“Jimmy, it goes without saying that I trust you. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, but it’s just the appearance that could cause trouble,” she said. “Not to mention, I’m working very hard to put your client away.”
“I’m working hard too, but I know we’ll be fair and honest with each other. You’re the only prosecutor that I know of who isn’t in it just to rack up convictions.”
“If we could keep our professional lives separate, I think we could work in a date or two after the trial without compromising our careers. That is, if you still want to take me out after I mangle you in court.”
“I’d love to go out with you,” I said with sincerity. I couldn’t think of a snappy comeback for the mangle comment, but perhaps this wasn’t the time for it anyway.
“Bye, Jimmy. Call me when you’re back in L.A.” She started to hang up.
“Wait! I have to talk some business with you. That’s why I called. Bobbi, are you there?”
There was a strained silence on the line, just the crackling static of the long distance wires. She answered at last: “You mean you didn’t call just to ask me out?” I could almost hear the smile on her face.
“Of course that’s why I called you from a hot, sweaty payphone in the middle of Kansas, but seeing as how you’re on the line, we may as well discuss the case. Then these outrageous toll charges will be tax deductible. Clever, huh?”
“And I just got through saying such nice things about your ethics. Go ahead; I’ll be your tax dodge.”
“Remember when you said if I could show that Welch was in town at the time as the murder, you’d reopen the case?”
“Yes, I remember,” she said with more than a little skepticism in her voice.
I told her about the extra flight time on the jet, exactly the number of hours needed for a round trip to Sacramento, the hidden Hobbs Meter, the failure to log the time, and the missing pilot. “So, Bobbi, someone came back Saturday and whoever it was tried to cover up the flight. What do you think?”
“Now that is something significant. Hold on a minute.”
While waiting for Bobbi to return, I glanced through the terminal plate-glass window overlooking the runway. A small twin-engine airplane had landed and two middle-aged guys dressed as cowboys got out and strode through the terminal, headed for the cafe.
I’d missed breakfast, and the thought of eggs and bacon sizzling in a pan made me hungrier than I already was. The only thing they’d served on the plane had been a small bag of stale peanuts. In first class they probably had a suckling pig roasting on a spit with dancing girls slicing off morsels and popping them in the passengers’ mouths between sips of their Dom Perignon Champagne.
“I’m sorry for the delay, Jimmy. I had to make a call on the other line.”
“Did you think over what I said?”
“It’s not enough to re-open the case, but I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do. I’ve just talked to Detective Hodges, South Gate PD. I’ve asked him to follow up on the Hobbs Meter thing. If it pans out, we’ll make further inquiries. We’ll look for the pilot.”
I didn’t like getting the cops involved, especially after what Big Jake had said. Plus, I didn’t like the idea of tipping my hand to the other side. But I had to trust her. It was the only hope Rodriguez had. “Fischer is the key, Bobbi. He knows who murdered Graham.”
“We’ll see. Do you have anything else?”
Although I trusted her, I’d already told her enough. I didn’t tell her my office was tossed, and that the only thing stolen was the Rodriguez file, or about the threats. “That’s about it,” I said.
“You’re in Kansas. Are you going to be back in time for the hearing tomorrow?”
“Sure, I’m flying home tonight.”
“The hearing starts at ten-thirty. Let’s meet in the courtroom at nine-thirty. We can go over everything then. I won’t promise you anything, but if what you told me checks out, I’ll recommend bail and ask for a continuance on the hearing, and we’ll investigate further. Does that sound fair?”
I tried not to show my excitement. “Yeah, that’s fair. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay. And, Jimmy…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget, the Chinese wall.”
“Yeah, I understand.”
We said goodbye again. I hung up, and walked on clouds to the airport cafe.
While eating, I unfolded the map from Avis. Bonnie Munson lived on a farm somewhere twelve miles northeast of Manhattan.
I tried to plot my route but couldn’t figure it out, so I asked the waitress for help. She said something like: Take Highway 113 through town. Then turn off on a dirt road somewhere, go past a red manure-spreader and after a while, look for a mailbox with the Munson name painted on it.
What did a manure-spreader look like? I wondered.
C H A P T E R 27
I had second thoughts. Maybe it was actually being here in Kansas, the land of good manners and courtesy, that changed my mind. I decided I wouldn’t just barge in on Bonnie Munson. I’d call her first to let her know I was on my way to see her. If she said no, stay away, then I’d barge in on her.
I went back to the same payphone and dialed her number. When she answered, I told her who I was. At first, she said that she wouldn’t talk to me about Gloria. I explained that I wouldn’t take much of her time. I just wanted to go over a few details concerning the comments she’d made to Sol and his men. When she heard that I’d flown all the way from California just to meet with her, Bonnie’s Midwest hospitality kicked in. With a slight hesitation in her voice, she agreed to see me.
After missing a few turns and backtracking a bit, I spotted the remains of derelict piece of farm equipment leaning on the side of Highway 113.
“Is that a manure-spreader?” I asked the farmer standing near the rusty hulk.
He peered at me sideways through a squinted eye. “Nah, it’s an old combine. Why?”
“I need some help,” I said glancing at the note in my hand with the waitress’s directions scribbled on it. “I need to find a manure-spreader. You see, I’m a lawyer-”
“That so? Well, then I can see why you’d need one.”
Kansas humor, no doubt. “Uh, do you know how to get to the Munson farm?”
The old guy pointed to a farmhouse about a hundred yards down the road.
The house, a small, well-maintained white wooden structure with a cupola on top, stood far back from the road, nestled among some tall trees. A wood-rail fence enclosed the green lawn and flowerbeds that surrounded the home. Vegetables flourished off to the side in a small garden.
After parking the Falcon next to an olive green John Deere tractor, I climbed out of the car. Two Labrador retrievers bounded over and loped around me, their tails going a mile a minute. They threw a few barks my way. I jumped back, “Jesus,” I exclaimed.
“Johann. Sebastian. Leave the man alone. You know better, now go away.”
I shifted my attention from the dogs to the woman standing in the doorway of the house. She had on a sleeveless blouse and tight fitting jeans that flattered her impressive figure. By Los Angeles standards, she’d probably be considered overweight, but by Kansas standards, I imagined that she was just about perfect. If it were a contest, I’d vote for the Kansas standards.
“Don’t worry; their Bach is worse than their bite.” More Kansas humor. She walked over and stuck out her hand.
“You must be Bonnie Munson,” I said.
“Yes, and you must be Mr. O’Brien.”
She invited me into the house, where the yeasty aroma of fresh-baked bread enveloped me like a warm blanket. The cozy smell was in keeping with the unpretentious decor of the home. Being there gave me a sense of security and peacefulness that I never felt in the city. I followed Bonnie into the kitchen. The table was set for three.