“Pardon?”
“The old woman who rented a room from McManus, the one the neighbor told you about.”
“Oh, right. What about her?”
What about her was the second bit of the day’s news.
“I did some checking last night,” Tamara said. “Lots of history until three years ago, but nothing since. No current residence in the Bay Area or Michigan or anywhere else. No death record. No brother in Saginaw, or other living family members.”
“So it seems McManus lied to Mrs. Hightower.”
“Seems?”
“If the neighbor’s memory is accurate after three years. It’s hearsay in any case.”
“Well, that’s not all I came up with. When the woman’s husband died five years ago, his insurance policy paid her a death benefit of fifty thousand. She also inherited some rural property his brother willed to him in West Marin worth twice that much.”
“So?”
“There’s no record of her investing the fifty K, so chances are she stuck it in her bank account. And that account’s still active.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yep. I couldn’t find out how much is in the account without some serious security breaching.”
“Always a don’t-cross line. Local bank?”
“B of A branch at Embarcadero Center.”
“Does the Marin property still belong to her?”
“No record of it being sold.”
“Taxes current or delinquent?”
“Paid up to date.”
“So we’ve got two possibilites,” I said. “One is that she still resides somewhere in or near the city. It’s not inconceivable that an elderly woman living alone in a rented room could fall under the radar.”
“You believe that? I don’t.”
“I didn’t say I believed it. I said it was one possibility. The other—”
“—is that McManus killed Rose O’Day to get control of her assets. That’s the one I believe.”
“You don’t necessarily have to commit murder to get your hands on a person’s assets.”
“No? Why else would she lie about what happened to O’Day?”
“If anything happened to her.”
“Well, something happened to Virden. One disappearance, one probable disappearance—”
“Make that possible.”
“Okay, possible. But I don’t buy the coincidence. We’re pretty sure McManus is an ID thief, right? Steal one woman’s ID, and that woman disappears. Stands to reason she’d steal another woman’s money and make her disappear if she had the chance.”
“Granted,” I said. “But it’s still only conjecture. I hate to keep harping on this, but we need clear-cut evidence of wrongdoing before we can act and we don’t have any. Not where McManus is concerned, not where Virden is concerned, not where Rose O’Day is concerned.”
Tamara had that stubborn bulldog look, the kind I’d seen before and not just on her; it had stared back at me from a mirror more than a few times. “I’ve got an idea how we might get some,” she said.
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Get inside the McManus house and check it out, check out the property. Got to be something incriminating there.”
“Don’t tell me you’re advocating B and E?”
“Uh-uh. McManus rents rooms, doesn’t she?”
“To elderly people. She’s no dummy and she’s already suspicious. Probably wouldn’t even let you in the house.”
“Wasn’t thinking of me. Alex. He’s forty-six, but he can pass for a few years older. Old enough.”
“Same objection applies.”
“Worth a try, isn’t it?”
I thought about it. There were other arguments against the idea, but none strong enough to shoot it down. Pretty soon I said, “Might work. If the room’s still for rent—the sign was down when I was there yesterday. And if McManus has no prejudice against Latinos. He’ll have to be damn careful if he does get in.”
“You know Alex—he’s always careful.”
“Okay, then. Give him a call.”
“Already did. He’s on his way.”
One jump ahead of me, as usual. “There’s another tack we can take,” I said. “Find out the names of some of McManus’s other roomers, track down their present whereabouts. Maybe one of them has some information we can use. What’s the real estate outfit that handles her lease?”
“Barber and Associates. Offices on Sansome downtown.”
“You have the agent’s name?”
“No, but I can get it.”
“Do that. I’ll make a second canvass of McManus’s neighbors, too—have another talk with Selma Hightower.”
Tamara favored me with a satisfied grin. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” she said.
* * *
Alex Chavez had come and gone, fully briefed, and I was on my way out when the third piece of news arrived. This one came in a text message from Felice Johnson, Tamara’s friend and contact at SFPD. Tamara had asked her for a personal BOLO for David Virden’s Porsche Cayman, and the car had just turned up—or what was left of it had—in an alley out near the Cow Palace. A couple of message exchanges later, we had the details.
Found abandoned, stripped down to the frame. The officers who’d spotted it were regulars on that beat; their report said it hadn’t been there when they made their first pass through the area shortly past midnight. Driver’s window smashed, the ignition hot-wired. No signs of blood, interior or exterior. Nothing to indicate what might have happened to Virden.
I said, “The ignition hot-wire pretty much rules out a carjacking.”
“Tells me it was abandoned twice,” Tamara said. “First time on some dark street near the projects. Wouldn’t’ve lasted more than an hour after midnight. Sweet set of wheels like that’s a prime target for car boosters. Then hot-wired and driven over to that alley and stripped.”
“McManus and Carson again.”
“Who else? One of ’em drove it out of Dogpatch sometime Tuesday; the other one followed in the SUV to bring her back.”
“That’s one explanation,” I said. “Another is that the first boost was by somebody in Dogpatch or elsewhere.”
“Car thieves don’t hang on to a ride three days before they strip it.”
