The man in question was seated in the lobby, a brown paper sack in his lap.
“Mr. Gregory,” Al said. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Um, should we talk here? Or is there someplace we should go?” He stood, lifting the lunch bag. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
Al eyed the sack, then held his hand out. “This way,” he said, then led him to an empty interview room. “We can talk in here.”
The adjoining room, its door cracked open, was occupied by Jenn Barstow, and Casey felt a slight sense of guilt for leaving her there without informing her that he’d be a few minutes more. Deciding he should at least let her know, he was about to step out when Mr. Gregory dumped the contents of the sack onto the table, and any thoughts about who was next door vanished with what he saw.
A bundled stack of one-hundred dollar bills.
“I’m sorry,” Casey finally said, drawing his gaze from the money to Mr. Gregory, thinking of the implications as he calculated how much was in that bundle. “Where did you say this was from?”
“Under the bed. My bed. In this,” he said, holding up the paper sack. “The reason you didn’t find it in Darrell’s room when you searched was that he gave it to my wife to hold. He asked her to keep it safe for him until he got back from his job. Only he never got back.”
“When was this? That he gave it to her?”
“The night before that woman was murdered out at the Presidio.”
Al used his phone to snap a picture of the money. “Is there some reason she didn’t tell us at the time?”
“Well,” Mr. Gregory said. “Technically she did tell us the night you came over. Something about a guy dropping off a phone. For some job.”
“But not the money.”
“Well, no. But who pays someone ten thousand dollars for a job?” The man looked at the bundled bills. “I think she was a bit scared is all. We watch enough TV to know what this looks like.”
Casey eyed the mustard yellow strap binding the money. One hundred hundreds…Ten-thousand dollars. There was no doubt in his mind what it looked like. That was hit money if he ever saw it.
TWENTY-FIVE
“A hit?” Lieutenant Timms was just leaving for the day. “What makes you so sure?”
“This,” Al said, showing him the photo he’d snapped on his phone. “Ten K.”
“Ten thousand? You book the money?”
“We didn’t even touch it. Had a CSI come up and deal with it. Figured we’d want to process it and the bag for prints, then verify the serial numbers in the morning. See what pops up.”
The secretary knocked as she poked her head in the door. “Casey? Miss Barstow is still waiting for you. What would you like me to tell her?”
“Damn. I forgot all about her.”
“Barstow?” Timms said.
“The reporter asking about the old prostitution murders. She may have some video evidence on one of the victims.”
“Let’s get Zwingler on it,” he told the secretary. “Kellog’s tied up for now.”
When she left, Timms said, “Run this by me again…”
“The facts as we know them,” Casey said. “Trudy out running. Strangled at the park, we believe by Darrell Fife, now DOA at the morgue, in what appears to be a copycat murder. Waiting on DNA, but the doc feels it’s our guy.”
“But,” Al said, “looking less like a psycho copycat and more like a planned copycat. Which, when you think about it, supports the hit theory. What was it Edwards told us? The murder du jour. What better way to make sure your homicide gets lost in the shuffle? Make it look like all the others.”
“Suspects?”
“None that stand out,” Casey said. “We have her husband, Tony Salvatori, who had fling with his real estate agent. Then the neighbor, Marcie Valentine, whose husband Devin seemed to bristle at the mention of an alleged affair. Only he thought we were talking about one between him and Trudy.” Casey looked over at Al, figuring this was now the time to mention the information about the allegations made by the Salvatoris’ real estate agent. Al nodded, and Casey said, “What we were asking about was an affair between our victim, Trudy, and someone in Congressman Parnell’s campaign office. The office manager, apparently.”
“Which,” Al added, “certainly moves a lot of people up a notch as suspects—at least if they had issues with the affair and being discovered. This is about as far from some random copycat murder as you can get.”
“Where did you hear about the affairs?” Timms asked Al.
“The real estate agent. The one with her and Tony. And that Trudy was sleeping around and Tony knew it.”
Timms’s telephone rang, but he muted it and let it go to voice mail. “Does the husband have any insurance policies on her?”
