Forbidden

by Pat Warren

  Picking up his pen, he frowned at Fitz. “I have a job to do, and it has little to do with fun. The voters didn’t elect me so I could whoop it up.” In an uncharacteristically dismissive gesture, he lowered his eyes to the report and began reading.

  Fitz wasn’t hurt. He knew Adam, knew he was struggling with residual pain and not really angry with him. Sighing, Fitz picked up his briefcase and left.

  The ringing phone woke him. Instantly alert, Adam glanced at the bedside clock. Who’d be calling him at eight on a Sunday morning? he wondered as he picked it up. “McKenzie.”

  “Adam, it’s Jess. I’ve got some rotten news. The skinheads have struck again.”

  “Shit.” Adam swung his legs over and sat up. A year had passed since they’d pinpointed Becker, and they still hadn’t been able to gather enough evidence to trap him. “Fill me in.”

  “A black church bombed in south Los Angeles. Bad. It’s on TV if you want to check the details. Several dead already, including some children.”

  Adam rubbed a hand across his scratchy face. “That does it, Jess. We can’t wait any longer. We need to call in our ace in the hole.”

  “You mean Kowalski?”

  “You bet. Think his district will release him and let him give us a hand?”

  “I’m pretty sure they will, unless he’s in the middle of a case. I’ll make sure they’re flattered to help out the attorney general’s office.”

  “Great. Get on it right away.” Adam hung up and turned on his television.

  It took Jesse Conroy two days to get Detective Sergeant Leon Kowalski’s clearance. On Tuesday Kowalski appeared in Conroy’s office wearing blue jeans and a tan V-necked sweater, looking much the same as he had the last time they’d worked together: medium height, average build, brown hair, and no distinctive features. Jesse thought Kowalski was so good at what he did partly because he blended in anywhere. The veteran cop listened carefully and asked for a copy of the Becker file, which he perused quickly.

  “Can you lend me some manpower?” Kowalski asked Jesse. “I’m out of my element up here in Sacramento.”

  “No problem. But Adam wants you to use only people on our staff. Less chance of a leak that way.”

  “Will do.” He stood, moving toward the door. “I’ll be in touch.” He left as quietly as he’d entered.

  It was three weeks before they heard from Kowalski again. He showed up unannounced one day, together with Diane, to see Adam. Both of them were dressed casually. Adam hadn’t returned from a business luncheon, so Fitz immediately ushered them into his own office. He’d been aware that Diane had been working with the detective, but she’d had little to say about just what exactly they were doing. Fitz had to admit he was curious.

  “Learn anything yet?” he asked, easing a hip onto the edge of his desk as they each took a chair.

  “We learned that our man’s Becker all right. No doubt.” Kowalski’s voice was low and even, without much inflection. He chewed on a piece of gum. “He’s a piece of work. Frederick Becker grew up in Detroit, the only son of German grocers. His grandmother lived with them above the store, and she talked to little Freddy for hours about the Holocaust. Her husband, Frederick Senior, had been a guard at Auschwitz and a proud Aryan. There were no Jews to speak of near his boyhood home, so Freddie’s obsession with white supremacy centered around blacks.”

  “There’s his background motivation,” Fitz commented.

  “Right. He joined a radical group at college, got involved in a few stunts like burning crosses on the lawns of black folks. He was careful, though, because he couldn’t afford a record since he was heading for law. He really didn’t pick up full steam until some years after he passed the California bar. That’s when he started recruiting impressionable young men to do his dirty work for him while he masterminded the events. He married briefly, but his wife left him after less than a year.”

  “Maybe we could use her,” Fitz suggested. “Maybe she left because of his extremist activities.”

  “He could argue youthful indiscretion. We need more current stuff.”

  “How are we going to get that?” Fitz wanted to know.

  “Diane and I got it.” Kowalski pulled several snapshots from his pocket and handed them to Fitz.

  Flipping through them, Fitz came to attention. “I can’t believe it. The burning church and that busload of people blown up last year.” He peered at Kowalski intently. “Where’d you get these?”

