Conspiracy of Innocence

by Gene Grossman

  “Thanks for the invite, Peter, but the ‘or something’ sounds more inviting than the yogurt, because I don’t handle lactose that well.”

  One good thing about being in a closed motel is that there’s no worry about some employee knocking on the door to offer you an extra towel. We enjoy having the whole place to ourselves, and spend several hours completely ignoring the Lakers. Laughing leads to touching. Touching leads to kissing, and before the evening is over, my self-winding watch is completely wound up, I’ve broken another rule of my own personal legal ethics, and someone from La Verne may have just replaced someone named Laverne.

  7

  Per my instructions, Jack B. caught the early flight this morning and returned from Oregon later this afternoon with bad news. While there, he went directly to Kathy Potter’s cottage to pick up those cell phone records, but he was too late. The cottage was empty. I had a strange feeling this would happen.

  “Honest Mister Sharp, the cupboard was bare. The furniture was gone. It was like no one ever lived there before.”

  “Did you talk to the neighbors? Maybe one of them saw her moving, talked to her, got some idea of where she went.”

  “I tried that. They all had the same story. No story at all. All of a sudden there was an epidemic of amnesia. They seemed to remember someone living there, but don’t recall any details. I did get lucky with a small kid who was playing nearby. Before his mother came and grabbed him away, he told me that there were some big trucks there last night. He heard the noise and looked out his window. But that’s all I got out of him before he was whisked away.

  “On the way back to the airport I stopped at the local post office to see if she put a change of address form in. Nothing there either.”

  “Okay, Jack, there are some forces at work here definitely designed to keep us and the rest of the world in the dark You’ve got her regular phone bills, so just keep calling every number on them and see if it leads us anywhere.”

  “Are you going to help out on these at all, or should I call every one of them myself?”

  “No Jack, I’ve got other things to do today. You keep at it. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find she called a relative, or some friend that she’d like to keep in contact with.”

  Antelope Valley is in the high desert. To get there, you take the 405 Freeway all the way North and then turn east onto another Freeway that takes you up over a pass that’s about thirty-two hundred feet above sea level. People tell me that during some winter storms when the snow level drops below four thousand feet, the California Highway Patrol stops cars and requires snow chains before permitting them to continue through the pass.

  Once over the pass, it’s downhill most of the way until you drive past the city of Palmdale. This is where Edwards Air Force Base is located, and many shuttle trips from outer space have landed here.

  The Antelope Valley Gun Show is being held in what formerly was a high school gymnasium, and it’s completely packed with people walking around in clothing that makes them look like jungle fighters. There are plenty of crew cuts, polished military boots, a lot of cigarette smoking, macho tattoos, and some bleached-blonde women sporting black eyes. Most of these people look like they just stepped out of a television commercial for either beer, Airstream Trailers, or the magazine ‘Soldier of Fortune.’

  I feel out of place dressed in my uniform, which consists of a light blue button-down shirt and a pair of khaki pants. At least my trousers look like part of a military outfit, so maybe I partially fit in. I know I’m only about forty miles outside of the San Fernando Valley, but it feels like a completely different world here. Several vendors notice my beautiful phony Rolex and think I’m some rich dude looking for a ‘piece’ to carry. They’re polite about it, but their suggestions are all quite similar. “Say, wearing a piece of jewelry like that, you should have some protection… now here’s an item that would be perfect for you. Fits nicely in a shoulder holster, and you can…”

  Several of today’s attendees saw me pull up in my Hummer, which is the most militarylooking vehicle in the parking lot. There‘s a buzz in the main room, so I guess I’m being pointed at and whispered about as a new type of ‘gentleman mercenary.’

  While in the army, I was stationed at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, and shortly after finishing basic training I was assigned to an Ordnance outfit. We didn’t do anything exciting like defusing unexploded hydrogen bombs; instead our six-man crew was assigned to the rifle range. Our job was to wait all day until the range was no longer in use, pick up all the remaining ammunition, log it in, and return it to the weapons room vault.

  My first day on that assignment I found out that ammunition was never turned back in, because too much paperwork was required for that. Instead, the six-man ordnance detail loaded up the various weapons out there and fired off all the unused ammo. It would usually take us less than an hour, which is about half the time it would take to count it and do the paperwork required to turn it back in.

  Sitting out there on the rifle range and doing nothing all day long was boring at first, but after a while I became accustomed to the constant gunfire and learned how to nap through it all, until it was time to wake up and fire off a couple of thousand rounds before dinner.

  As a result of my Army experience I developed a couple of unique skills. One, I’m one of the few people who doesn’t ‘jump’ when a car backfires. Guns going off just don’t startle me. I also know how to handle weapons, having spent so much time in the army taking them apart and repairing them. I don’t feel like telling this whole story to every macho vendor there, but they can see they way that I handle each weapon they give me to try out for balance that I’m no stranger to guns.

  This apparent know-how, along with my driving a Hummer and wearing a very expensive wristwatch has turned me into sort of a novelty here. Several people have clumsily tried to ask me what I do for a living. I just say “a little of this, and a little of that.” The word has probably been spread around that I’m with the CIA, or some Delta Force type of operation.

