by J. L. Abramo
Fleeting thoughts of simple diplomatic disclaimers ran through Lopez’s head, such as don’t take this personally or I’m just covering the bases, but she decided if Duffey was inclined to take offense, who was she to inhibit him.
Duffey had invited her to talk.
Lopez would oblige.
“Sandoval’s body was discovered only four hours ago,” she began. “The doorman was found earlier. We are guessing it was the same perp. The autopsy reports and the forensic findings are pending. The tenants are being questioned, so far nothing vital. I’ve been dodging reporters since noon, and trying to organize my protocol. I haven’t been able to speak with Sandoval’s wife. She is running around somewhere in Italy. I have no answers, only questions. So I thought I would begin right here, where Sandoval worked. I am hoping you can help me out.”
“Me? How?”
“I understand you were one of the last people to see Sandoval alive.”
“Well, I suppose you could say that.”
I did say that, Lopez thought, as she flipped through the pages of a pocket-sized notepad that suddenly appeared in her hand.
“We spoke to the cab driver who drove Roberto Sandoval home from the Omni Hotel last night. He said you gave Sandoval a firm handshake and what the cabbie referred to as a bear hug before Sandoval got into the taxi.”
“A bear hug?”
“Just quoting, sir. I wrote it down. Give me a second and I can find it.”
“The fundraiser was a great success. Roberto charmed the entire congregation. My impulse, which the taxi driver so colorfully described, was celebratory in nature. It was a show of congratulations.”
Lopez tried imagining the grandson of Irish immigrants and the grandson of Mexican immigrants wrapped up in a warm embrace. She was having trouble picturing the scene.
“I expected your visit this afternoon would be more a progress report than an interrogation,” Duffey added.
“Don’t be silly,” Lopez said, feeling silly saying it. “I need a little information to help me get started. Maybe it would be more comfortable and more informal if you took a seat. I won’t take much of your time, and the sooner we get through this, the sooner I can get back on the job.”
“Fine,” the District Attorney said, as he reluctantly settled into his desk chair. “What do you need to know?”
“How did Sandoval seem last evening?”
“How did he seem?”
“You indicated the event was very successful, in that it raised a worthy amount of money for the Crossroads Irish American Festival or in that it was good for Roberto Sandoval’s campaign for this office?”
“Well, both actually. Those goals need not be mutually exclusive, Lieutenant.”
“Of course not,” Lopez granted. “And you appeared, by your actions outside the taxicab, to be exuberant over both outcomes.”
“Very pleased, yes.”
“Did Sandoval seem as pleased?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“I guess what I am asking is did he seem preoccupied with thoughts which may have dulled his enthusiasm? Did he seem to have something other than the great success of the evening’s festivities on his mind? Did there seem to be something troubling him?”
“Your inquiry calls for a good deal of speculation, so I’ll speculate,” he said, with an air of condescension that had Lopez wishing she hadn’t asked. “With hope it will lead to a line of questioning with more probative value.”
Lopez flashed her most ingenuous smile.
“It’s my hope as well, sir. Please bear with me.”
“Roberto Sandoval seemed at ease the entire evening. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the occasion. If there was something distracting or distressing on his mind, it was not evident.”
Wow, thought Lopez, if you looked up “lawyer” in the encyclopedia there would be a picture of Liam Duffey with the same smug look on his face.
“How about recently, the past few weeks or months, could you say if there was anything troubling him?”
“You need to be more specific.”
“Were there any problems in his personal life?”
“Although I liked and respected Roberto a great deal, I didn’t know much about his personal life. I’ve met his lovely wife on a few occasions, but beyond that we did not spend much time socially.”
“Would you say he had a happy marriage?”
“I have no opinion whatsoever about their matrimonial state.”
It was unusual that there was anything Duffey had no opinion about.
“What about his work here? Was he troubled or having problems with a case he was prosecuting, or preparing for trial?”
“Roberto Sandoval was a very competent and confident prosecutor. He avoided problems with diligent preparation and faultless execution.”
Getting answers from Duffey was like pulling teeth.
Lopez pictured a large pair of pliers in her hand, but she quickly shook the image off.
“Have any felons Sandoval successfully prosecuted been released from prison recently?”
“I couldn’t say off-hand. I would have to look into that.”
“Please do. I’m looking for a motive—it really helps move an investigation along. I would appreciate everything you can provide concerning Sandoval’s current cases and all you can find out about convicts he put away who may be back out on the street,” Lopez said, rising from her seat. “As soon as possible.”
“Where are you going?”
“I need to get back to Sandoval’s apartment building, to check on how the canvassing is going. There will be a good number of tenants returning home from their work day soon who haven’t been questioned yet.”
“I was hoping you could stay a while longer. I wanted you to meet someone,” Duffey said, checking his wall clock. “He’s running late, but he should be here very soon.”
“Some other time.”
“But it’s important. You will be working very closely with him on this case.”
“Oh?”
