“Leave it in the lab pickup box downstairs. I’m hanging up now.”
Again Dave yelled, “Wait.”
“I have things to do, Dave. You should have your lawyer send the check to the doctor, but I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to show remorse so that the judge doesn’t put your sorry ass away for the full three years—”
“That’s not … it. Listen.”
“Make it quick.”
“I took pills. I don’t … have much … time. I wrote … an apology to you, too. And I brought you … a gift. My mother painted a … a small oil. Could be worth … more than … twenty … thousand. My way of saying … I’m sorry.”
“What kind of pills did you take?”
Dave’s laugh was a croak.
“I took ’em all. Sleep. Heart. BP …”
“Digoxin?”
“Yeah. If he had it, I took it. I barfed some. But he had spares. I’m drinking … Dad’s best wine.”
“How much of the digoxin?”
“I wasn’t, uh, counting.”
“How do you feel?”
“I’m … passing … out.”
“Where are you?” Atkins asked.
“Out … side. The van. Channing Winery …”
Blinds were cracked open on the second floor. Then Atkins hung up the phone.
Dave watched the lights in Murray’s office go out. He took his phone out of his hip pocket and placed it on the dash. He took another swig of the wine he’d helped grow and bottle.
Then he laid his head back. Waiting. Waiting.
CHAPTER 107
I BADGED THE court officer and he opened the door to courtroom 6A.
There was standing room behind the last row of chairs in the gallery. I took a spot on the aisle and watched Zac Jordan make his closing argument. I was relieved that the case hadn’t yet gone to the jury. Maybe I could speak to the judge, hand off the bombshell of Antoine Castro’s death, and buy some time for Yuki and Zac to talk to the defendant.
Zac Jordan was wearing red-framed glasses, camel hair over plaid and khaki, finishing with cordovan cap-toes. It was a look that said, I’m a good guy. I knew he was.
I listened intently to his closing statement.
He said, “Clay Warren is guilty of trusting someone he didn’t know in exchange for an adventure, a road trip, and—just guessing here—a small amount of cash. It turned out to be a catastrophic error, the biggest mistake of his young life.
“It’s also possible that the man who shot Officer Morton put a gun to Clay’s head and forced him to drive. We have seen in the video that this killer also aimed his gun at Jonas Hunt and made off with his car.
“I have to answer these questions hypothetically because Mr. Warren won’t tell me. He won’t tell you, either.”
Zac paced a little. His brow was furrowed, and I watched the jurors’ rapt expressions as they followed him with their eyes.
Zac stopped and faced the jury, saying, “But when he was first arrested, Clay thought he might know who’d convinced him or forced him or paid him to get into the car. He mentioned the name of a notorious criminal, but he said that he couldn’t make a 100 percent ID. And now I know why he wouldn’t cooperate or help himself. He was afraid of retribution—and he got it. He was brutally attacked in jail, stabbed multiple times in the gut, and came this close to dying.
“You heard Ridley Sierra, Clay’s best friend since grade school, swear under oath that in his opinion Clay is naive and younger than his years. He described Clay as ‘gullible.’
“I believe that Mr. Sierra is right.”
My heart twisted thinking about Clay Warren, the poor dope, and I wanted to tell him, “Help is on the way.”
Zac was wrapping up and time was running out. I saw where Yuki was sitting beyond the railing. I texted her, but she didn’t respond. I was desperate to reach her, so I took a chance and crept up the aisle to the bar, reached over, and tapped her on the shoulder.
She spun around, annoyed, but then she read the expression on my face. She mouthed, “What’s wrong?”
I stepped on some feet, bumped knees, but I got close enough to Yuki to whisper in her ear.
“Antoine Castro is dead.”
She whispered back, “How do you know?”
“He’s in a drawer at the ME’s office.”
Yuki grabbed my hand and squeezed, then stood up.
She said, “Your Honor, Mr. Jordan, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we have new information from the SFPD. If we may approach the bench?”
“This had better be good, Ms. Castellano. It had better be brilliant.”
