Authors: Harold Robbins
I was met at the gate by a crowd of newspaper, radio and TV reporters and two process servers. One was a subpoena to appear before the federal grand jury in Los Angeles, the other to appear before the congressional committee on organized crime in Washington. Both were on the same day and almost at the same time.
Judge Alfonso Moreno was just behind the process servers. Verita’s fiancé was a tall, lean Mexican with a lantern jaw and sandy brown hair. Actually, he looked like a Texas cowboy, which was, in fact, what he was. He’d been born in El Paso and played football for Texas State.
He didn’t waste time. “My advice is to answer every question with a ‘no comment’ until we have had time to talk.”
I met his eyes. “I would like to make a short statement which I wrote on the plane if you agree.”
“Let me see it.” He took the note from my hand, studied it, then gave it back to me. “Okay,” he said. “But not one word more.”
“Thank you.”
“Give me the subpoenas,” he said.
I gave them to him. He stuck them in an inside jacket pocket, turned to the reporters and held up his hands. They fell into momentary silence. “Mr. Brendan has a statement that he would like to make.”
I read from the note. “I have returned to Los Angeles to aid and assist the authorities in their investigation of this affair. It is my firm belief that when the investigation is completed, they will find that no officer of the company or the company itself has been involved in the matter.”
There was a babble of shouted questions from the crowd. I heard one reporter’s voice above the others. “Are you aware that the Nevada Gaming Commission withdrew the gambling license for your proposed hotel and casino pending further investigation?”
I answered without even glancing at the judge. “No comment.”
Another reporter. “Is it true that you spent several days at the Mazatlán Lifestyle Hotel in the company of Julio Valdez, who was shot to death this morning?”
“No comment.”
The judge took me by the arm. I held on to Eileen and we began to push our way through the crush of reporters. To each of their shouted questions, I gave the same answer: “No comment.”
We finally reached the limo at the curb outside the terminal. Tony took off as soon as the door had closed. “Where to, boss?” he asked as we moved into the airport traffic.
“Verita said that we should come to her apartment. It would be quieter there and we would be able to talk,” the judge said.
“Okay.” I gave Tony the address and turned back to the judge. “Is that statement about the Nevada Gaming Commission true?”
“Verita told me that she received the telegram from them at three thirty this afternoon.”
I shook my head. It wasn’t getting any better. “Verita was anxious for me to get back here in a hurry. Did she have anything special to tell me?”
“She didn’t confide in me. She said she wanted to talk to you first.”
But that never happened. Because when we pulled up to the new high-rise apartment on Wilshire Boulevard where Verita had moved in order to be near the office, the ambulance and four police cars were already there. A body, covered with a blanket, lay half on and half off the curb.
The judge and I were out of the car almost before it stopped. We pushed through the small crowd toward the police. A boy with a little dog in his arms was talking to a policeman, who was taking notes.
“I was just taking Schnapsi for her evening walk when I heard this scream and I looked up and saw this woman come flying over the railing up there on the fifteenth floor falling down on me.”
“Did you see anybody else up there?” the policeman asked.
“Hell, no,” the boy said. “I was too busy getting out of the way.”
“My God!” The judge’s voice was a strangled sob in his throat. I followed his gaze to a small hand that was not covered by the blanket. A diamond twinkled on the ring finger. “I just gave that to her last week!”
Then his face turned a peculiar green and he lurched toward the curb. I grabbed him by the shoulders to keep him from falling and held him while he cried and vomited his guts into the street.
CHAPTER 50
The next day was another slice of hell. The
LA Times
ran a screaming banner across the top of the front page. WOMAN VP BRENDAN PUBLICATIONS SUICIDE, POLICE SAY.
The subhead wasn’t much better. “Verita Velasquez, first cousin to Mexican Crime King, who was shot to death yesterday.” The story itself was a masterful construction of facts that added up to a totally false impression and left the reader thinking that Verita was Ms. Inside while Julio was Mr. Outside.
