“Yes, it is.”
“This here’s Ernie, janitor at the Zaco Building. Mr. Romeo said to call him or you if them guys come back. They’re here now.”
Harry London’s feet hit the floor like slingshots. He snapped upright in his chair. “The same ones who bypassed the meters?”
“It’s them all right. They come in a truck, same’s before. They’re workin’ now. Listen, cain’t stay on this phone more’n a minute.”
“You don’t have to,” London said, “so listen carefully. Get the license number of that truck.”
“Already got it.”
“Great! Now, some of us will be down there as fast as we can make it. While we’re on the way, don’t do anything to make those men suspicious, but if they start to leave, try to keep them talking.” While speaking, London pressed a button summoning his secretary.
The caller, still whispering, sounded doubtful. “Do it if, I can. Listen, Mr. Romeo said I’d get paid if …”
“You’ll get yours, my friend. That’s a promise. Now just do what I said. I’m leaving now.” London slammed down the phone.
His secretary, a young, bright Chinese-American named Suzy, was standing in the doorway. He told her, “I need help from the city police. Phone Lieutenant Wineski; you know where to get him. If Wineski isn’t available, ask someone else in the Detective Division to meet me at the Zaco Building. Say the case I told Wineski about is breaking. Then try to get Art Romeo. Tell him the same thing, and to bust his ass and get to Zaco. Got it?”
“I have it, Mr. London,” Suzy said.
“Good kid!” London hurried out and ran for the elevator which would take him to the basement parking garage.
Going down, he calculated that with fast driving and reasonable traffic he could be at the Zaco Building in ten minutes or less.
Harry London’s estimate overlooked two factors—early commuter traffic out of the city and Christmas shoppers, clogging downtown streets and slowing movement to a crawl. It took him a frustrating twenty minutes to reach the Zaco Building, which was on the opposite side of the city’s business district.
As he pulled up, he recognized an unmarked police car which had preceded him by seconds only. Two men in plain clothes were getting out. One was Lieutenant Wineski. London blessed his good luck. Wineski was a friend, a police officer whom London had cultivated and whose presence would save time-wasting explanations.
Lieutenant Wineski had seen London and was waiting, the other officer beside him. The second man was a detective named Brown whom London knew slightly.
“What gives, Harry?” Wineski was young, smart, ambitious; he kept his body trim and, unlike most of his detective colleagues, dressed well. He also liked unusual cases because, more often than not, they brought publicity. Around police headquarters the guessing was that Boris Wineski would go high in the force, possibly to the top.
London answered, “A hot tip, Boris. Let’s go.” Together the trio hurried across the forecourt of the building.
Two decades earlier the twenty-three story, reinforcedconcrete Zaco Building had been modern and fashionable, the kind of place where a topflight brokerage house or advertising agency might have rented several floors. Now, like other office structures of its genre, it was showing signs of seediness, and some of the first-class tenants had moved to newer buildings where glass and aluminum predominated. Most of the Zaco Building’s space was still rented, but to less prestigious tenants with a high attrition rate. It was a safe assumption that the building was less profitable than in its heyday.
All of this Harry London knew from earlier investigation.
The building’s lobby, of imitation marble, with a bank of elevators facing the main entrance, was beginning to fill with departing office workers. Dodging the outgoing flow, London led the way to an inconspicuous metal door which he knew, from a surreptitious previous visit, opened onto a stairway providing access to three lower floors.
On the way in he had given the two detectives a quick summary of the phone call twenty-five minutes earlier. Now, hurrying down cement stairs shielded by fire doors, he found himself praying that the men they were seeking had not already left.
Something else the Property Protection chief knew was that the extensive electric and gas metering and controls were on the lowest floor. From there the building’s general power supplies were monitored—for heating, elevator operation, air conditioning and lighting.