“My new lead investigator. A decorated homicide detective we were very lucky to lure away from the Oakland Police Department. This investigation will need to be a joint effort, of your department and our investigative division. All information gathered will be shared, openly. I don’t want any compromised evidence getting in the way of nailing whoever did this to Roberto Sandoval.”
“Have you ever known me to compromise evidence?”
“No, but it’s best to be doubly safe.”
“It’s not how I work. I use my own people.”
“It is how you will work on this case, Lieutenant. So please wait a few more minutes to meet your partner.”
“I really need to go. Have him meet me at my office tomorrow at noon. He and I can bond over a pastrami sandwich. Please send me the material I requested, at least as much as you can put together by that time.”
“Talk to my secretary. She can help you with what you need.”
Lopez quickly turned and left the office.
Duffey looked up at the wall clock and cursed his lead investigator’s lack of punctuality.
Lopez stopped at the front desk and told the new girl what she wanted.
“Also, do you have a record of Mr. Sandoval’s appointments in the past few weeks?” Lopez asked.
“Yes. At least any related to his work here.”
“Please send that information also.”
The term “wildly enthusiastic” would not come close to describing Officer Davey Cutler’s condition. He was sitting on a bar stool in the Chieftain Irish Pub with his back to the bartender, staring intensely at the front entrance, as if expecting notification that he was the latest ten million dollar winner of the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes.
When Sergeant Johnson finally entered the bar, Davey nearly jumped out of his skin. He then froze, unable to decide whether to hop off the stool and meet Johnson half-way, or wait for the sergeant to reach him. Johnson solved the dilemma by
waving Davey over to a booth in a far corner of the saloon.
Cutler slid onto the bench seat across from Johnson and tried speaking immediately. Johnson cut him off at the pass.
“Hold that thought,” the sergeant said.
Johnson captured the attention of a girl carrying a busing tray. She wore cutoff jeans and a Golden Warriors T-shirt that was high and tight. He held up two fingers, much like a peace sign, and she skipped over to the bar. Watching her move, Davey forgot for a moment why he was there.
“Okay,” Johnson said, bringing Cutler around. “What do you know?”
Davey’s eagerness and enthusiasm kicked back in full-throttle.
“I accidentally found this,” Cutler said, opening his right hand to reveal a slip of paper he had been clutching for more than thirty minutes. It sat in his palm looking as if it had been pulled through a straw.
“Accidentally?”
“I was down at the morgue, looking for you, and picked up a shoe belonging to the guy they found dead in the trunk of the Cadillac last night. And this fell out.”
Davey was trying to unravel the paper and smooth it out flat on the table in front of him as he spoke.
“And you accidentally removed it from evidence?” Johnson asked.
The wind went out of Cutler’s sails and he would have capsized and went under if Johnson hadn’t rescued him with a broad smile.
“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Johnson said, picking up the slip of paper and giving it a quick glance.
2253#.
“Okay, I give up,” the sergeant said.
“It’s the access code to the parking garage of the building where the doorman and Mr. Sandoval were killed.”
“Are you serious?”
“He looks totally serious,” the waitress said, suddenly appearing with two bottles of Sam Adams Boston Lager. “Do you care for anything else, Sergeant,” she added, talking to Johnson but looking straight at Officer Cutler.
“We’re good, Amanda. Thanks.”
She set the bottles down and bounced off.
Johnson was emptying the contents of his pockets onto the table looking for his cell phone. He took a drink of beer and invited Cutler to do the same.
“Don’t know if I should be drinking on duty, sir,” Davey said.
“Just don’t make a habit of it.”
Johnson pulled out a ring of keys, a money-clip, a Zippo lighter, and finally the cellular phone.
Sergeant Johnson punched in a phone number he knew from memory.
“Ballistics, Yeatman speaking.”
“Tommy, Rocky Johnson here, did you get anything on the thirty-eight they pulled out of the trunk of the Cadillac?”
“All I can tell you is it wasn’t the thirty-eight that put one in the victim’s ear.”
“What about prints?”
“I don’t know prints. Check with Gordon or Beggs in forensics. They went over the gun before it came over to us—and the Cadillac inside and out.”
“Okay, I need a favor. Could you check the piece against the bullet that killed Sandoval?”
“Wow, Rocky. Some kind of wild hunch?”
“Sort of. And I would like to keep it between us for the time being.”
“It may take a while.”
“Let me know as soon as you can. I’ll owe you one.”
“One like the other two or three you already owe me?”
“Yeah, like those, Tommy. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Yeatman said, “and I won’t.”
The call ended.
Johnson placed the phone down and turned his attention to Cutler.
The movements in Cutler’s shoulders, arms and hands could only be described as fidgeting.
“What?” asked Johnson.
“There’s something else,” Cutler choked out.
“What?” Johnson repeated.
“It’s probably nothing. I’m reluctant to even bring it up.”
“If you are done with the disclaimer, Cutler, please spit it out.”
“I talked with Ethan Lloyd again, the dog walker, did what you asked, tried to jog his memory about the woman he saw in front of the apartment building last night.”
