Final Appeal (19 page)

Three names were crossed out in black, Helen Sotherby, Oscar Cassinger, and Sylvia Weintrob they'd died of natural causes, two of them before his escape from Oakdale. At least no one could blame him for their deaths. But there were three others with a red line through them. Those were the frightening ones. Margo Jantzen, murdered in her home in Westwood. Neal Wallace was killed accidentally, but then cut up in his casket by a wacko. And Lester Robinson, stabbed to death in his mortuary right next to Neal's mutilated body. Could they blame him for those? You bet they could! He was an escaped patient from Oakdale with a history of mental illness, a grudge against the jury that had convicted him, and no alibi. Even Stan would refuse to take his case this time around. His brother was too smart to bet on a sure loser. Family loyalty would go by the boards if it would ruin Stan's win-loss record.

Only four names remained on the list, and Jose Sanchez was on top. Michael had placed two check marks after his name. The first check meant that Jose had been located. The second meant that Michael had succeeded in warning him.

The next two names had no identifying marks. That worried Michael. He'd assumed that Sister Mary Clare would be easy. He'd called the Archdiocese and asked for her address, but it seemed it was more complicated than just looking her up in a file. They'd needed more information. Which order was she in? Did she teach? Nurse? Was she cloistered? Michael hadn't known the answers to any of these questions. The man at the Archdiocese had told him that there were over seven thousand sisters in California alone. Almost three thousand of those were in Los Angeles, and there was no way of telling if Sister Mary Clare was still in this area. She could have been sent anywhere in the United States, even overseas if she was doing missionary work.

Michael had thanked him and hung up. Sister Mary Clare was the one juror he had trouble remembering in detail. There had been nothing to distinguish her from any other nun he'd ever seen. She'd worn a black habit, and her veil, or whatever they called it, had concealed her face and thrown her features into shadow. She'd kept her eyes downcast and never looked at him directly. There was just nothing memorable about her.

Rosalie Dumont was the next name on the list, and Michael had spent two whole mornings trying to locate her. He'd called every Dumont in the Los Angeles telephone book, but no one knew a Rosalie. He was tempted to ask Toni to run the name through her data banks, but that wouldn't be wise. He'd come up with a good excuse for wanting to find Jose Sanchez, but Toni would be sure to grow suspicious if he asked her to run any more names.

The last person on the list was James Zimmer. He had one check mark behind his name. Michael had located the professor, but he'd been unable to make contact to warn him. At least he knew where Professor Zimmer worked, and that was a step in the right direction. Could he take the risk of going to the campus and warning him in person?

That was a radical step, and Michael hesitated. He was almost positive he could blend in on a large college campus if he dressed in nondescript clothes and carried books under his arm. He'd just have to try it if he wanted to warn the professor in time. He'd already wasted two days with telephone calls, and there was no guarantee he'd ever reach James Zimmer that way.

Michael grabbed the phone and dialed the college number again. When he reached the switchboard, he asked to be connected to the personnel office. He'd find out the professor's schedule and catch him between classes.

“Personnel office,” A tentative voice answered the phone.

“Could you give me Professor James Zimmer's class schedule, please?”

“Professor James Zimmer? I think I can get that for you.”

Michael listened as the girl explained that she was only a temporary student helper, so she wasn't really sure where things like that were kept. It might take her a few minutes to locate the file with the schedules. Miss Beemer, the regular secretary, was out to lunch, and the student helper who usually worked in this office had called in sick. Would he rather call back in an hour? When Miss Beemer was back?

Michael told her that he couldn't call back, but he'd be glad to wait while she tried to find it. He listened to recorded music for a few moments, but the sound was so tinny coming out of the receiver that he couldn't even recognize the tune. And then, in much less time than Michael had expected, the girl came back on the line.

