Lt. Brodie spoke to the uniformed officer on duty. “We’ll only be here for a few minutes, Ernie. Continue with what you were doing.” The uniform moved back to his position by the motel office.
Our feet crunched on the pea gravel covering the lot as Brodie and I made our way down the line of small bungalows. We darted into the weed-infested space between the bungalows numbered 5 and 6.
In back of number 6, I saw the corrugated tin tool shed. The door was smashed open, the cardboard cartons inside scattered about, all of them torn open with the contents spilling out on the floor.
We stepped cautiously inside. Light streamed in from the opening.
“Is this the way the shed looked when you were here with Hathaway?”
“No, someone broke in.”
“Do you see the soapbox that held her files anywhere?” the lieutenant asked.
I moved farther into the shed and looked around carefully.
The huge White King Soap carton was missing.
I silently shook my head.
Lt. Brodie looked at me. “We have an APB out on Roberts, armed and dangerous. When we catch up with him I hope he doesn’t try to run.”
CHAPTER 24
The Sergeant dropped me at my car in the lot at the South Gate Court. Instead of heading to Downey and my apartment I took the Ventura Freeway and set off in another direction.
My first inclination was to just let it go, let the authorities handle the murder. But I felt strongly that Roberts hadn’t killed the old woman, and figured when the cops found him-and if he hung around L.A. they certainly would-he’d probably get shot while trying to escape. At least that’s the way the report could read.
At this point, I trusted no one.
I’d been worked over by thugs driving a black Buick, been warned to quit messing where I don’t belong by a femme fatale-the mystery woman in a mini-skirt at the In-N-Out burger place on Grand Avenue-and threatened by a billionaire at the Reagan fundraiser. Even Rinehart, the current District Attorney, said he was keeping an eye on me.
People were going to a great deal of trouble attempting to cover up a commonplace murder that happened almost thirty years ago.
And now they were killing people.
It dawned on me-if I kept digging-that I could be next.
But I couldn’t stop now.
Roberts had been framed in 1945 and I had no doubt that he was being set up again. But if he was innocent, what about the clothing tag from his dress-outs found at the scene, the evidence all sealed up in the plastic bag that the lieutenant, with a gotcha look on his face, had pulled from his pocket and slapped down on the table?
The clothing tag could’ve been a counterfeit, forged by someone who had access to the number listed in Roberts’s files. That meant someone inside the prison, or someone connected with the DA’s office, was involved in the setup. I couldn’t image that anyone on the prison staff had anything to do with framing Roberts; nothing to gain. So that could only mean-if the tag was in fact bogus-that someone inside the DA’s office had planted it.
I figured the only way for me to get out of this mess would be to find Roberts and hustle him out of town, pronto. Then I’d be done with it, and maybe I could get off the hook. I’d do what I had to do to save myself while at the same time fulfilling the commitment I’d made to my client. But how in hell would I find him in L.A., a county of seven million people? I had one idea. If Sue Harvey was still alive and living here, I figured Roberts would try to hook up with his old flame.
I felt from the beginning that something fishy was going on with Roberts and Sue. Just the look on his face every time I’d mentioned her name led me to believe that she was still alive. I ran through the possibility that she might have been in contact with him while he was incarcerated, perhaps recently. The prison would have records of his visitors, but they wouldn’t let me access them without a court order, and to get a judge to grant one, I’d have to disclose who I was looking for, which would tip off the DA’s office about Sue. I for sure didn’t want to do that. The cops would find him first, then I’d be right back where I started.
With so many cops looking for Roberts, and powerful people on my ass about the case, I’d have to be cautious and nimble-footed to navigate this mine field.
And that was my reason for driving halfway through the San Fernando Valley: I wanted to see Frances Q. Jerome. He could’ve been mistaken when he said Sue Harvey was dead, or he could have lied about it. Again, I couldn’t afford to trust anyone.
He’d said a convict named John Barr had killed Sue. But the county had no record of her death. Rita couldn’t find any documents that proved she had died. As for John Barr, he’d been convicted of killing his wife years later. No one had accused him of murdering Sue. Like Roberts, maybe Jerome had some reason to keep her under wraps. But why?
Jerome was the only person I knew of who’d had personal contact with Sue after she’d come to L.A. Maybe he knew more than he told Rita and me. Maybe he knew where she could be found.
At best my theory was slim, but I had to question Jerome one more time, go eyeball to eyeball, and see if he blinked.
I exited the Ventura Freeway at Mulholland Drive. The sun’s glowing arc slipped behind the Santa Monica Mountains and trees cast long shadows as I entered the grounds of the Motion Picture and Television Country House, curved around the Administration building, and headed for the parking lot on the north side of the complex.
Only a few random cars were parked in the lot. I wondered if the staff would let me talk with the retired movie star this late in the day.
My eye caught the glimmer of the dying sunlight reflected from the windshield of a shiny red Mercedes 450 SL. The car, parked a dozen spaces to my right, had pulled in only moments before.
A woman climbed out. She turned to lock the car door and glanced at me as I crept by.
Oh, my God! My heart pounded. Was it her? Was she the mysterious beauty I’d met at the burger place in Chino?
I stepped on the gas and continued down the parking lot. My mind spun. Was it really her? If not, it could’ve been her twin sister. She looked right at me. Did she recognize me?
I quickly glanced around; no black Buicks were in sight, thank God.
I parked in a stall out of sight of the Mercedes and darted through the shrubbery that lined the parking lot. I moved quickly back toward the administration building for a second look. I wanted to make sure she was the same woman.
Keeping out of sight, I crouched in silence behind a shrub. Through the leaves and branches I watched her walk up the path, moving with a smooth stride toward the entrance.
She had blonde hair, incredible legs, and her dynamite figure was tightly packaged in a mini-skirt. As she glanced back over her shoulder before entering the building, I saw her bright blue eyes sparkle in the receding sunlight. She was the mystery woman, all right. Perfection in a female form.
I continued to stare at the front doors as they slowly closed behind her. I figured I’d wait a few minutes, then ease into the building lobby and ask the attendant on duty to tell me what the enchantress was doing there. Did she come to see someone? Who? I’d slip him a couple of bucks and maybe he’d also tell me her name.
But I stayed hidden behind the shrub a moment too long.
Something solid tapped my shoulder.
Jumping up, I faced a square-built man wearing a dark blue security uniform. He stood stiff-legged while holding a police baton in his hand. A ridge of scar tissue protruded above his brows and he had a nose that had been broken a few times, an ex-prizefighter.
“What the hell are you doin’ here, Mac? This is private property.”