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Chapter 15

July 29, 1996

Monday afternoon

Instead of lunch at Musso Frank's I got McDonald's drive-through. I ate a quarter pounder with cheese while driving through downtown L.A. on my way to the 710 and Downey. I ended up with a ketchup stain on the light green Henley I was wearing. I arrived in the Michaels neighborhood about two-fifteen.

I parked at the end of Via Amorita, a few houses down from the Michaels' house. I didn't want them to be bothered by what I was doing. It might have been helpful to talk with Pete's parents to get their immediate impressions of Larry, but I knew it would be painful and possibly, probably, not have much point.

There was a ten-year-old orange Camaro sitting in the driveway, meaning Paul Michaels was there with his parents. I couldn't remember if I'd asked what he did for a living that he could spend so much time with them. I was curious, but that too didn't seem to have a point.

I walked over to the house across the street. 7816. This was where Celia Wickers had lived. There was no mailbox on the street, so I couldn't reach in and check the mail to see who lived there. There was a car in the driveway. A Chevy Citation from the early eighties. I walked up to the front door and knocked.

After a moment, the door was opened by a woman in her late forties wearing shorts and a big T-shirt. Through the screen door she asked if she could help me.

"I'm with an organization called The Freedom Agenda. We work to get wrongly convicted people out of prison."

"I'm sorry, I can't contribute."

"Oh, no, that's not… There was a murder across the street in 1976. Celia Wickers was a witness. She lived at this address and I'm wondering?—"

"Celia was my mother. She passed eight years ago. She left me her house."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You are?"

"Connie Wickers."

"I'm reading through your mother's statement and there are some things I'm curious about."

She opened the screen door and came out. Standing with me on the stoop, she crossed her arms and looked at me skeptically.

"Are you a cop?"

"No, as I said, I'm an investigator with The Freedom Agenda."

"Cops say things that aren't true."

"I can't argue with that. Did your mother have a problem with the police?"

"I was in graduate school then. Fullerton."

"What did you study?"

"Political Science. Don't ask me why."

"Does that mean you were living here at the time?"

"For a while. I had an awful boyfriend I'd just broken up with."

"In her statement, your mother said she was gardening that day. She saw a yellow car at eleven-thirty. That car left while she was behind the house and then a brown car showed up at noon. Did she talk to you about that?"

"Maybe. I'm sure whatever she said is what happened."

"Yes, but I'm not certain the statement is accurate or complete, so anything you could remember would be helpful."

She shrugged. "I think I remember her saying the officer was very young and very rude."

"Rude like he didn't believe her?"

"I don't know. I just remember she said he was rude."

"Your mother was hard of hearing?"

"No. Never. Her hearing was pretty scary, actually."

That just made my visit worthwhile. I had to wonder if the police had already decided what had happened and did what they could to bend the evidence in that direction.

"Was your mother friendly with the Michaels?"

"No. Not at all. I mean, I think she made a cake for them when Pete died but, no. The boys were always outside, playing some kind of sports and making a lot of noise. We could never keep the windows open. We had to have air conditioning, so we didn't have to listen to them."

That was probably not entirely true. We were pretty far inland, so it was much hotter than Long Beach. Ronnie and I could get by without air conditioning. I doubted that was the case out here.

"Your mother saw a yellow car and a young girl who may have gone into the house. Did she ever talk about that?"

Connie thought about it for a long time. "Yes. A few times. Before the trial. But then not after that. She felt bad she hadn't paid more attention. The guy who's in prison, what's his name?"

"Larry Wilkes."

"She heard that he said he didn't do it, but we knew that couldn't be true. It had to be him. It couldn't have been the girl in the yellow car, she was very young. My mother always felt bad because she was in the house when the murder happened, so she didn't hear the gunshot. If she'd heard the shot… well, there wouldn't have been a trial even. He'd have taken a deal, and the Michaels wouldn't have had to go through all that."

"But your mother testified she did hear a gunshot."

"What? No, that's not possible."

"You weren't in court when she testified?"

"No. I was probably in class."

"Do you remember your mother talking about her testimony?"

"Not really. But I was a typical twenty-something. Narcissistic. Self-involved."

"You don't like the police."

"I had a few run-ins. It was probably around that time."

I couldn't help wondering if there might be a connection. Had someone hinted to Mrs. Wickers that if she didn't remember the gunshot her daughter might be?—

"My mother wouldn't lie in court," she said, stubbornly. Though from the look on her face, she was obviously thinking the same thing I was. I thanked her and stepped off the stoop to head back to my Jeep.

"Hold on," she said. "Why do you think Larry didn't do it?"

"Because I know the girl in the yellow car did."

Iknocked on a few more doors, both on Via Amorita and Irwingrove, but no one was home. Back at my Jeep, I sat looking out at a park where some kids were playing with their mothers looking on. I dug out my cellular phone and called Ronnie.

"Hey, what's going on?"

