Rosie interjects. “It’s one thing to have a midlife crisis, but it’s another to hang out at Basic Needs.”
“You can’t impose logical analysis on animal instincts. It started a year ago when a man named Arthur Carponelliapproached Grayson for funding.”
“We’re familiar with his operation,” I observe.
“He rolled out the red carpet and taught Grayson everything he always wanted to know about the sex business. He invited him to his theater and gave him access to his strippers.”
Rosie says, “He was like a kid in a candy store.”
“Worse,” Kaela Joy says. “He was like a hormone-charged teenager in a sex shop.”
A better metaphor.
She lays it out in loving detail. It started with occasional visits to watch the girls dance. That led to extracurricular activities in the back room, followed by private sessions with Carponelli’s best service providers. “It got so bad,” she says, “that he took a hundred grand from the fund to pay his drug debts. Chamberlain figured it out and called him on it.”
The Secret Life of Tower Grayson isn’t such a secret after all.
Kaela Joy isn’t done. “Carponelli assigned Alicia Morales to take care of Grayson. Evidently, she did an excellent job.”
Rosie asks, “Then why did she get fired?”
“She got greedy and had an agenda that didn’t match up with Carponelli’sbusiness plan. She had some johns on the side and was selling crack out of the back door of Basic Needs.”
“Not exactly the high-class image Carponelli is trying to portray on the Basic Needs website. “Did you talk to her?”
“Just once. She played her cards close to the vest. I understand she’s disappeared and her room was trashed.”
She has good sources. I ask, “Do you know where she might be?”
“No. As far as I can tell, the last person who saw her was the manager at the Gold Rush. He said she left around eleven o’clock Thursday night.”
He told us the same thing. “Do you have any idea who may have tossed her room?”
“Carponelli thought she was branching out into blackmail. Maybe a disgruntled customer was sending her a message.”
“Do you think she was blackmailing Grayson?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, but I don’t have any evidence that she did. I told Mrs. Grayson about her husband’s visits to Basic Needs three weeks ago. She confronted him about it, but I found him back there last week. I met with Mrs. Grayson on Thursday night at the Redwood Room to give her an update.”
“Why didn’t you meet at her house?”
“She was afraid her husband would see me. She was thinking about filing for divorce and didn’t want to tip her hand. I told her that her husband was still frequenting Basic Needs. I gave her photos and other evidence of his relationship with Alicia Morales.”
I stare at the flickering candle on the table and ask, “What was her reaction?”
Her eyes narrow. “She said she was going to make him pay.”
“By filing divorce papers or otherwise?”
“She didn’t make any distinction.”
Rosie and I exchange a troubled glance. A cheating husband. An angry wife. A big insurance policy. All of the usual disturbing elements are present and accounted for.
Pete asks, “Were you watching Tower Grayson after you met with his wife?”
“Yes. Mrs. Grayson said he was at Boulevard, so I went over there. He did, in fact, have dinner there with Chamberlain and Lucas. They left a few minutes after one.”
This isn’t news, but it confirms the time line provided by both Lucas and Chamberlain. She says Chamberlain drove off with Grayson and Lucas walked toward Embarcadero Center. She tailed Grayson to Broadway and Columbus, but got cut off by a Muni bus and lost him.
I ask, “Do you have any idea where Grayson went?”
“I presume he dropped off Chamberlain at his flat and then headed over to Sixth Street, but I didn’t see Grayson drive there.”
Close. “Is it possible that Chamberlain or somebody else may have been with him?”
“Anything’s possible.”
This offers some intriguing possibilities, but we’re still a long way from getting the charges dropped. I ask, “Did you see anything at Boulevard?”
She thinks about it for a moment, almost as if she’s trying to decide what to tell us. Then she says, “ Debbie Grayson was sitting in her car across the street.”
Now I understand her hesitancy. It’s bad form to tattle on your own client. “What was she doing there?”
“She said she was going to confront her husband at the restaurant, but she lost her nerve. The last time I saw her, she was driving west on Mission Street. It’s on the way to the freeway and I figured she was heading home.”
She was also heading toward Sixth Street. I ask her where she went next.
“I drove over to see if Tower Grayson was going to show up at Basic Needs.”
“Did he?”
“No. I watched the entrance to the club until about three-thirty.”
I ask if she saw Debbie Grayson.
“No.” There’s another hesitation before she adds, “But her car was parked a couple of blocks away. She wasn’t in it, but she admitted to me later that she was there.”
