Free JO03 - Detour to Murder by Jeff Sherratt

wondered if Byron had Gabby Hayes stuffed and mounted somewhere in the house.
    A portrait of a beautiful woman with waves of scarlet hair, wearing skintight riding pants tucked into her high-top boots, hung above the fireplace. The jewels she wore must’ve cost more than a battleship. Her head was tilted back, her lips were slightly parted in an alluring manner and she held a riding crop in her hand. Like Rita Hayworth in Gilda, she had a look about her that suggested she’d just been crowned queen of the Bar-None. She had it all, face, figure, and money. She was the kind of cowgirl that’d cause Roy to kick Trigger out of the hayloft.
    A dozen leather club chairs were scattered about and a sofa covered with horsehide rested against one wall.
    “This layout looks expensive, Sol,” I said. “The retired politician business must be lucrative.”
    “Why would anyone spend a million bucks or more to be elected to public office if there wasn’t a few dollars to be made?” Sol said as he sank into one of the leather club chairs. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and fired up, chucking the wrapper in the Pullman ashtray standing next to the chair. “Yep, all this crap cost money, all right.”
    A second later the door banged open and a man I assumed to be Frank Byron marched in, the valet trailing in his wake. “Oliver, didn’t you offer our guests any refreshments?” Without waiting for Oliver to answer he announced, “Remain seated, gentlemen. I’m Frank Byron.” Sol stood. I was already standing. Byron came over and gave each of us a hearty pat on the back and a solid handshake. We told him our names and he said, “First names only. Call me Frank.” He then told the butler, “Oliver, get Sol and Jimmy a drink.”
    “Of course, Mr. Byron,” he said in a tired voice “What can I get for you, gentlemen?”
    Sol glanced at his Rolex. “It’s still morning, so I’ll only have gin and tonic. Beefeaters, if you have it.”
    “Just black coffee,” I said.
    “Well, if Sol is going to imbibe, I’ll have a small toddy as well,” Byron said. “Make it my usual, Oliver.”
    Byron was slim, tall, and middle-aged with a full head of ash gray hair, trimmed and blow-dried. He had a rugged, long face, tanned by the sun and creased by the years, pale blue eyes, and a wide mouth with thin lips that barely moved when he spoke. He wore western garb—checkered shirt, bolero tie, and a wide leather belt with the requisite gold and silver buckle that had to weigh ten pounds. He could have been a cattle baron out of the past, but he didn’t have any cow shit sticking to his hand-tooled snakeskin boots.
    “Please, be seated gentleman and we’ll get down to business.” Byron turned and stood motionless for a moment, gazing up at the woman’s portrait. He shook his head once and continued toward his desk, where he sat. “I understand, Jimmy, that you’re doing a piece about my career as the District Attorney of Los Angeles.”
    Sol took a puff of his cigar, looked at the glowing tip, and settled into the same club chair as before.
    “That’s right,” I answered, sitting next to Sol.
    “Who—may I ask—are you writing this for, the Los Angeles Times?”
    “Frank,” Sol said. “Jimmy’s writing it for the New York Times , syndicated worldwide.”
    Christ, Sol! What are you doing? I thought. You’re laying it on pretty thick. “That’s right,” I said, “New York Times. Now, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    “Really, the New York Times , that’s impressive. But I’m afraid I haven’t seen any of your work. Where have you been published before?”
    “Everywhere,” Sol said and took another drag on the cigar. “Jimmy’s chronicling the history of L.A. in the forties. Big project.”
    “Los Angeles history is kind of a hobby of mine,” Byron said. “I’m well versed with journalists writing about our exciting past. But, I’m afraid I haven’t seen anything you’ve