“You bet. I don’t know anybody who can help us on this one. We’d want him to spend some time inside the Lucky Gent, maybe wear a wire. What incentive might he have to help us?”
“I’m not sure. We’d probably have to pay him. If things worked out, maybe we could get him off parole a little sooner.”
“Can you get on this right away, Sam?”
“Sure. I’ll have to run the whole thing by his PO. Let’s hope he doesn’t have a no alcohol clause in his contract. If that’s the case, bars are a big no-no. In the meantime, nothing prevents us from asking other people, including Rodney, about a possible relationship between Barnes and our murder victim.”
“I’m with you on that but I think it would be a mistake for us to focus exclusively on Plow and close our thinking to other possibilities. Sometimes in this business, we’re guilty of forming a single, albeit logical theory, that turns out to be dead wrong. And sometimes, innocent people end up in prison because of it.”
“Spoken like a true left-wing liberal,” I said, smiling at her. “I happen to think you’re right, Kate, but, let’s not ignore the obvious: Rodney stood to gain a lot of dough if something happened to Ginsberg. There’s also the little matter of Steven Ambrose. How do you think he fits into all this?”
“Wish I knew, but at least we’ve got him on our radar screen. We know where he lives, what he does for a living, and we also know about his infidelity with Rodney. We just need to keep digging.”
“I agree although there’s no physical evidence linking him to the crime, and infidelity alone sure doesn’t make him a killer. Speaking of physical evidence, aren’t you waiting for additional forensic test results?”
She grabbed her pen and began scribbling in her planner. “Yeah, the hair and fiber guys haven’t gotten back to me yet. From what I hear, they’re buried. I’ll make a note to call them first thing in the morning.”
“Okay,” I said. “So what do you want to do now?”
“I think we should pay another visit to Rodney. We’ll ask him about his relationship with the deceased, the estate, and see what, if anything, he has to say about Steven Ambrose.”
“I may have a better idea. Why don’t you go visit Rodney while I pay a visit to Steven Ambrose. If we both go see Plow, ten seconds after we leave his house, he’ll be on the phone to tip Ambrose. This way we catch them both off guard and don’t lose the advantage of surprise.”
“Works for me,” said Kate.
“What about Barnes?”
“With Anthony, I think we’ve got a couple of options. One, we can drag him in for questioning and see if we can break him down; two, we can place him under surveillance, leave him out there for a while—see what he does, who he sees. Who knows, maybe if we give him a little rope, he’ll lead us directly to Rodney.”
“I like the second option better. If we question him now and fail to break him down, he might decide to bolt. And, absent a confession, the only evidence we’ve got is the partial print.”
“That’s true,” said Kate. “That’ll also give us time to find out if your old snitch can help us.”
“And the Bradshaw clan?”
“They’re out of the picture for the moment unless something brings them back to center stage for Ginsberg’s killing. In the meantime, the family remains high on the department’s most-wanted list. Your old friend Hyrum Locke is talking to the FBI. They’re discussing the possibility of a task force, and you know what that means?”
“A disorganized cluster-fuck with the FBI calling all the shots,” I replied. Hyrum Locke was Chief of Detectives and Kate’s boss. He was also an egotistical, self-serving ass.
“Ya think? Let’s get to work.”
***
The plan was a go. For lawyer Gordon Dixon, what he was about to do would become a defining moment in an otherwise mundane life, a life filled with a deep and abiding commitment to his family and to his religious beliefs—beliefs grounded in the practice of polygamy. The fact that his legal career was about to come to an abrupt end didn’t bother him at all. It had been an undistinguished law practice—a decade plus of representing petty criminals, handling real estate transactions, and writing the occasional will.
He had just finished loading the last of the boxes. Glancing around the soon-to-be-vacated law office, Dixon turned to his wife. “Did you remember to have the phone service turned off?”
“I did, and the other utilities, too. Let’s get these boxes loaded into the truck and then we’ll be out of here. Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Everything’s set. I’m nervous, but I also feel privileged to have been asked by the Prophet to perform such an important task.”
“You’re doing God’s work. Everything will be fine. I’m excited about the prospect of finally being reunited with my sister wives. It’s been a long time.”
Joan Dixon, the prophet’s younger sister, had been Gordon’s first wife and his rock for nearly twelve years. They’d met as undergraduates and married during his first year in law school. It had been a good union. Upon graduation, Gordon had been recruited by then President Rulon Jeffs of the FLDS church, to handle a variety of church legal affairs. All that had changed after Warren Jeffs ascended to the church presidency and the purge began. Scores of young men, some just boys, were banished from the church. The banished included Walter Bradshaw and his two sons, Albert and Joseph. The boys were sent away first, and then Walter.
When they finished loading the truck, Gordon Dixon took one last look around the empty office. “Tomorrow begins a new chapter in our lives,” he said, “We’ll all be together again soon, either here on earth, or in the Celestial Kingdom.”
Chapter Thirty-one
While Kate gathered information about Steven Ambrose, I tapped into department records searching for information on the whereabouts of my former snitch, Sammy Roybal.
