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Chapter 25:
In his suite
of offices at the Los Angeles Police Academy building, Felix Buckman
sorted among the memos, letters, and documents on his desk, mechanically
selecting the ones that needed Herb Maime's attention and discarding those
that could wait. He worked rapidly, with no real interest. As he inspected
the various papers, Herb, in his own office, began typing out the first
informal statement which Buckman would make public concerning the death of
his sister.
Both men
finished after a brief interval and met in Buckman's main office, where he
kept his crucial activities. At his oversize oak desk.
Seated
behind the desk he read over Herb's first draft. "Do we have to do this?"
he said, when he had finished reading it.
"Yes," Herb
said. "If you weren't so dazed by grief you'd be the first to recognize
it. Your being able to see matters of this sort clearly has kept you at
policy level; if you hadn't had that faculty they'd have reduced you to
training-school major five years ago."
"Then
release it," Buckman said. "Wait." He motioned for Herb to come back. "You
quote the coroner. Won't the media know that the coroner's investigation
couldn't be completed this soon?"
"I'm
backdating the time of death. I'm stipulating that it took place
yesterday. For that reason."
"Is that
necessary?"
Herb said
simply, "Our statement has to come first. Before theirs. And they won't
wait for the coroner's inquest to be completed."
"All right,"
Buckman said. "Release it."
***
Peggy Beason
entered his office, carrying several classified police memoranda and a
yellow file. "Mr. Buckman," she said, "at a time like this I don't want to
bother you, but these -"
"I'll look
at them," Buckman said. But that's all, he said to himself. Then I'm going
home.
Peggy said,
"I knew you were looking for this particular file. So was Inspector
McNulty. It just arrived, about ten minutes ago, from Data Central." She
placed the file before him on the blotter of his desk. "The Jason Taverner
file."
Astonished,
Buckman said, "But there is no Jason Taverner file."
"Apparently
someone else had it out, " Peggy said. " Anyhow they just put it on the
wire, so they must have just now gotten it back. There's no note of
explanation; Data Central merely -"
"Go away and
let me look at it," Buckman said.
Quietly,
Peggy Beason left his office, closing the door behind her.
"I shouldn't
have talked to her like that," Buckman said to Herb Maime.
"It's
understandable."
Opening the
Jason Taverner file, Buckman uncovered a glossy eight-by-five publicity
still. Clipped to it a memo read: Courtesy of the Jason Taverner Show,
nine o'clock Tuesday nights on NBC.
"Jesus God,"
Buckman said. The gods, he thought, are playing with us. Pulling off our
wings.
Leaning
over, Herb looked to see, too. Together, they gazed down at the publicity
still, wordlessly, until finally Herb said, "Let's see what else there
is."
Buckman
tossed the eight-by-five photo aside with its memo, read the first page of
the file.
"How many
viewers?" Herb said.
"Thirty
million," Buckman said. Reaching, he picked up his phone. "Peggy," he
said, "get the NBC TV outlet here in L.A. KNBC or whatever it is. Put me
through to one of the network executives, the higher the better. Tell them
it's us."
"Yes, Mr.
Buckman."
A moment
later a responsible-looking face appeared on the phone screen and in
Buckman's ear a voice said, "Yes, sir. What can we do for you, General?"
"Do you
carry the Jason Taverner Show?" Buckman said.
"Every
Tuesday night for three years. At nine o'clock sharp."
"You've
aired it for three years?"
"Yes,
General."
Buckman hung
up the phone.
"Then what
was Taverner doing in Watts," Herb Maime said, "buying forged ID cards?"
Buckman
said, "We couldn't even get a birth record on him. We worked every data
bank that exists, every newspaper file. Have you ever heard of the Jason
Taverner Show on NBC at nine o'clock Tuesday night?"
"No," Herb
said cautiously, hesitating.
"You're not
sure?"
"We've
talked so much about Taverner -"
"I never
heard of it," Buckman said. "And I watch two hours of TV every night.
Between eight and ten." He turned to the next page of the file, hurling
the first page away; it fell to the floor and Herb retrieved it.
On the
second page: a list of the recordings that Jason Taverner had made over
the years, giving title, stock number, and date. He stared sightlessly at
the list; it went back nineteen years.
Herb said,
"He did tell us he's a singer. And one of his ID cards put him in the
musicians' union. So that part is true."
"It's all
true," Buckman said harshly. He flipped to page three. It disclosed Jason
Taverner's financial worth, the sources and amounts of his income. "A lot
more than I make," Buckman said, ''as a police general. More than you and
I make together."
