Perdition, U.S.A. Page 11

  Grant tensed. “Now listen up, number one son, I know I’m not going to be the first through the door any more. I realize my limitations. But I can do some of the leg work.”

  “Nobody said you couldn’t, Dex.”

  “You fuckin’ right. If I sit around on my fat ass counting the days to my next pension check I’ll be dead for sure. I’ve been some kind of cop damn near since I was out of knee pants. Let an old man have his fun.”

  “Whatever you find out, you let me know, dig? No one-man shows.”

  “Okay, grandma.”

  They finished their breakfast making small talk. Afterward, Grant drove off in his cherry 1967 Buick Electra 225. Monk headed over to his office where he found a woman waiting.

  She was sitting in one of the Paris chairs in the rotunda, reading some pages stapled together. Her slim attache case with gold leaf Gothic initials rested against the side of her nyloned leg.

  “Ms. Ysaguirre-Chacon.”

  “Mr. Monk.” She offered a manicured hand sans polish. “How’d you find out my name?”

  He shook it. “You tracked me down as well. Once I found your office, I worked backwards through the court records.”

  “Can we talk inside?”

  “Of course.”

  Delilah tuned the radio on her desk to the all-news station and said, “Mrs. Urbanski called. She’ll be here at eleven. And she sounded like she expected to see you.”

  Monk snarled playfully at her. The attorney rose and Monk was greeted with a fragrance he couldn’t identify. It was strong but not overpowering. The counselor was wearing a tailored Anne Klein II burgundy slacks suit and low heels. Her black hair was cut short and stylishly framed her angular brown face. He opened the door for her and she entered his office.

  Ysaguirre-Chacon took a seat in one of the Eastlakes and crossed her legs. Monk plopped down opposite her in his padded swivel and said, “How is it that you came to represent Herbert Jones, Ms. Ysaguirre-Chacon?”

  “Chacon will do, my married name can be a bit much I know.” Her voice was pleasant but not powdery. It seemed to Monk that Ms. Chacon had perfected the image she wanted to project.

  “The law firm I work for, as you may have guessed, does its fair share of pro bono work and we drew the case of Mr. Jones.”

  Her gaze never left Monk’s face. “And of course that’s what brought me to the back issue department of the Press-Telegram.”

  “What did you expect to find?”

  A kind of crease appeared on one side of her mouth. She seemed to be humoring Monk’s request. “My client maintains his innocence. Yes, he knew Aaron. He did business with Aaron. He had an argument with Aaron that night. But they went their separate ways. He admits he has no alibi. But he’s straightening out. He’s been in de-tox. With a clear head, he says he’s innocent.”

  Monk pivoted slightly from side to side in his chair. “What brings you here?”

  “You mean aside from that little deception of yours at my office?”

  Monk put a hand to his cheek in an imitation of Jack Benny. “Oh that. How did you get on to me?”

  “In my travels I had a conversation with a Captain Olson last night.”

  “Just after the Sentinel had come out.”

  “Hmm. I was getting a copy of their arrest report and he asked me if I knew someone named Monk. I told him no then he showed me your booking photo.”

  “I was interested in why you were getting the same back issues as I was.”

  “Now you know. Now I want to know what you might know that can help my client.”

  “I’m not sure I can, counselor. What the paper reported is more or less accurate. I was following a guy and chanced upon an attempted hit by this man with the pasty complexion.”

  “Which theory are you ascribing to the killer?”

  “I honestly haven’t made up my mind, Ms. Chacon. Can I talk with your client?”

  Ms. Chacon picked up her brief case and placed it on her lap. She extracted what Monk believed were the same stapled sheets she’d been looking at earlier. She put them face up on the clean finish of his colonial desk. “That’s a standard contract we provide to investigators who do work for our firm.”

  Monk noticed the retainer outlined on the front page. It was less than his optimum, but a hell of lot better than the money he’d already run through from Clarice. “I suppose you’ve petitioned the court to pick up the cost of an investigator for the defense.”

