Capital Crimes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “It put a strain on it but we remained on speaking terms. It certainly didn’t discourage Davida from calling me frequently. Trying to convince me to change my mind. And I called her after the egging incident. I told her how horrified I was.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She thanked me for my sympathies, but she told me she’d rather thank me for my support. Then she went to work on me again. She was so persistent that I agreed to meet her later this week. She seemed so pleased about that.” Eileen swabbed her eyes with her napkin. “That was the last time I spoke to her. If you want to find out who did this, talk to those fascist cretins.”

  “Which cretins in particular?”

  “The Nutterly brothers.”

  “They were in jail when Davida was shot.”

  “Amanda, there are a helluva lot more White Tower boys than just the Nutterly brothers, and they all seem to congregate around Sacramento. Why aren’t you talking to them?”

  “They’re on our official list.”

  “Why are you talking to me first?”

  “Because you were her friend, and I figured you could tell me who in the legislature was really after her.”

  Eileen shook her head. “Lord knows the legislature has its share of SOBs but no one there would have killed her, for God’s sake. Stick around long enough, we’re all at odds with one another sometimes. That’s just the nature of the beast.”

  “Did Davida ever talk to you about Harry Modell?”

  “That psychotic weirdo? What about him?”

  “I heard he sent her threatening letters.”

  “He sends everyone threatening letters—” Eileen blanched.

  “Including you?”

  “Oh my God!” she whispered frantically. “Do I have something to worry about?”

  “Do you still have the letters, Eileen?”

  “In my nut file. I’ll get them to you ASAP.” She signaled the waiter for the bill. Her face had taken on deep worry lines. “Answer me honestly. Should I be nervous? I mean…should I get a bodyguard?”

  Amanda thought about that, had no clear answer. She said, “Until we know more, I don’t think it would hurt.”

  Spoken like a true politician.

  9

  As luck would have it, Barnes found a parking space right on Telegraph, the avenue swimming with the typical time-warp mix of hippies, retro-hippies, one-note fanatics and junk entrepreneurs looking scruffier than any of the others. The uniform was torn jeans, message T-shirts, leather headbands and glassy eyes. Booths were set up on the sidewalks, hawking everything from Maoist theory and anti-Amerikan nihilism to mood rings, organic Viagra, and scented candles. Music blared from speakers attached to competing CD stores. The resulting aural broth was a wall of white noise to Barnes’s ears, but what did he know, he’d never progressed much past Buck Owens.

  Noise and body odor notwithstanding, Barnes was happy to be there. The day had turned sunny, the skies were clear and his lungs needed to suck in something other than death. On Telegraph, that meant secondary smoke not from tobacco.

  Back in the Stone ages, when he’d been an eighteen-year-old high school graduate, advanced education in his circles meant two years at a community college learning animal husbandry. He’d been a decent, but uninspired student and a good varsity football player. Unfortunately there weren’t a whole lot of jobs for “good but never, never, ever gonna make it to the pros” running backs. Ergo, the military, and that had been okay for a few years. When he finished up his tour, he had narrowed his future to farming, trucking, or the police academy. Law enforcement was the decision because it seemed like more fun, and Barnes had some book smarts so he advanced within a narrow sphere.

  As a detective, he got to use his brain, and, sometimes, he felt like he had a good one.

  Still, whenever he had any business at the UC, he felt uncomfortable. He had never attended classes at a genuine university, and the Berkeley campus was as big as a city. It had its own government, its own police force and its own set of rules, explicit and otherwise.

  As he walked along leafy lanes, some of the buildings were downright imposing, others looked as inviting as a concrete bunker and he felt like an invader from outer space. Invader past his prime.

  Using his little map as a guide, he couldn’t help but notice how young the kids were and that made him feel even older.

  Dr. Alice Kurtag’s lab was housed in a six-story, post-modern, brick and concrete structure that had been retrofitted for earthquakes. Berkeley wasn’t perched directly on the San Andreas Fault, but like all the Bay Area, the ground was plenty seismic and no one could predict when The Big One was coming.