  I reach the booth where the harnesses are, and buy the largest one they’ve got. It’s not designed for dogs, but since Bernie probably weighs about the same as most humans, it should fit nicely and get the job done. No sense telling them it’s for a dog, because most of the people at this stand are no doubt buying them for dangerous commando purposes like scaling up a cliff to attack a hostile Boy Scout campsite, or some other paramilitary assignment here in the wild, wild west of Southern California.

  Having purchased the harness, I’m now out in the parking lot answering questions about the Hummer. Most of the tire-kickers here want to know how steep an incline it will climb, what the thickness of the metal is for bullet-resistance, and many more inquiries about dangers that not one of these wannabee soldiers of fortune will ever have to worry about in their jobs at gas stations and warehouses. The only uniforms they will ever be paid to wear will have blue collars and company names embroidered on. No Mensa memberships or advanced degrees here.

  Back at the boat I get a brilliant idea. If Kathy Potter has disappeared into the ether, I have a strong feeling she’s not going to leave that couple of hundred thousand dollars of insurance money behind. I call Uniman’s office to find out exactly what the procedure is for her to collect on that claim. Mister Uniman refers me to the lady who’s in charge of their life claim department and tells her to cooperate fully with me.

  “Yes, Mister Sharp, what can I do for you today?”

  “I want to know about that claim Mister Uniman mentioned to you… the one for life insurance benefits on Paul Potter. What I want to know is if there is an address where the check is supposed to be sent.”

  “Yes, Mister Sharp, there is an address. In fact, it’s a brand new one. She must have called it in within the past day or so, because it’s just in note form on the file and hasn’t been entered into our computer yet.”

  “Great. Why don’t you give me that new address so that I can do some more wor
k verifying that claim?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’ll help you very much. It’s to a Post Office Box somewhere in Virginia. When we’re finished processing the claim we’ll make the check payable to her and mail it to that P.O. box.”

  “Listen, I’m doing some special work on that claim for Mister Uniman, so I’d like you to do me a favor. Put a flag on that file, so that the check doesn’t get sent to any Post Office box. Instead, Mister Uniman’s office will be preparing a special letter to be sent to the claimant, notifying her that she must make a personal appearance at your office to sign a release form and pick up her check in person.”

  “Well, Mister Sharp, that’s a little out of the ordinary, but I guess we can do it.”

  That claims lady doesn’t know it, but she gave me more information than she thinks. I know that in order to get a P.O. box, you have to apply for it in person to sign forms and pick up the box key. There are only two ways she could have gotten that P.O. box so fast: one was to fly back and forth from Oregon to Virginia, and the other was to have someone with connections do the work for her. Coincidentally, one particular government organization that I know of has their main training in Quantico, Virginia – and it’s the same group whose special agent warned me to stay away from the Potter case.

  Living in a trailer park cottage doesn’t usually give one an opportunity to make the type of connections it would take to get that Virginia P.O. box, so I have a hunch that she did it the same way she got her husband legally declared dead so fast - with the help of my secretive friends at the Federal Building. I doubt if she’s a protected witness, but for some reason, she sure is being protected.

  A dog-mail comes in reminding me that Indovine and Uniman have invited themselves out to the Marina and will be at the boat tomorrow at three in the afternoon. The Asian boys will be delivering a late lunch for everyone, so I’m being instructed not to ruin my appetite by eating at noon and then be rude by not joining them.

  There’s a knock on the hull. Looking over the side, I’m pleasantly surprised to see that it’s Beverly Luskin.

  “Hello, counselor. Hope you don’t mind my dropping in un-announced, but I was passing by the Marina on my way back to La Verne and thought I’d see if you were in.”

  I invite her aboard and notice that the door to the kid’s stateroom is open about an inch. There is a small eye visible, peering out. Beverly comes aboard and makes the usual comments that first-time visitors usually make about how nice everything looks. Quite often they’ll be surprised to see that we have a full size galley, complete with refrigerator-freezer and garbage disposal unit. I guess that when people hear you live on a boat they automatically think it’s some ten-foot rowboat with a canvas cover.

  I give her the tour from flybridge above to engine rooms and master stateroom below. When we come back up to the main salon area, the kid is bringing out a tray complete with three kinds of cheeses, crackers, some greenish dip, and small cups for tea.

  Beverly starts talking to Suzi, as if she thinks that the kid’s IQ is somewhere down around room temperature.

  “Oh, my goodness, Peter, how nice. This must be that darling little girl you told me so much about.”

  The kid sees that Beverly is looking at me, so she takes the opportunity to make her index finger go into her mouth, in a ‘regurgitationinducing’ motion. The smart-alec move stops when Beverly looks back in her direction again.

  We sit and chat for about thirty minutes before she looks at her watch, letting me know how fast the time has flown by while she’s here. She stands up and tells Suzi how nice it was meeting her and that she can’t wait to see her again, to get better acquainted. Fat chance. The kid hasn’t said one word to her. The dog didn’t even think it worthwhile to come out of his stateroom for a sniff of this new stranger.