It took us two hours to clear the reception area of reporters and work out a system that would keep them out. We did it by closing off all but two of the six elevators and screening all visitors in the downstairs lobby.
Finally, the office was quiet, although it was more like a mausoleum than a place of business with everyone walking around on tiptoe and speaking in hushed whispers.
Even Shana and Dana were subdued. They weren’t playing their usual game. Today I seemed to get their names right every time. “Mr. Saunders of circulation on the line.”
“Thank you, Shana,” I said picking up the phone. “Yes, Charlie.”
“We have some real problems, Mr. Brendan,” he said in an upset tone.
I didn’t need him to tell me. I kept my voice calm. “Yes?”
“Many wholesalers and distributors are refusing to accept our shipments of the new issue of
Macho
and others are returning them in unopened bundles.”
This was a real problem. These were the people who got our magazines on the stands and racks where they could be bought by the public. “How many did we print?”
“Four million five hundred thousand.”
“How many do you think will stick?”
“According to our computer, between five and seven hundred thousand.”
There went two million dollars in real money and didn’t take into account possible profits. It didn’t take long for the story to dig in and hurt. I took a deep breath. There was nothing that could be done about it, at least for the moment. There was an old saying that a lie could travel halfway around the world while the truth was putting on its boots to go after it. Maybe if I were in their place, I would feel the same way. I wouldn’t want to be doing business with what looked like the biggest drug pusher in the world.
“Sit tight, Charlie,” I said. “Things will get back to normal once we get this business straightened out.”
I put down the telephone. The intercom buzzed again. “Bobby is here to see you.”
“Send him in.”
Bobby came in with his eyes red from weeping. “Oh, Gareth!” he cried. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
I got out of my chair and put my arms around him. He leaned his face against my chest, sobbing like a child. Gently I stroked his head. “Easy,” I said.
“Why did she kill herself? I’ll never understand it. She was going to get married next month.”
“She didn’t kill herself.”
He stepped back. “But the police said that she did. They said there was no sign that anyone had been in the apartment with her.”
“I don’t give a damn what they said.” I went back to my chair.
“If she didn’t kill herself, then who killed her?”
“I think it was the same people who killed Julio. I have a feeling that they thought that she and Julio were closer than they really were.”
His eyes were wide. “The Mafia?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m damn well going to try to find out.” I took a cigarette from the box on the desk and lit it. “Is your father in town?”
“He’s at home.”
I pressed down the intercom. “Get Reverend Sam for me. He’s at home.” I released the switch. “I thought he got rid of Brother Jonathan two years ago.”
“You know Father. He sees only the good in people. Brother Jonathan managed to convince him that Denise was a doper and that he tried to get her straight but couldn’t.”
The intercom buzzed. “Reverend Sam on the line.”
Reverend Sam’s voice was genuinely sympathetic. “A terrible business, Gareth, a terrible business. She was a lovely girl.”
“Yes, Reverend Sam. But I’m calling about Brother Jonathan.”
“Shocking. I couldn’t believe that the man was capable of such duplicity.”
“How long did you know him?”
There was a moment’s pause. “Let me see… seven, maybe eight years…. He joined the mission right after he left the police force.”
“How did you happen to meet him?”
“Your Uncle John sent him to me. There had been some threats against my life at that time and he came to work for me as a bodyguard. But then God shone His light on him and he began to devote himself to the mission. By the time we decided that the threats were no longer a problem he had already reached the second level.”
“I see. Thank you, Reverend Sam.”
“You’re quite welcome, Gareth. If there is anything I can do to ease your burden, don’t hesitate to come to me.”
“Thank you again. Goodbye, Reverend Sam.”
“Goodbye, Gareth.”
“You’re right about your father, Bobby. He sees only the good in everyone.”
He managed a smile. “The last of the innocents.”
“Not the last,” I said. “The first.”
After he had gone, I sat alone for a while, just thinking. Brother Jonathan still bothered me. On an impulse I sent for Denise.
