At Sword's Point (5 page)

The tuna-melt sandwich and potato salad had been Drummond's staple lunch fare for almost as long as he could remember. Certainly in the ten years that he'd been working out of Parker Center, Drummond couldn't remember more than half a dozen lunches when he'd eaten anything else. Finishing the last forkful of potato salad, he was eyeing a slice of lemon meringue pie in the cold cabinet when his beeper started chirruping on his belt.

As he instinctively reached down for the paging device, his hand brushed against the neoprene combat grips on the small .38 caliber revolver snug against his hip. Except for the incident in his office earlier, Drummond felt almost embarrassed to be carrying a gun, but the moment passed, and he popped the pager off his belt and held it near his face. Shading the LED readout with his hand, he squinted to read the message in the glaring light of the restaurant.

REPORT TO OFFICE… REPORT TO OFFICE… REPORT TO…

Drummond slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter and stood up to leave.

"Gotta go, Paula. Thanks." Drummond headed toward the door.

"Hold on, Captain." Paula's voice was husky, reminding Drummond of Marjorie Main, a delightful old character actress who had been his neighbor when he was a small boy.

"I'm in a rush, Paula." Drummond's voice was pleading, but he had stopped and turned back.

"Thanks for the tip. Here's your iced tea." Paula handed him a large cup and a straw. "Have a nice day."

Standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change so he could cross Los Angeles Street, Drummond saw the three men heading down the concrete apron in front of LAPD's Parker Center. The short, pudgy man in the tan suit and loud tie looked like an attorney, and sweated like one, too. Even from across the street, Drummond could see dark perspiration patches under the arms of the man's jacket.

The other two were the Israelis, and Drummond could tell from their body language that they were not a couple of happy campers. Meier was looking a bit worse for wear and had a thick bandage taped across the back of his head where the security officer's shotgun had raised a considerable lump. Trostler was wearing a pair of expensive Varnet sunglasses that weren't doing too good a job of disguising the purple swelling of a world-class black eye. As he sipped idly at his iced tea, Drummond wondered who had hung one on him. Whoever it was, he decided, he'd have to buy him a beer.

The light changed and Drummond started across, just as the three men reached a dark blue Cadillac limousine parked in front of Parker Center. Trostler was bending to enter the back of the car when he saw Drummond and stood up. Smiling slightly, he pointed his index finger at him and, with an up and down motion of his thumb, pretended to shoot Drummond several times.

Still sipping his iced tea, Drummond reached back and pulled his gun out of its holster, cocking the hammer back with his thumb as he drew the small pistol even with his shoulder and aimed it at Trostler's smirking face. Less than twenty-five feet away, Trostler's smirk froze on his face as he stared into the barrel of Drummond's Smith & Wesson.

Changing direction, Drummond walked diagonally toward the car, still pointing his gun at Trostler. Abruptly Trostler ducked down and climbed into the car, which pulled away from the red curb and moved off toward the Harbor Freeway. Drummond holstered his revolver and, still sipping his iced tea, went into Parker Center.

Pete Knickerbocker was waiting in the lobby.

"Thought I'd wait down here and make sure our Israeli diplomats left without incident," Knickerbocker said as he approached Drummond. "What the hell was that all about, anyway?"

"Psychological warfare, Pete." Drummond tossed the empty paper cup into a trash can next to the elevator. "The tall guy—Trostler, right?"

Knickerbocker nodded.

"The tall guy made a threatening gesture. I just upped the ante, that's all."

The elevator door opened and the two men stepped in. Knickerbocker reached over and pressed the button marked "3."

"You're wanted in 316 for some sort of meeting." He turned to face Drummond. "For what it's worth, Captain, those boys from the Israeli Consulate are out for your hide." The elevator stopped and the doors opened onto the third floor. Knickerbocker pointed down the hall toward the offices of Internal Affairs Division as Drummond stepped out. "I'd be very careful in there, if I were
you
."

The elevator doors closed behind Drummond, leaving him momentarily alone in the hall.

The door marked 316 was closed, and Drummond knocked before trying the knob. A voice said, "Come in," and Drummond stepped into the office.

Commander DeGrazzio stood up as Drummond walked into the large paneled conference room, and indicated an empty chair between himself and an overweight blonde who didn't look as if she belonged in an Internal Affairs "preliminary inquiry." Two more men were seated across the table, and as Drummond moved over to the empty chair, one of the men stood up and extended his hand to Drummond.

