All Signs Point to Murder

by Connie Di Marco

  I nudged Gale and rolled my eyes. She turned to look. “Oh dear God,” she hissed. “Can you believe that?”

  At that moment, the bailiff asked us to all rise as the judge exited his chambers and stepped onto the bench. As we stood, I did my best to block Cheryl’s view. I was too late. She’d spotted Frank. As we sat back down, Cheryl stayed standing. Her face took on a deep flush and she screamed in a high-pitched voice across the courtroom, “Did you really have to drag that underage slut here?”

  Frank stood up too. “Shut up, Cheryl. Shut your friggin’ mouth.”

  “Is she pregnant?” Cheryl screamed. “God damn you.” She attempted to climb over Gale’s lap.

  The judge banged his gavel on the bench. “All right, everyone. Calm down. And you, madam, please sit down immediately or I will have you removed.”

  I could have sworn steam came out of Cheryl’s ears. It was as if she’d run into a force field. Torn between leaping over us to attack Frank and sitting down as the judge had instructed, she became

  paralyzed. Gale stood up, took Cheryl by the shoulders, and plunked her back into her seat. “Shut up or I’ll smack you silly.”

  Cheryl meekly replied, “I’m sorry. I’ll be good.”

  Frank’s face was now beet red. As he sat down, his girlfriend did a quick little flounce and wiggle of her shoulders in Cheryl’s direction and settled into her seat.

  The first few cases dragged slowly. Cheryl’s jaw was set. She had lapsed into a boiling silence. I was sure any remnant of affection she felt for Frank had vanished. Finally, the judge called both Frank and Cheryl up before him. The bailiff swore them in. Sam Giovanni took his place next to Cheryl and began recounting the events of their separation, making clear the terrible emotional duress his client had suffered.

  “Your Honor, I’d like to present this so-called quitclaim deed as exhibit one, which, I’m sorry to say, my client was manipulated into signing in the belief that it would facilitate a reconciliation. She signed this un-notarized document without consulting an attorney.”

  Gale leaned forward, listening intently to every word. I glanced over my shoulder at Frank’s girlfriend. She’d stretched her legs out, cowboy boots jutting into the aisle. The contents of her purse were strewn on the empty seat next to her while she filed her nails. At that moment, I almost felt sorry for Frank. The operative word here is “almost.”

  I turned back to the main action. The judge, his glasses halfway down his nose, stared at Frank.

  “Mr. Pitzmahr, you are without an attorney, so you may not be fully aware that California is a community property state. This means that when a couple divorces, the assets and the liabilities are split equally, unless one or the other party claims responsibility for any of those liabilities. I’m not the slightest bit interested in hearing about your marital woes, or complaints about Mrs. Pitzmahr.

  It was a shock to hear Cheryl’s married name. It certainly didn’t suit her. She didn’t look like a Mrs. Pitzmahr.

  “But, judge—”

  “You may address me as ‘Your Honor.’”

  Frank took a deep breath, a deeply confused look on his face. “Your Honor. It was my income that purchased and maintained the Berkeley house. I can’t possibly afford to give my … Cheryl … half the value of it.”

  The judge nodded. “Your income ceased to be strictly your income upon your marriage. At that point, half of your income belonged to your spouse. I’m ordering that within thirty days after entry of judgment, you will pay to your spouse half the value of that home. You may do so either by refinancing or by selling. I see that your income is certainly more than adequate to follow this Court’s orders. Mrs. Pitzmahr, are you quite certain you do not wish this Court to consider spousal support?”

  Cheryl nodded affirmatively. “Yes, Your Honor. I want to cut all ties with my former husband.”

  Frank’s face had become more flushed. He shouted at the judge, “You can’t do this. This isn’t right. I’m not going to give that … one red cent.”

  The judge’s look became even more severe. “You most certainly will follow my orders or you will be in contempt of this Court.” He glanced at his wristwatch.