"Busy. I got a new listing. It's a condo in a building behind The Park Pantry. Andrew and Carl. They were at the commitment ceremony."

"Oh, that's great," I said. I couldn't remember who they were or when he might have talked to them, but it didn't surprise me. He managed to get clients pretty much anywhere he went.

"Yeah, they want to buy a house, so we'll be doing that too."

That was a good thing. Two commissions. It was also a bad thing. Jumping from one property to another can sometimes be tricky. Not to mention the clients, who are generally kind of nervous can get very nervous.

"I need to go over to Palm Springs. I'm thinking I'll go over on Thursday morning and come back Friday afternoon."

"By yourself?"

"Well, I guess."

"Uh-huh. No way. I'll arrange everything. We'll go over Wednesday afternoon and come back Friday. I would stay until Saturday, but I just took last Saturday off. And these guys want to look at houses on Saturday. I can take Thursday and Friday though."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I can't wait."

After he hung up, I called The Freedom Agenda and asked Karen to give me the name of the journalist who wrote the article for The Downey Ledger. Grudgingly, she gave me the name.

"Andrea Grubber."

I asked her to spell it. Then I asked for the address of The Downey Ledger. With a sigh, she gave it to me. It was on Lakewood near the Coca-Cola plant.

Thanking her profusely only annoyed her more and she hung up on me. She'd been running hot and cold since the whole Stu Whatley thing. Though, to be fair, it wasn't her job to get me information. In a more traditional office, she'd only be asked to work with legal documents since she was actually a paralegal.

The offices for The Downey Ledger were located in a strip mall next to a Mercado. I walked through the door and was immediately confronted by a counter on top of which were recent editions of the paper. Behind the counter were half a dozen empty desks. On a stool was a young woman in her very early twenties. Since she refused to look up, I picked up one of the papers and flipped through. It was largely ads.

Finally, she looked up at me and pushed back her glasses, and asked, "Are you here to place an ad?"

"No, I'm not. I'm looking for a reporter who used to write for you."

"We don't really have reporters. We have a few freelancers, but most of what we publish we buy from the AP."

"Okay. Would you have records for someone who was writing for you in nineteen seventy-six?"

She looked at me like I was the most annoying person on the planet. She and Karen ought to form a club. Finally, she said, "Hold on a minute."

Walking to the back of the open area she knocked on a door, and after a moment went in. I waited. The place felt like a morgue, without the horrible smell. Finally, the girl came out of the office. Behind her, a man in his fifties. He wore a white shirt, navy tie and khaki pants. His sleeves were rolled up. He was overweight and his clothes were bunchy. There was something not very authentic about him, like he was dressed as a newspaper editor for Halloween.

"What do you want?" he asked when he reached the counter.

I figured a full explanation was in order. "I'm with The Freedom Agenda. We work on getting innocent men out of prison. We're looking into the Pete Michaels murder from nineteen seventy-six. You had a reporter named Andrea Grubber who wrote about it. Do you have any idea how I can find her?"

"She really can't tell you anything that wasn't in the paper," he said, gruffly. "She can't reveal her sources."

"That doesn't mean she wouldn't be able to give me more information."

"Last I heard she was out in Riverside. That was ten, twelve years ago."

"She worked for you for a while?"

"Five, six years. Not full-time. She mainly wrote newsletters for a pharmaceutical company down in Orange County."

"Do you think her name is still Grubber?"

"Yeah. She got married but didn't change her name."

"All right, thanks."

I walked out to the parking lot and climbed into my Jeep. I immediately dialed information and asked for the area code to Riverside. 909. Then, I dialed 909-555-1212 to get information. While it rang, I realized this was perfect. If we were going to Palm Springs, we could easily stop in Riverside. The operator answered. I asked for a number. She found three A. Grubbers. I wrote them all down and asked for the addresses that went with.

Then, I called the first number. A woman answered.

"Hi," I said. "Is this Andrea Grubber?"

"You have the wrong number," she said, barely waiting to hang up on me.

I lucked out on the second call. "Hi, is this Andrea Grubber?"

"It is. Who's this?"

"I'm hoping you like magazines, because I have an amazing offer for you."

She hung up. But it was just as well. I had the information I needed. Or at least, I thought I did. Just in case there were two Andrea Grubbers in Riverside I called the third number. "Hi, is there an Andrea Grubber there?"

"No! And stop calling!"

Okay. I guess I wasn't the only one looking for Andrea. Now that I knew she lived on Granada Avenue, we could stop there on the way to Palm Springs. I could have asked my questions over the phone, but it was easier to brush people off over the phone than it was in person. What I really wanted was for her to tell me who it was that gave her the tip about Pete's supposed engagement. She wouldn't want to reveal her source, but maybe once I explained that it was probably the murderer who tipped her off, maybe then she'd give me the information. Off the record. You never know.

It was after three. I wouldn't get home until nearly four. I decided it was time to call it a day.

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