"My first day, they assigned me to the C-Mart rapist case as a test. They figured after the publicity I got on the Chinatown massacre, they'd bring me back to earth.
"We knew the rapist was white, stocky, and drove several different vans. We also knew he was a porno nut. Some detectives up in Sonoma County got a tip that a weird guy in a van was staying at a local motel. When they got there, all they found were a few stolen credit cards, a stolen VCR, and a stack of porno videos."
"No fingerprints?" she asked.
I laughed. "Yeah, but they had no match anywhere."
"So the guy had never been arrested before."
"Right. And he'd never held a government job or been in the military. But his description was identical to the ones given by several of the victims. They also found a purse belonging to the most recent victim in the motel's dumpster.
"I got the stolen credit card numbers and I checked every charge the guy made. He bought or rented over a hundred porno videos. None of the store clerks remembered him, though.
"I borrowed copies of every one of the videos and fast-forwarded through most of them. There were two things that popped up in almost ninety percent. One was a voyeuristic theme: guys peeking through bushes, keyholes, watching women through binoculars, stuff like that. The other thing was a minor porno actress named Ginger Snapps. She'd made twenty-three films, and he bought every one of them on videocassette, including one the day it came out. I found out later she was the spitting image of his high school girlfriend.
"So, instead of chasing the perp—the perpetrator—I decided to bring him to me. I found Ginger Snapps living in Sunnyvale, retired from the business, married to an aerospace engineer. Great headline, huh? 'Porno Star Marries Rocket Scientist.' I talked her into posing for a poster for one last film."
"Peekaboo," Colleen said.
"That's right. The poster showed the peep-freak's delight, a woman undressing seen through a keyhole. I didn't see how our boy could resist. I leaned on all the porno stores in the Bay Area to have Ginger come and autograph pictures and sell her new video. All it was was a compilation of her previous films, which a lot of distributors do anyway.
"So, at the third signing the dumb son of a bitch shows up, stolen credit card in hand, and the motel owner from Sonoma and two victims ID him on the store's security camera. The guy had been on the loose for two and a half years, raped eleven women that we knew of. I nabbed him in a month."
"And the guys at the station started calling you Peekaboo Frankie Fagen."
"Cops are great ones for nicknames. But we never told the press how I got the name, in case we wanted to use the trick again on some other scumbag."
Colleen laughed, then was silent. Then she just stared at me, at my face, my eyes. I stared back, no fear, no embarrassment.
I had gotten to the point where I couldn't imagine what life would be like without her.
Chapter 24
Martha Walley and I were forty-eight stories above the ground, on the roof of the City Towers, an office and condominium complex just south of Market Street. A near arctic wind whistled through our ears, whipping fog around our faces and through our legs.
For five days we had knocked on every door, called on every friend and acquaintance of over two hundred women from Tommy Rivera's former welfare caseload. At every place, we stated our oiler of fifty thousand dollars for any information leading to burglars or the recovery of Ghiberti's silver plates. We promised immunity from prosecution—something we were in no position to offer, let alone guarantee. We left our business cards and told people to call us if they remembered anything. I had made the offer in five different languages.
I had hired extra surveillance people, P.I.'s and off-duty cops, the latter from outside of the city, to conduct the twenty-four-hour watch on Bearden and Rivera. All they had learned was that Bearden was a workaholic and that Tommy's newfound wealth was swelling his manhood. He had already spent nearly ten thousand dollars buying six new suits, eight pairs of shoes, three leather jackets, two dozen pairs of silk boxer shorts, mostly black, and sending two dozen roses each to three women, none of whom was the woman he was living with. He paid cash for everything.
Two days after testifying, he rented a $950-suite at a Nob Hill hotel and treated himself to a ménage a trois with two different pairs of very expensive-looking call girls, running up a $1,143 room service tab and stiffing the waiters. Martha wanted to draw straws to see who would get to shoot the bastard if the opportunity presented itself, but I pulled rank on everyone.
