Grundy glanced at me for a moment. He pursed his lips and started to say something, but then he leaned over and starting punching keys on the high-tech gizmo that looked like an IBM electric typewriter. After pounding away on it for a while, he looked up at the screen, waited a couple of minutes, and then started again. He typed some more and waited some more and typed again.
I sat there patiently. All of that typing, he could be writing a book. Who knows, maybe he was: Dastardly Deeds, a saucy sex thriller, the rhinestone monkey solved the case. Reggie was the culprit.
Finally, after an eternity of this, he called out, “Mandy, bring me the Carmichael file.”
Instantly Mandy was at the door. Her arms cradled a thick folder pressed against her chest. She toddled over and plopped it on Grundy’s desk. He peered inside then pulled out a huge sheet of paper, the kind from a computer, I presumed. He handed the lined sheet across to me. “Eyes only, I’m afraid, Mr. O’Brien, the report can’t leave this building.”
Mandy flashed me a quick smile as she left the office.
I scanned the printout quickly. Everything appeared routine, nothing there that would help. Carmichael had been a professor of geology, and had taught several classes, Geology 104—Physical Geology and Laboratory, five units. The geology classes and a couple of lectures had taken most of his time, but he also taught a class that had nothing to do with his chosen field: Television 022—Television Production, four units. It was a night class and it was after this class in the parking lot behind the college’s small TV studio that Robbie had murdered him.
I couldn’t fathom the connection between geology and television. I looked up from the paper and glanced at Grundy, who sat with his hands clasped, resting on the desk. He was actually twiddling his thumbs.
“The professor taught a TV course?” I asked. The direction of Grundy’s rotating thumbs reversed.
“Yes, it started as a hobby. Lately, however, it took practically all his time.”
“Teaching a TV course took all his time?”
“No.” Grundy shook his head; the hands disappeared beneath the desk. “I meant the time he spent running the studio. He volunteered when no one else would, but as time went on his avocation became much more labyrinthine.”
“What do you mean? Like, complicated?”
“Well, certainly more harried than it should have been. KVXR is a PBS station with programming produced here on campus, but for years the station has been losing money. About six months ago the trustees, in their wisdom…” He rolled his eyes. “…had voted to either sell the station or close it down.”
“Who’d buy a station that was losing money? Anyway, what does this have to do with Carmichael?” I asked.
“Professor Carmichael, in due course, understood the trustees’ position. He finally figured out the station would have to close, and he more or less resigned himself to that fact.”
I glanced at my watch and started to fold the printout. “Yeah, I guess that happens,” I said, more concerned about the rush hour traffic than Grundy’s droning commentary on a small-time college TV station. There was nothing here that would help me with Robbie’s defense.
“Until the ten-million dollar offer came in.”
I looked up. “What?”
“They offered ten-million dollars.”
“Ten million bucks for a losing money station? Who’d make such a crazy offer?”
“Who, indeed? That’s when Dick’s… Ah, Professor Carmichael’s nascent hostility materialized. He went on a rampage.”
“A rampage?”
“Well, figuratively a rampage. He emphatically fought the sale. Dick was determined that the station would not be sold to the network making the offer. He announced the station’s license had been issued for the purpose of broadcasting media developed solely for the collective good of our community. The trustees tried to assuage his concerns, but Carmichael would hear nothing of it.” Grundy held his silence for a moment. “Nothing could quell his ardor,” he said, then added, “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“What’s ironic?”
“The station being sold and Dick saying it would only be sold over his dead body.”
I dropped the printout. “Who made the offer?” I asked in a quiet voice.
“Why, it was from the Holy Spirit Network. You know, the network owned by J. Billy Bickerton.”
C H A P T E R 23
With traffic, it was late when I arrived back at the office. Mabel and Rita had already left for the day, but a note rested in the center of my desk. The note was from Rita.
