Shakedown

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in 1989 by

Chatto & Windus Ltd

30 Bedford Square

London WCLB 3SG

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 0 7011 3458 5

Copyright ©
Gerald Petievich 1988

ONE

Rodeo Drive was crowded with limousines and luxury cars double-parked in front of shops with foreign names. The sidewalks, runways for a parade of fashionably dressed and coiffed lady shoppers, had a scrubbed look, unlike the grimy, booze-stained pavements of downtown Las Vegas that Eddie Sands knew so well.

Finally, Sands spotted a pay telephone. He swerved the brown four-door sedan to the curb. Though it was the middle of a heat wave, he shrugged on his suit jacket before climbing out of the air-conditioned car. He did this to shield the revolver, handcuffs, and bullet pouch on his belt. Standing at the curb in the oven-like heat, he rummaged through his pockets for change. He had none.

He entered the nearest establishment, the Beverly Rodeo Hotel; in the gift shop, he handed a twenty-dollar bill to a blond woman behind the counter and asked for change. The woman gave him a cold Beverly Hills smile and punched a cash-register key. As she plucked coins and bills from the drawer, Sands surveyed her closely-aquamarine sundress and a designer scarf, not-too-deep crow's-feet, pouting lips, high, possibly padded bustline, delicate hands. He figured her for around his age, late thirties. It was her general demeanor, perhaps, that reminded him of Monica. Monica...hell, he couldn't keep his mind off her for a moment. And he had tried. For eighteen miserable months she had been the focus of his thoughts.

The woman counted change into his hand. He thanked her, shoved the money into a trouser pocket. "Did anyone ever tell you you look like a policeman?" she said.

Eddie Sands grinned as if proud, ran his hand across his trim ivy-league-cut hair. "I guess it's the short hair that gives me away," he said.

"I noticed the handcuffs when you took out your wallet," she said. "Are you with the city?"

Sands shook his head. "No, ma'am, I'm a lieutenant with the Las Vegas Police Department," he said.

The woman gave him another icy smile, said she loved Vegas, then turned to help another customer.

At the pay phone outside, he dialed a Beverly Hills number. Bruce O'Hara, whose voice was unmistakable, answered. Without saying anything, Sands set the receiver back on the hook. He returned to the sedan, climbed in, then started the engine and pulled into traffic. He checked his wristwatch: three o'clock. He wound out of the crowded business area, crossed Santa Monica Boulevard, and headed into a palm-lined residential area where wide, well-washed thoroughfares were lined with palatial Mission, Victorian, and Colonial revivals. As he drove, he checked a Beverly Hills city map he'd picked up earlier at a service station. Two more turns and he found himself in front of an imposing two-story Mission-style home on Rexford Drive. He turned directly into the circular driveway.

He climbed out of the sedan, walked across a small fuchsia-lined courtyard which protected the front door. He took a deep breath, then pressed the doorbell. The sound of footsteps came from inside. The peephole opened. Sands held up a badge. "Las Vegas Police Department. I'd like to speak with Mr. Bruce O'Hara."

The door opened. Bruce O'Hara, who looked shorter, grayer, and more wrinkled than he did on the screen or in movie-magazine photographs, was wearing Levi's, loafers, and a chamois-cloth shirt. A sixty-year-old millionaire movie idol trying to look like the thirty-year-old guy next door.

"Las Vegas
Police Department?" O'Hara said as he glanced at the Nevada license plate on the sedan. "What's this all about?"

"It's a confidential matter," Sands said. "I'd like to speak with you about something that occurred when you were in Las Vegas."

O'Hara looked about suspiciously. "May I see your police identification card?"

"Certainly." Sands dug into his inside jacket pocket. He handed O'Hara a laminated identification card.

O'Hara examined the card, handed it back. "A confidential matter, says the detective. Sounds like an opening scene from one of my movies."

Sands gave a polite laugh as O'Hara ushered him inside and led him down a short hallway into an enormous living room decorated with wall hangings, pillows, and blankets in a red-black-and-brown pattern that Sands guessed would be called Navajo. The sofa, chairs, and walls were earth-colored, and there was a roughly hewn wooden candelabra next to a gold-tone telephone on a coffee table. A celluloid cowboy's house.

O'Hara motioned Sands to a sofa. From a hand-carved wooden box he removed a cigarette.

"I'm a detective lieutenant, Mr. O'Hara," Sands said as he sat down. "I'm in charge of homicide investigations."

O'Hara raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't do it, officer," he said histrionically.

Sands gave him a professional courtesy smile. From his shirt pocket he removed a photograph of an attractive, thirtyish platinum blonde. He shoved the photograph across the coffee table. "Recognize her?"

O'Hara examined the photograph. "Never seen her before in my life." He tossed the photo back to Sands, lit the cigarette, took a big pull. Then he sat back and crossed his legs. The loafers were Ballys.

Sands shoved the photograph back into his pocket. "She says she knows you."

"What the hell is this all about?" O'Hara said. "This interview is ended unless you tell me what this is all about."

Sands leaned forward, he folded his hands. "A week ago that woman's husband was sleeping in his apartment in Las Vegas and someone shot him six times with a .32. There were no signs of forced entry into the apartment, so whoever killed him had to have access. In other words, it was someone he knew."

"Just what does this have to do with me?"

"I'm not finished."

"Excuse me."

"Our investigation determined that the woman owned a .32 revolver and that she'd been having violent arguments with her husband. Once she threatened to kill him. When we questioned her, she maintained her innocence. So we gave her a lie-detector test. Unfortunately, the test was inconclusive. The polygraph operator couldn't tell whether she was lying or telling the truth. That's why I'm here."

Maintaining eye contact, Sands paused a moment before continuing. "The woman gave us a statement claiming she was with you on the night of the murder."

O'Hara uncrossed, then crossed his legs again. "Mental hospitals are full of people who say they've been with a movie star at this time or that," he said.

Sands took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. He read aloud:

"'I, Helen Stinson Calabrese, having been warned of my constitutional right to remain silent, and without duress of any kind, wish to make the following statement voluntarily and of my own free will. I am a prostitute and work out of the bar in the Stardust Hotel on Las Vegas Boulevard. On August seventeenth I received word from a bellman who acts as my pimp that I had a customer waiting in the penthouse suite of the hotel. I went to the suite and the man who opened the door was a guy with a goatee whom I recognized as a previous customer. I think he is a movie producer or a movie lawyer or something like that. Or at least that is what he told me last month when I first met him. He told me that he had a friend in the next room who had some special requests. We talked it over and settled on the price of six hundred dollars. Then he gave me a room key and I went to the penthouse suite and met Mr. Bruce O'Hara, the movie star. I know it was him because I have seen almost all of his movies. I stayed the night with Mr. O'Hara. I remember this night in particular not only because Mr. O'Hara is a movie star, but because of his special requests. He asked me to dress in a black rubber suit, which he provided, and to use hat pins to-"'

"I think at this point it might be better if you directed any questions you have to my lawyer, Mickey Greene," O'Hara interrupted. He stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, came to his feet, folded his arms across his chest. "He's an expert at libel cases-movie-magazine lies."

"I'd like to explain something," Sands said. The thought occurred to him that the comedians who did impressions of O'Hara invariably mimicked the way he folded his arms. "This woman is in jail facing the charge of murder. If she is lying, if she's concocted an alibi, that's one thing. On the other hand, if she
is
telling the truth, it means she's innocent and should be released."

Bruce O'Hara's usually expressive mouth was a fine line. He stared at his Navajo blanket drapes as if he'd never seen them before.

Speaking slowly and clearly, Sands continued. "There are, at this moment, only four people who are aware of this woman's alibi-you and me, my captain, and the woman's lawyer. There has been no publicity. Also, you should be aware that the victim was a small-time drug dealer who had lots of enemies and no friends. I guess what I am trying to say is that the problem is still...uh
...manageable.
It can be handled discreetly, if you know what I mean."

O'Hara snatched the phone receiver off the cradle. "I'm going to phone my attorney," he said.

"Once you bring in the attorney, our options are limited," Sands said as O'Hara dialed. "What I'm telling you is that for a few bucks the problem can be washed."

O'Hara stopped dialing. Slowly, he set the receiver down. Cautiously, and without looking Sands in the eye, he lifted the cover of the cigarette box, picked up a smoke, hung it on his lip. "Care for a drink?"

"You bet."

Sands followed the movie star through a wide doorway into an expansive wood-paneled den. The walls were decorated with everything from a ship's angel to carved wooden duck decoys. On the mantel above the fireplace stood oriental vases. O'Hara stepped behind a bar that must have been twelve feet long and asked Sands what he'd like to drink. Sands said scotch. O'Hara set two glasses on the bar and filled them three fingers high.

"I don't know if you're aware of this," Sands said. "But cops look up to you. Your movies show cops in a good light. And on the talk shows you always have good things to say about law-enforcement people. You're not one of those left-wing movie types."

O'Hara forced a smile as he dropped ice in the drinks.

"I guess what I'm saying is that no self-respecting cop, including myself, would want to see your career ruined by a lot of bad publicity,"

"This ... uh ... prostitute. You say she is represented by an attorney?"

Sands picked up his drink. "Who happens to be an old friend of mine." He sipped and swallowed. "Las Vegas is a very small town, in certain ways."

"I see." O'Hara downed half his drink and set the glass back on the bar.

Sands cleared his throat. "At this point I'm in control of the situation. No one has talked to the press."

"I'm more than willing to handle the matter...uh...discreetly, but I'd prefer to have my attorney here to represent me. Is that too much to ask?"

"There are too many people involved as it is," Sands said. "And the time bomb is ticking."

O'Hara had a perplexed look, an expression like nothing Sands had ever seen him use on screen. "If you choose to bring your lawyer in, everything is on the record from here on out," Sands said. "You will have lost the opportunity to handle things painlessly."

O'Hara downed the rest of his drink, stared into the glass. "What is it going to take?"

"Money."

"How much money?"

"Fifty thousand dollars."

"Out of the question."

"Twenty thousand goes to my captain. The lawyer and the prostitute will settle for fifteen. I get fifteen. That's a total of fifty."

"So, you have it all figured out."

"Yes, sir."

O'Hara stabbed an index finger at Sands's face.
"Look,
fella," he hissed. "Right now you have as much to lose as I do. I have violated no law. You are the one who just solicited a bribe. That's extortion. I could pick up the phone and turn you in right at this very moment. I could call your chief...or the governor of the State of Nevada!"