I peered over the edge of the City Towers, the upper sixteen floors of which were condominiums, starting at a price of one million dollars. The fog was so thick that I could only see three floors down. Even at that the view was frightening, vertigo-inducing.
It had been built seven years earlier by Farragut Construction and had been the object of a vicious battle between the anti-high-rise coalition and Farragut, whose case was argued by Sherenian before the board of supervisors. Helen Smidge had once again carried the day for her golden goose.
I rarely feared earthquakes, but I was reminded of Flynn Cooley's warning that if another 8.1 temblor hit the city, twelve feet of broken glass from buildings like the City Towers could shower the streets, cutting thousands of people to ribbons. I hoped the big one wouldn't hit for at least another few hours.
Sherenian owned the penthouse condominium one floor below us. Martha had spent parts of three different days doing reconnaissance on the place. She'd found a Vigilance Security Company sticker on the door to the penthouse, as well as on the doors of several other units in the building. She called the company and requested to meet the installer who had done such a wonderful job on the City Towers penthouse.
Using her biggest smile and shortest skirt, she got the hard-drinking bozo to tell her exactly what kind of detection devices were inside. Every security system in the world can be breached if you know what's waiting for you, and Sherenian's was not particularly difficult.
He had his front door wired, of course, and infrared devices installed in every room, so that if anyone walked through they would set off an alarm in the security office on the first floor, and in Vigilance Security's home office.
Calvin hadn't bothered to have his windows wired, probably on the assumption that the Flying Wallendas were not in the burglary business. It's doubtful anyone but us would be dumb or desperate enough to pull the stunt we were about to.
As Martha cinched a harness around me, she asked, "You sure you want to do this, Frank? We don't have to have the tape of Colleen and Tommy's rendezvous in Sausalito to get a mistrial; the photos of Tommy meeting Sherenian and Bearden should do it."
"Sherenian can always say he did it to try to help his client. He could even blame it on Colleen, make her look more guilty. Any kind of audio or videotape from that night in Sausalito will discredit Tommy and help prove that Sherenian is trying to get Colleen convicted by suppressing evidence. Besides, if he or Hayden Phillips did find the burglars, he might have evidence inside that would lead us to them. We have to try."
Martha looked at me skeptically. "You're not doing this because you still have some doubts about what'll be on a tape if we find one, are you?"
"Maybe I do. You with me?"
Martha nodded. We both figured that if Sherenian had a tape of Colleen and Rivera, it was either in his penthouse, his law office, or locked away in a safety deposit box. That meant we should have better odds trying the Penthouse than we'd had on anything since we started.
At 7:08 Arnie called on the cellular from his ground-level stakeout across from the City Towers lobby. Calvin Sherenian had emerged, climbed into his chauffeur-driven sedan and headed for the eightieth birthday celebration of one of his former law partners. Bruce Bearden would be joining him, as I had learned from Colleen only hours previously.
I dialed Sherenian's phone and got the answering machine. We were fairly certain there was no maid, butler, or, our worst nightmare, an armed s
ecurity guard inside.
Checking my harness, Martha directed me to lean backwards and to walk my feet down the side of the building. I made the sign of the cross over my heart, kissed my Saint Christopher medal, and stepped back off the roof. She lowered me down the side, using a small hand winch we'd bolted to the ledge.
I couldn't see any of the neighboring buildings, thanks to the fog, but neither could anyone see me as I descended. I prayed it wouldn't lift until we finished. Martha eased the winch line out slowly. My heart was pumping double-time.
Two days earlier, Martha had rented a room on the top floor of a hotel a block away and used a thousand-millimeter lens to photograph the windows of Sherenian's penthouse. With the blowups mounted on the walls of the City Lights office, we figured out it would take only three things to break in.
When I reached the window of Sherenian's condo, I went to work.