  Chacon smoothed out a side of her efficient hairdo. “As you’re aware, the majority of court appointed investigators are ex-policeman. Individuals with certain perspectives who are not always inclined to be as impartial, or as thorough as they should.”

  “And courts ain’t exactly hip on picking up the tab of investigators who don’t posses that outlook,” Monk added from trying experiences.

  “In light of these recent events, the judge agreed to my request for your assignment.”

  “So you believe Jones.”

  “I believe he should get the best defense afforded him.”

  “Given the current state of my finances and the twenties I keep handing out like coupons for information, I definitely have incentive.”

  “I was hoping you might.” She put her case down again and adjusted her body in the chair. Confident but not smug.

  Monk placed a hand on top of the contract. “I want to talk to Jones before I sign this.”

  “Fine, as long as you understand he’s in bad shape, chemical dependency-wise. Though he is an articulate man.”

  Not knowing how to react to such a statement, Monk said, “Okay.”

  Chacon got out of her seat, grabbing her case in the same motion. “I’ve got some other errands to run today, but I’ll set something up for tomorrow.”

  Monk offered his hand and she shook it. “I’ve got a notion I want to look into. I may be out and about tomorrow but you can schedule it through Delilah.”

  “Very good, Mr. Monk.”

  “Ivan.”

  “Fine.”

  He followed her out to the rotunda and placed the contract on Delilah’s desk. Over the radio, he heard a press conference going on. “What’s all that?” he said, pointing a thumb in the direction of the radio as Chacon left.

  Delilah was reading the contract. “Grainger Wu’s talking about an incident that happened in West Hollywood last night. Seems his aide Walter Kane was in a bar that some rowdies tried to torch.”

  Monk listened for several moments as Wu continued talking.

  “As good citizens we can’t sit on the sidelines and let others carry the game. This is a fight that concerns the very future of our state, if not our country.” Wu put a hand around Walter Kane’s shoulder, giving him a demonstrative hug. “In this post-Cold War era, when our country faces serious economic hardships, citizens are becoming polarized around many social issues.

  “As a result, there has been the rise of an increasingly violent racist backlash. Indeed, the green light was given in the Reagan-Bush years.”

  Wu finished up and answered several questions from the gathered members of the press. Kane shook Wu’s hand, then excused himself. Ursala Brock sidled up to the senator as the press departed to file their stories.

  “Look, Grainger, I think you need to be a bit more tactical on this matter.”

  “You mean backpedal the issue, Ursala?” Wu started to roll up the sleeves of his striped shirt.

  “You know what the hell I mean. Them old crackers and New Democrats we got ain’t much, but we damned sure need their votes on the military conversion bill.”

  Wu smiled lazily. “And civil rights is just another special interest.”

  Brock looked impatient. “Sadly, for too many in the country, it is. That doesn’t make it right, but it makes it real. And if we want to accomplish any part of our agenda, we need to be around for the long haul.”

  “Sometimes pragmatism has to give way to what’s right.” He went off to take care of another matter. />
  Brock stared after him, then disappeared into her office.

  Monk said, “I’m heading out now, D. I’ve gotta look up some stuff at the Press-Telegram.”

  “What about Urbanski?”

  Monk was almost to the door. “Damn.” He checked his watch. “All right, I’ll hang around. Do me a favor, and call your girl Ms. Scarn and tell her I’d love to do her presentation in the hinterlands, but I’m too wrapped up in my current investigation.”

  Dryly, the woman Friday said, “I’ll give your regrets and make sure she books you for something spectacular like a Rotarian banquet.”

  “Way cool.” He made calls while waiting for the elusive Ms. Urbanski. “Gloria, Monk,” he said when the line connected.

  “Lover come back to me,” she serenaded into her end of the receiver.

  “Absolutely. Are there any particular crimes that you recall taking place in the Shores?”

  “You mean something sensational like the Menendez killings?”

