MR. TOKARIK: Don’t say anything, Chip. Let me handle this.
MR. JONES: I want to deal, goddamit! I want out!
bET. S’rURGIS: What do you have to deal with, Chipper?
MR. JONES: Information hard facts. Things my dad’s been doing. Real
murder. There was a doctor at the hospital named Ashmore-he must have
been bothering my dad about something. Because I overheard my dad and
one of his lackeys-a worm named Novak-I heard them talking about it
when I went to visit my dad at his house. They were in the library and
didn’t know I was standing right outside the door-they never paid much
attention to me. They were saying this guy, this doctor, would have to
be handled. That with all the security problems at the hospital it
shouldn’t be a problem. I didn’t really think much of it, but then a
month later, Ashmore was murdered in the hospital parking lot. So
there had to be a connection, right? I’m sure my dad had him killed.
Take a close look at it-believe me, it’ll make all this nonsense look
trivial.
bET. STURGIS: All this folderol, huh?
MR. JONES: Believe me, just investigate.
bET. STuRGIS: Selling the old man down the river, huh?
MR. JONES: He never did a thing for me. Never protected me-not once,
not a single time!
bET. STu~Gis: Hear that, Counselor? There’s your defense: a bad
childhood. Bye, Chip. C’mon, Steve.
bET. MARTINEZ: See y’all in court.
MR. JONES: WaitMR. TOKARiK: Chip, there’s no need. The indictment
made the third page of a news-thin Saturday paper.
The headline was PROFESSOR CHARGED WITH MURDER AND CHILD ABUSE, and an
old college photo of Chip was included. In it, he looked like a happy
hippie; the article described him as a “sociological researcher and
recipient of several teaching awards.” The mandatory sample of
disbelieving colleagues was quoted.
Next week’s story swallowed that one up: Chuck Jones and George Plumb’s
arrests for conspiracy to commit the murder of Laurence Ashmore.
A co-conspirator named Warren Novak-one of the gray accountants-had cut
a deal and was telling all, including the fact that Plumb had
instructed him to draw cash out of a hospital account to pay a hired
killer. The man who’d actually cracked Ashmore’s skull was described
as a former bodyguard for Charles Jones named Henry lee Kudey. A photo
showed him being escorted to jail by an unnamed federal agent. Kudey
was big and heavy and sloppy-looking and appeared to have just woken
up. The marshal was blond and wore black-framed spectacles. His face
was a nearly equilateral triangle. As a Western Peds Security guard
he’d called himself A. b. Sylvester.
I wondered why a government agent would be doing the arresting on a
homicide until I came to the final paragraph: Federal charges against
Chuck Jones and his gang for “alleged financial wrongdoings based upon
a lengthy government probe” were imminent. Anonymous “federal
officials” were quoted. The names Huenengarth and Zimberg never
appeared.
At four o’clock on a Tuesday, I made my fourth attempt to reach Anna
Ashmore. The first three times, no one had answered at the house on
Whittier Drive. This time, a man did.
“Who’s calling?” he said.
Alex Delaware. I’m on the staff at Western Pediatric Hospital.
Paid a condolence call last week and just wanted to see how she’s
doing.”
“Oh. Well, this is her attorney, Nathan Best. She’s doing as well as
can be expected. left for New York last night to visit with some old
friends.”
Any idea when she’ll be back?”
“I’m not sure she will.”
“Okay,” I said. “If you speak to her, give her my best.”
All right. What did you say your name was?”
“Delaware.”
Are you a doctor?”
“Psychologist.”
“You wouldn’t be in the market for some bargain real estate, would you,
Doctor? The estate will be divesting itself of several properties.”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, if you know someone who is, tell them. Bye.”
At five o’clock, I stuck to a recently acquired routine and drove to a
small white house on a shady dead-end street in West L. A just east of
Santa Monica.
This time Robin came along with me. I parked and got out.