Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“This is Farrell,” a listless voice said.

“Detective, I’m O’Brien. You wanted to talk to me.”

“Yeah, need to get your side of the story on the tampering complaint. The D.A.’s hot on this. I already talked to Vogel, said you tried to bribe him.”

I hesitated. I wanted time to think this through. I actually did bribe the guy, but only to get off his ass and look at the hidden meter, not to falsify evidence. But I had to figure exactly how to approach the problem.

I took a sip of my Coke. The gang in the bar was getting boisterous, the music louder. The piano player sang, “I’m in the nude for love”-riotous laughter followed.

“You there, O’Brien?”

“Detective Farrell,” I said, “I think you should drop the case.”

“Drop the case? I told you the D.A.’s all over me about this. What are you, some kind of nut?”

“Yeah, I’m a lawyer.”

“Hey, if you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll just file the report.”

“I’ll talk and tell you why you should drop this thing, now.”

“All right,” he sighed. “I’m listening.”

“First of all, it’s my word against Vogel’s.”

“You’re saying you didn’t give him any money?”

“That’s the point-I gave him forty dollars in cash, a service charge for the labor. I wanted him to unfasten a panel on the plane, check for an additional hour meter, then return the aircraft to its original condition.”

“A service charge?”

“Yeah, it looks like Vogel decided to pocket the cash, not turn it over to his employer. He’s trying to cover up a petty embezzlement. I paid Vogel to examine the plane for variations in the time flown and the time logged. That’s all- information useful for research purposes.”

“You get a receipt?”

“Embezzlers rarely give receipts.”

“Let me get this straight,” Farrell said. “You’re saying you just paid Vogel a labor charge. Is that correct?”

“That’s it.”

“And Vogel pocketed the money.”

“He sure did, Detective. There was no intent on my part to falsify evidence. There was no motive to do that. Alone, the fact that the plane had been flown extra hours wouldn’t do me any good with the jury. I needed that information myself, background. I wanted the truth. If the plane was flown those extra hours, then I would look for the person who was on the plane that night.”

“So you’re saying you had no motive. No evidence could come from the plane itself.”

“That’s right. I had no motive to falsify anything, but Vogel had a motive.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, he put the money in his pocket, and your case rests on my word against his.”

“I see your point, but why would the Deputy D.A. ask me to investigate if it was that simple?”

“I’ll let you in on something, but don’t put it in the report.”

“What?”

“It’s a personal matter between Miss Allen, the deputy D.A., and me.”

“Personal matter?”

I paused. Watch out, I told myself. I had second thoughts about bringing up my feelings toward Bobbi. I felt guilty about my outburst in court, saying that she asked me out. I really didn’t want to hurt her.

“Nah, not really personal, this is her first murder case and she wants to do a thorough job, I can’t blame her.”

“Okay, I’ll file my report,” the detective said.

“What’s it going to say?”

“You know I can’t answer that.” He stopped talking but didn’t hang up. I remained silent. Finally, he said, “Look, O’Brien, I’m not supposed to tell you this but you’re an ex-cop and you know the score. I’m going to recommend that we drop this thing. It’s a pissing contest between you and the Deputy D.A. and I have real crimes I should be working on. There’s a four-inch stack of complaints on my desk right now, including a few murders, and more coming every day.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You didn’t hear it from me, but this thing is over. I don’t see where any crime has been committed. You hadn’t called the guy to the stand and paid him to lie. Maybe you would’ve, but the point is you hadn’t. ”

I hung up. Sol still hadn’t arrived, so I had time to think a bit. I figured the State Bar charge would also disappear when the criminal complaint was dropped.

Did I feel better? No, not really. Bobbi still thought I was guilty. That’s what mattered, and that hadn’t changed.

When Sol arrived, he had a drink in his hand and a file under his arm. He set the file on the table and slid into the booth across from me.

“You were on the phone so I had a drink at the bar. That new piano player is hilarious,” Sol said.

“I heard him.”

“Guy’s terrific, huh?”

“Sol, the guy sucks.” I’d told enough lies for one day.

“Well, screw you,” he said. “Not everyone can be Louis Armstrong.”

“True,” I said.

Sol glanced around the room, then leaned forward. “I got the call I’d been waiting for, you know, the lead on the pilot, Ron Fischer.”

I straightened up. “What did you find out?”

“First we eat,” he said, looking around. “Hey, did they bring the menus?”

My stomach did somersaults. “What?”

“The menu. What’s the catch of the day? Feel like a nice sauteed sole or-”

“Goddammit, Sol, you do this every time.”

“I think you should eat before I tell you the news.”

“Why? Will the news kill my appetite?”

“Fischer is dead.”

“Oh my God! What are you telling me?”

Sol just looked at me.

I reached across the table and grabbed his arm. “Tell me you were kidding about Fischer. I need his statement. He’s gotta tell me who was on the plane that night. Christ, he can’t be dead.”

“Jimmy, Ron Fischer’s been dead for over a year.”

Sol insisted we eat first then we’d talk about Fischer. I knew from experience that it’d do no good to try to change his mind; food and wine always came first. I also knew there was more to the story about Fischer being dead than what he just told me. There had to be a postscript, an explanation of some sort. Sol and his games…

He ordered lunch for both of us: salmon almandine. He’d have Mondavi Chardonnay with his. I’d have coffee. Andre brought Sol’s wine draped in a linen towel. After uncorking the bottle with reverence, he poured an ounce or so into a glass that seemed to appear magically from his free hand. Sol sipped and nodded and told him some crap about the fruity aroma having the essence of a romantic melody.

I remained patient during the wine pouring ceremony, but I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Sol, for crying out loud. Tell me about Fischer.”

“Sure, my boy, but first sit back and relax; everything’s going to be okay. I have it worked out-”

“Goddammit, Sol! What about Fischer?”

“As far as I know, Karadimos’s pilot is still alive, but he’s an imposter. He’s not Ron Fischer.”

“Thank God, he’s not dead. But why do you always play games? You had me crazy.”

“Ah, Jimmy, my boy, a little suspense in your life is like pepper in your soup.”

The food thing again. Suspense, he says. Bad guys following me around, cops on my ass, and a woman who dumped me before we even got started because she thinks I’m a crook. That’s right; a little suspense is what I needed.

Still, a wave of relief flowed over me knowing the pilot was not dead. “Yeah, pepper in my soup. I hate soup,” I said. “But anyway, who are we looking for now?”

Sol opened his file and read from it. “The real Ron Fischer died in a car crash last year in San Diego. The guy was a Navy fighter pilot, flew off aircraft carriers at night-very dangerous.” He looked up. “The guy had nerve.”