“I’ll let you in on something, but don’t put it in the report.”
“What?”
“It’s a personal matter between Miss Allen, the deputy D.A., and me.”
“Personal matter?”
I paused. Watch out, I told myself. I had second thoughts about bringing up my feelings toward Bobbi. I felt guilty about my outburst in court, saying that she asked me out. I really didn’t want to hurt her.
“Nah, not really personal, this is her first murder case and she wants to do a thorough job, I can’t blame her.”
“Okay, I’ll file my report,” the detective said.
“What’s it going to say?”
“You know I can’t answer that.” He stopped talking but didn’t hang up. I remained silent. Finally, he said, “Look, O’Brien, I’m not supposed to tell you this but you’re an ex-cop and you know the score. I’m going to recommend that we drop this thing. It’s a pissing contest between you and the Deputy D.A. and I have real crimes I should be working on. There’s a four-inch stack of complaints on my desk right now, including a few murders, and more coming every day.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You didn’t hear it from me, but this thing is over. I don’t see where any crime has been committed. You hadn’t called the guy to the stand and paid him to lie. Maybe you would’ve, but the point is you hadn’t. ”
I hung up. Sol still hadn’t arrived, so I had time to think a bit. I figured the State Bar charge would also disappear when the criminal complaint was dropped.
Did I feel better? No, not really. Bobbi still thought I was guilty. That’s what mattered, and that hadn’t changed.
When Sol arrived, he had a drink in his hand and a file under his arm. He set the file on the table and slid into the booth across from me.
“You were on the phone so I had a drink at the bar. That new piano player is hilarious,” Sol said.
“I heard him.”
“Guy’s terrific, huh?”
“Sol, the guy sucks.” I’d told enough lies for one day.
“Well, screw you,” he said. “Not everyone can be Louis Armstrong.”
“True,” I said.
Sol glanced around the room, then leaned forward. “I got the call I’d been waiting for, you know, the lead on the pilot, Ron Fischer.”
I straightened up. “What did you find out?”
“First we eat,” he said, looking around. “Hey, did they bring the menus?”
My stomach did somersaults. “What?”
“The menu. What’s the catch of the day? Feel like a nice sauteed sole or-”
“Goddammit, Sol, you do this every time.”
“I think you should eat before I tell you the news.”
“Why? Will the news kill my appetite?”
“Fischer is dead.”
“Oh my God! What are you telling me?”
Sol just looked at me.
I reached across the table and grabbed his arm. “Tell me you were kidding about Fischer. I need his statement. He’s gotta tell me who was on the plane that night. Christ, he can’t be dead.”
“Jimmy, Ron Fischer’s been dead for over a year.”
C H A P T E R 32
Sol insisted we eat first then we’d talk about Fischer. I knew from experience that it’d do no good to try to change his mind; food and wine always came first. I also knew there was more to the story about Fischer being dead than what he just told me. There had to be a postscript, an explanation of some sort. Sol and his games…
He ordered lunch for both of us: salmon almandine. He’d have Mondavi Chardonnay with his. I’d have coffee. Andre brought Sol’s wine draped in a linen towel. After uncorking the bottle with reverence, he poured an ounce or so into a glass that seemed to appear magically from his free hand. Sol sipped and nodded and told him some crap about the fruity aroma having the essence of a romantic melody.
I remained patient during the wine pouring ceremony, but I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Sol, for crying out loud. Tell me about Fischer.”
“Sure, my boy, but first sit back and relax; everything’s going to be okay. I have it worked out-”
“Goddammit, Sol! What about Fischer?”
“As far as I know, Karadimos’s pilot is still alive, but he’s an imposter. He’s not Ron Fischer.”
“Thank God, he’s not dead. But why do you always play games? You had me crazy.”
“Ah, Jimmy, my boy, a little suspense in your life is like pepper in your soup.”
The food thing again. Suspense, he says. Bad guys following me around, cops on my ass, and a woman who dumped me before we even got started because she thinks I’m a crook. That’s right; a little suspense is what I needed.
Still, a wave of relief flowed over me knowing the pilot was not dead. “Yeah, pepper in my soup. I hate soup,” I said. “But anyway, who are we looking for now?”
Sol opened his file and read from it. “The real Ron Fischer died in a car crash last year in San Diego. The guy was a Navy fighter pilot, flew off aircraft carriers at night-very dangerous.” He looked up. “The guy had nerve.”
“And he died in a car crash,” I said.
“Yeah, ironic, isn’t it?”
Janine appeared with our food. The appetizing aroma triggered within me a hunger that I did not think existed. Sol and I tucked into the salmon, and after several mouthfuls, I asked him, “You said you have it worked out?”
He swallowed. “You bet. We have to find the guy, correct?”
“Of course.”
“And we don’t know who he is, also correct?”
“Yep.”
“Be easier to find him if we know who he is.”
“Sol, please. I think you know who he is. Just tell me what’s going on. Okay?”
“No. First we’ve got to figure out how we’re going to fight those phony charges against you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m off the hook.”
“You’re off the hook? You didn’t tell me.”
“How could I? You were going on and on about the fish, and jiving Andre about the wine like some kind of connoisseur.”
“Hey buddy boy, I drink enough of the stuff to be an expert.”
“No argument about that.”
“Now, tell me how you got the charges dropped.”
In between bites of fish, I told him about my telephone call to Detective Farrell.
“I knew you could beat those farmisht charges.”
I set my fork down. “Lot of smooth talking.”
“I’ve been using my yiddisher kop, been busy.” Sol drained his wine glass.
“Busy doing what?” I asked Sol.
“We found out last Monday that Fischer was dead.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“I didn’t want to tell you until I had things worked out.”
“So I gather.”
“Now I’m going to explain how the world’s foremost detective operates.”
“That would be you,” I said.
Sol gave me a look that said, isn’t it obvious. “I’ve had his girlfriend’s apartment staked out for a while, but pulled my men off when we found out the guy’s a fugitive. He ain’t coming back.”
“The guy’s a fugitive, running from the law? What’s his name?”
“Let me finish,” Sol continued. “As soon as I found out the real Fischer was dead, I got in touch with a friend in the FBI. I asked him to get me the Federal Aviation Agency’s list of all the pilots that are Cessna Citation rated. Remember, Karadimos’s jet is a Citation.”
“I know.”
“To be able to fly the plane, unless you’re military trained in jets, you’d have to take a course at the Cessna factory. It’s a very sophisticated airplane; regular private pilots wouldn’t be able to fly it.”
Sol stopped talking and angled his head close to the table. He jabbed at something on his plate with his fork, then held it up and inspected the tidbit impaled there. “Hey,” he said. “This doesn’t look like an almond. Where’s Andre? This is a goddamned walnut.”
“Sol, forget the walnut. Tell me about the pilot.”
“Okay, hold on.” He popped the walnut into his mouth.
“Not bad,” he said. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah, when you pass the Cessna course, you get a type rating. The factory notifies the FAA and they send you a new license.”