JO02 - The Brimstone Murders Page 8

  I mentioned that I was in a hurry and glanced at my Timex: two minutes had passed since my encounter with the girl.

  Suddenly, like in a cartoon, the light bulb lit up. Not only did he know what and where the Harvey House was, but he was bent on giving me the entire history of the place. I tried to interrupt, but the guy wouldn’t shut up about the old house. He kept rambling on, said the house was once used as a location for a 1940s movie, The Harvey Girls, but now it was in terrible shape.

  He kept on talking, grousing that someone should turn the place into a museum. “Maybe they will someday. You know, it reminds me of a story…”

  I was getting frantic. If the girl took off, I’d never find the teen drug center. It could be anywhere in the billion square miles of desert out here. How foolish to think I could drive to Barstow, cruise around, and find it.

  What did I expect? Did I think there would be signs pointing the way? Signs like the Burma Shave ads posted every mile or so I saw driving up here: “The monkey took…One look at Jim… And threw the peanuts… Back at him… Burma Shave.” Even the Burma Shave pundits didn’t think I had a chance.

  This was hopeless. I’d better forget about the center and head back to Downey. But before I left Barstow, I’d call Sol and see if he had any news. Maybe he could find out, through the authorities, something about the center. It had to be licensed, I was sure. But where would he begin? I didn’t even have the name of the place. Oh my God, it suddenly dawned on me that I had hung up on him.

  I cast a quick glance in all directions and spotted a phone booth. I was about to make a dash to it when I saw the gas station guy pointing to the west at what appeared to be an abandoned train station just down the road about a hundred yards.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The Harvey House.”

  “Where? I don’t see any house.”

  “The Harvey House is the old railroad depot and hotel right next door,” he said. “Ain’t that what you were asking me about?”

  I had only thirty seconds before the teenage girl would leave. Jumping in my car, I cranked the engine and stomped on the gas. I swerved to miss the fence separating the gas station lot from the dilapidated hotel, then stood on the brake. In a cloud of dust, I skidded to stop in front of the antiquated hotel-depot. Ten seconds to spare.

  The sun was low in the western sky when I darted around the corner of the building and ventured into the dirt yard behind the derelict building. I stopped and glanced around. The girl wasn’t there.

  The atmosphere was eerie, unnaturally quiet. The trash-laden yard was blanketed with long murky shadows. I watched carefully as I walked to the other end of the building amid a minefield of debris. Rusted oil drums, a banged-up refrigerator, a jumbled nest of broken pipes sitting next to a worn-out sofa with its fibrous stuffing pulled out in spots like the straw from a long-standing scarecrow littered what was once, I imagined, the manicured grounds of the old mission-style building behind me.

  A spotted lizard, no bigger than a Tiparillo cigar, scurried from its position under a rock, stopped once with its head raised as if listening for a distant train that would never pass this way again, then quickly vanished behind a rusty hubcap.

  Still no sign of the girl. I stopped again and glanced up at the building’s façade. Six large Spanish arches ran the width of the outer wall. The portals gave access to a ghostly promenade. Halfway down the building, opening into a dark, foreboding interior was the main entrance, a black gaping maw situated behind a row of fluted Roman columns.

  I took a few more steps and heard soft clicks. Light footsteps repeated behind me. I spun around and listened: nothing. Starting back to the corner where I’d come from, I heard the footsteps again. But when I stopped, they stopped.

  A slight breeze kicked up. A scrap of yellowing paper fluttered at my feet like a butterfly before settling down again. I felt a chill in the shadows behind the building and shivered a little. But, it wasn’t the breeze that caused me to shudder. It was the ghostly, decaying place itself.

  What the hell was I doing out here in a town in the middle of the Mojave Desert anyway? Looking for a drug center that probably had nothing to do with Robbie’s escape. Standing behind an old dead hotel waiting for a teenage girl who was obviously pulling a prank. She was probably laughing it up right now back at the Bright Spot with her buddies, the Barstow Steinbeck Society.

