Gerald Petievich - To Die in Beverly Hills

"I must warn you though," she said pleasantly, "he's always booked up weeks in advance, but he's worth the wait."

Carr stepped off the elevator in the office building. He wandered down a hallway to a pair of high polished wooden doors bearing brass letters that read Probe Incorporated-Doctor E. Kreuzer.

Carr opened the door and stepped into a reception area furnished with leather sofas. A young girl who looked to be high school age sat at the reception desk. She hurriedly shoved the paperback book (nurse hugging handsome man on the cover) she was reading into a desk drawer.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, as she'd obviously been trained to do.

Carr shook his head and showed her his badge. She looked up at him in awe. "Wow."

"I'd like to see Doctor Kreuzer for a moment," Carr said.

"Is that like the FBI?"

Carr nodded. The girl hurried into another room. On a wall behind one of the sofas Carr noticed a framed photograph of Emil Kreuzer shaking hands with the president of the United States. He could tell by the slight blurring of the hands that the photo was a composite fake.

Moments later Emil Kreuzer followed the girl out of the room. He approached Carr.

"Remember me?" Carr said with a disarming smile.

Kreuzer smiled back. "Of course."

As they shook hands, Carr noticed a flicker in the con man's carotid artery. His palm was sweaty.

Kreuzer ushered him into another office and closed the door. There was a large desk and a black leather Danish-modern sofa with a matching pillow. The walls were decorated with hypnotist's spirals and framed diplomas. Kreuzer offered him a chair.

"How's business?" Carr said, sitting down in front of a large desk.

"Emotion still rules reason," Kreuzer said. He laughed nervously.

"Seen any of your old friends since you've been out?"

"As a matter of fact I haven't. And I'm not just saying that. I've broken all the old ties. I guess it's because of my age. Doing a deuce or a trey in the joint didn't seem like much of a jolt when I was thirty, but it seems like one hell of a lot at this stage in life. Believe it or not, I've cleaned up my act."

"I could tell by that photograph of you and the president in the other room."

"Just because the picture is a phony doesn't mean that I am. I use that as a psychological tool to gain my clients' trust for the purpose of hypnosis. The photo, being in their subconscious, helps them to relax and go into a trance. The photograph violates no law. If I'm asked about it, I always tell the truth." He drummed his fingers on the desk.

"Mrs. Wallace told me that you cured her of her smoking habit."

"Wallace?"

"She lives on Coventry Circle in Beverly Hills." Carr stood up and walked to the window. On the street below he observed the crowds of people, many who seemed to be alone, as they roamed about and window-shopped in the exclusive business district. Few carried packages.

"Of course," Kreuzer said. "Mrs. Wallace. Her husband is the director."

"Her home was burglarized." Carr continued to stare at Wilshire Boulevard. Finally, he returned to his seat.

Kreuzer had stopped drumming his fingers.

"I appreciate the help you gave me on that case a few years ago," Carr said. "I really mean that."

"I have no compunction about ratting on someone when it benefits me in the long run. I've been around too long to be stupid enough to ride a beef for someone else. I'm a realist. I pride myself in being able to say that. On the other hand, I'm far from being what you people call a policebuff. I'm not into cooperating with the Feds or the cops in order to earn a merit badge. You know that. You should know that very well."

Charles Carr took a fresh package of cigarettes from his coat pocket and opened it. Kreuzer shoved an ashtray toward him on the desk. Carr crumpled the wrapper and dropped it into the ashtray. "I don't want to cause problems for you," he said, pausing to light a cigarette.

Kreuzer made a wry grin. "What kind of problems are we talking about?"

"Conspiracy to commit burglary. He who sets up a burg is guilty of conspiracy."

"That's a very difficult crime to prove," Kreuzer said. "If someone hit me with that kind of beef, I think I'd probably go on trial and let the chips fall where they may. Conspiracy is hard to prove, particularly if the other conspirators are stand-up guys. Without one or two good witnesses who'll testify about the whole thing, there's no way to get a conviction."

There was a pause before Carr spoke again. "I wish you'd have given me a call about all this. It would have been a lot simpler if you'd have given me a call. We could have worked something out… found a way to keep you off the witness stand, but still made the case. I know how you hate to testify against people. I can't say that I blame you. There's always an element of risk."

"I don't like these kinds of conversations," Kreuzer said. "I prefer to be up-front about things. If you've come here to accuse me of something, then go ahead and accuse me. If you're going to arrest me, then have at it. Otherwise, we're wasting each other's time. We're sitting here in my office jerking each other off while my patients are lined up outside."

"You're got guts, Emil. I've always admired that," Charlie Carr said. "You're not afraid of the dark."

"Fuck all this bullshit." Kreuzer obstinately folded his arms across his chest.

Carr stood up again, walked to the wall behind Kreuzer and examined a diploma from a university he'd never heard of. Emil Kreuzer remained seated with his arms crossed.

"This is the last chance you'll get," Carr said to the phony diploma. "If I walk out of this room right now without your help, I'm going to work twenty-four hours a day at putting you back in the joint. I'll stir up things at the Federal Parole Office, interview your patients. I'll Teletype your name and address to every police agency in the U.S. I'll frame you if I have to. I'll do whatever I have to to ship you back. If you want to be Mr. Big in this thing that's fine with me. I'll close my case the day you process in at Terminal Island. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to settle for missing some of the players in a case."

Emil Kreuzer sat without moving for what must have been a full minute.

Carr checked the other diplomas on the wall. He moved toward the door.

Kreuzer rubbed his temples. "I want to ask you a hypothetical question," he said.

Carr nodded.

"Would you rat on a policeman? If you were someone who'd been around the horn a time or two, who knew how the system worked … murderers getting bail, defense attorneys hired just to find out who the informant is, million-dollar dope dealers sentenced to probation … would you actually take the witness stand and testify against a policeman? "

Carr shook his head. "Probably not."

"Then how the hell can you come in here and ask me to?"

"You wouldn't have to testify."

"I've heard that before. But when the case gets right down to the nuts and bolts, I'd have to testify."

"You have my word you won't have to testify."

The men stared at each other for a moment.

"What would I have to do?" Kreuzer said.

"Do you deal directly with Bailey?"

"Yes. We're still speaking hypothetically, of course."

"Of course. Then, hypothetically, I might ask you to wear a microphone and meet with him to talk about some things."

Kreuzer shook his head. "I won't wear a wire. I know that means I'd have to take the witness stand. The only reason for a recorded conversation is to play it for a jury. I will never wear a wire. I'd rather go back to prison than wear a wire."

"We might be able to work around that."

"How?"

"I'll figure a way."

"I'm sure you will." Kreuzer rubbed his temples again. "If you had a plan that would keep me out of the soup… I mean completely out of the motherfucking soup all together, I might go along with it. Not that I will go along with it, but just that I will give consideration to any plan you have. I want to help. I think you can see that, but on the other hand, you have to appreciate my position."