Poisoned Justice
Page 29
“He quit at the end of today,” Carol said.
“He quit? Why didn’t he tell me that he was leaving?”
“Uh, Riley,” Larry answered, “you’re a great guy, but when it comes to warm and fuzzy reactions, I think I’d go to Carol too.”
“You be one bitchin’ boss, Riley. But the cat’s not jiving,” Dennis added, pointing at Larry. “You dig it?”
“No I don’t. That’s not the way a man quits.”
“Chill out, bro, and have some of this primo beer.” Dennis refilled my glass.
“I don’t think it was about you,” Larry offered. “The dude was freaked out by the warehouse fumigation on Monday. I don’t know what was going on in his head—”
“Larry’s right,” Carol interjected. “Isaac told me he’d come in tomorrow for his last paycheck. When I asked him why, he said that he’d decided to enroll in the art program at San Francisco State. So I pushed a little and he mumbled something about not being cut out for judging and gassing other living things.”
“Sheeit, the problem was that he was always either drawing or thinking,” Dennis said, draining his glass.
“It’s dangerous if you think too little,” Carol tried in defense of Isaac.
“And you’re worthless if you think too much,” Larry replied.
“He’ll be happy in art school.” It was easy to see why Carol’s sympathetic side made her the person to talk to about bailing on us. But I couldn’t get past the way he’d quit.
“Not a bad move. Ol’ Isaac gets to paint nudes and scores a student deferment. Not a bad way to keep out of the next war,” Larry observed.
“It’s not a bad way to stay out of this whacked world,” Dennis echoed. The conversation drifted to how screwed-up society had become, but I’d become lost in my own thoughts about throwing in the towel.
“Riley?” Carol brought me back to Wednesday night at O’Donnell’s.
“On no, the dude’s remembering one of his stories,” Dennis said.
“Five bucks says it’s a boxing story.” Larry put a five-spot on the table.
“I’m betting it’s from his days with the fuzz,” said Dennis, putting his money down.
“Stop it, you two,” Carol scolded. “I like Riley’s stories.”
“Don’t really matter. Once the cat’s on a roll, he’s gonna lay one on us in any case,” Dennis answered.
“Okay, it’s a short one. And I’d keep it to myself, except telling it means that Dennis is out five bucks and that’s worth it.” I smiled as Larry grabbed the money off the table. “I was fighting in a Golden Gloves tournament in about ’57. I’m not positive of the year but I am certain that I was getting thrashed. After the second round my nose was bleeding so bad I couldn’t breathe, and the blood was running down my throat and choking me. The guy had hit me so hard with a left hook that I was deaf in one ear and tilted to the side like a drunken sailor. He’d dropped me at the end of the round with a body shot that cracked a couple ribs. If the bell hadn’t rung it would’ve been over.”
“Wicked.” Dennis nodded his approval.
“What’d you do?” Carol asked.
“I told Marty—he was my trainer and corner man—that I wanted to answer the bell. He had to prop me up on the stool to wipe the blood off my face. Marty grabbed my chin and looked me in the eye. ‘There’s no shame in gettin’ beat,’ he told me. ‘Only a damned fool would let his fighter go back in there. And there’s no shame in quitting, as long as you do it right.’”
“I bet you were pissed,” Larry said, refilling the glasses and lifting the pitcher to catch Brian’s eye for a refill.
“I was, but Marty taught me something more that night. ‘Riley,’ he said, ‘here’s how it works. When the bell rings, I’m going to throw in the towel, but I’m not quitting for you. That’s your job. You’re going to go to the center of the ring and touch that guy’s gloves. Let him know that you lost the fight but you’re keeping your dignity. There’s no dishonor if you respect your opponent and the sport.’ I never forgot staggering out from my corner with the ring spinning and tilting. That guy touched my gloves and said, ‘Nice fight,’ like he meant it. I’d quit but I wasn’t a quitter.”