“We’ll be checking. As for Devin, the kid here just sort of threw the affair question out there, and he reacted. But he denied having one. So there you go.”
“This alleged affair with the office manager. Tell me we haven’t gone charging into Parnell’s offices demanding to know who’s sleeping with who.”
“Not yet,” Casey said. “But he did say to call if we needed anything.”
Al scoffed. “Which would be nice if it meant anything more than a politician simply moving his lips. And that offer was made before we realized someone placed a hit on the victim.”
“If,” Timms said, “you even look in that direction, you better make sure we have good reason.”
“Murder’s a pretty good reason,” Casey replied. “Why would he object?”
“Politics 101, College Boy. It’s election time,” Al said. “You turn over the wrong rock in the congressman’s camp, he’ll crush you with it.”
“Unless someone in his camp is guilty of murder. Look at what we’re dealing with here. A rumor of an affair had to start somewhere.”
“Unless,” Al said, “she was screwing Parnell himself, hard to imagine anyone there would pay to off her. What would some volunteer worker have to lose?”
“Don’t forget,” Casey said. “Trudy also handled the books for Parnell’s campaign office. What if she discovered something? Some impropriety with the accounting?”
“Parnell?” Al replied. “Skimming his own funds? I’d like to think someone who’s been in office as long as he has isn’t that stupid. I voted for him, after all.”
“Casey’s right,” Timms said. “Doesn’t have to be the congressman. Maybe it’s someone else. Money’s money, and people have killed for a lot less.”
“Maybe,” Al said, “it’s someone who has access to the books. Skim enough and she notices, maybe approaches the guy, and bam, she’s on a hit list.”
“All good theories,” Timms said. “Except that we have nothing to base them on. Get Jon Gregory’s wife in here. Let’s see if we can’t ID the person who gave her the money to give to her son. If someone placed a hit on Trudy Salvatori, we need to find out who and why. And that includes anyone from Parnell’s camp, should they end up on the suspect list.” Timms turned a stern eye on Casey. “Parnell and the captain are personal friends, and I, for one, don’t want to be transferred to midnights. So cover all your bases.” He glanced out the window, his gaze fixed on the gray buildings for a moment before turning back toward Al and Casey. “I’ll brief the captain. You get started on the affidavits for the search warrants. First thing in the morning, I want those things served.”
TWENTY-SIX
Casey was printing out the search warrants for phone and bank records on the Salvatoris, the Valentines, and Parnell’s campaign office when Zwingler and Haynes walked in the next morning. Zwingler saw him, unlocked his desk, and held up the video evidence that Jenn Barstow had given him. “Here ya go, kid,” Zwingler said, tossing the flash drive onto Casey’s desk.
“Thanks.”
“So aren’t you going to pop it in? Take a l
ook?”
“Don’t suppose you could have a look at it? Need to finish up these warrants so they’re ready to go. New lead in the Presidio case.”
“What’s the lead?”
Casey pulled out the photo the CSI had printed of the money found in Fife’s mother’s house.
“Whoa,” Zwingler said. “Glad it’s you and not me.”
Haynes took the photo from Casey. “Maybe you can check with the bank, see if they remember giving anyone ten K recently. Can’t be all that many people walking in, asking for that kind of money.”
“Already thought of that,” Casey said. “Just that there’s an awful lot of banks out there.”
“Start with the branch used by your suspects. You might get lucky.”
Zwingler gave a sarcastic laugh. “Who’s that stupid they’re going to use their own branch to withdraw hit money?”
“It happens,” Haynes said. “There’s a lot of dumb crooks out there.”
Casey took back the photo. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to make this look like a Strangler case. Can’t imagine they’d slip up on something simple like that.”
“Never know,” Haynes replied.
“Bad news,” Al said, hanging up his phone. “Jon Gregory can’t get ahold of his wife. This whole Strangler accusation of her son’s got her freaked out—his words. Apparently she left a note saying she and her sister were going to some spa in Calistoga and won’t be back until late tonight.”
