Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“Why, Sol? Jerome still could’ve done it.”

“No, not with Mannix, Strickling, and the police involved. Besides, we know about the calls to MGM, so his story rings true. That means only one man had a strong motive to kill Vera.”

“What are you saying?”

“That Alexander Roberts killed Vera before she could kill him.”

The three of us movedinto the dining room. Rita had skipped lunch interviewing Jerome, and of course Sol was always hungry. My appetite had diminished once it became obvious that I’d wound up back on square one with the Roberts case. For a moment I’d thought for sure that Jerome had murdered both Vera and Mrs. Hathaway, especially after I found out that the mystery woman and the hired muscle in the Buick were connected to him. But then it hit me: it didn’t all fit, as I’d thought at first. Mrs. Hathaway had told her niece that she was blackmailing someone “high in the government”. Obviously, that didn’t fit Jerome. Anyhow, I still figured he was somehow involved in framing Roberts. But I didn’t know how-or why.

We had dinner in Sol’s private booth at the back of the room. While we ate, Rita and Sol talked and laughed, and every now and then I jumped in with a word or two just to be social. We kept the Roberts case under wraps, but the subject never left my mind.

Andre came to the table several times, paying obsequious attention to Sol’s comments about the new piano player and his song repertoire. Sol raved about the guy, of course. I rolled my eyes when he said the entertainer had panache with the ivories, and flair in his voice like he hadn’t heard in years. “By God, Andre, the man sounds a lot like Tex Beneke.”

Rita leaned into me. “Who’s Tex Beneke?” she whispered.

“Old guy who used to play the trombone and sing with the Glenn Miller band,” I said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, Mr. Silverman, he does sound like Tex Beneke,” Andre told Sol. “Tex is his kid brother.”

Rita leaned in again. “Geez, the guy’s kinda old.”

“About a hundred,” I said.

Rita left at nine. She wanted to get an early start on the Roberts case. She planned on corroborating Jerome’s story by visiting the old MGM studio in Culver City. It was a long shot, she said; the company has changed ownership a couple of times since 1945, but maybe an old-timer might still be there who remembered the incident.

Sol told her that Mannix himself had died about ten years ago. Strickling, his cohort, was retired, but he was still around and might remember Vera’s calls. Sol told Rita to stop by his office in the morning. He’d have his people pull the company file that held updated information on prominent and/or notorious people. It would have Strickling’s current address listed.

I didn’t mention my conversation with Mabel, the one where I agreed to pull Rita off the case and have her spend time searching for new clients. With the loan from Sol, Rita could continue with the Roberts case. It wasn’t just about setting the record straight that drove me now. It was personal.

After Rita left, Sol and I moseyed into the bar. He wanted to listen to the entertainer a while before heading home. “It’s not every day you get to hear Tex Beneke’s brother,” he said.

I nodded and under my breath added, “Thank God.” But what would it hurt to hang with him for an hour? I had nothing to do but go home to an empty apartment.

Forty-five minutes later, after the piano player had run though “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” one too many times, I left Rocco’s and headed home. The last thing I heard as I went out the door was Sol shouting out in a deep baritone voice, “One more time, Tex. Take us down the line. Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo…” Sol never could sing worth a damn.

I drove through the dark streets of Downey. The town was completely quiet, not a car or pedestrian in sight, and the thugs didn’t seem to be following me. Maybe it was past their bedtime. One thing for sure: they could use a little beauty sleep. Anything would help.

Stevie Wonder’s hit song, “You Haven’t Done Nothin’” played on the car radio. The song was an angry blast aimed directly at ex-President Nixon, who had resigned a few months before, but it could’ve just as easily been about me. At least my troubles weren’t fodder for the national media. I wondered how I’d feel if every morning I woke up and read headlines about my life. O’Brien’s broke again . Or O’Brien’s office manager quit today, had to be bailed out by a friend . Better yet, O’Brien’s nowhere with his big case .

As I swung into the carport behind my apartment building the Chevy’s headlights illuminated my parking stall. I thought I saw a lone figure standing in a dimly lit area several feet to my left, but when I looked again, the image was gone. Whoever had been there must’ve stepped back in the shadows.

I sat in the car for a few minutes with the lights on and the engine running. Maybe no one was there. Maybe I just thought I saw someone. Maybe, I’m becoming spooked. Maybe all that talk about blackmail, murder, and powerful people after my ass had me jumpy. What was I going to do now? Drive off? Let the bogyman chase me down the street and then drive around the block for the rest of my life?

I killed the engine and lights and walked to the back stairs leading up to my apartment. My neighbor, Norm, an elderly gentleman, must’ve fallen asleep in front of his TV again. Johnny Carson’s monologue and the laughter seeped through the thin wall as I walked along the outside balcony toward number 2-B-my home. I stopped in front of the door, fumbling for the keys.

I had the door unlocked and pushed halfway open when I heard a soft female voice close behind me. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Can I talk to you?” the voice said.

I jerked around, still holding the knob of the half-opened door. The mystery woman in a cashmere trench coat faced me. “Jesus, lady! You damn near gave me a heart attack, sneaking up on me like that. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

She nodded toward the apartment. “Let’s go in and talk.”

I pushed her aside and took a quick glance along the balcony and down the stairs. Her musclemen were nowhere in sight. I turned back and grabbed her by the shoulders.

She shrugged me off. “Keep your hands to yourself,” she said.

“Okay, lady, who are you? Why are you and your thugs following me around?”

Her eyes flared. “My name is Kathie Rayfield, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything about any thugs,” she said in a voice tinged with defiance.

“What do you want?”

“I just want to talk for a moment.”

My pulse slowly returned to normal. “Are those guys in the Buick hiding around here someplace?”

“What Buick? What guys?”

“Cut the crap, Kathie. You know exactly who I’m referring to, the hoods at the In-N-Out burger joint where I saw you the first time.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

My face was only inches from hers. I was close enough to inhale her scent, a flowery fragrance that smelled like it came from a bottle of money. Maybe it was her beauty, the shading of her face lit by the moon, the flash of her eyes, or maybe it was her obstinate denial of the thugs that weakened my resistance. I wanted to believe her.

“I’m talking about the guys in the Buick-the thugs who were parked at the In-N-Out that day in Chino?”

She took a deep breath. “Mr. O’Brien, I told you before…wait, I remember now.”

“Remember what?”

“Seeing that black car. It followed you when you drove away from the prison. They were right in front of me.” She looked up at the moon, bright in the night sky. “I was following you, too.”