The Big Exit

by David Carnoy

  A sound at the door. The jangle of keys. They both look that way. In the little window, they see Carlyle, who yanks the door open. He’s standing there with Madden and another officer behind him.

  He motions for T-Truck to come out.

  “Your lawyer’s here, shithead.”

  “Lawyer?”

  “Yeah, your mama sent over a lawyer. It’s your lucky day.”

  “Am I getting out now?”

  “Not that lucky.”

  21/ INTERCOURSE WAY

  “YOU THINK YOU GOT HIM OUT IN TIME?”

  Madden’s back in the commander’s office, sitting in the same chair he was sitting in earlier that morning, but this time there’s no Crowley. It’s just Pastorini seated at his desk and Carlyle standing behind Madden, leaning up against the wall, brooding a little, holding an icepack to his elbow. Pastorini keeps encouraging him to get over to the clinic and have it checked out, but Carlyle keeps insisting he’s okay.

  “I don’t know,” Madden says. “We’ll see.”

  “Mr. T was doing well until he started whining about being a victim himself,” Carlyle remarks.

  Madden thinks: How many times had they told the kid to let Forman do the talking? How many? But he should have expected it. There’s only so much coaching you can do in twenty minutes.

  Pastorini had agreed the chicanery was worth a shot. If they could get Forman thinking Beth had sold him out, maybe he’d give her up. But Pastorini was concerned about the case falling apart on some technicality. “You can try it, Hank,” he said, “but I want him in and out of there. If it’s going nowhere, you pull him, tell him his lawyer’s here. Understand?”

  So after one last quick rehearsal, they’d tossed Tevita in with Forman and retired to a small room just down the hall. Not much bigger than a walk-in closet, the room was filled with high-tech equipment and looked like a mini recording studio. They each put on a pair of headphones.

  It was going a whole lot better than Madden thought it would, especially considering an hour ago the guy was sitting in the back of the Yukon, a blubbering mess, with Carlyle showing him his heavily bruised elbow and telling him they were going to “lock his ass up,” that he’d ruined his life and his mama was going to be disappointed.

  Carlyle played the mama card early and often after they learned the kid’s mother was a nurse. “I bet your mama puts in long hours at the hospital so you can go to college,” he said. “Doesn’t she?”

  His name was Tevita Taupa and he said he was enrolled at Foothill, the junior college that some kids mockingly referred to as Harvard on the Hill. He claimed he had a year’s worth of credits and was hoping to get a football scholarship somewhere.

  “This is the kind of shit you get yourself into?” Carlyle went on, keeping up the pressure. “And with your luck, you’re gonna pick yourself up a murder charge. You know you were driving a dead man’s car? You worked for him? As an intern? Really? I’m not buying that—Hank, you buying it? A fucking intern. I ain’t never seen no intern who looked like you. At a tech company? Come on. All they got there is fucking geeks and little hotties to give the geeks some reason to work at the company. McGregor may have had you on the payroll as an intern but you weren’t no intern.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Tevita said, tears running down his big, round face. “I swear. We were just supposed to follow the guy’s wife around.”

  “Did you have an encounter with Richie Forman a couple of weeks ago in front of his apartment in the city?” Madden asked.

  “Yeah. Fucker broke my nose.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you were just following the guy’s wife around.”

  No response. He just lowered his head.

  “Yes or no, asshole?” Carlyle said. “What’s the answer? We want some fucking answers.”

  “Mr. McGregor said this guy Richie was trying to get money out of him and might have something going on with his wife. He was the ex-boyfriend, I guess. Mr. McGregor wanted to send a message. Let him know he was being watched.”

  “Why’d you go see Ms. Hill at the Rosewood Hotel this morning?”

  “I told him not to. I told him we shouldn’t.”

  “You told who?”

  No answer.

  “Who, Tevita?” Madden cut in. “You partner? You got a name for us?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Well, it isn’t going to make a difference because once we catch him we’re going to tell him you coughed him right up. And I bet if I go through your phone, he’s going to show up pretty quick. So you might as well tell us.”

  He shook his head, which made Madden think that his buddy must have a real hold over him.

  Carlyle: “Why’d you go to the hotel to see Ms. Hill?”

  “Because Edwin thought the bitch set us up.”

  “Edwin? That’s his name?”

  Realizing his mistake, Tevita winced.

  “Why would he think that?” Madden asked.

  “Someone texted him that our pictures were up on the Internet. And as soon as we saw that, we were like fuck, she fucked us. That shot was from the day we were up in the city with Forman. It makes it look like we were talking to him, you know, like having a meeting. She purposely went up there, knowing we were following her. And when we went back later, she followed us and she took those pictures. That or someone who was working for her.”

  They both knew there was a different explanation, but it did make Madden wonder whether Beth knew she was being followed. A guy like Tevita didn’t exactly blend in. He’d be an easy spot, especially after you saw him a couple of times.

  “So let me get this straight,” Madden said. “You were following her and then she started following you? That’s what you’re saying?”

