He leans back in this chair and sighs. “My lawyers told me not to talk to anyone.”
“Just a few questions. It would help Angelina.”
This gets a grimace. “I’ve already told my story to the police. My people have told me not to talk to anybody else.”
I wish I had people. “I’m not looking to get you or anybody else in trouble. I’m just trying to figure out who was there and what time everybody left.” Of course, if you want to give me a detailed blow-by-blow of everything that happened, I’d be more than happy to listen.
He considers for a moment and says, “Cheryl and I left a few minutes before two.”
It’s a start. “Did you drive straight home?”
“Yes.”
“Who was still there when you left?”
He looks up toward the counter and thinks for a moment. “Dick MacArthur, his son and Marty Kent.” He nods to reassure himself that he hasn’t left anybody out.
“What about Angelina?”
“She was there, too. She went upstairs early.”
“And Dom Petrillo and Carl Ellis?”
He waves his hands and says, “They left a few minutes before we did.”
He’s starting to warm up again. “How was the movie?” I ask.
He gives me the golden smile. “Terrific. It turned out better than I thought. Dick MacArthur was a great director.”
“And everybody liked it?” I ask.
“Oh yes. Dom Petrillo said he thought the movie would do at least a hundred million in domestic box office.” He winks at me and says, “I think it will do better than that.”
Petrillo’s impression of the film was decidedly more reserved when he talked to me. I guess everybody hears what he wants to hear. “The early buzz has been very hot,” I lie.
His eyes light up. “They might even increase the advertising budget,” he says.
I search for an innocent tone. “Danny,” I say, “is there a chance Dick’s death will delay the release?”
“No. Everything’s in motion. They can’t stop it now.” He glances down at the paper.
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary on Friday night? Was anybody acting funny? Was anybody upset?”
He doesn’t look up as he says, “Nope.”
“Was Angelina okay?”
“Yeah.” His eyes are still down. He’s trying to disengage.
“She wasn’t stressed out or upset?
Finally, he looks at me and says, “She was a little stressed out, but she wasn’t upset.”
“Between you and me, the police said she may have had a little too much to drink.”
“That’s possible.”
“And she may have taken some coke.”
He hesitates for an instant. “I don’t know anything about that.”
The hell you don’t. On the other hand, I’ll lose him if I push too hard. I ask him how Little Richard and Kent were feeling on Friday night.
“They had a great time.” He looks over my shoulder and waves.
I glance outside and see Cheryl Springer walking forcefully toward the restaurant. He motions her toward us. There is a pronounced grimace on her face. He starts to introduce me as she approaches our table. She interrupts him mid-sentence. She says to him in a tone that leaves no doubt, “Daniel, I need to talk to you right away.”
The last vestiges of warmth in Crown’s eyes disappear. “This is Mike,” he tells her. “His daughter knows Jason. We were just having coffee.”
She gives me a firm, but perfunctory handshake. Her jaw tightens. My guess is that she’s a little older than Crown, although it is sometimes difficult to judge the age of someone who has had her hair, eyes, nose and breasts redone. “Cheryl Springer,” she says through clenched teeth. “You’ll have to excuse us. I need to talk to my husband.”
“Sure thing.” I don’t move.
Her scowl becomes more pronounced. Her voice dips a half-octave when she adds, “Alone.” She takes off her oversized orange sunglasses and says, “Right now.”
“Actually,” I say, “I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes, too.”
She shakes her mane of painfully-bleached, frizzy hair. A look of recognition crosses her face. She points a finger at me and says, “You’re Angelina’s attorney.”
It will serve no useful purpose to try to deny it. “Yes.”
Her grimace changes into an expression that is somewhere between anger and panic. She glares at her husband and snaps, “What were you talking about?”
“I was just telling Mike a little bit about what I saw the other night.”
Her voice takes on a tone that might be used by a grammar school principal speaking to an ill-behaved second grader. “Daniel,” she says, “you’ve already talked to the police. You aren’t supposed to talk to anybody else.”
He pleads his case. “I was trying to help Angelina.”
“She’s an adult. She can take care of herself. That’s why she’s hired Mr. Daley.”
I come to my new pal’s defense. “Danny was trying to help us find out what happened,” I say. “We want to know the truth about Dick’s death.” I pause for a beat and add, “And we were discussing the release of The Return of the Master.”
Her eyes bore in on mine. “What about it?”