"I'm Sergeant Hrisko, Internal Affairs." Drummond shook his hand and then sat down. "Before we begin, I'd like to ask Commander DeGrassi—"

"It's DeGrazzio," the commander interrupted.

"Sorry. Commander DeGrazzio to tell you why you've been asked to this meeting."

"Excuse me," Drummond interjected. "But before this goes any further, I'd like to know who these other people are, if you don't mind." Drummond looked around the table.

"Not at all, Captain," Hrisko said. "Officer Willis is here as a representative of the Police Officers Protective Association, and the lady to your left is Ms. Verna Cartright, attorney-at-law. She has been retained by your union to make sure that I," Hrisko did nothing to conceal his contempt, "don't inadvertently violate your rights."

"Excuse me, Sergeant?" Drummond said. "You're coming on as if I've done something wrong. What's the beef?"

"The 'beef,' Captain, is a big one. I've just had a major complaint from the Israeli government over your treatment of two of their diplomats, for starters," Hrisko's voice had a hard edge to it. "And if that wasn't enough to make my day, I've been given this file, which contains evidence that you are some sort of neo-Nazi involved in the coverup of a murder that took place in Vienna three weeks ago." Hrisko reached out and pushed the file across the table toward Drummond. "The Israeli consul general is really pissed off."

"Well, tough tit," DeGrazzio interjected. "Their goons shouldn't go wandering around Parker Center armed to the teeth."

"Come on," Hrisko said. "Two guns is hardly armed to the teeth. Which, by the way, leads me to ask what you did with their weapons. The consul general has asked for their immediate return."

"Well, tough-the-other-tit, Hrisko," DeGrazzio sneered. "Those creeps were packing guns without serial numbers. I had the lab send them to D.C., so the boys in the FBI could run a ballistics check on them."

"Thank you, Commander DeGrazzio. Captain Drummond, do you have anything to say?" Hrisko leaned back in his chair, waiting for the reply.

"I think the Israelis have fed you a load of crap, Sergeant." Drummond's tone was measured, totally under control. He knew the routine: make him angry, catch him off balance, get him to cross himself up. It would work too, if Drummond had anything to hide, which he didn't. The LAPD was one of the best police forces in the world, and guys like Hrisko kept it that way. Still, Drummond was furious at the implication that he had somehow done something wrong, although he understood Hrisko's motivation.

Hrisko opened the file the Israelis' attorney had left behind when he collected Trostler and Meier.

"Crap, huh? Okay, let's see what this crap is all about." Hrisko held up a piece of paper.

"Two weeks ago, you took a sudden vacation and went to Vienna. On your way to that city, you stopped at a castle in the middle of the country where you met a whole bunch of interesting people." Hrisko handed Drummond a list of names. "All of the people at that castle were the children of Nazi bigwigs. That surprise you, Captain Drummond?"

"This is bullshit," DeGrazzio muttered under his breath.

Drummond handed back the list. "Hrisko, you could say the same thing for almost anybody in Germany over the age of forty-five."

"True," Hrisko replied. "But you can't say that about too many Americans, can you?" Hrisko looked down at the file. "For example, Jack MacBain." He looked up at Drummond. "Jack MacBain made his millions helping Hitler rebuild Germany. Did you know that they were quite friendly?"

Drummond just stared at Hrisko and remained silent.

"I suppose, Captain Drummond, it was a coincidence that you paid a call on Jack MacBain's widow a week before you left for Austria? And that once you were there, you went straight to a secluded castle for a meeting with a bunch of Nazis? Or that, two days later, you went to Number Seventeen Dietrich Eckhart Strasse—the former headquarters of the Gestapo? And that same night, you just happened to show up at the apartment of an old Jew who died under the most peculiar circumstances, after he'd reported having seen a wanted war criminal—some Nazi called Kluge—in Vienna."

Drummond cleared his throat. "I went to Number Seventeen Dietrich Eckhart Strasse to meet a man called von Liebenfalz. Later, contacts of mine in the Vienna Police told me that von Liebenfalz had been in Switzerland during the
war
."

"You have good contacts in the Vienna PD, Drummond?" Hrisko interrupted. "Was that why they took you to see Stucke? So you could tell your Nazi pals that the guy sniffing after Kluge was dead, and the Vienna PD was chalking it up to suicide?"