Near the foot of the last stairway a thin, gaunt man in coveralls, with unkempt sandy hair and a stubble of beard, appeared to be inspecting garbage cans. He looked up, then abandoned what he was doing and came forward as Harry London and the detectives clattered down.
“Mr. London?” Unmistakably it was the same weak voice as on the telephone.
“Right. You Ernie, the janitor?”
The man in coveralls nodded. “Sure took your time.”
“Never mind that. Those men still here?”
“Inside.” The janitor motioned to a metal door, similar to others on the floors above.
“How many?”
“Three. Listen, how ‘bout my money?”
“For Chrissake!” London said impatiently. “You’ll get it.”
Lieutenant Wineski cut in. “Is anybody else in there?”
The janitor, looking surly, shook his head. “Ain’t nobody else down here but me.”
“All right.” Wineski moved forward, taking command. He told the other detective and London, “We’ll do this fast. Harry, you come in last. When we’re inside, stay back by the door until I tell you.” To the janitor: “You wait out here.” Wineski put a hand on the metal door then ordered, “Now!”
As the door flew open, the trio rushed in.
Inside, against an interior wall some twenty-five feet away, three men were working. Afterward Harry London would report with relish: “If we’d mailed ’em a list, with specifications of how we’d like the evidence laid out, they couldn’t have done better.”
An electric current transformer cabinet—installed, then locked by GSP & L—was open. Several transformer switches, it was discovered later, had been opened, bound with insulating tape, then closed. The effect was to reduce electric meter recordings by a third. A few feet away a gas meter had an illegal bypass partially exposed. Supplies and tools for the work being done were spread around—insulated pliers, socket wrenches, lead disc seals and a mechanic’s seal press (both stolen from GSP & L), and the transformer cabinet casing with a key—also stolen—in its lock.
Wineski announced in a loud, clear voice, “We are police officers.” He ordered, “Don’t move! Leave everything where it is.”
At the sound of the opening door, two of the men working had spun around. The third, who was lying full length and working on the gas meter bypass, rolled sideways to see what was happening, then shifted quickly to a crouch. All three were wearing neat, uniform-type coveralls with shoulder patches bearing the intertwined initials Q.E.G.C. which later inquiry would enlarge to Quayle Electrical & Gas Contracting.
Of the two men nearest the entry door, one was huge, bearded, and with the physique of a wrestler. His forearms, where the sleeves were rolled back, showed bulging muscles. The other was young—he seemed little more than a boy—with a narrow, sharp-featured face. It registered instant fright.
The big, bearded man was less intimidated. Ignoring the command not to move, he grabbed a heavy pipe wrench, raised it, and leaped forward.
Harry London, who had stayed back as instructed, saw Wineski reach swiftly under his coat; an instant later a gun was in his hand. The detective rapped out, “I’m a crack shot. If you move another foot I’ll put a bullet in your leg.” As the bearded giant hesitated: “Drop the wrench—now!”
The other detective, Brown, had produced a gun also, and reluctantly the would-be attacker obeyed.
“You by the wall!” Wineski snapped; the third man, older than the other two, was now standing upright and looked as if he would try to run. “Do
n’t start anything! Just turn around and face that wall! You other two—join him, do the same.”
Scowling, with hatred in his eyes, the bearded man moved back. The youthful workman, his face white, his body visibly trembling, had already hurried to comply.
There was a pause in which three sets of handcuffs clicked.
“All right, Harry,” Wineski called over. “Now tell us what all this stuff means.”
“It’s the kind of solid evidence we’ve been looking for,” the Property Protection chief assured him. “Proof of big-time electric and gas stealing.”
“You’ll swear to that in court?”
“Sure will. So will others. We’ll give you as many expert witnesses as you want.”
“Good enough.”
Wineski addressed the three handcuffed men. “Keep facing the wall but listen carefully. You are all under arrest and I am required to advise you of your rights. You are not obliged to make a statement. However, if you do …”
When the words of the familiar Miranda ritual were finished, Wineski motioned Brown and London to join him by the outer door. Keeping his voice low, he told them, “I want to split these birds. From the look of him, the kid’s ready to break; he may talk. Brownie, get to a phone. Call in for another car.”