I got a continuance for Danny, my other client, and now I’m working full time on your case. Jimmy, I think I’ve bought us another week. After all, the cops still haven’t found the gun, which surprises me. You’d think they’d have searched the office by now. But, anyway, I talked to Webster…
The gun flashed in my mind. I felt a twinge of guilt for not leveling with Rita about Mabel hiding it prior to the cops’ search. But, as we had decided at the time, it was better not to compromise Rita’s position. I continued reading:
…I’m excited. It’s just as we discussed. Webster has agreed to drop the Section 32 thing if we can persuade Robbie to turn himself in. Now, that won’t stop Hammer’s murder investigation of course, but if we bring Robbie in there is no reason to connect you with the murder. The only possible motive goes out the window.
Yeah, Rita, that sounds terrific, I mused. All I have to do is find Robbie. But I knew I would. Especially with Sol working on the FBI, getting them to raid the base.
I sat at my desk for a moment, tapping my fingers, and wondered how long it would be before they raided the Rattlesnake Lake compound. Sol had powerful friends and he would light a fire, but there was no telling when the FBI would move. For my sake, it had to go down fast. Rita bought me a week—not much time—and there was nothing I could do but wait.
Rita was now full time on my case, meaning she wouldn’t be bringing in any revenue, and Mabel had said we were short on cash again. On top of my own legal problems, I needed clients. I knew if I didn’t start looking for new blood right away, I’d be out of business. But how could I show a bright and smiling face, a lawyer with confidence and ability, at the service clubs around town—Kiwanis, Elks, Rotary, and the rest—with a murder rap hanging over my head? I couldn’t even troll the court hallways. Everyone knew about the investigation, and I’d be like one of Father Damien’s outcasts. They’d think being accused of a crime was contagious, like leprosy.
My stomach gave a growl, rumbling about food, so I decided to head to Foxy’s Coffee Shop on Paramount. I’d order the burger combo plate with fries. I figured it was about time I had a decent meal; all of those donuts weren’t doing anything for my waistline.
I turned out the lights and left the office.
Foxy’s was built to look like a ski chalet, an A-frame building with a high peaked ceiling, open exposed wood beams, and a red metal fireplace off in the corner. The architectural style would look great up at Lake Arrowhead, or maybe Big Bear. It would be a warm and inviting place to come in from the snow and sit by the fire with a hot toddy in your hand. But in Downey, on smoggy Paramount Boulevard, it looked like what it was: a burger joint.
I sat at the end of the counter. I liked a little elbow room while dining. Helen, the waitress, whose eyes followed me from the time I walked in the door, had a cup of coffee and a menu in front of me by the time I sat down.
“Good evening, Jimmy. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
Helen, fiftyish, was a little stocky. Her cone-shaped hair, lacquered in place, climbed from the top of her head like a black frizzled beehive. She stood before me with one hand resting on her jutting hip.
“It’s been a few months,” she said. “Let’s see, you were here with your girlfriend, that flight instructor. Susie, wasn’t it? Yeah, that’s it. You two were dressed up in cowboy outfits. Cute little thing.” Helen had the m
emory of a Univac.
“She liked to square dance. We were going to the Clod Hoppers Promenade Ball, do-si-do, allemande left, and all of that,” I said.
I thought back four months earlier. It was the last time I saw Susie. I’d picked her up at her work and took her to my apartment where we changed into our cowboy costumes. Then we stopped at Foxy’s for a bite before we went to the dance. After the ball, we popped into Rocco’s for a few more laughs.
I smiled, remembering how everyone had howled when we sashayed in, doing a little sidestep, wearing our cowboy and cowgirl outfits. I was dressed up like Hopalong Cassidy and Susie was Annie Oakley. At one point, she pulled the gun out of her holster and dazzled the crowd with her tricks. I remembered how pretty she looked when she stood with her legs wide and drew the pistol lightning fast, twirling it around her finger before plopping it back smoothly into its holster. She did it all in a single swift motion. Thank God the gun wasn’t loaded; she could have shot someone. Susie was a talented girl: airplane pilot, fast gun artist, and a real spitfire in the lovemaking department. In spite of the square dance, I had a fun time. After we left Rocco’s, we’d driven to her place, a condo in Long Beach, where I’d spent the night.
