“What the hell…?”
The cop turned to Buddy. “Kid, go with the PD. He’ll take care of you. Mr. O’Brien is, shall we say, indisposed.”
“For chrissakes, what’s going on?” I said, watching my client walk away with the pipsqueak.
“C’mon, let’s go. We’ll talk on the way.”
“Look, Sergeant, I’m not going anywhere, and I asked you before, what… is… this… all… about?” I said it slowly so he could understand.
“It’s about a homicide, Mr. O’Brien. Now, I’d like you to take a ride with me to Parker Center.”
My heart stopped. “What? Who got killed?”
“An old lady by the name of Hathaway. Owned a motel out by Griffith Park called Dink’s Hollywood Oasis.”
Jesus H. Christ, Mrs. Hathaway-dead? My mind spun. But why would the cops want to question me? They must know that I met with her, checking on Vera. They’d interview anyone who had recent contact with the deceased. But why would anyone want to kill a harmless old lady? A robbery, maybe? Or was it something else?
I bit my tongue, played it cool. I didn’t want to overreact and give the wrong impression that I was somehow involved. “What was it? A robbery, mugging, something like that?”
“We don’t think so.”
“Then why was she killed?”
“The lieutenant in charge will clue you in. Let’s go.”
“Did they catch the killer?”
The cop said nothing. He just looked at me.
“Wait a minute. Am I a suspect?”
“No, nothing like that. The lieutenant just wants to ask you a few routine questions.”
“Why me, then? What do I have to do with this?”
“Hathaway was gunned down by one of your clients. A guy named Al Roberts.”
Oh, my God! Why would they think he killed her? If he’s a suspect, I realized they must have some kind of evidence to back up their suspicion. But, if they thought Roberts did it, then-at best-they’d figure I didn’t take him straight to the bus station as agreed. At worst, they’d think I was involved.
“That’s impossible,” I said. “He’s on a bus heading to New York. I took him to the Greyhound terminal myself yesterday morning.”
“We checked. Called the Greyhound rest-stop station in Tucumcari.”
“Yeah?”
“Roberts never got on the bus.”
CHAPTER 23
Sergeant Clay Farrell drove me to Parker Center in his police-issued Ford Crown Victoria. The headquarters of the LAPD was a massive stone and glass structure located on Los Angeles St., a couple blocks south of City Hall. We parked in the subterranean garage, rode the elevator to the third floor, and entered RHD-the Robbery-Homicide Division. The building-seen on television in a zillion episodes of Dragnet -was originally called the Police Administration Building. But soon after the former Chief of Police William H. Parker died of a heart attack in 1966, the city council renamed the headquarters in his honor.
The RHD brass hats must’ve figured Mrs. Hathaway’s murder was a high-profile case, or maybe a politically sensitive one. Otherwise, homicide detectives from the Hollywood Division would head up the investigation, which would be the normal routine for murders committed in the Los Feliz area. Only top-flight detectives with a high level of expertise worked out of the prestigious third floor at Parker Center. Over the years the big dicks of RHD investigated some of the most notorious Los Angeles homicides: the Black Dahlia, the Robert Kennedy assassination, and most recently the Manson Family murders. I couldn’t understand why an ordinary, everyday murder of an anonymous old lady rated such firepower.
Sergeant Farrell, his partner Officer Tim Ryan, a lieutenant named Donald Brodie and I sat in one of the unadorned RHD interrogation rooms. Brodie lit up a Marlboro and slid the distinctive red and white pack across the table. “Go ahead and smoke, O’Brien. We might be here a while.”
“Thanks, but I quit after I left the job.”
“Yeah, we know. You used to be a cop. Looked up your record: unimpressive.”
“Are we here to talk about me? If so, that’s fine, because I can’t discuss anything about Roberts-client privilege. You know that, Lieutenant.”
“Doesn’t hold up, Counselor. Privilege only extends to the crimes he committed before he retained you, not for crimes he may have committed after that. Am I right?”
“Yeah, you’re right as far as that goes. Just don’t ask about conversations I may have had with him regarding our past relationship.”
“If he talked about any crime he planned to commit in the future, you’re required to report what he said to the authorities. I’m right about that, too. Aren’t I?”
“He didn’t tell me anything about any future crimes, because he wasn’t planning to commit any. He planned to go to New York and start a new life.”
“Just for the record, you’re not representing Alexander Roberts in this matter, are you?”
“If he needs me, I’ll be there. C’mon, Lieutenant, let’s get on with this. I’ve got other stuff to take care of today.”
“Yeah, sure. Let’s talk about the old lady. Are you okay with that?”
“For chrissakes, get to the point.”
“All right, Mr. O’Brien. I just want it understood that I’m not asking you to violate any attorney/client privilege you may have had with the suspect. And I want it on the record that I have the right to question you regarding this crime as it relates to Alexander Roberts.”
“Is this room bugged?”
“It’s routine to tape theses interviews, you know that. And it’s legal under California Penal Code, title-”
“I know the law, Lieutenant.”
“Okay, we’ll get to Roberts later, but first I want to talk about Mrs. Hathaway. She died sometime late last night from a gunshot to the head.” He paused for a couple of beats and leaned into me. “And we have reason to believe that you knew, or had some sort of relationship with the deceased. We know this because your business card was found at the scene.”
“Yeah, I met her once. Went to see her at the motel about the Roberts case. I wanted to ask her a few questions about the girl he had supposedly killed in one of her bungalows back in ’45. Also, I figured it might be helpful to see the room where the murder took place, might shed some light.”
“Did it?”
“Did it what?”
“Shed some light.”
“Not really.
“Ironic, isn’t it? Almost thirty years later Roberts returns and drops the hammer on the woman who’d rented him the room.” The lieutenant shook his head. “He held that anger in his gut all those years. First day out, he pops her.”
“He had no motive.”
“Could’ve been revenge.”
“Revenge for what?”
“We’re working on it.”
We continued to play interrogatory dodgeball, and I was it. The cops hovered over me, lobbing questions about Hathaway and Roberts, which for the most part I answered, but some I adroitly deflected if I felt my answer would touch on the murder back in ’45. I even managed to toss a few questions their way.
“Lt. Brodie, listen to me. Roberts had been in prison for twenty-nine years, had limited contact with the outside, and when he was released I took him directly to the terminal. Okay, maybe he missed the bus, maybe he didn’t, but you’re trying to tell me that within twelve hours from the time he walked through those prison gates Roberts was somehow able to make a connection with someone who gave him a gun and then get a ride to the other side of town and shoot Mrs. Hathaway. All this for no apparent reason? Doesn’t make sense.”
“We don’t see it that way. He’s probably been planning this hit for years, had it all laid out before he was released. Somebody hid a gun where he could find it, and-”
“You gotta be kidding me. He didn’t know he was getting out. Roberts figured he’d be locked up forever. He wasn’t planning a murder, for crying out loud!”
“The physical evidence speaks for itself.”