The conversation headed off into various tales of people who quit too easily and didn’t know when to quit. Carol took the chance to suggest that the problem with men, according to her straight friends, was that guys couldn’t commit to anything. Then she went on a tear that ended with a warning that Larry had better not quit on Jackie, so it was about time to pop the question. He promised he’d think about it and she rolled her eyes as if he’d made her point. The discussion of quitting moved into politics, and the ensuing argument over Agnew and Nixon drew in some of the regulars at the bar until it threatened to become a regular donnybrook. Brian had the good sense to offer free pub fries for the house if we’d talk about something else. All I know is that I should’ve quit after the sixth pitcher.
CHAPTER 46
Thursday morning was the deadline—an appropriate term, considering how I felt. Between the beer and pub fries, my gut was in bad shape. A scalding shower helped some, although the piercing sun wasn’t doing me any good. I walked down the hill to Gustaw’s Bakery, hoping the fresh air would help. It didn’t. I must’ve looked miserable because I’d barely sat down before Ludwika gave me a scolding look and came over to my table.
“Riley, you’ve been drinking, haven’t you?” she accused.
“That obvious, eh?”
“My Gustaw has provided me many mornings to show how a man looks after too much to drink.” She glared at her husband as if my hangover was his fault. “Wait here. I give you Polish cure.”
I wasn’t going anywhere. Gustaw came over with a cup of his muddy coffee and a sympathetic look suggesting that Ludwika’s remedy wouldn’t be much more pleasant than my current condition. She came back with a glass of milky liquid.
“Here,” she said, pushing the glass into my hand. “Drink.”
“What is it?” The contents smelled slightly rancid.
“Kefir. It is my breakfast with buckwheat groats every morning. All Poles know that kefir is good for the sickness.”
Gustaw leaned over. “It’s sour milk, my friend. Be thankful. If she didn’t have any in the kitchen, she’d have made you drink sour pickle juice.” He nodded knowingly.
I drained the glass as quickly as possible, figuring the best approach was to empty the contents before I could taste the stuff. While I read the Chronicle and kept down the milk, Ludwika went into the kitchen and scrambled some eggs, grilled a slab of boczek—the fattiest, tastiest bacon on the planet—and fried cabbage-stuffed pierogis in the grease.
“Here,” she declared, putting the plate in front of me as Gustaw refilled my mug. “Sour, then fat. This is how we cure your head and stomach.”
By the time I left, I was feeling almost human. The crisp fall breeze on the walk to work finished the transformation. I came through the front door to find Carol looking about how Ludwika’s sour milk tasted. She squinted as the sun sliced into the office and explained that she’d closed down O’Donnell’s with Larry and Dennis. They had yet to make it to work, but I knew they’d drag themselves in if there was a job on the schedule. Most of our Wednesday-night affairs were lower key, but every so often it was good to let loose—and remember why I’d given up on heavy drinking. As Carol winced at the ringing of her phone, I headed back to my office.
I closed the door, pulled the plastic bag with Paul Odum’s poisoned briefs from my bottom desk drawer, and jammed the evidence into my jacket pocket. Then I called Laurie Odum. She seemed relieved to hear from me but annoyed that I’d not been in contact. She’d been hiding out since we last spoke, just as I’d ordered. And she was none too happy about having been sequestered. I told her it was safe to go back into Berkeley and that I’d explain everything when I got to her house in the afternoon.
I spent the rest of the morning catching up on inventory in the ware
house. I’d have asked Dennis or Larry to do it, but I wanted a mindless task so I could rehearse my story to Laurie Odum and prepare for various directions that she might take the conversation. As a detective, I’d found that it was often easy to catch a person in a lie because they’d only anticipate the questions that they’d ask of themselves—and cops think in very different ways than most suspects. Trying to think like a rich, artsy, tree-hugging, sexually liberated vegetarian was no small task. I wasn’t planning to lie to Laurie, but I needed to withhold some information if I was going to close the book on this case and convince her to pay for the story.
I grabbed lunch at Simon’s Seafood. The Castro was not on my way to the Bay Bridge, but Ludwika’s remedy had done the trick and I was famished. I was also thinking it’d be a good idea to make sure our fly extermination had done its trick. And maybe score a free lunch. Simon was in fine, fruity form—a pale pink muscle shirt with a pair of hip-hugger jeans. He squealed my name when I came into the tiny restaurant, causing the rest of the patrons to look up from their meals with quizzical expressions.
