Of course, Turner wasn’t going to go into all of that with Jeff Elliot. It would be enough to explain the costs and benefits to keeping the programs running at all. The major foundation donors all understood the game, and would probably continue to give at pretty much the same levels that they always had. So he wasn’t really too concerned about the COO section of the CityTalk column.
The AmeriCorps side of it, on the other hand, and Elliot’s cavalier parting shot that the nonprofit game was a deadly one, was a cause for immediate and serious concern. First of all, although funding had been cut for only a year, this was federal money that, once withheld, might not ever be reinstated. California politicians had a lot of juice in Washington, Turner knew. California would get its share of the money, and San Francisco would always get a bite of that. But that didn’t mean that Turner’s organizations had to see a dime. There were ten others waiting to take up the slack at the first sign of his blood in the water. Further, though all the specific charges of misuse had been leveled at Como, Turner knew that if the feds were sniffing around Sunset for misappropriated funds, they could not be far from his own complicity and, worse, outright fraud.
Turner had cautioned Como about his largesse to most of the city’s political movers and shakers, but the man had been a force of nature and did exactly what he wanted when the mood struck him. And now all that money was gone with nothing to show for it. The actual charges—having drivers and errand goers and paying his teaching staff out of AmeriCorps money—could all be explained away as accounting errors. In a busy place run by nonprofessionals, these things happened.
More problematic was that Turner hadn’t been cautious enough himself. The legal fees he’d accepted from Como—and from all of the other AmeriCorps recipients that he represented—amounted to nothing less than straight kickbacks for helping these charities obtain their federal funding. Fifty thousand a year here from Mission, a hundred thousand there from Sanctuary House, a half a million over four years with Sunset.
Turner knew that he’d let his greed get away from him—he really didn’t know why because he didn’t need it. But the money was just there for the taking and it seemed ridiculous not to. And after the first few years, he simply came to believe that the government would never even look at where the money went, much less audit for it.
He’d been wrong.
And now the records were there should the auditors come around to him, looking for fraud. Given time, he could probably get that billing cleaned up. Como and Neshek were no longer around to testify against him, so he could pass off their excesses and poor bookkeeping on their own organizations. Fortunately, too, Turner was certain that he could control Jaime with the leverage of offering Sunset to him, and Mission back to his wife. Maybe it could still all work out for the best.
But then with this Hunt fellow nosing around . . .
Clearly Hunt had expanded the original mandate Turner had given him to simply monitor the reward calls for the police and, more importantly, to keep him informed as to the progress of the investigation. It seemed to Turner now that Hunt was actively investigating not just Como’s but Neshek’s murder. And nobody—certainly not the reward consortium—had hired him to do that.
Turner considered simply firing Hunt and getting someone more tractable to do the job. But on reflection, he decided to follow the old adage: Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. It looked like, for whatever reason, Hunt was in this for good. So long as Hunt nominally worked for him, at least Turner could keep a close eye, and maybe even some control, on what he was up to.
And at that thought, Turner finally felt the knot in his stomach loosen. He took a long sip of his cognac, and a good pull at his cigar, then blew the fragrant smoke out into his beautifully appointed office.
He was going to have to put in a call to Mr. Hunt, remind him of their original understanding, the parameters of his role.
Get this last monkey off his back.
23
For all the reasons he’d elucidated to Wyatt Hunt, the only thing Al Carter knew for an absolute certainty was that he had to keep his profile as low as possible around the police. He was black, an ex-convict, the last person to see Como alive. As far as he was concerned, right there he had strikes one, two, and three and it might not be long before he was out. Strikes four and five, as if they needed them, were his easy access to the tire iron and his lack of alibis on the nights of either of the murders. The greater part of him was amazed, in fact, that the two inspectors hadn’t already braced him and brought him downtown for questioning.
Somehow he—or maybe just the circumstances—had held them off for now, and maybe what he’d told Hunt about the Thorpe girl would slow them down for a few more days as well. He hadn’t liked to do that to the girl, or to put himself into the evidence mix on any level, but realistically, what were his other options?
In the meantime, he’d been thinking about it nonstop for the past four days and he’d come to the decision that he needed some hardcore insurance. And finally, he thought he had a workable plan.
Now he sat alone in the very back booth in front of a cracked mug of steaming coffee at Miz Carter’s Mudhouse on California. The Carters who’d run this establishment for years were no relation to Al. When the door opened, he raised his hand and caught the attention of the couple who’d just come in—his younger brother Mo and Mo’s wife, Rae. They walked on back, greeting people they knew in the bustling coffee shop. They were childless, married for seventeen years, and regulars here. They were also solid citizens—a crucial criterion for Al’s purpose today—the owners of Ebony Emery, the tanning salon and manicure place a few doors down in the Laurel Center. Meanwhile, Al slid out of the booth and was standing by the time they got back to him. He greeted Mo with a warm chest- bump and a tapped fist, and Rae with a chaste hug and an air kiss by her ear.