I had ground down a one-inch wood chisel until the blade was half its normal thickness, and then coated it with vinyl chloride plastic so as not to scratch the anodized aluminum window frame. I slipped the blade in between the window and the frame, with the wind howling in my ears and wisps of fog touching my face.
When I had wedged the window open far enough to slip a fishing line through it, I flipped a loop over the handle of the window. Sliding the chisel back to ease the pressure, I wrapped the fishing line around my gloved hand and jerked down hard. The handle popped and the window sprung open an inch, as far as the crank would let it.
I looked anxiously for anyone or anything moving inside —a guard, a dog—and saw nothing. I pulled out a rod with a ratchet wrench attached to the end of it, dropped it over the crank handle, and opened the window far enough to squeeze through. Then I signaled to Martha that I was going inside and pulled out my infrared goggles.
Peering through the window, I saw the first beam of infrared light a foot from the wall beneath the windows. I jumped over it, crouching in the darkness, my hand inside my jacket on my gun. Dead silence.
Relying on the goggles, I slid under or stepped over a half-dozen of the red beams without tripping the alarm. Once into the massive living room, I removed the goggles and wandering freely about the warehouse-sized, single floor condominium.
The entire place was stuffed with antiques; Persian rugs, Chinese armoires, a Louis IV bedroom set.
In Calvin's office, I found a locked, four drawer file. I called Martha on the walkie-talkie and had her lower down my burglar's kit, which included several sets of master keys. It took me 40 keys to get into the filing cabinet.
Calvin must have had a thousand files in his home office, which would be not even a fraction of what he must have at his law offices. I looked under Farragut, Rivera, Hayden Phillips, burglary, everything I could think of. It became apparent that all Calvin had in the home files were records of his real estate holdings and personal investments, insurance papers, and so on. Nothing.
I got down on my hands and knees and began feeling the carpet for a floor safe, a sizable chore considering the place had at least twenty rooms, several in which you could have played tackle football.
Then I remembered finding the floor safe at Bearden's house under a rollout section of the desk. Could the student have copied the master?
I tried desks in two rooms before I found a small laminated white component desk in an unused maid's quarters. I rolled it out, peeled back the pre-cut carpet, and found the safe. I pulled the stethoscope from my burglar's kit and went to work on the floor safe. Arnie could have done it in a third of the time it took me, but I wouldn't risk him being caught breaking and entering into Sherenian's place. After 15 minutes, I heard the last tumbler fall into place. I wiped the sweat from my brow and opened the safe.
I carefully set aside a group of envelopes marked with the names of various real estate projects, assuming they might contain evidence of bribes or kickbacks. Beneath the papers I found a manila envelope with the inscription Sausalito Hotel July 7. I could feel the cassette through the envelope. Bingo.
As I prepared to return things and close up, I noticed something that I had almost overlooked in my excitement. At the very bottom of the safe, wedged flat against one side, was an unmarked business envelope. Stuffed inside was a piece of white paper folded in four. It was headed FROM THE DESK OF HAYDEN PHILLIPS.
Finally got C.A.C. to give me deathbed confession. Still wouldn't give me name of accomplice. She gave me hat from Schmidbaum burglary, described Farragut's clothing perfectly on night of murder. Admits Farragut burglary but denies shooting (naturally). Paid her in full. It's all on tape (enclosed). Be careful, this is the original. Make copy before playing for T.R., return original to me for safekeeping.
The P.S. was Burn this note! So much for honor among thieves. T.R. had to be Tommy Rivera. The note was handwritten, unsigned, and dated January 13, only a few months before the trial.
I had the strangest feeling of euphoria and dread. Phillips had found one of the burglars, identified only as C.A.C. and as "she." The bad news was she was dead.
The good news was that as of January 13, her accomplice was probably still alive and hadn't yet been found by Calvin. I had perhaps four or five days to find the accomplice, something Hayden Phillips hadn't done in the sixteen months between Farragut's death and January 13.