  And yet, thought Barnes, we pretend. He entered Kurtag’s building, drawing stares from a clutch of grad students. Kurtag’s lab on the fourth floor was sizeable; her office was not. Her private domain barely held a desk and two chairs. It did have a nice view of the city and the water beyond. The fog had lifted several hours ago and the burn-off had produced a blue sky streaked with white clouds and contrails.

  Kurtag looked to be in her fifties, a handsome woman with strong features and a short efficient hairdo. She had blond streaks running through dark hair, and strong brown eyes. She wore little makeup, just a dot of red on her cheeks and something soft and wet on her lips. She had on a long-sleeved green blouse, black slacks and boots. Her ears were adorned with diamond studs. Her nails were short but manicured.

  “Do you know anything about a memorial service?” she asked Barnes.

  Her voice was soft and surprisingly airy.

  “No, Doctor, I don’t. But I’m sure there will be one as soon as the coroner releases the body.”

  “I suppose it’s premature at this stage.”

  Barnes nodded.

  “This is just terrible. What happened? Was it a robbery?”

  “I hate to sound evasive, but we just don’t have all the facts. I know the city council is going to hold a town hall meeting tonight at seven. Maybe we’ll know more by then.”

  “I certainly hope so. This is so upsetting. I work late at night. I’m alone here myself quite often. I’d hate to think of a predator stalking single women. And of course, poor Davida.”

  “How’s the security here?”

  “It’s a university. It’s filled with people who belong and people who don’t. Most of the time, I bury my nose in my work and don’t look around too much. Now I’m so upset, I can barely concentrate.”

  “Were you and Davida close?”

  “Over the past year, we’d become very close, working on her bill. Now…without her as an advocate…I really don’t know what chance we have for passage.”

  Barnes said, “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.” The doctor’s voice cracked. “It seems so far away now.”

  “What was the occasion?”

  “She stopped by to pick up some reports for some lobbyists. She was going to hit the capital full force this week and needed all the scientific information I could muster. I had some of the material ready, but not all of it. She was going to come by this afternoon to pick it up…” Again, her voice broke, but this time her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s a terrible thing,” Barnes said. “Did you socialize with Davida outside of work?”

  Alice Kurtag wiped her eyes with a tissue. “With Davida, everything was work—from her parties to her meetings. Occasionally, when we were working long hours, we’d treat ourselves to dinner and a movie. Neither of us have children to rush home to.” The scientist smiled sadly. “We weren’t lovers if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

  Barnes gave her a neutral shrug. “Did she ever confide in you?”

  “Now and then, I guess. She’d tell me how worried she was about the bill. She only had support in the House if every one of her fellow Democrats chose to back her up. Some had changed their minds, others gave her a hard time from the beginning.”

  “How so
?”

  “They objected to the cost of funding the proposition, said give the initiative-funded institute a chance.” Kurtag frowned. “Science doesn’t come cheap. What worthwhile endeavor is cheap?”

  “Did she ever talk to you about personal fears?” When Kurtag seemed puzzled, Barnes clarified his question. “Was she specifically afraid of someone or something?”

  “She never said anything to me…other than to complain how betrayed she felt.”

  “Betrayed?”

  “By her colleagues.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I don’t recall. I organize data, conduct experiments, write reports, Detective. I don’t do the actual lobbying.” She paused. “There was a woman representative…Elaine something.”

  “Eileen Ferunzio.”

  “She’s the one. Davida was furious with her. Apparently, Davida had recently thrown her support behind one of Eileen’s bills, so when she didn’t get reciprocity, she felt totally betrayed. But there was never any hint that Eileen was dangerous. That’s absurd.”

  Barnes wondered. “We’ve heard Davida had received some threatening letters.”