The original Miz Carter’s daughter Penny had a couple more cracked mugs of coffee (the place’s funky trademark), small plates, and a big wedge of cinnamon coffee cake in front of Mo and Rae before they’d gotten their napkins unwrapped. Everybody made small talk, casual and loose, while Penny hovered and took orders. Al, on one side of the red leather booth, put in an order for a hamburger and a milk shake while his brother and sister-in-law on the other said they’d split the mac-and-cheese and the house salad. As he ordered, Mo was slicing the cake, giving some first to his wife, then serving himself.
When Penny went to place the order, Mo popped a bite of cake into his mouth, sipped from his mug, then put it down and raised his eyebrows. A question.
But now that the time had come, Al found his resolve weakening. He smiled to cover the sudden embarrassment—that’s what it was—then put his own mug down, twirled it a couple of times. “You’re great to come down.”
Rae, thin and buxom, gave him a kind smile that animated her face and made it a thing of beauty. “It didn’t exactly wear us out, Al.” Then, in a more serious vein, “What’s troublin’ you, brother? This thing with Dominic?”
“At least that.”
“What else?”
“Well, the Neshek woman too.”
“I don’t know her,” his brother said.
“One of Dominic’s colleagues. Got herself killed, too, this past Monday night.”
“Good Lord,” Rae said. “Two of ’em now?”
“Two of ’em,” Carter said.
Mo came forward over his coffee and cake, put his elbows on the table and his hands on both sides of his face. The ridge over his brows was pronounced, almost hooded. “They got you involved?”
Carter blew out a long sigh. “Not yet, Bro-Mo, not yet.”
“But you’re worried?” Rae asked.
Carter bobbed his head down and up. “It seems to be my constant state lately.”
“So what do they got on you?” Mo asked.
“Nothing. There’s nothing to get.” He met their eyes, one at a time. “I swear to both of you. There’s nothing to get.”
His throat rumbled as though he were chuckling, but there wasn’t anything funny in his eyes. “You got to ask?”
She looked down, picked at her cake with her long fingernails. “No, I guess not, I think about it. You think they do that again?”
“They did it last time,” Carter said. “Three and a half years for a crime I didn’t commit.”
His brother spoke up through his natural reluctance. “Hey, Al. Not that you hadn’t done some shit.”
“Okay, grant that,” Carter said. “I was a dumb kid. I wasn’t an angel. Maybe I’m still not, but I keep my nose clean. And I damn sure didn’t kill Mr. Como or anybody else. Whatever I’ve done before, I’ve paid for it now. And that’s not how it’s supposed to work. You know that. They’re supposed to send you up for something you actually did. Last time, they missed that little detail. I never went near that liquor store and—”
“Yeah, well,” his brother cut in, “the problem was you shoulda remembered back then how we all look the same.”
“Problem is,” Carter said, “I’m remembering now. And there is no way I’m going back in on this.”
“So what—?” Rae stopped and started again. “Why did you need to talk to us? How we gonna help you?”
“I’m not sure you can, but—”
He stopped speaking as Penny showed up back at the booth with their orders. After she’d put the food down, she asked, “What’s a fish say when it swims into a wall?”
They all looked up at her.
“You tell us, darlin’,” Mo said.
“Dam!” And with a delighted giggle, she was gone back to the counter.
Al Carter couldn’t help himself. The absurdity of the ridiculous joke while his life was in such turmoil had him chuckling. “Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Damn damn damn. That woman’s been reading my mail.” And suddenly the chuckling turned into real laughter. Extended laughter. Finally, wiping his eyes, Carter faced his relatives across the table. “Sorry. I don’t know why that hit me.”
“Me neither,” his brother said.
Rae put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Man’s got to be under some stress.” Then she looked across at Carter with sympathy in her eyes. “You got to get out more, sugar.” She forked a bite of lettuce. “So how we gonna help you?” she asked. “But you not sure we can.”
“What’s it going to depend on, Al?” Mo asked.
“It’s going to first depend on whether you two spent either Tuesday a week ago or Monday this week alone together.”
Mo stopped his mac-and-cheese on the way to his mouth. “Either or both?”
“Either would be good enough.”
“Monday was what?” Rae asked. “Two days ago?”
“That’s it.”
Rae was already reaching for her purse, from which she extracted a small spiral calendar. She flipped the pages, stopped, flipped another one, went back to her first stop. “Last Tuesday, no. I had my book group. Went on till midnight.” She turned the page. “Monday, I got nothin’.”
“That’s ’cause Monday is Monday Night Football,” Mo said. “Raiders and Baltimore. You didn’t see that game, Al?”
“Matter of fact, I did, Bro-Mo. Home alone.” He pointed. “So you two watched it together, just the two of you? You’re sure?”
“Romantic fools that we are,” Rae answered. “So now what?”
Carter let out a breath of relief. He seemed to see his hamburger for the first time. Picking it up, he took a huge bite, sipped some milk shake, chewed some more, and swallowed. “Okay,” he said, “this next part’s where it gets tricky.”
“We’re here,” Mo said.