  “Something like that.”

  Carlyle: “How’d you know she was at the hotel?”

  Good point. Madden hadn’t thought of that.

  “We could track her by her phone,” Tevita explained.

  “By her phone?”

  “Yeah, as long as she kept it on we knew where she was. There was a program on the phone. It kept the GPS on even if she tried to turn it off. Mr. McGregor installed it.”

  Carlyle looked at Madden. That seemed to confirm what Forman had told them. He’d said something about McGregor putting spyware on her phone.

  Madden: “So you go talk to her at the hotel and—”

  “I stayed in the car.”

  “Okay, so your buddy Edwin goes in and talks to her …”

  “Yeah. He thought he was going to have to go looking for her but she was sitting right there in the lobby.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She denied it. She said she had nothing to do with the photo.”

  “And then what?”

  “She asked him if we saw anything, if we knew anything about her husband getting killed.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said fuck that.”

  “Those were his exact words? Fuck that?”

  “I don’t know exactly what he said. She just asked whether he knew anything about her husband getting killed. She wanted to know if he’d seen anything. He got the sense she was kind of worried he had seen something.”

  “Had he?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Then she told him he’d better turn himself in to the police.”

  “Good advice,” Madden said. “Why didn’t he listen?”

  “I don’t know. He kind of panicked, I guess.”

  Carlyle: “He got a record, your friend? We found some pills in the car. He do a little dealing on the side?”

  He nodded, the tears welling up again. “That’s how he met Mr. McGregor. He met him at the gas station.” He stared down at his feet, sniffling loudly. “I don’t want to go to jail,” he said. “I didn’t do nothin’. Honest. Mr. McGregor wanted a big guy. But I did some intern stuff. I worked in the office some days. You can ask. What if—”


  His voice trailed off.

  “What if what?” Madden said.

  “If I help you. Will I have to go to jail?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “How helpful you are.”

  Never mind that if he was who he said he was and got himself a half decent lawyer, he probably wouldn’t do any jail time. They leaned, he swayed, that’s how the game was played. Like Carlyle said, the kid was doing fine until he went off-script. But Madden heard it coming. Holed up in the recording room, he thought they were toast as soon as Tevita said, “Just like she set us up.” Carlyle’s eyes lit up at the same time as his and they both tore off their headphones and bolted out of the room.

  When they replayed the tape it seemed clear that Forman had a strong inkling something was amiss. But hopefully they’d intervened before he could start connecting too many dots. At least that’s what they’re telling Pastorini, who’s called them into his office and now takes a sip from his tall can of Java Monster Loca Moca “energy” drink and says:

  “I want you boys to listen to something. While you were busy playing around with our main suspect, we had multiple tips come in from people who claim to have seen Forman and Hill around town.”

  He turns to his computer screen, which is facing away from Madden, and maneuvers his mouse onto something, and clicks on it. A moment passes, and they hear a male 911 dispatcher’s voice speaking to them through Pastorini’s crappy little PC speakers, asking the caller to “state your emergency.”

  A woman’s giddy voice: “This isn’t really an emergency. But you know the guy who got arrested for killing that Mark McGregor guy? Well, I saw him yesterday and I’m pretty sure he was with the guy’s wife. In fact, I’m certain.”

  Dispatcher: “Okay. Thank you for calling. Can you please give me your name and the best number to reach you at?”

  The woman, who sounds young, states her name and gives a phone number.

  “So where did you see them?” the dispatcher asks.

  “At Watercourse Way. I’m a receptionist there.”

  “Watercourse Way? I’ve heard of that. The spa? In Palo Alto?”

  “Yes, we’re sorta like a spa. I mean, we are a spa, we have spa services, but we’re also, you know, a bathhouse with hot tubs.”

  “And what time did they come in?”

  “Right before two. The woman made a two-o’clock reservation. She didn’t use her real name.”

  “A reservation for what?”

  “A tub.”

  “Okay, and you say she was with this man you say was arrested.”

  “Yes. I just thought, you know, that someone should know. That it might be pertinent.”

  “Yes, thank you. I just want to let you know that we’re recording this call and I’m going to pass on your info to the detectives here. Is there anything else you can remember that they should know?”

  A pause. “No. Well, she paid in cash. I don’t know if that’s important or not.”

  “Okay, that’s good to know. Someone will get back to you soon.”

  “I’m working today. I’m here.”

  “Okay, someone will definitely be in contact.”

  The call ends. Pastorini closes out the audio player on his computer, then swivels his chair toward Madden and says:

  “Watercourse Way. You ever been there, Hank?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Me neither. But last I checked, people went there to relax or fuck. In this case, I’d bet on fucking.”

  “They don’t call it Intercourse Way for nothin’,” Carlyle murmurs, coaxing a smile out of Pastorini.

  “No, they don’t,” he says. Then, looking at Madden: “You don’t seem surprised, Hank.”

  “I didn’t think she was being completely honest with us.”

