"O" Is for Outlaw (27 page)

I walked back to the car, thinking how often I identified with guys like him. As crude as he was with his racist comments, his tortured grammar, and his attitude toward crime, I understood his yearning. How liberating it was when you defied authority, flaunted convention, ignoring ordinary standards of moraldecency. I knew my own ambivalence. On the one hand, I was a true law-and-order type, prissy in my judgment, outraged at those who violated the doctrines of honesty and fair play. On the other hand, I'd been known to lie through my teeth, eavesdrop, pick locks, or simply break into people's houses, where I snooped through their possessions and took what suited me. It wasn't nice, but I savored every single minute of my bad girl behavior. Later, I'd feet guilty, but still I couldn't resist. I was split down the middle, my good angel sitting on one shoulder, Lucifer perched on the other. Duffy's struggle was the same, and while he leaned in one direction, I usually leaned in the other, searching for justice in the heart of anarchy. This was the bottom line as far as I was concerned: If the bad guys don't play by the rules, why should the good guys have to?

I drove back into town. It was now 5:50 and I was starving, of course, so I made a quick detour. I pulled up to the drive-in window at McDonald's and asked for a QP with cheese, a large order of fries, and a Coke to go. I was fairly humming with excitement as I waited for my bag of goodies. I'd go back to my apartment, change into my jammies, and curl up on my couch, where I'd watch junk TV while I ate my junk food. While I drove home, the car smelled divine, like a mobile microwave oven. I found a great parking place, locked the car, and let myself in through the squeaking gate. I rounded the corner, all a-twitter at the notion of the pleasures to come. I stopped dead.

Detectives Claas and Aldo were standing on my front porch. This was a replay of our earlier encounter: same guys in their late thirties, the one dark, the other fair, same sport coats. Claas carried the briefcase, just as he had before. Gian Aldo chewed gum. He'd had his dark hair trimmed short, but his eyebrows still met like a hedge across the bridge of his nose. I longed to fall on him with a pair of tweezers and pluck him bald.

I said, "What do you want?"

Detective Claas seemed amused. Now that was different. "Be nice. We drove all the way up here to have a chat with you."

I walked past him with my keys and unlocked the door. Detective Claas wore a hair product that smelled like a high school chemistry experiment. The two followed me in. I dropped my shoulder bag on the floor near my desk, taking a moment to check my answering machine. No messages.

I held up my McDonald's bag, the contents getting colder by the minute, as were my hopes. "I gotta eat first. I'm half dead."

"Have at it."

I crossed to the kitchen, moving around the counter to the refrigerator. I took out a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and sorted through the junk drawer until I found the opener. "You want wine? I'm having some. You might as well join me."

The two exchanged a look. It was probably against regulations, but they must have thought I'd be easier to get along with if I were all likkered up.

"We'd appreciate that. Thanks," Claas said.

I handed him the wine bottle and the opener, and he got to work while I set out three glasses and a paperplate. I dumped the fries out of the carton and fetched the ketchup bottle from the cabinet. "Help yourself," I said.

Detective Claas poured the wine and we stood there, eating lukewarm french fries with our fingers. They were completely limp by now, and we dropped them in our beaks like a trio of birdies eating albino worms. Ever gracious, I cut the QP into three equal parts and we gulped those down, too. After supper, we walked the six steps into the living room. This time I took the couch and let them settle into my director's chairs. I noticed Detective Claas kept his briefcase close at hand as he had before. I knew he had a tape recorder in there, and it made me want to lean down and address all my comments into the opening.

"So now what?" I said, crossing my arms against my chest.

Detective Aldo smiled. "We have some news we thought you might want to hear firsthand. We picked up a partial print on the Smith and Wesson and matched it to some prints that showed up in Magruder's place."

Claas said, "You remember a gray metal box concealed in the bottom of a chair?"

I could feel my mouth go dry. "Sure." No sound. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Sure."

"We got a real nice set on the inner rim of the lid, like someone pulled it open with their fingertips."

I was going to call his attention to the matter of subject-pronoun agreement, but I held my tongue. Instead, I said, "Who?" Was that an owl I heard Aldo spoke up again, clearly enjoying himself. "Mark Bethel."