CHAPTER 108
YUKI, ZAC, AND I stood at the bench, looking up at the judge.
Yuki said just above a whisper, “Your Honor, the man who we believe killed Officer Todd Morton has been positively identified by his photo. His fingerprints on his gun matched his prints inside the Chevy and Mr. Hunt’s RAV4. I would prefer you hear this information from Sergeant Boxer, who is a homicide investigator with the SFPD.”
Judge Rabinowitz looked at Zac.
“Okay with you, Mr. Jordan?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
He said, “If we were on a TV show, I would say, ‘This is highly irregular.’”
Irregular or not, the judge called court into recess, and Yuki, Zac, and I followed the judge into his private chambers. He didn’t ask us to sit, so we stood around his desk.
Judge Rabinowitz said, “What can you tell me about this individual, Sergeant?”
I said, “The man we believe was the passenger in the stolen white Chevy, the one who shot officer Morton, is a drug dealer by the name of Antoine Castro.”
“You have him in custody?”
“He was shot dead yesterday, Your Honor.”
“You say the man suspected of shooting Officer Morton is dead?” Rabinowitz said. “And what do you infer from that, Mr. Jordan?”
Zac Jordan said, “As I’ve told the court, Clay Warren was terrified that the shooter would have him killed or harm his family. Absent the immediate threat, my client may cooperate with the DA. If he tells what he knows about the drugs in the car, if he had a working relationship with Castro, we may be able to roll up some major criminal activity.”
“Lot of ifs and maybes,” Rabinowitz said.
Zac added, “We need a little time, Your Honor. The defense requests a continuance.”
“This is highly irregular,” said the judge. “But you’ve got until one week from today.”
CHAPTER 109
LEONARD BARKLEY KNOCKED on the back door of a small brown stucco house on Thornton Avenue, two doors down from the nearly identical house where he’d lived with Randi for four years.
His neighbor, friend, and coconspirator, Marty Floyd, opened the door and gave Barkley a wide smile.
“I was worried about you, man,” said Floyd. “I never saw so many cop cars as was on TV yesterday. Hey. I’ve got pork chops and potatoes still hot. Sound good?”
“Fantastic. Got milk?”
“Sure do. And I set up the game. Maybe we can go a few rounds.”
“I’ve walked miles,” said Barkley. “I need to wash up, change out of these clothes. And no kidding, I need to sleep.”
“Eat first. Shower later. Sleep when you’re dead. Sounds like a T-shirt slogan, doesn’t it?”
Barkley laughed. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. He couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed.
“You win, Marty. Eat first.”
Marty Floyd—transit cop, political junkie, and full-ranking member of Moving Targets—carefully placed a heaping plate of food in front of his friend Barkley and sat down across from him at the kitchen table.
“Barko,” he said. “You’re a folk hero. There’s going to be ballads written about you someday. How’d it go down?”
Barkley put his phone down next to his plate. A clamshell burner. He sawed off a hunk of pork chop with a steak knife.
“Eat first,
” he said. “Then talk.”
Floyd laughed, got up, and poured Barkley a glass of milk.
Five blocks away Randi White Barkley was riding inside a squad car with her minder, Officer Pat Hudson.
The dog had been left behind, because as Randi had told Hudson, she just needed to pick up her electric toothbrush, her own pillows, a box of dog treats, a phone charger, and her personal massager, none of which she’d taken when the police kidnapped her.
Hudson found Randi quite amusing. She pulled up to the Barkley house on Thornton near the junction with Apollo and parked in the short driveway.
She said, “We should hurry.”
“I told you, Officer. Pat. This’ll take two minutes. Just wait for me.”
“You’re in custody, dear,” said Hudson. “Besides, I’m coming too.”
“Suit yourself,” said Randi, as if she had a choice.
She walked up the three wooden steps to her door, cautioning herself not to look at Marty’s house two doors down, where a kerchief had been tied to his car antenna, signaling her that Barkley was there.