  “No. More like was there any sort of case where the crook was caught, the evidence seemingly stacked solidly against him, but he walked anyway. It would have to be where the perpetrator was black and the victim white.”

  Circuits buzzed over the line, then Traylor said, “Most of the stuff over there involving our people is the same sad story, black on black. Not much in the way of O.J.-mania.”

  “I hear you,” Monk commiserated.

  “But let me think about it and I’ll talk with the paper’s cop shop reporter if you want.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “You better.” She hung up on her end of the conversation.

  Monk depressed the phone’s plunger and dialed Kodama’s number that was a direct line into her chambers. He got her internal answering service and left a brief message. Just as he replaced the receiver, his door swung inward and the woman he presumed was Mrs. Urbanski stepped inside.

  She was tall, blonde, lithe and walked with an unencumbered bearing. Monk guessed she was in her mid to late forties. She wore a crinkled white swing dress with a sleeveless black silk T which displayed a set of triceps she didn’t get from lifting shoe bags at the Beverly Center. On top of her head was a modified straw boater with a black sash for the headband. She extended a lavender-nailed hand to the standing Monk.

  “I’m Tassia Urbanski, Mr. Monk.”

  “Pleased to meet you, have a seat.”

  She did and Monk went back to sit in his chair. “Sorry we kept missing each other. What can I do for you?”

  “I believe you met my business partner who calls himself Swede.” As she talked, she opened a silver cigarette case she’d retrieved from her purse.

  Monk leaned across the desk to light it with the Zippo his sister had given him on a past birthday. “We had a pleasant little chat.”

  Her lips puckered and she blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “I might mention that he bragged about his pulling a knife on you.”

  “Are you lovers? Was he trying to impress you?” Monk could feel his neck getting warm.

  “Impress, no doubt—to get in my pants, no doubt. But lovers, not on this earth, my dear.”

  “I didn’t tell Swede who I was,” Monk remarked.

  She took a deep drag on her smoke and exhaled. “My agent in the dress factory provided me with the license number of your fabulous Ford and a description. It matched the way Swede described you.” She took another puff and regarded Monk through the rising haze. “Although his was not as flattering.”

  She was taking him down a garden path on the way to a maze. “Your agent?”

  She tapped ash into the onyx tray on Monk’s desk. “My apologies, I have a tendency to jump into the middle of a story. My late husband and Swede, whose real name is Alexandre Jorburg, were pals in the service. Both of them fancied themselves big wheels. After the Army, they tried a series of ventures, boiler room office product sales, rock concert promoting, even some bookie operations in Florida.”

  Monk wondered about her role in those activities. It must have shown on his face because she added:

  “I’m Leon’s—that’s the late Mr. Urbanski’s—third wife. I don’t come into this story until he and Swede got into the clothing and accessories racket.”

  “Hence Swede’s fake watch deal.”

  “Yes. At any rate, Leon died two years ago from a massive heart attack. I warned him that he smoked and drank too much and didn’t get enough exercise.” As if the departed husband admonished her from the beyond, she ground the cigarette out. “My background includes being a buyer for various chains, Robinsons, Macys, and so on. For Leon I helped do sales, but pretty much stayed out of the business.”

  “But you inherited his half of the business when he passed.”

  “Exactly. And therein lies my tale of torment. Over the years, Leon told me of Swede’s nefarious dealings. At first, it was quite the catharsis for him. But it seems as he matured, and settled into legitimacy, he grew weary—and leery—of Swede’s outlaw activities.”

  Monk was of a mind to pose an argument on the legitimacy of the garment trade from the viewpoint of the workers but demurred. “Now you have to deal with Swede directly.”

  Mrs. Urbanski placed tanned hands on her lap. On her right wrist was a silver bracelet set with a piece of turquoise veined in orange. Absently, she fingered the stone with her tapered fingers. “I’ve suspected he’s been running a few of his extracurricular operations out of one or all of the jobber shops we own. As I indicated, I have a few employees who let me know what he’s up to so my information is pretty good.”

