She has a unique perspective on every element of life. It shouldn’t surprise me that she would have an interesting angle on cancer. “Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll worry for you. I got a lot of practice. We spent a whole semester on it at the seminary.”
Her grin broadens. “I thought priests were supposed to get all excited about going to heaven.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m not a priest anymore. Let’s just say I may not have had quite as much enthusiasm about the concept as some of my former colleagues. Just because you’re a priest doesn’t mean you have to go looking for trouble.”
She turns serious and says, “Do you really think there’s a heaven, Mike?”
I pause to think about it. Then I say, “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“A lot of people are going to be very disappointed after they die. I’ll be one of them.”
She isn’t letting it go. “What’s the first thing you want to do when you get there?”
“I’d like to spend some time with my dad. There were a few things we didn’t get around to talking about.”
“What sorts of things?”
“I’d like to thank him for trying so hard. We had our ups and downs, but as I get older, I realize he gave it everything he had.” I think for a moment and add, “And I want to yell at him because he didn’t take better care of himself and he never quit smoking.”
“Anybody else?”
“I’d like to let my mom know that Grace is doing okay. She worried. I’d like to spend some time with my older brother. It would have been nice to have seen what he would have done with his life.”
“He must have been special,” Rosie says.
“He was.” I can still picture Tommy in his football uniform at Cal. I’ll never forget the way he pitched the ball into the stands when he scored the winning touchdown in his last Big Game against Stanford. He was gone a year later. He could have played in the NFL. “You would have liked him. He was good looking, athletic and very funny.”
“Was he better looking than you?”
“Maybe a little.”
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. He was only a year older.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. Then Rosie asks, “Did you talk to Leslie?”
“Not yet. She hasn’t returned my call.”
“Why is she waiting?”
“She’s probably considering her options.”
“No doubt.”
I look at my watch. Eight o’clock. “Gotta run,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
“To interview a witness.”
“Who?”
I point through the windows down to First Street. Rosie gives me a confused look. “They sent a limo to pick you up?”
“I wish. The witness drives the limo.”
“You’re going to interview him in the limo?”
“It’s a her. And why not? I asked her if she would show me where she took Petrillo and Ellis. Besides, she promised to stock the bar.”
“She agreed to do this for free?”
“No, I had to rent the limo.”
“How much?”
“Ninety bucks an hour. I figured she might be more willing to talk if I paid her.”
“You’re a marvel.”
I wink and ask, “Want to come along for the ride?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Rosie. There’s no charge for an extra passenger. When was the last time you were in a limo?”
“When we got married.”
“Well, it’s time to do it again. It’s in the line of duty. Grace is staying with Melanie and Jack. Besides, I’ll bet there’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge. Let’s go down and toast the glorious day we’ve had today.”
Her smile broadens. “Why the hell not?”
*****
Chapter 28
“ALLURE1”
“A Touch of Luxury. A Reflection of Good Taste.”
— Promotional brochure for Allure Limousine Service.
The limo driver points toward Big Dick’s house and says, “That’s where I picked up Mr. Petrillo and Mr. Ellis.”
Rosie and I are sitting in the back of a black Lincoln with livery license ALLURE1. The sun is setting. The gates are locked and the house is dark.
“What time did you pick them up?” I ask.
Her name is Bridget. She’s a wiry woman who speaks with the hint of a lilting Irish brogue. She told us her parents started the limo service about ten years ago. She and her brother run the operations now. She turns around and says, “It was about one-forty-five.”
This jibes with Petrillo’s time line. “Did you take them straight to the Ritz?”
“No.”
Rosie’s eyes get bigger. She asks, “Where did you go?”
“First we went to the Golden Gate Bridge.”
Really. “Why?”
“It was on the way and Mr. Ellis wanted to see it. First I took them down to Fort Point. Then I took them to the lot by the toll plaza.
“Would you mind showing us how you got there?”
“Sure.” She starts the car and drives down North Twenty-fifth. She turns left onto Lincoln Boulevard and it takes us only a couple of minutes to drive up the winding hill through the Presidio. We head past the entrance to Baker Beach and Battery Chamberlin. Then we go by the administration building and swing under Doyle Drive. She follows the narrow access road down to Fort Point and stops near the spot where Marty Kent’s body was found Saturday morning.
