“Demands? I thought this was a non-kidnapping situation.”
“I have demands. Quite a few and rather tough to meet, but the U.S. and the rest of the world can do it. I’ll give my demands to the President on this frequency and on an international radio frequency tomorrow night at six.”
13
Detective Sergeant Petroff stared at the three piles of paper on his desk. He’d cleaned all the other cases off it. One stack detailed all of their interviews with the involved persons in the OD death of Joisette Brown. The second was Joisette’s will and legal papers. The third pile was all they knew about Shortchops Arnold Jackson.
Petroff had an OD on a heroin victim, confirmed now by the autopsy. There were three other drugs in her system, but they hadn’t killed her. However, the police had found no syringes at the scene. Neither of the women had a syringe or any drugs with them. The medical examiner hadn’t indicated if death was due to a self-induced OD or to one induced by a person or persons unknown.
Then there were the legal papers, the legal and binding will the victim had left, and transcripts of the special interviews with three of the band members after Petroff found out they also were in the victim’s will. The one he hadn’t talked to a second time was the SEAL, Sadler, who the Navy said was on a mission “overseas.” The SEAL master chief petty officer out on the Coronado Strand assured Petroff that he would be notified as soon as Senior Chief Sadler returned to the base. There was no estimate given when that might be.
Three of the members of the Gaslamp Quarter Dixieland Band said they knew nothing of the dead girl, had only seen her briefly that one time the night she died, and that they had no knowledge whatsoever that they had been named in the will each to get $50,000. They were stunned when he told them. There was no chance these three straight-laced dudes were lying. He didn’t know yet about Chief Sadler.
The stack of goods on Jackson was mostly from the musicians’ union and the Internet. His hometown paper in Cleveland had run a series of articles about him and his jazz work a year ago. Petroff had copies. They didn’t help a bit. Well, a little. The man had been on chemo for a year to beat testicular cancer. It could come back at any time somewhere else in his body. He was seventy-eight years old. He was black, so he probably had prostate trouble. Petroff couldn’t find any serious police records on Jackson. Busted twice in Cleveland for possession, but was cleared both times. That was it. Certainly no serious shit like murder. Had Shortchops given the girl the OD deliberately so he could collect his inheritance? He’d had the opportunity when he was alone with her. He’d had the means. He’d had the motive. But it all was shit-faced circumstantial, and not nearly enough to get a warrant for his arrest.
Two of the band members said that Chief Sadler had left the back room at the club just after Shortchops and the girl did. He was gone about five minutes. They figured it was a piss call.
Again circumstantial. Both Shortchops and Chief Sadler had the opportunity and the motive for killing the girl. He didn’t know if Sadler had the means. The other band men said, as far as they knew, Sadler was straight-arrow when it came to drugs.
Which put Petroff right back in the vise, and the captain was squeezing it. Petroff had a week to get enough evidence for a warrant, or they would leave it open as an OD death with no suspects.
The 3.5-million-dollar estate kept bugging Petroff. A lot of men would do a lot for that kind of money. Had Shortchops waited for his chance and then hit Joisette with a huge OD? The medical examiner said there was enough heroin in her system to kill her two times over. Could the girl have taken a hit and forgotten it and had another one? Or had Shortchops given her a shot not knowing she’d already boosted? Or had Shortchops deliberately given her a double dose knowing that it would put her down and dead in the alley before anyone could get there to help her? There was a chance that Chief Sadler had provided the fatal pop of heroin so he could collect the fifty thousand. That was a pile of money for a hardworking enlisted Navy man.
A week. He had a week, and then the captain was closing the file and putting him on something else. What the hell could he do in a week? Easy. He had to find Shortchops. He put on his jacket and headed for the garage. He had some favors due in the black community. There had to be somebody down there who knew Jackson, and maybe how to find him. It came down to digging up Jackson for a long talk, or quitting the whole damned case.
An idea hit him squarely between the eyes. There was a chance he could phone Senior Chief Sadler. The Navy said they would cooperate in every way they could. He started the unmarked Ford and headed for Coronado. There was a chance. Maybe a good one.
A half hour later he shook hands with Master Chief MacKenzie in the Quarterdeck.
The master chief read from the card just presented. “So, Detective Sergeant Petroff, what can I do for you today?”
“I’m at a critical point in my investigation of a death I think was a homicide. Senior Chief Sadler is a material witness and I need to talk with him. I know he’s overseas. I also know he usually is on covert missions. What I need is a telephone interview with him of about ten minutes. I don’t want to know where he is or what he’s doing. None of my business. Solving this murder is. Who do I have to see to get approval for you to use your radios or phone lines to get me in touch with Senior Chief Sadler?”
MacKenzie nodded at the detective and sat down behind his desk. “Sergeant Petroff, let me make a phone call. I realize that the Navy has no exclusion rights when the police ask for our cooperation. This is slightly different. If you could wait in the outer office for a few minutes, I’ll get your answer.”
“Fine, no problem. Oh, do you have any coffee?”
When the door closed, MacKenzie dialed Commander Dean Masciareli. The boss of the SEAL complex was in and not busy. He took the call. After hearing the request in detail, the commander made an instant decision.
“I don’t see how we can deny the sergeant a call. Just be sure it’s covert as to area and activity. You might try SATCOM first. I have no idea what time it is in Africa. Carry on, Master Chief.”
When the detective came back inside he expected to get a quick no. His face brightened with the good news.
“We’ll try to contact the platoon by SATCOM,” said MacKenzie. “It’s a military radio that works off the satellite system. Usually we can contact any of our people anywhere in the world. I’ll have it set up and get the antenna adjusted.”
The master chief looked at his watch. “With the time differential it should be early evening there. Which means they might not have their set turned on. It could take us an hour to make contact.”
“Fine, I’ll wait. Just so the coffee holds out.”
It was almost two hours later before the calls every fifteen minutes to Murdock’s platoon brought an answer.
Master Chief MacKenzie explained the situation.
“I can have Senior Chief Sadler here in five minutes,” Bill Bradford said. “Hey, there he is. Just a shake.” There was some dead air, then a new voice came on.
“Petroff, you still bugging me? Hope you’ve got that case all wrapped up.”
“Afraid not, Senior Chief. Have a few more questions for you. Did you know you were mentioned in the dead black girl’s will?”
“Will? How would a down-and-out hooker have any money for a will?”
Petroff explained it to Sadler.
“You mean she was a kid of the Billy Ben Brown, one of the greatest jazz men who ever lived?”