“Must’ve been hundreds of pilots.”
“No, very few. The Citation jet just came out this year. Karadimos’ plane is one of the first. Anyway, we ran a check on the pilots to see if any of them had a record. Remember, his girlfriend said he had some trouble with the law.”
“I see where you’re going with this, but how did you know the imposter would use his real name to get the rating?”
“To take the course, you need a multi-engine pilot’s license. Couldn’t use Fischer’s ticket, he was dead before the Cessna Citation was introduced to the public. Also, you need to pass a medical exam to get the license.”
I laughed. “I doubt that a medical examiner would certify a dead guy; might look bad.”
“Wouldn’t look good.” Sol chuckled.
“How many names fit the profile?”
“Only eight.”
“That’s all? Just eight people?”
“Yep, that’s all. And only one guy’s a fugitive,” Sol said.
“He’d be our guy.”
“Yes, indeed. We have his name and a mug shot.”
“What’s his name?” I asked again.
“Kruger. Danny Kruger. Now all’s we’ve got to do is find him.”
“How long will that take?”
“We’ll find him in time for the trial, that’s for sure.”
“I know you will. I’m counting on you, Sol.”
He paused for a moment, pulled a cigar from the vest pocket of his jacket, and set it on fire with a solid gold blowtorch. “I’ve been thinking about your theory of the murder,” he said as smoke from his cigar swirled to the ceiling. “I have some ideas. You wanna hear them?”
“Absolutely.”
“Remember what Gloria said to Bonnie: ‘The Greek might be on to me.’ She was talking about the money, right?”
“Yeah, the money.”
“Here’s the way I figure it. We have two suspects and two possible motives. Each separate from the other. The first motive and suspect is the one we’ve been working on-Welch. He was having an affair with Gloria. He sent her the letter dumping her, didn’t need the baggage now that he’s running for re-election. Gloria got it Saturday. She called and threatened him. He flew down and killed her, and immediately flew back to Sacramento. But Welch has an airtight alibi.”
“Yeah, the alibi is a big problem,” I said.
Sol looked at me, nodded, and puffed on his cigar. “Now here’s a second theory.”
“Go ahead.”
“Gloria was involved with Karadimos in his money laundering scheme, and she skimmed some off the top.
Karadimos found out. He was on to her-Bonnie said so-and he flew down and killed her.”
“Then he stashed the murder weapon in Rodriguez’s truck, and made the anonymous call,” I said, finishing his theory. “But if that were the case, wouldn’t he just have one of his henchmen take care of the problem?”
“I dunno. Maybe he wanted to get his revenge personally. But when I find the pilot, he’ll tell us who he flew down, Karadimos or Welch, and we’ll have the murderer,” Sol said.
“But we still have to tie the motive in with the flight.
The passenger could come up with some other reason for sneaking back into town.”
“We’ll have to blow the lid off Karadimos and Welch’s secret enterprise. That would show motive.”
“Motive, means, and opportunity, it all fits. And we know Welch and Karadimos are working together,” I said.
“That’s probably why the pilot took it on the lam. Must’ve figured he was hot, and Karadimos would get rid of him because he knew too much.”
“I’ll have to find the guy before Karadimos does, or he’ll be a goner.”
“I’ll head over to Gloria Graham’s house and snoop around. Even though the police have combed the place, and would have bagged any evidence by now, maybe I’ll spot something.”
“Can’t hurt, and you’ll be talking to Welch at Chasen’s, at the fund raiser.”
“Yeah, who knows, maybe he’ll say something.” After a pause, I added, “So how do you intend to find the pilot?”
“People can change identities, but they rarely change their old habits, hobbies, and skills. If he’s hiding out, he still has to eat, still needs a job. I have ways of finding guys.” Sol pulled the mug shots of the pilot out of the file and handed it to me. “Danny Kruger had a lot of odd jobs other than flying, but mainly bartending.”
I gazed at the photos, both the front and side views. The sign around his neck said, Houston Police Department, Danny Kruger, arrested 4/17/71. There was a booking number under his name.
Kruger looked like a million other guys who grew up in the mid-fifties listening to the King’s immortal classics-
“Heartbreak Hotel,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” “You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog.” He had a full pompadour, well oiled, and cut long, Elvis-style. He didn’t look like the Presley impersonators who worked for Karadimos. Kruger looked more like the young Elvis, when the singer was first starting out. I figured that if you wanted to get a job with Karadimos, all you had to do was grow sideburns and dress up like the King.
“What was he arrested for?” I asked.
“The shmuck got caught trying to fly drugs across the border. First offense, his folks posted bail, he assumed Fischer’s ID, and then split. Pop and Mom lost the house.
Nice guy, huh?” Sol said.
“Probably likes pepper in his soup,” I said.
C H A P T E R 33
We finished lunch at two o’clock, but before we left Rocco’s, I stopped at the phone booth, called the district attorney’s office and asked to speak with Bobbi Allen. After the encounter in the courtroom, she was the last person I wanted to talk to, but I had no choice.
I had filed a motion asking the court to grant me access to the Graham house. The motion had been approved, which meant I had a legal right to visit the crime scene. But in order to cross the police line legally, someone from the D.A.’s office would have to accompany me.
“What do you want, O’Brien?” Bobbi’s voice had the same harsh tone I’d heard in the judge’s chambers.
“I’m going to the Graham house. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“It’s still a crime scene.”
“I want an escort.”
“I’m too busy.”
“Send someone.”
“I can’t spare anyone. Try back in a few weeks.”
“I’ll be at the house in twenty minutes.”
“Better not cross the police line.”
“I’m going in, with or without someone to escort me.”
“You cross the line without an escort and I’ll-”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll see if I can send someone,” she said before slamming the phone down.
She knew I would file a complaint with Judge Koito. It would make her look bad. But she wasn’t going to make anything easy for me.
It took me twenty-two minutes to drive to Gloria Graham’s house on Rosewood Avenue. I parked at the curb but didn’t see a cop or anyone from the D.A.’s office. I decided to wait, but I wasn’t going to wait forever. From the inside of my car, I surveyed the neighborhood.
Rosewood was a pleasant enough street. Mature elm trees shaded the sidewalk in front of well-maintained tract homes. A late model black Ford pick-up truck, polished to a mirror shine, was parked in a driveway a few doors away. A man wearing a sleeveless undershirt and khaki chinos stood in his front yard sprinkling his lawn and smoking a cigar. A woman in the doorway of the house shouted something to him, but I was too far away to hear what she said. I sat in the car for fifteen minutes, waiting.
To hell with Bobbi, I’m going in. Let her file the complaint. I’ll get a slap on the wrist, so what.
Gloria’s property was bound up, trussed, with yellow police tape. The tape wound around the perimeter of her yard, driveway, and house. Printed on it repeatedly were the words, “POLICE LINE-DO NOT CROSS.” The tape fluttered and twisted in the breeze and offered no resistance to my intrusion as I slipped under it and entered the crime scene. Doing a slow shuffle up the driveway with my eyes on the ground, I kicked a dirt clod that rested on the concrete. It disintegrated into a spray of dust.