  I had to get back to Downey, find Sol, and apologize. Sol lived like a potentate, only more so, and he always bragged, “No one hangs up on Sol Silverman.” Well, he won’t be able to say that anymore, and he’ll be pissed, that’s for sure.

  I took one last glance at the old derelict behind me. “Bye, Harvey,” I said and started to walk back to the car. But just then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a slight movement; a figure stood in the gloom behind one of the arches inside the building. It was her, the teenage girl. She slipped out to where I could see her and stood silently, staring at me in the dim light just in front of the last arch.

  It startled me for an instant, seeing her there unexpectedly. I must have jumped. “Whoa!”

  “Did I scare you?” she asked in a slow, emotionless monotone.

  “Startled me for a second, that’s all. What’s your name?”

  The girl was kind of spooky, but she had pretty features—sapphire blue eyes and pure white skin that contrasted with her coal-black hair. She could have been Snow White.

  “My name is Jane. Do you like me?”

  Uh-oh. With all the problems swirling around me, I didn’t need some mixed-up adolescent coming on to me. “Look, Jane, I’m kinda in a hurry.”

  She turned and faced the dark inner recesses of the hotel. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so abrupt. “Look, Jane, I like you. But I’m old enough to be your father.” I wasn’t that old, but it was a good line.

  She spun around. Her soft demeanor was gone, replaced by wrath. “He’s dead!” she screamed.

  “Who’s dead?”

  “My father.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I said with as much tenderness as I could muster. “What about your mother? Do you live with her?”

  “He killed her.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “He did. Then he killed himself.”

  “Oh, my God! You poor girl. I had no idea.” I stood there not knowing what to say. I just stared into the deep blue eyes of this disturbed young woman, a child, really.

  “That’s when they took me here…” Her voice trailed off and she stood still, almost as if in a daze. But her eyes were focused intently on me.

  “To Barstow? You live here with a relative, an aunt, or someone?”

  “No, they took me to the base. I work in the kitchen. They send me to work here at the café, too.” She said no more than that, but I knew there was more she wanted to tell me. She took a step forward.

  “They took you to the base?” I felt my throat tighten. If I handle this right, she’d take me there. “The base is the teen center?”

  “Yes, that’s what they call it. I was small when they took me away. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Did you do drugs? I mean, after your folks died, is that why they sent you out here to the center? Drugs?”

  “No! No drugs. My body is a temple, belongs to the Lord.” She quickly looked away and just as quickly turned back to me.

  I had so many questions for the girl, but also a strong sense that at any moment she would leave. I knew I had to tread lightly.

  “Why did you ask me to meet you here? Is there something you wanted to tell me about the center?” I asked with trepidation.

  “It has to be closed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s evil,” she said calmly, as if she were telling me the time of day, but her eyes held a burning intensity and remained fixed on my face. “I’m scared to be here,” she added. “They will give me a beating.”

  In spite of the chill in the air, I started to swe
at. “Jane, why? Why would anyone beat you? Who would give you a beating?”

  “The old man you were talking to. He will tell them to beat me.”

  “Ben Moran? The guy at the café? He has something to do with the center?”

  Before she could answer, a black-and-white squad car rounded the corner of the Harvey House.

  I shifted my gaze away from the girl for a moment and took a quick look at the cop car. A uniformed officer was starting to climb out.

  I glanced back at the arch. The girl had vanished.

  “Oh, Christ,” I said.

  The tall cop came closer, his polished boots crunching on the trash and twigs. His right hand rested on his holstered gun.

  “Your name O’Brien?” he asked.

  I wondered how he knew that. “Yeah, why?”

  “Let’s see some ID.” The cop wiggled his fingers in a gimme manner. “That your Vette out there in front? Registered to one James O’Brien. Is that you?”

  I handed over my license. “Yeah. What’s the problem?”

  He pulled a flashlight from his hip pocket, flicked the light on my face for a couple of seconds then shined the beam on my license. “Suppose you tell me what you’re doing back here.”

