Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  “It may take a while, but I’ll let you know.” She stood up, put her hands on my shoulders, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “It was really good to see you, Riley.” At least that felt genuine.

  I headed back down the long hallway, feeling that maybe the world was going to give me a break after all. And I knew I’d need some luck if my meeting with Bino at AmeriChem Industries was going to get me any closer to a payday with Laurie Odum.

  CHAPTER 27

  I grabbed an early lunch at a diner where I used to get free food as a cop, a couple blocks down Valencia. There were new owners and staff, so nobody knew me, but I liked soaking up the old atmosphere—vinyl bench seats, chipped linoleum, and a brushed stainless steel counter. I went over various approaches to my conversation with Bino. I needed to give him enough to entice him into talking, but not so much as to make him suspicious. I’d learned long ago that rather than scripting an interview, a good detective let the witness take the lead. But Bino had been a cop too, so I didn’t know if he’d be drawn into this ploy.

  I swung by the shop to pick up the vial of toxic goo that I’d scraped from Odum’s underwear. The chemists at AmeriChem could probably identify the stuff, and I’d even worked out a cover story as to how I’d acquired it and why I needed to know. Adaptability is fine but you can anticipate a few moves. At least a bit of planning paid off in the short term—I managed to get the vial and Odum’s papers from my desk and stuff it all into one of those expandable envelopes while Carol was out to lunch. My timing meant I didn’t have to suffer her wrath for the phone messages stacked on the corner of my desk. She’d left a note on top of the pile: “See you after work at O’Donnell’s. Or else!” I couldn’t miss Wednesday night beers two weeks in a row or there’d be hell to pay.

  On the way over to Oakland, I listened to a program of Beethoven’s piano sonatas and wondered whether Bino’s loyalty would favor his corporate employer or an old pal. Probably the former, unless I played things just right or my lucky streak continued. The plant was surrounded by a chain link fence with razor wire, and the guard shack at the entrance made it clear that AmeriChem took security seriously. The uniformed guard wanted to see my driver’s license, then called to be sure my appointment was for real.

  I was assigned a parking spot in front of the main building—a stark, concrete tribute to Soviet architecture, which struck me as ironic since the headquarters was packed with some of the nation’s most fervent capitalists. I had to check in with another guard in the lobby, who showed no interest in the contents of the envelope I carried. I took an elevator to the fifth floor, checked out the map on the wall, and walked down a spotless, gleaming corridor to room 5780—which was quite a contrast to the building’s exterior. The reception area was decked out in cherrywood furniture, the hardware was all polished brass, and the walls were lined with expensively framed aerial photographs of AmeriChem factories around the world.

  A gray-haired receptionist wearing a classy women’s business suit nodded when I introduced myself. She gave me a stern look and buzzed Bino. A moment later, the door off to the side of her desk opened. My old friend stood there with his loosened tie hanging askew over a wrinkled white shirt that had probably been tucked when he arrived at work. I gathered that he’d been enjoying his pasta and Chianti. Bino looked like a well-fed disheveled accountant from the neck down. But with his square jaw, intense eyes, and heavy brow he looked like a mafioso from the neck up.

  “Come in, Riley, you old dog!” He waved me into his office and closed the door. We shook hands heartily and he latched onto my shoulder. “Feels like you’ve stayed in shape,” he said, giving my arm an appreciative squeeze. He pulled up a chair for me that I could’ve sworn he’d swiped from the precinct’s interrogation room. Bino’s office couldn’t have been a greater contrast to the anteroom, which was decorated for the eyes of the public and corporate types. He went to sit behind his desk, one of those gray steel jobs that weigh a ton. “Sorry I don’t have much furniture for hosting visitors. The bigwigs tried to give me a bunch of that froufrou furniture, but I worked with the facilities guys to set me up with something that made it feel more like the old squad room.” It showed.