  Frank howled and, running around the table, attempted to rush to the judge’s bench. The bailiff stepped forward to block his path. “You can’t do this,” Frank yelled. “I’ve worked my whole life for this house and this money. You’re not gonna do this to me.”

  The judge nodded to the bailiff to physically remove Frank from the courtroom. Frank struggled against the bulkier man, still shouting and resisting the bailiff’s efforts. Cheryl took several steps backward, against the railing. Gale’s mouth hung open as she watched Frank’s antics. The bailiff lifted Frank up bodily and speed-marched him toward the door to the corridor. Frank’s girlfriend leaped up and, rushing in their direction, kicked the bailiff in the shins. She raised her purse high in the air and swung it at the bailiff’s head. The terrified clerk was on the phone calling for reinforcements.

  The judge banged his gavel repeatedly. Two uniformed police pushed through the courtroom door, grabbed both Frank and his young girlfriend, and hustled them out to the corridor and down the hall. Cheryl turned to us, her face white. Gale waved her hand, indicating Cheryl should stay exactly where she was.

  Peace in the courtroom was quickly restored. The judge looked at Sam and Cheryl. “You will receive my final orders by mail or you can have your attorney service pick them up when available.”

  Sam nodded and gathered up his paperwork. He led Cheryl through the gate in the railing and indicated to us that we should meet them outside.

  “Next case,” the judge shouted.

  Gale and I headed out to the corridor. Cheryl’s hands were over her face and Sam was patting her on the back.

  “You did just great, honey.”

  “But it was so horrible. I’ve never seen Frank so mad. Is he under arrest?”

  Sam smiled. “I’m sure they’re holding him. He’ll be charged. This couldn’t have gone better. Ladies.” He nodded to us. “Can I leave her in your good hands?”

  Gale thanked Sam profusely, shaking his hand, and turned to hug Cheryl.

  As Sam headed in the opposite direction, I said, “Wait here for me. I have to ask Sam something.”

  I caught up with him at the end of the corridor. He looked puzzled when he turned to me. “I have a favor to ask,” I said.

  He smiled in a very suggestive way. “I’m at your service.”

  I was temporarily taken aback. Did he think I was asking him out on a date? The top of his head barely reached my shoulder. “I was wondering if one of your paralegals has the software to do real property searches?”

  He nodded. “We sure do. Have to do asset checks all the time, believe me. You wouldn’t believe what some of these guys try to hide from their wives.”

  “I need to check the ownership of some out-of-state properties.”

  “Stop by any time.” Sam smiled again in that intimate way. “I’ll call Carol, my assistant, and let her know. She can run those for you, and then maybe we can have …”

  “Thanks.” I said, quickly backing away. “I really appreciate that.”

  “Anytime. Does this concern a divorce action?”

  “No. It concerns a … murder.”

  Sam’s jaw snapped shut. “Okay then.”

  I hurried back down the corridor.

  “What was that all about?” Gale asked when I reached her. “Was he coming on to you?”

  “I don’t think so,” I lied.

  “Oh, please. I could read his body language from forty feet away. What did you ask him?”

  “For a favor. I’ll explain later.”

  Cheryl looked glassy-eyed.

  Gale nodded in her direction. “I’m taking our girl here out to a fancy three-martini lunch. Want to j
oin us?”

  “Love to, but I’ve got stuff to take care of.”

  Gale smiled and blew me a kiss. “I’ll see you later.”

  twenty-one

  I headed for the parking lot and was just about to climb into my car when I heard my name called. I looked around, thinking for a moment I’d imagined it. Then I heard it again. I shut my car door and turned in a full circle. Rob Ramer was waving to me from two rows away.

  He cut through the parked cars, leaving a woman standing by a red sports car.

  “Rob! What are you doing here?”

  “Meeting Marjorie, my lawyer.” He indicated the woman who’d just climbed into the red car. “She had a hearing this morning. We’re heading downtown together to see Ianello now. Believe me, I’m not looking forward to this visit.”

  “There’s something vaguely sinister about him, isn’t there?”

  Rob laughed. “Good way to put it. But I have some excellent news.”

