Gerald Petievich - To Die in Beverly Hills

Harry K. Weese

Deputy District Attorney

Carr handed the document to Chagra. He moved his lips as he read. When he finished, he looked up at Kelly, who reached out for the sheet of paper.

"Don't I get to keep the agreement?" Chagra said, drawing it toward him.

"Sure," Kelly said. "But I suggest you allow me to take it back to the courthouse and file it in the immunity file. If a dispute ever developed between you and these officers, the original copy would be in possession of the Office of the District Attorney. It will be a matter of legal record."

Chagra stared at the agreement for a moment, then looked at Carr.

Kelly stood up to leave. Grudgingly, Bones Chagra handed the agreement to Kelly.

Without expression, he flipped open his briefcase and dropped the agreement inside. He shut the briefcase and, after making another comment about being late for a hearing, rushed out the door.

Carr had the urge to sigh but didn't. "How do you and Bailey usually get in touch after you make a score?" he said.

"He usually phones me."

"Where?"

"At my apartment. He gives me a number and tells me to go to a pay phone. I call him back. He asks me how everything went. I tell him."

"Then what?"

"Then he picks me up. We drive around in his car and discuss where to fence everything. But lately he doesn't want to meet in person. He said there's too much heat."

"This isn't going to be easy," Higgins said.

"Does he talk freely on the phone?" Carr said.

Chagra shook his head. "No way. On the phone it's just yes and no and how'd everything go? He doesn't trust anyone. He's a cop, man."

"And when you meet in person?" Higgins said.

Chagra nodded. "He talks pretty freely."

"Did he ever tell you how he killed Amanda Kennedy?"

Chagra shook his head as if to say of course not. "This is not something he would do. The man is a loner. He doesn't spring with a lot of talk. He does his own thing and never says too much. He's the kind of guy that, if there's a lull in the conversation, he'll just wait you out until you say the next thing. I know what you're thinking about."

"What are we thinking about?" Higgins said.

"You're thinking about having me wear a transmitter when I meet with him. You want to record what he says to me for evidence." He paused. "Am I right?"

"You're right," Carr said.

"Then what happens?"

"Then we arrest Bailey for the murders of Amanda Kennedy and Lee Sheboygan," Higgins said.

"I don't think I can do it," Chagra said. "I really and truly don't think I can do it. If I'm being taped I'm afraid my knees will shake or something. He'll know something is wrong. He wouldn't hesitate to kill me on the spot if he thought I was setting him up. He's told me he ain't going to the joint. No matter what. He means it. He's a cop. He knows he'd never survive."

"Do you feel particularly nervous right now?" Higgins said.

"Not particularly."

"What if I told you that we've been tape-recording every word you've said?"

Chagra glanced nervously at both men. "Then I'm nervous."

"That's my point," Higgins said. "When you wear the wire, just pretend that you're not. It's easy."

"Are you recording me right now?"

Higgins shook his head. "Nope."

Chagra scratched his head.

Carr stood up and started to move about the kitchen, straightening things up. Higgins gathered up the playing cards that were spread about on the coffee table in the living room.

"Where are we going now?" Chagra asked.

"To your apartment," Carr said.

"Sometimes he doesn't call the same day. It might be tomorrow … or even the next day."

"We have patience," Carr said.

"And you're really going to let me go when this is over?"

"Yes."

Half asleep, Travis Bailey stood in front of his bedroom mirror. He buttoned his white shirt and tucked it into his trousers. As he straightened the button line in the shirt to meet the zipper line of his trousers (the gig line, as it was called at Pascoe Military Academy), he mused, as he had while he showered and shaved, over the possible causes of his recent insomnia. As Delsey flitted back and forth between the bedroom and the bathroom ratting her hair, he realized that she was, without doubt, one of the causes. He was getting sick of her. He just could not bring himself to fuck her in the morning any longer.

She came out of the bathroom and joined him at the mirror. "I want to handle some forgery cases," she said. "When you get Cleaver's job, don't forget." She applied lipstick and leaned forward to check it in the mirror. "Did you hear what I said?"

He nodded and wished she would disappear.

After tying a perfect Windsor knot in his necktie, he fastened a holster onto his belt and slipped the belt through the belt loops on his trousers. He shoved his.38 into the holster, then put on a sport coat.

Bailey wordlessly headed out the front door. As he waited for Delsey Piper in his car, he wondered for the thousandth time what Carr knew. On the other hand, he mused, maybe the newspaper article about the Chicago informant meant that Carr was truly on the wrong track. Without thinking he started the engine. He rubbed his eyes for a while, yawned.

Delsey soon came out of the apartment and got in the passenger side. "Why didn't you wait for me?"

He ignored her and drove to the police department.

Bailey parked in the police lot and made his way up the two flights of stairs to the Detective Bureau. Delsey followed.

"You've been acting really weird lately," she said.

He grunted.

During the next hour as he took routine phone calls, he drank three cups of coffee and started to feel better. Mollified for the moment, he went to the men's room and came back with a wet paper towel, which he used to wipe a coffee ring off the glass top of his desk. Though it was unnecessary, he cleansed the entire glass and used another towel to wipe it dry. He tossed the used paper towels into the waste can.

Bailey sat behind his desk again, picked up the receiver and dialed Bones Chagra's number.

Bones Chagra's living room was overwhelmed by an artist's rendition of a reclining, pointy-breasted nude that had been painted on the inside of the white drapes.

Charles Carr pulled the drawstring and the nude separated at the waist. Midday sun filled the apartment. Chagra, who was lying on the sofa, covered his eyes with a forearm. Higgins sat at the kitchen table reading the paper.

The furniture in the spacious apartment was modern — white sofas with tube-shaped pillows, pendulous chrome floor lamps, a pink easy chair with an ottoman shaped like a heart. The walls were covered with color photographs of various sizes: Bones Chagra standing behind a bar with his arms around two blondes, Bones Chagra on the beach with his arm around a bikinied young brunette, Bones Chagra frolicking in a pool with three bare-breasted women. In one corner of the room was a pile of oversized pillows and a movie projector aimed at the wall.

Carr sat down in an easy chair.

"Are you clear about what you're supposed to say?" Carr said.

"What if he doesn't want to talk about it?"

"Then you make him talk about it," Carr said. "Argue with him, threaten him, do whatever you have to to make him open up, The only way we can make a case on him is to get him to talk about the murder on tape. If you don't get him to talk, your deal is off. We drive you down to the county jail and book you. It's as simple as that."

Chagra sat up, rubbed his eyes. "Let's say he does talk about the murder. Then what do I do?"

"Then you let him drive you back to your car."

"What if he gets suspicious and searches me? What if he finds the wire? Then what the fuck do I do?"