“Nonprofessionals might. Joyriders, gangbangers.”
“Then what happened to Virden?”
“Hit over the head, robbed, the body dumped where it hasn’t been found yet.”
“By joyriders or gangbangers? I don’t buy it. McManus and Carson whacked him, all right.”
“How do you suppose they managed it? Big healthy guy, mad as hell, and two smallish women.”
“And one killer dog. Sicced that Rottweiler, what’s his name, Thor, on him, ripped his throat out.”
“Uh-huh. Which would mean blood all over the place. One hell of a job cleaning it up.”
“Not if it happened outside.”
“Where his screams could be heard a block away.”
Tamara made a face at me.
I said, “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Time to call Judith LoPresti, let her know about the Porsche being found. Police probably wouldn’t have notified her yet and it’s better if she hears it from us.”
“You going to say anything about McManus and Carson?”
“That we might be dealing with a couple of identity thieves who also happen to be Madam Bluebeards? Not hardly. She’ll be upset enough as it is.”
16
JAKE RUNYON
When he left the agency he drove down to the Hall of Justice to have a talk with Bryn. Only he didn’t get to do that because they wouldn’t let him see her. She’d been put into Administrative Segregation for her own protection the night before, which meant no visitors except for her attorney. Why the hell would they AdSeg her? Nobody would tell Runyon the reason.
Maybe Dragovich could. Runyon wanted to talk to him anyway, in person, to get his take on her le
gal situation. He called Dragovich’s law office to make sure he was in before driving downtown.
The doubts about Bryn’s story still plagued him. He’d been over it and over it and still he couldn’t quite put his finger on what rang false. Part of it had to do with the sudden shift in her emotional makeup: frantic, nearly hysterical, when she’d called him, calm when he’d arrived at Darby’s flat. The twenty-five minutes it’d taken him to get to the Marina was time enough for her to regain control, yet her calm hadn’t had the residue of shock and terror in it. What he’d seen, sensed, was a mixture of resignation and determination, as if in the interim she’d made some sort of accommodation or decision. Possible he’d read her reactions wrong, but his cop’s instincts said he hadn’t.
There were other things, too. Her account of what’d happened seemed a little too pat, as if some or all of it had been quickly made up and then gone over and refined several times before his arrival. And why had she volunteered information to the homicide inspectors when she’d been warned not to? There was something else, too, something off-key she’d said or done before Darby and the police showed up that kept eluding him.
It all came down to a measure of premeditation: Bryn had gone to the flat to confront Francine, lost it when she saw Bobby hurt again, and in the heat of the fight that followed picked up the kitchen knife and stabbed the woman. That would explain Bryn’s near hysteria when she called; the aftermath of violence, even anticipated violence, throws most people into a panicked state. It would also explain the calm: resignation once she gathered herself, then the decision, the determination, to alter her account to protect herself.
But the problem with that was, Bryn was neither a liar nor a violent person. He couldn’t see her willfully taking anyone’s life, even a woman she hated as much as Francine Whalen. Or fashioning a net of lies to cover up a homicide. Totally out of character.
Or was it? How well did he really know her? Only a short time since they’d met; only a few weeks since they’d become intimate both physically and emotionally. She was complicated, high-strung, damaged by the stroke, her husband’s betrayal, the custody loss of her son. He wasn’t a shrink, couldn’t probe down into the psyche of a woman like Bryn. Just wasn’t equipped. The trouble he’d had dealing with his own demons was proof of that.
He could be wrong about her. Didn’t want to believe he was, but the possibility was still there. Wouldn’t go away until he knew exactly what had happened in Robert Darby’s flat yesterday afternoon.
* * *
Dragovich’s law office was on Grove Street close to City Hall. As successful as his criminal law practice was, he didn’t believe in spending money on jazzing up his workplace. His private office had the usual shelves of law books and an oversized desk, but there were none of the expensive trappings—leather furniture, polished wood paneling, mirrors, paintings, wet bar—that some high-powered attorneys went in for. Strictly functional. Runyon didn’t much like lawyers as a general rule—too many of them were self-promoting, profiteering sharks—but Dragovich was an exception. A man as straightforward and businesslike as his surroundings.
In his late forties and small in stature, not much more than five eight and a hundred and forty pounds; even with his chair jacked up high, the desk dwarfed him. Thinning sandy hair, a beak of a nose, a pointy chin. Habitually he wore a gray suit, a pale blue shirt, and a striped red tie, a kind of signatory outfit like the TV lawyer Matlock. Except that no matter what time of day you saw Dragovich, his shirt collar was unbuttoned, the knot in his tie was loosened, and his suit had a rumpled look. The compensation for all of that was his voice—deep, booming, commanding. He used it to maximum effect in a courtroom.
Runyon was admitted promptly to the attorney’s private office. Dragovich shook his hand, waved him to a client’s chair. As soon as they were both seated, Runyon said, “I just came from the Hall. Do you know why they AdSeg’d Bryn?”
“Yes. It happened after I consulted with her last night—I saw her again early this morning. I wish you’d told me about her stroke.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Badly agitated after she was booked because she wasn’t allowed to cover the damaged side of her face.”