I found Roybal at the home of his grandmother, in the Rose Park area of Salt Lake’s west side. Despite his California inclinations, he hadn’t left Utah. That didn’t surprise me. I’d known Sammy for nearly six years during two separate prison commitments. Despite his criminal lifestyle, he always seemed highly devoted to a large, local, extended family. He’d been raised by a mother who’d been widowed since the age of seventeen. His father had been a small time crook with a heroin problem. He died of an overdose before Sammy was born. Sammy and a half-sister had been raised by his mother and a collection of aunts, uncles, and grandparents.
By any measure, Roybal’s criminal career was also a petty one, punctuated by brushes with the law for such things as drug possession, theft, check and credit card forgery. It wasn’t the seriousness of his criminal record that had earned him two stints at Point of the Mountain, but the length of it. Through sheer persistence, he accumulated a long record of petty crimes beginning at age fifteen. He had also managed to annoy every cop, prosecutor, and judge that worked with him because they saw him so often. He was now twenty-six and recently paroled for a second time. The fact that he’d been out for several months was a good sign since most inmates failed within the first ninety days. If you could keep an ex-con violation-free beyond ninety days, the odds improved that he might make it.
In prison, Sammy found a comfortable niche because he was both smart and gay. He worked as a legal assistant helping other inmates prepare writs and appeals in the law library by day, and ran a thriving prostitution business at night. The inmates hadn’t nicknamed him Slammin Sammy for nothing. In the course of performing both jobs, Sammy Roybal heard a lot. He slipped me information on everything from crooked staff to drug trafficking to inmates with escape plans. He was even responsible for preventing a couple of planned gang hits on other inmates in the prison population. I almost hated to see the guy paroled.
When I called, his grandmother answered the phone. I’d managed to catch him just before his departure for an evening on the town. I could only imagine what that might entail.
�
�Hello, Sam,” he purred into the phone. The guy had propositioned me more times than I cared to count.
“Hi, Sammy, got a little job for you if you think you might be interested.”
“Anything for you, big boy,” he cooed.
“Knock that shit off, would you? You know I don’t like it.”
“My, my, aren’t we a little grouchy tonight. What’s the job?”
I explained about the Lucky Gent, Anthony Barnes, and the murder of Arnold Ginsberg. He listened patiently until I finished.
“What’s in it for Slammin Sammy, big boy?”
I had always found that Roybal responded well to material things or the cash that could buy them. In prison, we quietly added money to his commissary account, always making it look like the money came in from a family member on the outside. I figured between what Kate could pull from her budget and what I could take from mine, we’d have more than enough cash to interest Sammy. I tossed a number at him.
“And you’ll cover all my expenses as well?”
“What expenses, Sammy?”
“Oh, expenses like the food I’ll need to order, and of course, my bar bill.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll cover your expenses, too.”
“I’ll do it. Anything to help my good friend, Sam Kincaid,” he said. “But I won’t wear a wire. I won’t have that cold goo taped to my hairless chest.” He giggled. “It’s not the kind of lubricant I like, and besides, it’s not in the place I like it.”
“Fair enough,” I said, trying my best not to sound like a judgmental, homophobic jerk. We exchanged cell phone numbers, and Sammy promised to visit the Lucky Gent later in the evening.
***
Kate had given me a home address for Steven Ambrose. She’d also pulled his vehicle registration information. Ambrose drove a 2006 Jeep Wrangler and lived in a condo in Midvale. Susan Fleming’s report gave me addresses for the health club he worked out of as well as an office on South State Street where he booked his massage appointments.
We left Salt Lake police headquarters at the same time in separate cars. We decided to use our cell phones to coordinate the timing of the interviews. We also decided not to question either subject until we found them both.
Kate followed me to Sugarhouse. I wanted to stop at Terry Burnham’s house, check things out, congratulate him for his start in alcohol counseling, and encourage him to stay with it. When I called earlier, he hadn’t answered. I was relieved to see his car parked in the driveway and the lights on in the house. Now if only he was sober. We parked on the street and approached the front door.
We could see Terry through the front window. He must have heard us approach because he looked up from the television and hollered at us to come in. He was sitting in front of the TV watching an NFL game while drinking a can of diet coke and eating Doritos. The house had been cleaned up. It was a far cry from the mess it had been the night before when I stopped by to tell him that he was suspended from duty.
We exchanged greetings and small talk before Terry asked, “Sam, can you tell me anything about the investigation?” Before I could answer, he continued. “And what about this head-hunter from the sheriff’s office IA unit, Egan, I think her name is?”
“Slow down a minute, take a breath, will you?”
“Sorry. Sit down guys. Can I get you anything?”
We both declined. “I don’t know her either, Terry. Her name is Melanie Egan. She’s a sergeant in the unit with a solid reputation. She transferred into IA from patrol a few months ago.”
“Don’t know if that’s good for me or not,” he said. “She called late this afternoon, and I’m scheduled for an interview at ten in the morning.”
“Where?”
“Her office. How do you think I should play it?”
“Just be honest with her, Terry. Explain what happened and what you’re doing to correct the problem.”
“The waiting is killing me. How soon do you think I’ll hear something?”
