Read Online JO03 - Detour to Murder by Jeff Sherratt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeff Sherratt
Tags: USA, legal mystery
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thing, though.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t know what this is all about. I didn’t think he’d talk to us if I mentioned the Roberts thing. So I had to make up something, told him you were a journalist. Doing a story.”
“What kind of story?”
“Told him you’re doing a piece on L.A. in the forties and wanted to interview him about his historic role in eliminating corruption in the DA’s office back then. I’m your assistant.”
The thought of Sol Silverman as an assistant journalist almost made me choke on my coffee.
“Christ, Sol. I don’t know a damn thing about corruption in the forties. How are we going to pull off a charade like that?”
“Just wing it and you’ll do fine, my boy,” Sol said. “We’re meeting Byron at eleven. Hey, there’s something else about Byron you might want to write about.”
“Sol, I’m not gonna write anything. I’m not really a journalist.”
“You can ask him what he did after he left office.”
“Didn’t he run for governor and lose?”
“After that.”
“What did he do?”
“Why don’t you ask Byron? Maybe he’ll tell you about the work he did for the Haskell Foundation.”
C H A P T E R 8
We drove up the coast along Highway 101, and just beyond the moneyed town of Santa Barbara we, turned onto Refugio Road. Heading northwest, we climbed the Santa Ynez Mountains, at the ocean’s edge, and wound around on the one-lane paved road for a number of miles until we descended into a valley of grasslands, large estates and small farms. I’d read in the Times that Governor Reagan had just bought a 600-acre ranch around here somewhere.
We hadn’t taken Sol’s limo. What kind of journalist rode around in a long black limo with a driver who looked like a sumo wrestler? So we made the two-hour trip in my Corvette with Sol in the passenger seat, hollering out directions from a map.
“Slow down, Jimmy! Ah, too late. You just passed the road where we were supposed to turn.”
“Shoulda told me earlier.”
“You weren’t paying attention. Gotta keep your eye on the ball.”
“What ball? There’s no ball out here, just miles of grass, weeds, and a few fenced-in mansions.”
“Those are farmhouses, my boy.” A grin surfaced on Sol’s face. “Ah, the small farmer, back to the soil, and all that. Makes my heart warm just to think of the tax benefits.”
I hung a U, drove back, and turned onto the gravel road. After driving about a mile farther the road ended at Frank Byron’s ranch. A sign, “Rancho de la Estrellas,” hung over the entrance of a long driveway. We pulled up in a front of an adobe-style mansion, a two-story house with rough plaster walls made to look like sun-dried brick. Red clay barrel tiles covered the roof.
A man who said he was Byron’s valet answered the door and we stepped into the entry, an open space with a rough-hewed wood-beam ceiling, Saltillo tile floor, and windows that looked out onto a rocky cactus garden. We followed along behind the slow-walking stiff as he escorted us to the library. He wore a white dinner jacket with a black tie. His outfit didn’t seem to fit with the Santa Fe décor. A sombrero would’ve helped.
“Mr. Byron had an unexpected long distance phone call. He will join you momentarily,” he said and quietly slipped away, closing the door behind him.
Built-in bookcases lined the walls next to a huge sandstone fireplace. A mahogany desk with a surface the size of Rhode Island stood at the far end of the room, and a set of enormous steer horns, mounted high on the wall opposite the fireplace, added a touch of whimsy, I thought. Were the horns a trophy? Did Byron go out and shoot a cow? At least he didn’t stick the whole damn head up there. That would’ve been a bit much.
Threadbare, probably ancient Navajo rugs covered the floor, and a bronze sculpture of a bucking bronco, about two feet tall, rested in a lighted cubicle cut into the wall. The room reminded me of a cowboy museum. I
“What?”
“He doesn’t know what this is all about. I didn’t think he’d talk to us if I mentioned the Roberts thing. So I had to make up something, told him you were a journalist. Doing a story.”
“What kind of story?”
“Told him you’re doing a piece on L.A. in the forties and wanted to interview him about his historic role in eliminating corruption in the DA’s office back then. I’m your assistant.”
The thought of Sol Silverman as an assistant journalist almost made me choke on my coffee.
“Christ, Sol. I don’t know a damn thing about corruption in the forties. How are we going to pull off a charade like that?”
“Just wing it and you’ll do fine, my boy,” Sol said. “We’re meeting Byron at eleven. Hey, there’s something else about Byron you might want to write about.”
“Sol, I’m not gonna write anything. I’m not really a journalist.”
“You can ask him what he did after he left office.”
“Didn’t he run for governor and lose?”
“After that.”
“What did he do?”
“Why don’t you ask Byron? Maybe he’ll tell you about the work he did for the Haskell Foundation.”
C H A P T E R 8
We drove up the coast along Highway 101, and just beyond the moneyed town of Santa Barbara we, turned onto Refugio Road. Heading northwest, we climbed the Santa Ynez Mountains, at the ocean’s edge, and wound around on the one-lane paved road for a number of miles until we descended into a valley of grasslands, large estates and small farms. I’d read in the Times that Governor Reagan had just bought a 600-acre ranch around here somewhere.
We hadn’t taken Sol’s limo. What kind of journalist rode around in a long black limo with a driver who looked like a sumo wrestler? So we made the two-hour trip in my Corvette with Sol in the passenger seat, hollering out directions from a map.
“Slow down, Jimmy! Ah, too late. You just passed the road where we were supposed to turn.”
“Shoulda told me earlier.”
“You weren’t paying attention. Gotta keep your eye on the ball.”
“What ball? There’s no ball out here, just miles of grass, weeds, and a few fenced-in mansions.”
“Those are farmhouses, my boy.” A grin surfaced on Sol’s face. “Ah, the small farmer, back to the soil, and all that. Makes my heart warm just to think of the tax benefits.”
I hung a U, drove back, and turned onto the gravel road. After driving about a mile farther the road ended at Frank Byron’s ranch. A sign, “Rancho de la Estrellas,” hung over the entrance of a long driveway. We pulled up in a front of an adobe-style mansion, a two-story house with rough plaster walls made to look like sun-dried brick. Red clay barrel tiles covered the roof.
A man who said he was Byron’s valet answered the door and we stepped into the entry, an open space with a rough-hewed wood-beam ceiling, Saltillo tile floor, and windows that looked out onto a rocky cactus garden. We followed along behind the slow-walking stiff as he escorted us to the library. He wore a white dinner jacket with a black tie. His outfit didn’t seem to fit with the Santa Fe décor. A sombrero would’ve helped.
“Mr. Byron had an unexpected long distance phone call. He will join you momentarily,” he said and quietly slipped away, closing the door behind him.
Built-in bookcases lined the walls next to a huge sandstone fireplace. A mahogany desk with a surface the size of Rhode Island stood at the far end of the room, and a set of enormous steer horns, mounted high on the wall opposite the fireplace, added a touch of whimsy, I thought. Were the horns a trophy? Did Byron go out and shoot a cow? At least he didn’t stick the whole damn head up there. That would’ve been a bit much.
Threadbare, probably ancient Navajo rugs covered the floor, and a bronze sculpture of a bucking bronco, about two feet tall, rested in a lighted cubicle cut into the wall. The room reminded me of a cowboy museum. I
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