Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

He whipped out a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the document for a few seconds. Was it my imagination, or did his hand tremble slightly when he handed it back to me?

“What is this?” he said, scowling.

Sol jumped in. “It’s the deal you made with Roberts when you conned him into confessing to the woman’s murder. Told him he would die in the gas chamber in Arizona for killing Charles Haskell, Jr. if he didn’t cop a plea. There was no murder charge against Roberts in Arizona. Haskell had died of a heart attack. But you knew that, Frank. Didn’t you?”

Byron sat there in silence, his anger building. He knew he’d been ambushed, but he’d spent his life as a lawyer and he knew how to control himself. He didn’t want to explode and tip his hand.

“This is absurd. I may have signed off on the plea agreement-routine. But I wouldn’t have been involved in negotiations with the defendant. No, I wouldn’t have done that.” Byron shook his head. “I wouldn’t have had my hand in any of this, not an insignificant murder of a woman in a sleazy motel room. I was an administrator, not a litigator.”

Sol stood. The ash from his cigar fell to the antique Navajo rug.

“Use the ashtray, goddammit,” Byron snapped. “That rug cost real money.”

“I bet it did,” Sol said. “Money you got from the Haskell Foundation.” Sol moved toward the desk.

Byron scooted his chair back. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Haskell, Jr. was on his way to L.A. to collect his inheritance when he mysteriously died of a heart attack after picking up a hitchhiker, Al Roberts,” I said. “Roberts takes the fall. No public trial, no prying eyes looking into the skeletons buried in the Haskell family closet.”

“Convenient for the younger brother, Raymond Haskell, the guy who gave you the big consulting contract that allowed you to retire and live like a cowboy plutocrat,” Sol added.

“I’ve heard about enough of this.”

“What exactly did you do for the Haskell Foundation?” Sol kept moving closer to Byron, “Other than bury an innocent man behind bars, that is, so no one would investigate the rightful heir’s strange, but timely death. Nothing about the Haskell family’s business affairs or political connections would ever see the light of day. Isn’t that so, Mr. Noble Public Servant?”

Byron pushed back away from his desk as far as his chair would go. “You’re outta line here, Buster , with those insinuations.”

“You rang, sir?” Oliver, the valet, stood in the doorway.

Byron jumped out of the chair. “Yes, I did! These gentlemen are leaving. Show them out, now!”

Sol and I brushed Oliver aside and started to leave. We got what we came for. There was no doubt that Byron had lied to us. Nowhere on the last page of the report did it say anything about the woman being murdered in a sleazy motel room. All of the information detailing Vera’s death was in the first few pages of the report. Yes, Byron had put Roberts behind bars by concealing the truth from him back in 1945, and he was still attempting to cover it up after all these years. The sixty-four thousand dollar question was why?

The next morning I droveto my office, skipping breakfast. After giving a cheery greeting to Mabel and receiving a grunt in return, I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down at my desk. I dialed Sol’s private number. Joyce, Sol’s secretary, answered and after a few pleasantries she asked, “How can I help you, Jimmy?”

“I know Sol isn’t in this early, but could you have him give me a call when he arrives? I have an idea about Byron and Raymond Haskell and wanted to bounce it off of him.” I wanted to know if Raymond Haskell’s family had any dealings with the District Attorney’s Office prior to his brother’s death in 1945. Just a hunch. I don’t know how, but Sol had ways of digging out information like that.

I hung up just as Rita walked in and placed a pink paper bag on my desk. A hint of her flowery perfume along with the pleasant aroma of donuts hung in the air. “Good morning, boss. Brought the donuts. They have a new kind. Made with soybeans, supposed to be healthy. Less fat, too. A diet donut.”

I let out my first groan of the day.

She winked. “Just kidding.” She reached in the bag and pulled out a jelly donut about the size of a basketball.

“Ah, breakfast. The most important meal of the day.”

I took a huge bite and washed it down with coffee. Rita nibbled on a French cruller, set it down and wiped her hands with a napkin.

“Boss, the word’s going around: you stepped out on a limb with the Roberts case. First the thing with Judge Balford, now this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I met Pamela Young, from the DA’s office, last night at the Regency for a couple of drinks.”

“Isn’t she prosecuting Geoff, your DUI client?”

“I was hoping to cut a deal, reduce it to reckless and plead it out. Didn’t fly, too many priors. But anyway, she heard through the grapevine that you and Sol took a little trip north to Rancho del Honcho.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Byron’s big time, a legend in the District Attorney’s Office, Jimmy. Not only that, he’s a huge contributor to Rinehart’s campaign.”

Joe Rinehart, the current DA, was looking at a bitter re-election fight coming up in two years. One of his deputies had made a name prosecuting a big time Mafia boss and was planning to make a run for the office.

“Yeah, so?”

“Pamela said you pissed him off. The minute you guys left his ranch, Byron called Rinehart personally. Wanted to press charges-impersonating a journalist.”

“What?” I laughed. “That’s not a crime.”

“He said you acted in a threatening manner. Shoved a paper in his face and demanded that he read it.”

“OK, maybe Sol got a little aggressive. You know how he is. But we just confronted him with a few facts. That’s all.”

“Rinehart, according to Pamela, told Byron that the DA’s office would keep an eye on you. I think Pamela enjoyed watching me squirm.”

“Keep an eye on me? What the hell is that supposed to mean? For Christ’s sake, I’m just defending my client. I don’t need this crap.”

“Hey, I’m on your side.” A gleam flashed in Rita’s eyes. “Jimmy, I think you might have stumbled onto something and I want to be in on this one.”

“Aren’t you too busy?”

“No.”

“What about Geoff? You said you were working on his case full time.”

“Done deal, four weekends in the slammer. And he has to take Antabuse during that time. So, it will be at least a month before he’s caught drinking and driving again.”

“But haven’t you got anything else cooking?”

“Nope.”

“Well, maybe you can help out a little, but just until we get a paying client. The Roberts case is pro bono -in other words, he’s broke. But we need to get some cash flowing in; the rent, utilities, phone-”

“Spare me the details, Jimmy. Mabel harps about that every morning when I walk in the door. But hey, we’ve been in tight spots before and we’ve always made it. Now, what can I do to help?”

“How about a little investigative work? I hate to keep leaning on Sol for stuff we can do ourselves.”

“Just call me the Girl from U.N.C.L.E.”

“Now that you mention it, you do look a little like Stefanie Powers.”

A pout appeared. “She’s a lot older than me.”

“Couple of years, maybe. But she’s a knockout.”

The billion-watt smile returned. “Why thank you, boss.”

“I mean, both of you have nice, ah… features.”

She gave me a demure look. “Features?”