“The pilot flew the jet-”
“Death bed confession: he didn’t fly it.”
Johnson gulped his drink. Sol sat there in shocked silence. He knew this was my play, a little grandstanding, but he would know I deserved a little payback for what I went through because of Johnson.
“Get out of my booth, you goddamn bastard.”
“You flew jets in Korea, Bob. You were the only one on the trip who knew how to fly a jet, and you flew down Saturday, killed her, and searched the house. You found the letter, but couldn’t find the envelope.”
“Karadimos searched the place-”
“He couldn’t fly a jet. Karadimos didn’t even know it was flown that Saturday night until he got the gas bill on Monday. He didn’t make the anonymous call. I talked to the police dispatcher when I was in the hospital and had him listen to the police tapes of Karadimos’s voice. Wasn’t him.”
“You crazy bastard!”
“You even sent thugs to trash my office. They stole the Rodriguez file. But worse, they tore up my 1951 Angels team photo. They didn’t have to do that, Bob.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You shouldn’t have pressured me to plead Rodriguez out.”
“You can’t prove anything.”
“You killed the girl, Bob. Had to get back fast, didn’t have time to do a thorough search, and the envelope was still there, sitting on her dressing table.”
“God almighty-”
“I saw it. It’s in your handwriting, just like the card you sent me.”
“Jimmy, listen to me-”
“And the gift-Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. It must be your favorite. I saw the card you sent her, with the quote from To a Common Prostitute. Is that how you saw her, Bob?”
“For chrissakes, O’Brien!”
“You called the police from Sacramento that morning. Shouldn’t have done that, Bob. The call was long distance and it’s obvious whoever made the anonymous call was the killer.”
“Wasn’t me!”
“I’ve got proof.”
“Karadimos…Welch…” he stammered.
“Give it up, Bob.”
There was a long pause, Johnson glared at me, his chest expanding and deflating erratically, as if his body tried to adjust to what his mind already knew.
But he didn’t give up. He shook his head and said, “Listen to me, God damn it! Your client, that guy walking around free over there? He did it! The gardener did it!”
My eyes locked on Mitch in the next booth. He nodded and mouthed the words, “It’s him.”
Johnson bolted up. Mitch grabbed him and slapped the cuffs on his wrists. Johnson looked over at me, his eyes pleading. “Jimmy, we were friends…”
“What’s a little murder between friends?” I said. “Goodbye, Bob.”
A B O U T T H E A U T H O R
Jeff Sherratt is the author of the acclaimed Jimmy O'Brien mystery series. His latest novel, Detour To Murder published by INNOVA Books is the first in the Jimmy O'Brien Film Noir mystery series. Jeff has written nonfiction articles for corporate newsletters and his short stories have been published in H2O Magazine and the anthology, The Heat of the Moment. He is a past board member of Sisters in Crime/LA, and a member of Mystery Writers of America. Jeff was recently a guest speaker at the California Crime Writers Conference and the prestigious Southern California Writers Conference. He is currently working on his fourth Jimmy O'Brien novel, Cyanide Perfume.
Website: www.jeffsherratt.com