by Elaine Viets
“Then he said if I couldn’t have money, I could have revenge. I could burn down the Gravois estate, and then Mrs. Gravois would get nothing, just like I got. I said I wouldn’t do that to a widow going through hard times. I began to think I should call Mr. Bryant, because Detective Greiman refused to believe me. He said I had a grudge against the ‘first families’—that’s what he called them, the important people of the Forest—because they looked down on me, and that’s why I started the fires. He said I had access to the Hobarts’ property because my company did their yard work, so I knew their keypad code. I do, but I wouldn’t burn down their pool house. That family has had enough tragedy.
“Then he said I cut the grass around the old barn that Mr. Du Pres owns. That’s also true, but why would I burn it down? If it was sold and became a restaurant, I’d have more work, putting in the landscaping and maintaining it.
“I said I couldn’t have burned down the Gravois house. I wasn’t in town that night. He said, ‘Prove it,’ but I couldn’t.
“Now I was worried and starting to get angry. I’m a good worker and a good businessman. Then he said Kendra and I were in it together. He said I killed Luther, too—I told my daughter to put on a sexy outfit and have her ‘lead on the old man’—those were his words—and ‘after the old boy was too tired to move’ I warned her to get out and then started the fire that killed Luther, and I ran. He said she ‘ran around in that skeevy outfit to distract the firefighters.’ He made my daughter sound like a prostitute. I reminded him that Kendra was Luther’s fiancée. He laughed at me and said, ‘Fi-nan-cee is more like it. Now that Luther’s dead, she’s landed ass down in a tub of butter. She can give you and Mamacita back that two thousand dollars and more.’
“That’s when I lost it, Miss Richman. My temper was worse when I was younger, but it’s still bad. I punched him. In the jaw. He said, ‘Congratulations! You’ve assaulted a police officer. You’ve won a free stay in jail. You’re in big trouble now. I’m gonna roast your beaner ass.’ Then he reached for his gun. I thought he was going to shoot me. I ran. I panicked and I ran.”
“Did he fire his weapon?” Angela asked.
“Two shots. Both missed. Renaldo was using the leaf blower, and he couldn’t hear anything over the roar. He walked in front of the detective, and that kept him from firing a third time. While the detective was distracted, I took off and ran and ran until I got to the gas station. Then I hid inside the shed and tried to catch my breath. About ten minutes later, Greiman stopped here. It’s a pickup spot for day laborers. He asked the girl at the counter if she’d seen a Mexican at the station. She said, ‘You’re kidding, right? This place is overrun with spics. They’re worse than cockroaches.’”
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Jose.”
“I’m used to it. I was glad she didn’t notice me. What’s going to happen to me, Miss Richman? I know I need to turn myself in, but people like me have a habit of getting shot or beat up. I’ve hit a cop. They’ll beat me up, too. They may even say I tried to escape and kill me.”
“That’s why I’m taking you to Monty’s office,” Angela said. “He’ll tell the police you’re going to surrender, and then he’ll escort you to the police station. But first he’ll video you from head to toe. That way, if you wind up with any new bruises, he’ll be able to prove the police are responsible for them.”
Angela saw Monty’s office—a long, one-story, dark-brown building with impressive brass double doors. “We’re here.” She parked in a space near the side door, then called Monty’s office.
Jinny Gender, his redheaded receptionist, answered, and Angela put the phone on speaker so Jose could hear the conversation. “Hi, it’s Angela Richman. We have a problem. Jose Salvato is going to need Monty’s services as soon as he returns.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Richman, but Mr. Bryant is away from the office.”
“Is he in Farmington at Luther’s autopsy?”
“Yes. He’ll be gone until late afternoon.”
“We have a problem. Jose hit Ray Greiman, and he could wind up dead. Will you unlock the side door? I’ll bring him in. He can stay with you until Monty returns.”
“I’ll be right down. I’ll give him some lunch, too.”
After she hung up, Jose said, “Thank you, Miss Richman. Thank you so much. You’ve saved my life.”
“Can I ask another question? Where were you on the night of the Porter Gravois fire?”
“I would do anything for you, Miss Richman. But I can’t tell you that. I have an alibi, but telling it would cost me my marriage.”