  “Really? What?”

  “Marjorie has a friend at the coroner’s. It’s not official yet, but I think I can pretty much bank on it. Moira couldn’t possibly have been shot with my gun. Thank God.”

  “Really? I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but how can they tell?”

  “The autopsy hasn’t been completed, but apparently they’re sure the bullet was much smaller, more likely a .22 caliber. A bullet from a Glock would have left a very different wound. If it lodged in her skull she’d have died instantly, but if she was hit from a short distance and at an angle, she might have survived at least for a while. Sounds like she did, if the paramedics felt there were signs of life. The cops maybe guessed that at the time. If they can find the gun, they might be able to do a ballistics test.”

  “What would stop them?”

  “If the bullet bounces around inside the skull, it can be so damaged, ballistics might be difficult. Just depends.”

  My stomach did a few flip flops. “Okay, that’s enough. I get it.”

  “It doesn’t make any of this less terrible, but at least I can live with myself.” He hesitated a moment. “Uh … I wanted to ask if you’ve had a chance to talk to Geneva or Dan since yesterday.”

  “About?”

  “About this whole situation. About their feelings toward me.” As if he could read the expression on my face, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m putting you on the spot.”

  “Rob, like I said, there’s not much I can say to them right now. They’re in the depths of grief. It’s all they can do to get by day to day. I just don’t think it’s the right time. Maybe this would be better coming from Brooke, anyway.”

  He nodded. His face showed his disappointment. “She doesn’t want to put any additional pressure on her family. I’m just anxious to be vindicated, I guess, and I want to do whatever I can to defuse the situation with Dan. He’s such a hothead.”

  “Just give it time. I really do wish you the best.”

  “Thanks.” He jogged back to the sports car and waved once more before he climbed in.

  He hadn’t mentioned again his belief that there was someone else in the garage. But if his gun didn’t kill Moira, and no other gun was found, Moira must have met someone in the garage that night. I shuddered and climbed into the warmth of my car.

  Giovanni & Associates occupies a small but sleek office in the Embarcadero Center with a breathtaking view of the Bay and Treasure Island. I found Carol in a tiny office that was breathtaking in a different way. Every surface and every square inch of space was covered with files, black binders, and boxes. It was meticulously organized but claustrophobic. Carol’s strawberry-blonde hair was the only bright spot in the room. Her complexion was so fair, I wondered if she ever saw the sun. She was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved flowered shirt, and small red-and-blue butterflies were tattooed on her arms. She was munching on a turkey sandwich while she stared at her computer screen, sandwich in one hand, mouse in the other.

  “I’ve interrupted your lunch,” I said after introducing myself.

  Carol waved the half-sandwich in my direction. Her mouth full, she said, “What lunch? I don’t call this lunch.”

  “Don’t they ever let you out?”

  “Oh, I’m free to go, but if I do I’d never get home in time to see my husband or kids. Grab a seat if you can.”

  There were two chairs, both occupied by boxes. “Just throw those on the floor if you can find a space.” I picked up a box that had to weigh thirty pounds and looked around for a vacant spot of floor. “Sorry. Somehow no matter how often we remodel, there’s never enough room.” Carol jumped up and took the box from me, placing it behind her desk. “Sam told me you needed some searches done?”

  “Yes. I have the addresses right here.” I dug in my purse, fished out the rumpled copy of Moira’s tax return, and passed it to Carol.

  “Okay, let’s look these up.” She turned back to her screen.

  “What kind of programs do you use to run these searches?”

  “We have several. Most of our searches are for assets in western states. Sometimes we have to check out other places, like back east, but we can access records there too.”

  She typed in some information. “Let’s see, the one in Arizona is Maricopa County. I’ll start there.” She hummed softly as she moved the mouse from place to place.

  “Okay, here it is. I’ll print it out for you. Purchased eight months ago for $359,500 and then transferred two months ago to Western Benefit Mutual, LLC, for the exact same amount.” The printer whirred softly as Carol clicked on more sites.