  I walk her to the car and get rewarded with a wet one. When I get back to the boat, all remnants of the platter, dip, cheese and everything else has disappeared back to wherever it came from. It was like no one had visited at all. As the kid heads for her stateroom, she gives me the ultimate summary of her thoughts about Beverly Luskin: a ‘thumbs-down’ signal.

  The phone is ringing. It’s Jack B. calling. “Mister Sharp, you’ll never believe what I got today.”

  “Let’s not play games Jack, please, just tell me.”

  “Kathy Potter’s cell phone records just came in the mail.”

  “Jack, don’t touch them. I want you to put whatever you got, envelope and all, into a plastic evidence bag and get it over to Victor’s place.”

  “You mean the autopsy shop?”

  “You got it. Victor’s got a whole team of experts on his staff and I want that mail dusted for prints. Was there a return address on the envelope?”

  “Yes, but it was the cottage. She must have tossed into a nearby mailbox before she moved.”

  This is interesting. It looks like Kathy Potter wants to help us out, but not too much. That might be because she’s afraid that her insurance claim could be adversely affected if we learn too much.

  Last year I had the good fortune to become associated with a gentleman named Victor Gutierrez, who runs a company out near Pasadena that he appropriately named after his vanity telephone number 1(800)AUTOPSY. Being a former medical examiner, he now performs autopsies for private individuals. The Coroner’s office doesn’t perform a post-mortem on every cadaver, feeling that they are not necessary if the cause of death is determined by investigation to be suicide, unavoidable accident, or natural causes.

  Quite often a bereaved heir, party to a civil accident, or insurance company wants to have a complete autopsy performed, so they retain the services of Victor’s company, because he has a complete laboratory set up to do just that. He also retains a group of former CSI people capable of doing all the scientific evidence-gathering tasks. Their services are often in demand by people like myself who have no access to the government’s services. Victor’s organization has been invaluable on some recent cases, doing fingerprint and DNA comparisons for us.

  I call Victor’s place and leave a message for him with instructions to make a copy of those cell phone records and fax it over to me. Once I get the fax, I can have Jack start calling those numbers too.

  I’ve still got some research to do on Indovine’s weapons charge, so I’d better start cracking the books, because he’ll be calling me tomorrow for his weekly update.

  I’m taking the Hummer in at seven this morning for routine service and to have the tires rotated. I wish they could tune it up a little to improve the performance, because I’m only getting about nine miles to the gallon in the city. When I bought it they told me it wasn’t too good on mileage, and they weren’t kidding. I guess that if you can afford a vehicle like this you’re not supposed to be concerned with a little thing like the cost of gasoline.

  I don’t have to be back at the boat until three this afternoon, so maybe it’s time to see about a haircut. My barber has suggested adding a little color to my hair because some gray is showing through. It may be worthwhile doing that to see the expression on the kid’s face when she notices it.

  Yesterday is still on my mind. Suzi’s radar is much better than mine. She thought that Beverly deserved a ‘thumbs-down,’ but this time I think she’s missing something. The kid is still only a kid, and IQ only goes so far – it never can take the place of the experience a person gets going through the process of aging between eleven and forty-two. I may not be the most worldly person around, but I’ve still had contact with more people than the kid has, and I feel pretty good about Beverly.

  The money has nothing to do with it. I’d find her attractive and enjoyable to be with even if the insurance claims weren’t going to make her a multi millionaire. This lady has class and I think I can trust her with my feelings in spite of the sabotage that I’m sure the kid has in store for our relationship. Suzi and Myra have bonded completely, and if they weren’t so far apart in age, they’d probably be having lunch togethe
r and shopping every day. Suzi wants to see Myra and I get back together, and any other woman stepping into the picture is a danger to her scheme.

  My barber says he can’t take me until tomorrow, and it’s a good thing, because the kid just called and told me that she has to be downtown at the school board by ten-thirty to take another test.

  It’s a few minutes before ten, and as I pull back into the Marina I see that Myra and Suzi are out by the dock gate waiting for me.

  As usual, the car seating arrangement is with me driving and the dog sitting up next to me in the front passenger seat, with his head sticking out of the open sunroof. Some inventor came up with a novel safety idea for dogs that ride in cars with their faces out in the wind. To avoid injury, he designed some goggles for dogs. They have two sets of adjustable straps to keep them in place, and have been trademarked as ‘Doggles.’ The kid had to order at least two pairs for Bernie, and he’s now sitting up next to me looking like a World War I aviator. Suzi is in the back seat, deep into a serious conversation and holding hands with Myra.

  If I remember correctly, today’s test is supposed to be an important one, and I think the kid is worried about it. Myra is her moral support, and when we get there, they walk in together. When Myra comes back to the car, the crossexamination begins.

  “What’s this I hear about some woman named Beverly? Are you getting ready to make a fool out of yourself again?”

  “I see you’ve been talking to detective Suzi.

  What did she say?”