.

  We heard the BMW’s twin turbocharged engines roar into life and watched as the richly appointed coupe inched slowly onto Meeker Street.

  After several moments, we followed.

  Whatever Robaire Noel had in mind for the evening, it didn’t involve graffiti. We followed him onto the 101 Freeway and south to Santa Barbara, where he valet parked in front of The LeGrange Club, a trendy disco, currently the it club for the upscale Santa Barbara crowd.

  The hipster doorman greeted Robaire as if he were family, and led him past a gaggle of young wannabes who were waiting on line, angling to get in. Noel elbowed his way through the throng and with the help of the doorman, swooped inside.

  We watched for a while. It seemed as if only females were being admitted, young girls displaying a significant amount of skin, all with visions of rich guys shining in their hopeful bedroom eyes.

  “Not a good sign,” Johnny said.

  “Not for us, maybe. But definitely a good one for Monsieur Robaire.”

  “You think he’s in for the night?”

  “Likely in more ways than one.”

  “Home?”

  “No place like it.”

  We hit the Hollywood Freeway heading north.

  Chapter Forty-two

  “He’ll see you now,” Nancy Lytell said, referring to her husband, Michael, the San Remo County District Attorney.

  “Good mood or bad?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  Assistant D.A. Skip Wilder joined me as we stepped into Lytell’s cavernous office. He was seated at his desk, talking into the microphone of a headset that sat crookedly atop his oversized head.

  Michael Lytell was a Freedom fixture, a local boy who made good and who was content to serve a constituency of like-minded locals, most of whom he had known his entire life.

  On the whole, although cranky and peevish, he knew his stuff, had a widely respected legal mind, and contributed greatly to the well-being of the county.

  He was nearing seventy, a member of the suit-and-tie generation, an apparition of a double-breasted past. What was left of his once-abundant crop he kept neatly trimmed. He was clean-shaven with a prominent nose and even more prominent ears, each bearing raucous tufts of angrily protruding hair shafts. His saving grace was his sparkling brown eyes which, despite his irascible countenance, projected sly humor and genuine warmth.

  He stood when I entered, inadvertently yanking off his headset as he did.

  “Shit,” he said, his attention diverted for the moment.

  He picked up the headset and placed it back on his head. “Bob,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Are you still there, Bob? Bob?”

  He listened for several moments. “Shit,” he said again.

  He removed the headset and slammed it onto his desk. “Nancy,” he shouted.

  The intercom suddenly came to life. Nancy’s disembodied voice spoke to him. “Use the intercom.”

  “Screw the intercom,” Lytell said. “When Bob calls back, tell him I’m in a meeting. I’ll talk to him later.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Nancy ended the conversation.

  Lytell pointed to the two visitor chairs that faced his immense desk. Wilder and I sat.

  “How’s Burton?” Lytell asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “Weakened.”

  “I’m sorry. Please send him my regards.”

  “Why don’t you call him yourself? Cheer the old buzzard up. Although for the life of me I can’t figure out why, he enjoys hearing from you.”

  “It’s my innate charm,” Lytell said.

  “That’s what it is. I knew it was something.”

  “What is it that brings you and your smart mouth?”

  “Two birds with one stone.”

  He turned to Skip Wilder. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about? I never know what he’s talking about.”

  Wilder shook his head.

  “What are you talking about?” Lytell asked.

  “The Carson murder and the graffiti scourge.”

  “You know who the killer is?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is it you want?”

  I told him.

  “You want to indict the two football players?” Lytell asked. “For what?”

  “Unlawful intercourse with minors.”

  “And for murder?”

  “No.”

  “Talk to Skip. Show him proof and he’ll get you the indictments. What’s the graffiti thing?”

  I told him.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “The tagger you’re trailing is the son of Gustavo Noel?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want him jailed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without bail?”

  “For as long as I can.”

  “Can you make it stick?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You hope so?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned to Skip Wilder. “He hopes so. Will you please handle this thing, too? I’ve seen this crappy
graffiti and, although I hate to admit it, I think Buddy’s right, it’s a blight. I’m on board for stopping it any way we can.”