“And?”
“I got him to flesh out his description.”
“Cutler, don’t torture me.”
“Reddish blond hair, white running shoes, looked new, long strapped shoulder bag with an embroidered flower logo, maybe a rose.”
“Well, that’s a needle in a smaller haystack.”
Cutler couldn’t keep his hands still.
“What is it, Cutler?” Johnson had to ask. “You look like the cat that ate the Mercedes key.”
“That’s not all of it,” Davey said.
“Oh?” said Johnson, trying to get Amanda’s attention for another round of beers.
“Alright, here goes,” said Davey Cutler, taking a deep breath. “I saw a woman outside the Vallejo Street Station earlier today. Strawberry blond hair, clean white running shoes, a shoulder bag with an embroidered rose. I came up behind her and she turned to me. It was Lieutenant Lopez.”
“I am going to forget you said that, Cutler, and I would really like you to do the same. Terrific work on the parking garage connection. It could be a break in the case. I think we’ve done enough for one day. I’ll give you a yell tomorrow morning and we can pick it up from here.”
“Sure, Sergeant, thanks,” said Cutler, gracefully accepting the dismissal.
Davey watched as Johnson peeled a twenty dollar bill from his money-clip, dropped it onto the table, and began gathering all of the items he had pulled out of his pockets earlier.
“Were you OPD before San Francisco?” Cutler asked.
“Come again.”
“The cigarette lighter. The OPD inscription. That’s an Oakland Police Department logo.”
“I’ll call you in the morning,” Johnson said, slipping the lighter into his pocket, quickly rising and heading for the exit.
“What scared him off?” asked Amanda, showing up at the table with two more beers.
Cutler looked away from Johnson and up into Amanda’s sky blue eyes. Suddenly, cigarette lighters and shoulder bags were the furthest things from Davey Cutler’s mind.
On the other hand, a Zippo lighter and an embroidered shoulder bag was all Johnson could think about as he walked out onto Howard Street.
Darlene Roman and Megan Nicolace stood side by side on the western edge of Buena Vista Park. Darlene was pointing across the avenue and up Frederick Street.
“That’s it,” Darlene said. “It’s the third house on the left.”
“Very nice,” Megan said. “You must enjoy being so close to the park.”
“Love it, so does McGraw.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Best friend. Four legs, long sloppy tongue, a tail that won’t quit.”
“Protective?”
“Very protective when near,” Darlene replied. “He’s away until Sunday, gets to spend the weekend at the beach. Do you want to come in for a cold drink?”
“Thanks, but I need to be somewhere. Keep what we talked about in mind.”
“It won’t be difficult.”
“And you have all my phone numbers, don’t hesitate for a moment.”
“Roger that.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you,” Darlene said, and started across Buena Vista Park Avenue West toward her house.
Nicolace watched Darlene until she entered the house, and then she took a seat on a bench in the park and she watched the house for quite a while longer.
“Dr. Shepherd.”
The doctor turned to the voice.
A young nurse, Jessica Sanders, moving quickly down the hall.
“Your mugging victim is awake. The police want to have a word with him,” Jessica said. “I told them they still had to wait for your okay.”
“Good. Did he say who walked all over him?”
“Nope.”
“Shy boy?” asked the doctor.
“Not shy at all. He wasn’t conscious two minutes before he began hitting on me like a ping-pong paddle. Sounds like he picked up most of his lines from a dime novel. When I squeezed in a question about what happened to him, he answered in three words.”
“Which were?” asked Shepherd.
“Call Jake Diamond.”
TWELVE
The first ring of the telephone woke me.
The phone had lately become a very effective means of delivering me from dreamland. At least as efficient as the alarm clock, if not as predictable—and instead of being greeted by a ceiling projection of large green numerals ticking off the remaining moments of my life, I found myself surrounded by some of my favorite things.
Camel cigarettes, George Dickel bourbon, and classic French literature close at hand.
By the third ring I was done romanticizing and picked up the receiver.
The caller identified herself as Dr. Justine Shepherd of St. Mary’s Hospital, hoping to reach Jake Diamond.
I reluctantly admitted she had succeeded.
Dr. Shepherd called to inform me that a young man had been admitted to the Emergency Room with multiple bruises, lacerations and a fractured rib. The apparent victim of a serious beating inflicted by fists and pointy shoes.
Upon arrival, the victim had been heavily sedated and treated. He had finally regained consciousness.
When asked about the circumstances leading up to his landing in the hospital, the victim refused to elucidate.
Instead he asked that I be notified.
“Does the victim have a name?” I asked Dr. Shepherd.
“Vincent Stradivarius.”
“I’ll be right down.”
I hopped in and out of the shower, threw a suit over a fresh, clean, wrinkled shirt, and I drove the Toyota out to St. Mary’s.
I had tried to reach Darlene, settling for her answering machine.
I located Dr. Shepherd and she escorted me to Vinnie’s room. Two SFPD uniforms stood outside the door impatiently waiting their turn.