I study the surreal scene and say, “Somebody was looking for something.”
Roosevelt nods. “The manager said she left in a hurry around eleven o’clock on Thursday night. She hasn’t been back.”
That makes her a missing person. “Any idea who trashed her room?”
“We don’t know. Nobody’s talking.”
We study the carnage for a long moment, and finally I suggest, “It could have been a disgruntled customer.”
He won’t jump to conclusions. “Nobody heard anything and there is no evidence of forced entry.”
“Maybe it was somebody she knew. Did you find a date book or phone list?” I’m hoping for anything that might include Tower Grayson’s name.
“No.” He says nobody else saw her leave. He points toward closet and says, “There was some drug paraphernalia and a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of crack.”
I think back to my conversation with Carponelli and ask, “Was she using or selling?”
“Probably both.” He says they found an unhappy combination of birth control pills, antibiotics and anti-depressants in her dresser.
“Have you found anybody who knew her well enough to provide any information?”
“A guy in Room 304 has lived here for a long time and says he knows you. His name is Terrence Love and says he used to be a boxer.”
He’s also a felon. “Did he tell you anything?”
“He wouldn’t say anything until he talked to his lawyer. That’s why I called you.”
At least Terrence has been listening to my advice.
He adds, “Don’t let your client leave the building without telling us.”
# # #
The Terminator’s room contains only a bed, a chair and a dresser. His wardrobe consists of two pairs of jeans, three shirts and an old sweatsuit. An unused Mr. Coffee machine sits on the counter and there is a single plate in the sink. The only artwork is a faded poster of Muhammad Ali.
We exchange pleasantries. Just because you weigh three hundred pounds and you used to make a living trying to punch the daylights out of people doesn’t mean you can’t be polite. Then again, just because you have good manners doesn’t mean that we aren’t going to talk business.
I switch to my lawyer voice when I say, “I need your help, Terrence.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No, but one of your neighbors is missing. Do you know Alicia Morales?”
The affable look disappears. “Maybe.”
“I’m going to take that as a yes. She’s disappeared and I need your help finding her.”
“Since when do defense lawyers get involved in locating missing persons?”
“When they’re a material witness in a murder case.”
He’s unenthusiastic. “I seem to get in trouble when I get involved in police matters.”
“I’ve noticed.” I stare down the gentle giant who has been in and out of jail for his entire adult life and say, “Let me explain the facts of life to you. You already have two strikes and the DA tried to get you on a third. They weren’t happy when my little song and dance got your ass off. If you jaywalk, they’re going to charge you with a felony and try to put you away for good.”
“That’s why I have you.”
I ignore the wisecrack. “You still owe me ten years’ of legal fees. This is a chance to work off your debt.”
He chews on his lip and thinks about it, but doesn’t respond.
I look him straight in the eye and say, “You’re the only person I know who might be able to help. It will be in your best interests next time you get arrested.”
“What makes you think that will happen again?”
“Come on, Terrence.”
The corner of his mouth turns down. “You’re saying that I should become a snitch?”
It isn’t a bad idea. “I prefer to think of it as updating your résumé.”
He sounds like Grace when he says, “Do I have to?”
“If you don’t, you’ll have to find another lawyer next time you’re arrested.”
This seems to touch the right nerve. He considers for a moment and says, “I’m in.” He motions toward the stairway and says, “Follow me. I want you to meet somebody.”
*****
Chapter 30
“She Has Some Private Clients”
“Every member of our professional staff goes through a rigorous training program. Customer satisfaction is our highest priority.”
— Basic Needs Website.
The young African-American woman with the braided hair and lifeless eyes is sitting on a cot that’s jammed against the gray wall in a windowless converted storage shed in the basement of the Gold Rush. The only source of light is the door to the alley, and finding a bathroom or taking a shower requires planning.
The Terminator takes a seat on the cot and speaks to the woman in a soothing whisper. “Paula,” he says, “this is Mike. He wants to ask you some questions.”
She fingers a pocketknife in her lap, but doesn’t respond.
He tries again. “He’s a lawyer and he’s trying to find Alicia.”
She starts toward the door and says, “I have to get to work.”
Terrence stops her. “He can help you, Paula.”
