Текст книги "Fangs Out"

Автор книги: David Freed

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Four

Air Traffic Control directed me southbound at 9,000 feet across downtown Los Angeles, en route to the Seal Beach VOR. There were planes big and small all over the sky, whose altitudes and headings all seemed to converge with mine. On my GPS, the Ruptured Duck’s ground track looked less like the crow flies than a game of Pac-Man.

“Cessna Four Charlie Lima, turn right 20 degrees, vectors for traffic, a 7-6-7 at 11 moving to your 10 o’clock position, same altitude.”

“Cessna Four Charlie Lima, turn left 10 degrees for a King Air, 12 o’clock, four miles northbound, 500 feet above you. Report him in sight.”

“Cessna Four Charlie Lima, descend and maintain 7,000 feet. I’ve got a Baron at your 6 o’clock, five miles in trail, same altitude. He’s showing 40 knots faster.”

The air over the City of Angels was hazy brown with smog that reduced visibility to a couple of miles at best. And did I mention the turbulence? By the time I climbed, dove, and zigzagged my way down the coast to land nearly two hours later at Montgomery Field on the northern fringes of San Diego, my left hand was cramped so badly (all pilots learn to fly using their left hand only, leaving the other free for important activities like adjusting throttles and picking noses) that I nearly had to pry my sweaty fingers from the yoke.

I taxied in and parked on the ramp in front of ritzy Champion Jet Center where a stringy brunette was working the front desk. The gold name tag pinned to her navy blue blazer identified her as “Kimberly.”

As I walked in, she gestured out the window in the direction of my forty-year-old Cessna and smirked as if to amuse. “That,” she said, “is one homely beast.”

Kimberly was a fine one to talk. To be sure, her skin was not trimmed in oxidized orange and yellow paint, or peeling in spots like a molting snake, as was my airplane’s. But with her overbite, limp pageboy haircut, and a pointy snout that would have looked right at home on an Irish wolfhound, homely was as homely said. Was I put off by her making fun of the Ruptured Duck? Does it rain in Oregon? Nobody insults a pilot’s personal plane, even if that plane does happen to resemble a homeless person with wings. I was about to verbally lay her out, but I didn’t. I decided I would take the moral high ground, turn the other cheek instead. I was proud of myself. Maybe this Buddhism thing is working after all.

“I’d like both tanks topped off, please, 100 low lead,” I said with saccharine sweetness. “And I’ll need to rent a car for a few days, if you’d be kind enough to make the arrangements.”

“Certainly. I’ll be pleased to help you with that, sir. I assume you’ll be requiring an economy car during your visit?”

“What would make you assume that, Kimberly?”

My accusatory tone caught her off-guard. “Well, I mean…” She glanced toward the Duck, dwarfed among sleek, multimillion-dollar private jets, then back at me, as if to say, any nitwit could plainly see that I would be needing an economy car given the pile of junk I flew in on.

I planted my forearms on the glossy mahogany counter and leaned deliberately, threateningly, into Kimberly’s personal space.

“I’ll be requiring a Cadillac Escalade… Kimberly.”

Her tongue darted nervously over her thin lips and she hunched her shoulders – sure signs of fright, which was exactly my intent.

“My pleasure, sir.” Kimberly snatched up the phone and called Enterprise, if only to escape my steely gaze.

No one requires a three-ton sport utility vehicle whose gas mileage can be measured in negative integers. I had impulsively demanded an Escalade only because I didn’t want some washed-out counter clerk who normally catered to zillionaires thinking I was one step removed from personal bankruptcy, even if in truth I was.

* * *

The Escalade was a black gunboat with chrome rims, heated steering wheel, refrigerated cup holders, burled walnut trim, in-dash satellite navigation system, and an imposing rearview mirror presence that screamed, “Get the bleep out of my way.” I felt every inch the stylin’ pimp daddy as I cruised westbound along Interstate 8 through San Diego’s Mission Valley. I had to admit: it was a darned comfortable ride.