  Kowalski crossed his legs. “I don’t know how much you know about the Nazis, but they were big on souvenirs, and Becker’s a great admirer of their ways. My family’s from Poland, and my parents took my brother and me there years ago. We toured those prison camps. You should see the things the officers kept as souvenirs. It would turn your stomach. One high-ranking officer kept a bowl of eyeballs on his desk. Used it to intimidate men he called on the carpet. I’ll bet it worked.”

  Fitz was stunned. “Are you saying these pictures are souvenirs of Becker’s attacks, that he has someone take photos and he keeps them?”

  “Someone doesn’t take them. He does. I asked around the courthouse and learned that Becker’s hobby is photography. You can’t send a roll of film like this out to be commercially developed. I thought maybe Polaroid, but I was told he had a state-of-the-art Nikon.”

  “So who develops them for him?” Fitz wanted to know.

  “He does. In his darkroom in his house.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  Kowalski nodded toward Diane. “That’s where she comes in. Becker’s got a cleaning lady. Diane made sure she met up with her at the bus stop and struck up a conversation. She revealed that Becker had a pantry converted into a darkroom couple of years ago. So we decided we’d have to get in and see if he left any proof around.”

  Fitz almost groaned aloud. “Don’t tell me you jimmied a door lock and broke into a judge’s home?”

  “No, we didn’t. I tried, but he’s got some of the best locks I’ve ever come up against.”

  “But he was dumb enough to leave the downstairs bathroom window open,” Diane said, her first comment since sitting down. “So I crawled inside and opened the door for Kowalski.”

  Now Fitz did groan aloud. Adam was going to be furious. “Christ, Kowalski,” Fitz said, damn near exploding, “what’d you let her do that for?”

  “I went to him and offered to help,” Diane interjected.

  Fitz tried to calm down as he looked from one face to the other. “These photos aren’t admissible and you both know it.”

  Kowalski nodded. “Sure we know it. Not to worry. We wanted to make sure we were on the right track with Becker. We needed some tangible proof. But we’ve also got a witness that puts our good justice at the scene of the crime. A nervous witness, but a witness all the same.”

  “Who?” Fitz asked, hoping this wasn’t another blind alley.

  “One of the skinheads. Young kid by the name of George Gerhardt. He’s been wanting out, but he’s scared shitless. Afraid of Becker and the others. One other member dropped out couple of years ago. They found him dead in the desert.”

  “How’d you find this guy?”

  “I nosed around and learned there’s this seedy restaurant where the skinheads hang out. It took a while, but this kid came to me. I felt I had him, but he just wouldn’t open up all the way. So I called Diane, told her to meet me, but to leave her false fingernails and designer clothes at home. She did, and within the hour the kid was singing. He wound up crying on her shoulder.” He sent Diane a look of reluctant approval. “She’s surprisingly good, you know.”

  Yeah, but her methods bordered on the unlawful. “So you say.” Fitz went to sit at his desk and leaned back thoughtfully. “Okay, so now we’ve got the munitions guy, some inadmissible pictures, Becker’s ex-wife, who’d probably testify she knows nothing, and George, a nervous skinhead. All of these are iffy at best. I don’t think it’s enough to get an indictment.”

  “Neither do
I,” Kowalski agreed. “But we’ll get Becker red-handed, and soon.”

  “Care to tell me about what you have in mind?”

  Shaking his head, Kowalski stood. “You’ll get even more nervous if you know the details. All I’ll say is that they’re planning a big one, according to George. Couple of weeks, maybe even several months away. These things take time to set up. And, as usual, the man himself will show up for at least part of it with his trusty Nikon.”

  Fitz shook his head. “He’s got balls. I’ll give him that. But what if he doesn’t show? Can you prevent more lives being lost?”

  “I’ll do my best. You’ll have to trust me.”

