MD02 - Incriminating Evidence

by Sheldon Siegel

  I’m still not buying this. It’s too much of a stretch. “What kind of business was Holton starting?” I ask. “A restaurant? A fruit and vegetable business?”

  “No,” Tony says. “An Internet business.”

  Right. A guy who worked at the Pancho Villa who is also a pimp is now a high-tech entrepreneur. I ask what kind of Internet business.

  “Cyberporn.”

  I suppose this shouldn’t surprise me. “And where did Hector get this information? I presume he didn’t wander up to Martinez’s office and ask him about it.”

  Tony frowns. “Of course not. He wouldn’t tell me his source, but I’d bet somebody at the Pancho Villa told him about it. Apparently, Holton was looking for funding and showed some of his stuff to a couple of people at the restaurant. When the manager got wind of it, he fired Holton.”

  This is a plausible explanation for Holton’s rather sudden departure from the Pancho Villa a few weeks ago. Nevertheless, if Martinez is legit, there isn’t a chance he would have funded anything like that. “Did Holton actually approach Martinez?” I ask.

  “Hector didn’t know. And he has no idea whether Martinez provided any funding to him.”

  It seems unlikely. “And Hector shared this with you out of the goodness of his heart?”

  “Hector’s a good guy, Mike. And he’s a talker.” He smiles and adds, “And I’m a good listener.” This is true. Rosie says that Tony has a sympathetic face. Complete strangers tell him their deepest and darkest secrets when they come to the market. Tony’s expression changes to one of concern. “Mike?” he says.

  “Yes?”

  “Martinez is my main supplier. If he gets pissed off at me, I’m out of business.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I doubt this ever happened—and if we do decide to talk to him, we’ll tell you first and we’ll keep you out of it.”

  —————

  Rosie and I are sitting on the sofa in her living room. A candle flickers on the mantel. We’re hugging. “Your brother is a good guy,” I whisper to her.

  Her hands gravitate to the middle of my back. Rosie knows how to push all the right buttons. She kisses me and says, “The people who work in the produce business can be very nasty. Donald Martinez didn’t become a player by being a nice guy. I don’t want Tony to get in the middle of this case.”

  “I know. I promise we’ll be careful.”

  She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “I wish Tony would find somebody,” she says. “Of all of us, he had the only successful marriage.”

  “My dad used to say that the toughest things to deal with in life are those that you can’t control.”

  “He was a wise man.”

  “Yes, he was.” Although we weren’t always close, I still miss him.

  She smiles and pulls me to her. She cups my cheek in her hand. “Why don’t we take a couple of minutes and try to deal with something we can control?”

  I’m asleep in my apartment when the ringing phone jolts me awake. It’s still dark. I stab for the phone. The digital clock next to my bed says it’s four forty-five.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “It’s Andy Holton.”

  I’m completely awake in an instant. I flip on the light and grab a pencil. “Where are you, Andy?”

  “Nearby.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I think I need to talk to a lawyer.”

  “I think you’re right,” I say.

  “I’d like to meet with you.”

  “When?”

  “Eleven o’clock tonight. The Jerry Hotel. Room Four.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Mr. Daley?”

  “Yes?”

  “Come by yourself. I’ll have some people watching you.”

  22

  THE JERRY HOTEL

  “Please flush toilets after each use.”

  —SIGN INSIDE THE DOORWAY TO THE JERRY HOTEL.

  “I don’t like it,” Tony says. A single light is on in the back of his produce market at ten o’clock the next night. He’s talking. “It’s a bad idea. You should let the cops handle this.”

  In an hour I’m going to be a mile up Mission Street at the Jerry Hotel. Rosie is quiet, but Pete agrees with Tony.

  “I’ve got to talk to him first,” I insist.

  “You’re going to get yourself killed,” Pete says.

  “We’re supposed to talk to our clients before we call the cops to arrest them.”

  “He isn’t your client,” Tony points out.

  True, nor will he be. “I’m not crazy about the idea, either,” I acknowledge. “On the other hand, he called me for advice. I agreed to listen to him. I can’t just call the cops and have him picked up.”

