He considers the potential repercussions and says, “Let me see what I can do.”
He finishes his coffee and I polish off my french fries. Today’s diet would give my doctor heartburn. I ask, “Have you found out anything more about Grayson’s car?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe I can help you there, too. The night clerk at the Thunderbird told us that he saw a Mercedes in the alley on Friday morning around two-thirty.”
Roosevelt’s eyes narrow. “He didn’t mention it to me.”
“He doesn’t offer anything unless you ask. Assuming that the person who stole the car was involved in the murder, Grayson was killed between two-ten and two-thirty.”
“Not bad,” he says. “You realize, of course, that the car theft may have nothing to do with Grayson’s death.”
“I know, but it gives us a potential time frame in which the murder may have happened. It also offers the possibility of another suspect.”
He isn’t buying it completely. “You still haven’t provided any evidence that connects the theft of the car to Grayson’s murder.”
We will. “Have you been able to pull the records from Grayson’s cell phone?”
“Yes.” He pulls out another manila envelope and hands me a computer printout that he’s marked with hand-written notes. “This shows the calls made from Grayson’s cell after eight o’clock on Thursday night.” He works down the list. Two calls to his lawyer. One call to Boulevard. A call to his wife. Five calls to his voice mail.
I ask him about the last number, which lists a call that was placed at two-oh-seven A.M.
“It went to another cell phone and lasted only forty seconds,” he says.
“Whose cell phone was it?”
“It’s registered in the name of a business on Sixth Street.”
“Alcatraz Liquors?”
“No. A place called Basic Needs that’s two doors down. The owner is a man named Arthur Carponelli. He told us the cell phone was in the possession of one of his employees.”
The name doesn’t ring a bell. “What sort of an establishment is it?”
“For lack of a better term, it’s an adult theater and purveyor of marital aids.”
In other words, a Silicon Valley hot shot and a pillar of Atherton called a sex shop right before he died.
*****
Chapter 19
“I’ll Be Fine”
“We have placed the defendant at the scene and located the murder weapon. We have no further comment at this time.”
— San Francisco District Attorney Nicole Ward. KGO-Radio. Sunday, June 5. 1:00 A.M.
My cell phone rings as I’m driving home on the Golden Gate Bridge. Rosie’s voice is tired as she asks, “What did you find out from Roosevelt?”
“For somebody who didn’t want to take on this case, you certainly seem interested in the details at one o’clock in the morning.”
“Just curious.”
Sure.
The summer fog has rolled in and the gusting winds are causing my Corolla to vibrate as I cross mid-span. I glance to my right, where the Alcatraz beacon would be visible on a clear night. At the moment, the Bay is covered in thick fog. I ask, “Is Grace okay?”
“She’s fine.”
“Are youokay?”
“I’m still recovering from last night’s birthday sex.”
I say nothing.
There’s a hesitation before she admits, “My stomach still hurts, but I’ll be fine.”
After almost two decades as a defense attorney, I’ve become an expert on heartburn medicine. I offer to stop at the all-night Safeway in Mill Valley to pick up some Pepto-Bismol.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says.
“Do you want me to stop at the house on my way home?”
“No.” Her tone becomes emphatic. “I’m fine, Mike.”
I’ll live longer if I back off. She asks again about my discussion with Roosevelt. I fill her in on the police reports and Roosevelt’s conversations with Chamberlain and Grayson’s widow.
She expresses disappointment when I tell her that they have no new leads on the missing Mercedes and asks, “Does it strike you that they aren’t putting forth much effort on this case?”
“Roosevelt said that Ward and Banks aren’t going to expend a lot of additional resources.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Nicole made it clear on the news tonight that she thinks Leon is guilty. What about Roosevelt?”
“He’s still digging. He wants to find out what really happened.”
The admiration in her tone is genuine when she says, “He’s one of a kind. Oddly enough, he may be our best resource.” She asks, “What did they find out about Grayson’s cell phone?”
“That’s where things get interesting. Have you heard of an operation called Basic Needs?”
“It’s a strip club down the block from Alcatraz Liquors.”
Her powers of observation are exceptional. I tell her about Grayson’s last phone call. “I know why most guys call places like Basic Needs,” I say. I plant my tongue firmly in my cheek and add, “On the other hand, Grayson’s son told us his father was a pillar of the community.”
“Sounds like he was looking for a little action for his pillar.”
The voice of perspective. “I asked Roosevelt to try to arrange a meeting with Grayson’s widow.”
“Do you think there’s a chance that she’ll agree?”
