“So there’s nothing you can do?” Kathy asked.
“I don’t have enough manpower to watch him around the clock. The best I can do is make sure you get home safe every night, and I’ll send a patrol car by your house. Hopefully, Kilbride will get the hint and leave you alone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Advantage Investments owned a two-story building a few blocks from Rodeo Drive. If the location was any indication, Oscar Llewellyn thought, Raymond Cahill had been doing okay. That impression was reinforced when Kevin Mercer walked into the waiting area sporting a country club tan and wearing a hand-tailored suit that fit perfectly. The investigator knew from his Internet search that Mercer was fifty-seven but his sculpted black hair showed no gray and his skin was wrinkle free.
Raymond Cahill’s partner looked somber when he crossed to the investigator. Oscar stood and met him halfway.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Mercer.”
“This is terrible.” Mercer shook his head. “I still can’t believe Ray’s dead. Come on back to my office and we can talk.”
Mercer’s office was decorated with sports memorabilia. A stack of baseballs signed by famous Yankees encased in plastic stood on a credenza next to a football signed by every member of the 1994 San Francisco Forty-niners Super Bowl team. A signed Joe Montana jersey, framed and protected by glass, hung on one wall.
Oscar pointed at the jersey. “If you said he was the best who ever played I wouldn’t be able to argue.”
Mercer smiled. “I don’t know, Peyton Manning is awfully good, but it’s hard to say. You’ve got Elway, Brady, and don’t forget Johnny Unitas.” Suddenly, Mercer stopped smiling. “But you’re not here to talk about football.”
“No, I’m not. We’re trying to get some insight into Raymond Cahill’s personal and professional life to see if we can figure out whether this was a burglary gone bad or something more sinister.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with his personal life. He’d been married before, hadn’t he?”
Mercer nodded. “His first two marriages were disasters but his ex-wives wouldn’t have wanted him dead.”
“Why is that?”
“Dead men can’t pay alimony.”
“What about his new wife, Megan?”
“I didn’t see marriage number three turning out any better than the first two.”
“Oh?”
“From what I’ve heard about her marriage to Parnell Crouse, Megan is a gold digger, and Ray’s murder is certainly convenient. The new Mrs. Cahill is going to be a very rich woman overnight. Is she a suspect?”
“Everyone is at this point in the investigation. Is there any reason other than your gut feeling that we should take a hard look at Mrs. Cahill?”
“No. To tell the truth, I don’t know her very well. Ray jumped right in after Megan’s divorce, but I only met her a few times.”
“Can you think of anyone other than Mrs. Cahill who had a motive to hurt Mr. Cahill? For instance, did he make any enemies in his business or personal dealings that you know about? We believe that robbery may have been the motive for the crime; the killer stole several items from Mr. Cahill’s collection. Was Mr. Cahill worried about someone who was interested in his coins, stamps?”
“I’m not much of a collector except for sports memorabilia. I don’t have an interest in stamps or coins like Ray. So I didn’t have much interest in his collection, and Ray never said anything about someone who was showing an unhealthy interest in it.”
“What about business?”
Mercer hesitated. “There are always people who are upset when our investment advice doesn’t pan out.”
“I understand there was an incident at the wedding reception.”
Mercer hesitated again.
“We need to follow every possible lead if we’re going to catch Mr. Cahill’s killer, and we do act with discretion.”
Mercer sighed. “Armand Tuttle crashed the party.”
“Who is Armand Tuttle?”
“He’s a client who made his money franchising the Healthy Hearts Athletic Clubs and products. He’s a die-hard Raiders fan and he met Ray at a Raiders function. You know Ray was a minority stockholder?”
Oscar nodded.
“Anyway, he switched his investments to Advantage and we did very well with them. The problem is that Armand is very thickheaded and it’s very difficult to get him to accept advice. Ray kept telling him to diversify. He did and things were humming along for a while. Then one of his investments went sour and he blamed Ray. He insisted that the investment made a profit but it didn’t. That’s what the argument was about at the reception. Armand demanded an accounting. Ray told him his wedding wasn’t the appropriate place for the discussion. Armand got belligerent and security had to throw him out.”
“And that’s all there was to it?” Oscar asked, sensing that Mercer might be holding back some information.
Mercer sighed. “You’ll find out anyway if you talk to the guests at the reception. Armand demanded the money he claimed we owed him. Ray said we didn’t owe him anything and, well, Armand threatened Ray. He said he’d be sorry if he didn’t get his money immediately. But I’m certain he just meant he’d sue or something like that. I can’t imagine he was threatening to kill Ray.”
“Did Tuttle know about Mr. Cahill’s collection?”
“I imagine he did. Ray talked about it all the time. If memory serves me, Ray had Tuttle out to his house in Palisades Heights a few years ago.”
“Did you stay in Palisades Heights the night of the wedding?”
“No, I flew in on the company jet. I had to get back here for a meeting, so I left for the airport shortly after Armand was thrown out.”
“Can you think of anyone else we should look at?”
“Offhand, no, but I’ll give it some thought. And now, if you’ll excuse me, Ray’s death has created chaos and I have to get back to my attempts to create order.”
