by J. L. Abramo
“I’ve always liked it. Can you give me a lift to Seventh and Clement on your way out?”
“Let me think about that,” Darlene said, finally unable to conceal a smile.
“Think fast. I’m already late.”
Darlene dropped me at the small house on 7th, just up from Clement near the Green Apple Bookstore. I had spent many hours at the Green Apple, trying to decide between Dickens and Dumas. I saw Johnson’s unmarked parked out front. I walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Johnson opened the door and ushered me in.
“What did I miss?” I asked.
“Not a thing. We just arrived.”
I followed him back to the kitchen. Lieutenant Lopez was standing over a man seated at the kitchen table. Lopez looked up at me and then she glared at Johnson.
“What is he doing here?”
“He backed me up in Oakland, and he’s trying to pay off a debt to Ray Boyle,” Johnson said.
They were talking about me as if I was not there.
Johnson and Lopez had always been very good at it.
“Try to remain silent, Diamond,” Lopez said.
Then she focused her attention entirely on Daniel Gibson.
It was soon evident Daniel Gibson was not going to be very cooperative in the comfort of his own home. He was already demanding a lawyer.
Lopez instructed Sergeant Johnson to take the suspect into custody.
Johnson handcuffed Gibson and we walked out to the street.
Lopez went to her car and drove off.
Johnson placed Gibson in the back seat of his car for the trip to Vallejo Street Station.
I got to ride in front.
Gibson, handcuffed in the back seat, continued to complain about a violation of his rights until Johnson threatened to gag him.
Then Sergeant Johnson told me what I could expect when we reached the station.
I almost felt relieved until Boyle called.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m with Johnson and Gibson. They’re bringing Gibson in for questioning.”
“Will you be there?”
“Johnson is sure Lopez will stick me in a corner like a dunce. I agree. Johnson is going to drop me off at my office and keep me informed.”
“We spoke to three of the girls who were forced to work at The Volga, including the girl Katya. They told the same story. They all entered the country through San Francisco. They were all taken to the Bureau of Immigration on Washington Street.”
“Okay.”
“At Washington Street, someone arranged accommodations for the young women at the Powell Hotel. They were told to remain at the hotel until transportation to their domestic positions here in Los Angeles was arranged. All three identified Cicero as the man who brought them down to L.A.”
“What do you need, Ray?”
“I need Lopez to keep Daniel Gibson at the station as long as possible, ask Johnson to do everything he can to facilitate, and ask him to send me a photograph of Gibson.”
“I’ll talk to Johnson. I think you may get more cooperation from Lopez if she hears it from you.”
“I’ll call her,” Ray said. “I’ll be back in touch.”
When Johnson pulled up in front of my office I asked him for a word in private. We both left the vehicle and we moved out of Gibson’s hearing range. I filled the sergeant in on my conversation with Boyle. He returned to his car, climbed in, and drove off with his suspect.
I walked into Molinari’s Deli.
Angelo Verdi looked up from behind the counter.
“Jake,” he said. “I feel like you have been avoiding me.”
“Don’t be silly, Angelo,” I said. “What’s for lunch?”
TWENTY SEVEN
When Johnson brought Gibson into Vallejo Street Station, Lopez and Yardley were waiting.
“Did you succeed in losing Diamond?” Lopez asked.
“Yes,” Johnson said. “You might think about cutting him some slack occasionally.”
“I’ll think about it when the next occasion comes up. Sergeant Yardley, please escort Mr. Gibson to Interview Room Two.”
“You can’t do this,” Daniel Gibson insisted. “I haven’t been charged with anything. I want to call my lawyer.”
“Calm down, Mr. Gibson,” Lopez said. “You will get your phone call. I just have a few simple questions. If you help me, you could be gone before your lawyer can even get here.”
“I don’t like being handcuffed like a common criminal.”
“Will you behave?”
“Yes.”
“Yardley, please escort Mr. Gibson to the interview room. Sergeant Johnson, please remove the gentleman’s handcuffs. I will be with you shortly, Mr. Gibson. Sergeant Yardley, please make sure Mr. Gibson is made comfortable while he waits.”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Yardley said, and pointed the way for Gibson.
“Rocky, let’s talk in my office,” Lopez said, once Yardley and Gibson had walked off.
“It may have been a mistake bringing Gibson in,” Lopez said when they were settled in the lieutenant’s office. “A phone number in an airport locker is not enough to hold him. We’re working on getting land line phone records for Walker and Weido, but it will take a while.”
“How about Gibson’s home phone?” Johnson asked.
“We would need a warrant for that, since Gibson is alive to cry foul. We’re trying to get a judge to sign off on one, but I’m pessimistic.”
“How about cell phone calls?”
“We didn’t find a cell for Walker. I spoke to Folgueras. Oakland is going through both Weido and Cicero’s cell phones and will let us know if something helpful jumps out.”
“Did Ray Boyle call you?” Johnson asked.
“Yes. He asked that we hold Gibson as long as possible. I don’t know how long we can keep him. Sergeant Yardley will routinely photograph Gibson and rush the photo down to Ray.”
