“Okay! I won’t call.”
“I ain’t gonna hang around all the time no more. I ain’t no lousy bodyguard, but when it gets serious, I’ll be there. He lowered his voice. “And believe me; you’ll be glad I came.”
He leaned back and belched.
C H A P T E R 22
We left the restaurant. I said goodbye to Jake in the parking lot. He grunted something. We each got into our cars and drove off. I headed east on Florence. Jake followed for a couple of blocks. I didn’t see his Caddie in my rearview mirror when I turned right on Woodruff Avenue.
Karadimos’s pilot, Ron Fischer, lived on Newville Ave. in a two-story apartment building. The street was lined on both sides with pastel stucco, box-like structures dating back to World War II. The building that Fischer lived in had splotches of gray plaster showing through its pink color. It looked like somebody had painted the building with strawberry Kool Aid, one coat.
After parking at the curb in front, I climbed the outside stairway and walked along a railed balcony to unit 6. I rapped on the door, no answer, knocked again but still nothing.
I went down the stairs and walked to a rickety carport in the back. The parking area was divided into sections with numbers. Parked in stall number 6 was a dirty, white El Camino. Two other cars were parked in the carport, a beat-up red Pinto with no hubcaps, and a twenty-year-old Ford station wagon.
I found the manager’s unit and knocked. A drowsy old guy opened the door. “You here about the apartment? It’s rented.” He started to shut the door.
“No, wait,” I said. “I’m looking for Ron Fischer.”
He held the door half open and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes.
“His car is back there.” I nodded my head toward the parking area. “But he doesn’t answer his door.”
“Yeah, so what?”
The old guy’s TV blared inside, a soap opera. “I need to find him.”
“What’s this about?”
“Official business.”
He scratched his rib cage. “You some kind of bill collector?”
“No, I just want to know if you’ve seen him around.”
“Hey, fella, I mind my own business. As long as they pay the rent and don’t cause a ruckus.” The manger closed the door.
“Mister, you looking for Ronnie?” a hushed female voice asked.
I turned. A twenty-something woman with dyed blonde hair stood before me. The dye job needed a retouch. “Yes, I am. Do you know him?” She had a dynamite figure, but a rather plain face. A trip to the dermatologist would help.
“We’re kinda friends,” she said.
“Have you seen him lately?”
“No, and I’m worried. I haven’t seen him for about a week.”
“He’s a charter pilot,” I said. “Maybe he’s on a flight.”
“I don’t think so. I have a key to his apartment…” She paused. Her eyes seemed to focus on something faraway. After a moment she continued: “He always takes his flight case when he’s on a charter. It’s still here.”
“You two are pretty close, huh?”
“Sorta. We go out sometimes.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last Monday, or maybe it was Tuesday, I dunno.” She held up a blue bag, which had the words dirty duds stenciled on it. “I was going to the laundromat. I do his wash too. What are friends for, huh?” She glanced down.
“You do his laundry?” I wanted to keep her talking.
“Yeah, it’s no big deal.”
“Sure, no big deal.”
“Last week I went to his apartment to get his stuff. Ronnie rushed outside and left. He walked right by me, didn’t even say goodbye.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Got in a cab and took off.”
“You don’t know where he was headed?”
She glanced at her open-toed sandals. A moment later, she looked up at me. Her mouth quivered. “No, I don’t know where he went. But I think something’s wrong.”
I glanced at a monarch butterfly, its wings doing a slow flutter as it rested on the flower box in the window of the apartment next door. I didn’t tell the girl I also thought something was wrong, very wrong.
“Two guys came looking for him later that day,” she said.
My head snapped back to her face. “Two guys? Do you know who they were? Seen them before?”
“No, but they were mean lookin’. One guy had a jagged scar on his face, you know, like he’d been in a knife fight. And the other guy, well, he was mean too. I could tell.”
“Maybe they were cops?”
“No way. I’m a…well, I’m, a modern dancer at the Kozy Kitty on Pioneer Boulevard. I know cops when I see them. They’re our best customers.”
So she was a stripper. She had the body for it, that’s for sure.
“Did you file a missing person report?” I asked.
“No, Ronnie wouldn’t want the cops looking for him.” She hesitated a moment then continued. “He’s been in trouble before. It’s behind him now, but he’s got a thing about cops.”
“Do you have a picture of him? Might help me find him.”
“He had a thing about having his picture taken, too. One time I brought a Polaroid camera with us when we…” She shook her head. “No, I don’t have any.”
I gave her my card, the real one, not George Biddle’s. I asked her to call me if he turned up. I told her I was working on a case and Fischer was a witness. She didn’t ask and I didn’t tell her what the case was about. She gave me her number, said her name was Tracy, and asked me to call her if I found out anything about him.
I said that I would.
I hurried back to my office to make some calls. When I arrived, Rita was gone and the place was clean. Everything was put away and the office seemed to be in order. She’d done the best she could on the bloodstains in my office, but I could still see a few rust-colored spots on the carpet.
Picking up the receiver, I remembered the warning Sol had given me about the phones being tapped. I set it back down.
It was almost two o’clock and I hadn’t eaten all day. Foxy’s on Third St. had a good hamburger and the place was spotless. I’d grab a bite at the coffee shop and make my calls from their payphone.
I drove to the restaurant, entered, and sat at the counter. The waitress arrived and I ordered a burger and fries, then went to the payphone.
“Joyce, I’ve got to talk to Sol. It’s important.”
“He’s not in,” Joyce said. “But I can get him a message.”
“Tell him I’m at Foxy’s, here in Downey. I’ll wait for his phone call.”
I went back to the counter and polished off my meal. Helen brought me another cup of coffee. While waiting for Sol to call, I wrote facts about the case on a paper napkin.
Fact one: Welch was having an affair with the victim.
Fact two: the plane was flown back on the day of the murder.
Fact three: Welch pressured Judge Johnson to wrap up the case.
I looked at what I had written and reflected on it. One problem: Welch had a hundred or so witnesses who were with him in Sacramento at the time of the murder.
Another thing: why was Karadimos pushing me so hard to stop the investigation? If Welch were guilty, why wouldn’t Karadimos just drop the Senator from his payroll and replace him with the next stooge that came along? Karadimos would know if Welch were guilty. After all, it would’ve been his pilot, Ron Fischer, who flew him back to Southern California that day.
The waitress interrupted my thoughts. “Jimmy, you have a call. You can take it in the office.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I picked up the phone receiver resting on top of a small stack of invoices scattered across the desk. Sol said, “Jimmy, my boy, got a pencil?”
“Yeah.”
“Here’s the phone number for that shiksa you’re so hot for.” He gave me Bobbi Allen’s home number. I wrote it on the back of one of my business cards.
“Thanks, Sol, but-”
“Jimmy, gotta go. Having lunch with a macher. Tell you about it later.”
“Wait. That’s not why I asked you to call.”