“What evidence, Rita?” I ate some more and put the spoon down. “You’re a lawyer.” I leaned back in the chair. “You know how facts can be twisted. What do we really have? Think about it. Some guy-a murder suspect-claims he saw a dead girl. A woman who identified her body eight years ago now changes her mind. And to top it off, the chief of police is a crook working with a thug who owns a bunch of mines in the desert. C’mon, Rita. The cops hear that they’ll think I’m the one going for an insanity defense.”
“What about Robbie and the teen drug center?” She glanced at the yellow paper next to the phone. “They’d know you didn’t make that up.”
“What drug center? It’s a gun club. And what does Robbie have to do with something that happened years ago in Barstow? Hazel Farris is my only link between the drug center and Robbie, and she’s dead.”
“Jimmy, we can’t just sit here.” Rita turned the paper over. “We have to do something.”
I shrugged. “Sol and I will get to the bottom of this, and when we have tangible evidence we’ll bring in the authorities.”
“What’s this?”
“What?”
“This note.” She picked up the paper. “It’s hand-printed and the guy used a red crayon. It says, ‘First warning. Quit snooping around. Next time you’re dead.’”
“Lemme see.”
She handed me the paper. Just as Rita had said, the writer used a red crayon when he printed the note in block letters. A popular mystery novelist, in one of her books, postulated that an expert couldn’t authenticate the handwriting if the ransom or threatening notes were written with a crayon. I didn’t know if that was true, and until now I had never heard of such a note being written in crayon. Maybe Ben Moran read mystery novels. Maybe his thugs read coloring books.
Rita put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God!”
“It’s a prank. The paper was on my face when I woke up after the fight,” I said.
Her back stiffened. “You lied to me.”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“It wasn’t a mugging. You knew all along who attacked you, didn’t you? You knew it had to do with the case, with Robbie Farris. You got beat up and you didn’t tell me why!”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Rita stood there glaring at me, doing a slow burn.
“Rita, even if it was them, do you think I’d just quit and walk away…”
“You lied to me.”
She silenced me with a stare chiseled in granite. There was nothing more I could say. Rita was right. I’d lied to her, and she knew it. After what seemed like a long time, she turned and started for the door. Halfway across the room, she stopped and said, “Gimme your car keys. I’ll get someone to help me bring it back. I’ll leave it in the carport. Your keys will be under the seat.”
I tossed her the keys. “Listen, Rita-”
Her eyes cut deep. “Don’t ever, ever lie to me again,” she said and walked out the door.
I sat at the table and stared at the cold soup. What she said had hurt. It felt like my blood had turned to dust, like somewhere along the line it became easier to lie than face the truth. I knew I’d have to face up to it and come clean with Rita about the gun Mabel had stashed, and I’d have to let her know about me sneaking onto the base; after all, she was my lawyer now. I’d sat there and listened to her little lawyer speech about being totally open and had implicitly agreed with her terms. Anyway, I just didn’t want to lie anymore. But right now my mind only had room for one thought: find Robbie and bring him back.
After she left, I made two phone calls. The first one was to Sol. I wanted to let him know of my suspicion that the chief of police was in cahoots with the gang at the base. He wasn’t in, so I left a message with Silvia, his wife. I told her I had new information, but it would keep until I met him at the dairy tomorrow night.
I made my next call to Mabel at her home and told her briefly about the fight. Then I told her I wouldn’t be in Monday, but would clue her in on what I was up to when I returned to the office on Tuesday.
What she told me put a chill up my spine. “Jimmy, the police are talking to all our neighbors, even friends of mine. And guess what? The phone isn’t ringing. People are not going to hire a lawyer who the cops think is a murderer.” Mabel sighed. “In their predicaments, I can’t say that I blame ’em. The people who call us are crooks, for chrissakes. They don’t want anything to do with the police snooping around.”
“Yeah, they wouldn’t like that.”
“I was going to tell you about this yesterday, but I didn’t want to spoil your weekend. What the hell, seeing as how your weekend is ruined anyway, I suppose it’s okay to mention it.”
Burning acid churned in my stomach and welled up in my throat. “Hey, we get most of our business from the county, and Rita’s got a few clients, doesn’t she?”
“Just one, and if he doesn’t sell any aluminum siding soon, he won’t be able to pay his bill. Anyway, she got a continuance for the guy and isn’t taking on anyone new. She said that she needs to work on your case full time. I’m sorry about your problems, Jimmy, but Rita won’t be bringing in any cash either.”
“Mabel, don’t worry about it. Things will get better.” I tried to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “Forget about the cops. They’ll go away soon. They’re just harassing me. Cops and defense lawyers are natural foes, like foxes and rabbits. I’m the fox.” I tossed out a chuckle. Mabel didn’t catch it.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Fox. The cops told the travel agent next door that you’re gonna be arrested any time now.”
“Bye, Mabel.” I hung up the phone.
CHAPTER 27
The smog blanketing the L.A. basin couldn’t be seen in the dark of night, but it was evident in the tinge of the burnt-orange gibbous moon drifting above the horizon in the east. At a little before ten o’clock on Sunday night, the streets were deserted as I drove along Atlantic Avenue in South Gate, heading to Van Hoek’s milk bottling plant. From three blocks away, the tall Sunnyville Farms stainless steel milk tank gleamed in the sky. The huge, shiny tank was lit from the ground by beacons spotlighting a twenty-foot rendering-painted high on the side-of a fat cow grazing in front of a red barn, the dairy company’s logo.
Though early, everyone was there waiting for me. Sol and his men Cubby and the Deacon and Peter Van Hoek were gathered in a circle on the loading dock at the rear of the plant. A couple of guys in white uniforms rolled two-wheeled dollies stacked with cartons of milk toward a refrigerated truck backed in against the dock. I scrambled up a ramp, waved at Sol, and shouted lightheartedly, “Hey, where’re the cows?”
Van Hoek heard my question. “In Chino,” he said. “Used to keep them across the street.” He pointed in the general direction of Atlantic Avenue. “Had two thousand head over there, but the city finally forced us out. Moved ’em to a new farm in Chino.”
“Yeah, and made a few million on the real estate when you sold the land,” Sol said.
“That was my dad. But he didn’t leave me none of it. Blew it all on gambling, booze and broads. The old snollygoster.” A big grin spread across his face. “What a guy,” Van Hoek said, the admiration evident in the tone of his gravelly voice.
Sol, with a nod of his head, indicated for me to follow him. We walked along the dock, a few paces away from the others.
“Okay, Jimmy, what gives?”
I knew what he was referring to. The jagged scar on my forehead wasn’t exactly a poster for Healthy Living magazine. “Got in a little tumble, that’s all.”
I didn’t want to mention the yellow paper with the warning on it. Knowing Sol, he’d call off the plan. He’d be concerned about my safety.
“Look, Jimmy, don’t feed me a line, I’ve been around. Somebody worked you over. It has to do with this case. A professional bone-crusher, a strong-arm guy jumped you. Didn’t he?”