“That’s the nicest thing I’ve been called all week, hero. How are the bad guys?”
“Sam? How did you get this number?”
“I charmed a pretty lady with a sweet voice.”
“Did she at least hold out for a bribe?”
“Not a penny.”
“I tell you, she’s forgotten everything I taught her.”
Sam Goldman roared. Even after a full day, he still sounded wired. “Business must be good if you can afford one of those fancy portable phones.”
“Portable, my ass. The damn thing feels like I’m holding a brick and sounds like you’re in a tunnel.”
“Where I am talking to you?”
“I’m in my car.”
“Imagine that. Beam me up, Scotty.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Sam?”
“I got some news on the priest.”
“I hope you’re a better reporter than the gal who wrote the afternoon piece for the Examiner. That was worthless.”
“I told you, everyone is keeping quiet. It’s like the Kremlin.”
Ross sipped at the coffee. “What’s the big secret?”
“Don’t know yet, but I’ll find out. They can run, but they can’t hide. You asked me about the detective who found the victim?”
“You have a name?”
“Dixon Connor. From what I’m told, Connor caught the priest red-handed. No pun intended. I checked with the people here who monitor police and fire frequencies. A call came in around nine twelve that night. Connor beat everybody there—materialized at the shelter like Hamlet’s father.”
“How did Connor get there so fast?”
“Don’t know. But the real fireworks apparently started when Connor got back to the station. I’m told Mr. United States War Hero threw a fit in Lieutenant O’Malley’s office, and she suspended him. Internal Affairs is involved,” Goldman said.
“Any idea why she suspended him?”
“The priest’s attorney is contending the search was illegal, that Connor kicked in doors and busted locked cabinets without a warrant.”
“What’s Connor’s response?”
“Silence. Like I said, he cleaned out his desk and left. He’s not answering his phone. So, are you going to tell me your angle on this investigation?” Goldman asked.
Ross had known Sam Goldman a long time. He considered him both a friend and a mentor. But Goldman was a reporter first, and Ross knew he could be sitting on potentially explosive information, a story that any good journalist would like to investigate, but it was too early. He knew it would be unfair to tell Goldman the angle, then have him promise not to look into it. Giving a good journalist a tip you didn’t want in the paper was like lending money to friends. You just didn’t do it. Besides, if he was still working on the case, he had a duty to not disclose anything.
Ross threw him a bone. “I’m working on something, Sam. When I feel like I have enough to make it worth your interest, we’ll sit down, just me and you.”
Goldman dismissed it. “You know me, I’m always on the go. The missus said you were working. Top secret? James Bond stuff?”
Ross looked at the mess in the Cadillac and picked up the mammoth binoculars. “Yeah, Sam. I’m a real secret agent. Thanks for the information.”
“No problem. Enjoy that phone while it lasts, hero. Those things will never catch on. Who wants to be bothered morning, noon, and night?”
Ross set down the phone. He thought of Dixon Connor. He thought of Father Thomas Martin. And he thought of the victim, Andrew Bennet. He wondered how they all might have interacted with one another. He had enough material to have somebody take a close and serious look at three different files: three teenage prostitutes, all murdered, all unsolved . . . and Dixon Connor’s name now appeared as the detective on all three.
When he looked back to the front entrance of the apartment building, the BMW was parked at the curb. Michael Whitney had opened the passenger-side door, and his date was stepping out. Ross reached quickly into the backseat for his camera, opened the case, and removed the Nikon, fumbling with the telephoto lens. He started shooting as Whitney and Abigail Collins entered the front door and disappeared into the lobby. He knew he had a blurry photograph of the backs of a well-dressed man and woman.
Nathaniel Collins would not be happy, and an unhappy client was unlikely to pay. Ross picked up the tape recorder.
“Ten fifty-two p.m. Ross screws up. Subjects evade tail. No photographs. Wife makes one-point-five million. Frank Ross, private ‘dictective,’ makes nothing.”
“You OK?”
Donley had opened his eyes. Momentarily confused, he realized he’d fallen asleep in the chair beside Father Martin’s bed and the priest was talking to him. He sat up and shook away the cobwebs. Father Martin had his head turned on the pillow, watching him.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Donley said. He was sweating and breathing heavily. He unclenched his hands, which had been balled into fists, stood, and walked to the side of the bed.
“Vicious headache,” Father Martin said.
“The turban becomes you.”
“Never thought being bald would be a virtue; at least they didn’t have to shave my head.”
Donley smiled. “One of the officers who brought you in said you put up a hell of a fight. He said you might not be alive if you hadn’t.”
“I always did have a problem with that ‘turn the other cheek’ thing. What day is it?”
“Saturday.”
Father Martin turned his head to look out the window. “It’s late. You should be home with your wife and son.”
“I’m doing hospital rounds. I went to visit my uncle earlier and thought I’d come check on you.”
“How is he?”
“Ornery as ever, which means he’s getting better. They have him walking the halls. He keeps threatening to walk right out the door. He would, too, if my aunt wasn’t there. Walk right to the office, probably. You feel up to a few questions?”
“Sure.”
