Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“Hang on a minute, Sol.” I turned to Rita, sitting on the edge of my desk. “Hey, do you want to go to a political dinner Friday night. Might be fun.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to?”

“It’d look funny if we didn’t show up. It’d embarrass Sol’s friend.”

“What’ll I wear?”

“Something nice. It’s formal.”

“Okay, Jimmy, I’ll go,” she said, hesitation in her voice. “But a political dinner-oh gosh.”

“Thanks Rita. I owe you one.”

“Don’t forget, tell Sol about Bugliosi,” she said.

“Was that Rita?” Sol asked. “What about Bugliosi? He’s a friend of mine too, you know.”

Christ, I thought, was Sol chummy with all the big shots? “We met him at the Regency. He wants you to call him. Said he trusts you and has information that might help the case.”

“Okay, I’ll call him. See what he has.”

“Sol, the case is over.”

“It’s not over yet, Jimmy, my boy. Not until Reagan signs the papers.”

Thursday went by quietly. A few calls came in inquiring about our firm. Did we handle divorces, wills, things of that nature. Mabel told them no, our firm specialized in criminal law. Then she came into my office and told me we’d better rethink our game plan-might be a good idea to handle a few civil cases, you know, diversify.

She continued to lay out the facts: more clients, more money, everyone happy. I feigned great interest in what she had to say. Leaning forward, I rubbed my chin and said, “Hmm… Interesting concept. Could be a winner.” But it’d be a loser for my sanity.

She got my attention, however, when she added, “Our reserves are dwindling and if it continues going the way it has for the last couple of months, we’ll run out of cash sooner than you realize.”

But the thought of handling mind-numbing civil cases brought on a mild migraine. Next thing you know, she’d have me chasing ambulances, then debt collections. I’d find another profession first.

I sat back, stared at the phone, and debated calling Millie. Obviously she was serious when she said Judge Balford had dropped me from her database of criminal lawyers willing to take court-appointed cases.

Millie controlled the list and I knew Balford would pretty much go along with her if she pressed the issue. But I couldn’t explain to her right then, without jeopardizing the deal, that my behavior had actually won Roberts his commutation.

Maybe I stretched it thinking I had a hand in the decision. But who knows, maybe my rant at the hearing did have something to do with the DA’s offer. I decided to wait until after Monday-after I dropped Roberts at the bus station-to call her and make an effort to smooth things over. I’d take her to lunch someplace nice. Not Burger King this time. I’d take her to Denny’s Coffee Shop.

Sol was just as curious as Rita about what Bugliosi had to offer. He’d said he would call him right away and get back to us. That was yesterday and Sol hadn’t called back, but Bugliosi said it might take a while to get in touch with him. What the heck, I was curious, too. But more than likely the ex-Deputy DA just had some dusty old files from way back when, which wouldn’t help determine who had actually murdered Vera. Anyway, by the time we got the files Roberts would be long gone. He’d be New York or wherever trying to build a new life.

Friday evening, I picked Rita up at her apartment on Florence Ave. We decided to drive to the dinner together to save double parking fees and such. Sol had business in the city. He’d meet us in the hotel lobby at seven-thirty.

Rita looked stunning. I hadn’t seen much of her during the day and now I understood why. She must’ve spent hours at the beauty salon. Her dark hair gleamed in the latest style. She wore it up, twisted and curled on top with little locks descending on each side of her angelic face. She wore a tight, coral turtleneck gown with bare shoulders and arms and a diving back. I held her lace wrap and sighed, glimpsing her figure, as she turned to fold it around her shoulders.

When she smiled at me, my heart melted. I almost wished we were actually having a date-a real date, not just two legal associates gathering evidence by pretending to be a carefree couple going out on a Friday night.

Even though I was seven years older and technically her boss, there were times when I’d considered asking her out. But it wouldn’t have been right, working together and all. Besides, I figured she probably would’ve turned me down. She’d most likely see me as just another old guy trying to take advantage of the situation.

The sun descended in the west, pulling down an orange sky as we cruised north on the Santa Ana Freeway, heading for Beverly Hills and the hotel. After a few miles, Rita turned on the radio and we listened to the soft rock hit by the Eagles, “The Best of my Love.” Beautiful faces and loud, empty places…

Next came, “One Hell of a Woman,” by Mac Davis. But when the Barbra Streisand hit, “The Way We Were,” started to play, I popped my Beatles tape into the 8-track. “Hey Jude” blasted from the speakers, seven minutes of perfection. I sang along with the na-na-na part. Rita tapped me on the shoulder, laughing.

Soon we strolled into the Beverly Wilshire lobby.

I turned to the wide-eyed Rita. “Pretty swank, huh?”

“Oh my gosh, when we walked under that arch in front and through the doors it seemed like we were entering an eighteenth century European palace, and now this.” She glanced at the elaborate decor, her gaze settling on the enormous chandler.

“Did you happen to notice the way the doorman looked at me? Like he hadn’t seen a suit from Sears before,” I said, fingering my jacket lapel. “But when he saw you, he smiled and even did a little curtsy.”

“Maybe he liked my new dress.”

“Oh, I think he liked more than that.”

People, mostly in formal attire, were milling about. A few couples meandered toward the entrance of the Grand Ballroom. Sol stood a few feet in front of us holding a drink in one hand and jabbing his finger in some guy’s chest with the other. He hadn’t noticed us yet.

When we moved a little closer I said, “Hey, Sol. Nice place. Hope the food’s as good as the surroundings.”

“Aw, Jimmy, banquet food. What can I say?” He turned to Rita, and for a moment I thought he was going to pass out. “My, God! Is that you, Rita?” His voice became solemn. “You’re not a child anymore, my dear. You look beautiful.”

Rita beamed.

Sol leaned into me and whispered, “Called Bugliosi. Wasn’t in. Left a message.” He then looked up, smiled, and introduced us to the man he’d been talking with. “Rita, Jimmy,” he said in a loud voice, “meet Congressman Del Clausen. He’s going to get to the bottom of this water thing.”

“What water thing?” I said.

“What do you mean what water thing? You know, how the restaurants don’t give you a glass of water anymore unless you ask for it.”

Muted chimes sounded. Rita and I waited while Sol went to refresh his drink. Then the three of us walked through the huge double doors into the Grand Ballroom. The maitre d’, checking our invitations, nodded politely and pointed toward the front of the room. “Table four,” he said. “Down front, close to the stage.”

As we worked our way through the crowd of dignified but noisy people Sol would stop every so often and whisper a few words in the ear of a guest. Gray-haired men, stiff in their formal attire, cast lustful glances at Rita as we threaded our way closer to the stage.

A few feet from our destination, Rita stopped dead in her tracks. She let out a gasp. Her hands started to tremble.

She must have noticed the same thing I did. The table was set for eight and three reserved seats-with name cards resting on the plates-were vacant. The other five people had arrived and were chatting and sipping drinks. It appeared that Rita would be sitting next to the only man there without a female escort: Frank Sinatra.