“I know you are.” Carter paused. “Here’s my worry. It’s all about these alibis. Last time, when they sent me down, you remember, here I was minding my own business by my lonesome, sleeping at my place—hell, it’s two in the morning, how unusual is that? And that’s what I told them. But, as we know, they didn’t choose to believe me. How could I be home sleeping at the same time I’m robbing that damn store? See? So the alibi, even though it was the truth, wound up hanging me anyway.”
Mo put his fork down. “All right. So?”
“So I’m not comfortable telling the man this time that I was home alone.”
“Haven’t you already told him that?” Rae asked.
“I did.”
“Well, then . . .”
“Well, no. That’s not going to do it.”
“What do you mean?” Mo asked.
“I mean, I need something else. Something stronger.”
“So you’re thinking you’re going to change what you told them?” Mo’s brows had come together in a frown. “That is no kind of a good idea. They know you lied, they all over you.”
“Right,” Carter said. “Which is why I don’t go to them and tell them anything. Everything just stays the same. Except if they come back on to me.”
Mo’s expression was pure confusion. “And then what happen?”
“Then I tell them I lied.”
The couple exchanged a glance.
“I tell them, Rae”—Carter took a tentative breath—“that I was with you. That’s why I couldn’t tell them the truth the first time when they asked. I didn’t want it to get out to Mo. I couldn’t have it get back to Mo.”
Rae’s frown matched her husband’s. “So then they ask me? Then what?”
“Then they probably won’t even ask, but if they do, you tell them, yeah, you were with me. Mo was home, having some beers and watching the game, you told him you were out with your girlfriends, your book club, whatever it was. But really you came to my place and stayed on till late.” He took another sip of his milk shake. “You think you could go along with that, both of you? Make sure your brother doesn’t have to go back to the joint?”
24
Tamara had handled the preliminary meeting to okay the staffing earlier in the day, but now at three-thirty, Hunt was still in the middle of his follow-up meeting with the Willard White people—Will, Gloria, and three of their staff—running down the tasks he’d need to have them perform for his law firm clients over the next week or two. They were all jammed into his small back office, with straight- back wooden chairs for the principals, the others sitting on the file cabinets. Though he had told Tamara to hold his calls while the meeting was in progress, suddenly the phone on his desk chimed and he glared at it, then excused himself and picked it up.
Mickey was propped up in a bed in a double room at San Francisco General Hospital. His ribs were bandaged. His left arm was in a soft cast. The area around his left eye was swollen and discolored. Groggy from the painkillers, he was otherwise reasonably coherent, managing a feeble smile when he saw his sister and then Hunt behind her. “You should see the other guy,” he said, then grimaced.
He told them that because of the head injury, they wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but he was sure he’d be back to relatively normal in no time. He was, he said, actually very lucky—first, that he wasn’t killed, and second, some cops had come by and told him that the woman who’d hit him and who’d been completely and unarguably at fault was insured to the hilt. He’d probably get a good used car out of his totaled wreck of a Camaro, and at least some, if not all, of his hospital bill would be paid. They might not even have to make a claim on the insurance he carried through Hunt’s business. If all went well, they would let him out tomorrow—Tamara could pick him up in the old Volkswagen she hadn’t driven in six months—and he might even be in at work by the afternoon.
“Don’t push it,” Hunt told him. “Whenever you’re feeling better.”
Then Mickey wanted to tell Hunt about what he’d learned at his visit to Sanctuary House that morning, and did Hunt know that many of the reward participants, including Nancy Neshek, had actually been to a Communities of Opportunity meeting together on Monday night at C
ity Hall?
“That became clear at the memorial,” Hunt said. “Although they all put on a good act that they’d barely heard about Neshek’s death.”
“You think that was bogus?” Mickey asked.
Hunt shrugged. “Hard to say.” He gave them both a pretty much word-by-word account of everyone’s reactions to Neshek’s murder—Turner, Hess, Carter, Jaime and Lola Sanchez, it didn’t take long—and then took a deep breath and came out with what he’d been avoiding. “But aside from them, there actually have been a few new developments.”
“Which you’re not going to like too much,” Tamara added.
“What?”
Hunt filled him in on the latest news about Alicia, and Mickey brought up the same objections that Tamara had earlier.
“Well, I know how both of you feel,” Hunt replied. “But I’d have to say at this point that Devin and Sarah consider her the prime suspect. And you both ought to know that. We’d be smart to think of her the same way. At least until we get something that positively clears her.” Hunt’s eyes went from Mickey around to his sister. “You think we can do that?”
“We can try,” Tamara said at last, folding under the pressure of Hunt’s gaze.
Hunt turned back around and leaned in toward the bed. “How ’bout you, Mick? Mick?”
But Mickey’s eyes were closed, his breathing regular. For all the world as though the pain drugs had kicked in again and he had faded off to sleep.
At a few minutes after six, Tamara said good- bye to Hunt, got out of the car he’d driven her home in, opened her building’s front door, checked her mail—mostly throwaway stuff except for the PG & E bill and the latest Gourmet—and climbed the stairs up to her apartment. Letting herself in with her key, she sang out a greeting, but not too loud, as her grandfather was known to take the occasional nap. “Hey, Jim. I’m home.”
Wyatt Hunt 02 Treasure Hunt Page 23