  The office was spacious, with a wide window looking out to a gargantuan jungle gym of pipes, tanks, and steel structures. Below the window was a row of mismatched filing cabinets. On the opposite wall was a bank of television monitors, and lining the wall behind me were green army-issue bookcases stuffed with binders bearing labels such as “Security and Blast Barrier Designs.”

  “It’s good to see you, Bino,” I said, waving off his apology for the furnishings. In fact, the room felt remarkably comfortable, not unlike my office but five times larger.

  “Tell me, Riley, how’ve ya been?”

  I assured him that I’d landed on my feet—Goat Hill Extermination was flourishing and I enjoyed the business and my people. I filled him in on my mother and Tommy, saying that everything was working out for us. In return, Bino seemed overjoyed to tell me about his deep-sea fishing trips and a boat-building project he had going in his garage. Chitchat having paved the way, I moved the conversation toward the reason for my visit.

  “Sounds like your weekends are great, Bino. But how’s the job? You told me a while back that you had a cushy gig going around here.”

  He leaned his elbows on the desk and rubbed his temples. “Riley, the world is changin’. I figured maybe some crackpots would want to mess with a chemical plant. Nothin’ too serious—a few sign-wavers and maybe a fence-jumper. But security has become a friggin’ nightmare in the last few months.”

  “How so? You got people pinching drums of benzene?” I teased, trying to keep him talking.

  “Christ, if it was only that easy. I got corporate espionage comin’ at me from every direction. Our competitors are after the formula for a new insecticide that’s supposed to revolutionize agriculture accordin’ to the AmeriChem brainiacs in the lab coats. Then there’s a Dutch company sniffin’ around, and our management is worried that they’re preparin’ for a hostile takeover. Hell, I don’t even know what that means, but I’m supposed to do somethin’ about it. And last week a Japanese guy takin’ a tour of the plant had a camera hidden in his briefcase like some sort of slant-eyed James Bond.”

  “Sounds like a circus.”

  “That’s not the half of it. I got environmental wackos who’d love to embarrass the company by creatin’ an accident or screwin’ with our production system.” That was the opening I’d hoped for. I tried not to sound too interested.

  “No kidding? There’re people who’d attack your plant in the name of saving the planet?”

  “Yeah, somethin’ like that. But hey, ya didn’t come out here to hear about my problems,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What’s up?” Bino was clearly a busy man—more so than he’d originally bargained for. So rather than being too cutesy, I combined a bit of evasion with an honest appeal.

  “I’m helping out a friend, and there might be a link to AmeriChem.”

  “Oh yeah? And ya think I can help?” I was hoping that by laying one of my cards on the table, Bino might be willing to play along.

  “Maybe. Ever hear about a fellow named Paul Odum?” Bino’s face hardened momentarily, like I’d mentioned his ex-wife. It had been an ugly divorce.

  “Sure. We know about him.” Bino went to the filing cabinet nearest his desk, pulled out a drawer, grabbed a file, and laid it open on his desk. I was happy to see that there didn’t look to be more than a few pages of typed notes. If my raid on Odum’s office gave me information that AmeriChem lacked, I might work it to my advantage. “But it seems that this little problem is no longer with us.” He pointed to a fax on company letterhead. “My counterpart at our Bakersfield plant reported that Odum died in his sleep in an LA hotel room. What’s yer connection to the guy?”

  “It’s a bit convoluted,” I lied. “But the bottom line is that this friend of mine knew Odum and had some questions about
the cause of death.”

  “Good riddance, if ya ask me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I bet ya already know, but I’ll play along. We had reason to believe that he was plannin’ some sort of attack on the plant. We been trackin’ him for a while, but there wasn’t enough evidence to turn over to the police.” This wasn’t sounding like a corporate hit, at least not one that Bino knew anything about.

  “So that’d be the normal course of action? AmeriChem security wouldn’t, you know, take care of things on its own?”