She opens the knife and says, “I don’t need help.”
I say, “I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee and ask you a few questions.”
She can’t be much older than eighteen and she’s traumatized, drugged out or perhaps both. Her tone is polite, but firm. “I can’t help you,” she says.
I look at the Terminator and say, “Terrence has been one of my clients for a long time.”
He tries to reassure her. “You can trust him,” he says.
His seal of approval doesn’t help. “You’ll have to talk to somebody else,” she says.
“Everything you say to me is confidential,” I tell her. It’s a small lie, but I won’t reveal anything unless I must. I hand her a business card and lower my voice to my confession volume. “Please, Paula. Your friend may be in trouble.”
The fear in her eyes seems to diminish slightly. She thinks about it for an interminable moment and closes the knife. “I’ll take you up on that cup of coffee,” she says.
# # #
The sign above the door says Happy Donuts, but the tiny shop down the block from Basic Needs is an unhappy place. Terrence, Paula and I are sitting in a fiberglass booth in the back of a store where the employees work behind a worn Plexiglas shield, and the tables, chairs, napkin dispensers and trash bins are bolted to the floor. A sign on the door to the locked restroom makes it clear that the public is not invited.
Paula Howard scans the room for familiar faces among homeless people, prostitutes and drug dealers, and is relieved when nobody recognizes her. Her husky voice is mature beyond her years. “Alicia’s in trouble,” she says.
I try to strike a reassuring tone. “We’ll find her. How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
Sure.
The details of her biography are not atypical: an abusive father who left when she was ten and a mother who floated in and out of alcohol treatment. She tried to get office work, but her lack of a high school diploma made it difficult. After a couple of turns at the broiler at Burger King, she got a job at Basic Needs. “The money is better,” she explains.
I’m sure this is true. I ask, “Is that where you met Alicia?”
“Yes. She’d been working there for a couple of years.”
Everybody needs a mentor.
“She helped me find a place to live,” she says. “My room isn’t much, but I can make the rent. I was hoping to move later this year.”
I hope so, too. I ask her what she does at Basic Needs.
“I’m a dancer.” She hesitates for an instant before she adds, “And a hostess.”
I know what a dancer does, but I’m not sure I fully understand the rest of her job description. “What does a hostess do?”
; “I work in a private room in the back.”
“Doing what?”
“Private dances.”
I can guess what she means.
“I usually play the submissive.”
It doesn’t surprise me. “What else?”
Her eyes turn down when she says, “Anything they want.”
“Does that include having sex with patrons?”
She repeats, “Anything they want.”
This contradicts Carponelli’s adamant statements that Basic Needs is devoted to high-class, wholesome entertainment. I’m tempted to give her some fatherly advice, but I decide against it. I ask her to tell me about Alicia Morales.
“She isn’t like the other girls who are just trying to make enough to pay for a room and drugs. Alicia has a plan. She has her high school diploma and she’s going to make enough money to go to college.”
I think of Grace. “I understand Alicia isn’t working at the theater anymore.”
“She quit about two weeks ago.”
Carponelli said she was fired. “Why did she quit?”
“Our boss didn’t like her because she wouldn’t sleep with him.” She scowls and adds, “She didn’t like him, either. He said she was doing drugs.”
“Was she?”
“No.”
The crack in Alicia’s closet suggests Paula may not have all the facts at her disposal. “What’s she been doing since then?”
Her eyes turn down. “She has some private clients.”
Maybe Grayson was one of them.
“It’s against the rules,” she continues, “but most of us do it. We can’t make ends meet on what we’re paid at the theater.”
So much for Carponelli’s generous compensation package. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“She was in the lobby around eleven o’clock on Thursday night.”
I ask her if she noticed anything unusual in Alicia’s behavior in the last few weeks.
Her lower lip quivers as she says, “She was afraid she was going to get evicted if she didn’t find another job.” She swallows and says, “She said somebody was out to get her.”
“Do you know who?”
“No.”
I show her a photo of Tower Grayson. “Did you ever see this man around the club?”
She studies the picture, but then looks down.
“What is it, Paula?”
“We aren’t supposed to talk about our customers.”