“Gibson could be stubborn.”
“How should we deal with him?”
“You are much better at this than I am, Lieutenant.”
“That is very flattering, Rocky,” Lopez said. “But I would really like your input.”
“I’d start with Walker, it’s our strongest connection.”
“And if Gibson denies knowing Justin Walker?”
“Ask him why he thinks we found his telephone number in Walker’s possession.”
“He could still play dumb,” Lopez suggested.
“If all else fails, you will need to put a serious scare into Gibson.”
“I agree. Let’s hope we get something to scare him with before we have to cut him loose. For now, we can let him stew for a while.”
“In that case, how about ordering out for a large sausage, mushroom and black olive pizza?”
“Works for me,” Lopez said.
The pizza could not have been better, unless it had given Lopez and Johnson some ammunition to use against Daniel Gibson.
As they walked over to the interview room, they were both feeling inadequately armed.
“He has been pacing the room since I put him in there. Must have walked two miles,” Yardley reported. “And he’s been yelling for a lawyer the entire time. The man is not happy.”
“I’m not very concerned about his happiness,” Lopez said.
“Noted,” Yardley said. “If and when you have to let him go, his wallet, keys and such are in that top desk drawer.”
“Thanks, Yardley. You can go back to your post,” Lopez said. “We are hoping for a phone call or two.”
“I’ll let you know, Lieutenant,” he said, and he moved off.
“Well, here goes.”
“Good luck,” Johnson said.
Lieutenant Lopez walked into the interview room.
Sergeant Johnson settled in front of a video monitor in the adjoining room.
“Mr. Gibson, I am truly sorry for the delay.”
“You are going to be a lot sorrier if I have anyth
ing to say about it.”
Lopez let it slide.
“Tell me about your relationship with Justin Walker.”
“I have no such relationship. I do not know the man.”
“We found your office phone number in his possession.”
“Anyone can get that number and have called it or not. It is easy to find, it is listed in the Blue Pages of every phone directory. We receive countless calls, inquiries concerning a number of issues related to international travel, customs, and citizenship. We often receive misdirected inquiries, many are redirected to more appropriate agencies. I have never known a man named Justin Walker, or talked with him to my knowledge. I have no clue as to why he possessed my office phone number or, for that matter, if he ever used it. I would like to get out of here. I cannot help you, and I can only wonder what this Mr. Walker has to say about any of this.”
Lopez turned her back to Gibson.
“Justin Walker has nothing to say about it,” Lopez said. “He was murdered last night, by a man named Carmine Cicero.”
Johnson caught Gibson’s reaction on the video monitor. He quickly rose and rapped on the interview room door.
Lopez excused herself and walked out.
“I have to hand it to Gibson,” Johnson said. “It was an impressive monologue. But the mention of Justin Walker’s death and Carmine Cicero definitely messed with his blood pressure.”
The telephone rang.
Johnson took it.
Yardley with word that Beggs from forensics was on the line for the lieutenant.
“Joe Beggs,” Johnson said, offering the phone to Lopez.
“Anything?” Lopez asked.
“It’s almost too much. Here is what we have from Justin Walker’s home phone and what Lieutenant Folgueras sent over to us from Oakland. There was a call from Carmine Cicero’s cell to Walker’s land line. There were calls made on Weido’s cell, Cicero’s cell, and Walker’s land line to the same number. It’s an L.A. number with an extension. It is an answering service, they do not connect to the client, instead they take a message and a callback number. And they will not say who the extension belongs to without a court order,” Beggs said, stopping to take a breath. “Are you with me so far?”
“Yes,” Lopez said. “There’s more?”
“There were phone calls to Weido, Walker and Cicero from Los Angeles in the past several days, all soon after they had called the answering service, and all from public pay phones.”
“Is that it?”
“There was one more number called from Cicero’s phone that we can’t identify, at least not quickly, without calling it.”
“You haven’t called it?”
“I thought you might want to try that one yourself.”
“Give me that number,” Lopez said, “and let me have the answering service number as well.”
Lopez scribbled down the first number, then the answering service number, and she thanked Beggs.
Lopez called the first number.
“What’s that sound?” she said, when it started ringing.
Johnson opened the top desk drawer, the sound got louder.
“That sound,” Johnson said, pointing to the open drawer, “it’s Daniel Gibson’s cell phone.”
“Wow,” Lopez said. “Is that cool or what?”
“It’s still not enough to hold him,” Johnson said.
“It’s something to work with in Round Two,” Lopez said. “I need to go back in there. Beggs gave me a second phone number, I wrote it down. See if you can locate it in Gibson’s outgoing call log. Let me know if you do.”
“Okay.”
Lopez walked back into the interview room.
“Mr. Gibson, I appreciate your patience.”
“I ran out of patience an hour ago,” Gibson said.
“Tell me about Carmine Cicero,” Lopez said.
“I cannot tell you anything about someone I do not know.”
“Let me tell you a little about him. Cicero caused the deaths of at least four men in the past week—in Los Angeles, Oakland, and here in San Francisco.”
“Then you should be looking for him, and not wasting your time, and mine, asking me about people I know nothing about.”