  Tony asks, “Why do you have to meet him at a seedy hotel?”

  Rosie answers for me. “We’re criminal defense attorneys. Sometimes we have no choice. We can’t always meet clients and witnesses at Starbucks.”

  Tony says, “You’re bringing reinforcements, right?”

  “I’m going with him,” Pete says.

  “Pete will cover the entrance when I’ve gone in,” I say. “I’ll meet with Holton. If I don’t return in five minutes, Pete will call the cops.”

  Tony glances at Rosie and says, “I’m coming, too.”

  “This isn’t your fight, Tony,” I say.

  “It is now. You’re still family, even when you act like an idiot.” He puts his broom down and picks up his cell phone. He walks to the front of the market and returns wearing a beat-up denim jacket. I’d bet almost anything he’s carrying the gun that he keeps behind the counter. “I’m coming with you,” he says again. “If you geniuses get delusions of grandeur, I’m going to call the cops myself.”

  Rosie puts on her own jacket and folds her arms. “I’m coming, too,” she says.

  I argue with her for a few minutes. Inevitably, I lose. “All right,” I say. “You’re in. You can watch the back of the hotel. But you and Tony stay together. And you’ve got to stay out of sight—Holton said I’d be watched.”

  Rosie exhales. “If you go and get yourself killed, I’m going to be really pissed off at you,” she says to me. And then, a little tremulously, “Be careful, Mike.”

  At ten-forty, I’m standing in the BART plaza across Sixteenth from the Jerry Hotel. Pete is somewhere in the immediate vicinity where he can’t be seen. We arrived separately. Rosie and Tony are supposed to be in the alley in the back of the building. It’s a warm evening. The smell of burritos fills the plaza. A young entrepreneur is transacting pharmaceutical business next to the Green Monster. This is a cash-only enterprise. In the five minutes I’ve been standing here, he’s made about two thousand dollars. A police car drives up Mission but doesn’t stop.

  I’m watching the entrance to the Jerry. It’s about as far as you can get from the Ritz. A female prostitute has opened the heavy steel door and gone upstairs. A young Hispanic man comes and goes in short order, presumably to deliver drugs. He darts up Sixteenth after making the drop. My eyes are working at a hundred miles per hour.

  The drug dealer walks up to me and asks, “Can I interest you in some high-quality products?”

  “What do you have?” I ask.

  “Anything you want.”

  “Not interested tonight,” I say. “Maybe another time.”

  “Suit yourself,” he replies, and heads back toward the Green Monster. A group of people are coming up the escalator from the BART station. A train must have just arrived. New customers are on their way.

  The door of the Jerry is covered with graffiti. The restaurant on the ground floor is dark. Some of the windows on the second and third floors are boarded up. I repeat the plan to myself once more. If I’m not back within five minutes, Pete will call the cops and come upstairs with the cavalry. At least I hope so.

  The door to the Jerry is ajar when I push on it at eleven o’clock. It opens grudgingly and I head in. In front of me is a dimly lit stairway. The banister
has been ripped from the wall. It’s stuffy. A single lightbulb halfway up the stairs provides the only illumination. It’s dark at the top. A man with a long beard is sitting just under the lightbulb, drinking malt liquor from a tall can. In the murky light his olive-colored skin has a pasty pall. His clothes are tattered and filthy. I smell him as I climb past him. He ignores me.

  It’s grimmer at the top of the stairs. There’s a strung-out prostitute sitting on the linoleum floor as I turn the corner. Her halter top is wrapped around her neck and her bare breasts hang lifelessly. She moans as I walk past her. My heart is pounding. I’m sweating. There’s another bare light-bulb halfway down the short corridor. I see four rooms on each side. There’s a number on each, and I hear groaning from behind the closed door to Room One. The door to Room Two is open. Two men are shooting up just inside. They slam the door when I walk by.

  A well-dressed man hurries out of Room Three and walks past me. “What the fuck do you want?” he mutters as he goes by. He jams his nightly fix under his coat.