  Wilder nodded. Lytell stood.

  “Find the killer,” he said to me. “That’s how we’ll get ourselves some banner headlines. Short of that, don’t bother me.”

  “It was a pleasure to see you, too, Mike.”

  “I trust you can find your way out?”

  “Not quickly enough to suit me.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said.

  Chapter Forty-three

  It was just after midnight when Robaire Noel pulled his BMW out of the driveway and headed toward East Freedom, the bohemian section of town, a once-bustling neighborhood that had fallen on hard times, but was currently enjoying a renaissance.

  Johnny was driving and he followed at a distance with his lights off as Robaire zigzagged the side streets, finally stopping and parking in the lot behind the Elysium Masonic Temple, at the intersection of Green and Mawby avenues.

  Johnny found parking in front of a hydrant on the tiny side street behind the temple.

  Robaire was out of the BMW, his backpack in hand. He stood at attention for a while, listening, checking the surroundings, making certain no one was about. Then he approached the temple and dropped his backpack in front of the wall.

  The temple walls were comprised of aging, caramel-colored painted brick, several sections of which had faded over time. Robaire walked up and down the length of the wall, then returned to his backpack from which he removed several cans of spray-paint.

  Johnny grabbed his iPhone and began filming Robaire’s activities. Together we watched as he sprayed huge circles of white paint on the temple wall. He quickly added red, green, and blue, and in short order filled the space with random designs that likely made sense only to him.

  Johnny continued shooting as Robaire picked up a can of black paint and sprayed his ornate signature onto the wall.

  He had just stepped back to admire his work when I rushed him from behind, wrapped him in a bear hug, swung my right leg into both of his ankles which caused him to lose balance and fall heavily to the ground. Which knocked the wind out of him.

  I jumped on top of him and grabbed several plastic restraining ties from my belt. I secured his legs and arms with them. He was still gasping for breath when Johnny and I yanked him to his feet and frog-walked him to the Wrangler.

  “What in the fuck do you think you’re doing? Do you know who I am?”

  I opened the rear door and slammed him inside, purposely smashing his head on the doorframe. I climbed in beside him.

  Johnny collected all of Robaire’s paraphernalia and tossed it into the Wrangler’s storage well. Then he got behind the wheel and we sped off.

  The entire apprehension had taken less than two minutes.

  We hightailed it to Freedom Police Headquarters where we hustled him into the detention center. Once he was planted in a cell, he looked at us with fear in his eyes.

  “Deputy Sheriff Buddy Steel,” I said by way of introduction. “San Remo County. My associate is Deputy Sheriff John Kennerly. We’re very pleased to make your acquaintance at last. And, oh yeah, you should consider yourself under arrest. We’ll formalize it once we open for business in the morning.”

  Robaire stormed to the cell bars and grabbed hold of a pair of them. “I want a phone call. I’m entitled to a phone call.”

  “In the morning.”

  He stood his ground. “You you know who I am? You can’t just incarcerate me without allowing me a phone call.”

  “A regular jailhouse lawyer,” I commented to Johnny.

  “I’m serious,” Robaire said. “You can’t do this.”

  “Are you a citizen of Freedom Township?”

  “No.”

  “Are you familiar with Meeker Street?”

  “No.”

  “This isn’t going well, Robaire.”

  He glowered at me.

  I lowered my voice to a near whisper. “May I offer you a piece of advice?”

  “What advice?”

  “Lying to an officer of the law is a good way of getting yourself deeper into the shit.”

  “Lawyer.”

  “You should be grateful.”

  “For what?”

  “The food is better here than the slop they feed you in the County facilities.”

  “Why am I under arrest?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m not kidding. Why did you arrest me?”

  “Because I don’t like you.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “For your sake, I hope you are, Mr. Noel. Or should I say, Mr. Robber Xmas? That name does ring a bell, doesn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  I had had my fill of him for one night. “You know what? It’s late and you’re making me cranky. Why don’t you think things over and we’ll pick this up when I come back?”