I stared at him, blinking. "You're kidding. You gotta be kidding."

"He went in there Sunday night and left prints everywhere."

"That's great. I love it. Good for him," I said.

"We're not sure what he was looking for, "

I held a hand up. "I can tell you that," I said. I gave them a hasty summary of the work I'd done, including the discovery of Duncan Oaks's credentials in Mickey's jacket lining. "I can't believe he was dumb enough to leave his fingerprints. Has the man lost his mind?"

"He's getting desperate," Claas said. "He probably saw the print dust on all the surfaces and figured we were done."

"You dusted again?"

"Tuesday morning," Aldo said.

"But why? What possessed you?"

"We got a call from Cordia Hatfield. She'd seen lights on Sunday night. You swore it wasn't you, so she suspected it was him," Claas said.

"But how'd he get in?"

"With the key she'd given him. He'd stopped by last week and introduced himself as Magruder's attorney. He said he'd be paying Mickey's bills till he was on his feet, and he was hoping to pick up insurance policies and bank deposit slips. She gave him a key. Of course, he returned it later, but probably not before he'd had a copy made for himself," Claas said.

Detective Aldo spoke up. "I don't think the computer would have caught the match without the fresh set he left. Of course, we wasted a lot of time eliminating yours."

I could feel my cheeks heat. "Sorry about that."

Aldo wagged his finger, but he didn't seem all that mad.

Claas said, "We can also place Bethel in the area at the time of the shooting."

"You guys have been busy. How'd you do that?"

Claas was clearly pleased with himself. "On the thirteenth, Bethel was in Los Angeles for a TV appearance. The taping finished at ten. He checked into the Four Seasons on a late arrival and then went out again, returning in the early hours of the fourteenth. He might have slipped in unnoticed, but as it happened the valet car park was a supporter and recognized his face."

"Tell you what else," Detective Aldo said. "We got somebody saw them together that night."

"No."

"Oh, yes. We went through a bunch of matchbooks Magruder kept in a fishbowl. We found seven from a dive on Pic'o near the Pacific Coast Security offices. A gal at the bar remembered seeing them." Detective Aldo sat back, the wood and canvas chair creaking perilously under his weight. "What about you? What'd you pick up back east? Your landlord told us you made a trip to Louisville."

"That's right. I just got back today."

"Learn anything?"

"Actually, I did. I'm just piecing this together so I can't be sure, but here's what I know. Laddie Bethel went to high school in Louisville with a guy named Duncan Oaks. They were the prom king and queen in '61, the year they graduated. At some point, Laddie met Mark. They married in the summer of 1965, after he graduated from the University of Kentucky. Mark enlisted in the army right around the time Duncan Oaks was doing a series for the Louisville Tribune. I suspect Mark served in Vietnam, but I haven't pinned that down, "

"We can help on that. We haven't been exactly idle." Claas reached into his briefcase and removed a manila folder, which he opened, leafing through the contents. "Alpha Company, First Battalion, Fifth Cavalry."

"Well, great," I said. "I don't have a clue how it ties in, but maybe we'll figure that out. At any rate, Duncan had an idea for a series and began interviewing the soldiers' wives. His intention was to talk about the war from their differing perspectives, one off in Vietnam, the other stuck on the home front. I think Duncan and Laddie had a brief affair. Pure conjecture on my part. Within weeks, Duncan Oaks went to Vietnam. He and Mark must have crossed paths. In fact, Duncan probably sought him out for the second half of the interview. "

"And?"

"That's as far as I can go."

Aldo said, "Maybe Mark fragged him. That's what it sounds like to me."

"Fragged?"

"You know, offed. Eliminated. Kilt him deader than a doornail. I mean, how hard could it be with bullets flying? It's not like the medics run ballistics tests."

I thought about it for a moment. "That's probably not a bad guess. Especially if Mark found out about the relationship between Duncan and his wife.

"Assuming there was one," Claas said.

"Well, yeah."

"Anyway, go on. Sorry for the interruption."