“Right.” The second detective put away his gun and went out.
The door to the stairway was now open and, moments later, hurrying feet could be heard coming down. As London and Wineski swung toward the doorway, Art Romeo appeared and the two relaxed.
Harry London told his deputy, “Pay dirt. Take a look.”
The little man who, as usual, looked like a shifty underworld character himself, surveyed the scene and whistled softly.
Lieutenant Wineski, who had known Romeo before he worked for GSP & L, told him, “If that’s camera equipment you’ve got, better start shooting.”
“Will do, Lieutenant.” Romeo unslung a black leather case from his shoulder and began assembling a photoflash unit.
While he was taking several dozen photographs, from various angles, of the spread-out equipment and uncompleted illegal work, police reinforcements arrived—two uniformed officers, accompanied by the returning Detective Brown.
A few minutes later the arrested men were led out—the youngest, still frightened, first and separately. While one uniformed officer remained to guard the evidence, Wineski followed. He told Harry London with a wink, “Want to question that kid myself. Let you know what happens.”
8
“Wineski was dead right,” Harry London informed Nim Goldman. “The kid—he was eighteen, by the way, and not long out of trade school—broke down and spilled his guts. Then Wineski and Brown used what he told them to pry more information out of the other two.”
It was four days after the confrontation and arrests at the Zaco Building. Immediately following those events London had reported briefly to Nim. Now, as Nim’s guest at lunch in the officers’ dining room at GSP & L headquarters, he was supplying further details.
“Go ahead,” Nim said, “tell me more.” They had paused to enjoy large mouthfuls of lamb stew—a popular “special of the day” for which the chef was noted.
“Well, according to Boris Wineski, when they questioned the big guy—his name is Kasner—he didn’t talk much. He’s street-wise, has an arrest record, no convictions. The older one, who was working on the gas bypass, let out a few things we didn’t know, then he clammed up too. By that time, though, it didn’t matter. The police had all the important information—and their truck.”
“Oh, yes, the truck. Did the police impound it?”
“Damn right!” Not surprisingly, London sounded happy; he had been in an upbeat mood for the past few days. “That truck was loaded up with even more evidence of illegality than was left around in the Zaco Building. There were electric meters, seals, locking rings and keys, meter-size jumper cables, you name it. And almost all the stuff was stolen—naturally. You can’t buy those items on the open market. One thing we now believe is that the Quayle people have a helper right here in the company who has been their source of supply. We’re working on the accomplice angle.”
“That Quayle outfit,” Nim queried. “What’s been found out about them?”
“Plenty. First, there was enough damaging stuff on the truck and in the Zaco Building for Wineski to ask for a warrant to search the Quayle offices. He did ask, and he got it fast. Result: The police were in there before the Quayle people even knew their men had been arrested.”
“Don’t let your stew get cold,” Nim said. “It’s good.”
“Sure is. Fix it so that I eat up here more often, would you?”
“Go on getting the kind of results you did last week, and you could be up here regularly before you know it.”
The dining room, reserved for company vice presidents and above, and their guests, was modest in size and decor, so as not to create an impression of opulence when outsiders were brought in. But the food was exceptional. Its quality far exceeded that of the general staff cafeteria located on a lower floor.
“Getting back to Quayle Electrical & Gas,” London said, “first they’ve got a legit business—good size, with a fleet of twenty-five trucks. They also have a string of subcontractors, smaller firms, to whom they farm out work. The way it looks now—and again I’m quoting Lieutenant Wineski—is that Quayle has used the legitimate side of its business as a cover for power stealing, which they’ve been into in a big way. There was a lot more material on their premises—the same kind of stuff that was on the truck they sent to Zaco.”