  “The question is why,” Pastorini says. “She had to know it would eventually come out.”

  Madden: “People have a bad habit of developing selective memory under duress.”

  Pastorini shakes his head. He seems dismayed. “All I can say is that if Forman did it, he sure didn’t plan it out too well.”

  “Maybe that was his plan,” Madden says.

  “To make it look like he’s a fucking idiot? That was his plan?”

  “Maybe. He’s a smart guy. Maybe that’s his defense. I’m a smart guy so why would I not plan this thing out better.”

  “I still think he didn’t plan it out. That was his problem. I bet McGregor found out about this little excursion to Watercourse Way. He confronts Forman and they get into it. He takes a whack at him and Forman goes berzerko. Years of pent-up aggression.”

  “Why would Forman be at the house?” Madden asks.

  Pastorini considers that.

  “I don’t know,” he says after a moment, stumped. “If she set him up and brought him there hoping he and her husband would have it out, why not just come out and say that’s what happened? The other thing I don’t get is if she’s involved, what does she really have to gain? She divorces McGregor, she does all right. Why risk so much for an extra five or ten million when you’ve already got a nice chunk of change coming to you?”

  Madden: “What if it’s more?”

  “How much more?”

  “Say twenty.”

  “Twenty? You know that?”

  “No, but I’m just saying. Hypothetically speaking.”

  “Well, no more guessing,” Pastorini says. “I want to know exactly where these people were and when. I want cell-phone data. I want witnesses on the ground. I want a murder weapon.” He holds up his iPad and practically thrusts it in Madden’s face. On the screen is a Google Maps satellite image of McGregor’s street. “I want some goddamn virtual pushpins in my goddamn virtual map.”

  “Pete?” Madden says.

  “What?”

  “How many of those drinks have you had today?”

  “I don’t know. Two. Three. Why?”

  “I’m getting a contact high just sitting across from you. And I think your iPad’s charging in your hand.”

  Carlyle lets out a little laugh that elicits a surprisingly sharp, reproachful look from Pastorini. Normally, he takes ribbings about his caffeinated soda habit in stride.

  “Pushpins, Hank,” he repeats. “Start with this receptionist at Watercourse Way. When you get it all confirmed, I want you to ask Carolyn what her client was doing there with Forman at two in the afternoon. And if she keeps stonewalling, I want her arrested.”

  “On what charge?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll think of something. You always do.”

  22/ HAPPY HUNTING

  CAROLYN CALLS MADDEN’S CELL PHONE ONCE AT ELEVEN THIRTY, then again at noon. He isn’t picking up, so she leaves two short, matter-of-fact messages, each stating the time of her call and telling him to get back to her when he gets a chance.

  Finally, just before twelve thirty, she sees his caller ID info come up on her phone.

  “Did you get the guy?” she asks.

  “We got his partner.”

  “Partner?”

  “Yeah, the big one. Ask your client about him.”

  “You get anything out of him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “We’ve still got some work to do. Where are you?”

  She smiles, looking around. She’s standing outside her car in a small park down the road from the hotel on Sand Hill. The setting is particularly significant for Madden—as well as her. It’s where the shooting took place. She witnessed it from a surveillance van not more than fifty yards away from this very spot.

  “I’m in that little Stanford Hills Park you made famous.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Don’t ask,” she says. “You in your car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Fair enough. When are you going to be back in the office?”


  “An hour or so. Gotta make a couple of stops. Why, you coming in?”

  “Looking that way.”

  “I don’t want to warn you again, Carolyn, but I will. I’m not trying to play you. Her story’s taking on water. She’s sinking fast.”

  She’s been waiting for this. The moment when he really shows his cards. Not all of them. But enough to make it clear he’s not bluffing. The only thing to do is call his bet.

  “I guess you know about Watercourse Way then.”

  Silence.

  “Hank, you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “Is that where you’re off to?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’ll save you some time. She was there with Forman yesterday.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “What do people do there?” she asks.

  “Pastorini says either make love or relax.”

  She laughs. “I somehow don’t imagine him saying it like that.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “You’re such a prude, Hank. Maybe they fucked, then relaxed. Did you ever think of that? You can do both, you know?”

  “Well, as you might imagine, I’m more interested in the fucking part.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “Did they go back to the house afterwards?”

  She takes a breath, hesitates a moment, then says: “As far as I know, she did not take him into the house.”

  “Now you’re getting all Bill Clinton on me. What does that mean?”

  As she weighs her next response, she sees a car turn off Sand Hill and head down the street toward her. Midsized sedan, generic-looking, has all the earmarks of a rental. Got to be him, she thinks, though she notices there are two people inside the vehicle.

  “It means what it means,” she says, giving a little wave to the car’s occupants. “Look, I gotta go. My lunch date is here.”

  “I’ll give you till the end of day.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I’m bringing her in myself—in cuffs. The media should enjoy that.”

  “On what charge?”

  “I figured I’d start with obstruction of justice and work my way up.”