“Thith ith the man who thaved me from a plague of flieth,” Simon lisped, ushering me to a table by the window and dropping a napkin into my lap with an effeminate flourish. “Jutht like in the Bible, God wath trying to punish this thinful fairy but Mr. Riley would have none of it. Would you, dear?”
“That’s right, Simon,” I answered, hoping that the diners would go back to their meals. I had to hand it to the guy, he was who he was and made no apologies for it. Simon’s authenticity was refreshing in a world of pretenders, although I could’ve done without his exuberance. But it was a small price to pay for a plate of his grilled calamari swimming in olive oil and garlic.
I was getting tired of the drive to Berkeley, but if things went as planned, this would be the last time for a while. That is, until Scott Fortier led another “Insect Safari,” which Tommy would not miss for the world. The trip was pleasant enough, with light traffic and KDFC playing Rachmaninoff’s piano sonatas. Classical music listeners might not seem the sort to get easily agitated, but the afternoon selections fueled a fierce debate on the call-in show as to whether his first or second sonata was superior. I had to lean to the latter, based on my love for Vladimir Horowitz’s performance on the RCA record. Say what you want about the godless Soviets, but that Ukrainian Jew played with the soul of a man who believed in something greater than himself.
I parked in the Odums’ driveway, went through the wrought-iron gate, and knocked on the door. There was no immediate answer, so I admired the lavender flourishing in the courtyard. Just as I was about to give it another try, I heard a deadbolt being drawn back. That was a new addition to the house, so it seemed that Laurie Odum had taken my warning seriously.
“Come in, Riley,” she said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I had my neighbor Mr. Baine put in this new lock a week ago, and he even replaced the door handle to Paul’s study. He’s very handy—and he offered to help when I explained that I wanted some extra protection now that I’m alone. It’s one of those locks that only opens with a key from the inside or outside. And I’m forever misplacing the thing.”
“That was a smart move—a deadbolt installed by someone you trust.” At least that explained the repairman without a truck. I smiled. “And I’m happy to say that you don’t have any reason to be afraid.” She didn’t look scared, but her white linen dress with Mexican embroidery made her look young and vulnerable. There was nothing alluring about the dress itself. That is, until she headed toward the deck and the sunlight backlit her figure, making it evident that the dress was all she had on.
“I want to hear everything from the beginning,” she said, waiting for me to catch up and then taking me by the arm out to the deck, where she’d set the heavy walnut table for an afternoon shindig. There were bowls with pistachios, almonds, olives, tortilla chips, and guacamole. She’d put out a platter piled with empanadas and a tall blue-rimmed glass pitcher filled with sangria.
“That’s some spread,” I noted, taking a few of the nuts. “I would’ve skipped lunch if I knew you were throwing a party.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I haven’t seen anybody other than Mr. Baine and Maria since you left. She came by for the first time yesterday and made the food, as if you couldn’t have guessed. Maybe it’s all too festive given what you’ve come to tell me.” She paused to sip her sangria. “And what I’ve learned.”
That caught me off guard. I couldn’t imagine what she had discovered without leaving the house. “Which is what?” I asked, wanting to know the terrain before making my move.
“Oh, you first. It’s just something that came in the mail, and I’m not even sure what it means or whether it has anything to do with what you found.” I wasn’t keen on possibly walking into a trap, but she was paying the bill so I didn’t have much choice. I went through my findings, giving her most of the story. She wasn’t surprised Odum had been making money on the side. Marijuana was a natural medicinal plant, she explained. Then she got all riled up, telling me that a government conspiracy was beneath the whole paraquat program. I didn’t follow her rant, but it had something to do with organized crime being in cahoots with politicians.
When she was done, I went over her husband’s move into the big leagues with Thai dope as a way of funding his monkey-wrenching gambit. This part of the story barely caused a lift of her eyebrows, followed by what I took to be a nod of admiration and approval. Seems they really had been nutty environmentalist soul mates. When I got to the poisoning of her husband, she stopped sipping sangria and looked incredulous.