I stopped off for a late lunch at El Indio, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint where I’d eaten frequently when I was still with Alpha, conducting joint training ops with the SEAL teams out on Coronado. We shared with the Navy guys some of our tactics – wearing ballet slippers, for example, instead of standard-issue combat boots, when sneaking up on enemy outposts. They, in turn, introduced us to their favorite watering holes, and to El Indio. I sat outside under a hazy sun and inhaled four Baja-style fish tacos. Each was as exquisito as I remembered. After I’d had my fill, I called and left another message for federal prosecutor Stephen Tassio. But not before I belched. Then I headed downtown.

Charles Dowd practiced law in a twenty-three-story bank tower adjacent to Horton Plaza, which had once served as San Diego’s bum central before the strip clubs and dive bars all gave way to swanky eateries and a gentrified shopping mall. I forked over ten dollars and my car keys to an indifferent Salvadoran parking attendant in the basement and rode the elevator to the ninth floor.

Dowd’s office was located among a warren of suites with a communal conference room and a shared receptionist – a cost-conscious arrangement intended by independent practitioners like Dowd to convey the scope and power of being associated with a swanky major law firm without actually working for one.

The receptionist was bosomy and sharp featured. She put down her copy of Entertainment Weekly, pushing a strand of shoulder-length chestnut hair behind one ear and touching the side of her neck with her head slightly cocked.

“May I help you?”

Her gestures conveyed sexual interest. I once might’ve followed up on them, before Savannah became a constant on my mind.

“Cordell Logan to see Charles Dowd.”

“Is Mr. Dowd expecting you?”

“He is.”

She picked up her telephone, tapped a couple of buttons with the eraser end of a pencil, keeping one eye on me, and let Dowd know I was in the lobby.

“Down the hall. Last door on your right.”

“’Preciate it.”

“Anytime,” she said with the hint of a smile.

Definitely interested.

Dowd was waiting for me outside his office in his shirt-sleeves, red suspenders, and a bright paisley tie, hanging loose. The fingers of his right hand clutched a fat, unlit cigar. He was paunchy, on the north end of sixty, and wore what remained of his hair in a ragged gray Afro that brought to mind an aging, black Bozo. Nobody, however, would’ve characterized his temperament or intellect as clown-like.

“I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

“As I indicated,” he said without shaking my hand, “you’ve got ten minutes.”

His rumpled appearance matched the decor of his office. Case files and law books were strewn about. His desktop looked like the aftermath of a tsunami. The walls were naked but for a battery-operated clock and a framed law degree. The timepiece was hammered copper and shaped like the continent of Africa. The sheepskin was from Yale.

“I’ve been trying capital cases for thirty-five years,” he said as he parked himself behind his desk in a well-worn leather executive chair. “Dorian Munz was as guilty as they get. That doesn’t mean the government had the right to do him like it did. No man’s got that right.”

I sat down in a folding chair opposite his desk. “You said on the phone you’d let me have a look at Mr. Munz’s closing remarks.”

“You a PI?”

“Flight instructor.”

“A what?”

“It’s a long story and you’ve got ten minutes. If I could just see the videotape…”

He eyed me sideways, firing up his cigar with a lighter shaped like a gavel. “I still don’t get what you’re trying to get at, Mr. Logan.”

“Just trying to bring a little closure to a father who lost his child.”

“Closure’s vastly overrated.”

Dowd dug a laptop out from under a pile of legal briefs on his desk, typed in a few commands, swiveled the computer screen in my direction, checked his watch, then sat back with his feet up, smoking and gazing out at the sailboats plying San Diego Bay.

The videotape was black and white and less than a minute long. It offered few insights beyond what Hub Walker had already shared with me: Munz lay lashed to a gurney, gazing into a camera mounted on the ceiling above him. Through tears, he alleged that Ruth Walker had stumbled upon a billing scam in which Castle Robotics had ripped off Uncle Sam to the tune of nearly $10 million for work that was never performed. Ruth, he said, intended to go to the authorities with what she knew before she was killed. But that wasn’t the only reason, he said, why Greg Castle wanted her dead.

