Quite understandable. “They could get the landlord to evict him.”
“He owns the building.”
Sounds like he’s successful at all of his various professions.
Pete asks, “Do you want me to talk to him?”
“Absolutely.”
“Now?”
The fading digital clock on my dash says it’s three-fourteen A.M. “He’ll be more cooperative in the morning,” I say. “Besides, you don’t want to wake up Fluffy.”
“She won’t be up anytime soon.”
# # #
“What are you doing here at this hour?” Rosie asks me.
“I saw the lights and I figured you might be up.”
“You figured right.”
She’s sitting on her sofa at three-forty on Thursday morning. The furniture is pushed against the walls and the room is dominated by a hand-me-down playpen. The rain has stopped and the crickets are chirping in her small front yard. Grace is asleep in her room, which she graciously shares with her grandmother when Sylvia is staying on this side of the Bay. Tommy’s eyes are wide open as he clings tightly to his mother’s shoulders.
I hold up my hands and say, “Hand him over.”
Rosie kisses his forehead and sends him down to my end of the couch. Tommy cries when he’s hungry or wet, but that’s reasonably infrequent. He’s more of a worrier than a screamer. He gets it from me. If you walk by his crib in the middle of the night, you’re likely to find him staring up at the ceiling with a troubled expression on his face.
“Come on, partner,” I say to him. “Daddy had a busy day. I’ll tell you all about it.” I go to my confessional voice and give him a full report. He dozes off as I’m describing my meeting with Shanahan and he’s sleeping soundly by the time I get to my visit with Lopez. “I’ll fill you in on the details tomorrow,” I whisper to our sleeping son.
Rosie is still wide awake. “Are you going to get your car fixed tomorrow?” she asks.
“I hope so.”
“Do you think your smashed window was something other than a random act?”
“I don’t know.” There was no sign of the phantom Impala. “I stopped at Mission Station and filed a report with the police, but there isn’t a chance they’ll find the perp.”
She sighs. “We had a little excitement over here, too,” she says.
Uh-oh.
“My kitchen window was broken when I got home.”
Hell. “Do you think it was something other than a random act?”
“Hard to tell. Nothing was stolen and nobody came inside the house. The cops said they’ve been having some problems with vandalism by some high school kids.”
I look directly into her eyes and say, “Are you going to be all right with this?”
“It may be completely unrelated to Ramon’s case.”
“Or it may not.”
“There’s something else,” she says. Her neighbors reported seeing a man sitting in a black Chrysler parked across the street. “He was there until about eleven o’clock. He was gone by the time I got home.”
“Did they call the cops?” I ask.
“No. He wasn’t doing anything illegal.”
“Maybe he smashed your window,” I say.
“Maybe, but Jack and Melanie didn’t hear anything.”
“Did they get a license number?”
“There was no plate.” She says the police did a thorough search of the neighborhood, but the car was long gone. She takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t know if any of this has anything to do with Ramon’s case, but we need to be careful.”
“We don’t have to look for trouble,” I tell her. “I don’t like the idea of somebody watching the house.”
“I don’t like it either, but I’m not going to be intimidated. The cops promised to drive by every half hour tonight. My mother is going to stay here with Grace and Tommy tomorrow and I’m going to talk to the principal at school. It seems pretty unlikely that the broken windows in your car and my kitchen could somehow be related, but I’m not inclined to take any chances.”
We sit in silence for a long moment. It’s something of a relief to turn back to a the more mundane matter of representing an accused murderer. “Did Lopez break up with Concepcion?” she asks.
“He wouldn’t say either way, and he claimed he didn’t talk to her on the night she died.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know. A lot of people call the restaurant and I’d love to know how the burrito got to her apartment that night.”
She reacts with exasperation when I tell her about my reconnaissance mission with Pete. “I thought we agreed you were going to leave the cops-and-robbers stuff to the professionals.”
“Pete wanted some company.”
“I need you to stay alive until Tommy finishes college. If Pete needs some muscle, Terrence should help him.” I get another suitably incredulous look when I tell her about our conversation with Anna Moreno. “You’re planning to use the testimony of a hooker?” she says.
“It’s all that we have so far.”
The corner of her mouth turns up slightly at my description of Fuentes and his pet Doberman. “So,” she says, “if somebody attacks Fuentes, he gives the command, ‘Kill Fluffy Kill!’”
“Something like that.” I leave out any mention of Pete’s decision to raid Fuentes’s garage and sedate his dog.