“I tried to see your friend Danny a couple nights ago.”
Father Martin’s eyes widened. “Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. He left the hospital in the middle of the night. Apparently, Detective Connor paid him a visit just before he did.”
The priest’s gaze shifted to the ceiling. “He’s scared.”
“With good reason. I paid Connor a visit myself earlier today to see if he would talk to me and to hand him a subpoena.”
“How’d that go?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t count on him as a character witness.”
“Connor hates the shelter.”
“Why?”
“People like Connor hate just to hate. They don’t need a reason. It’s part of their DNA.” Father Martin’s eyes fluttered. He yawned.
“I’ll let you rest.”
“What about you?” the priest asked.
“No rest for me,” Donley said. “I have an evidentiary hearing to prepare for, though I intend to ask for a continuance with you lying here looking like a Saudi oil sheik and Connor refusing my subpoena. No guarantees Maximum Milt will grant it, since you really don’t need to be present, and I’m sure the district attorney will argue I’m only stalling.”
Father Martin said, “It looked like you were having a nightmare.”
Donley dismissed it. “Nothing like the one you must be having.”
Father Martin paused. Then, apparently not wanting to push the subject, he asked, “How old is your son?”
“Benny? He’s two, almost three. Why do you ask?”
“He’s with your wife?”
“Actually, he’s with his grandmother. My wife’s on call tonight.”
“She’s a doctor.”
“A resident.”
“So, he stays with your mother.”
Donley shook his head. “My wife’s mother. My mother is dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
&nbs
p; “It’s been a few years,” he said.
“How’d she die?”
“Cancer. I was in law school. They found it too late. She died sixty days from diagnosis. The really amazing thing is, she waited a month to tell me because she didn’t want it to interfere with my semester exams. She went through hell by herself. That still bothers me.”
“What about your father?”
Donley shook his head, and for a moment remembered his nightmare, which was all too real. “He died in an accident a few years before that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was a lot like Dixon Connor, angry at everyone and everything. Blamed everyone else for his problems. Hated just to hate . . .” Donley checked his watch. “I better get going.”
“It’s all right to be angry, Peter.”
Donley nodded, but no words came.
“It’s all right to be angry at God. He and I battle all the time. When my mother died, I was angry because she gave her life to him, and I thought she deserved better. But we don’t know why God does what he does until sometimes much later. My mother’s death forced my older brothers to grow up and realize they had a responsibility to step up and take care of the rest of us. If they hadn’t, social services would have split us up, and they likely would be dead, given the direction they’d been heading. Maybe me as well. They protected me, and when I got to the seminary, they made sure I stayed there.”
“My mother used to say something similar,” Donley said. “But I never did find much comfort in the ‘everything happens for a reason’ answer, Father.”
“Do you know the story of Saint Paul?” Father Tom asked.
Donley smiled. “Not very well, I’m afraid. From what I recall, he persecuted the Jews until God knocked him from his horse and struck him blind.”
“Paul didn’t just persecute the Jews,” Father Martin said. “He murdered them. And yet, he was the disciple God chose to spread Christ’s message. God made us sinners, Peter. But he also forgives those sins. That’s his divine mercy. But first, we have to forgive ourselves.”
Donley wasn’t in the mood to go to confession. The memories of his father had returned from wherever Donley had buried him. With those memories, Donley’s resentment and anger had also returned. If he was being honest, Donley was scared he wouldn’t be able to control it, and what he might do as a result.
“I’ll keep you posted on what happens,” he said, and left the room.
Inside the building, Ross walked down chandelier-lit hallways with high ceilings. He wore coveralls he kept in the trunk of his car and a nylon-mesh baseball cap. Apartment 6B was the last door on the right. Ross pulled the bill of his hat low over his eyes and knocked. He held a clipboard in one hand and a toolbox from the trunk of his car in the other. Fastened around his waist was a tool belt. In the front pouch, a hidden camera lay inside what appeared to be a twenty-five-foot measuring tape.
“Who is it?” A man’s voice. He sounded aggravated.
“Roto-Rooter.”
“I didn’t call Roto-Rooter. You have the wrong apartment.”
Ross lifted the clipboard and pretended to read from it. “Apartment 6B, 1281 Clay Street?”
“Yes, but—”
“Got a call from the superintendent.”
Michael Whitney opened the door dressed in slacks and a V-neck T-shirt that showed off a thick gold-chain necklace. Thin as a rock star, Whitney pulled his long blond hair back in a ponytail.
“Do you know what time it is?” Whitney asked.
Ross checked his wristwatch. “Eleven twenty-four.”
“I meant—”
“And I’m hoping this is my last call of the night because, boy, my dogs are barking. Ms. Jamison in 4C appears to have developed a problem with her waste line, and I don’t mean her figure, you know.” He laughed out loud.
Whitney didn’t find it amusing.
Dolt.
“Anyway, superintendent has asked that we check each of the units on the same line.”
“Who is it?”
The question came from inside the apartment, the voice of an impatient-sounding woman.
Whitney leaned forward. “This is not a good time right now.”