“Ruth had a baby, Castle’s baby,” Munz said into the camera. “He wanted her to get an abortion and she said no, so he killed her – or had somebody do it for him.”

Munz acknowledged that his relationship with Ruth had turned bitter but insisted he was no murderer. “I loved that girl,” he declared. “I’ll always love her.”

The tape ended.

“What proof did Ruth Walker have that Castle’s company was ripping off the Defense Department?”

“Mr. Munz received an anonymous letter about a month after he was convicted,” Dowd said, flicking the ashes from his cigar into a cut crystal bowl on his desk. “All the letter said was that Castle was dirty, that Ruth Walker knew it, and that’s why she died.”

“Any idea who sent the letter?”

“Not a clue.”

Whoever mailed it, Dowd said, also sent copies anonymously to various local news media outlets. The story dominated San Diego’s newspaper and TV stations for several days before the press lost interest. Beyond that anonymous letter, Dowd said, his client had no real evidence tying Greg Castle to Ruth Walker’s murder, nor for his assertion that Castle had fathered Ruth’s baby. The condemned man was merely grasping at straws, hoping to forestall his execution.

“I petitioned for a retrial,” Dowd said. “I argued that the letter introduced sufficient reasonable doubt. My motion, however, was denied. The Ninth Circuit held that the evidence presented by the prosecution was, and I quote, ‘Overwhelming and irrefutable.’ ”

“Sounds like you weren’t able to mount much of a defense.”

Dowd’s mood turned on a dime. “I’m a damn fine lawyer, Mr. Logan. Or perhaps you think people of color got no business in a court of law except wearing ’cuffs and a jumpsuit.”

“I don’t see color, Mr. Dowd. I only see good or bad. I meant no offense.”

“Well, I am offended. I’ve been practicing law in this city for more than twenty-five years, and I don’t much appreciate some flight instructor coming in here, questioning my legal skills.” He snuffed out his cigar on the sole of his scuffed black wing tip. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting upcoming with my investigator on another matter.”

I stood. “What was the evidence against Dorian Munz that was so ‘overwhelming and irrefutable’?”

“You’ll find the entire case file over at the clerk of the court. You can read to your heart’s content.” Dowd picked up his phone and waited for me to leave. “I’m sure you can find your way out. Fly safe, Mr. Logan.”

What can I say? Some of us have a knack for offending others without even trying. Call it a gift. I thanked the attorney for his time and turned to go.

Standing in the doorway, blocking my way, was a towering, well-built man with mocha-colored skin. Except for his ears, which were abnormally large for his head, he reminded me of a Doberman pinscher. Same sinewy frame. Same darkly menacing features. His untucked, green silk camp shirt bulged subtly at the right hip of his baggy jean, where his concealed pistol rode in a pancake holster. I made him for Dowd’s aforesaid investigator.

“Who’s this?” he asked Dowd while gazing at me hard.

“This is Mr. Logan. He’s looking into the Munz case ex post facto.”

“Looking into the case for who?”

“The father of the victim. I believe Mr. Logan was just leaving, weren’t you, Mr. Logan?”

“Surf’s up,” I said to the Doberman. “Wouldn’t want to keep Frankie and Annette waiting.”

His eyes held steady on mine. In a previous life, I can only assume we must’ve crossed swords. Whatever the instinct, it was clear that his dislike of me was as instantaneous as mine was of him. At six-foot-four and 220, he had a good three inches and what looked to be about thirty pounds of steroid-fortified flank steak on me. Ah, but what I gave away in height and weight, I more than made up for in wisdom-rich years. Which is to say that if push came to shove, I was likely going to get my sage, unarmed ass stomped – not without getting in a few good thumps of my own, mind you, but stomped regardless.

“Who’s Frankie and Annette?” He had a grating, raspy voice.

“Original Mouseketeers,” I said. “Annette went on to have a very successful career as a professional virgin.”

The human Doberman smiled frigidly. His teeth looked like something unearthed by a paleontologist. “You’re a regular comedian,” he said.