CHAPTER 29
Days eleven, twelve
“Showtime!” Katie said into her phone that night. “Are you ready?”
“Popcorn popped,” Angela said. “Drinks ready. Two minutes to six o’clock, the zero hour.”
The two friends were camped in front of their home TVs, a few miles apart. They were about to watch something so sensitive, they couldn’t be seen meeting in the Forest—or even risk a cell-phone conversation. The Forest had eyes everywhere. Katie and Angela kept their landlines for times like these.
“Three, two, one!” Katie said. “There it is.”
The Chouteau County Sheriff’s Office, the state’s prettiest cop shop, was on the screen. TV and news reporters roiled around the sheriff’s office, which looked like a boutique hotel.
“Monty really produced the press,” Katie said.
Angela could hear her friend’s pride. “He looks photogenic.”
“He looks damn good. And Jose cleaned up nicely, too.”
Montgomery Bryant and Jose Maria Salvato shouldered their way through the media crowd. “Monty’s wearing his serious blue trial suit and red power tie,” Katie said.
Jose looked like the businessman he was in a similar suit with a silver striped tie. “Did Jose shower at Monty’s office?”
“Yes, and Gracie brought over his suit.”
Both men ignored the press’s shouted questions: “Jose! Did you help Kendra kill Luther Delor?” “Did you kill the old man to avenge your daughter?” “Why did you beat up the cop and run?”
“Do the reporters actually think anyone will answer those inane questions?” Angela said.
“Sh! Monty’s talking.”
“Good evening. I’m Montgomery Bryant, and this is my client, Mr. Jose Salvato. He’s also the father of Kendra Salvato. Ms. Salvato has been charged in the death of her fiancé, Luther Delor. Now Chouteau Forest detective Ray Greiman has made a similar accusation against Kendra’s father. Mr. Salvato is a respected businessman in Chouteau County, owner of the Proud American Lawn Service. Let me emphasize—Mr. Salvato, his wife, Graciela Salvato, and their daughter, Kendra Salvato—are all proud Americans. Mrs. Salvato is also an entrepreneur. She owns the Chouteau Forest Deluxe Cleaning Service. Mr. and Mrs. Salvato are naturalized American citizens. Kendra Salvato was born in the Forest at Sisters of Sorrow Hospital, and she graduated from the Chouteau Forest Academy. She went to high school there with many of the Forest first families. Her class photo is displayed in the school hall.”
“I wonder if the school administration is rushing to take down that photo,” Angela said.
“Quiet!” Katie commanded.
“Now Mr. Salvato is accused of assaulting Greiman,” Monty said. “This detective deliberately provoked Mr. Salvato, fired three shots at him, and made racist remarks. Greiman claims that Mr. Salvato acted in conjunction with his daughter, Kendra Salvato, to murder Luther Delor. All these charges are false, the result of poor reasoning and shoddy investigating by the Chouteau Forest Police Department. Mr. Salvato is an innocent man, and he has agreed to voluntarily turn himself in. If he is charged with murder or anything else, I will defend him vigorously. Let me repeat: Jose Salvato is innocent, and his actions today are those of an innocent man. I believe the Chouteau Forest Police Department has targeted the Salvato family because of political pressure and racial prejudice and that both my clients will be vindicated
.”
“Damn, he’s good.” Katie was lost in admiration for Monty.
So was Angela. “That took guts. He painted a target on his back when he said Jose and Kendra were targeted because of political pressure and prejudice.”
“Everyone knows it. But Monty has the balls to say it.”
“I wonder how Jose’s and Gracie’s businesses are doing,” Angela said.
“Jose’s lost most of his private homes. But the business accounts are sticking with him. He’s reliable, and his prices are good. Gracie’s losing customers right and left. She’s had to lay off two of her cleaners, but she’s still paying them. Monty doesn’t know how much longer she can afford to do that, now that Jose’s been arrested.”
“Who’s doing the cleaning? I can’t see the Forest ladies scrubbing their own floors.”