The house key was in her hand when she heard Marty Floyd call out to her across two patchy front yards.
“Randi, how’s it going?”
“Good, Marty. I have company.”
“Yeah, I see. You look rested.”
“Later, buddy. Be good,” she called out.
Feeling nervous because Leonard was so close and knowing that she wouldn’t get to see him, Randi opened the front door.
“Home sweet home,” she said without enthusiasm.
Then she went inside with her jailer.
CHAPTER 110
THE CHRONICLE’S CITY room was loud and busy, everyone bending their heads over their computers, working toward a six o’clock closing.
Jeb McGowan knocked on the glass wall of Henry Tyler’s office, and Tyler motioned him in.
“Sir, I need a minute.”
“Anytime. Take a seat.”
McGowan chose to stand.
“Mr. Tyler, something happened and I have to tell you about it.”
“Go ahead, Jeb. And for Christ’s sake, sit down.”
Jeb sat on the edge of the leather sofa facing Tyler’s desk. He said, “I don’t know how to say this.”
“Speak, Jeb. Out with it.”
“Yes, sir. This is it. Cindy ambushed me in the garage. She kissed me, and clearly she wants more. It’s classic sexual harassment, Mr. Tyler. She sees my potential. She wants to sideline the competition.”
Tyler picked up his desk phone and called Cindy. “I’ve got a fire in my office. Can you come down?”
Cindy told him she’d be right there.
She saved her file and, skirting the center of the city room, took the perimeter route, the long way around to Henry’s office. His door was open, and after knocking, she went right in.
“Where’s the fire?” she asked Tyler.
She saw McGowan sitting on the edge of the sofa but didn’t acknowledge him. She sat in the side chair next to her publisher and editor’s desk.
“Jeb?” said Tyler. “Tell Cindy what you told me.”
McGowan, now red faced, gutted it out.
“You know where the fire is, Cindy. I told Mr. Tyler about those unwanted advances you made in the garage, and since you’re technically my superior, that’s sexual harassment.”
Tyler asked, “Cindy? What happened?”
“He sneaked up on me, Henry. He grabbed the back of my neck, so that I couldn’t pull away, and stuck his tongue in my mouth. He asked me if I liked it. I told him if he ever did that again, I’d get him fired.”
Henry Tyler picked up the phone and punched in some numbers, and when the call was answered, he said, “Marie, Mr. McGowan is leaving our employ. Please do the paperwork. Say his job was downgraded and filled from within. Send security to the city room to take his ID, watch him pack up, and escort him out of the building. Thank you.”
Tyler put the receiver down hard and turned back to McGowan.
“Jeb. You’re fired. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. If it gets back to me that you’re bad-mouthing Cindy or me or the Chronicle, I’ll return the favor. Bookkeeping will direct-deposit your check through the end of the pay period. But I want you out of here. Now.”
CHAPTER 111
DAVE WAS DOZING when the side door of the van slid open.
Nurse Carolee Atkins stepped up and sat heavily in the passenger seat. She shook his arm roughly to wake him up.
Dave pressed the button that raised his chair back into an upright position.
“Hi. Nurse Atkins … thanks … for coming.”
“What is it that you want, exactly?”
He pointed and said, “Glove … compartment.”
Atkins opened the glove box and took out three manila envelopes, one marked with her name, one with Murray’s name. The third one read, “Last Will and Testament.”
“Where’s the painting you were talking about?” she asked.
“Cargo … compartment. I … crated it up for you. Wrote your name …”
He yawned widely and left the sentence unfinished.
“Dave. Is the cargo compartment open?”
“You mind?” he said, gasping. “Talking to me? My last, uh, day.”
Atkins sighed. “Okay, but I have guests coming for dinner, so let’s keep it short. What do you want to talk about?”
“Tell me about … Ray. Something you liked. Closing … my eyes. Tell … me.”
Atkins said, “I liked your father, a damned sight more than I like you. One time I couldn’t leave for lunch because we were short handed. He went out and got me a sandwich. And pickles.”