She, too, had been weeping. “Poor Verita. I really loved her. Her aura was so pure.”
“She was a good lady,” I said. “Look, I need help. If what I ask you hurts too much, just tell me. I don’t want to disturb you.”
“I love you, Gareth. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”
“When Brother Jonathan had you in transit at the Retreat, was it really me that he was exorcising from your mind?”
“It seemed like that.” She hesitated. “We always started the transit that way. The first thing he told me was that I had to get you out of my mind and my body.”
“Did he ever talk about anything else?”
“I think so. But I don’t remember too well. After the question about you, everything always seemed to go fuzzy.”
“That’s because he gave you a shot of Pentothal,” I said. “There were still traces of it in your blood when I brought you to the hospital. And it was from one of those injections with an unsterilized needle that you got hepatitis.”
“That’s the truth serum, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But it can also be used as a hypnotic. Perhaps there was something he wanted you to disconnect, to forget completely without your being conscious of it.”
“I don’t know what that could be. After all, I was his secretary for the first year I was down there and it was my job to keep track of everything. I even used to type all his reports.”
“Reports? To whom?”
“There were a lot of people. The religious ones to Reverend Sam, of course. The others to… the others….” A puzzled look came into her eyes. “Funny, but I can’t seem to remember.”
“What were the other reports about?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I can’t remember that either.”
I looked at her silently.
“I’m sorry.”
I smiled. “That’s okay.”
“I’d better go back to work now.”
I waited until she was halfway to the door before playing my hunch. “Lonergan!” I said sharply.
She didn’t turn around. “I know. He always gets the top copy,” she said automatically, then continued on to the door as if she hadn’t spoken. She looked back. “Goodbye, Gareth.”
“Goodbye, Denise.”
I waited until the door closed behind her before calling personnel. A man answered. “Erikson speaking.”
“Do you have copies of the personnel forms of the club and hotel employees, Mr. Erikson?”
“They’re on the computer, sir.”
“Can I get the readout?”
“Yes, sir, but you have to know the code.”
“I need some information. Can you come up to my office?”
“I’ll be right there, Mr. Brendan.”
Two minutes later he was standing beside my desk with a code book in his hand. Ten minutes later I had all the information that I sought.
Each employee was required to give three personal references before being placed on the payroll. One of the three references provided by all the general managers and supply managers of the clubs and the hotel was always John Lonergan.
It all began to fall into place.
When I’d gotten into his car after the explosion outside the little store on Santa Monica Boulevard, he had all but spelled it out for me. If he hadn’t protected me, Julio would have fed me to the wolves.
And Dieter had implied it again in Mexico when he told me that without my uncle’s permission Julio could not exist in Los Angeles and that Lonergan was the only man who could stop Julio from using the airstrip.
Julio had probably never stopped using the airstrip at all. Not even for one day. And when I’d made the deal for the hotel, Lonergan had it all together. It had to be the most profitable one-man cartel in history. Three hundred million dollars a year with built-in profits at every stage from manufacture to distribution.
And it hadn’t cost him one penny. He’d done it all with my money.
CHAPTER 51
It was six o’clock and Lonergan was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t at home, at his Beverly Hills office or at the Silver Stud. My mother had gone to visit some friends at Newport Beach for the day, so she was of no help to me right then. She was expected to be home for dinner, however, so I left word with the butler to have her call when she came in.
The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Courtland on the line from New York.”
“You’re working late,” I said. “It’s nine o’clock there.”
“Our office doesn’t close with the market despite what people think,” he said humorlessly. “Any new developments?”
“Some.”
“Anything I can report to the board of governors?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about that girl who killed herself? Logic says she could have been the Trojan Horse in your organization.”
“She wasn’t.”
“I hear they’re shipping your magazine back by the thousands,” he said.
“Millions.”
He was shocked into silence for a moment. “Would you like me to cancel your appearance at the analysts’ luncheon tomorrow?”