"Hey, Hrisko, who the fuck you work for? LAPD or the Israelis?" DeGrazzio's voice slammed into Hrisko's diatribe like a blackjack.

Hrisko gave DeGrazzio a quizzical smirk, then lowered his voice. "Your trip to Vienna was rather sudden, wasn't it, Captain?"

"No," Drummond replied. "I bought the ticket about a week before I left."

"That would have been about the time that Hans Stucke died, wouldn't it?" Hrisko asked.

"Yes, I suppose that could have been at about the same time," Drummond admitted.

"Captain Drummond, have you ever been to the Angel of Mercy Sanatarium in Auburn, New Hampshire?" Hrisko asked.

"Yes," was all Drummond said.

"I don't suppose that you know anything about its founder?"

Drummond was puzzled. "No, I don't. Why?"

"Because its founder was Charles Lamont Packard. Have you heard of him?"

Drummond shook his head, no.

"Charles Lamont Packard spent a fortune trying to keep America from going to war against the Nazis." Hrisko closed the file. "His daughter married Jack MacBain." Hrisko leaned across the table, his voice nearly a whisper. "Why did you go to Vienna, Captain Drummond?"

"Research for a paper I'm doing at USC." Drummond's voice was level.

"Oh, really?" Hrisko sounded incredulous. "Doing a research paper on war criminals, or organizing a reunion for millionaire friends of the Nazi party?"

"Sergeant Hrisko." Verna Cartwright's voice sounded like four packs of Camels a day. "Your balls must be bigger than your brains. The information contained in the file— all of which is highly speculative and circumstantial—has undoubtedly been gathered in a manner that violates numerous state and federal laws. Your use of that information violates the rights of Captain Drummond." She leaned closer to the table.

"Now, unless that file is handed over to me right now, I am going to file the biggest goddam lawsuit ever to hit this department. And as far as you are concerned, I'll be in federal court swearing out a complaint against you personally within the hour." Verna looked down the table at Officer Willis. "Further, I would strongly suggest that this whole proceeding is likely to be cause for immediate labor action—and I don't mean the Blue Flu."

Hrisko looked over at Willis, who nodded perceptibly. Angrily he shoved the file across the table toward the dumpty blonde attorney.

"Thank you, Sergeant," she said, picking up the file. "Now, unless you have something constructive to bring to the meeting, I'd suggest that there is nothing further to discuss."

She stood up, pushing her chair well back from the table. Hrisko stared at her for a moment, then turned to Drummond.

"You can go, Captain. We've nothing further to discuss."

Drummond and the others stood and filed out into the hall. As they walked toward the elevator, Verna handed Drummond the file the Israelis had sent to IAD.

"You'd better hang on to this, just in case any of this crap floats to the surface downstream." The elevator doors opened and Verna bulled her way in. "If you need me, Willis there has my number."

"Thanks," Drummond said.

"Thanks, hell. I love taking the piss out of those IAD assholes." The doors closed, and Drummond and DeGrazzio waited for another elevator.

"Whooee, what a broad," was DeGrazzio's only comment.

"She really is some piece of work, I'll admit that," Drummond said.

The elevator returned, empty, and the two men climbed aboard. "So guess what I found out about the guns?" DeGrazzio said, as he reached over and pushed the button for his floor.

"What?"

"When I called the guys at the Bureau and told 'em what I had, they volunteered that our two 'diplomats' were probably with the Mossad." The elevator stopped, and DeGrazzio pressed the hold button.

"The Mossad?" Drummond asked.

"Yeah. The Israeli goon squad. Sort of a kosher KGB." DeGrazzio chuckled at his joke.

"They aren't suppose to work in the United States," Drummond said.

"Oh, sure. But they do. So let me give you some advice. Be careful. Watch your back. And drink lotsa chicken soup." DeGrazzio released the hold button and stepped out of the elevator. "And one other thing—"

But the elevator doors closed and cut off whatever else DeGrazzio had been going to say. Shrugging, Drummond made his way back to his office.

Back at his desk, Drummond tossed his revolver into a drawer before settling down to scan the Mossad File. One thing was certain. For whatever reason, the Israelis had gone to a lot of trouble tying together circumstantial evidence involving Drummond in some sort of Nazi intrigue. It looked like conspiracy, but conspiracy to do what? Kill Stucke? No, Drummond decided, that didn't make sense. You don't involve outsiders in murder. There had to be something else.