  “Like what—contract a hit? C’mon, Riley, ya been readin’ too many of those San Francisco leftist newspapers. Hell, the corporate bigwigs have the politicians and bankers eatin’ outta their hands. AmeriChem is worth a couple billion dollars and we employ a thousand people. If we want a troublemaker shut down, we don’t need to mess with private contractors. The police chief is a political appointee who works for the city—and we stuff the coffers of government. See what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t really think the company was involved. But like you say, the world is getting weirder all the time.” By this time, I’d crossed off AmeriChem from my list of suspects. If they’d been involved, their head of security would’ve been in the loop and Bino never would’ve admitted knowing about Odum or his shenanigans.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” he sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Ya know that I’d love to give ya access to our files on Odum, but the corporate boys want to keep these investigations quiet.”

  “Maybe I could add something of interest to your files in exchange for a favor.” I hadn’t planned to play things this way, but I was pretty sure Bino would love to have the notes I’d acquired from Odum’s study.

  “Riley, ya haven’t changed a bit. Always figurin’ an angle. I remember how ya worked witnesses and suspects to get what ya needed. Now that I think about it, I’m feelin’ a little like one of ’em.” He smiled, letting me know he didn’t harbor any resentment. Bino was savvy enough to know I was gaming him. “So, what’s the offer?”

  “I can give you the details of the attack Odum had planned, including his weapon of choice.”

  “That might be of interest.”

  “There’s more. I can also provide the names of six guys in AmeriChem who he either paid or was planning to pay off.”

  “Now yer talkin’. Is the information good?”

  “It’s in his own handwriting.”

  “I’m impressed. We figured he had somethin’ in the works, and I knew that he’d made contact with Frank Moffett at the gatehouse. In fact, Frank came to me after Odum approached him at a bar with a generous offer to look the other way and let a van pass onto the grounds. I thought he was plannin’ to crash the van into a storage tank or the lobby. But it sounds like maybe he had somethin’ bigger in mind.”

  “Would five hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate give you a hint as to what something bigger might’ve been?”

  “Holy shit. The guy must’ve been nuts. And yeah, I’d like to know who he had targeted for payoffs inside the company other than Frank. I’ll show ya what we got on the guy, but it’s soundin’ like ya got more on him than we do. So I’m guessin’ yer after somethin’ else. What’s it gunna cost me?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. I picked up the envelope from where I’d left it under my chair.

  “I want to know what’s in this,” I said, pulling out the vial and setting it on the desk. He lifted the glass container to eye level and squinted.

  “Looks like Vaseline or glue.” He started to unscrew the cap.

  “Don’t! Whatever’s in there is pretty toxic.”

  “Okay,” he said, setting it down gingerly. “I can get the eggheads in the residue lab to do their magic, but I have to give ’em a reason. The bean counters need a justification for everything.” I’d worked out my story in advance, so this was easy.

  “I have a competitor who’s applying this stuff along baseboards of people’s houses for cockroach control. I suspect that he’s formulating it himself, and I’m sure he doesn’t know what he’s doing. I had a disgruntled technician from his company tell one of my guys that customers’ pets were showing up dead along with the cockroaches.”

  “I can see where that’d be a problem for him. But what’s it to you?”

  “The environmental kooks have launched a crusade against exterminators. We are Satan’s soldiers, and AmeriChem is the headquarters of hell. I don’t need some idiot poisoning puppies and kittens—or God forbid, some kid—to make things any worse for those of us who know what we’re doing.”

  “So, if it turns out that this stuff is a cheap backroom formulation, yer gunna report the guy?”

  “Nah. Imagine the fallout if the press finds out that an exterminator killed Fido or Fluffy with a homemade concoction. Those healthier-than-thou zealots would have a field day.”

  “A slaughter of the heathens, eh?”

  “Exactly. Let’s just say that if your chemists come back with the right answer, I’ll be having a come-to-Jesus meeting with my colleague. He’ll have converted to another line of business before I’m through.”

  “All right, I think I can put this in terms that’ll satisfy the lab director. We hafta make sure that insecticides are used safely for the industry’s reputation, even if yer pal’s concoction doesn’t involve an AmeriChem product. Now, what about the information on Odum?”

