Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“And he died in a car crash,” I said.

“Yeah, ironic, isn’t it?”

Janine appeared with our food. The appetizing aroma triggered within me a hunger that I did not think existed. Sol and I tucked into the salmon, and after several mouthfuls, I asked him, “You said you have it worked out?”

He swallowed. “You bet. We have to find the guy, correct?”

“Of course.”

“And we don’t know who he is, also correct?”

“Yep.”

“Be easier to find him if we know who he is.”

“Sol, please. I think you know who he is. Just tell me what’s going on. Okay?”

“No. First we’ve got to figure out how we’re going to fight those phony charges against you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m off the hook.”

“You’re off the hook? You didn’t tell me.”

“How could I? You were going on and on about the fish, and jiving Andre about the wine like some kind of connoisseur.”

“Hey buddy boy, I drink enough of the stuff to be an expert.”

“No argument about that.”

“Now, tell me how you got the charges dropped.”

In between bites of fish, I told him about my telephone call to Detective Farrell.

“I knew you could beat those farmisht charges.”

I set my fork down. “Lot of smooth talking.”

“I’ve been using my yiddisher kop, been busy.” Sol drained his wine glass.

“Busy doing what?” I asked Sol.

“We found out last Monday that Fischer was dead.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I didn’t want to tell you until I had things worked out.”

“So I gather.”

“Now I’m going to explain how the world’s foremost detective operates.”

“That would be you,” I said.

Sol gave me a look that said, isn’t it obvious. “I’ve had his girlfriend’s apartment staked out for a while, but pulled my men off when we found out the guy’s a fugitive. He ain’t coming back.”

“The guy’s a fugitive, running from the law? What’s his name?”

“Let me finish,” Sol continued. “As soon as I found out the real Fischer was dead, I got in touch with a friend in the FBI. I asked him to get me the Federal Aviation Agency’s list of all the pilots that are Cessna Citation rated. Remember, Karadimos’s jet is a Citation.”

“I know.”

“To be able to fly the plane, unless you’re military trained in jets, you’d have to take a course at the Cessna factory. It’s a very sophisticated airplane; regular private pilots wouldn’t be able to fly it.”

Sol stopped talking and angled his head close to the table. He jabbed at something on his plate with his fork, then held it up and inspected the tidbit impaled there. “Hey,” he said. “This doesn’t look like an almond. Where’s Andre? This is a goddamned walnut.”

“Sol, forget the walnut. Tell me about the pilot.”

“Okay, hold on.” He popped the walnut into his mouth.

“Not bad,” he said. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah, when you pass the Cessna course, you get a type rating. The factory notifies the FAA and they send you a new license.”

“Must’ve been hundreds of pilots.”

“No, very few. The Citation jet just came out this year. Karadimos’ plane is one of the first. Anyway, we ran a check on the pilots to see if any of them had a record. Remember, his girlfriend said he had some trouble with the law.”

“I see where you’re going with this, but how did you know the imposter would use his real name to get the rating?”

“To take the course, you need a multi-engine pilot’s license. Couldn’t use Fischer’s ticket, he was dead before the Cessna Citation was introduced to the public. Also, you need to pass a medical exam to get the license.”

I laughed. “I doubt that a medical examiner would certify a dead guy; might look bad.”

“Wouldn’t look good.” Sol chuckled.

“How many names fit the profile?”

“Only eight.”

“That’s all? Just eight people?”

“Yep, that’s all. And only one guy’s a fugitive,” Sol said.

“He’d be our guy.”

“Yes, indeed. We have his name and a mug shot.”

“What’s his name?” I asked again.

“Kruger. Danny Kruger. Now all’s we’ve got to do is find him.”

“How long will that take?”

“We’ll find him in time for the trial, that’s for sure.”

“I know you will. I’m counting on you, Sol.”

He paused for a moment, pulled a cigar from the vest pocket of his jacket, and set it on fire with a solid gold blowtorch. “I’ve been thinking about your theory of the murder,” he said as smoke from his cigar swirled to the ceiling. “I have some ideas. You wanna hear them?”

“Absolutely.”

“Remember what Gloria said to Bonnie: ‘The Greek might be on to me.’ She was talking about the money, right?”

“Yeah, the money.”

“Here’s the way I figure it. We have two suspects and two possible motives. Each separate from the other. The first motive and suspect is the one we’ve been working on-Welch. He was having an affair with Gloria. He sent her the letter dumping her, didn’t need the baggage now that he’s running for re-election. Gloria got it Saturday. She called and threatened him. He flew down and killed her, and immediately flew back to Sacramento. But Welch has an airtight alibi.”

“Yeah, the alibi is a big problem,” I said.

Sol looked at me, nodded, and puffed on his cigar. “Now here’s a second theory.”

“Go ahead.”

“Gloria was involved with Karadimos in his money laundering scheme, and she skimmed some off the top.

Karadimos found out. He was on to her-Bonnie said so-and he flew down and killed her.”

“Then he stashed the murder weapon in Rodriguez’s truck, and made the anonymous call,” I said, finishing his theory. “But if that were the case, wouldn’t he just have one of his henchmen take care of the problem?”

“I dunno. Maybe he wanted to get his revenge personally. But when I find the pilot, he’ll tell us who he flew down, Karadimos or Welch, and we’ll have the murderer,” Sol said.

“But we still have to tie the motive in with the flight.

The passenger could come up with some other reason for sneaking back into town.”

“We’ll have to blow the lid off Karadimos and Welch’s secret enterprise. That would show motive.”

“Motive, means, and opportunity, it all fits. And we know Welch and Karadimos are working together,” I said.

“That’s probably why the pilot took it on the lam. Must’ve figured he was hot, and Karadimos would get rid of him because he knew too much.”

“I’ll have to find the guy before Karadimos does, or he’ll be a goner.”

“I’ll head over to Gloria Graham’s house and snoop around. Even though the police have combed the place, and would have bagged any evidence by now, maybe I’ll spot something.”

“Can’t hurt, and you’ll be talking to Welch at Chasen’s, at the fund raiser.”

“Yeah, who knows, maybe he’ll say something.” After a pause, I added, “So how do you intend to find the pilot?”

“People can change identities, but they rarely change their old habits, hobbies, and skills. If he’s hiding out, he still has to eat, still needs a job. I have ways of finding guys.” Sol pulled the mug shots of the pilot out of the file and handed it to me. “Danny Kruger had a lot of odd jobs other than flying, but mainly bartending.”

I gazed at the photos, both the front and side views. The sign around his neck said, Houston Police Department, Danny Kruger, arrested 4/17/71. There was a booking number under his name.

Kruger looked like a million other guys who grew up in the mid-fifties listening to the King’s immortal classics-