  Room Four is at the end of the hallway, so it must face the back of the building. I can hear myself breathing. I derive little comfort knowing that my guys are outside waiting for me. I put my ear up to the door and listen. Not a sound. I make a fist and knock twice. No answer. I try the handle. The door isn’t locked. I push it open. The room is dark except for the light coming through the window from the alley. It opens onto a fire escape. I can make out a mattress on the floor and a wooden chair. There is a dark spot in the corner that may have held a sink. Now it’s just a hole in the floor. The smell of urine permeates the room.

  I step inside and my eyes begin to adjust. “Andy? Andy Holton?” I ask.

  There’s a clicking sound to my left, and I feel cold metal against my left ear. “Don’t move,” a male voice whispers. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.

  Panic. My stomach churns. I feel the sweat in my armpits. I think of Grace. I think of Rosie. I think I’m going to die tonight in the Jerry Hotel.

  The voice asks, “Are you by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put your hands on top of your head.”

  I do as I’m told. Hands frisk me. My heart pounds. I don’t respond well to terror.

  “Are you Daley?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  He asks for my wallet. I pass it back to him. He looks at it and hands it back.

  “Are you Holton?” I ask.

  “No. He sent me to get you.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No.”

  Shit.

  He’s still standing behind me. The barrel of the pistol moves to my back. “We’re going for a walk,” he says. “If you turn around and try to look at me, I’ll kill you.”

  I believe him. “Where are we going?”

  “Not far.”

  I begin to turn toward the door, and he pokes me in the kidney. “No,” he says. “We’re not using the front door. We’re taking the fire escape.”

  Christ. We’re going out the back of the building. Pete won’t see me, but maybe Rosie and Tony will. He pushes me toward the window. I climb out onto the fire escape and start making my way down the iron stairs. I’m afraid of heights. He warns me again not to look at him. He jostles me in the back with his pistol. I question my sanity.

  We reach the ground and begin walking up the alley toward Valencia. I try not to move my head as I dart helpless glances for Rosie and Tony. I come to the hard realization that I may be flying solo. When we reach Valencia, I don’t feel the gun anymore. I presume this means he’s hidden it under his jacket. He tells me to turn right. I’m tempted to try to make a break for it or to stop one of the cars on Valencia, but I don’t have the guts. We walk about fifty paces north. The looming presence of the Hotel Royan casts a shadow on the street. I recall my visit with the man in the old cheese steak shop. I’m sweating right through my clothes.

  The mystery man pushes me toward the door under the dilapidated marquee. “Room 201,” he says.

  I think about trying to go back and find Rosie and Tony. Not a chance.

  “He wants to see you right now,” the voice says. He shoves me through the steel mesh door. I have no choice.

  The Royan is even worse at night than it is in the daytime. It’s dark. It stinks of urine and vomit. I hear muffled screaming from above. A crack addict is shooting up just inside the door. A man is passed out on the lobby floor.

  I want to turn back but the barrel of the gun presses against my back again. If I make a break for it, I’m dead. If I go upstairs and look for Holton, I may be dead anyway. There is a rickety stairway at the end of the hall. The gun nudges me forward. We head up the stairs.

  The hallway on the second floor is dark. The door to the bathroom is open. A man is sitting on the toilet, injecting something into his left arm. The only illumination is from the streetlights on Valencia that shine through an open window at the end of the hall.

  I find Room 201 and knock on the door. There is no answer. The man standing behind me tells me to try the handle. I do. It’s unlocked. I open the door. “Andy Holton?” I ask.

  I hear screams from the room next door. I jump. Inside the dark room, I can make out a sagging bed. I can see a dresser and a sink in the corner. The tile floor is sticky underfoot. There’s a naked man lying on the bed. “Andy?” I ask again.

  No response.

  I feel the pressure of the gun against my back. I walk into the room toward the figure on the bed. I can smell the breath of the man with the gun. I hear him utter the word “Shit.” As I’m about to reach for the man in the bed, I hear a loud crack. Something cold and heavy has hit the back of my head. I think I see a flash of light. Time slows down. I see Grace’s face. I see my mom’s face. An instant later, everything goes black. I don’t feel it when I hit the floor.