“We’ll see. He seemed very appreciative of the information that I provided to him. In the meantime, I’m going to visit Basic Needs tonight.”
“Maybe you’ll learn something.”
“And maybe I’ll get some information about Leon’s case, too.”
There’s a tired chuckle in her tone when she says, “Maybe I’ll come with you.”
“Are you sure you want to go to a porn theater?”
“Maybe I’ll learn something, too.”
I ask her if she’s heard anything from Pete.
“He’s camped out down the street from Chamberlain’s condo. Parking is a huge problem on Russian Hill.”
“I’m aware of that. What about Chamberlain?”
“He was home all evening.”
“Any visitors?”
“Just one. The lawyer for Paradigm was there for an hour.”
“Maybe they were talking about business,” I say.
“Or maybe they were talking about murder.”
# # #
It’s almost two A.M when I finally open the door to my disheveled one-bedroom apartment in a fifties-vintage building behind the Larkspur fire station. I drop my keys on the unread Sunday paper sitting in the middle of a butcher block table in my closet-sized kitchen. I glance at the stack of mail and hope I haven’t ignored any of the more significant bills. It will be inconvenient if they turn off my electricity.
I hit the light switch in the living room and look around at the cramped surroundings. My apartment would be ideal for a college student or a young couple, but it’s a bit cramped for a forty-nine-year-old whose daughter stays here from time to time. It’s still an upgrade from my room at the rectory. I pull a Diet Dr Pepper from the fridge and look at the blinking light on the answering machine. I’m tempted to ignore it, but my curiosity overwhelms me. I hit the button and the electronic voice informs me that I have new messages.
The first is from Pete, who tells me he’s going to spend the night in the bushes near Chamberlain’s house. The second, third and fourth are from reporters who have managed to infiltrate the phone company’s airtight security system and obtained my unlisted number. I’m surprised they weren’t lined up in front of my building when I got home.
The fifth is immediately recognizable. “Jerry Edwards, San Francisco Chronicle and Mornings on Two,” it says. “I wanted to let you know that we talked to your client’s ex-girlfriend, who informed us that her daughter needs some expensive medical tests.”
Hell.
“This clearly indicates that
your client had a motive for robbery. If you’d like to comment, you can call me at the paper. More importantly, if you withhold any additional information about this case, I’ll see that you’re brought up before the State Bar.”
The next thing I hear is a dial tone. We’re getting our ass kicked from every direction. I’m tempted to call him and give him an earful, but it will serve no useful purpose to put a tirade on his voice mail.
I recognize the sultry voice on the last message immediately. “Mike, it’s Kaela Joy Gullion. I hope it’s okay that I called you at home.”
Absolutely.
“I got your message,” she continues. “I’m in L.A., but I’ll be back tomorrow. Meet me at E’Angelo’s at ten o’clock Sunday night. I’ll be at a table in the back.”
Sounds good to me. The tortellini at the Marina District trattoria is as good as it gets.
Kaela Joy leaves her phone number. There’s a brief hesitation before she chuckles and adds, “I can tell you some stories about Tower Grayson that you won’t believe.”
*****
Chapter 20
Basic Needs
“We offer our products and services in a refined environment. Our remodeled facility is clean and attractive and our clients are treated with respect and privacy.”
— Basic Needs Website.
The young man with the massive shoulders, shaved head and red goatee is eyeing me warily from inside the heavy metal door that separates the Basic Needs Adult Theater and Entertainment Center from the unwashed masses on Sixth Street. He’s paid to look intimidating–it’s probably right in his job description–and fits the bill admirably. The exterior of the two-story building is covered with graffiti. A few stray lights are illuminated on the tired marquee above us, which proclaims that shows are playing continuously from noon until three A.M. He gestures down the block and says, “The box office is outside.”
It’s seven o’clock Sunday night. Pete, Rosie and I spent another long day conducting a futile door-to-door and shopping cart-to-shopping cart search for witnesses on Sixth Street and the adjoining alleys. We’ve talked to more than a hundred people today, many of whom seem to have developed a case of selective amnesia when we asked them about the events of Friday morning. More of them were prepared to sell us drugs than to provide information about Grayson’s death. Two people pulled knives on us. To add to our enjoyment, we ran into Jerry Edwards as he was conducting a similar exercise on MinnaStreet. It wasn’t an especially pleasant conversation. A visit to a sex emporium is just the thing to end a wonderful day.
I say to the muscle-bound guy, “We’d like to speak to Mr. Carponelli, please.”