  No way I would tell him that I was here meeting a teenage girl. And with the reaction I was getting every time I mentioned the drug center, I felt it best to keep my mouth shut about that as well. “Just looking the old place over,” I said.

  “Yeah, why? This is private property.”

  “Thinking about buying it. Turning it into a museum. Did you know the old movie, The Harvey Girls, was shot here?”

  The cop said nothing. Did he see through my story? I wasn’t that good of an actor.

  “No kidding, a movie. Hmm,” he said at last. “I didn’t know that.” He handed over my license. “It’s getting dark. Maybe you’d better come back tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I was just leaving.”

  The cop lumbered off and I started walking back to my Vette. When I turned the corner of the building, the cop stood at his black-and-white with the door open. He started to climb in, but suddenly stopped. He shouted, “Hey, O’Brien, hold it.”

  I froze. “What?”

  “One more question.”

  Oh, Christ, what now? “Yeah?”

  “What was the name of that movie?”

  My breathing resumed. “Harvey Girls, you know, like the building.”

  He nodded, climbed into the car and took off.

  My hunch was stronger than ever that the drug center was tied into Robbie’s escape, and now I felt that the blind guy’s story about the black van whisking him away could be true, which meant Robbie’s mental condition had to be an act. It was plainly a diversion designed to relax the security surrounding him, and I fell for it.

  It was after eight p.m. when I finally got back on Interstate 15 driving to Downey. I’d spent two hours cruising around the town on the off-chance that I might spot Jane. No luck there. I also had no luck driving the outskirts, back streets, and side roads of Barstow looking for anything that might appear to house a drug center. I stopped at the payphone in the Standard Oil Station lot and phoned Sol’s office. He had left for the day. I tried his home number: no answer.

  I’d also looked in the Yellow Pages and found a listing for a teen center, but not a teen drug center. I had nothing to lose, so I called the number and was connected with the local Catholic Church’s parish facility where teenagers could hang out and have fun. I asked if they knew anything about a drug center in the area. They said no, but invited me over to their place to say the rosary. I politely declined.

  After ten, I pulled into my apartment. I figured I’d sleep on the floor until I got around to fixing the damage caused by the police. When I opened the door, I was stunned. The place had been straightened, organized, the bed made, and on my pillow was a note from Rita: “Mabel loaned me your spare key. So Hector, my cousin, and I stopped by and sorta fixed up the place. Thanks for giving me the chance to work on your case. Sol could have gotten you some big time guy, someone like Zuckerman, but you chose me. Wow!!! Sleep well, Jimmy.”

  I glanced at the answering machine sitting next to my phone. The red light was blinking furiously. Five messages, three from Sol’s secretary, Joyce. She asked me to phone him as soon as I walked in the door, but then there was a message from Sol himself.

  “Call me in the morning. I tried to tell you when you phoned earlier, but somehow we got disconnected. Webster, the D.A., turned all the files he had on you over to the sheriff’s department, to Detective Hammer. He gave the homicide cop the file containing his investigation of the Section 32 charge, aiding and abetting, and everything else he had. Jimmy, my boy, maybe we should do something. As you know, you’re being investigated for the murder of Hazel Farris. But you’re the only suspect. If they find anything new, they’re gonna come and take you away.”

  The fifth message was from George Biddle, my insurance guy. My car insurance was overdue. I put down the receiver.

  C H A P T E R 15

  I couldn’t sleep. I worried about Sol’s message, worried about my missing gun, and worried about what would happen when the cops found it. But I knew what would happen. I’d been part of the system long enough, first as a cop, and now as a lawyer. I’d be dragged to the slammer, locked in a cell, and everyone including a jury would assume I was guilty.

  After several hours of those pleasant thoughts rattling around in my brain, I got up, sat by the window and stared out at the darkness until the sun peeked over the mountains in the east.