“Oh, this is great gossip. I got it from Butch Chetkin, whose wife knows the woman. Old Reggie Du Pres tried to get his housekeeper to take over the job, and she flat-out refused. He had to hire Nancy, a Saint Louis County woman who charges double what Gracie does. Old Reggie shrieked like Nancy had stuck bamboo stakes under his fingernails when she told him her rates. ‘How difficult is it to scrub floors?’ Nancy didn’t take any guff off the old boy. She told him, ‘You can find out for yourself if you don’t hire me.’ He hired Nancy, but he doesn’t like her smart mouth.”
“He must really be upset at the Salvatos if he’s willing to part with cold, hard cash. I have good news, too. I’m off Coumadin. I can take aspirin instead,” Angela said.
“About fuckin’ time. The cane is next, and then you’re good as new. I’ll see you tomorrow at the lawyer’s office in Saint Louis, bright and early.”
“Early, definitely. I don’t know how bright I’m going to be at six in the morning.”
When the alarm rang at four thirty the next morning, Angela slapped the clock like it had insulted her, then dragged herself out of bed. She dressed, gave herself a shot of coffee, and caned her way into the chilly morning darkness.
The highway was nearly clear at that hour. Angela loved the feel of the road under her Charger, and it unspooled like a great gray ribbon. She kept a wary eye out for speed traps on I-55 on the long drive into Saint Louis and listened to The Jenny Carter Show, one of her favorite radio talk shows. Fortunately for Angela, the show was also rebroadcast at the more reasonable hour of 7:00 p.m.
Jenny was thirtysomething, short and cute, with long brown hair and a terrific smile. The one time Angela had met her, the popular talk-show host barely came up to her shoulders—and Jenny was wearing high heels.
This morning, Jenny was discussing what she called “the Jose Salvato incident” with retired homicide detective René Sabatini. The detective had a deep, resonant voice. Before each answer, he paused to consider it thoughtfully.
“What do you think of Mr. Salvato’s reaction?” Jenny asked. “Was he justified in running away?”
“First, let me make clear that I’m only going by the facts as reported in the news media, Ms. Carter,” the detective said. “I wasn’t there, and I don’t know the officer personally. If the detective was only punched, as reported, then he had no right to use lethal force. Firing three shots at a fleeing suspect was excessive. In my opinion—and I know a lot of people won’t agree with me—that detective should be disciplined and fired.”
Fat chance, Angela thought. Ray Greiman will probably be given a raise and a medal.
“But Mr. Salvato did hit the detective,” Jenny said.
“He did. He—or rather his lawyer—admits that Mr. Salvato punched the detective in the jaw. Obviously the detective was not seriously injured, as he was able to talk and ambulate.”
“But shouldn’t Mr. Salvato be charged with assault? The officer believed Mr. Salvato had committed arson and homicide,” Jenny said.
“Whose side are you on?” Angela said to the radio.
The detective answered, “Any charges brought against Mr. Salvato for punching the detective would be a misdemeanor battery on an LEO—that’s a law-enforcement officer. Even if the detective was going to arrest Mr. Salvato for arson or homicide, I do not believe that warranted shooting at a fleeing suspect. Mr. Salvato’s identity was known. He is a respected local businessman. He was not suspected of random acts of violence, just a specific act related to his daughter’s love life. It’s not likely anyone else was at risk.”
“If Mr. Salvato is charged with assault on a law-enforcement officer, will his lawyer be able to argue there are mitigating circumstances?” Jenny asked.
“As for mitigating circumstances . . . hm . . . the detective’s comments exhibited racism, but I don’t see that as being sufficient to excuse assaulting an LEO. One could argue that the detective should have known that pushing racist buttons like that could result in a strong emotional response. In fact, wasn’t that actually why the detective was questioning Mr. Salvato the way he was? If I were a defense attorney representing Mr. Salvato on a battery LEO charge, that’s what I would tell the jury. The detective was trying to evoke an emotional response, and that’s exactly what he got. Keep in mind, Mr. Salvato went straight to his attorney and turned himself in on the same day. That should count in his favor, too.”
“You tell ’em, detective,” Angela said to the radio. She was proud of her part in this drama, even if most people didn’t know about it.
Detective Sabatini wasn’t finished. “The incident is odd. My LE contacts told me the detective wasn’t trying to elicit more details of the crime—he seemed to be trying to offend Mr. Salvato. That would be counterproductive and further evidence of racism. Unless there are further details that haven’t come to light yet, I cannot at this time defend these actions.”
