Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“Of course. But when I asked her how to classify the transaction, she told me to enter it in the ledger as ‘miscellaneous income.’ I figured there was something shady going on. Otherwise she would’ve explained it. But I had no idea it was blackmail.”

“Where’d you think the money came from?”

“I thought maybe she had a boyfriend on the side, something like that. She said she’d been getting the same payment every month for years. Since before Uncle Dink passed away. She said he didn’t know about the money. I think she was kind of proud of what she was able to pull off. Maybe that’s why she finally let me in on it. At least part of it.”

“So she never said who was paying her.”

“That’s right, just that it was a big shot. Someone who wouldn’t miss the money. Petty cash to him is how she put it.”

I put the Chevy in gear and pulled away, driving down Oakwood, a residential street with tress and nice homes with well-groomed yards. While I drove she continued to talk.

“I feel ashamed,” she said. “I just let it go. I did as she asked and entered the deposits as miscellaneous income. I tried not to think about it, but it was always there. I was her accomplice in a crime. It didn’t matter if the person was wealthy, it was wrong. I know I should have done something, but what could I do? And she did need the money. The motel had been operating in the red for the last few years.”

“Why do you think the police might be involved with your aunt’s death?”

“Because one time I pressed her. I told her that maybe someday the authorities would find out what was going on, about the money, the extortion. But it didn’t trouble her.” Gayle’s voice sounded weaker. “My aunt laughed. She actually laughed at me, saying her guy was ‘the authorities.’ She said he was high in the government and he had the police under his control.”

Her voice trailed off and she became silent again. I looked at her and saw the fear and vulnerability etched in her face. I kept driving aimlessly. Heading west on Wilshire, we entered the city limits of Beverly Hills, and I continued to let my mind wander, thinking about what Gayle had been telling me.

She’d told me a tale of blackmail and murder, a story about a politician with cops in his pocket, a man with the soul of a rattlesnake. She was talking about a person who had helped frame Roberts. But could the guy have been a high-powered cop? Mrs. Hathaway had told her niece that her blackmail victim was someone high in the government. That meant if he were a cop, he’d likely been someone in a position of authority: a captain, commander, or even a deputy chief. Then again, the person could’ve just as easily been someone in the District Attorney’s Office. Frank Byron, the DA who put Roberts behind bars in ’45, definitely fit that description.

But how could Vera have documents relating to Byron in her possession? She had only been in town for a few days before she was murdered, hardly time enough to get involved in the Los Angeles political scene. Besides, I didn’t see Byron as a murderer. Maybe a corrupt DA back in his day-a loudmouthed egomaniac now-but a murderer? No, I didn’t think so.

I turned right on Rodeo Drive, a street lined with stores that sold expensive chintz to sculpted matrons of the rich and famous. We cruised past the Luau Restaurant, an upscale tiki bar owned by one of Lana Turner’s ex-husbands, Steve Crane. It was the kind of place that had been big back in the fifties and sixties: bamboo furniture, masks and carvings and torches hanging about, and sexy Asian waitresses wearing skimpy hula-girl outfits festooned with an abundance of colorful leis. Drink a few of their killer Zombies and you’d be crawling home on your hands and knees.

“Do you think you could take me back to my car now, Mr. O’Brien… I mean, Jimmy?”

“Of course, but can you think of anything else I should know? I don’t suppose Mrs. Hathaway mentioned any names.”

“No. As I said, she was tight-lipped about the whole affair.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “The guy pays her every month for almost thirty years, and then suddenly he breaks into her shed, steals the documents, and kills her. Doesn’t make any sense at all. Do you think she tried to raise the stakes, demand more money, something like that?”

“That’s what I figured at first, when they told me she’d been murdered, but then I thought about something she’d said…”

“Like what?”

“I didn’t mention this before. I didn’t want you to get angry.”

“Angry about what?”

“She called me a couple of days after you met with her. Told me about you, that you were trying to help a prisoner who’d been blamed for a murder he didn’t commit. She said she let you copy some old records that she had stored away.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” I said.

“She had second thoughts about cooperating with you, that you more or less caught her off-guard. She told me she’d made a big mistake.” Gayle took a deep breath and held it for a moment before exhaling. “What my aunt said next terrified me.”

“I can tell you’re scared, but who wouldn’t be-”

“I don’t think you understand, Jimmy,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not frightened for me.”

“What?” I asked.

“I thought she meant it would be you… that if you continued to snoop around, you would get killed.”

When we parted ways atGayle’s car back at the Ships lot, I told her I’d stay in touch and let her know if I discovered anything new about her aunt’s murder. She climbed out of the Chevy and walked slowly to her car, turning once to give me a final look, a pitiful look you’d give to a condemned man.

My mind reeled with what Mrs. Hathaway had told Gayle about getting killed if I continued to snoop around. But a couple of questions suddenly occurred to me. Was the old lady’s remark just conjecture? Or did she know for certain that the bad guys were going to try to stop me dead if I got too close to the truth?

I took a deep breath and wheeled out of the parking lot, but what I saw next stole my breath away. I spotted a black Buick Century parked next to the curb down about fifty feet. The car pulled out and followed as I whipped around the corner at La Cienega, heading toward the freeway on-ramp. I stepped on it. Clipping the light at Wilshire, I barreled down the boulevard, zigzagged a few cars, and shot up the freeway on-ramp. I changed lanes and stole a glance over my shoulder. The Buick was nowhere in sight.

While driving back to Downey, keeping a rational mind, I thought about the car. There were a million black Buicks in L.A., and I wondered if the car on La Cienega was the same one that had been stalking me, the one with the two clowns in it. I imagined that I’d probably see a black Buick every time I turned a corner. The memory of my last encounter with those two bozos had been all too real.

Mabel had returned to the office by the time I got back from West Hollywood. But she didn’t look up, just handed me a pink phone message as I walked past her desk. The air held a distinct chill.

I was halfway across the room when she said, “It’s from Sol. He’s at Rocco’s. He wants you to meet him there as soon as you get in. Doesn’t he ever do business in his office? Jesus!”

So she was speaking to me after all. I turned to face her. “Any other calls?”

“No new clients called. And you’ve got Rita chasing around on that no-fee Roberts case. What’s the matter with you?”

“Drop it, Mabel. I’m not in the mood.”

“What do you mean, drop it? You’d better listen to me, young man. Things are going to hell around here. Someone better do something, and I mean fast.”