  It was still too early to phone Sol. I’d wait until a decent hour, then call him from my office. I dressed and headed to Dolan’s Donuts on Brookshire, down the street from Downey High, where I ordered two glazed and a large coffee and grabbed a copy of the Southeast News, Downey’s local paper. I thought I’d take a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes and just enjoy my breakfast. I was very good at compartmentalizing my problems, and anyway why should I ruin my morning worrying about the cops? By now, they must have found new evidence, something that pointed away from me and steered them to the real killer. I squeezed into a plastic booth by the window and unfolded the paper.

  “Oh my God!” I exclaimed. I don’t have many clients as it is, and now this. The newspaper had my picture plastered on page one under the headline, “Downey Man Suspected in Brutal Murder.” I knew I was a suspect, and because of Sol’s message I knew I was the only suspect, but seeing it in print made my skin crawl.

  I quickly scanned the article. It told about the sheriff department’s investigation of the Hazel Farris murder and that the police had me in their sights. The reporter quoted detective Hammer: “There is a definite connection between the murder victim and O’Brien. He was the last known person to see her alive. We don’t have sufficient evidence right now to arrest Mr. O’Brien, but we’re digging. The case could break wide open at any moment.” What they reported was true, including Hammer’s remarks, but none of it proved my guilt. Still, anyone seeing the story would assume I was a cold-blooded killer.

  I slumped down in my seat. Where would this end?

  “You having heart attack? Go outside!”

  I looked up. The Asian guy behind the counter was screaming at me.

  “What is your problem?” I asked.

  “No die in here! Bad fu.” He scrunched up his face and made a shooing motion with his hands, like he was sweeping me out along with the used-up coffee cups. “Bad Fu, you go now.”

  I began to get peeved. “I’m not having a heart attack.”

  “Why your face all white? And you shout!”

  “The coffee’s too hot.”

  I had no idea what bad fu meant, but I figured whatever it was, I probably had a dose of it. I took my tray with the donuts, coffee, and newspaper, dumped it all into the trash and walked out. Only 6:30 and the new day was already starting off sick, like one of those take-three-aspirins-and-call-me-in-the-morning kinds of day
s.

  Five minutes later, I unlocked the office. I knew Mabel wouldn’t be there that early, so it was a surprise to see a full pot of freshly brewed coffee sitting on the counter. I ambled over to pour myself a cup, wondering who had made it. Had to have been Rita. She must’ve had an early appointment.

  I was irritated that I let the counterman at Dolan’s get on my nerves, making me waste the donuts and almost a full cup. It wasn’t his fault that my nerves were shot. But the photo pushed me over the limit, reminded me that I was still a target and that my problems wouldn’t go away until I somehow brought Robbie back.

  “Psst, Jimmy. Over here.”

  I set the cup down and glanced around. It sounded like Rita, but no one was in sight.

  “Psst, Jimmy. Your office, quick.”

  I saw her peeking out from behind the slightly opened office door and walked to where she stood. She pushed the door open all the way, pulled me in, and quickly closed it behind us. She looked tense.

  “Rita, my God, what’s the matter?”

  One hand covering her mouth, she stood with her back to the door and jabbed her finger toward the filing cabinet across the room.

  “Did you see a mouse?”

  She dropped both hands. “Oh Christ, Jimmy, gimme a break,” she said. “Your gun is behind the filing cabinet.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, your gun.”

  I rushed to the cabinet and pulled it out a little. Sure enough, a .38 revolver sat there, as if someone had carelessly dropped it into the space between the cabinet and the wall. I ran to my desk, found a wire coat hanger, fished out the gun, and held the hanger with the .38 dangling by its trigger guard.

  Rita grabbed her purse off my desk and held it open in front of her. “Don’t touch the gun, Jimmy. Quick, drop it in here.”

  Suddenly a bag of emotions, sadness, and guilt rocked my consciousness. I knew what she was planning. Rita was going to hide the gun, not turn it over to the police.

  We both figured the gun was the murder weapon. The cylinder held five live rounds and one spent cartridge. By concealing the weapon, she would not only be violating her personal code of ethics, she’d be breaking the law. If caught, she’d not only lose her bar license, she’d go to jail. Rita was going to risk all of that for me.