“Just hang in there. I don’t know for sure, but I think we’ll know something fairly soon. This isn’t a particularly complicated case. Once Sergeant Egan interviews you, I think she’s finished. It’s just a matter of how quickly she puts a report together. In the meantime, don’t drink, continue seeing Marilyn Hastings, and do exactly what she says.”
We got up to leave. Burnham was suddenly looking sheepish. “Sam, I owe you an apology for last night. I was so far out of line. I know you were trying to help me out. I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. That was the booze talking last night. Just keep working on getting your shit together. That’s what you can do for me.”
As we walked to our cars, I glanced at Kate. While not unfriendly, she hadn’t spoken to Terry beyond hello and goodbye. “What’s bothering you, Kate? You almost came across as hostile in their.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s just that I don’t have a good feeling about this. The investigation has moved so quickly.”
“So?”
“Well, you don’t know this Egan, right?”
“True.”
“And you don’t really know how your new boss is going to be looking at this?”
“True enough, I guess.”
“You essentially advised Terry to throw himself on the mercy of the system. What if the system decides not to treat him leniently? Isn’t it possible that he could be charged with a felony?”
“Possible, but not very likely. Based on similar cases I’ve seen over the years, this one doesn’t merit a felony filing. A misdemeanor, maybe.”
“For your sake, Sam, I hope you’re not so close to this that you can’t see the forest for the trees. I don’t know what you’ve got up your sleeve, but I hope it doesn’t blow up in your face.”
How did she guess? Indeed, I did have something up my sleeve. But it wasn’t time to play that card, at least not just yet.
Chapter Thirty-two
Kate and I left Burnham’s separately. I headed out to see Steven Ambrose while she drove to Ginsberg’s home hoping to find Rodney. The medical examiner’s office had released Ginsberg’s body, and his brother from New York was in town making funeral arrangements. I wondered if Kate would find Rodney at home assisting with the funeral plans or whether he might be out on the town celebrating his new found freedom.
I located Ambrose’s Midvale condo. The covered parking spaces had assigned numbers to correspond with individual condo units. Each unit had been assigned one parking stall with a storage closet located at the front. I circled the lot until I found number 142, a match with Ambrose’s unit number. There was no sign of his late model Jeep Wrangler. I drove around the rest of the complex to be sure that he hadn’t parked the SUV elsewhere. The Jeep wasn’t there.
I parked in the visitors section, grabbed a flashlight, and stepped into the cool night air. Dusk had given way to darkness, reminding me that the autumn days were growing shorter. The evening temperatures were also falling fast—a sure sign that Utah’s arctic winter was just around the corner.
I found Ambrose’s condo. The lights were off and it looked like nobody was home. I knocked on the door. No answer. I returned to Ambrose’s assigned parking stall, looked around, and seeing no one, turned the handle on his storage closet door. It was unlocked. I had just turned on my flashlight when the headlights from an approaching vehicle lit up the area around me like a Christmas tree. I stepped into the storage locker, doused the flashlight, and closed the door behind me. Safe enough, I thought. This would give the approaching car a chance to pass and I could then return to my illegal snooping.
The driver of the approaching vehicle had other plans. Instead of passing, it turned head-on into the parking stall where I now found myself trapped like a thief in the night. The idling engine was now just inches from the storage locker and the headlights illuminated the cracks around the door. I held my breath. If this was Steven Ambrose, imagine his shock if he opened th
e locker door only to find a perfect stranger staring back at him. What the hell could I say? ‘Hi, I’m your new neighbor—just checking for termites. If you’ll excuse me….’ Maybe if he opened the door, I should just whack him with my flashlight and make a run for it.
The driver cut the engine, got out, and started to walk away. Just as I began to breathe again, my cell phone began to chirp. Christ, it must be Kate wondering why I hadn’t called. I grabbed it, not sure whether I should smother it, swallow it, or smash it into a million pieces. To stop the noise, I punched the answer button but didn’t speak. I didn’t dare. Again, I held my breath hoping that whoever got out of the vehicle hadn’t heard the bloody phone go off. Seconds passed and I didn’t hear the sound of footsteps returning. Cautiously, I opened the door and peeked out. A red Jeep Wrangler occupied the stall. Steven Ambrose must have come home and, thank God, hadn’t heard me rummaging inside his storage locker.
I took a fast look around the shed. It contained the usual assortment of stuff people commonly store, nothing to get excited or suspicious about.
I checked my cell. It was Kate who had called. I called her back.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, sounding genuinely irritated.
“You don’t want to know. I’ll tell you later. I feel like Inspector Clousseau in one of those old Pink Panther movies. Ambrose just got home. I’m ready to go in for the interview. What about Rodney?”
“Rodney’s home but he was less than enthusiastic about my stopping by—said he hadn’t been sleeping much and was going out for a while. Let’s go get ’em and we’ll catch up afterward.” She was gone.
***
Ambrose answered the door carrying a partially consumed bottle of Coors Light. I introduced myself, flashed credentials, and explained what I wanted. He invited me inside. We sat in the living room, me on the leather couch, him in a leather recliner. He offered me a beer. I declined.
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