“My ex-wife would beg to differ.”

“Let him pass, Bunny,” Dowd said sternly.

Bunny? Who names a Doberman pinscher “Bunny”? I wanted to say something snide, but held my fire.

Grudgingly, Bunny stepped aside. “See you around, funny man.”

“Not unless I see you first.”

The receptionist winked at me as I walked out.

I might’ve blushed if only I could’ve remembered how.

* * *

The clerk’s office of the U.S. District Court, Southern District of California, was located a block east on Front Street, in the first floor of a modernistic, five-story building named in honor of a federal judge who, if the memorial plaque in the lobby was to be believed, never uttered an unkind word to anyone, including the hundreds of miscreants he’d sent to federal prison for the rest of their miserable lives. It was past 2:30 by the time I got there. I filled out a request form with the case number I pulled from a computer terminal, turned over my driver’s license to an indifferent civil servant manning the counter, and waited for someone to retrieve the file – or, more accurately, files.

Excluding subsequent appeals, the government’s proceedings against Dorian Nathan Munz filled three banker’s boxes. The clerk’s office closed in less than two hours. I’d need to do some serious speed reading. Skimming was more like it. I took a seat at a wooden, librarian-style table, on an unpadded wooden chair, and dove into the transcripts of the trial.

The case file made clear that attorney Dowd had pinned his client’s defense almost wholly on an alibi constructed from the sketchy recollections of Janet Bollinger, a co-worker of Ruth Walker’s at Castle Robotics who described herself as Ruth’s “former” best friend. Bollinger had told FBI agents initially that Dorian Munz could not have possibly killed anyone during the approximately three-hour window in which Ruth was believed murdered because he’d spent that entire evening with her. On the stand, however, Bollinger recanted. She testified that she’d gotten her dates mixed up. Upon reflection, she couldn’t be certain, she said, if she and Munz had been together the night Ruth Walker was killed, or whether it had been the night before. Munz’s attorney pressed Bollinger. Someone had threatened her, he insisted, forcing her to change her testimony, but Janet Bollinger held fast; she’d simply gotten the dates wrong. The defense’s case fell apart faster than a Kardashian marriage.

A succession of Ruth’s friends and acquaintances testified that her breakup with Munz had been acrimonious, an allegation that Munz himself did not deny when he later took the stand in his own defense. Cellular phone records entered into evidence by the prosecution showed that he’d made several calls to Ruth’s office and home on the day of her slaying, each lasting no more than a few seconds. They were hang-up calls, the kind meant to intimidate Ruth, the prosecution theorized. Munz countered that he’d been framed: someone had stolen his phone from his locker at the YMCA, where he swam daily, then made calls to Ruth to incriminate him.

Two prosecution witnesses testified that on the day of Ruth Walker’s murder, they observed Munz at the Mystic Mocha coffee shop in San Diego’s University Heights, a few blocks from Ruth’s apartment. Munz seemed upset about something, both witnesses said. Munz insisted that his presence at the coffee shop that day was far from sinister; he stopped by occasionally for his favorite espresso. As for his agitated mood, he claimed to have been under pressure at work.

Ruth Walker’s autopsy found that she’d been stabbed twice in the abdomen. It revealed scrapes and bruises on her hands and arms consistent with the defensive wounds of someone who’d fought for her life and lost. Munz was taken in for questioning four days after her body was found. There were incriminating bruises on the knuckles of his left hand, photos of which were also entered into evidence. He insisted during his testimony that he’d hurt himself trying to replace the oil filter on his VW Jetta. Dowd, his attorney, claimed during the trial that the bruises were proof of Munz’s innocence; the accused was right handed.

Though the murder weapon was never recovered, the nature of Ruth’s knife wounds showed the blade to have been approximately six inches in length and one inch wide. Munz owned a pricey set of eight steak knives fitting those specifications. The knives, ironically enough, had been a Christmas present from Ruth, given to him before their relationship soured. Dowd argued that the FBI’s own laboratory examination showed all eight knives to be in pristine condition, free of any DNA that would’ve linked any of them to Ruth Walker’s killing. Justice Department experts, however, pointed out that a well-made knife can show no sign of wear, even after years of heavy use. As for the lack of incriminating DNA on the blades, the experts testified that Munz could’ve simply washed off any flesh or blood after fatally stabbing his victim.