  He wasn’t your average cop, Fitz thought. But in a few weeks, Kowalski and his unlikely assistant had learned more than the rest of them had in a couple of years. “Yeah, I guess we will.”

  “Thanks for your help, Diane.” At the door, Kowalski turned back. “I dropped off something else we found at Becker’s place and took it to your fingerprinting lab. A letter bomb—not quite put together—addressed to a prominent rabbi in L.A.”

  “Sonofabitch! The Jews, too.” Fitz was furious.

  “One other thing,” Kowalski added. “I told the kid, George Gerhardt, that he’d get immunity for testifying.” With that he left the room.

  Fitz eyed Diane. He’d certainly discovered a side of her he hadn’t suspected. He knew she was a risk taker, but this time she’d wandered into some pretty dangerous territory. He had a hard time picturing her crawling through bathroom windows and letting a troubled boy cry on her shoulder. She stared back at him unflinchingly. “I guess we all owe you our thanks as well.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He had to know, had to ask. “Why’d you really do it, Diane?”

  “For the greater glory of mankind, sugar.” She laughed. “You want the truth? I wanted to help Adam.”

  Wanted to help or wanted to impress? Fitz asked himself silently.

  Lazily Diane stood. “Look, Fitz, I know you’re not nuts about me, but we got the job done. Results are what count.” She sauntered out, closing the door.

  Fitz sat for a long while, wondering just how he was going to tell Adam all that he’d learned over the past half an hour.

  The champagne cork popped, shooting toward the ceiling, then spiraling to the thick carpeting. The small group gathered in Adam’s office cheered noisily. The celebration was all the sweeter since it had been so long in coming.

  September 7 was a day they’d all remember. Judge Frederick Becker III and eleven skinheads had been indicted by a grand jury for conspiracy to riot, malicious property damage, and murder. Several California newspapers plus USA Today lay scattered about, headlines heralding the judicial cleanup. The often critical press was suddenly praising the office of the attorney general for “a patient, prudent investigation that reaped a huge reward for California.”

  “How sweet it is,” Diane remarked as she held her glass high, then sipped.

  Jesse took a long swallow, then toasted Diane. “You worked hard and you deserve a lot of credit.” They’d had a heavy caseload to maintain while setting up the Becker case, and she hadn’t shirked her other work, either. She’d shocked all of them with her unorthodox methods, but they had to applaud her results.

  “Thanks, sugar,” she said, then beamed as both Fitz and Adam drank to her as well.

  Standing, his hands in his jeans pockets, Kowalski watched the celebration unemotionally. To him the convictions would be celebration enough.

  “Now all we have to do is win in court,” Adam said.

  “You will, Adam,” Diane said sincerely. “We’ve got a solid case.” This was just the sort of case that would bring Adam McKenzie to the attention of the entire country. She shivered in anticipation, already picturing national interest in him. She would make sure she was nearby and indispensable.

  “Damn right he will,” Fitz joined in. “And judges are awfully hard on other judges who’ve broken the law. Remember the case of Judge Miller in Oregon? They nearly crucified the guy, and all he’d been guilty of was bigamy.”

  “Peanuts compared to our guy,” Jesse said with a nod.

  “I can’t believe our lucky break,” Diane went on enthusiastically. “A ham operator, yet.”

  That had been the thing that had tipped everything in their favor. Unknown to anyone except Diane, who’d been with him, Kowalski had bugged Justice Becker’s phone when they’d been in his house. After weeks of listening, they had still learned nothing. Becker was too smart to make incriminating calls from his office, either. Finally the judge had made a fatal error. He’d talked on his car phone twice to two of his skinheads about setting up the next incident. A local ham operator had picked it up and monitored the call, then phoned the police. The young man had been astute enough to record the conversations. Kowalski himself had gone to the justice’s chambers along with two uniformed officers to arrest him. It had been a satisfying moment.

  “Adam,” Jesse began, straying to a topic the whole office had been whispering about, “I understand the party bosses invited you to lunch last week. The rumble is they’re interested in running you for the Senate. Any truth to it?”