  I pulled out the sheaf of papers from the envelope and slid them across his desk. Bino looked at them, taking enough time to get a sense of what they meant. He nodded and grunted after turning each page, trying to hide his rising interest, but he couldn’t keep his bushy eyebrows from arching when he got to the booklet on pothole blasting and Odum’s list of ingredients. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.

  “Mrs. Brubaker, could ya please come here. I have some papers to be copied.” The door opened and his secretary strode stiffly into the room. He handed her the materials and she made a point of glaring down her nose at me. He shrugged and grinned, like a kid behind the teacher’s back. Once she had closed the door behind her, he smiled mischievously. “That should give us just about enough time to toast our reunion. This is strictly against corporate policy and she’d just love to report me to the vice president and score some points for a promotion out of this purgatory, so stash the evidence when ya hear her comin’ back.”

  “No problem.” I felt like I was back in high school sneaking a smoke in the boys’ room.

  “I’d offer you a good cigar, but that’s against the rules too. The old bat would sniff me out in a heartbeat. I can only enjoy a smoke after she’s gone for the day and I spray some of that perfumy deodorizer shit around so’s the place smells of lemon lilacs or whatever by morning.”

  Bino unlocked the lowest drawer of his desk and extracted a pair of highball glasses along with a bottle of Wild Turkey. Thanks to Mrs. Brubaker’s speedy work—which was surely a function of her evident desire to see me leave—I was limited to just one drink. It was just as well since I knew that my crew would be waiting for me at O’Donnell’s Pub.

  CHAPTER 28

  After a long day, there was nothing better than downing a cold one with my crew—a Wednesday tradition since I’d taken over Goat Hill Extermination after my father’s death. He would’ve approved, believing that next to family, friends are a man’s most important assets (God and country came after, but I’m not sure in which order). My father had dozens of business associates and acquaintances but only a handful of close friends. As I came through the doors of the pub, the gang raised their mugs in mock salute, Isaac looking uncomfortable with his insubordination.

  “Hail to the chief,” Larry proclaimed, and the four of them drank deeply and facetiously in my honor.

  I nodded to Brian, who was behind the bar pulling another pitcher of Anchor Porter for the table. “I suppose they have you putting that on my tab?” I asked.

  “Sure enough, Riley. They said you were a generous bos
s, always givin’ of himself to others.” He laughed and handed me the pitcher. At least the gang had good taste. The deep amber ale had a thick creamy head—just to my liking, if not my pocketbook’s.

  “Glad you could make it, boss,” Dennis said, as I refilled their glasses and settled into a chair that was as comfortable as it was battered.

  “Yeah, Dennis, who’d buy your beer if I didn’t show up?” I replied.

  “It’s no problem, Riley,” Carol answered. “When you were in LA last week, we just put the drinks on your tab. But I suppose you’d have to drop in sometime or Brian would quit serving us.”

  “I’m truly touched,” I said. The conversation meandered from Harvey Milk (according to Carol, the first openly gay man to be a city commissioner), to Patty Hearst (who finally got a seven-year sentence for bank robbery, “as if the spoiled bitch needed the money,” noted Larry), to Elvis Presley (who Dennis announced would be giving a concert at the Cow Palace in November, which seemed to excite everyone except me), to Jackie (Larry’s serious girlfriend, who Carol thought should become his fiancée over Dennis’s strenuous objections while Isaac wisely chose neutrality). Finally, I had to break in.

  “Okay, Carol tells me if I’m going to deduct these little gatherings from my taxes, we have to talk business for at least a few minutes. So how’re things going at Goat Hill?” Larry and Dennis recounted a particularly nasty job in the bowels of a cockroach-infested warehouse, and Carol gave me a rundown on a couple of new leads for contracts with landlords and restaurateurs who’d gotten tired of slapdash treatments by the big boys.

  “What about you, Isaac? Getting the feel of this crazy line of work?” I asked, hoping he’d been fitting in a bit better.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he replied, idly dragging his finger through the water ring his mug had left on the table.