Dating Dead Men by Harley Jane Kozak Page B

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    P LEA B ARGAIN OF M OB F IGURE R EVERSED ON A PPEAL

    LOS ANGELES —In a unanimous decision, the California Court of Appeals for the 2nd District ordered a guilty plea to be vacated in a conspiracy case against Ronald “the Weasel” Ronzare.
    The appellate court acknowledged that overturning a plea bargain was unusual, but determined that trial judge Anna Whitestorm erred by failing to follow established procedures for ensuring that the defendant understood his plea before it was entered.
    According to Ronzare's attorney Calvin Walsh, “It's all in the transcripts. [Judge Whitestorm] was in such a hurry to get to Palm Springs before rush hour, she would have accepted a guilty plea from a poodle. My client's former counsel was inexperienced, the D.A. was lazy and the judge—with all due respect—sloppy.”
    Ronzare, an alleged operative for the East Coast crime family headed by Eddie “Digits” Minardi, was sentenced to 10-20 years for conspiracy to commit battery on two LAPD officers early last year. A second, more serious charge of conspiracy to commit murder was dropped. Ronzare is to be released on bail from Corcoran State Prison pending a new trial.
    Conspiracy charges were dropped last year against two other suspects, Tor Ulvskog and Olof Froderberg, alleged operatives for Las Vegas's Terranova crime family.

    I glanced regretfully at Dr. Ernest Bovee's smiling face, then returned to the mob story and read it again. I was still mulling over its significance five minutes later, as I collected jagged bits of tortoise-shell plastic and sucked up pressed powder with my Dustbuster.
    A shadow stepped in front of me.
    A hand reached down and switched off my Dustbuster.

chapter nine
    H e wasn't a customer. This was not a person who went card shopping.
    I was backed up against the Birthday rack, Dustbuster pointed at him like a gun.
    He had several inches on me, a big man, and not a young one—sixty, at least. His hair was white and the rest of him was tan, and not just a living-in-southern-California-without-sunscreen tan. His tan was like a vocation.
    â€œCan't stand those.” He nodded at the Dustbuster. “Remind me of a former—”
    I waited, but he seemed to forget he had a sentence in progress. I lowered the Dustbuster. He raised his hands, big brown paws, and with a flash of metal—massive Rolex, heavy gold chain-link bracelet—reached into the pocket of his suit and withdrew a slip of paper. It was a nice enough suit, but one that had been around awhile, judging from the smells emanating from it. Mothballs, for instance. “Is your name . . . Welleslington Shelley?”
    â€œWollstonecraft.”
    He hacked a pretty serious smoker's hack and stared. “That's a first name?”
    â€œIn this case. And you are—?”
    He wheezed. “The authorities.”
    Dear God, I thought, they've come for me. A vision of Ruta appeared, aproned, hands on hips. “What authorities call themselves the authorities?” she asked. “But you play along with him. That's how you play it safe.”
    I said, “What is it you want, Officer—?”
    He pondered the piece of paper again, as if waiting for reading glasses to materialize. Then, “Do you drive a Volkswagen vehicle, license 1NJC, uh—”
    â€œClose enough.” If he was a cop, I was the attorney general.
    â€œCould you tell me where your vehicle is now located?”
    My heart rate speeded up. “Could you tell me why you want to know?”
    â€œIt was involved with an accident, so we're checking the whereabouts.”
    Doc
. My throat tightened. “What sort of accident?”
    â€œWe're not at liberty to diverge, uh, divert—”
    â€œDivulge?” I asked.
    â€œYeah. That type of information. Look, just tell me where the goddamn car is.”
    â€œAre cops supposed to swear?” He was clearly not a cop, but I thought