Which means she lied to us about her whereabouts on Friday morning. I try to keep my tone measured when I ask, “What was she doing on Sixth Street?”
“She said she was going to confront her husband at Basic Needs.”
Hanging out on Sixth Street at that hour was insane. She’s lucky she didn’t end up in a Dumpster like her husband. I consider the possibilities and ask, “Did she go inside the theater?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“If she didn’t go inside and she didn’t stay in her car, where was she?”
“She said she was out walking.”
She didn’t mention any of this to us. “What time did she go home?”
“She told me it was around two.”
It’s the same time her husband arrived at the liquor store. “She lied to us and to the cops.”
“She was very upset.”
“Do you think she was involved in her husband’s death?”
She thinks about it for a long moment and says, “No.”
“People do strange things when they get angry,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
I ask, “Did you recognize anybody who went inside Basic Needs on Friday morning?”
She swallows hard and says, “Yes.”
I ponder the possibilities and ask, “I thought you said Tower Grayson didn’t show up.”
“He didn’t.” She hesitates and adds, “But his son did.”
*****
Chapter 33
“Somebody Else Was There”
“A PI must be exceedingly patient and have unlimited capacity for staying awake. It’s also helpful if you learn not to use the bathroom for extended periods.”
— Kaela Joy Gullion. Profile in San Francisco Chronicle.
E’Angelo’s is empty and I’m now peppering Kaela Joy with questions in rapid succession. “What time did J.T. Grayson arrive at Basic Needs?”
“One-forty.” She says he went in the front door and she hadn’t seen him there before.
I ask her why young Grayson was there.
“Maybe he liked to look at naked women. Like father, like son.”
“Come on, Kaela Joy.”
She lowers her voice and says, “I asked his mother about it. She said she’d called him and told him about our conversation and that he probably wanted to confront his father.”
“Did he contact his father before he arrived?”
“Not as far as I can tell. There were no outgoing calls from his cell phone after ten o’clock on Thursday night.”
I ask her what time he left Basic Needs.
“I don’t know. I saw the manager turn out the lights at three-thirty. J.T. didn’t come
out the front door. He must have gone out into the alley in the back.”
It’s the same alley that runs behind Alcatraz Liquors. I continue to probe, but she has no more details. Finally, I ask her if she’s willing to testify at Leon’s preliminary hearing.
“Of course.”
It may not get Leon off the hook, but she can place a couple of people in the vicinity who may have had motives of their own. I ask, “Is there anybody else who can corroborate any of this?”
She thinks about it for a moment and says, “Maybe. Somebody else was there. Another PI was keeping Basic Needs under surveillance on Friday morning.”
What? “Why?”
“He was watching Grayson, too.”
“Who hired the other guy?”
“Chamberlain.”
Rosie, Pete and I all stare at each other in disbelief. Grayson was being watched by a PI hired by his wife and by a PI hired by his business partner. It’s nice to know there was such a high level of trust in his business and personal relationships.
I have to ask. “Do you know the other PI?”
“Yes. We were watching the same guy, so we compared notes. It wasn’t the first time we’ve run into each other. He didn’t tell me anything that I haven’t already shared with you.”
“Do you know if he’s talked to the police?”
“Probably. He’s a straight shooter.”
I’ll ask Roosevelt about it. “What’s his name?”
“Nick Hanson.”
Oh my God.
*****
Chapter 34
“Everybody Has Something to Hide”
“Police are still trying to determine why venture capitalist Tower Grayson was in a liquor store on Sixth Street at two o’clock on Friday morning.”
— KGO-Radio. Tuesday, June 7. 12:30 P.M.
Nick “the Dick” Hanson is one of San Francisco’s great characters. Now in his mid-eighties, the charismatic, diminutive man about town works with his two sons and four grandchildren in an office in North Beach and writes mysteries in his spare time. We’ve worked with him on a couple of cases and he’s smart, savvy and absolutely tireless. He’s also a publicity hound and an inveterate bon vivant. He may or may not know anything about Grayson’s death, but the entertainment value of this case just went up exponentially.
Rosie and I are driving past the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge shortly after midnight when I punch in the number of Nick’s office on my cell phone. PIs were twenty-four/seven operations long before it became fashionable.
“Hanson Investigation Agency,” says a chirpy voice that sounds like Betty Rubble’s.
“Nick Hanson, please,” I say.
“Senior or junior?”
“Senior.”
“Who’s calling please?”
Nobody should be so cheerful at this hour. “Michael Daley.”
Betty’s voice goes up. “Oh hi, Mr. Daley. It’s Dena Hanson.”