I prayed again that he hadn't found her since, that she wasn't dead, murdered like Simcic or McBain.
But where was the tape of C.A.C.'s confession? It was not in the safe.
I put everything but the Hayden Phillips memo and the tape from the Sausalito Hotel back where I'd found it. After spending another thirty minutes looking for the tape of C.A.C.'s confession, I became convinced it was in Sherenian's law office or in a safe-deposit box somewhere.
My terror of being caught in Calvin's place grew by the minute, and I feared that my fatigue and anxiety would cause me to make a mistake, leave some trace. I managed to convince myself that the tape was not important: it wouldn't lead me to C.A.C.'s partner, or the silver plates. The note, which I hoped proved to be in Hayden Phillip's handwriting, would be impressive enough all by itself when I handed it to Judge Walters with the rest of the evidence. I decided to take what I'd gotten and leave.
It took me fifteen minutes to get the window closed properly, dangling forty-seven stories up in the freezing wind. I was never so happy to see concrete when I finally got back to the street below.
It took another hour and a half for my heartbeat to return to normal.
Chapter 25
Colleen was upstairs with Henry when Martha and I returned with the things from Sherenian's safe. I found an evidence file that Calvin had written on and compared the handwriting to the Sausalito Hotel, July 7 written on the manila envelope. A perfect match.
Then I found copies of some reports signed by Hayden Phillips and compared the signature to the handwriting of the memo. It was Phillips's handwriting, without a doubt.
I removed the tape from the manila envelope and put it in a large plastic bag to avoid smudging any fingerprints that might be on it.
Steeling myself at the thought of listening to Colleen and Tommy grunting and groaning together, I got my tape player out of the closet.
"Why don't you let me do this," Martha offered. "You check in with Colleen, see if anything happened today. If there's anything relevant at all on the tape, I'll call you." I knew she wanted to spare me having to listen to Colleen having sex with a man I hated. I accepted gratefully.
Colleen was sitting in my leather recliner, feet up, dressed in denims and a lacy white blouse, staring out my window at the bridge and Bay. She reacted with a start when I said her name.
I had a smile on my face. I could see the hope welling in her when she noticed it.
"Good news, Frank? Tell me some good news . . . please."
"Don't get your hopes too high, but we know there was a burglar in the house, we know her initials are C.A.C. We know she had an accomplice. Do you know anyone with those initials?"
She looked blank, the momentary burst of hope waning quickly. She shook her head.
"Think of only the first and last names; both of them begin with the letter 'C'.
Again, a blank.
"What about Consuela?"
"Her last name is Vasquez."
I felt foolish for a second, then told Colleen to ask Consuela if she had ever encountered anyone —a delivery person, a gardener—anyone with those initials. I had Colleen write out the names of everyone who had ever worked or done business at her house. I told her that C.A.C. was certainly dead, but learning her identity was crucial to finding her accomplice.
I did not tell her how I had found out, or that we had interviewed another forty women that day and found nothing.
I asked her how court went, something I always dreaded but was compelled to do.
"Calvin had my character witnesses take the stand, people who I'd worked with at various charity programs, telling the jury about my 'respect and reverence for human life,' how they found it impossible to believe I could kill anyone. It all seemed a little weak and phony."
That was just how Calvin wanted it to seem. Instead of hammering at the prosecution's case, Calvin was playing for sympathy, a tough sell for any lawyer. Most people have very little sympathy for women who marry rich. Calling character witnesses in a case like Colleen's usually did more harm than good. Calvin was building the perfect noose right down to the end.
"Calvin had decided not to call me," she said. I should have known. That was all he needed to do to convince the jury she was hiding something.
"I argued with him, but he said the trial had to be won on the facts, and the prosecution still hadn't satisfied the fundamental rules of evidence."
I just looked at her.
"I don't understand this, Frank. I thought the rule was, if you're innocent, take the stand. If you're guilty, don't."
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