  “Oregon … Oregon … Portland’s in Multnomah County. Hmmm. A condo. Purchased seven months ago for $216,000 and then transferred two months later to an individual, Don Woo, even money transfer.” Once again, the printer clicked into action.

  “Now, Florida … I’d have to call a guy we work with at a title company for that one. Want me to give him a buzz?”

  “No, thanks. You’re a doll. I don’t need to know who the owner is as much as I needed to know this property is just moving from hand to hand.” I took the two printouts that Carol had obtained.

  “Something funny going on with these transfers?”

  “Something funny indeed. For what purpose I’m not sure.”

  I waved goodbye and headed back to my car. It was pretty clear Moira wasn’t sitting on a secret fortune and buying real estate for investment purposes. Given her lifestyle, someone was fronting the money and the property was transferred after several months with no profit to her, except maybe a cash kickback. Andy had to be the connection to all this activity. There’d be mortgage brokers and real estate agents involved as well, although they might be innocent of any wrongdoing. Andy had to be using Moira’s identity, with or without her knowledge. Was this because he couldn’t do it in his own name? Or was it something more sinister? The real question was, where was the money coming from?

  twenty-two

  Since I was already downtown, I wondered if there might be a chance I could catch Brooke at the magazine’s offices. I was nervous about still carrying Moira’s Rochecault bracelet around in my purse, but I wanted to know who it really belonged to. If it turned out to be Brooke’s, then problem solved. If it wasn’t, well … I’d worry about that later. Moira could merely have helped herself to her sister’s jewelry, but I had to find out for sure.

  The Eccola! offices are housed in an expensively remodeled and updated brick building on a narrow section of Jackson Street. Once part of the notorious Barbary Coast, the area’s pirates today are architects, ad agencies, decorators, and antique dealers. Amazingly, I snagged a parking spot as a white Bentley pulled slowly away from the curb just two doors down from the magazine’s main entrance.

  I sat in the car and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. I wanted to be a friend to Geneva, I wanted to keep my promise to her, but now I was really getting
worried. Everything I’d learned seemed to be leading to something bigger and darker than anything I’d anticipated, and I had no idea where this might end. Geneva could barely cope at the moment. She’d never be able to ask the questions I could ask. But whatever I found out might only cause her more grief. I’d volunteered for the job, and as much as I wanted to walk away, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t leave her hanging. I was in a unique position. There were people who would talk to me but might not talk to the police.

  I climbed out of the car and looked up at the building. Like its neighbors, its façade was old brick. I hoped it had been retrofitted and reinforced to comply with earthquake standards. The main door was heavily etched glass. Inside the narrow lobby, magazine covers peopled with extremely young, very thin women lined the walls. Compared to them, I’d be considered old at thirty-six and fat at a hundred and eighteen pounds.

  A small directory by the elevator door listed departments and individuals by room and floor. Brooke’s office was in the sixth floor penthouse. I stepped into the waiting elevator and pressed the button. It rose and the doors slid silently open to reveal a reception area dominated by a semi-circular counter. The walls here were graced with more framed magazine covers, and cushioned banquettes lined either side of the area.

  I gave my name to a slender black man at the reception desk and asked for Brooke. He was wearing dark slacks, a tightly fitted black T-shirt that displayed well-cut abs, and a diamond earring in one ear. I’d kill for his abs.

  He hesitated. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. I’m a personal friend, a friend of her family.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, please have a seat.” His eyes followed me as I retreated to a perch on the banquette. He spoke quietly into his headset. As I watched, he looked up and smiled.

  “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  I nodded in reply.

  A few minutes later, a discreet door opened in the back wall and a tall red-haired woman stepped out. I heard the door lock as it shut behind her. She was close to six feet tall, in four-inch heels, and wore a pantsuit in a textured material. A vintage fifties broach glittering with green stones was pinned to her lapel. Her hair was pulled back in a stylish chignon close to the nape of her neck. She seemed familiar but I couldn’t immediately place her.