She sounded very pleased with her efficiency when she told him that she'd located the schedule and that Professor Zimmer had three classes this semester, plus his conference periods, of course. One class was at 10 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and another was at 2 p.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The third was an independent study seminar for senior students, and that meets on Thursday evenings from seven to ten. Because this was Friday, Professor Zimmer would just be starting his two o'clock class. If this was an emergency, she'd be glad to send a runner down to call the professor to the phone. The regular secretary had told her how to do that.

“No, it's not an emergency. I can catch Professor Zimmer myself if you can tell me what classroom he's in. And give me directions to the campus.”

The girl seemed relieved that directions were all that Michael wanted. She told him that she usually worked in the ticket office, and she was used to giving directions to people who drove to the campus for concerts and plays. Michael copied down her instructions as she rattled them off, thanked her for her trouble, and rushed to Toni's apartment to borrow her car. It was two o'clock now, and the girl had told him that Professor Zimmer's class ran for an hour. He'd have just enough time to drive to Gateway University and catch the professor when he came out of his classroom.

Lenny ordered another cup of coffee from the bartender. This was the first hangover he'd had in years.

How many bottles of beer had he gone through last night? Ten? Fifteen? He'd been nearly out on his feet, but at least he'd forgotten how ugly the woman had been until he'd looked at her this morning.

It was a real drag leaving work and going straight to a crummy bar, but he needed an airtight alibi in case there was another murder. Eddie still wasn't back, the little creep, and Lenny had been spending his nights with women who weren't even attractive, just so he'd have someone with him around the clock.

The bartender leaned across the bar. “Let me give you a little friendly tip, buddy. You've been forking out bar prices for my lousy coffee all night, and there's a coffee shop right around the corner with some decent brew. So what are you doing in here?”

“I like the company.” Lenny reached over to pat the thigh of the skinny woman sitting on the stool next to him. “And coffee's the only thing I can keep down right now.”

“Hangover?”

Lenny nodded. “You got it.”

“Coffee's not going to fix it, buddy. Believe me, I know. What you need is one ounce of brandy. No more, no less. You chug it right down, and twenty minutes later, you'll feel like a new man.”

Lenny swallowed hard. “I don't know. Hair of the dog never worked for me. I tried it once.”

“But not with brandy, right?” The bartender grinned as Lenny shook his head. “This is on the house. I'm pouring you an ounce of brandy—the good stuff—and I want you to drink it like medicine. Got it?”

Lenny nodded and picked up the glass the bartender put in front of him. He took a deep breath, swallowed the contents, and winced as it burned all the way down his throat.

“That's my man,” The bartender grinned in approval. “If that doesn't do the trick in twenty minutes, I'll give you free coffee for the rest of the night.”

The girl on the stool next to Lenny nodded sagely. “It works, honest. I saw him doctor a couple of guys, and they were raring to go afterwards. Can you buy me another drink while we're waiting, Tiger? I'm dry as a bone over here. And a daiquiri always makes me feel so sexy.”

Lenny nodded and motioned to the bartender to whirl up another daiquiri. She'd downed four already, and she was just a skinny little thing. If the bartender had been pouring her real booze, she would have been out like a light by now. Straight mix, iced tea in a whiskey glass, that was the way things were done in a dive like this. But Lenny wasn't complaining. He needed her for an alibi, and that was worth laying out the bucks for a whole night of overpriced Shirley Temples.

“Here you go, babe.” Lenny pushed the drink over to her, and she gave him a smile. She wasn't a dog like the one last night, but he never would have gone for her under normal circumstances. There was no meat on her bones, none at all. She reminded him of a skinny little kid. She'd been working the bar when he'd walked through the door, and she'd been only too happy to let him buy her a drink. What was her name again? Elena or Helena or something like that.

“What's the matter, sweetie? You look down in the dumps. Tell Babsie all about it.”

Lenny took a big swig of his coffee. Her name was Babsie? Helena must have been the one last night. Babsie's purple eye shadow made her look a little like Vampira on the late show, but she really wasn't all that bad. Nice skin. And nice hair. But looks didn't matter. Right now he'd hook up with the ugliest broad in the world if he thought it would throw the police off his trail.