The next morning, Susie was packing her bags. She’d received an early phone call from Piedmont Airlines. They had an immediate right-seat opening and offered the co-pilot job to her if she could report to their eastern headquarters within twenty-four hours. To a young pilot, a call like that was like winning the Irish Sweepstakes. A job offer from a real airline was the dream of every flight instructor.
I’d quickly dressed and driven her to the airport. I’d offered to forward her belongings. She thanked me and said the job might not be permanent, but if it turned into a long-term affair, then the airline would take care of the move. I’d kissed her goodbye at the gate. We talked on the phone a few times after that, but I hadn’t spoken with her since the last call a couple of months ago, when she told me about the new man in her life.
Helen interrupted my thoughts. “Are you ready to order, hon? By the way, are you still seeing the young lady?”
“No, we broke up. Anyway, bring me the burger combo with fries, thousand on the salad.”
She scribbled on her pad and without looking up, said, “Jimmy, if you took her someplace decent for dinner, instead of this joint, she might not have dumped you.”
In a few moments, my food arrived. I slipped a greasy limp fry in my mouth and took a bite of my hamburger. As I chewed, my mind drifted to the case. I set the hamburger down, pulled a pen out of my jacket pocket, and jotted a few notes on a paper napkin. I drew a diagram and connected the dots. Robbie was obviously connected to Professor Carmichael and his mother was connected to Elroy Snavley, the pastor of Divine Christ Ministry Church. Elroy Snavley was connected to J. Billy Bickerton, the owner of the Holy Spirit Network, which was buying the TV station at the college. And the professor was killed by Robbie while fighting against the sale. I sat hunched over the counter, my burger getting cold, and appraised my scribbles for a few minutes. A neat little circle, but what did it prove? Nothing.
I wadded up the napkin and tucked it in my hip pocket. The TV station being sold and the professor’s prophetic statement would actually hurt my case defending Robbie. His fight to keep the station out of the hands of a religious network could be construed by the D.A. as an excellent motive for the murder. The D.A. would reason that Robbie—religious fanatic that he was—had the notion that the professor was an atheist, or in Robbie’s words, a heathen, and that was why he’d killed him. They would argue that the crime was premeditated, thought out in advance, with laying-in-wait as a kicker. Hardly the work of an insane person. Maybe the work of a religious nut, but not someone legally insane.
But if I didn’t come up with something to clear my name, I’d be behind bars. Sol’s FBI guys had to act fast. They had to raid the base and find him there. I had to show up with Robbie before the cops finally pinned the murder on me, and barring that, before Webster took his file back and charged me with aiding and abetting, the Section 32 thing, helping Robbie flee.
Just as I was about to tuck into my burger again, Helen approached. “You have a call, Jimmy. You can take it in Ted’s office. He won’t mind, I’m sure.” She showed me the way to the manager’s office, a small cluttered cubicle off the hallway leading to the restrooms.
The phone call was from Sol.
“Ah, Jimmy, my boy. I knew you’d be there eating alone on a Friday evening. You should have a little bubele to take out to dinner.”
“Sol, what’s up?”
“Hey, I don’t wanna butt in. But you’re not getting any younger.”
“Is that why you called? You’re a yenta now?”
“It’s okay, Jimmy my friend. I guess you don’t know that yenta in Yiddish is a—”
“Aw, Sol, cut it out.”
“I got information from my source at the FBI. Information about the old military base, Rattlesnake Lake. But I can talk to you later. I don’t want to interrupt your dinner that you are having alone.”
“Sol, dammit!”
“All right already,” he said. “Here’s the story. It seems the Feds already knew about the new owners of the base.”
“When is the raid going down?” I was practically shouting. “You told them I wanted to be there when they find Robbie, didn’t you?”
“There’s not going to be any raid. Well, good night, Jimmy.”
I sprang from Ted’s desk. “Sol, hold on. Did you say no raid?”
