Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“I’ll run to the bank, deposit the check, then pay some of these bills.” Mabel placed her hand on the pile of invoices. “It’ll make a dent.”

I walked to the coffee pot and poured a cup.

“I take it you got Roberts to the Greyhound station on time,” she said to my back.

I took a sip and turned. “Yep, at this moment he’s on the Big Dog heading back to New York.” I glanced at the clock. “Probably out near Barstow by now.”

There were a couple of messages on my desk, appointments to be scheduled for later in the day and tomorrow. Only small misdemeanors, but I wasn’t complaining. I called both defendants and set the schedule. It felt good to be busy and especially good to have paying clients. I’ll admit it, I’d been worried. Bills came in on a regular basis, and when clients failed to materialize it could get scary.

I made up my mind to quit fretting about Balford’s unfair reprimand and just do my best without making waves. Coffee in hand, I walked to the window, took a sip, and looked out at the cars zooming along Lakewood Boulevard. It didn’t take a financial guru to know that the income from court-appointed cases is what kept the firm afloat. I couldn’t afford to be tossed off the list again. But I didn’t want to dwell on that.

I waited until four-thirty, after Balford’s court was adjourned, to call Millie. After pleasantries, I asked about the case that she’d mentioned earlier.

She responded in her normal squeaky voice. “That’s right. I’m giving you a new client. But hey, didn’t you say something about lunch when you called earlier?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. We’ll have to get together one of these days.”

“Okay, be here at the court tomorrow at nine. Your new client will be waiting, name’s Buddy Hicks. You can go over the details of his misdemeanor in the hallway before the morning arraignments start at nine-thirty.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You’ll be finished with the arraignment in time to take me to lunch.”

“Sure, why not? Burger King sound good?”

“I’m thinking the Regency, great steaks. Hey, the wine list isn’t bad either.”

Ouch. “The Regency?”

“I’m kidding, Jimmy. I know things are tight. Burger King is fine.”

“Thanks, Millie. You’re one of a kind. See you tomorrow.”

The next morning at nine on the dot, I met with my new client. We sat on a bench outside Judge Balford’s courtroom.

Buddy Hicks was a tall kid about eighteen years old with shaggy blond hair, long in the back. He wore his Hawaiian shirt out over a pair of denims a size too big. He looked as if he were headed to the beach rather than a court of law.

I quickly glanced at the complaint filed against him. I’d picked up his dossier on the way in from the DA’s office, located down the hall.

“It says here you dumped, disposed of, or otherwise caused a certain toxic substance to be deposited on a public thoroughfare, endangering the lives and property of others.”

“A lousy gallon of chlorine. I have a pool service route and it fell out of my truck.”

“I see-”

“I don’t think I’d better talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“I got no money.”

“So?”

“How much do you charge per hour?”

“A buck three eighty.”

“Huh?”

“Buddy, don’t you know the county’s picking up the tab? Now let’s get down to business.”

“Hey, that’s bitchin’. How long do I have to hang around here?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here if it takes a hundred years.” A little lawyer humor.

“Huh?”

“Listen, Buddy. The Environment Protection Agency is trying to make an example of you. They can’t go after the big polluters, the giant chemical companies, too much clout. So they pick on small fry, guys like you. It’s my guess they’ll have photographers show up any minute. Good PR, a guy gets tossed in the slam for polluting the environment. People will cheer. But I have a plan-”

I heard a voice off to my left. “That’s him,” some guy said.

I turned and saw two men, a big one wearing a brown sports coat and a pipsqueak in a three-piece suit, walking toward us. Pipsqueak was pointing at me.

The big guy flashed a badge. “I’m Sergeant Clay Farrell, LAPD. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. O’Brien.”

“What is this? I’m in conference with my client.” I thought I’d paid the traffic ticket I got three months ago. But then I remembered: it was still in the kitchen drawer. “If there’s a problem, Sergeant, it’ll have to wait. We’re due in court at nine-thirty.”

It took a moment to register that they wouldn’t send a detective sergeant to serve notice on an unpaid traffic violation. By the time I realized this, the cop had already jumped in.

“I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got no client and you’re not going to court today.” The cop indicated the pipsqueak. “Mr. Anthony from the Public Defender’s office is going to represent the defendant. Balford’s pulling you off the detail.”

“What the hell…?”

The cop turned to Buddy. “Kid, go with the PD. He’ll take care of you. Mr. O’Brien is, shall we say, indisposed.”

“For chrissakes, what’s going on?” I said, watching my client walk away with the pipsqueak.

“C’mon, let’s go. We’ll talk on the way.”

“Look, Sergeant, I’m not going anywhere, and I asked you before, what… is… this… all… about?” I said it slowly so he could understand.

“It’s about a homicide, Mr. O’Brien. Now, I’d like you to take a ride with me to Parker Center.”

My heart stopped. “What? Who got killed?”

“An old lady by the name of Hathaway. Owned a motel out by Griffith Park called Dink’s Hollywood Oasis.”

Jesus H. Christ, Mrs. Hathaway-dead? My mind spun. But why would the cops want to question me? They must know that I met with her, checking on Vera. They’d interview anyone who had recent contact with the deceased. But why would anyone want to kill a harmless old lady? A robbery, maybe? Or was it something else?

I bit my tongue, played it cool. I didn’t want to overreact and give the wrong impression that I was somehow involved. “What was it? A robbery, mugging, something like that?”

“We don’t think so.”

“Then why was she killed?”

“The lieutenant in charge will clue you in. Let’s go.”

“Did they catch the killer?”

The cop said nothing. He just looked at me.

“Wait a minute. Am I a suspect?”

“No, nothing like that. The lieutenant just wants to ask you a few routine questions.”

“Why me, then? What do I have to do with this?”

“Hathaway was gunned down by one of your clients. A guy named Al Roberts.”

Oh, my God! Why would they think he killed her? If he’s a suspect, I realized they must have some kind of evidence to back up their suspicion. But, if they thought Roberts did it, then-at best-they’d figure I didn’t take him straight to the bus station as agreed. At worst, they’d think I was involved.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “He’s on a bus heading to New York. I took him to the Greyhound terminal myself yesterday morning.”

“We checked. Called the Greyhound rest-stop station in Tucumcari.”

“Yeah?”

“Roberts never got on the bus.”

Sergeant Clay Farrell drove meto Parker Center in his police-issued Ford Crown Victoria. The headquarters of the LAPD was a massive stone and glass structure located on Los Angeles St., a couple blocks south of City Hall. We parked in the subterranean garage, rode the elevator to the third floor, and entered RHD-the Robbery-Homicide Division. The building-seen on television in a zillion episodes of Dragnet -was originally called the Police Administration Building. But soon after the former Chief of Police William H. Parker died of a heart attack in 1966, the city council renamed the headquarters in his honor.