With friends like Rita and Sol at my side, how could I miss? But more important, because of their friendship, regardless of what happened, I knew I’d never be alone.
I started to walk into my office when the phone rang. It was Joyce, Sol’s secretary. “Jimmy, our man at the DMV ran the Mercedes plate number. Don’t know if it’ll do any good, though.”
“Didn’t the guy give you a name?”
“Yes, but the car is registered to a big industrial firm on the East Coast, an outfit called Federal Carbide Corp. I called them. But no one would speak with me about the car. Very close-mouthed about it.”
I’d heard of Federal Carbide. Any part-time do-it-yourselfer knew the name; their logo was embossed on the back of almost all the sandpaper sold on the planet.
Knowing who owned the car without knowing the name of the driver wouldn’t help. It just raised more questions. I wondered what a giant corporation like Federal Carbide had to do with all this. I didn’t think the company hired babes in miniskirts to run around in expensive sports cars peddling their products. Buy our sandpaper and as an extra added bonus the gal in the Mercedes will give you a little treat.
I sat at my desk and opened the drawer, eager to get started on the case again. I pulled out the Roberts file and thumbed through it, looking for something I may have missed, something that would give me a new lead to pursue.
Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe ESP, or maybe something else, because just as I got to the section in the police report regarding the bungalow where Vera had been murdered, the phone rang. “Is this Jimmy O’Brien?” a woman asked in a soft voice.
“Yes, I’m O’Brien.”
“My name is Gayle Goodrow. I’m Ida Hathaway’s niece. I’m her only living relative and I’m trying to put her affairs in order. I’m at the motel now.”
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Hathaway,” I said. “But how can I help you, Miss Goodrow?”
“The police gave me your number. The detective said my aunt had a box full of files and papers, but the box had been stolen. He said you told him one of the files in the box contained an insurance policy, said you saw it.”
“Well, I saw the file, but I don’t think it held an actual insurance policy. She was looking for some old phone records in the box and pulled out a thick file secured with rubber bands. She said it was her insurance policy. I think she used that term figuratively. You know, like-”
“That’s right, Mr. O’Brien, the file had nothing to do with insurance.”
“I really didn’t think it did, but it was none of my business.”
“The police said your client murdered my aunt, but I don’t think he’s the one who killed her.”
I almost bolted out of my chair. “What are you telling me?”
“I don’t like discussing this on the phone.”
“Discussing what?”
“It’s been going on for years.”
“What’s been going on?”
“On the next-to-last day of the month, every month without fail, going back farther than the bank has records, someone has been depositing $500 in my aunt’s account. Today’s that day. There was no deposit.” She paused for a few seconds before continuing. “Mr. O’Brien, the money has something to do with that so-called ‘insurance policy.’”
“Oh my God,” I said in a whisper.
“Her murder wasn’t reported in the media, and I hadn’t sent out the notices yet.”
“That means only the police and people in the DA’s office knew she was dead,” I said.
“And the person who stopped making the deposits knew,” she said, “the person who murdered my aunt.”
CHAPTER 27
Gayle Goodrow and I agreed to meet at a location somewhere close to the motel. She suggested Ships, a coffee shop on La Cienega in West Hollywood. I told her I’d leave immediately and would be there in about forty-five minutes.
The traffic ran fast, and I drove faster than most of the other vehicles on the freeway, arriving at the fifties version of a space-age-styled coffee shop five minutes early.
On the drive I wondered about Gayle Goodrow, about how much she knew. But just as important, I wondered how much she’d tell me. Before I hung up, she had implied that the documents in the insurance file were related to a murder “that happened in the motel years ago.” I knew from various sources that the only murder that ever took place at Dink’s Hollywood Oasis was Vera’s. But there were a few things I couldn’t figure out. One, if Mrs. Hathaway’s documents were, in fact, related to Vera’s death and she was extorting someone on the threat of revealing the contents, why would the person being blackmailed cough up the money for almost thirty years and then decide to pop her now? Two, would all of this help me find Roberts? And finally, why did Gayle Goodrow call me? Why didn’t she just tell the police about the papers in the file and about the blackmail scheme?
The restaurant was practically deserted in the early afternoon. The lunch crowd-if there was one-must have left by now. One skinny guy who sat at the counter sipping coffee gave me the once-over when I entered. A waitress clad in a bright uniform, but wearing a dull smile, met me at the door and handed me a plastic menu. I told her a friend would be joining me shortly.
But then I saw her, a plain woman in her mid-thirties, sitting in a booth by the front window. She had the same build and manner as Sandy Dennis, the actress who’d played the mousy wife in The Out of Towners. She looked small, pale, and almost transparent and at any moment it appeared as if she might simply fade away and dissolve into the fabric covering the seat. The woman stared at me with a questioning look on her face and nodded slightly when our eyes locked. I walked to the booth.
“Miss Goodrow?” I asked.
“Yes, please sit down, Mr. O’Brien.”
Miss Goodrow sat proper-like with her hands folded in her lap and her shoulders hunched, her elbows tucked close to her wispy frame.
I slid into the booth across from her. “Let skip the formalities, if it’s okay. Please just call me Jimmy.”
“And I’m Gayle.” Her hand trembled when she raised it above the table to shake mine. “I’m nervous talking about this,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. “There are frightening details you should know, but can… can I trust you?”
“You called me, remember? You must have had a feeling that I could be trusted.”
“You defend people in trouble, and I thought… Anyway, I had to talk to you.”
“Anything you say to me regarding your aunt’s murder is protected-client privilege. Our conversation will be kept strictly confidential.” I leaned in closer and spoke softly. “Now, Gayle, what’s this all about?”
“I’m scared. Whoever killed my aunt could kill again.”
“Have you talked to the police about any of this?”
“Oh my God, no. They could be in on it.”
“In on what? The murder, the blackmail, or both?”
She made a tent with her hands and placed them in front of her mouth, her eyes dropping to the tabletop. I wanted to ask her again about the cops, but the waitress appeared, ready to take our order.
Gayle looked up. “Just coffee for me, please.”
“Make it two,” I added.
As soon as the waitress left I said, “Gayle, I can’t help you unless you tell me what this is all about. That is, if you want me to help.”
“This whole mess just won’t go away.” The fear showed in her eyes and it was real. “I don’t know much. My aunt didn’t tell me the whole story. But certain people might think I know more than I do.”
“How about if we start at the beginning?”
Gayle glanced around. Two men wearing business suits had entered and now sat at the counter. “I’m not comfortable here,” she said.
“We can talk in my car. Nobody will be able to eavesdrop.”