Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

“Oh, Christ,” I said.

The tall cop came closer, his polished boots crunching on the trash and twigs. His right hand rested on his holstered gun.

“Your name O’Brien?” he asked.

I wondered how he knew that. “Yeah, why?”

“Let’s see some ID.” The cop wiggled his fingers in a gimme manner. “That your Vette out there in front? Registered to one James O’Brien. Is that you?”

I handed over my license. “Yeah. What’s the problem?”

He pulled a flashlight from his hip pocket, flicked the light on my face for a couple of seconds then shined the beam on my license. “Suppose you tell me what you’re doing back here.”

No way I would tell him that I was here meeting a teenage girl. And with the reaction I was getting every time I mentioned the drug center, I felt it best to keep my mouth shut about that as well. “Just looking the old place over,” I said.

“Yeah, why? This is private property.”

“Thinking about buying it. Turning it into a museum. Did you know the old movie, The Harvey Girls, was shot here?”

The cop said nothing. Did he see through my story? I wasn’t that good of an actor.

“No kidding, a movie. Hmm,” he said at last. “I didn’t know that.” He handed over my license. “It’s getting dark. Maybe you’d better come back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I was just leaving.”

The cop lumbered off and I started walking back to my Vette. When I turned the corner of the building, the cop stood at his black-and-white with the door open. He started to climb in, but suddenly stopped. He shouted, “Hey, O’Brien, hold it.”

I froze. “What?”

“One more question.”

Oh, Christ, what now? “Yeah?”

“What was the name of that movie?”

My breathing resumed. “Harvey Girls, you know, like the building.”

He nodded, climbed into the car and took off.

My hunch was stronger than ever that the drug center was tied into Robbie’s escape, and now I felt that the blind guy’s story about the black van whisking him away could be true, which meant Robbie’s mental condition had to be an act. It was plainly a diversion designed to relax the security surrounding him, and I fell for it.

It was after eight p.m. when I finally got back on Interstate 15 driving to Downey. I’d spent two hours cruising around the town on the off-chance that I might spot Jane. No luck there. I also had no luck driving the outskirts, back streets, and side roads of Barstow looking for anything that might appear to house a drug center. I stopped at the payphone in the Standard Oil Station lot and phoned Sol’s office. He had left for the day. I tried his home number: no answer.

I’d also looked in the Yellow Pages and found a listing for a teen center, but not a teen drug center. I had nothing to lose, so I called the number and was connected with the local Catholic Church’s parish facility where teenagers could hang out and have fun. I asked if they knew anything about a drug center in the area. They said no, but invited me over to their place to say the rosary. I politely declined.

After ten, I pulled into my apartment. I figured I’d sleep on the floor until I got around to fixing the damage caused by the police. When I opened the door, I was stunned. The place had been straightened, organized, the bed made, and on my pillow was a note from Rita: “Mabel loaned me your spare key. So Hector, my cousin, and I stopped by and sorta fixed up the place. Thanks for giving me the chance to work on your case. Sol could have gotten you some big time guy, someone like Zuckerman, but you chose me. Wow!!! Sleep well, Jimmy.”

I glanced at the answering machine sitting next to my phone. The red light was blinking furiously. Five messages, three from Sol’s secretary, Joyce. She asked me to phone him as soon as I walked in the door, but then there was a message from Sol himself.

“Call me in the morning. I tried to tell you when you phoned earlier, but somehow we got disconnected. Webster, the D.A., turned all the files he had on you over to the sheriff’s department, to Detective Hammer. He gave the homicide cop the file containing his investigation of the Section 32 charge, aiding and abetting, and everything else he had. Jimmy, my boy, maybe we should do something. As you know, you’re being investigated for the murder of Hazel Farris. But you’re the only suspect. If they find anything new, they’re gonna come and take you away.”

The fifth message was from George Biddle, my insurance guy. My car insurance was overdue. I put down the receiver.

I couldn’t sleep. I worriedabout Sol’s message, worried about my missing gun, and worried about what would happen when the cops found it. But I knew what would happen. I’d been part of the system long enough, first as a cop, and now as a lawyer. I’d be dragged to the slammer, locked in a cell, and everyone including a jury would assume I was guilty.

After several hours of those pleasant thoughts rattling around in my brain, I got up, sat by the window and stared out at the darkness until the sun peeked over the mountains in the east.

It was still too early to phone Sol. I’d wait until a decent hour, then call him from my office. I dressed and headed to Dolan’s Donuts on Brookshire, down the street from Downey High, where I ordered two glazed and a large coffee and grabbed a copy of the Southeast News , Downey’s local paper. I thought I’d take a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes and just enjoy my breakfast. I was very good at compartmentalizing my problems, and anyway why should I ruin my morning worrying about the cops? By now, they must have found new evidence, something that pointed away from me and steered them to the real killer. I squeezed into a plastic booth by the window and unfolded the paper.

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed. I don’t have many clients as it is, and now this. The newspaper had my picture plastered on page one under the headline, “Downey Man Suspected in Brutal Murder.” I knew I was a suspect, and because of Sol’s message I knew I was the only suspect, but seeing it in print made my skin crawl.

I quickly scanned the article. It told about the sheriff department’s investigation of the Hazel Farris murder and that the police had me in their sights. The reporter quoted detective Hammer: “There is a definite connection between the murder victim and O’Brien. He was the last known person to see her alive. We don’t have sufficient evidence right now to arrest Mr. O’Brien, but we’re digging. The case could break wide open at any moment.” What they reported was true, including Hammer’s remarks, but none of it proved my guilt. Still, anyone seeing the story would assume I was a cold-blooded killer.

I slumped down in my seat. Where would this end?

“You having heart attack? Go outside!”

I looked up. The Asian guy behind the counter was screaming at me.

“What is your problem?” I asked.

“No die in here! Bad fu.” He scrunched up his face and made a shooing motion with his hands, like he was sweeping me out along with the used-up coffee cups. “Bad Fu, you go now.”

I began to get peeved. “I’m not having a heart attack.”

“Why your face all white? And you shout!”

“The coffee’s too hot.”

I had no idea what bad fu meant, but I figured whatever it was, I probably had a dose of it. I took my tray with the donuts, coffee, and newspaper, dumped it all into the trash and walked out. Only 6:30 and the new day was already starting off sick, like one of those take-three-aspirins-and-call-me-in-the-morning kinds of days.

Five minutes later, I unlocked the office. I knew Mabel wouldn’t be there that early, so it was a surprise to see a full pot of freshly brewed coffee sitting on the counter. I ambled over to pour myself a cup, wondering who had made it. Had to have been Rita. She must’ve had an early appointment.