“Thank you, retired detective René Sabatini,” Jenny said. “Let’s go to our callers. Here’s Donald from Chouteau Forest. You’re on the air, Donald. What’s your question?”
“I want to comment on what this so-called detective said. He should be defending his brother officer, who puts his life on the line every day he goes to work. Too many of our police officers are shot and killed, and this Jose dude is a Mexican. They don’t have the same respect for the law as regular Americans. If he was in his country, he would have been shot, no questions asked. He’s lucky he’s in America.”
“Thank you, Donald,” the retired detective said. “I agree there are too many police deaths, but Mr. Salvato was not armed, and he was not threatening the officer. I’m not trying to excuse Mr. Salvato. He did hit an LEO. But the officer should not have made the racist comments.”
Jenny’s show had made the time pass quickly. Angela could see the Gateway Arch shimmering in the early-morning light, and she was entering the spaghetti tangle of downtown highways. The traffic had thickened.
She would need all her concentration now. She switched off the radio, turned off the highway, and threaded her way through the maze of one-way streets to Lin Kalomeris’s law office.
Soon she’d know what the experts had found—and if there was any hope for Kendra Salvato and her father.
CHAPTER 30
Day twelve
The Salvato defense team was in a larger conference room today at Brandt, Bosman, and Kalomeris, with an even more stunning view of the sun-gilded Arch and the powerful brown Mississippi. How does Lin Kalomeris get any work done in this law office? Angela wondered.
Lin looked fresh and alert in a charcoal suit with a blue blouse, her makeup perfect, her blonde hair in a neat twist. Katie wore a gray pantsuit and no makeup. She seemed attentive and thoughtful. Monty was annoyingly cheerful and energetic at this early hour. He introduced everyone to Carol Berman, the noted forensic pathologist from Delray Beach, Florida.
Carol was a fiftysomething brunette with large, brown, inquisitive eyes. The pathologist was so petite, Angela suspected she might buy her clothes in the children’s department. Her navy suit was expertly tailored to her slight, curvy figure.
“I just moved to Delray from O
klahoma City so my friends and family would visit me more often. Every time I talked someone into coming to Oklahoma, we’d have another tornado.”
“Are you married?” Angela asked.
“Still looking to meet Mr. Right.” Carol smiled at Monty. Angela noticed Katie stepped slightly closer to her man.
“And these are our two fire investigators, Laurie Hartig and Mo Heedles,” Monty said. “Laurie is from Las Vegas.”
Laurie was about five feet six, slim, and serious. Angela was amused to see she wore an eye-catching power suit in fire-engine red, with matching lipstick and nail polish. Angela guessed her age at late thirties. Mo was in her early sixties, with a clipped Eastern accent and short white hair. An avid baseball fan, Mo was the only one disappointed with the view. “If we were in an office on the other side, I could have seen Busch Stadium.”
“Maybe next time you’re in town, the Cardinals will be, too,” Lin said.
Mo lit up like a stadium scoreboard.
“Now, everyone, please help yourself to the buffet,” Lin said. “We have a lot of work to do in a short time.”
A generous buffet was spread out on a long table: Hot scrambled eggs, and ham and sausages in silver chafing dishes. Trays of muffins and croissants. A rainbow of melon, blueberries, and strawberries. Angela loaded her plate, refilled her coffee cup, then sat at the long conference table next to Katie.
Carol took the seat next to Monty. She didn’t flirt with him exactly, but she asked a lot of questions about his work. Katie watched the two, and her fingers twitched on her fork. Angela wasn’t sure if her friend wanted to stab Carol or Monty. Finally, Katie said, “Carol, tell us how you broke the Howe murder-for-hire arson.”
Carol said, “Uriah Jonas Howe was an unemployed veteran with PTSD accused of setting fire to a trailer. A twenty-two-year-old mother and her two children died in that fire. The prosecution said Uriah Howe had been promised half of the victim’s two-hundred-thousand-dollar life-insurance policy by her almost-ex-husband. Uriah’s friends swore he wasn’t a killer. I examined the evidence and discovered the culprit was a faulty water heater. Uriah was exonerated, and so was the victim’s estranged husband.”