After fifteen minutes, the maitre d? approached my table. “Mr. O’Brien, Maude Chasen said it would be all right to use her office for your meeting with the Senator. Please follow me.”
I got up and spotted Karadimos standing in the middle of the crowd, glaring at me. I could almost feel the hatred that flowed from his blazing eyes. When I raised my glass in a mock toast, he turned and walked away. The maitre d’ took me through the busy kitchen to a small office off to the side. The plain office held a desk, two leather armchairs, and a sofa.
The maitre d’ said he’d inform Welch that I was waiting. When he shut the door, I opened my briefcase, took out the tape recorder, turned it on and put it back. I snapped the briefcase shut and placed it next to the sofa. Leaning back, I folded my hands in my lap.
Of course, I wouldn’t tell Welch he was being recorded, and because of that little detail, I couldn’t use the tape in court. In fact, I would be fudging the law just recording him without his permission. But what the hell, I was defending a murder case. Anyway, I’d just use the tape for my notes and then quickly erase it.
A few minutes later, Thomas French entered and held the door for the Senator. Welch had a slender build, stood about six-foot-one and had an immaculate tan, like a movie actor. I wondered if it came out of a bottle. When would a guy like him have time to hang out at the beach? His dark, slicked-back hair glistened as it caught the light of the wall lamps when he moved farther into the office. I stood, and he came over to me.
We didn’t shake hands. Instead, he nodded toward French and told me, “I hope you’re not going to have a problem with my attorney being here.”
“Nope, I have a few questions for him too,” I replied.
French waved his arms in front of his chest. “Oh no, just the Senator. That’s the deal and you’ve only got ten minutes.” He glanced at his watch then pointed a finger at me. “Starting now.”
Welch sat in one of the armchairs and crossed his legs. “I think I can save some time here.” He tugged at his pant leg a little so as not to wrinkle the razor sharp crease. “I did not kill Gloria. That’s why you’re here. That’s what you wanted to ask me.”
“I have other questions, as well.”
“I was in Sacramento in a room full of people at the time she died.”
“I think you were sleeping with her, having an affair.”
French waved his hands again. “What kind of remark is that? He wasn’t involved with the girl. The very idea.”
Welsh spoke in a soft voice, “God knows I tried. What a gorgeous body.” He picked a piece of lint off his suit jacket. “I couldn’t get anywhere. I think she was hung up on someone else.”
I thought I saw a flicker of truth in his eyes. I didn’t think he’d lie about not having an affair and then admit that he made a move on her.
“Didn’t you send her a letter? She got it Saturday. You dumped her. I found the envelope at her house, handwritten. The cops could check your handwriting.”
“Let them check. I’ve nothing to hide.” He didn’t seem to be bothered about the envelope.
Perhaps he wasn’t involved with Gloria after all. Maybe the envelope was nothing. His denial carried a ring of truth. “Are you saying you were not having an affair?”
“Asked and answered,” French shouted.
“Shut up, French,” I said. “This isn’t a courtroom.”
“Nope, I’m sorry to say,” Welch said. “Jesus, she was hot stuff.”
I could feel my theory about the case slipping away, but I continued: “Did she call you the day she died? Between four and five in the afternoon?”
“No, she didn’t.” Welch glanced at the ceiling. “The only call I got on Saturday was from Phil Rhodes, our PR guy. He’d hired a comedian for the dinner and the prick cancelled at the last minute. Phil wanted me to ask Goulet to sing an extra set to cover for him.”
“Graham called the hotel and talked to someone for twenty minutes,” I said.
“Not me.” Welch glanced at his buffed fingernails. “Let’s see. Yeah, between four and five, I was in the bar with Tom Brokaw; he’s the news guy on Channel 4 here in L.A. He’s doing a piece on the 1974 governor’s race. He’ll verify it. He paid the bar tab. I’m sure he put it on his expense report.”
French jumped in. “Why don’t you get off the Senator’s back? It’s obvious that he had nothing to do with Miss Graham’s unfortunate death.”
“Why did you pressure Judge Johnson to force my client to plead guilty?”
“That’s enough, O’Brien!” French snapped. “You’re crossing the line with these insinuations.”
“It’s okay, Tom. I’ll answer him.” Welch started to climb out of the chair. “It’s true. I had lunch with Johnson on the Monday following the murder, but I didn’t pressure him. My assistant had been murdered. They caught the guy who did it, and I wanted to make sure they got the right person, that’s all.”
“It was in your best interests to have the case closed as soon as possible,” I said.
“Okay, that’s it, O’Brien. He told you he didn’t pressure anybody.” French shook his head. “Interview’s over. Goodbye.”
“Thought I had ten minutes. It hasn’t been that long.”
“You’re questions are inappropriate. The Senator hadn’t agreed to be slandered.” French started to move toward me.
I looked into Welch’s eyes. “What about Hartford Commodities and Karadimos? I know you’re connected with him. You too, French?”
That caught their attention. Welch raised his eyebrows slightly and his mouth opened as if to speak. No sound came out, but French piped up: “The Senator’s business interests are in a blind trust. Karadimos is a large contributor. He just wants quality government. Now, this meeting is over. Please leave.”
“Welch, I think you’re in up to your neck with the Greek.”
“You’re outta here, O’Brien.”
“Senator, answer my question.”
“Don’t say anything, Berry.” French stepped quickly between Welch and me. “Now, do I have to call someone, or are you leaving?”
I moved to the door and put my hand on the knob. Turning back, I looked at Welch and French. “I know about the cantaloupes,” I said and left the office.
C H A P T E R 39
“Mack the Knife” reverberated from the bar as I walked back into the dining room. The crowd was whooping it up for all they were worth. I found a spot where I could see the kitchen passage, and waited. Waiters scurried in and out, and after a long while-at least it seemed like a long while-French and Welch emerged.
They brushed by me without looking and joined the group in the main dining room. I glanced around. The coast was clear. I raced into the kitchen and maneuvered around the prep counters, chefs and busboys nearly slipping on the tile floor, then darted though the double doors, heading back toward the office.
When I reached for the knob, I paused. I hadn’t planned to leave my briefcase with the recorder running in the office after I left. I told myself I didn’t actually mean to eavesdrop on Welch and his lawyer. But I knew better. And I’d have been a fool not to take the opportunity when it popped up.
The remark about cantaloupes came to me in a flash imports from Mexico. If the produce business was on the up and up, Welch and French would pass the remark off as a non-sequitur. But if they responded to it, I’d know for sure that they were partners, engaged in some sort of illegal activity.
I opened the door and dashed into the office. Grabbing my briefcase, I darted through the kitchen again. I just wanted to get out of the restaurant-fast. Go somewhere and listen to the tape. I headed toward the front and pushed my way through the crowd. When I got closer to the main room, I saw Karadimos shoving guests aside as he elbowed toward me.
Our eyes locked. I saw his fury and knew he must have figured something wasn’t right. He charged at me like a raging bull, bellowing; even his nostrils flared.