Ross winked. “I understand, partner. Tell you what, if you have any raw sewage come floating up into your bathroom from the toilet, give us a call. We’ll have somebody out here within seventy-two hours. Stuff towels under the door to keep it contained. It can be a health hazard.”
Ross turned to walk away.
“Raw sewage?” Whitney asked with alarm.
“Ruined Ms. Jamison’s party,” Ross said. “Every time someone in the building flushes the toilet, she ends up with turds on her bathroom floor. We think it’s probably a tree root. Tree roots can grow right on up the pipe. You can snake the lines from here to China, but until you get the tree root out of the pipe, you’re just wasting everybody’s time. No pun intended.”
Whitney gave no response. This guy had the IQ of tree bark.
“How long do you think this will take?”
Ross winked. “I’ll have you back in the saddle in no time.”
Whitney opened the door, and Ross stepped into the apartment and turned left in the direction of the woman’s voice. Abigail Collins reclined on pillows by a fireplace sipping from a wineglass. Articles of clothing littered the room. Mrs. Collins pulled a blanket tight around her, but not before an enhanced breast tumbled out.
Click.
“Evening, ma’am. Sorry to disturb you so late.”
Click.
Collins looked to be in her mid-thirties, fifteen to twenty years younger than Mr. Collins.
“Who the hell are you?” she hissed.
“I’m Marty. I’m here to check your toilet.”
Click.
“It isn’t my toilet.”
Click.
Whitney grabbed Ross under the elbow. “The bathroom is the other direction, first door on the right.”
Abigail Collins reached up playfully and grabbed Whitney’s hand.
Click. Click.
Whitney stumbled and fell onto the pillows. Abigail Collins leaned across him, her breast again popping free.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
“Could be hair in the drains,” Ross said, snapping pictures as quick as the camera allowed. “Hair in the drain will be the end of the entire sewage system in all of the largest cities.”
Whitney pointed as he struggled to get up from the pillows. “Down the hall. Down the hall.”
“Got it,” Ross said. Mr. Collins had enough photographs to do a photo shoot, and Ross had just paid the mortgage for the next four months.
He shut the door to a green-marble bathroom with gold fixtures, removed a socket wrench from the toolbox, and knelt down to rap on the pipes. On a glass shelf above the bathroom sink, he spied a framed picture of Michael Whitney with Abigail Collins in front of the bicycle shop on Angel Island. Ross had once taken Frank Jr. there. What caught his attention, though, were the two little girls on miniature bikes with colorful streamers protruding from the handles. The girls were dark-skinned with rugged chins and bore a striking and unmistakable resemblance to their father. He put the picture back and sat on the toilet feeling sick to his stomach. Then he dropped the wrench into the toolbox and walked back into the living room.
Whitney and Collins sipped wine on the pillows. “You’re done?” Whitney asked.
Ross looked past him to Abigail Collins. “The picture, those are your daughters?”
“Yes,” she said, looking and sounding uncertain.
Ross tipped his cap. “They’re beautiful,” he said. “And precious. You folks have a nice night. I’ll see myself out.”
Ross closed the door behind him. Andrew Collins had said he and his estranged wife had no children. The son of a bitch was going to use the pictures not just to keep his wife from getting the money. He wanted to keep her from battling him about child-support payments—using Ross to g
et out of taking care of his kids while he drove down the coast to screw a young girl who worked in the golf shop at Pebble Beach.
Ross removed the tape measure from his belt buckle, located the clasp on the side, and opened it, exposing the film. He’d find another way to pay the mortgage.
Chapter 15
December 28, 1987
Gil Ramsey looked up from his desk as Linda St. Claire walked into his office on Monday, holding a sheet of paper. “Nice party the other night. How’s the hand?” she asked.
Ramsey squeezed his bandaged right hand, which still stung from the cigar burn. He’d told the guests that he’d burned his hand on the oven. “Did you get laid?”
She smiled. “He owns the biggest private defense practice in the city, Gil, and a ranch in Portola Valley. Just doing my part for the campaign.”
Ramsey turned toward the window. “Is that why you’re still smiling?”
St. Claire laughed and sat in one of the leather chairs, crossing her legs. “Actually, the news I have will put a smile on both our faces, and neither of us will have to remove an article of clothing.”
“Too bad,” Ramsey said.
She held up the paper. “The lab tests on Andrew Bennet’s clothing came back. They detected two types of blood. The kid is B positive. They also found O. Guess whose blood type is O.”
“Father Martin.”
St. Claire lowered the piece of paper. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d be jumping up and down.”
“I don’t jump up and down. What did Donley say about a plea?”
She shook her head, exasperated. “He didn’t take the bait. Who cares? Did you hear what I just said?”
“I heard. Call Donley, and make the bait a little more intriguing. Give him this latest bit of information.”
St. Claire was incredulous. “Why? We have a positive match.”
“Which means shit, if it isn’t admissible,” Ramsey said.
“This wasn’t found in the locked office, Gil. It was found on Bennet’s clothing. It’s over.”
“If the other evidence doesn’t come in, we have no murder weapon and no motive. We have O-positive blood. I’m O positive. It is the most common type out there.”
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