“Why wasn’t she?”
“Jail rules. No scarves—the standard suicide concern. She begged for a towel, but the matrons wouldn’t give her one for the same reason. While she and I talked she tried to cover her face with toilet paper.”
Toilet paper. Jesus Christ.
“After I left her,” Dragovich said, “apparently some of the other prisoners made fun of her condition and she had what the matrons called a temporary breakdown. They were afraid she might harm herself—that’s why she was AdSeg’d.”
Runyon’s hands bunched into fists. As sensitive as Bryn was about her face, the humiliation she’d felt must’ve been acute. The thought of her being harassed by women without conscience or compassion was galling.
“Is she all right now?”
“Better, yes. Resigned. And very concerned about her son.”
“But still segregated. How long before I can see her?”
“I wasn’t given a time line.”
“Not until her arraignment?”
“It’s possible.”
“Is there anything you can do to get me in to see her?”
“You mean in my presence?”
“Alone, preferably.”
Dragovich gave him a long, shrewd look. “Is there a specific reason you want to see her alone? If there is, you’d be well advised to tell me what it is.”
What could he say? That he was afraid she was either lying or telling half-truths? That he was afraid she might actually be guilty of the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought?
“Personal reasons,” he said. “You already know everything I know about Francine Whalen’s death.”
“I hope so.”
“Will you do what you can to get me permission?”
“Of course. But I’m not in a position of strength on this issue.”
Runyon changed the subject. “Concerned about her son, you said. Bobby’s welfare, what his father might say or do to him?”
“Yes.”
“She has good reason.”
“I don’t know Robert Darby, except by reputation.” The attorney’s mouth quirked wryly. “There seems to be some question as to whether he upholds the highest standards of our profession.”
“Have you talked to him yet?”
“I have a call in to him. Of course he’s under no obligation to speak to me at this time. He may decide to wait until Mrs. Darby is arraigned.”
“If he doesn’t return your call, can you find out how the boy’s doing some other way?”
“The inspectors in charge should know. I’ll check with them when they come on duty this afternoon.”
Runyon asked Dragovich what he thought Bryn’s chances were. Unlike some criminal defense attorneys, he was never overconfident; cautious optimism was the limit of his pretrial position on any case. It was likely that the judge at Bryn’s arraignment would uphold the homicide charge and the DA’s office would prosecute, in which case Dragovich would advise her to plead not guilty. The DA might or might not opt to proceed on the first-degree charge, depending on how convinced he was that willful premeditation could be proven. Dragovich’s best guess was that it would be knocked down to either second degree or manslaughter, both of which offered the DA a better chance of conviction.
In any event, and as Runyon had surmised, self-defense would be difficult to prove without a witness to Whalen’s death. But still it seemed the best option under the circumstances. Juries were notoriously unpredictable, but they tended to side with a defendant mother in a homicide case involving child abuse—if the abuse was proven to their satisfaction. Testimony by the victim was the best way to accomplish jury sympathy, but when Dragovich had broached the subject to Bryn this morning she’d been adamant against it.
Didn’t want Bobby put through any more pain and suffering, she’d said. Even if she changed her mind, they’d have her ex-husband to contend with.
If Bobby didn’t take the stand, then it was up to Bryn and Runyon to do what they could to verify the scope and nature of the boy’s injuries. Whalen’s history of violent behavior would have to be established as well. Runyon named Gwen Whalen, Kevin Dinowski, and Charlene Kepler as witnesses who could be subpoenaed to testify. Tricky business, Dragovich said, if that was the way they had to proceed. How much those individuals would be willing to admit to under oath and how much of their testimony would be ruled admissible was problematic.
“Odds for acquittal at fifty-fifty, then,” Runyon said.
“Slightly better than that, I’d say. Based on the facts we have now and contingent on witness cooperation.”
Based on the facts they had now. All the facts? One way or another, he had to find out.
17
ALEX CHAVEZ
He liked dogs. Elena liked dogs. His kids and his in-laws liked dogs. Even Elmo, the wirehaired terrier, liked other dogs.
But Chavez didn’t like Thor, not one little bit.
Neither did Elmo.
As soon as the terrier spotted the big Rottweiler, the wiry hair on Elmo’s back rippled up and he whined and scooted around behind Chavez, wrapping the leash around his legs, and stood there quivering. Thor didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. But those yellow eyes of his … Dios, it was like looking into the eyes of a demon.
The woman—Jane Carson, from the boss’s description—didn’t seem any happier to see him and Elmo than the Rotweiller did. He was already halfway up the driveway when she came out of the house carrying a cardboard box; the gate stood open, an invitation to walk right in. The hatch on the Ford Explorer parked there was raised and she quickly slid the box inside as he approached. No welcoming smile, no expression at all in her bright blue eyes. She was wearing dark-colored sweats, a headband around her short blond hair.
He said through a wary smile, “You ought to put that pooch of yours on a chain. He looks pretty mean.”
“He’s not. He’s friendly and well trained.”
Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries) Page 11