“You want more favors? You want I should call her for you?”
“No, this is about the case.” I told Sol about the jet. How it had been flown the extra two hours without being logged. And I related my discussion with Tracy, the pilot’s girlfriend.
“I think you’re on to something. Something big,” Sol said.
“We need to run a skip-trace on Fischer. I want to call him as a hostile witness.”
“How do you know he flew the jet back here? He could’ve flown the plane anywhere. Isn’t it rule number one, never put a witness on the stand and ask him a question that you don’t know the answer he’ll give?”
“It’s too big of a coincidence, the exact flight time, and if it were an innocent flight Fischer would have logged it.”
“He’d lie on the stand, wouldn’t he?” Sol asked.
“Sure he’ll lie. But when he does, I’ll make him eat his words. Make him look like a lying bastard. When I’m finished with him, the jury will know the truth.”
“Aren’t we a mite self-assured, a little egotistical today?”
“Sol, you find the guy. I’ll nail him.”
“How long do we have?”
“Not long, today’s Monday. The preliminary hearing is scheduled for Thursday morning.”
“Not much time to find a guy who doesn’t want to be found.”
“I need to show a strong alternative to the D.A.’s theory. They still won’t drop Rodriguez as a suspect, but maybe they’ll grant bail. I might be able to get him out on his own recognizance, no bail money. I gotta get Rodriguez out of jail.” A horrible thought crossed my mind. “Sol, listen. If something happens to Rodriguez while he’s in custody, if he somehow should happen to die, the D.A. would close the Gloria Graham murder case. It’d be all over. Welch and Karadimos would be off the hook.”
“Yeah, a mamzer like Karadimos could have it carried out, jail or no jail. It’s the easiest place on the planet to whack someone. A shiv in the back, it’s over. The hit man’s wife or girlfriend gets an unexpected deposit in her bank account. Yeah, I’d better get my guys looking for Fischer right away,” Sol said.
“One more thing.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you get someone to sweep my office for bugs and check the phone as well?”
“I told you your place is bugged, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Sol, please. Just send someone. Okay?”
“I’ll send a sweeper right away, but it might be too late. The barn door and all that.”
I left Foxy’s and raced back to my office. Sol’s electronics guy wasn’t there yet and I didn’t want to use the phone even to check my messages. I decided to make some coffee and wait.
When Rita went to the All American Home Center to get the rake, she also bought a new coffeepot. The old one had been smashed during the break-in. I didn’t care; it was beaten up and shabby. The one she bought looked sharp, kind of space age with a lot of dials and stuff. It was the newest automatic type that I’d seen on TV. But I didn’t have the foggiest notion how to work the thing. I figured there must be an instruction book around here somewhere.
After looking in a couple of desk drawers, I asked myself where I’d put the book if I were Rita. I went to the filing cabinet, opened the drawer, and sure enough, inside was only one file, labeled: Pot, Coffee, Book!
I fiddled around trying to hook up the high-tech gizmo, and was just about to give up when a small guy who looked about seventeen opened the door and walked in. I started to say hello, but he put a finger to his lips.
“Quit.” he whispered.
“Sol sent you?” I whispered back.
He nodded his head.
Before the guy started searching the place, I asked in a low voice if he knew how to hook up a coffeepot.
He glanced at it and shook his head. “Nah, I wouldn’t waste my time on that piece of crap.”
That did it. I’d stop for coffee later at Dolan’s Donuts.
The kid wandered around carrying a device shaped like a large plastic wishbone. The arms were about ten inches long, and the handle was like a tennis racket but it had small lights and knobs on it. He walked around the place, holding the gadget in front of him, waving it up and down as if it were a divining rod and he had come looking for water. When he finished checking both offices and the restroom, he gestured for me to meet him outside.
“Yep, the place is hot. I haven’t checked the phones yet, but they’re probably hot too.”
“Can you remove the bugs?” I asked.
“Sure, only take a few minutes.”
We walked back into the office, where he took some tools out of his pocket, removed the plate covering the light switch, cut a wire, and pulled out a device about half the size of a pack of cigarettes.
“Wow,” he said, his eyes bulging. “Look at this transmitter. Isn’t she sweet? See how small she is? This is the newest technology, very expensive. She’ll broadcast on an FM frequency over five hundred yards. Can I keep her?”
“Yeah, why not.” I wondered why he referred to a listening device using the female pronoun.
“Great! I’ll check the phone connection box, outside. I’m sure they’ll be another beauty like this one wired to the main line.”
As soon as the sweeper left, I dialed my answering service. “Mabel, this is O’Brien. Any messages?”
“Yeah, the usual.”
“Read them, okay?”
“My assistant took the messages while I was out. Left them around here someplace. Hang on.” A few seconds later, she came back on the line. “Okay, here’s the first one. It says, ‘Mr. O’Brien, please call me. Your car insurance is due. Signed, George Biddle.’ Next: ‘O’Brien, you’re a dead man.’ The third one is from a print shop. They’ve got a special this week.”
“What! What did you say?”
“They got a special this week, you know, on printing. Wait a minute!” Mabel paused. “Oh, my God! The second one says, ‘O’Brien, you’re a dead man.’ It’s not signed. What the hell is this? You really must have pissed someone off.”
“Must be a joke.” I slowly hung up the phone. Karadimos had a special this week, too. Dead lawyers, a dime a dozen.
C H A P T E R 23
I didn’t sleep well Monday night. I rolled around in tangled sheets and woke up about a dozen times. Finally giving up, I got out of bed at five, showered and shaved, and landed at Denny’s Coffee Shop at 5:30 a.m. I ordered coffee and some eggs. Dawdling over the Times, I read it cover to cover.
By seven, I’d finished the paper, even the want ads, and set it aside. I couldn’t get Welch out of my mind. It would do no good to phone his office again. I knew he wouldn’t return my call, but what I really needed was a face-to-face meeting. I wanted to look him in the eyes when I asked him a few questions. I felt I’d know a lie when I heard one. But how would I get him to agree to a sit-down, when I couldn’t even convince him to talk to me on the phone?
Finishing the last of my coffee-my fifth cup-I happened to glance out the large plate glass window at the front of the coffee shop overlooking the parking lot. I noticed a guy wearing a black leather overcoat walking toward my Corvette. He stood beside my car for a moment. Then with one swift motion, he pulled a baseball bat from under his coat and smashed the driver’s side passenger window. He tossed something in through the opening then ran to a car that waited for him. The car, a dark blue Buick, sped away.
I shot outside, instinctively raced around the lot and ran halfway down the block. Of course, the guy was long gone.
I dragged myself back to the Vette. An envelope rested on the front seat among the dime-size chunks of glass.
I pulled it out and ripped it open. Inside was a handwritten note: Quit the case NOW! Or I’ll use this bat on your head instead of the window. We can get to you anytime. Don’t think Sica’s men are going to protect you. Big Jake won’t always be there to cover your back.
A moment later, Big Jake’s Caddie rolled to a stop next to me. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he stuck his head out the car window and appraised the damage. “You see who done it?” he asked.