“No raid. The FBI had already checked them out. The base isn’t what we thought. It’s not a teen center, and it’s not a training camp for a bunch of right-wing whackos playing with guns.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “We saw them, AK-47s, everything.”
“It’s a gun club.”
“What?”
“Rattlesnake Lake Sportsmen’s Rod and Gun Club, that’s what they call themselves. Sounds legit. They have a license and they’re members of the CTA,” Sol said.
“What’s the CTA?”
“I dunno. Something to do with target shooting. Some kind of trapshooting association.”
“Trapshooting? That’s a crock. What are they doing, standing there in storm trooper outfits blasting away at clay pigeons with semi-auto machine rifles, for chrissakes?”
“I said sounded legit. But that don’t make it so. Unfortunately, the Feds aren’t going to budge. It is out of their hands, they said, unless, of course, we had evidence of wrongdoing.”
“Sol, I’ve got to get onto the base. Even if I don’t find Robbie, that girl I met behind the Harvey House, Jane, works in the kitchen out there. She was going to tell me about him, until the cop showed up and scared her away.”
There was a long pause on the line. “No, Jimmy.” Sol’s voice was serious now. “It’s too dangerous for you to go in there. Remember they got guns, and they didn’t seem too friendly. If we can think of a good cover story, I’ll send a couple of my men. They’re pros.”
“No! It’s got to be me. I’m the only one who has seen both Robbie and Jane. Even if I don’t find Robbie, maybe I can get her out. She has information and I didn’t like the way she said she was going to get a beating. Your men wouldn’t recognize them. Plus, they would attract a lot of attention. We have to find a way to get me in there undercover, right away.”
“What if he’s not there? What if the FBI is right…”
“You know better than that. Help me, Sol. Help me save my neck.”
“I don’t like it, Jimmy. But, maybe you’re right. It has to be you. If Robbie’s not there, then we can start looking elsewhere. But first, we’ve gotta make sure those goons with guns aren’t holding teens out there against their will. Give me time, and I’ll come up with something.”
“There is no time. We’ve gotta come up with a plan, and fast!”
Sol hesitated for a moment. I could almost hear the gears in his head clanking into pla
ce. “Now, listen to me, Jimmy. Any kind of scheme to get you in there has to be foolproof and safe. You’ll have to have backup.” Sol became quiet again. I knew he was building a plan in his mind. A couple of seconds went by, then he said, “And the plan has to—wait a minute! I think I’ve got the perfect solution to the problem. I’m in the bar at Rocco’s. Come on over.”
I glanced at Ted’s desk: bills and invoices. “You want to see me right now? You have a plan already?”
“Yeah, right now. Yeah, I’ve got an idea.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Get over here quick, before he takes off.”
“Who?”
“Your ticket into the Rattlesnake Lake Sportsmen Bullshit Club. That’s who.”
C H A P T E R 24
Charlie, the piano player, was pounding out a jazzed-up version of “Blue Moon” when I walked into Rocco’s. The guy was awesome. He had been with the Marcels, a Doo-Wop group of the fifties. Then in the early sixties, when Doo-Wop had faded from the scene, he’d moved up the line, accompanying Frank Sinatra for a while. When André, Rocco’s manager and maître d’, bragged about signing the guy, I wondered. With those credentials, what was Charlie doing here at Rocco’s in Downey of all places? What could he have done that was so terrible? Whatever it was, it must have really pissed off Sinatra.
Elbowing through the crowd, I spotted Sol sitting in the center of the barroom. He sat at a table sagging under heaping plates of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Seated with him was Peter Van Hoek, the owner of Sunnyville Farms Dairy, a large milk company located in South Gate, the town just north of Downey. Sol had a drink in one hand and a rib drenched with barbecue sauce in the other. Between bites, he vigorously lectured Van Hoek, but I couldn’t make out what they were talking about with all the noise. Just the two of them sat at the table. I wondered where the mysterious stranger was, the guy who was going to get me onto the base. Sol caught my eye and waved me over, and when I moved closer, he jumped up. “Hey, Jimmy, you know my good friend, Peter, don’t you?”
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