  He had met with them, and they’d come close to asking; but Adam wasn’t sure that he should leave his present job just yet. He’d been studying politicians for years and knew that if an unseasoned candidate ran for office before fulfilling his obligations to his constituents, they’d punish him at the polls. Most especially a candidate who was only thirty-one. “Let’s not jump the gun. There’s plenty of time.” He rose and shook hands with everyone. “You all did one hell of a job. Thanks.”

  Later, after they’d all left and he was alone, he walked over and stood staring out his office window at the late afternoon traffic below: commuters rushing home; shoppers catching buses; strollers still window-shopping; people meeting for drinks, for dinner, maybe a show; perhaps a businessman hurrying to share a promotion with the woman in his life, looking forward to her praise. Sharing a victory of any consequence enhances the thrill. He ought to know. He had no one with whom to share his.

  They’d finally nailed the bastard, and with luck they’d put Becker behind bars soon. The case had occupied so much of his time and thoughts for endless months that seeing it come to an end was almost anticlimactic. Perhaps the letdown had to do with the fact that, other than his co-workers, he could think of no one with whom he could savor their success. Even talk of a Senate seat—something he’d wanted for years—didn’t cheer him.

  Adam thrust his hands into his pants pockets and watched a bus rumble down the street. He could call any number of people, and they’d gladly spend time with him; but not the one he wanted, the one he couldn’t seem to forget.

  He struggled to remember his anger at the way she’d breezily married another man mere weeks after he’d left, when she’d known he’d be calling as soon as he could. Anger was easier to deal with than hurt. All that had happened over three years ago. He had to let go, to force himself to stop thinking of Liz. She was married now, and according to what Fitz had told him not long ago, she had a daughter. She was undoubtedly happy, settled, and had forgotten him long ago. And still he stood, fighting the longing that would sneak up on him at odd times.

  It wasn’t as if he sat around thinking of Liz hourly, or even daily. There had been whole weeks when he hadn’t given her more than a fleeting thought. But there were other times when he’d hear a snatch of a song they’d listened to together or when he’d see a piece of sculpture and remembered how she’d chewed on her lower lip as she’d concentrated on her art, dipping her hands in the wet clay. Or the nights when he’d lie in bed and his body would ache with the need just to hold her.

  So much time had passed, yet he could remember her so clearly. The way her hair fell forward to curtain her face when she laughed. Those dark eyes that would grow smoky as he entered her, the soft sounds she made as he made love to her. The feel of her hands massaging h
is tense shoulders. The interested way she leaned forward and listened when he talked.

  Cursing under his breath, he turned from the window. This way lay madness, he told himself. She hadn’t loved him; she’d married another. Quickly he left his office.

  In the hallway he heard typing in the next office and walked over to peek in. From the doorway he saw Diane Cramer working at her desk, unaware of him. Today she was wearing a business suit that, conservative as it was, couldn’t hide her lush curves. She had a body that could only be called ripe, and she was no dummy, either. She’d proven herself an able campaigner and a loyal aide, one who willingly went the extra mile.

  She’d make a good political wife, he mused. She’d learned when to speak up and when to step back. He could do worse than a woman like Diane. She clearly had his best interests at heart.

  The money men in the party had pointed out on several occasions that voters preferred a married candidate. Perhaps he should think about settling down. Since he could never have the one he really wanted, perhaps he should go after someone who would be a good, solid helpmate, someone attractive yet one who wouldn’t cause him to churn inside and lose focus.

  With someone like Diane, he could lay it on the line. She’d been around enough to know it wouldn’t be a love match but, rather, a joining of forces, as they both reached for the same goal. He would be honest with her and faithful, and expect the same. There’d be no illusions and therefore little chance of getting hurt.

  Yes, it just might be time.

  “Diane,” Adam said, entering the room. “You’re working awfully late.”

  Looking not in the least startled, she turned to smile at him.

  “Would you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked.

  CHAPTER 7