“Do you plan to call him as a witness?”
“If he provides any useful information.”
“So, our only witnesses are a hooker and a pimp?”
“More or less.”
“I trust Pete is going to keep looking.”
“Yes, he is.”
We listen to Tommy’s rhythmic breathing and she says, “There is a little good news. My mother spoke to Concepcion’s mother. She’s willing to talk to us.”
Sylvia does it again. “Your mother is a gem.”
“So is Maria’s.”
She looks at Tommy and says, “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Can you keep an eye on him if he wakes up? My mother will be up soon to relieve you.”
“Of course.” Sylvia is usually watching CNN by four-thirty every morning.
I put a hand on Rosie’s cheek and say, “I’ll try to persuade her to sleep in until five.”
“She won’t.”
“I know.” I lower my voice and ask her if she wants me to stay.
“It’s okay, Mike.” She glances at the baseball bat strategically positioned by the front door and says, “The Fernandez women can take care of themselves.”
Yes, they can.
Rosie gives me a thoughtful look through tired eyes. “Did I ever tell you that except for all of your well-documented flaws, you’re fundamentally a good man, Michael Daley?”
“You’ve mentioned it from time to time.”
She winks and adds, “You shouldn’t put too much credibility in anything I say in my sleep-deprived stupor. I’ll make it up to you after Tommy starts sleeping through the night.”
“Will that include sexual favors?”
She reaches over and kisses Tommy’s forehead, then she takes my hand and squeezes it. “Possibly,” she says.
# # #
Sylvia wakes up for the third and final time at five-fifteen and refuses to go back to sleep, so I make the three-block journey to the fifties-era apartment building just behind the Larkspur fire station where I’ve lived since Rosie and I got divorced. My place would be serviceable for a starving college student or a young couple, but it’s tight for a grown-up. My sofa is from IKEA and my bookcases are made of bricks and boards. The Sony TV was a wedding present and the appliances date back to the Eisenhower administration.
I flip on the lights and look around the cramped surroundings. I’m not a great housekeeper and my home will never be featured in a Martha Stewart magazine. I’m relieved to find no broken windows or other damage. My head is throbbing and my throat is scratchy. I pull the last Diet Dr Pep
per in the venerable frig and punch the flashing button on my answering machine, where the cheerful computer-generated voice informs me that I have one message. There is a pronounced smoker’s hack before I recognize the unmistakable voice of Jerry Edwards, the Chronicle’s ace investigative reporter and a regular contributor to the morning news on Channel 2. He’s an unbearably antagonistic man, but he’s also a superb muckraker when he’s sober. “Mr. Daley,” he rasps, “I’m sorry to bother you at home.”
Right.
“We’ve discovered some very disturbing information about your client,” he says, “and I need to speak with you about it right away.”
As if I don’t have enough on my mind. I glance out the window and my heart starts to beat faster when I see the tail lights of a Chevy Impala speeding around the corner and into the night.
Chapter 22
“Father Aguirre Provided More Than Counseling”
“Father Aguirre has an outstanding record of community service.”
— John Shanahan. San Francisco Chronicle. Thursday, December 11.
I’m jolted awake from a brief and uneasy sleep by my ringing phone, and there is tension in Rosie’s voice when she says, “Put on Mornings on Two.”
I fumble the remote and click to Channel 2, where the graphic in the lower right corner indicates it’s seven-twenty A.M. and the temperature is forty-four degrees. I recognize the gravelly voice from the answering machine and look straight into the bloodshot eyes and pit bull face of Jerry Edwards. It takes just an instant to figure out why he wanted to talk to me. “In a late-breaking development,” he croaks, “our sources have informed us that Father Ramon Aguirre was involved in a sexual relationship with Maria Concepcion.”
Rosie is unimpressed. “It was twenty years ago,” she says.
Edwards is still going. “It has been reported that Father Aguirre had a romantic relationship with the victim twenty years ago. Sources tell us that he was also providing counseling to Ms. Concepcion after she recently terminated a relationship with noted restauranteur Eduardo Lopez, who declined to comment.” Edwards leers into the camera and adds, “It also seems Father Aguirre provided more than counseling to Ms. Concepcion. In fact, they were romantically involved immediately prior to her death.”
“That’s bullshit,” Rosie snaps.
I turn up the volume. “Father Aguirre hasn’t returned our calls,” Edwards says, “and neither have his attorneys at the firm of Fernandez and Daley. We believe this represents a tacit admission of the veracity of our reports.”