“Everything you say to me is confidential.”
This isn’t exactly true, but she opts to trust me. “He was a member of our Premiere Club,” she says.
I glance at the Terminator, who shrugs. Then I ask her what that means.
“He got special treatment.”
“What sort?”
She swallows and says, “Anything he wanted.”
“What did he want?”
“Mostly, he watched the girls dance. Every once in awhile, he would come in the back and ask for something special. He was pretty nice and he was a good tipper.”
Paula’s world is divided into good and bad tippers. I ask, “Did he come in by himself?”
“Usually. Sometimes he’d come in with other men.”
This is news. “Would you be able to identify them?”
“Probably not.”
“Did he ever talk to Alicia?”
“Yes. She was one of his favorites.”
I try to find the right words. “Did she provide services to him?”
“Yes.”
“Did they ever argue or fight?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
It doesn’t rule out the possibility that something may have gone haywire between Alicia Morales and Tower Grayson on Friday morning.
The young woman with the delicate features and the lifeless eyes sighs heavily and says, “A few weeks ago she told me that something big was going down. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, but she said it involved a lot of money and that she might have to leave town.”
Drugs? Prostitution? “Do you have any idea what she may have been talking about?”
“She said everything was worked out. She told me that I could have her room and that I could keep anything I wanted.” She hesitates and adds, “She said I shouldn’t call the police no matter what.”
In the vernacular of the venture capitalists, it sounds as if Alicia Morales had her exit strategy worked out in advance. I say, “Do you know who else was involved?”
“No.”
Damn. “She received a phone call on Friday morning from the man in the picture. He was found dead a few hours later. I think she may know something and I want you to tell the police what you know.”
“People in my business don’t talk to the police.”
“I’ll make sure they won’t hassle you.”
“I promised Alicia that I wouldn’t say anything.”
“I understand. On the other hand, if she knows what happened behind Alcatraz Liquors, it would be better for her to talk to the police voluntarily. More importantly, they’ll protect her. Somebody is already looking for her–they trashed her room.”
Paula takes a final sip of her bitter coffee and considers her options. She turns to the Terminator and says, “What would you do?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “First, I’d hire Mike. Then I’d talk to the cops, but I would try to get something out of them.”
Nobody is better at working the system.
Paula catches his drift. “What do you think I could get?”
“They have to give you immunity. You don’t want to get hauled into court while you’re being a good sport.”
He’s exactly right.
“Next,” he says, “they should find you a job and a new place to live. They’re pretty resourceful when they want to be.” He gives me a playful tap on the shoulder and says, “Mike once got me a new apartment when I turned state’s evidence.”
He doesn’t mention that he was evicted for non-payment of rent three months later. I look at her and say, “I can’t make any promises.”
She gives me a hopeful look and says, “But you could try, right?”
“You bet.”
She tallies up the debits and the credits, then opts for a practical solution. “Okay,” she says, “I’ll talk to the cops, but only if you’ll agree to be my lawyer. That means that everything I’ve told you is confidential.”
She’s a quick study. Under the California Rules of Professional Conduct that Brad Lucas so eloquently recited to me, a potential conflict of interest could arise if her interests are adverse to Leon’s. I make a snap judgment to handle it in a very Brad-like way: I’ll deal with it down the road. The legal term for this is fudging. I look at my new client and say, “You’re on.”
I sense relief. She wants to get this off her chest. “What do we do now?” she asks.
“We’re going to have a little talk with Inspector Roosevelt Johnson.”
*****
Chapter 31
“There Was a Summit Conference”
“My experience as a police officer has helped me immeasurably as a PI.”
— Pete Daley. PI Quarterly.
We return to the Gold Rush and I sit in on the conversation where Paula tells Roosevelt everything she knows about Alicia Morales and Tower Grayson. She doesn’t reveal anything she hadn’t already told me, but Roosevelt is pleased when she provides the first direct link between Grayson and Morales. It doesn’t mean Leon is innocent, but it suggests that Grayson was into drugs and prostitution in some meaningful way. Roosevelt agrees to put out an all-points bulletin on Alicia Morales. At least there will be a new wrinkle to the story on the news tonight.
MD04 - Final Verdict Page 25