Dave Channing was sleeping deeply. Whatever he’d taken—a cocktail of heart medication, blood pressure medication, diazepam, digoxin, which alone could have killed him, and what looked like half a bottle of wine—was shutting him down.
“Dave?”
He groaned.
Atkins opened the envelopes. Yes, there was a check for the doctor, ten thousand dollars. She read the apology from Dave to Dr. Murray, and it sounded sincere. He said that he’d lost his mind in grief. He hoped the money would cover the cost of repainting the car. He was very sorry for being such a pain in the ass and asked the doctor to please forgive him.
Dave tried to speak.
“What is it, Dave?”
“Pain.”
“Sorry. If you’d asked me to help you out, you wouldn’t have felt a thing.”
“Help me … now.”
Atkins ignored him. She lifted the envelope with the words “Last Will and Testament” written on the front. She opened the envelope, took out a piece of typed paper, and started to read. It was a long narrative in which Dave thanked all of his online friends and left his paltry possessions to the staff and the money from the sale of the winery to a children’s charity that specialized in helping kids with disabilities. The document had been signed and witnessed by a Jeff Cruz. Nice.
She’d saved the envelope addressed to her for last.
Dear Nurse Atkins,
I apologize for being very disrespectful and making your job harder. I know you did your best for my father, and I’m indebted to you. I’ve left you a painting my mother named The Sun Also Rises, after an Ernest Hemingway novel. It was her favorite painting and all I have to give you. Peace and light.
Good-bye,
Dave Channing
The letter was also signed and witnessed by the same Jeff Cruz.
Atkins knew what Nancy Channing paintings were worth because Dr. Murray had one. Now she’d have one, too.
Dave sputtered, then asked haltingly, “Was Dad … in pain?”
Atkins sighed. “Yes, yes, he was in pain. I only help the ones who are in pain.”
“How?” Dave asked. “How do you … help?”
She said, “Dave, don’t bother yourself with details. He wasn’t in pain. Like you are. Okay?”
“I’m going …
now. For God’s sake. Help.”
He bent over and, grimacing, wrapped his arms tightly across his abdomen.
“Your father had been sedated, Dave. They’re all sedated. I put a little something in the drip line. They’re already asleep and they’re asleep when they die. Ray felt nothing. He didn’t have to suffer like you.”
Dave looked up at the tall woman with the cinnamon-colored hair. He could see her hard eyes staring down at him.
“You do that. For them?”
She sighed in disgust, couldn’t wait to get away from him.
“I’m a helper. Someone has to do it, and I know how.” She clucked her tongue, as if saying, What a shame you took this into your own hands.
Then she put her hand on his knee.
“It will be all over soon, Dave. Nothing will bother you again.”
CHAPTER 112
NURSE ATKINS LIFTED the half bottle of wine from between Dave’s atrophied legs and took a couple of swallows.
It was pretty good. She drank some more and put the rest of the bottle back where she’d found it. Dave Channing was still breathing, but barely. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with buttoned cuffs and a turtleneck underneath.
She managed to get a couple of fingers against his wrist. His pulse was slow. His breathing was shallow. She knew what dying looked like. Dave Channing was on his way out.
She said, “I’m getting the painting now, Dave. And thanks for that. I forgive your jackassery. Have a good trip.”
Atkins got out of the passenger seat and walked around to the rear doors of the panel truck, hoping to find them unlocked. They were.
She felt a little dizzy as she twisted the handle, pulling the doors open. That was from the wine. She focused on a pile of quilted mover’s blankets on the floor of the cargo compartment. She didn’t see a crate or a mailing tube or any kind of box at all.
Had Dave’s last act been to prank her?
She got into the rear compartment on her hands and knees and felt along the back wall. Nothing. That son of a bitch. She backed out of the van, cursing. Had he forgotten to put the crate in the van? Or had he been so stoned he couldn’t lift it?
20th Victim: (Women’s Murder Club 20) (Women's Murder Club) Page 23