"I start faltering here and have to resort to waving my hands. I mean, I can put some of this together, but I don't have proof. Benny Quintero was another Louisville boy. I know Duncan and Benny were at la Drang together because I saw a picture of the two. According to my information, Duncan Oaks was wounded, by Mark, friendly fire, the NVA, we're never going to know, so we might as well skip that. In any event, he was loaded on a chopper filled with the wounded and the dead. By the time the chopper landed, he'd disappeared without a trace."

Aldo spoke up. "Maybe Mark's on the chopper and shoves him out the door. The guy falls-what? Six to twelve hundred feet, landing in the jungle? Trust me, in two weeks there's nothing left but bones. From what you say, Oaks wasn't even in the army, so it's perfect. Who gives a shit about a fucking journalist?"

I said, "Right. The point is, I think Benny knew and that's why he held on to Duncan's ID. Again, I don't have proof, but it does make sense. Maybe he thought of a way to turn a profit on the deal."

Claas said, "What happened to Benny?"

"He was wounded by sniper fire and ended up with a metal plate in his head. In 1971, he came out to California; that much we know. Mickey and Benny got in a shoving match. A day later, someone beat Benny senseless and he ended up dead." I went on to detail Mickey's history of misbehavior and why he'd looked good for the beating when Internal Affairs stepped in.

Claas said, "I don't see the relevance."

"Mark was Mickey's attorney. He's the one who advised him to leave the department to avoid questioning.

"Got it."

Aldo leaned forward. "Speaking of which, how'd Bethel end up with your Smith and Wesson? That seems like a trick. "

"I think Mickey sold it to him. I have a record of a deposit in March for two hundred dollars. Mark told me Mickey called and asked for money. I know Mickey better than that. I know he'd hoarded a stash of gold coins and bills, but that was probably not something he would have dipped into. He sold his car about then and he was probably off-loading his other possessions, trying to make ends meet. The minute Mark bought the gun, he must have seen his way clear, because it was on that same trip he made the phone call from Mickey's apartment to my machine. All he had to do was distract Mickey's attention, dial the number, and let the tape run on when my machine picked up."

"What if you'd been there?"

"Sorry wrong number, and he tries the call later. He knew Mickey and Duffy were as thick as thieves by then. Whatever his faults, Mickey's always been a hell of a detective. Mark must have known it was only a matter of time. He had a gun registered to me. He'd established a connection to me on Mickey's telephone bill. I'd be implicated anyway as soon as the gun registration came to light."

Aldo snorted. "Fuckin' devious."

Claas rubbed his hands together, then stretched his arms out in front of him, his fingers laced with the palms turned outward until I heard his knuckles crack. "Well, boys and girls, I've enjoyed the bedtime stories. Too bad none of this'll fly in court."

"Oh, yeah. Which brings us to the next step," Aldo said, chiming in on cue. "Shall I tell her the plan?"

I said, "I don't like this. It sounds rehearsed."

"Exactly," Claas said. "So here's what we thought. Forget Vietnam. We're never going to get him for whacking Duncan Oaks. No weapons, no witnesses, so we're out of luck on that score."

Aldo said, "Quintero's another one. I mean, even if you prove it, the best you can hope for is a manslaughter bust, which is strictly bullshit."

I said, "Which brings us to Mickey."

"And to you," Claas said. He reached in his briefcase and pulled out the tape recorder. He held it so I could see.

I said, "I knew that was in there."

"But did you know how well it works?" He pressed REWIND and then PLAY, producing a clear, unobstructed recording of the conversation we'd just had. "We figure you can put this in your handbag, trot yourself off to Bethel's, and maybe help us out."

"You have an eavesdropping warrant?"

"No, we don't."

"Isn't that illegal? I thought you needed a court order. Whatever happened to the Fourth Amendment?" This from Kinsey Millhone, upholder of the Constitution.

"What you'd be doing is called a consent recording. It's done all the time by informants and undercover cops. As long as you're only taping comments someone makes to you, the court doesn't have a problem. Worst-case scenario, assuming what you get is juicy you use the tape to refresh your own memory when you testify in court."

"Now I'm testifying?"

"If Mickey dies, you do. Right?"

I could feel my attention shift from Aldo to Claas, who said, "Look at it this way. We're building a case. We gotta have something concrete for the DA."

Aldo leaned forward. "That's what we're in business to do, get this cocksucker nailed, if you'll excuse my Greek. "