“Tell me one thing,” Nim said. “If a company like Quayle was legit to begin with, why in God’s name would they get into power theft?”
London shrugged. “The oldest reason: Money. Some of this is guesswork, but the way the pieces are coming together it looks as if Quayle—like a lot of businesses nowadays—has had trouble making a profit because of high costs. But the illegal stuff shows a big profit. Why? Because they can charge maybe five, six, seven times what they would for ordinary work. And the outfits they do it for—like the Zaco Building—are glad to pay because they expect even bigger savings in their costs. Something else you have to remember, Nim, is that until recently it’s all been easy, a pushover; they’ve gotten away with it.”
“The way it all sounds,” Nim said, “there’s still a good deal to unravel?”
“A big ball of yarn,” London acknowledged. “And it could be months before the whole picture becomes clear. Right now, though, two things are helping. One, the D.A.’s office is really interested; they’ve put a prosecutor on the case and Wineski’s working with him. Two, the Quayle outfit kept detailed records of all its jobs, and those of subcontractors too.”
Nim asked, “And the police have those records?”
“Right—except the D.A. may have them by now. They turned up in the search. Only trouble is, there’s nothing to show what work was legitimate, and what was illegal. That’s where my department, my people, are helping out.”
“In what way?”
“We’re checking every job that the Quayle outfit did in the past year. Something their records—work orders—show is precisely what materials were used in each case. If we can show they were stolen or used for illegal purposes—and in a lot of instances it looks as if we can—the D.A. will have a big, fat, prosecutable case.”
Nim ruminated, digesting the information he had been given. He asked, “How about the company that owns the Zaco Building, and other people Quayle did illegal work for? Presumably we’ll be going after them too?”
“Damn right we are! There should be records of payments to Quayle Electrical in the books of Zaco and the others, which opens up another whole side to the case.” London’s voice reflected mounting enthusiasm. “I’m telling you, Nim, we’ve uncovered a fat rat’s nest. I predict some big names in this town will have mud on them before all this is over.”
“The chairman will want a detailed report,” Nim said.
“And progress reports later.”
“He’ll get them. So will you.”
“How about staff? Can you handle all this with the people you have now?”
“Not sure yet, Nim. I may need some help. If so, I’ll let you know next week.”
“What’s happened to the three men who were arrested?”
“They’re out on bail. The police are protecting the kid, hiding him, because they intend to use him as a prosecution witness. By the way, one thing he let out was that only some of the Quayle crews—the trusted ones—have been doing power theft installations. If we can narrow that down to which crews, it should make investigation easier.”
“Just one thing puzzles me,” Nim said. “Since the illegal work at the Zaco Building was already done, why did the Quayle crew go back?”
“That’s one great big laugh,” London answered. “A laugh on them. The way the kid heard it, and told Wineski, somebody in charge at Zaco heard a rumble about our snooping—Art Romeo’s and mine. It had them worried. So they decided not to steal as much, and what those three guys were doing was modifying the work they’d done earlier. If they’d left well enough alone, we could have stewed forever, waiting.”
“Speaking of stew,” Nim said, “have some more.”
Later that afternoon, while Nim was with J. Eric Humphrey in the chairman’s office suite, he described the substance of the Property Protection chief’s report. “You could think of it as a small Christmas present,” Nim said.
Humphrey expressed brief approval, smiled at the reference to Christmas, which was five days away, then let the subject drop. As Nim was aware, other matters were weighing more heavily on the chairman’s mind.
One was Tunipah. Another was water. A third was oil.
Hearings on GSP & L’s Tunipah license application before the California Energy Commission were proceeding even more slowly than anticipated, their pace described by Oscar O’Brien the day before: “A snail by comparison is supersonic.” Clearly it would be months before the present, first stage of hearings was concluded, with the prospect of subsequent stages stretching on for years. Coupled with that, the other related hearings—before the Public Utilities Commission, Water Quality Resources Board, and Air Resources Board—had not even begun.