“The hell it does,” I say. “He left a message on my machine at eleven-thirty last night.”
“He’s trying to bait us,” Rosie says.
He’s succeeding.
# # #
My phone rings again and Ramon’s voice is shaking when he says, “Did you see Jerry Edwards?”
“Yes.” I tell him that we’re going to set the record straight at a press conference later this morning.
“I want to be there,” he says.
“That’s a very bad idea.” The chance he’ll say something that could come back to bite us is too great. “As your lawyer, I’m recommending against it.”
“As your client, I’m telling you it’s my reputation at stake.”
“Let us handle the legal strategy.”
“What does that leave for me?”
Prayer. “You have to stay calm and trust us.”
# # #
The parade continues when Pete calls a few minutes later. “Where are you?” I ask.
“Outside the body shop where Fuentes works.”
“Car repair or other activities?”
He isn’t amused. “Car repair, Mick. I tried to talk to Fuentes, but he’s no dummy and he referred me to his lawyer.”
Dammit.
“Do you want me to rough him up a bit?” he asks.
Not a good idea. “No. We’ll pay him a visit at home tonight. He may be more receptive away from his job–especially if we bring along a subpoena.”
“What about Fluffy?”
“We won’t need a subpoena for her.”
I don’t get the chuckle I was hoping for. “What do you want me to do in the meantime?” he asks.
“I need you to find Jane Doe.”
# # #
I glance at my rearview mirror and I’m relieved to see a black Explorer two cars behind me. My brother has kept his word, but I’m still uneasy–even with his friend Vince riding shotgun. I called the Larkspur police to report the Impala outside my apartment early this morning, but they weren’t able to locate it. I live a block from the police station and they’ve promised to keep a close eye on my place.
I answer my cell phone as I’m driving down Van Ness Avenue toward the office. “Mr. Daley,” the scratchy voice says, “Jerry Edwards, Mornings on Two.”
Asshole. “Nice to hear from you, Jerry.”
“Thank you. What can I do for you?”
Like every good reporter, he’s being engaging to see if I’ll let my guard down, but I know better. He’s taken his share of potshots at Rosie and me over the years and we have long memories. I keep my tone professional when I tell him that I was returning his call.
“Did you see today’s paper?” he asks.
“Yes, I did. I also saw you on TV this morning.”
“I was trying to reach you last night to see if your client might be available for an interview.”
“He isn’t.”
“Give me a break, Mr. Daley. When I couldn’t get you by phone last night, I drove all the way to your partner’s house to see if I could find you, but nobody was home.”
What? “How late did you stay?”
“Until eleven.”
“You just missed her.”
“I couldn’t stay there all night. I have deadlines, Mr. Daley.”
I ask him what kind of car he drives.
“What difference does it make?”
“There was a suspicious black Chrysler parked in front of my partner’s house last night.”
“It wasn’t suspicious. It was me.”
My relief is tempered by the fact that it still doesn’t account for the Impala. “I trust you’re aware that stalking is illegal.”
“I wasn’t stalking anybody. In my line of work, we call it investigative reporting.”
Right. “Do you always drive a car with no license plates?”
“I took it out of the Chronicle motor pool last night,” he says. “I didn’t check it carefully.”
“Do you know anybody who drives a green Impala?”
“No. Is somebody following you?”
“I don’t know.”
“It wasn’t me. Now that I’ve confessed that I was parked in front of your ex-wife’s house, I think you should reconsider your decision not to let me interview your client.”
“Forget it.” I tell him that we’re going to hold a press conference later this morning. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“I will. How about a consolation prize? If your client won’t appear, how about you?”
This may give me a chance to spin the story our way. “Deal.”
“Mr. Daley,” he says, “my sources have reported that Father Aguirre was romantically involved with Ms. Concepcion immediately prior to her death. Would you be kind enough to confirm it for me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Are you denying it?”
“I will confirm that Father Aguirre and Ms. Concepcion dated for a short time twenty years ago.”
“My sources tell me they were engaged in a romantic relationship more recently.”
“Who are your sources?”
“You know I can’t reveal that information.”
Sure you can. I hold out a carrot. “I’ll give you an exclusive interview with my client if you do.”
He’s tempted. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Daley.”
It was a bluff. “Sorry to hear that, Jerry.”
He tries again. “So,”
he says, “did you wish to comment about Father Aguirre’s recent relationship with Ms. Concepcion?”
MD05 - The Confession Page 12