Oscar stood up. “Thanks for taking the time to see me.”
“No problem. I want to see the person who did this behind bars.”
Oscar turned to leave when he realized that he had forgotten to ask Mercer about Frank Janowitz.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jack Booth ate dinner at Teddy Winston’s house. He didn’t really want to, but politics demanded that he accept the invitation. After dinner, he returned to his motel room and wrote a report about the case because he wasn’t tired enough to turn in. He was halfway through when Oscar Llewellyn called and updated him on his investigation.
“I checked out Frank Janowitz,” he said, after telling him about the interview with Kevin Mercer.
Jack perked up.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Oh?”
“Your theory about Janowitz being Megan Cahill’s lover, forget it. The guy is gay and he’s never made a secret about his sexual preferences. He’s also in a long-term relationship.”
“He could still be Megan’s accomplice. He’d have the contacts to sell the rare items from Cahill’s collection.”
“That’s true, but my contacts in the LAPD say he’s clean as a whistle.”
“Oh, well, it was just a thought. What about Parnell Crouse?”
“I went to his apartment and a neighbor told me that he hasn’t been around for a while. I asked my friends in the SFPD to try to run him down, but that’s a real low priority, since he’s not suspected of committing a crime.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“I’ll interview Armand Tuttle next.”
“Okay. Work on Tuttle and try to find Crouse.”
They talked a little while longer before Jack hung up and returned to his report. It was eleven thirty by the time he finished and he still wasn’t tired. But he was hungry. Teddy Winston’s wife wasn’t much of a cook, and he’d only picked at his meal. It occurred to him that Kathy Moran would be wrapping up her shift at
the Seafarer in an hour or so.
Jack thought about going to the bar. They did have good chowder. He laughed. He was hungry but—if he was going to be honest with himself—the real reason he wanted to go to the Seafarer was to see Kathy.
Jack hesitated. This was not a good idea. She was a key witness in his case. Still . . . He thought some more and decided to go. George Melendez had given him a gun the police had confiscated from a drug dealer. He could tell Kathy that he wanted to walk her home in case Gary Kilbride made a move. She would probably see right through him. If she turned him down that would be that. But he hoped she wouldn’t.
The Seafarer was noisy and crowded. Kathy was busy with a customer. Jack walked behind him and into her line of sight. Kathy broke into a wide smile, a good sign.
“I’ve got something to tell you.” She sounded excited. Then she pointed to an empty stool at one end of the bar. “I’ll come over as soon as I can.”
Jack took the stool and watched Kathy mix drinks. He was impressed by the smooth way she poured from an array of bottles with hand movements that made him think of a Balinese dancer. After a few minutes, Kathy was able to break away. A manila envelope lay next to the cash register. She grabbed it and walked over to Jack.
“So what’s the big news?” he asked.
“You’ll never believe it.”
Kathy opened the envelope and pulled out the photograph she’d taken of Megan Cahill standing with the revolver on the edge of the sea. Jack was stunned.
“That’s amazing,” he managed.
“Teddy asked me to develop it. He said he needed it for evidence. So I made a bunch of prints. I gave one to Teddy and I came to work with the rest.”
She paused, too excited to continue, and grinned.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Jack said.
“The picture is going to be on the front page of The Oregonian!”
“How did that happen?”
“They sent a reporter to cover the murder and he heard that I was a witness. So he came here and interviewed me and I told him about the photograph and he saw it and he asked for a print to show his editor.”
“Wow, that is great,” Jack said with real enthusiasm. “The front page, huh?”
“The reporter called me from Portland. He said the editor flipped over the photo.”
“I’m really happy for you,” Jack said. “When is the picture going to be in the paper?”
“Tomorrow. I can hardly wait.”
“I’ll have to buy a few copies.”
“Not a chance,” Kathy said. “I’m buying up every single one.”
“Now that you’re famous, I hope you’re not going to quit work, because I’m starving.”
Kathy laughed. “What can I get you?”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about the chowder.”
“I’ll get you a bowl and a beer to go with it, on me.”
“You don’t have to treat me.”
“Hey, I just got paid a hundred and fifty bucks for that photo. The price of a bowl of chowder and a mug of beer are chump change for someone in my tax bracket.”
Jack laughed. Kathy cocked her head and studied him. “Did you only come here for the chowder?”
“Actually, no. You must be near the end of your shift and I didn’t want you walking home alone.”
Kathy sobered and covered the back of Jack’s hand with hers.
“That’s really nice of you,” she said. “I’m off in an hour. Chief Melendez has a man escorting me home, but with Kilbride out there I’ll feel a lot safer with two men watching my back.”
The night sky was blanketed by clouds. That was not a problem on Ocean Avenue where there were plenty of streetlights, but the lights were few and far between when they walked into the low-rent part of town. As the streets grew darker, Kathy moved closer to Jack until they were walking shoulder to shoulder.
“Worrying about Gary is making me sick,” Kathy confided. “I’m having trouble sleeping and I’m jumping at every creak and rattle when I’m alone at home.”
The idea of offering to stay with her flashed through Jack’s mind but he shook it off.