“Nothing's wrong, babe.” Lenny smiled back. “I'm just thinking about the job, that's all.”

“What line of work are you in, Tiger?”

“Auto parts. I own a couple of stores. “

Her face lit up with interest, and Lenny almost groaned. He shouldn't have said that. Now that she knew he owned a couple of stores, she'd charge him the going rate.

“Auto parts is a good business, sweetie, if you know what you're doing. Look at the Pep Boys. They started out on a shoestring. Are you strictly domestic? Or do you carry foreign parts, too?”

Lenny took a minute to answer. Babsie's question had taken him completely by surprise. He didn't think she'd known what the word domestic meant. If she really wasn't interested, she sure as hell was doing a good job of faking it.

“I'm domestic, babe. There's no profit in foreign. Too many parts to carry. They take up shelf space, and cost you an arm and a leg to stock.”

“I know what you mean.” Babsie sighed. “Last time I checked, one of those little cigarette lighters for an MG cost over thirty bucks wholesale”

“You drive an MG?”

Babsie laughed. “Not on your life, Tiger. I need something that runs. English cars are always laid up with electrical problems. I just love sports cars, though. They're fun to drive if you get one that hugs the road.”

“I bet you've got a Fiat, huh?”

“Italian engineering?” Babsie made a face. “That's not for me. They overstress everything they build in Italy.”

Lenny frowned. “Okay. I give up, Babsie. Tell me what kind of sports car you have.”

Babsie looked a little embarrassed. “I don't have a sports car, sweetie. I've got a jeep.”

“Those are nice cars. American Motors? Or one of those new Chryslers?”

Babsie shook her head. “Neither. It's military, so there's no manufacturer's markings. But it's a Willies, I can tell. I bought it at one of those big surplus auctions five years ago.”

“You got a good buy?”

“Sure did!” Babsie nodded emphatically. “It was dirt cheap because the block was cracked. And speaking of cracked blocks, Tiger, how does your head feel? It's been twenty minutes.”

“It has?” Lenny looked surprised. “You know, I feel a lot better. The bartender was right. Now, tell me some more about that jeep of yours. It must have cost you a bundle to get it up and running, huh?”

“Nope.” Babsie shook her head. I just pulled the engine and replaced it. No sweat.”

“You pulled the engine yourself?”

“Oh, sure. It was easy. I just pushed it under a tree limb and rigged up a hoist with a couple of strong ropes. It lifted right out, slick as a whistle. But I guess I shouldn't have told you all this. I ruined my image as a sexpot, didn't I, Tiger?”

“I guess you did!” Lenny laughed. “So you pulled your own engine. That's pretty good. I never met a hooker that . . . wait a second, Babsie. I mean—you do work here, don't you?”

“You thought you made a mistake for a minute, didn't you?” Babsie laughed. “You can relax, because I'm a hooker, just like you thought. If I sounded different there for a minute it's just because I got too interested in talking with you. Don't tell anybody I blew my act, will you?”

“No. I won't tell.”

“Well, see you around, Lenny. I've gotta try to pick up somebody else before closing time or my ass is grass and the bartender is the lawn mower.”

As Babsie blew him a kiss and slid off the stool, Lenny wondered where he'd ever gotten the idea she wasn't good-looking. She had a nice little shape, and she'd be real cute if she washed off that makeup. What was she doing working in a bar like this anyhow? She had a lot more class than that.

Lenny reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Where you going, Babsie? We haven't finished our conversation.”

Babsie bent over and whispered in his ear. “I know, but I gotta hustle, Lenny. The bartender gets half my take and he won't let me work here unless I bring in cash. And I need my share so I can buy out my regular boss when he goes under. It's crazy, Lenny. I tried to tell him what he's doing wrong, but he's not the type to take advice from a woman. And I think I could have turned things around, I really do.”

“Your regular boss?”

Babsie nodded. “I work during the day, Lenny. Answering the phone, ordering stock, waiting on the customers, stuff like that.”