“He’s out of town”
It’s possible that the Incredible Hulk has been instructed to say this to anybody who asks for his boss. “Maybe you can answer a few questions for us.”
“Maybe you’ll have to wait until Mr. Carponelli gets back.”
I try again. “We’re just looking for information.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“FBI? DEA? ATF?”
“No, no and no.” I’m not CIA or KGB, either.
“Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Michael Daley. I’m a lawyer.” I nod toward Rosie, who tries to ice him with her best glare. “This is my partner.”
“We don’t talk to lawyers.”
I point to Pete and say, “He isn’t one.”
“Is he a cop?”
“No, he’s a PI.”
“We don’t talk to PIs, either.”
I feel like a hamster running on one of those little wheels in a cage and I decide to take a more direct approach. “We’re representing Leon Walker. He’s been accused of murdering a man whose body was found near the back of your theater on Friday morning.”
“So?”
This fellow’s vocabulary seems to be somewhat stunted. “If Mr. Carponelli isn’t here, we’d like to talk to the manager.”
“I’m the manager.”
Progress.
“But I can’t answer your questions. We don’t talk to lawyers. It’s company policy and bad for business.”
If I’m sarcastic or weak, he’ll slam the door in my face. I give him my best melodramatic sigh and say, “We didn’t come here to hassle you. If you can answer our questions, that’s great. If you can’t, we’ll come back and talk to your boss.”
His expression doesn’t change, and I decide that a slightly more forceful bluff is in order. “If you refuse to talk to us, we’ll come back with a subpoena. If you think that talking to us is bad for business, wait until we tell our friends the DA’s office. They can make your life infinitely more complicated.”
His eyes narrow. “Are you threatening me?”
Yes. “Nope. I’m just pointing out the practical reality of our situation.”
He ponders his options and decides to play ball. He opens the door and says, “I’ll tell you what I can.”
I’m glad he came around to our way of looking at things.
He says to Rosie, “You may find some of what’s going on inside offensive.”
This contradicts their website, which promises wholesome fun in a safe environment
“I’ve been around the block a few times,” she tells him.
“Just wanted to warn you. We don’t want to offend anybody.”
It’s nice to know that a guy who manages a club where naked women solicit money from leering men has a sensitive side.
He tells us his name is Kenny Vinson and he leads us through the empty foyer and then into the theater, which resembles a poor imitation of a badly-lit, forties-era night club. The odor suggests the management has a relaxed attitude about enforcing San Francisco’s ban on smoking in public places. A new coat of paint was splashed on the walls within the last couple of years, but the room hasn’t seen a real upgrade in decades. I’ve attended my share of bachelor parties at establishments similar to Basic Needs and I wouldn’t rate them as memorable occasions. Based on my limited experience, the club’s decor and services seem pretty conventional. The walls are covered with curtains made of tattered velvet and small round tables are scattered in front of a raised stage that’s been modified to give patrons unobstructed views of the performers. A sign above a door next to the stage marks the entrance to the private rooms where you can talk to a live woman for a slightly-enhanced cost. For another twenty, you can get her to remove certain items of her clothing. For a greater fee, you can get almost anything.
It’s still early and a few regulars are sitting near the stage and kibitzing with a middle-aged woman clad only in a g-string who is drinking scotch. The ambiance is neither romantic nor titillating. Except for the fact that the dancer is almost completely naked, we could be sitting in a run-down bar in any major city in America. It’s just another day at the office for the woman who makes ends meet by taking off her clothes in front of strangers.
Kenny leads us up a rickety staircase to the roped-off balcony, where he unlocks a door to an office with a picture window overlooking the theater. He flips on the light in the cluttered room that’s decorated with posters of naked models who were once featured performers. He takes a seat behind a metal desk and offers the only other chair to Rosie. At least his manners have improved since we got inside the door.
“We’re looking for information about what happened Friday morning,” I say.
He’s ready with a response. “I don’t know.”
“Were you working?”
“Yes.” He chooses his words carefully. “The cops asked me about it and I gave them my statement. Some reporter was sniffing around here earlier today.”
That would have been Jerry Edwards.
“I told him the same thing I just told you: I don’t know anything about what happened behind Alcatraz Liquors.”
I’m not about to leave it at that. “What time did you get to work?”
“Eight o’clock Thursday night.” He says he was inside the theater the
entire time and went home at three-thirty Friday morning. He says he lives a few blocks away on Folsom Street.
“Did you walk by the liquor store on your way home?”
“No. My apartment is in the opposite direction.”
“Who else was here on Thursday night?”
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