“I was just asking Danny whether the movie will be released on time.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “Of course it will be released on time.” She looks at her husband and says, “You didn’t suggest to him that there might be a delay, did you?”
He looks like he’s going to curl up into a ball. His voice is barely a whisper when he says, “No.”
I don’t want her to stop. I ask, “Are you happy with the way the movie turned out?”
“Of course.”
“And so was everybody else?”
“Yes.”
“And Dom Petrillo and Richard MacArthur are prepared to proceed?”
“Absolutely.”
“When was the last time you talked to Richard about it?” I ask.
She gives me a circumspect look. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. He told me he thought Angelina’s situation might be bad publicity.”
“There is no question about the release, Mr. Daley. I talked to him last night.”
This explains their meeting. I ask, “Was anybody acting unusually on Friday night?”
“No. It was a nice party.”
“And you left around two?”
“Yes. We came straight home.” She sighs. “Mr. Daley, Danny and I have already given our stories to the police. We don’t have time to repeat them to you. We have to be downtown.”
“Where can I reach you?” I ask.
She hands me a card with a post office box and a phone number. “Call this number,” she tells me. “We’ll get back to you.” With that, she points to the parking lot and practically lifts her husband off his chair.
# # #
“Did Crown show up at Willie’s?” Rosie asks me. She’s at Tony’s market. We seem to conduct about ninety percent of our communications via cell phone these days.
“You bet.” I’m fighting traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge as I’m heading for the city. “He seems like a nice enough guy.”
“Is he as gorgeous in person as he is in his movies?”
Why burst her bubble? “He’s even better looking in person. I didn’t ask him if he wanted to meet you. I thought that might have been a little presumptuous in our first meeting.”
“I’ll come with you next time.”
“I got a bonus. I met his wife.”
“What’s she like?”
“A holy terror.”
“Did they tell you anything that might be helpful?”
“No. They stayed with the party line. Everybody loved the movie. Everybody had a great time. They’re going to proceed with the release on schedule.”
“Do you think they were telling the truth?”
“
I doubt it. Something is going on. His wife was pissed off at him for talking to me. She practically pulled him out of the restaurant. I don’t know what it means.” I ask about the fire at the liquor store.
“It looks like arson.”
“Can they tell whether it had anything to do with the studio project?”
“Too soon to tell. We’re going to see Sergeant Alvarez after the arraignment. In the meantime, I’m going down to see Angel. Then I’ve been promised a brief audience with Marty Kent’s son at eleven at Nicole Ward’s office.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
*****
Chapter 22
“My Father Did Not Commit Suicide”
“KENT, Martin H. Died June 5 at age 62. Beloved husband of the late Marilyn, father of Scott and Michelle. A respected film executive and retired Marine. Services will be private. Donations in his memory may be made to the American Cancer Society.”
— San Francisco Chronicle. Monday, June 7.
“I stopped at bridge headquarters and talked to the guard who found Angel,” I tell Rosie. “He saw her while he was making his rounds. He didn’t know how long she’d been there.”
We’re waiting outside Nicole Ward’s office at eleven o’clock. The DA is inside with Marty Kent’s son. I’m dreading the moment the door opens. We’ll have to ask him some sensitive questions. It will be difficult for us, but could be excruciating for him. To her credit, Ward facilitated the process by letting us talk to him. We agreed not to disturb him at home.
Rosie asks, “Did the guard see anyone else?”
“No.” I tell her he confirmed Angel was in the driver’s seat and the ignition was on. “He called the cops. I talked to the head of security and everybody else who was working on the bridge Friday night and Saturday morning. Nobody saw Angel arrive.”
Rosie asks if there are security cameras.
“Yes, but not in the parking lot.” I tell her there are cameras at the toll booths to catch cheaters and on the walkways to look for jumpers. “The guard who was monitoring them on Saturday morning didn’t see anything suspicious. It was foggy and he couldn’t see much. He promised to get us copies of the videotapes.”
She asks about traffic cameras.
“There’s one mounted on the administration building. It shows all six lanes and the walkways at the south end of the bridge.”
“Was it turned on at three o’clock Saturday morning?”
“It’s always on. The TV stations tap into it to broadcast live traffic updates on their websites. They’ve promised the videos from the traffic camera, too.”
The door opens. Ward joins us and closes the door behind her. She whispers, “Keep it short. He has to catch a flight to L.A. to make funeral arrangements.”