“Let me understand this. You’re telling me that a major drug dealer paid a hit man to sneak into my husband’s hotel room in Los Angeles and apply Vaseline laced with a deadly insecticide to his underwear?”
“I know it sounds bizarre,” I answered, pulling the baggie from the pocket of my jacket, which I’d hung over the back of the chair. “These are his. I suggest you turn them over to the police, who will find a high concentration of parathion.” I set the evidence on the deck next to her chair. She didn’t look down. “Along with the underwear, the coroner will find toxic residue on his skin. And if the funeral home has followed your directions, it’ll probably be possible to detect the poison in his blood. That should be plenty to establish a homicide, which will trigger the accidental death benefit.”
I refilled our glasses, grabbed a couple of the olives, and waited. Laurie turned away from me and stared out over the Bay. The weather had stayed clear, and the sunlight on the water was dazzling even from high on the hill where the house was perched. With the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, a person could’ve imagined that the world was a beautiful place filled with marvels of human ingenuity. Only one reminder of reality intruded—the blocky, whitewashed walls of Alcatraz Prison squatting on a tiny island in the Bay.
“A pesticide, how ironic,” she whispered bitterly. Then, turning back to me with a glare: “I want justice.” I figured this was coming. All this earth-loving tripe didn’t convert into singing Kumbaya with your husband’s killer. So I played it carefully, hoping she’d be satisfied.
“Laurie, it’s over. The kingpin who ordered the killing is dead.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I took care of it. I knew you couldn’t move on and I wouldn’t be satisfied until your husband’s murder had been avenged.” It was a lie. Paul Odum played the game and lost. Tough luck. He knew the rules. Killing Morley was about Tommy and other kids too defiant or confused or naïve to understand the game.
“Why didn’t you just let the police handle it?” She sounded suspicious.
“I don’t have to remind you why you hired me instead of going to the cops.”
“Fine,” she said, emptying her glass. The warm afternoon sun made the ice-cold sangria extremely refreshing. I’d have to watch myself. “But how do I know that you actually ‘took care of it,’ as you claim?”
“Check out yester
day’s paper. There’s a story about a Berkeley professor committing suicide. If you doubt my story, then I suspect you have contacts who can confirm that this fellow was heavily involved in the drug trade. But if I were you, I wouldn’t go around asking too many questions. You’re safe right now, but it’s possible to put yourself in danger by letting on what you know to the wrong people.”
Maria’s empanadas were fantastic, even if they lacked meat. I didn’t need to be eating after Simon’s cooking, but I figured a hard night at Marty’s would have me sweating out today’s indulgences along with the remnants of last night’s binge. Besides, I didn’t want it to look like I was rushing through the story that she was paying so handsomely to hear. I figured that coming next was a demand for the name of the killer or evidence that I’d also taken care of this matter. But things took a very strange turn. Laurie Odum already knew who’d killed her husband.
CHAPTER 47
“I have something you need to see,” Laurie Odum said, rising from the table and heading a bit unsteadily into the house. Five or six sangrias will do that to a small woman. She returned a minute later with a manila envelope. Laurie set it on the table, leaned against the deck railing, and stared vacantly toward the Bay. The sun backlit her thin dress in a most distracting way.
I cleared a space on the table in front of me and examined the envelope. It was addressed to Mrs. Dr. Paul Odum—a rarely used title. Either somebody with an old-fashioned sense of etiquette or an un-American appreciation of formality had written it. There was no return address and no postage, so I assumed the sender had put it into the mailbox directly. The envelope was wrinkled along the edges, as if its contents had made it bulge with something more than a letter. Now it held just a single sheet of expensive-looking paper, the heavy bond stuff with a fibrous texture. The note was handwritten in black ink with a felt-tipped pen. Even so, there was a light touch to the odd script of printed letters irregularly joined together with cursive forms. It didn’t take a handwriting analyst to recognize that a foreigner had composed the message: