Follow the Money

8


Always talk to people in person because it’s easier to tell if they’re lying. A few afternoons later, Jendrek’s words ran through my head as I drove the streets of Hollywood, looking for Carole Bishop’s apartment. When I finally found the run-down building, with its cracked outer walls and sagging gutters, I parked along the curb behind a black Ford Taurus. I could see the back of the bald head of the guy sitting in it talking on a cell phone.

I sat in my car and flipped through the police report. Twelve years earlier, Detective Wilson summarized the essential facts on a single page. Carole Bishop was a hairdresser. She lived with her son, Matt, and her daughter, Jessica. She generally got off work about six and was home by six-thirty. Such was the case on the night in question. When she arrived, Matt and Jessica were already home. She made dinner. They ate in front of the TV like they usually did. Carole Bishop went to bed after the news at eleven-thirty. Both of her kids were home the whole time. Later, when the police spoke to Matt and Jessica, they told the same story.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor, wondering if she still lived there. I kept asking myself why I was even there. I shouldn’t have even been the one doing this, but Reilly was too busy and too disengaged to help out. “Do what you need to do,” he’d said. So here I was, wasting my time with Carole Bishop. It wasn’t like she was going to admit her son was a murderer. I found the apartment and stood outside the door, hesitating before knocking. Finally, I just knocked.

I heard movement inside and then the sound of the deadbolt turning. A haggard face appeared in the doorway and the smell of cigarettes came from the dark apartment behind her. The birth date in the police report made her forty-eight, but she didn’t look a day under sixty. With her hoarse smoker’s voice, she asked, “Can I help you?”

“Ms. Bishop?” She nodded. Her eyes darted around. “My name is Oliver Olson, I’m an investigator for the LA Times. I’d like to talk to you about your son.” An investigator? It just came out. I was impressed by the smoothness of my own lie.

“Oh Christ. What the hell has he done now? I would have thought there wouldn’t be anything he could do, being in jail and all. Are you with the prison?” I wasn’t sure what to say. Apparently my lie hadn’t registered with her.

“No, I’m an investigator.” I could hear myself making my voice deeper, as though that would somehow make the lie more believable.

“An investigator?” She seemed taken aback. Then she opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. “Do you work for Ray?”

“Who?”

“Ray Gee? Do you work for him? I told him not to bother us, that we didn’t want anything to do with that goddamned Steele.”

There it was again, Ray Gee, the second time that week. Detective Wilson had mentioned that he’d asked about Matt Bishop. Whoever it was certainly had an interest in the case.

I asked, “Did Mr. Gee come here to see you?” I was trying to play along, but it only seemed to upset her.

“So you do know him.” She started shaking her head. “Nope, goddamn it, all you sons of bitches are the same. Trying to get my Matty to take the fall for that no good Steele. You’re all in on it. You, your boss, that no good Danny Kelly. Every last one of you.”

She turned around to go back inside. I wanted to grab her and stop her. “Ms. Bishop? I told you, I work for the LA Times. I don’t know any Ray Gee. I don’t know anyone named, what was it? Danny?”

“Danny Kelly. That little son of a bitch.” She turned back to face me. She was ranting, as though I represented the raw deal life had handed her and she was determined to let me have it. “To think of all the times he sat at my table when he was a kid. It was his idea to rob that house. He didn’t tell Matty he was going to do it until they were already there. And the only one they catch is Matt. Wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all I can say. Welcome to the f*cking shit-show that is my life.”

“Ms. Bishop, I don’t know anything about that.” I tried to remember the name Danny Kelly. I repeated it over and over in my head. “I’m just doing a story and wanted to ask you about the night of the Steele murder.”

“Listen, why can’t you people just leave us alone?” She put her hands on her hips and stood solid in the doorway. “I told the police everything I knew about that whole thing way back when — and believe me, it wasn’t much. I never met James Steele. I never met that lying cunt daughter of his. And my Matty was home that night. I got home at 6:25 and both my children were there. Jessie will tell you the same thing. We were there all night, all three of us. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

I could see it wasn’t going anywhere. I said, “Ms. Bishop? Is there any way I could speak to your daughter? I’d just like to talk to everyone, just to confirm things.”

She stared at me and then huffed and turned around and went inside without closing the door. She returned a minute later and stuck out a piece of paper. “Here,” she said, as if the paper itself proved a point. “Waste your time if you want. Jessie will tell you the same thing. The story’s not going to change, no matter how many times you ask.”

I gave her my name and number in case she thought of anything else. She shut the door and left me standing there holding Jessica Bishop’s address. It was on the same street, just four blocks up. Talk about the apple not falling fall far from the tree.

Five minutes later I was standing outside a similar door in a similar apartment building, preparing myself for a similar conversation. Through the door I could hear a muffled voice, the sounds of washing dishes, and several children running amok. When I knocked, I could hear what sounded like a woman getting off the phone.

When the door opened, I was struck by the odd symmetry between mother and daughter. She looked at me without smiling or saying anything, as if she were merely waiting for me to deliver whatever new disaster I had brought into her life.

I said, “Hello, I’m looking for Jessica Bishop.”

“It’s Henning now, thanks to my deadbeat ex-husband, but you found her. What do you want?”

I gave her the line about being an investigator. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, as if my very interest in the topic of her brother was outrageous.

“Here we go again,” she said. “Senator Steele thinks he can commit murder and blame it on my brother just because he lived in Hancock Park and we lived in a ratty apartment too close to Western Avenue to be considered anything but white trash.”

Her aggression caught me off guard. When I spoke, my voice sounded defensive. “Steele has stuck to the same story from the beginning.”

“Of course he has. Why would he admit to what he did? But after all this time, if there was any truth to it, don’t you think someone would have found it?” She turned around and shooed the kids away from the door. “I mean, really, no one has ever believed that silly story of his.”

“But what about Steele’s daughter claiming she spoke to you the morning of the murder and you told her that Matt didn’t come home that night?”

She answered as she lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out at me. “Apparently lying runs in their family.”

“So you never spoke to her?”

“Of course not. She never called me. Matt and I were home all evening, watching TV.”

“I know it’s been a long time, but can you remember any details of that evening?”

“Well, I remember my mom getting home at 6:25 and making dinner. We sat around the living room eating and watching the tube. Pretty normal evening, really.”

I listened to her answer. It seemed almost absurd. It came out quick and smooth, as though it required no effort at all to remember. Why would she say “at 6:25” and not “about 6:30” — why the exact time her mother had just suggested? I was pretty sure I knew who she’d been talking to when I got there.

“Matt and I had spent the whole afternoon at home,” she went on, unprompted. “Mom came home right after work. She got off at 6:00.” Everything she said sounded rehearsed. Now Jendrek’s words seemed to have some meaning. She had to be lying. I tried to think of something else to say, but I knew it didn’t matter. This was the story and they were sticking to it.

“I’ve been over this stuff so many times over the years. Saying the same things over and over. I think it’s funny that people have a hard time believing that three people spent a quiet evening at home.” A child squealed in the background. She turned and yelled — “Goddamnit Frankie, you better start acting right. We got company!” — and then turned back to me.

“So like I said,” she continued, “we were sitting around the house like most people do. Nothing exciting.” Her words sounded effortless.

“What can you tell me about Danny Kelly?”

“What do you mean?” she responded, a cautious tone to her voice. Apparently Danny Kelly was not part of the rehearsed material.

“Well, you know Mr. Kelly of course.” I was bluffing, but she didn’t catch me.

Instead, she said, “Sure. He’s a two bit criminal. So what?” Her defenses were going up and I was out of questions. I had no idea what to say next. But the silence was overbearing and Jessica, now feeling defensive, needed to fill it with something. “I mean, he was a friend of Matt’s, not mine.”

“But they’re not friends anymore?”

“Of course not. Danny never did any time for that robbery, and he planned the whole thing.” Her voice was starting to rise. Just like her mother, the subject of Danny Kelly really got to her. She stepped forward and spoke in a low, angry voice.

“Let me tell you something. That goddamned Danny Kelly is what’s wrong with this country. He’s never worked an honest job in his life. And I saw him the other day driving a brand new Corvette. Why don’t you ask him what he did to get that, if you don’t already know.”

“I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She smirked and nodded her head. “Yeah, sure, f*ck you buddy. Investigator for the LA Times my ass. You expect me to believe that? You got a business card or something to prove it? Your friend Ray Gee was around here a few weeks ago asking the same damned questions. He even offered me money to rat my brother out. You probably look around here and think someone like me would do anything for money. Well, that just shows you the difference between you and me. All you people are pathetic.”

“Look, like I told your mother, I don’t know any Ray Gee. I don’t have any idea who he is or why he’s interested in Steele.”

But my protest was futile. She slammed the door in my face. I walked back to my car, thinking it through. The story about being home all night had to be a lie. I could just feel it. Neither of them had to struggle in the least to recall the details of a single evening — a single boring and routine evening — that took place more than a decade before. It was unbelievable.

But then, maybe there was nothing to tell. Maybe they remembered it because they’d retold it so many times. Maybe they’d told it enough times that they now believed it. Maybe they believed it because it was the truth. Maybe. Maybe not.

And then there was Ray Gee. They both seemed pretty certain that I was connected to him and that made me a bad guy. That somehow there was a plot against them and Matt. It seemed paranoid, fantastic, and I would have dismissed it completely had it not been for Detective Wilson mentioning the same name. Who the hell was Ray Gee, and what did he want? He’d offered Jessica Bishop money to rat out her brother? Was that part a lie? Maybe. Maybe not.

I took Third Avenue west. I hadn’t spent much time in that part of town and I was shocked at how quickly the city changed from dilapidated apartments to the opulent estates of Hancock Park. I turned down a wide boulevard with old growth trees arching over the road, throwing dappled light across my car. The homes were huge Spanish style mansions sitting back from the street with manicured lawns and gated driveways.

I drove two blocks and parked the car. I stared across the street at the mustard colored stucco house, with its trimmed hedges and leaded glass windows. I checked the address in the file to be sure I had it right. That was where it happened. But the exterior gave no signal of the horrendous murder that had taken place inside. I studied the second story windows, wondering if one of them was the bathroom. I sat for twenty minutes staring at Steele’s old house. Weirdly, I felt nothing at all.

When I got home, I found an envelope under my door. At first, I assumed it was something from the landlord or a neighbor complaining about something. I tossed my briefcase next to the coffee table and stood in the center of the room while I opened it. Inside the unmarked envelope was a single sheet of paper with a single sentence of typed text. It read, simply: Matt Bishop was not at home that night.

I turned back toward the door with a start. Someone had been to my apartment door. But who? Someone who knew what I was working on and knew where I lived. Someone who believed Matt Bishop was guilty. I made a quick survey of the apartment. Nothing was disturbed. It appeared no one had been inside.

I sat on the couch and turned the envelope over a couple of times. No marks of any kind. It had been hand delivered. I studied the sheet of paper. It had been printed on a laser printer. There were no marks other than the text itself. I leaned back and exhaled, realizing for the first time how tense I was.

Who knew I was working on the case? People at work, certainly, but they would just stop by my office if they had something to say. Steele, but he was in prison. Steele’s daughter, but she was in New York. Besides, neither she nor her father knew where I lived. But that probably wasn’t hard to figure out. But what would be the point? They both had my phone number.

Detective Wilson knew, but he thought Steele was guilty and he also had my work number. Carol and Jessica Bishop knew, but they thought Matt was innocent, and they’d only just met me an hour ago. The only other name that had come up was Ray Gee. Detective Wilson and both Carol and Jessica Bishop had mentioned him. But who was he? And more important, how did he know who I was and where I lived?

I got a legal pad from my brief bag and made a list of names. Then I left a message for the office research librarian. The firm had people there around the clock, fielding requests for all kinds of information. I asked for everything they could get on every name I had: Steele, Andersen, Becky Steele, Sharon Steele, Matt Bishop, Matt’s mother and sister, Danny Kelly, and the elusive Ray Gee.

Then I sat on my couch and drank a beer and tried to sort it all out. Despite the accusations, the suspicions, the conflicting stories, I had absolutely nothing. I could speculate that some guy named Ray Gee had figured out who I was and where I lived and had left me a note. But it was a useless note. Other than the fact that it comported with Steele’s version of events, it said nothing. Jessica Bishop had said Ray Gee offered her money to turn on her brother. Which was even odder. Apparently Ray Gee was interested in helping Steele, but why?

I was still in the same spot. Steele and his daughter said one thing, the Bishops said another. Apparently some anonymous person out there agreed with Steele, but that wasn’t going to cut it. I knew Detective Wilson was right. Unless I could place Matt Bishop in the house, there was no chance.

I was going to have to locate Matt, to see if I could shake him.