“Why hadn’t I noticed this stuff before?” I said out loud. “Because, damn it! I hadn’t really looked.”
“Looked at what?” Rita asked.
Sol leaned forward. “What’d you find?”
“Oh, he had a motive, all right.” I held up the papers. “Haskell had a real dandy motive. A big reason to kill them both.”
CHAPTER 43
I glanced at my watch again: 7:35. Where in hell was Sol? He should’ve been here over an hour ago. I paced back and forth under the canopy at the lobby entrance to the Ambassador Hotel on Wilshire among the tastefully dressed patrons who milled about and watched the out-of-breath bellhops play tug-of-war with their luggage. A doorman decked out in a uniform that even a strutting Bangui emperor would be embarrassed to wear opened the double-wide glass doors, nodding to each guest as they waltzed in and out. It was a typical night at one of the world’s busiest big-city hotels.
The marquee out front said that Freddie Martin and his orchestra would be performing tonight in the hotel’s historic nightclub, the Cocoanut Grove. But I wasn’t there to enjoy the music. The music would come later, after a twenty-nine-year wrong had been made right.
Sol’s limo finally pulled up in front of the hotel and stopped. He climbed out of the rear seat and went to the driver’s window. “Wait here,” he told his chauffeur. “I’m going to the main ballroom with Jimmy. When that call comes through on the radio phone, let me know what they say-and fast.”
The driver nodded. Sol turned to me, straightened up, and tugged on his dinner jacket.
I glanced at my watch again. “Jesus, what took so long, Sol? The event has already started.”
“I waited at the office for the FBI to call back with the results of the fingerprint comparison. No luck, so I figured I’d come out here anyway.”
“Christ, we don’t have confirmation yet?”
“Nope. I have people at my office waiting. When the call comes in, they’ll patch it through to my limo.”
“Damn, what’s taking them so long? You called the FBI yesterday!”
“Listen, Jimmy. Do you think it’s easy to get someone on the weekend to trot over to the National Archives, dig through records and compare prints? We’re talking Washington D.C.”
“With Haskell’s resources, if he gets wind of what’s going on, he’ll disappear. Christ, he owns a jet, has bank accounts all over the world.”
“Don’t worry, my FBI contact said the results should be in right away. They can’t move until they have hard proof. But once they do, they’ll charge out here like the Seventh Calvary and arrest him.” He slapped my back. “Now, let’s go inside and keep our eye on the bastard.”
We walked to the hotel entrance. “Hey,” Sol said, looking me over. “You were supposed to wear a tux. You’ll stand out like a kangaroo at a garden party in that getup.”
I looked down at the jacket of my best suit. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. Forget it. If anybody says anything, I’ll tell them that you’re my manservant, a gentleman's gentleman. Now come along, Jeeves.”
Christ, they didn’t say anything about this in law school.
We entered the hotel lobby and found our way to the main ballroom. Some pimply-faced kid wearing a hotel security blazer stood at attention, guarding the door. “Sir, I’ll need to see your invitations.”
“Sure,” Sol said, slipping something into the guy’s palm. “It’s got a picture of Ben Franklin on it.”
The kid looked down at what Sol had just handed him. “Oh, yeah. It sure does.” He held the door open and we slipped into the room.
Sol and I lurked in the back. The room was filled with tables surrounded by men and women resplendent in their formal attire. The meal was winding down and waiters bustled about picking up plates while others poured coffee and wine.
On the stage, under a purple and white banner that read: The chief business of the American people is business, CEO types sat at a banquet table facing the audience. Donning frozen smiles, they exhibited the zestful flamboyance often noticed at a mass for the dead.
One of the men leaned over and said something to the man sitting to his right. That guy nodded, got up and went to the podium. He adjusted the mike, scanned the crowd, and started to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to be among such an illustrious group of people…”
He introduced the men seated on the dais-an executive who headed one of Haskell’s corporations, a couple of bankers, high-level politicians, and several businessmen who had contributed to their organization. One of them was Raymond Haskell.
“I hope you’ll pardon me if I seem overly enthusiastic in my admiration of Raymond Haskell, a man of many accomplishments…”
The master of ceremonies droned on ad nauseum, describing Haskell’s success in the world of business and finance, his generous contributions to the numerous charities that his foundation supported, and his unparalleled funding of the arts and humanities.
He finally got around to highlighting Haskell’s World War II experiences. Words and phrases such as hero, selfless valor, and patriotic courage were bandied about.
The speaker described one mission in particular, Haskell’s last mission, a bomb run over Augsburg, Germany: “…Captain Raymond Haskell exhibited fearless determination as countless fighters attacked his B-17. Still he continued on, flying to his assigned target. But close to the Messerschmitt factory heavy German anti-aircraft gunfire proved to be too much. Shrapnel from the exploding shells ripped through the fuselage. The bomber caught fire and the cockpit was soon engulfed in flames.
“Ray could have bailed out right then, but at grave risk to his own life he thought only of his men. He unbuckled his seat belt and was trying to help his wounded co-pilot when suddenly the B-17 exploded. Fate intervened. The explosion blew Ray clear of the plane, rendering him unconscious. But thank God, he awoke in time and opened his parachute. All of his crewmates perished, however…”
Over Bavaria, March 1944
No, Sims thought, he was not going to die today, not for these assholes.
Fuck ’em. They’re all dead anyway.
Earl Lee Sims bailed out through the main entrance hatch an instant before the bomber exploded.
His chute opened and as he fell he noticed a curious sight. One of the crewmembers had been blown out of the airplane.
He watched as the man descended fast in freefall. Was he dead or alive?
Now below him, Sims saw the airman’s chute pop open just seconds before he hit the ground.
Sims drifted slowly down, finally making contact less than a hundred yards from his wounded crewmate. He gathered his parachute canopy, hid it behind some bushes, and cautiously approached the crewmember.
Capt. Raymond Haskell uttered, “Sims… thank God you made it. Help me… I’m hurt.”
Earl Lee Sims drew his army issue .45 caliber automatic from its holster and put the barrel to Haskell's head…
CHAPTER 44
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the master of ceremonies said. “Without further ado, I give you our guest of honor, the esteemed Raymond Haskell.”
Everyone stood. Applause filled the room as Haskell stood and walked purposefully to the podium.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sol’s driver come into the hall past the security kid. He slipped up behind Sol and whispered, “Boss, the FBI called. They’re on their way.” He paused.
“So nu?” Sol said with impatience. “What else?”
“The prints matched.”