Rosie asks, “Did Rod Beckert determine cause of death?”
“Technically, he drowned. It was a suicide. He jumped off the bridge. He probably lost consciousness when he hit the water. He had other trauma-related injuries.”
“Is Rod sure?”
Ward folds her arms. “Rod Beckert has been the chief medical examiner for more than thirty years. There have been over a thousand documented suicides on the bridge. He has the unenviable record of having performed more autopsies on bridge victims than anybody else on the face of the earth. The answer to your question therefore is yes, he’s sure.”
We’ll still want to talk to Beckert about it. “Did anybody see him jump?”
“No.”
“Did any of the security cameras catch him in the act?”
“We’re waiting for the videotapes.”
“Do you have any idea why he did it?”
Ward shrugs. “His wife died about a year ago. He was having financial problems. He was under a lot of pressure. I suspect he was depressed.”
“His son acknowledged all of this?”
Ward closes her eyes and says, “No. He’s still dealing with the shock. He’s in a state of denial. It’s understandable in the circumstances.”
Rosie darts a glance in my direction. Then she turns back toward Ward and says, “We’d like to talk to him now.”
“Fine. Bear in mind his father committed suicide two days ago.”
Rosie says, “We’ll keep it short, Nicole.”
# # #
“Mr. Kent,” Rosie begins, “we’re terribly sorry about your father.”
Scott Kent nods, but doesn’t say anything. Marty Kent’s only son is a younger, taller and less robust version of his father. He’s with one of the big brokerage firms downtown and looks the part. His gray business suit matches his hair. His skin has a pasty pallor. The bags under his eyes suggest he hasn’t gotten much sleep in the last couple of days. Nicole Ward is sitting at her desk with her hands folded.
Rosie starts gently. “Were you and your father close?”
Kent looks down. “Yes we were.”
She leans forward and says, “We understand your mother recently passed away.”
Kent takes a sip of water and says, “It was almost a year ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“It must have been a terrible loss for him.”
“They were married for forty years. She was sick for the last three. Cancer.”
Rosie looks at me. “Mr. Kent,” I say, “did you notice any changes in your father’s behavior after your mother’s death?”
“He was grief-stricken for several months.”
“That’s entirely understandable. I’m sorry if this sounds terribly personal.”
“I want to find out what happened to my father just as much as you do, Mr. Daley.”
He’s showing extraordinary grace. “Did you notice any signs of depression?”
Kent swallows. “No.”
“Did he have counseling? If not from a therapist, perhaps from a clergy person?”
“He went through counseling with our priest. He bounced back, Mr. Daley. His energy was good. He was looking forward to the release of the movie. He was particularly excited about the studio. He and Dick MacArthur had talked about building a facility up here for years.”
“Did you notice any changes in his behavior in the last few months? Stress? Fatigue?”
“He was always under a lot of stress, Mr. Daley. He was involved in the planning for the release of The Return of the Master. He was trying to line up the final approvals for the China Basin project. He had a full plate, but he was very excited about what he was doing.”
I ask him if he noticed any changes in his father’s behavior in the last few weeks.
“None.”
“How was he getting along with Dick MacArthur?”
“They were like brothers. They were two grumpy old men who screamed and yelled and cursed. They were always pissed off at each other about something. Then they’d hug and make up. Most of the time, Dick listened to what my dad said.”
“Did your father get along with Angelina?”
“He dealt with her in a professional manner. Frankly, my father thought it was inappropriate for a man of Dick’s age to marry a woman who was so much younger. He made his view known to Dick, who ignored him.”
“And did he get along with Dick’s son?”
“Let’s just say he recognized young Richard has a talent for producing movies.”
“We’ve heard rumors your father may have been experiencing financial difficulties. It’s been suggested in the papers that he was unhappy about the arrangements for the studio project.”
He becomes indignant. “Not true. He was unhappy about the studio because he thought Dominic Petrillo and Carl Ellis railroaded Dick MacArthur into taking a smaller piece of the deal.”
“He wasn’t trying to get out of it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“And he didn’t want to renegotiate?”
“A deal’s a deal, Mr. Daley.”
I glance at Rosie. “Mr. Kent,” she says, “did Ms. Ward explain that the chief medical examiner has come to a
conclusion about the cause of your father’s death?”
His voice is barely audible when he says, “Yes.”
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