Nick’s great-granddaughter is nineteen and probably drop-dead gorgeous, but I picture a big fifties hairdo and horn-rimmed glasses with the little fake diamond chips on the frames. I ask, “Are you still going to State, Dena?”
“I’m out for the summer.” She giggles and adds, “I could have waited tables, but it’s more fun to work for Grandpa.”
I’ll bet. “Is he available?”
“He’s working, Mr. Daley.”
Of course. “Can you page him?”
“One moment please.”
The line goes silent and Rosie asks, “Who are you chatting up at this hour?”
“Nick the Dick’s receptionist. Turns out she’s his great-granddaughter.”
“Has he ever hired anybody who wasn’t a member of his family?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re becoming quite the schmoozer.”
“I’m going to put my wisdom into a self-help book called, Making Small Talk Long.”
She turns back to business. “Were you able to reach Roosevelt?”
“I left a message.”
“And J.T. Grayson?”
“I’ll call him later. I didn’t think he’d appreciate a phone call after midnight.”
Betty Rubble is back. “Mr. Daley?” she sings. “Grandpa said he’d call you back.”
“That’s fine.” I give her my home and cell numbers.
“Thanks, Mr. Daley,” she warbles. “Have a nice evening.”
# # #
“She’s beautiful,” Rosie says as she casts a loving glance toward Grace, who is sleeping on the sofa in her living room. She has the same contented smile as Rosie as she’s sleeping, although Rosie traded in her Pooh Bear a few years ago for me.
“Just like her mother,” I whisper.
This elicits a grin. “Why didn’t you flatter me like that when we were married?”
“I did.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Maybe you just stopped hearing it.”
It’s a few minutes after one. Rosie’s mother is sitting at the kitchen table in front of Grace’s desktop computer. Sylvia is also a mirror image of Rosie, with shoulder-length gray hair, clear brown eyes and a fiercely independent constitution. She just turned seventy-five, but she still has unlimited energy. If you believe Fernandez family lore, she was quite the pistol in her youth. If she’d been born forty years later, she would have been a hell-raising defense lawyer. Widowed for almost fifteen years, she still lives in the house in the Mission where Rosie and her brother and sister grew up. She’ll be staying here until Leon’s case is over. She counters any suggestion that she move a little closer to us with vehement opposition and is determined to stay in her bungalow in the shadows of St. Peter’s Catholic Church.
Sylvia looks at her granddaughter and says, “I tried to get her to go to bed at nine-thirty, but she wanted to stay up until you got home. She fell asleep on the sofa. I would have taken her into her room, but she’s too big.”
Grace now stands shoulder to shoulder with Rosie and is half a head taller than her grandmother. “That’s okay, Mama,” Rosie says. “School will be out next week.”
“There are a couple of messages on the machine,” Sylvia says. She won’t pick up Rosie’s phone. The person on the other end may be a criminal, a reporter, or worse yet, a prosecutor. “Mostly press. That vile reporter from the Chronicle called.”
“Jerry Edwards?”
“That’s the one. He said you’ll find your names in his column in the morning.”
Swell.
She adds, “Roosevelt wants you to call him in the morning.”
He knows it’s a bad idea to leave confidential information on a defense attorney’s answering machine. I hope he’s calling about the visits that Debbie Grayson and her son made to Sixth Street on Thursday night. Better yet, maybe he has some information about Tower Grayson’s car or the whereabouts of Alicia Morales. I try not to get my hopes up.
Sylvia adds, “Carolyn called and said that Leon Walker’s condition has been upgraded from critical to serious. In the grand scheme of things, I guess that qualifies as good news.”
She calls things as she sees them, a trait she passed on to her daughter and granddaughter.
Rosie and I coax Grace into her room, where she falls asleep again within seconds after her head hits her pillow. She also inherited the ability to sleep from her mother.
We regroup in the living room. Rosie is having a night cap of caffeine-free Diet Coke and I’m nursing a Diet Dr Pepper. Sylvia is drinking iced tea. Sylvia says, “They interviewed Marcus Banks on the news.” She knows the players in the San Francisco criminal justice system. “He said Grayson was being watched by a PI.”
“Actually,” Rosie says, “He was being watched by two PI’s. His wife and his business partner each hired a PI to tail him.”
“Nobody trusted him.”
Sylvia is perceptive.
Rosie gives her mother a knowing grin and says, “This case has everything, Mama. You’ll never belie
ve who the wife hired to watch her husband.”
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