  “Threatening letters?” Alice thought about that. “Oh, from that crackpot down in Orange County? She seemed more amused by it than scared.”

  “Do you remember the crackpot’s name?”

  “Harry something.”

  “Harry Modell?”

  “Yes.” The doctor appeared annoyed. “If you know all of this, why are you wasting my time?”

  “I know some things but not everything. So she didn’t take Modell’s threats seriously?”

  “Not to my eye. She mentioned something to the effect that she knew things about him, and that all his threats were nothing but bluster.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “She didn’t specify.”

  “Blackmail things?”

  “Oh please, why would she waste time blackmailing a loser like him?”

  Barnes pressed on. “After Davida mentioned these ‘things,’ did the threatening letters stop?”

  “I really don’t know. It wasn’t the focus of our meetings.”

  “How often did she mention Harry Modell?”

  Expansive. “Maybe twice, three times.”

  “When was the last time she mentioned him?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea, Detective.”

  “A week ago? A month ago?”

  “Maybe a month, but I couldn’t swear to it. Really you’re making too big a deal out of him. Is that all? I’m distracted enough as it is. I really need to get back to work.”

  “Please, Dr. Kurtag, just bear with me. Did Davida ever talk to you about Minette Padgett?”

  Alice appeared uncomfortable. She didn’t answer right away. “You think Minette murdered her?”

  The frankness of Kurtag’s question took Barnes aback. “What do you think?”

  “I think that unless you think Minette had something to do with her death, I don’t want to talk about her.”

  Barnes ignored her and pressed on. “Minette was having an affair…with a man. Did Davida know?”

  Kurtag’s eyes hardened. “Davida didn’t place a premium on her domestic life. She had bigger issues to deal with.”

  “What does that mean? She knew but didn’t care?”

  No answer.

  Barnes said, “Was she was going to dump Minette? Was she having an affair herself?”

  Alice Kurtag’s eyes drifted to the ceiling. “It would be helpful if you asked your questions one at a time.”

  “Okay,” said Barnes. “Did Davida know about Minette’s affair?”

  “She hinted about it—Minette thinks she’s subtle, but she’s not. But she didn’t seem to care, Detective. She was getting a bit tired of Minette’s whining.”

  “Was she going to dump Minette?”

  “That never came up.”

  “Do you know if Davida was involved with someone else?”

  “No, I don’t. Frankly, I don’t see when she would have had the time.”

  “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Dr. Kurtag, but where were you last night?”

  Alice was silent. Then she said, “Where I am practically every night. Here, at the lab, working.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone. Who else works at two in the morning?”

  Davida had been at her desk at two in the morning. Barnes kept his thoughts to himself. “When did you leave the lab?”

  “I didn’t. I slept here last night.”

  “Where?”

  “At my desk.”

  And Barnes thought he had a lonely life. “Do you often sleep at your desk?”

  “Not often.” Alice shot him a cold stare. “Occasionally.”

  “If I offended you,” Barnes said, “that wasn’t my intention. I have to ask sensitive questions, Doctor. Right now, I’m trying to piece together a time line. So you were here all night?”

  Kurtag showed him her profile. Tight lips, squinty eyes. “All night,” she said softly.

  “Alone.”

  “I already told you that.”

  “You’re sure no one saw you here?”

  Kurtag’s smile came nowhere near mirth. “I suppose that means I have no alibi.”

  “Would you mind if I gave you a gunshot residue test—just a swab of your hands?”

  “I would mind because I resent the implication. But go ahead, do it anyway. Then you can leave.”

  10

  The Ronald Tsukamoto Public Safety Building housed both the fire and police departments of the city of Berkeley. The two-story entrance was shaped like a sewing spool with the bottom foot lopped off. It was Deco in style, each of the two semi-circular levels punched with large rectangular windows that sat atop each other with geometric precision. The paint job, however, was pure Victorian—ecru trimmed in robin’s eggshell blue and bright white.