  Which was not the same as proof, but he said, “How many shops would that be?”

  “Three. The one you were at, one not too far from there, and another in Commerce.”

  “So you want me to get the lowdown on Swede and get him put away.”

  “I don’t care if he goes to jail or not, Mr. Monk. All I care about is him becoming my ex-partner.”

  She let that hang between them, and for a fast moment Monk imagined she might even be suggesting Swede’s permanent removal. Then she spoke again.

  “I’ll pay you your rate to get the goods on Swede, enough so he’ll sell out his part. It’s actually more like a third since he’s often borrowed against it for one deal or another.”

  “Can you afford to buy him out?”

  “I have other options.”

  What ever the hell that meant. “How come Swede stays in the business now that your husband’s dead?”

  “Believe me, I’ve asked him that a time or two.”

  Monk had an idea but kept it to himself. He also wondered if Mrs. Urbanski hadn’t been sent as Swede’s goat in some elaborate con. “I assume you have proof of who you say you are, Mrs. Urbanski?”

  She smiled sweetly and plucked a stuffed letter-sized envelope from her purse. “I think this will answer your questions.” She placed the envelope on the desk and rose to her full height. “Why don’t I give you a day or two to think about it. I’ve left my answering service number for you to get in contact with me.”

  Monk was also on his feet. “Seeing as how Swede got the best of me the other day, why’d you come here rather than someone else?”

  “I asked some lawyer friends if they’d heard about you. In turn, I talked with an attorney named Parrin Teague who spoke well of your work.”

  Monk nodded. He’d done a couple of jobs for Teague in the past.

  “Plus it seemed to me you’d have a reason to get back at Swede for—” She dropped it, letting discretion take over. “And frankly, that incident was a signal to me it was time to do something I’d been thinking about for sometime. After all, it might be me next he puts a knife to.”

  “You probably have something there, Mrs. Urbanski. I’ll get back to you day after tomorrow.”

  “Very good, Mr. Monk” She tipped her hat and left the office.

  Delilah came in less than thirty seconds later. “Well, well. Two good-looking wo
man in your office in less than an hour. What’s the judge going to say about that?”

  “She’ll be ecstatic about my initiative.” Monk was looking through the papers Tassia Urbanski had left. They included the business licenses, legal incorporations, and the lawyer of record for the umbrella firm that owned the three finishing factories. It went by the tony name of New World Rage. There was a joke in there some place but Monk refolded the papers and handed them over to Delilah.

  “Make like a detective and check out the info in that paperwork, D.”

  “How the hell many cases you planning on juggling at the same time, Joe Mannix?” She sat down.

  Monk brought her up to date. “I don’t want to let my eyes get bigger than my stomach but I think I can chew on all three of these at once. Especially since two of them converge.”

  “And they’re paying the bills. But sometimes I can’t figure if you really believe the bullshit you say, or if you think that by saying it, that makes it so.”

  Monk was standing next to his old-fashioned coat rack and removing the houndstooth jacket Kodama had picked out for him last month. “That’s funny, neither can I.” He slipped on the coat over his wide-striped shirt and olive-twill cotton pants. He left his .45 locked in the closet.

  “I’ll probably be down at the Press-Telegram back issue department for the rest of the day if you need to reach me.” He wrote down the number and handed it to Delilah. “If Ms. Chacon calls, she’s to tell you a time when I can go visit her client. Call me over at the paper if she does. And if Dex calls, give him the number, too.”

  “Whatever you desire, oh master.” Delilah still sat, reading through the papers that established Mrs. Urbanski’s bona fides.

  “Thanks, genie.” Monk got back out to Long Beach and the archival den of Gloria Traylor. Since it was the lunch hour, he had to wait for her return.

  “Hey, good-looking,” she said upon sighting him leaning against the wall in the hallway. Traylor was dressed in a jumpsuit with oversized brass buttons in a line from the center of her sternum to her navel.