“We have confirmed Cicero called your cell phone, Mr. Gibson,” Lopez tried. “Do you believe he found it listed in the Government Blue Pages of his phone directory?”
“You have been holding me here for more than an hour, and I have not been charged with any crime,” Gibson said. “I will not answer any more questions until I call my lawyer.”
There was a tapping on the door.
Lopez excused herself again.
“Damn it. We are going to lose him,” Lopez said. “Tell me you found that answering service number in his phone.”
“Nothing,” Johnson said. “And I mean absolutely nothing. There were no records, at all, of incoming or outgoing calls. Gibson must have deleted everything before we got him here to the station.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
“However, Ray Boyle just called to save the day.”
“What?”
“The three girls who identified Cicero as the man who took them to L.A. and then handed them over to a man named Rimsky at The Volga nightclub, where they were coerced into giving sexual favors to patrons, fingered Gibson from the photograph we sent down to Boyle. They all identified Gibson as the man they met at the immigration office on Washington Street, the man who set them up at the Powell Hotel on Cyril Magnin Street, and the man who was present when Cicero collected them from the hotel. Ray assured me he would have collaboration from as many as ten more girls by the end of the day.”
“What are we missing here, Rocky?”
“Missing?”
“Walker supplies a key to Roberto Sandoval’s apartment, and then he is killed to keep him quiet. DiMarco comes into possession of the key, kills Sandoval, and Weido takes care of DiMarco. Weido and Cicero battle it out to the end in Oakland. They were all working for the same someone in Los Angeles who is very, very serious about covering up involvement in human trafficking.”
“Nicely summarized,” Johnson said.
“Where is the motive for Sandoval’s death?”
“Good question,” Johnson conceded.
Lopez returned to the interview room.
“Mr. Gibson,” Lopez said. “I understand your concern, being detained without charges, and not being granted the opportunity to phone an attorney. I have good news. I am ready to address both complaints.”
“Finally,” Gibson said.
“Daniel Gibson you are under arrest for kidnapping. You have the right to remain silent. You have a right to legal counsel, you may call an attorney. You and I can chat further when your attorney arrives.”
“I want to make a deal,” Gibson said. “I can tell you why Roberto Sandoval was murdered.”
TWENTY EIGHT
The most comfortable piece of furniture in the two-room headquarters of Diamond Investigations above Molinari’s Deli on Columbus in North Beach is also the only truly comfortable piece of furniture.
It is a short length upholstered couch, sofa if you like, often referred to as a love seat, although it has never been used for that particular purpose.
It was a gift from my mentor Jimmy Pigeon to celebrate the opening of the office, my own private investigation enterprise, after I left Jimmy’s employ in Santa Monica.
Jimmy insisted it was essential to have at least one such office fixture. He claimed it was an important tool, with the ability to land a potential client who might be having second thoughts about hiring a total stranger to spy on his or her wayward spouse or unruly child.
Jimmy’s generosity was legendary, but I suspected the gift was in part motivated by the desire to have a place to sit during his visits that wouldn’t leave him crippled.
As much as anyone can love an inanimate object, I love the thing. It sits up against the wall that divides the two rooms, facing my desk. It is comp
limented by a side table and a pole lamp.
I had been relishing its pleasures for more than an hour, catching up with Esmeralda’s dilemmas, and Quasimodo’s valiant efforts to aid her in her plight, while I waited for word from Johnson or Boyle which I honestly hoped would never come.
I finally concluded I was off the hook and, since the phone wasn’t ringing-in other business, I felt free to consider options for enjoying a Saturday afternoon of mindless play.
Then Lopez called.
“Jake, could you come over to my office?” she asked.
Her use of my first name was always a red flag.
“I don’t see why not,” I said, although I could think of a few reasons. “I’m on foot, give me ten minutes.”
I set the Hugo novel on the end table, I picked up the .38 I had failed to return to Sergeant Johnson, and I strolled down to Vallejo Street Station.
When Roberto Sandoval received his law degree from Yale he was offered positions at high-powered east coast law firms from Washington to Boston. The future looked very bright.
Sandoval chose instead to return to his native home in San Francisco and accept a job with the District Attorney’s office, a job considered by partners in the firms that had courted him as no more than a glorified civil service position.
The decision surprised many people, including Sandoval’s new bride and his new father-in-law. Theresa Ward was the daughter of John Ward of Ward and Barnum, one of the most prestigious firms in New Haven. John was determined to employ Sandoval for two reasons. Ward recognized Sandoval’s unique talents and he also wanted to keep his daughter close to home and hearth.
Roberto got a lot of heat, but refused to be dissuaded. Sandoval carried his law degree and his new wife across the continent, abandoning the Atlantic for the Pacific.
He was not warmly received at the San Francisco D.A.’s office. Roberto’s colleagues, many of whom would have given their right arm for the opportunities he had been offered in the east, chose to remain distant. One of the few who chose to befriend Sandoval early on was Alexi Kutzen, a janitor at the Hall of Justice. Sandoval often sought out the Russian immigrant when he could find no one else to talk with.