There was, meanwhile, no denying the bloody Pima cotton dress shirt that was discovered inside a trash can in the alley behind Munz’s condo in San Diego’s North Park neighborhood. The monogram on the shirt’s cuff bore Munz’s initials. The blood was Ruth Walker’s. Munz insisted on the stand that the shirt had also been stolen from his health club locker, and that whoever had framed him had taken the shirt and mopped up Ruth’s blood with it.

In the end, jurors professed little interest in Munz’s version of events – not with the mosaic of circumstantial evidence laid out by prosecutor Tassio and his team. The jury deliberated less than one day before finding him guilty.

By the time I looked up from the files, it was nearly 4:30. Closing time. My butt was numb. What kind of federal government shells out $2 billion for a single Stealth bomber and not $2 for a lousy seat cushion? I massaged the circulation back into my bottom, stretched my aching lower back, and returned the file boxes to the counter.

A medium-sized man in his early forties with a sallow face, short receding hair and tortoiseshell bifocals entered the clerk’s office and approached me. The right sleeve of his conservatively cut gray suit hung limp and empty.

“Are you Mr. Logan?”

“Depends. You a bill collector?”

“Steve Tassio, Assistant U.S. Attorney. You called me.”

I shook his left hand with mine.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“The Munz file is flagged, as are all capital cases,” he said. “Anytime anyone asks to review documents in the case, the clerk’s office contacts me as a matter of routine. We like to know who’s snooping and why.”

He gestured to the wooden table and the same unpadded chairs where’d I’d just spent the last two hours. We sat.

“I’m afraid you’re spinning your wheels,” Tassio said. “I can assure you, Greg Castle was in no way involved in the death of Ruth Walker. Dorian Munz most definitely was.”

“I never implied Mr. Castle was involved. Just the opposite. Ruth’s father wants me to dredge up information that would confirm Munz was lying about Castle before you executed him.”

Tassio cleared his throat, peeved. “I didn’t execute him, Mr. Logan. The people of the United States did. You’ll have to forgive me. I assumed you were attempting to somehow have the case reopened.”

“I’m attempting to help restore the reputation of an innocent man.”

“I can certainly appreciate your efforts, but, unfortunately, I can’t be of much assistance. Anything I’d have to say is already on record and can be found in the case file.”

“Mr. Tassio, I’m sure you can appreciate how significantly Mr. Castle was victimized by Dorian Munz’s allegations. Mr. Castle is at a considerable disadvantage defending himself against those allegations because his accuser, the man you prosecuted, is now fertilizer, and the case is officially closed.”

“Make your point, Mr. Logan.”

“From what I understand, the local press had a field day with Munz’s last-minute claims. Munz was convicted nearly ten years ago. He was executed last month. The average San Diego resident is not going to come down here, request the case file, and educate himself as to the truth of what actually went down. It would be helpful if you issued a statement saying, in effect, that Munz was lying.”

“As I said, Mr. Logan, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but whatever I’d have to say about the Munz case, I already said many times, both at trial and during a very long, protracted appellate process. Beyond that, any information, or any personal opinions I may hold, would be considered privileged and confidential.”

He stood. I stood and gave him my business card.

“In case you decide to reconsider.”

“Good luck to you, Mr. Logan,” Tassio said, extending his left hand once more. We shook.

I watched him walk out, wondering how he’d lost the arm.

The clerk shoved my driver’s license across the counter like she couldn’t get out of there fast enough and began turning off the office lights.

As I made my way through the courthouse lobby and toward the exit, past a couple of silver-haired U.S. marshals in blue blazers, I sensed someone’s eyes on my back. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Steve Tassio staring at me from the elevator. Then the doors slid closed and he was gone.