I ask, “Did Mr. Ellis or Mr. Petrillo get out and walk around down here?”
“No. They just took a look from the car.”
“Where did you go from here?”
“Up to the parking lot at the bridge.”
We retrace our route back up the hill. She turns onto Lincoln Boulevard and then makes a quick right into the parking lot. It’s dark now and the fog is rolling in. She pulls in next to the spot where Angel was found on Saturday morning. “Where did you park?” I ask.
She turns off the ignition and gestures toward the snack shop. “Over there,” she says.
“Was anybody else around?”
“A couple of cars. It was late.”
I ask if either Ellis or Petrillo got out of the car.
“Both. They took a walk.” She points toward the south tower. “They went past the souvenir shop. Then they came back. The gate to the pedestrian walkway was locked. They couldn’t get out onto the deck.” She says they were at the bridge for only about five minutes.
“And then you took them both back to the Ritz?”
“Yes.” She confirms they both got out of the car there.
“And as far as you know, did they both stay at the hotel the rest of the night?”
The young woman tugs at the black bow tie that hangs loosely around her neck. “Mr. Petrillo went upstairs,” she says. “Mr. Ellis stayed in the lobby.”
“How do you know?”
“I went inside to use the bathroom. I know the doorman. It was late and he lets me leave the car in the driveway.”
“And?”
“I saw Mr. Ellis as I was leaving. He asked me if I had time to take him somewhere. I told him I had to pick up a client at the airport and I was already running late. I offered to call another one of our drivers, but he said he’d take a cab.”
“Do you know where he wanted to go?”
“Back to Mr. MacArthur’s house.”
What? “Did he say why?”
“No.”
Seems decidedly odd. “Did he make it back to Mr. MacArthur’s house?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know the name of the doorman who was working Friday night?”
“Graham Morrow.”
I ask if he’s working tonight.
“I think so.”
“Maybe you could take
us over to the hotel so we can have a word with him.”
# # #
Morrow is a blond Adonis with wide shoulders that look as if they could support the Golden Gate Bridge. He studies Ellis’s photo and says in a congenial Australian accent, “Sorry, mate. I’m not allowed to talk about our guests. Company policy.”
I try to keep my tone patient. “We’re not asking you to reveal any secrets. We just want to know whether he left the hotel after Bridget dropped him off on Saturday morning.”
He holds up his gloved hands. “I can’t help you, mate. Company policy.”
“Let me talk to the manager.”
He returns a few minutes later with an officious young woman who looks like she got her MBA about three weeks ago. She reminds me of Sister Karen Marie Franks, my third grade teacher at St. Peter’s. Her name tag says Sally Todd. “I’m sorry,” she tells us. “We don’t discuss our guests unless we have permission to do so. Company policy.”
We have a company policy at Fernandez and Daley. If you won’t talk to us when we ask nicely, we come back with a subpoena. I try sugar. “Ms. Todd,” I say, “we simply want some information from Mr. Morrow. We really don’t want to come back with a subpoena.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Daley. I have no choice.”
I give her a melodramatic sigh. “Have it your way.” I flip my cell phone open and punch in the number for the office. When Carolyn answers, I say, “Could you put together two subpoenas for me, please? And could you run the standard background checks on a Sally Todd and a Graham Morrow?”
I get the response that I expect. “What the hell are you talking about, Mike?”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. I turn to Graham and Sally and say, “May I have your exact legal names please?”
The manager turns white. The Aussie gives her a panicked look. “Look, mate—”
I stop him. Then I catch the hint of a grin on Rosie’s face. She decides to get into the act. She lays it on thicker when she tells them, “We’ll need your social security numbers, too.”
Sally Todd freezes. If she tries to explain this to her corporate superiors, she’ll be working nights for twenty years. She asks, “What do you need to know, Mr. Daley?”
It’s nice to know you can still get away with a bald-faced bluff every once in awhile. “We’d like to know whether Mr. Ellis left the hotel after he was dropped off a few minutes after one o’clock on Saturday morning.”
The manager looks at Morrow and says, “Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Tell Mr. Daley what you know.”
I hold the phone back up to my ear and say, “Carolyn, I don’t think we’ll need those subpoenas after all.”
“You’re completely full of shit,” she says.