"He had
plenty of money when we had him in here. And he gave Kathy Nelson a hell
of a lot of money. Remember?"
"Yes, Kathy
told McNulty that; I remember it from McNulty's report." Buckman pondered,
meanwhile mindlessly dog-earing the edge of the Xerox page. And then
ceased. Abruptly.
"What is
it?" Herb said.
"This is a
Xerox copy. The file at Data Central is never pulled; only copies are sent
out."
Herb said,
"But it has to be pulled to be Xeroxed."
"A period of
five seconds," Buckman said.
"I don't
know," Herb said. "Don't ask me to explain it. I don't know how long it
takes."
"Sure you
do. We all do. We've watched it done a million times. It goes on all day."
"Then the
computer erred."
Buckman
said, "Okay. He has never had any political affiliations; he's entirely
clean. Good for him." He leafed further into the file. "Mixed up with the
Syndicate for a while. Carried a gun but had a permit for it. Was sued two
years ago by a viewer who said a blackout skit was a takeoff on him.
Someone named Artemus Franks living in Des Moines. Taverner's attorneys
won." He read here and there, not searching for anything in particular,
just marveling. "His forty-five record, 'Nowhere Nuthin' Fuck-up,' which
is his latest, has sold over two million copies. Ever heard of it?"
"I don't
know," Herb said.
Buckman
gazed up at him for a time. "I never heard of it. That's the difference
between you and me, Maime. You're not sure. I am."
"You're
right," Herb said. "But I really don't know, at this point. I find this
very confusing, and we have other business; we have to think about Alys
and the coroner's report. We should talk to him as soon as possible. He's
probably still at the house; I'll call him and you can -"
"Taverner,"
Buckman said, "was with her when she died."
"Yes, we
know that. Chancer said so. You decided it wasn't important. But I do
think just for the record we should haul him in and talk to him. See what
he has to say."
"Could Alys
have known him before today?" Buckman said. He thought, Yes, she always
liked sixes, especially the ones in the entertainment field. Such as
Heather Hart. She and the Hart woman had a three-month romance the year
before last ... a relationship which I almost failed to hear about: they
did a good job of hushing it up. That was one time Alys kept her mouth
shut.
He saw,
then, in Jason Taverner's file a mention of Heather Hart; his eyes fixed
on it as he thought about her. Heather Hart had been Taverner's mistress
for roughly a year.
"After all,"
Buckman said, "both of them are sixes."
"Taverner
and who?"
"Heather
Hart. The singer. This file is up to date; it says Heather Hart appeared
on Jason Taverner's show this week. His special guest." He tossed the file
away from him, rummaged in his coat pocket for his cigarettes.
"Here." Herb
extended his own pack.
Buckman
rubbed his chin, then said, "Let's have the Hart woman brought in, too.
Along with Taverner."
"Okay. "
Nodding, Herb made a note of that on his customary vest-pocket pad.
"It was
Jason Taverner," Buckman said quietly, as if to himself, "who killed Alys.
Jealous over Heather Hart. He found out about their relationship."
Herb Maime
blinked.
"Isn't that
right?" Buckman gazed up at Herb Maime, steadily.
"Okay," Herb
Maime said after a time.
"Motive.
Opportunity. A witness: Chancer, who can testify that Taverner came
running out apprehensively and tried to get hold of the keys to Alys's
quibble. And then when Chancer went in the house to investigate, his
suspicions aroused, Taverner ran off and escaped. With Chancer shooting
over his head, telling him to stop."
Herb nodded.
Silently.
"That's it,"
Buckman said.
"Want him
picked up right away?"
"As soon as
possible."
"We'll
notify all the checkpoints. Put out an APB. If he's still in Los Angeles
we may be able to catch him with an EEG-gram projection from a copter. A
match of patterns, as they're beginning to do now in New York. In fact we
can have a New York police copter brought in just for this."
Buckman
said, "Fine."
"Will we say
that Taverner was involved in her orgies?"
"There were
no orgies," Buckman said.
"Holbein and
those with him will -"
"Let them
prove it," Buckman said. "Here in a court in California. Where we have
jurisdiction."
Herb said,
"Why Taverner?"
"It has to
be somebody," Buckman said, half to himself; he intertwined his fingers
before him on the surface of his great antique oak desk. With his fingers
he pressed convulsively, training with all the force he possessed,
one finger against another. "It always, always," he said, "has to be
somebody. And Taverner is somebody important. Just what she liked. In fact
that's why he was there; that's the celebrity type she preferred. And" -
he glanced up - why not? He'll do just fine. " Yes, why not? he
thought, and continued grimly to press his fingers tighter and tighter
together on the desk before him.
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