“What kind of store, Babsie?”

Babsie looked completely flustered. “It's an auto parts store, Lenny. That's why I was so interested in what you had to say. But don't worry. I'll never be any competition for you. The place I want to buy is strictly foreign.”

“Foreign?”

“That's right. I know what you said, that there's no money in it. But it's really not that expensive to stock if you know what you're buying. I've got it all figured out on paper.”

“Are you pulling my leg, Babsie?”

“Nope. That's my dream, Lenny. You know the old joke about the whore who's saving her money to buy a chicken farm out west? Well, mine is the same thing, except it's not chickens, that's all.”

“You're really serious about this right?”

“I'm serious, but don't tell the customers. I'm supposed to be dumb and fun—that's all they want. Well, you're a real nice guy, Lenny. I enjoyed spending time with you. And just between us, don't try to pick up that blonde over there in the pink dress. She told me she's got the clap.”

She began to move away and Lenny grabbed her arm. “Wait a second, Babsie. You're really serious about this, right?”

She nodded and Lenny patted the stool next to him. “Sit down and tell me how much the bartender usually pulls in from you girls.”

“About sixty from each of us. There's five girls, so it's a nice little profit for him. But I don't mind. He protects us if a customer gets too rough, and he's a real nice guy. Now let me go, Lenny. I can't afford to get him mad at me. This is a good place to work, and I don't want to lose it.”

“Hey, barkeep!” Lenny tightened his fingers around Babsie's wrist and motioned for the bartender. “We got to have a little talk.”

The bartender came up, and Lenny fanned three twenties on the bar. “How about if I take off with Babsie here? Does that give you a problem?”

“No problem.” The bartender looked down at the money and smiled. “Have fun, buddy. Babsie's a real nice girl.”

“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot,” Lenny took out his money clip again and peeled off another twenty. “Here's a little something extra for that hangover cure. It worked just like you said.”

As the bartender reached for the money and pocketed it, Lenny pulled Babsie to the door. When they got outside, she turned to him with a puzzled expression on her face.

“He's got rooms. You don't have to spring for a motel.”

“Forget the motel. Not that it wouldn't be fun, babe, but I got bigger things on my mind right now. I figured we'd take a spin to the store so you can eyeball my inventory. I'll give you two big ones for a couple hours work. What d'ya say, Babsie?”

“Two hundred dollars?” She waited until he nodded, and then she gave him a happy smile. “I say you're on, Lenny. But what do you want me to look for?”

“Just tell me what I gotta do if I decide to expand to foreign. And if you got some real good ideas, I might just let you handle that part of it. How does manager of foreign parts sound to you? I can make it worthwhile.”

Babsie chewed on her lower lip. Lenny could tell she was debating whether or not to tell him something.

“Look, Lenny, you're a real sweet man, so I gotta tell you that I don't have the qualifications for a big job like that. What if I mess it up for you?”

“You don't exactly have the qualifications for being a hooker, either.” Lenny looked her up and down and grinned. “But you did it, didn't you, Babsie? Now, that shows guts, and I like guts. Just say, ‘Yes, thank you,' and then shut up. I got a lot of admiration for a lady who's smart enough to take advantage when opportunity knocks. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Babsie gave him a brilliant smile. The expression in her eyes made Lenny feel good all over for the very first time since Margo had been murdered.

This time he was driving in his dream, being very careful to stop at every red light and observe the traffic regulations. There was a map open on the seat beside him, and once he pulled over to the side and parked under a street light so he could check his progress. He sat there for what seemed like hours, hands gripping the wheel, staring out at the yellow circles the headlights made as they tunneled out into the blackness and overlapped on the pavement ahead.

Was he dreaming the dream, repeating it in his mind like a zealous film editor? Running and rerunning a tricky segment until it was perfect? Or was he remembering what he'd dreamed before? It was all very confusing, and the answer eluded him, hovering just on the border of consciousness and then slipping away when he attempted to reach out and grab it.