“I don’t blame you,” he said, “but Kilbride would have to be crazy to try anything with everyone on alert.”
She turned her head and looked him in the eye. “He is crazy, Jack. That’s why I’m scared.”
“Good point, but he’s also someone who won’t make a move if it would put him in danger.”
“What about next month or next year?” She shivered. “I hate having to live like this.”
Jack fought the urge to put his arm around Kathy’s shoulder and pull her to him but he exercised self-restraint. A patrol car was following them, driven by a police officer who could see everything they did.
“I don’t know what to say. I never thought about something like this happening when I asked you to help us get Kilbride. I was certain he’d be locked away for a long time.”
“It’s not your fault. I got myself into this mess and you did what any prosecutor would have done—use a junkie to get to her supplier. I just wish I’d been smarter.”
Jack couldn’t think of anything to say to that so he said nothing and they walked along in silence for a while.
“Are you making any progress with Raymond Cahill’s murder?” Kathy asked.
“Not really. Mrs. Cahill can’t remember what happened between getting in her car at the wedding reception and you finding her on the beach.”
“Is she going to remember?”
“The doctors say she will eventually, but they don’t know when her memory will return.”
“So you have no suspects?”
In his mind, Megan Cahill was suspect number one but he said, “Not right now.”
They were a block from Kathy’s house when Jack stopped and put his hand on his gun. Kathy felt him tense.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed.
“I thought I saw someone in the shadows by that telephone pole.”
Kathy peered into the darkness. “I don’t see anyone.”
“It must have been my imagination,” he said after a few seconds.
“Now you see what I’ve been going through.”
Jack didn’t relax until they arrived at Kathy’s front door. The patrol car parked and the officer went into the house to check each room.
“I appreciate this a lot, Jack,” Kathy said while they waited outside for the officer. “I know you didn’t have to walk me home.”
Jack reached out and took Kathy’s hand. He squeezed it lightly and smiled. “I can’t let anything happen to my key witness, can I? Especially now that you’re going to be famous.”
Before Kathy could answer, the officer came out. “All clear in there, Miss Moran. Lock all your doors after I leave. I’ll be swinging by several times tonight.”
“Thanks, Henry. Next time you’re at the Seafarer, there’ll be a free beer for you.”
The officer laughed. “I’ll take you up on that. Just don’t tell the chief.” He turned to Jack. “Can I give you a ride back to your car?”
“Thanks,” Jack said. Then he turned to Kathy. “Sleep tight. I think you’ll be okay.”
Kathy went inside. Jack and the officer waited until they heard the lock on the front door snap into place before they walked to the patrol car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The headquarters of the Healthy Hearts Fitness Centers was on the top floor of one of their gyms in a suburb of San Francisco. Oscar Llewellyn walked through the entrance and into a sea of spandex, bare midriffs, and bulging biceps. The receptionist, who had perfect, pearly white teeth and a body to die for, directed the investigator to an elevator at the end of a hallway. On the way to the elevator, Oscar walked by glass partitions behind which men and women sweated on stationary bikes and elliptical machines or pumped iron.
The elevator went to the third floor and opened into a stereotypical corporate office where not a bead of perspiration or a
hint of skin could be seen. An attractive redhead dressed in a severe business suit greeted Oscar when he walked out of the elevator.
“I’m Sandra DiPaola, Mr. Tuttle’s administrative assistant. I’ll take you back.”
DiPaola led Oscar to a spacious corner office by following a narrow carpeted path that was bounded on both sides by cubicles where Healthy Hearts employees toiled. The outer walls of Armand Tuttle’s office were all glass and looked out on the mall in which the gym was located. The decor of the rest of the office was silver and black, the colors of the Oakland Raiders, and the office was a shrine to Tuttle’s favorite team, with every square inch taken up by Raiders paraphernalia and memorabilia.
Seated behind an aircraft carrier–size desk was an oversize male who looked like he walked the walk when it came to the products he was promoting. When Tuttle stood, it looked like a chiseled granite mountain rising.
Oscar had run a background check on Tuttle. He had been born and raised in Oakland and had been a fanatic Raiders fan since he was old enough to understand football. Tuttle had played on the offensive line at USC and was good enough to be drafted by the Raiders. A catastrophic knee injury had ended Tuttle’s pro career halfway through his second year but it had not dimmed his ardor for the team.
Tuttle had married Marie Stewart, a Raiders cheerleader. When his days as a player ended, he opened a gym in Oakland. Marie, who had studied nutrition, convinced him to sell health food products at the gym, and her idea had spawned the Healthy Hearts empire.
“Come on in and have a seat,” Tuttle said, gesturing to a comfortable chair on the other side of his desk.
“On the phone, you said you’re looking into Ray Cahill’s murder,” Tuttle said when Oscar was seated. “I hope you’re also looking into that crook’s Ponzi scheme.”
“You don’t seem too upset about Mr. Cahill’s death.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Me and Ray were friends right up until I found out he was stealing from me. After my accountant told me what was going on I didn’t want anything to do with him, but that doesn’t mean I wanted someone to kill him on his wedding night.” Tuttle shook his massive head. “That’s cold.”
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