  Once inside, anyone having business with BPD waited in a rotunda with multi-colored abstract mobiles hanging from the ceiling. A spiral staircase with spaghetti-thin railings wound its way to the second story. The station was pleasant and clean, with checkerboard flooring and soft natural light filtering in from the generous windows.

  The actual working interior was plain-wrap cop shop: windowless beige walls, fluorescent lighting, small cubicles with charmless but functional workstations. The equipment was often mismatched, and in the case of some of the computers, sorely outdated. The conference room furniture consisted of white plastic tables and black plastic chairs. Maps of the district, a calendar, a video screen and a chalkboard made up the wall decor. An American flag stood in one corner, the Golden Bear stood sentry in another.

  It had been a hellish morning for Berkeley PD, but it was the captain on the hot seat. At six years away from retirement, Ramon Torres now had to explain to the mayor, the governor, and his highly vocal constituency how a beloved state representative had been nearly decapitated in her office and no one knew a damn thing about it.

  The captain was short, stocky with leathery brown skin and piercing eyes one shade lighter. Each month expanded his bald spot; what little hair remained was black and that offered him some consolation. He winced as he read through the hate-spewing letters penned by Harry Modell, executive director of Families Under God.

  Torres put the missives down and looked across the conference table at Isis and Barnes. Two of his best detectives and they’d learned nada.

  “They’re obviously written by someone who’s bigoted and mean-spirited, but I don’t see enough actual threat for us to act. The First Amendment doesn’t discriminate between civil and barbaric.”

  Barnes said, “I’m not recommending that we prosecute him, Cap, but both Amanda and I think it’d be negligent if we didn’t at least talk to him.”

  Amanda said, “He’s written other poison-pen letters to female members of our state congress. If something happens to one of those ladies, we’ll be in deep waters.”

  Headl
ines flashed in Torres’s head. Talking heads on the tube, his own name bandied about like a cussword. “How many women are we talking about?”

  “At least two.”

  “What about men?” Torres asked.

  Amanda said, “None so far, but Detective Don Newell from Sacramento PD is investigating.”

  Torres said, “Then maybe you should wait until Newell makes his report before I allocate the funds to send you down south.”

  “I have another reason for wanting to go to LA this week, sir,” Barnes said. “Detective Newell arrested two losers who were behind the assault on Davida Grayson last week.”

  “The egging.”

  Barnes nodded. “Coupla morons named Ray and Brent Nutterly from the White Tower boys. Their boss, Marshall Bledsoe, might be visiting LA.”

  “Bledsoe,” said Torres. “Suspected synagogue bomber but he was never charged. Egging seems lightweight for him.”

  “True, sir, but Newell is pretty sure the Nutterly boys wouldn’t have acted without Bledsoe’s go-ahead. In light of Grayson’s murder, we should question him. That’s two obvious reasons for going south.”

  “Obvious,” Torres repeated.

  Amanda said, “Bledsoe lives in Idaho but we’ve got a bench warrant for outstanding traffic violations. His mother lives in the San Fernando Valley and Thanksgiving’s coming up.”

  “Dropping in on Mommy,” said the captain. “You do any prep on this?”

  “We called LAPD West Valley Division and they called saying there’s a pickup with Idaho plates in Mom’s driveway. That was an hour ago.”

  Barnes said, “Four months ago, Modell moved about ten miles north of Bledsoe’s mother.”

  “Convenient,” said Torres. “Do the two of them know each other?”

  “Good question.”

  Torres glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s too late to put you two on a plane and get you back in time for town hall. If Bledsoe is visiting Mom for the holidays, he isn’t going anywhere. The community meeting’s been pushed back from seven to eight. Community affairs is making up a list of mock questions. Go over them so you’re prepared. I know I don’t have to tell you this but I will anyway. No mention of Modell or Bledsoe by name. If someone asks about suspects, tell them we’re focusing our attention on a few persons of interest. You do all that, you can book tickets to La La Land.”