Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

The clothing tag could’ve been a counterfeit, forged by someone who had access to the number listed in Roberts’s files. That meant someone inside the prison, or someone connected with the DA’s office, was involved in the setup. I couldn’t image that anyone on the prison staff had anything to do with framing Roberts; nothing to gain. So that could only mean-if the tag was in fact bogus-that someone inside the DA’s office had planted it.

I figured the only way for me to get out of this mess would be to find Roberts and hustle him out of town, pronto . Then I’d be done with it, and maybe I could get off the hook. I’d do what I had to do to save myself while at the same time fulfilling the commitment I’d made to my client. But how in hell would I find him in L.A., a county of seven million people? I had one idea. If Sue Harvey was still alive and living here, I figured Roberts would try to hook up with his old flame.

I felt from the beginning that something fishy was going on with Roberts and Sue. Just the look on his face every time I’d mentioned her name led me to believe that she was still alive. I ran through the possibility that she might have been in contact with him while he was incarcerated, perhaps recently. The prison would have records of his visitors, but they wouldn’t let me access them without a court order, and to get a judge to grant one, I’d have to disclose who I was looking for, which would tip off the DA’s office about Sue. I for sure didn’t want to do that. The cops would find him first, then I’d be right back where I started.

With so many cops looking for Roberts, and powerful people on my ass about the case, I’d have to be cautious and nimble-footed to navigate this mine field.

And that was my reason for driving halfway through the San Fernando Valley: I wanted to see Frances Q. Jerome. He could’ve been mistaken when he said Sue Harvey was dead, or he could have lied about it . Again, I couldn’t afford to trust anyone.

He’d said a convict named John Barr had killed Sue. But the county had no record of her death. Rita couldn’t find any documents that proved she had died. As for John Barr, he’d been convicted of killing his wife years later. No one had accused him of murdering Sue. Like Roberts, maybe Jerome had some reason to keep her under wraps. But why?

Jerome was the only person I knew of who’d had personal contact with Sue after she’d come to L.A. Maybe he knew more than he told Rita and me. Maybe he knew where she could be found.

At best my theory was slim, but I had to question Jerome one more time, go eyeball to eyeball, and see if he blinked.

I exited the Ventura Freeway at Mulholland Drive. The sun’s glowing arc slipped behind the Santa Monica Mountains and trees cast long shadows as I entered the grounds of the Motion Picture and Television Country House, curved around the Administration building, and headed for the parking lot on the north side of the complex.

Only a few random cars were parked in the lot. I wondered if the staff would let me talk with the retired movie star this late in the day.

My eye caught the glimmer of the dying sunlight reflected from the windshield of a shiny red Mercedes 450 SL. The car, parked a dozen spaces to my right, had pulled in only moments before.

A woman climbed out. She turned to lock the car door and glanced at me as I crept by.

Oh, my God! My heart pounded. Was it her? Was she the mysterious beauty I’d met at the burger place in Chino?

I stepped on the gas and continued down the parking lot. My mind spun. Was it really her? If not, it could’ve been her twin sister. She looked right at me. Did she recognize me?

I quickly glanced around; no black Buicks were in sight, thank God .

I parked in a stall out of sight of the Mercedes and darted through the shrubbery that lined the parking lot. I moved quickly back toward the administration building for a second look. I wanted to make sure she was the same woman.

Keeping out of sight, I crouched in silence behind a shrub. Through the leaves and branches I watched her walk up the path, moving with a smooth stride toward the entrance.

She had blonde hair, incredible legs, and her dynamite figure was tightly packaged in a mini-skirt. As she glanced back over her shoulder before entering the building, I saw her bright blue eyes sparkle in the receding sunlight. She was the mystery woman, all right. Perfection in a female form.

I continued to stare at the front doors as they slowly closed behind her. I figured I’d wait a few minutes, then ease into the building lobby and ask the attendant on duty to tell me what the enchantress was doing there. Did she come to see someone? Who? I’d slip him a couple of bucks and maybe he’d also tell me her name.

But I stayed hidden behind the shrub a moment too long.

Something solid tapped my shoulder.

Jumping up, I faced a square-built man wearing a dark blue security uniform. He stood stiff-legged while holding a police baton in his hand. A ridge of scar tissue protruded above his brows and he had a nose that had been broken a few times, an ex-prizefighter.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, Mac? This is private property.”

I had to think fast. I obviously didn’t want to get into any long explanations about the mystery woman, Jerome, or the Roberts case. I couldn’t tell him I was a lawyer, hiding behind a bush. He’d hit me with his stick.

“Aw, yeah. Well, you see, I’m an autograph collector and I heard Miss Mary Astor lives here. I have all the stars from The Maltese Falcon , but hers-Bogart, Sydney Greenstreet, and, would you believe, I even have Elisha Cook, Jr.” I kept at it, chattering like a magpie on speed. “He’s the little guy, played Wilmer, you know-”

“You about done?”

“Bet you don’t know who played Effie Perrine. I do-”

“Okay, that’s enough, buster. That your car parked over there?” He pointed at my Corvette with his baton.

“Yeah.”

“Get in it, and get the hell outta here. I catch you snooping here again, it ain’t gonna be pretty.” He gave me a slight nudge with his billy club.

“Lee Patrick was Effie,” I said.

He raised his baton. “Beat it, wise guy.”

As I wheeled slowly by the red Mercedes on my way out of the parking lot, I glanced at the plate and memorized the number.

Edging along with the evening freeway traffic, driving back to Downey, I couldn’t get the mystery woman out of my mind. It wasn’t just her dynamite figure that I dwelled upon, although her looks were surely part it. My thoughts were mainly focused on one question: what was she doing at the movie retirement home? She approached me at an at the In-N-Out burger, a short distance from the prison, right after my first meeting with Roberts, warning me off the case. And now she shows up at the place where Jerome lives. I wondered, could there be a connection?

Did she go there to visit Francis Q. Jerome, my only lead to Sue Harvey?

I tossed and turned throughoutthe night, dreaming strange dreams, all mixed up: insane nightmares. The mystery woman, Jerome, and Mrs. Hathaway would drift in and out in ghostly apparitions, warning me about some unknown doom waiting for me if I didn’t pack up and move back in with my folks on Lubec Street, where I lived during my high school years. The images told me to quit pretending I was a lawyer. That I should stay at home and become a better son to my parents. But no one heard my protest when I shouted that both my mom and dad were dead. Roberts appeared briefly, laughing madly like the Joker in the Batman comic books.

In the middle of the night, well past midnight, I awoke to a clanking sound coming from outside my window. I lay in the tangled sheets, groggy, sweaty, and thirsty. After a minute or so, I pulled the blanket back, swung my feet over the side, and sat there with my face buried in my hands, thinking about the dreams. Maybe I’m the Joker. Maybe my subconscious was saying I’d been a lunatic to get involved in this mess.