“These are young people, my love. They think King Midas is a rock singer.”
“Rocks sing?”
9: An Old Pol Helps
Try as she would, Lupe couldn’t quite shake her sense of dread whenever she approached Sgt. Brogan. She had been a cop four years, commended twice, made detective, at least as a probationary, but none of that mattered. Det. Sgt. Brogan was “the man,” a relic of her days on the street, her B.D. period, Before DeeDee. Maybe she’d get over it one of these days.
“I have some information on the Gould shooting, sergeant.” She hoped her voice sounded matter-of- fact.
Buster Brogan was in his 50s, gray and excessively wrinkled around the eyes. When he leaned back in his chair, as now, causing his sizable belly to protrude, he looked every inch a model for the Lord Buddha. “What have you got?” He smiled and motioned to the chair beside his desk.
She sensed his cordiality had more to do with her being female than a fellow detective. She sat but did not cross her legs. “Gould’s mother doesn’t think her son would kill himself. He was-”
“Have you spoken to Mrs. Gould?”
“Well, not directly.” She hesitated. “A friend told me.”
“What friend?”
He had no right to ask. She was entitled to her own sources “If you must know, her name is DeeDee Byerly. She owns a flower shop, her husband, Walter Byerly…”
His laughter stung her.
“You’re kidding, Hernandez. You’re listening to some dame in a flower shop? What’s your hairdresser and manicurist say?”
Oh why had she ever brought this up? “Forget it, sergeant, it’s your case.”
“You got that right. It so happens, Hernandez, that I spoke to the Gould woman at length. I sympathize with her, but when you have more experience you’ll realize that families, mothers especially, try any form of denial to avoid accepting suicide.” His smile was positively avuncular. He might have been Walter Cronkite addressing a sixth grade class at parochial school. “There are no fingerprints, Hernandez, no witnesses, no evidence of any kind to suggest Gould did anything other than take his own life.”
Did he have to humiliate her this way? Her anger flared, changing her flight into fight. “Did you perform a paraffin test on Gould to see if he fired the gun?”
“I saw no need for it.”
She stared at him. The test was routine in such cases. “Did you know somebody erased Gould’s computer files?”
Buster Brogan blinked.
“Whoever did it took the back-up disc and his appointment calendar. Both are missing.”
“I see.”
She had stood up to him. Her worry, fear, panic vanished. Buster Brogan was a trapped bear, desperate for a way out. She wasn’t about to give it to him. “Did you know it’s possible to recover material erased from the hard disc?”
Clearly he hadn’t known, but he dismissed his new knowledge with a bravura wave. “Why do that? It’s an extra expense, and this is an obvious suicide, after all.”
“Are you sure, sergeant? Someone went to a lot of trouble to eliminate any link between himself and Gould. Have you traced the gun to Gould?”
“Nor to anyone else. These cheap guns make the rounds. As for the erased files, that just about cinches it as a suicide.”
He had figured out his reply. “It does?”
“Sure. The guy’s distraught. He’s a nerd with few friends and no social life. Still lives with his Mama. Moreover, he’s a flop as an attorney, no clients and little hope of any. He decides to end it all.” Brogan made an expansive gesture. “Along with his own life, he wants to take away any evidence of his miserably failed existence, so he pushes the delete button.” Brogan made an exaggerated motion with his forefinger. “Nothing is left except the printout of the suicide note. Make sense to you, Hernandez?”
Unbelievable! The fool would go to any lengths not to be wrong. “Not at all, sergeant. I think you’re making a mistake.”
“Won’t be the first time.” Walter Cronkite revisited. “You go back to your pals, them Bye-Byes or whoever, and tell them I appreciate their help. I’ll look into their allegations.”
“Then the case is still open?”
“For the moment, so folks like them Bye-Byes can keep up their peerless detective work in hopes of making monkeys out of real cops.”
He shoveled sarcasm. God! The man inhabited a cave. “I’m sure that’s not what they’re doing.”
He looked at her hard. “Loyalties, Hernandez, loyalties. If you want to get ahead in this line of work, I suggest you decide whether you work for the Santa Barbara Police or them Bye-Byes. In a word, say bye-bye to the Bye-Byes. And ain’t that a howl?” He repeated the phrase.
Now he picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “Meanwhile, I have something useful for you to do. A mother reported her child missing. Here’s his description, three years old, blond, blue-eyed, believed to be in the Santa Barbara area.”
She accepted the paper. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“You’re in juvenile, you should have some connections, you know, an extra kid where he ain’t supposed to be.”
She shook her head. “Sounds impossible, what’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was he wearing, when was he last seen?” She saw Brogan shake his head. “Who’s the mother, who made this report?”
“I can’t tell you that, Hernandez. Do the best you can. If you find out anything, report back to me.”
After lunch, Byerly sat at his desk and opened his bible, as Doreen called it. The bible started out as an address book to keep track of girls in college. Over the years it expanded to include co-workers, ex-students, friends, acquaintances, anyone who knew or might know something useful or was just plain interesting. He added clippings, business cards, old scribbled-on napkins, notes and mementos until now the loose-leaf book was several inches thick and quite dog-eared. He sometimes thought of willing it to the Smithsonian when he croaked.
He turned pages, looking at names, reading forgotten information. Would you look at that, Danny Mendoza. Hadn’t thought of him in years. Maybe he should give him a call. He reached for the phone, then mentally slapped his hand. Walt, baby, you’re looking for someone qualified as an old pol, a nice ward healer or pork barreler.
There. He read. Yes, definitely an old pol. Sid Rankin was hyper, thoroughly Type A, balding, overweight, adrift in cigar smoke-a candidate for an early grave. Only one way to find out.
To his surprise Sid Rankin answered on the first ring. “Well, if it isn’t the perfesser hisself, long time no see, what’ve you been up to?” He affected a New York accent. Sid was born in Wisconsin.
Byerly hated small talk, always had. “Oh, same-o, same-o, Sid. How about you?” He listened. “As a matter of fact that’s why I called. I need some Washington insider information. As I remember-” Actually he had clippings. “- you used to write speeches for Reagan, then you worked for Clinton in his first campaign. Landslide George has no use for you. That makes you both political and non-partisan.”
“What it makes me is a maverick who has a hard time finding work. What do you want to know, perfesser?”
“Does Justin Wright stand a chance?”
“Scare you, does he? Me, too. ‘Course he does. After Reagan and Clinton I quit writing off candidates as having no chance. Wright has the looks and the lip, which sometimes is all it takes. He was an adequate Congressman and now has a pretty good record as governor of a major state, at least he hasn’t messed up too bad.