“Yes I am.” I snap the phone shut. Rosie’s eyes are gleaming. I turn back to my new buddy and say, “Did Ellis leave the building?”
Young Crocodile Dundee squints in to the evening air. The congenial tone returns when he says, “Yeah, mate.”
I ask, “Do you know where he went?”
He scratches his chin and decides, “No, mate.”
“Do you happen to recall the cab company that picked him up?”
“Same one we always use. Veterans.”
Now for a shot in the dark. “Do you know the name of the cab driver?”
“I know every cab driver in town. It was Joe Lynch.”
Another lead. “And were you here when he got back?”
“Yes. It was a few minutes after three.”
“Did he return in the same cab?”
He hesitates for just an instant. “No. He wasn’t in a cab.”
Really? “How did he get here?”
“Somebody gave him a ride in one of those fancy SUVs, mate.”
“What make?”
“I think it was a Lexus.”
I ask him if he remembered who was driving.
“I’m not sure, mate.”
I’m going to throttle him if he says the word mateone more time. “Do you recall if it was a man or a woman?”
“A woman.”
“What did she look like?”
“Young. Pretty. Long dark hair. Kind of exotic looking.”
I steal a glance at Rosie. Her eyes catch mine. She mouths the name, “Eve.”
I look at Graham Morrow and say, “Thanks, mate.”
*****
Chapter 29
Joe Lynch
“Driving a cab is just a temporary gig.”
— Veterans Cab driver Joe Lynch.
Rosie and I are standing in the lobby of the Ritz a few minutes later. I take out my cell and call four-one-one to get the number of Veterans Cab. Then I punch in the number and wait. A guttural voice answers, “Veterans. Please hold.”
Rosie gives me an inquisitive look. I tell her, “The guy who answers the phone sounds just like Louie from Taxi.” She smiles.
The voice returns a moment later. “Veterans.”
I ask, “Is Joe Lynch driving tonight?”
I hear him clear his throat. Then he shouts to somebody, “Did Lynch check in?”
“Yeah.”
He says to me, “He’s driving. You want him?”
“Yes please. The Ritz.”
“Name?”
“Mike.”
“Five minutes.”
# # #
Unlike his dispatcher, Joe Lynch speaks in a lush baritone with an eloquent British accent. “I drive the cab to pay the bills,” he says. “I’m studying to do radio voice over work.”
Rosie and I are in the back seat of Veterans cab 714. We’re heading up Pine Street for our second trip to Sea Cliff in the last hour. I miss Bridget’s limo. Listening to Lynch’s lyrical inflections is a small consolation for the tired shocks and the bumpy ride. He’s a talker. It doesn’t take much to get him started.
“How long have you been driving?” I ask.
We’re doing almost fifty in a thirty zone and he turns around to look at me through dark brown eyes. His closely cropped gray hair and trim mustache contrast with his ebony skin. “Sixteen years,” he says. Thankfully, he turns back to look at the road just before we barrel into a double-parked delivery truck.
He reminds me of people in New York and L.A. who describe themselves as actors or actresses, even though they’ve been working for the phone company temporarily for twenty years. “Where are you from, Joe?”
“The British Virgin Islands.”
That explains the accent. “You have a very distinctive voice.”
“We were poor, but my mother insisted that we learn to speak properly.” Without prompting, he tells us with enormous pride that his daughter is in medical school at USC.
We’re heading west on Geary through the Richmond District when I try to ease him into a discussion of business. “Do you recall what time you picked up Mr. Ellis at the Ritz?”
“Around two.”
“Where did you take him?”
“A house in Sea Cliff. I’ll show you.” He turns right onto Twenty-fifth Avenue and heads north for a few blocks. Then he takes a left onto El Camino del Mar, just before Twenty-fifth Avenue turns into the North Twenty-fifth Avenue cul-de-sac.
Rosie asks, “Wasn’t the house on North Twenty-fifth?”
“No. It was on El Camino del Mar.” He drives west for a couple of blocks and stops in front of Little Richard’s house. “That’s it,” he says.
Rosie and I exchange glances. What the hell was Ellis doing here? I ask, “What time did you get here?”
“A quarter after two.”
“Was anybody still awake?”
He pulls into a no parking zone across the street and turns off the ignition. “The lights were on. He didn’t ask me to wait for him.”
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