  23

  “YOU FOUND HIM”

  “Police continue the search for Johnny Garcia’s roommate.”

  —NEWS CENTER 4 DAYBREAK. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28.

  My head hurts. A lot. My body aches. My throat is dry. It’s dark. My right cheek is sticking to something hard. A second later I realize it’s the floor. I make out a black shoe in front of me.

  “Mick?” A familiar voice. My brain begins to engage. I can’t talk. “Mick? You okay?”

  I try to lift my head, but I can’t. I think my eyes are open. I begin to focus. I feel a hand patting my left cheek.

  “Mick, it’s Pete.”

  I finally regain some sense of place. My relief is overwhelmed by the pain in the back of my head. Pete gets right in front of my face. “You’re okay, Mick,” he says. “Somebody whacked you on the head.”

  I move my head slowly. The pain is excruciating. I try to rub the back of my head, but my hand isn’t working yet. “Where the hell am I?” I ask.

  Another familiar voice answers. “The Royan.” It’s Rosie. Her face comes into sight next to Pete. Tony is standing behind her.

  “What time is it?”

  “A few minutes after midnight,” Rosie says. “You’ve been out for about half an hour.”

  My head starts to clear through the throbbing pain. I realize the room is full of people. I see two uniformed police officers. I recognize Roosevelt Johnson, who is talking to Elaine McBride. I wonder what the homicide team is doing here. Two paramedics examine my head, neck and back. They’re concerned about concussions and possible neck and spinal injuries. I’m glad they’re being cautious. I tell them that my head hurts but insist I’m otherwise okay. They check my eyes, test my reflexes and put an ice pack against the bump on the back of my head. Then they carefully help me up to a sitting position. The room whirls around me for a moment, then settles down.

  I look at Rosie. “I’m glad you came.”

  “It’s a good thing we were there,” she says. “We followed you here.”

  “Did you get a look at the guy?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Rosie replies. “I’ll be able to identify him
if we can find him.”

  Great.

  “Mike,” Pete says, “next time I want you to stick with the plan.”

  There won’t be a next time. “Sure, Pete.” I look around the crowded room. I wave a shaky hand to Roosevelt. “Glad you guys could make it,” I say.

  Roosevelt is annoyed. “Next time you decide to play Dirty Harry, I want you to call me first.”

  “No problem. I was trying to find Andy Holton.”

  He nods toward the bed. “Congratulations,” he says. “You found him.”

  Holton’s naked body rests faceup with his eyes and mouth open. He had fair skin and light hair. I see a syringe on the floor next to the bed, about a foot from where I’m sitting. A team from the coroner’s office is setting up just outside the door. I hear one of them murmur, “Looks like he OD’d.”

  Roosevelt surveys the room. “Who else knew you were coming?” he asks.

  “Just Pete, Rosie and Tony.”

  He asks if I caught a glimpse of the guy who hit me.

  “Nope.”

  Roosevelt asks whether Holton was already dead when I arrived.

  “I’m not sure. I think so. I only saw him for an instant.”

  “Can you think of any reason why somebody might want to scare you?”

  “I don’t know.” I’m glad he said “scare” instead of “kill.”

  “Are you missing anything?”

  I take inventory. My watch and my wallet are gone. He says he’ll get my statement after they check me in at San Francisco General.

  The paramedics lift me onto a gurney. I turn to Rosie and Pete and say, “Thanks.”

  Pete says, “You’re the only brother I’ve got left. I’m coming with you in the ambulance.”

  San Francisco General Hospital is a huge brick complex on Potrero Avenue next to the 101 Freeway, just west of Hospital Curve on the eastern boundary of the Mission. I was born here. The facility is a small city that somehow manages to handle everything from gunshot wounds to drug addiction to insect bites. It has one of the largest AIDS wards in the country. The doctors live on the front lines of the urban medical war. They win most of the battles.