  I headed for the door.

  “Do you know who I am?” he shouted. “You have no business arresting me like this.”

  “Tell it to the judge,” I snapped and left him standing there, still gripping the cell bars.

  Chapter Forty-four

  It was the sixteen-year-olds who were now the subject of my investigation.

  “I’m almost seventeen,” Connie Nabors told us.

  She was a tiny girl, no taller than five feet, weighing hardly a hundred pounds, little more than a child. Her surprisingly seductive voice was low-pitched and raspy. She was open and guileless, a sweet-looking youngster, wide-eyed and pretty, but with an air of melancholy about her. A pervasive sadness.

  “I tried out as a diver. Even though I’m not really all that good. But Coach Hank seemed to think I had potential, so he put me on the team.”

  We were in my office—Connie, her mother Louise, Marsha Russo, and me. Connie was very self-contained as she sat straight-backed in one of the armchairs.

  Marsha had assumed the role of lead questioner. “Coach Hank was what, a mentor to you?”

  “He was more than a mentor.”

  “Tell me about it,” Marsha said.

  “He liked me.”

  “He liked you how?”

  “He was kind to me.”

  “Did he ever make advances toward you?”

  Connie looked at her mother, then back to Marsha. “Advances?”

  “Did he ever come on to you? You know, did he ever do anything inappropriate?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Did he make sexual advances to you.”

  “You mean did we ever have sex?”

  “Yes.”

  In an instant I watched her deflate, her already shaky confidence shattered, leaving her with nothing to hide behind. She turned into the sixteen-year-old child she was, her perfidy exposed, her innocence destroyed.

  In her naiveté, she had likely come to regard herself a woman, sexually engaged, an alleged badge of honor for someone so young. But she was in over her head and now she stood revealed, a tender youngster, confused and uncertain.

  And ashamed.

  Her mother sat quietly, her silence a sign of her complicity. I wondered how much she knew and when she knew it. And why she had chosen not to report it.

  Marsha urged the girl to continue.

  “We had these, you know, these play parties,” Connie said.

  “And?”

  “Everyone who was at them was doing it.”

  “Doing it?”

  “Having sex.”

  She stared at her mother for several moments, then turned her back to me and addressed her remarks directly to Marsha. “I can’t talk about this.”

  “Why
not?”

  She shook her head from side to side. “I had no choice.”

  “So you participated in sexual activity at these parties?”

  “Not at first.”

  “When?”

  Again she made eye contact with her mother. “Those boys. They told me not to say anything. They said they’d come after me.”

  “Ronny and Paul?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have to be frightened of them, Connie. They’re both in jail.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex and then blew her nose into it. She sat quietly for several moments, gathering her thoughts.

  “One day he kept me after practice. Coach Hank. He said he wanted to evaluate my dives. That’s what he told me. After about a half an hour or so, when I finished, he followed me into the locker room. Everyone was gone. We were alone.

  “He came close to me and told me to take off my bathing suit. He said I had the perfect body for a diver and he wanted to see it.”

  “And you did as he asked,” Marsha said.

  Again she started shaking her head. “I was scared.”

  “But you took off your bathing suit.”

  “At first he just looked at me. Then he touched me. Everywhere. He made me lie down on one of the benches. Then he lowered his pants and got on top of me. It was awful. It hurt so bad. I asked him to stop but he wouldn’t. He said he’d never been so excited in his life.”

  “And you never told anyone about it? Not even your parents?”

  Her mother spoke up for the first time. She was a plain-looking woman, modestly dressed, uncomfortable in the spotlight. “When one of the other girls mentioned to Connie you were talking with her teammates, she asked if I would arrange to have her speak with you, too. That’s when she told me.”

  “And you didn’t know until then?”

  “Not at all. It never dawned on me that anything like this was going on.”

  Connie looked at me. “I was ashamed.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “I couldn’t talk about it. Not to anyone. But I’m better now.”

  “Because?”

  “Because the son of a bitch is dead.”