“No idea what spa?”
“Not a clue. He’ll call the moment she gets back.”
“Guess all we can do for now is hit the banks.”
Casey and Al served the first search warrant at Devin and Marcie Valentine’s bank, since it was the closest. When the branch manager, a man in his early thirties, was waiting for the records to come off the printer, Casey showed him the photo of the bundled hundreds. “Any chance you know if this came from your bank?” Casey asked.
“Was our stamp on it?”
“Your stamp?”
“We stamp every band that leaves our bank with the branch number. The employee who counted it initials it. That way if there are any errors, we know where to look.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a stamp, then pressed it against the manila folder in which he’d placed the printouts of the Valentines’ records. The branch number in purple ink was clearly visible along with a line where the employee would presumably place his or her initials. “Just one of our rules. Of course, those currency bands can be purchased anywhere. Internet, Walmart. It may not have even come from a bank.”
Casey and Al thanked him then left with records in hand.
Al immediately started scanning the paperwork when he got into the car.
Casey, however, eyed the stamp on the folder. “Was there any writing on the band around those hundreds?”
“What?” Al said, looking up.
“On the currency band.”
“I only looked at the one side. Didn’t want to smear any possible prints. But the CSI who handled it must have snapped a dozen pictures before she processed it. Give her a call and see if she can’t text a photo of the other side to you.”
Casey did that. Then he started the car and drove to the next bank, a ten-minute drive from their location. He parked in front at the street, and Al placed the Official SFPD Business placard on the dash.
“Anything show up in the Valentine documents?” he asked Al.
“Nothing that screams ‘look at me.’ A thousand withdrawal here and there. Definitely nothing that adds up to ten K. Of course, were you really expecting to find anything in the Valentines’ records?”
“No reason to. Yet. Maybe we’ll have better luck with the Salvatoris’ bank.”
Al carried the manila folder containing the search warrants and the Valentines’ bank records into the building. Casey followed him in, checking his phone for a response from the CSI who had photographed the money in its wrapper. “Got it,” he said, showing the photo to Al.
The mustard yellow wrapper had a BT 2462 written in blue ink and below that AB. All of it appeared to be in the same hand. Just no official stamp.
“Better than nothing,” Al said.
And like at the first bank, they served the warrant to the manager, this man older, about Al’s age, early fifties. He printed out the requested records for the Salvatoris. Once that was done, Casey showed him the photo on his phone of the money and what was written on the band.
“Not ours,” the man said. “We always use a stamp. But BT could be Bay Trust. There’s a branch right across the street.”
Casey and Al glanced out the window to the Bay Trust Mutual office. It was, in fact, the bank used by Parnell’s campaign office. And next on their stop.
“Keep this low key,” Al told Casey as they entered the Bay Trust branch office. “We don’t show the paper work to anyone but the manager, and we sure as hell don’t mention Parnell’s name aloud. They can read it on the documents.”
A lot of good it did them, because the moment they handed over the warrant, the manager, a young man in his early thirties named Bob Kingston, said, “As in Congressman Parnell?”
“Not him personally,” Casey said, aware that several tellers and their customers looked up on hearing the man’s voice. “His campaign accounts. I believe that Trudy Salvatori would have had signing authority on the checks.”
“Right. This way, please.”
He took them to his desk which was set toward the back, facing all the tellers on the floor. “The congressman wasn’t involved, was he?”
Al said, “This is all routine. We’re just trying to re-create Ms. Salvatori’s last days. Did she handle the banking at this branch?”
“I don’t recognize her name or the congressman’s,” he said, typing into his computer. “I mean, as customers. It looks like…Yes. They did most of their banking online. I don’t show either using this specific branch.”
Casey leaned over, trying to see what the manager was referencing. “Do you have any idea when’s the last time she came into this branch?”
“She didn’t. At least I don’t show a record of it. She, or rather someone from the campaign office, did conduct a few transactions at the branch closer to their office. Looks like a few checks were made out to cash.”
“For how much?”
“Couple hundred here and there. Petty cash fund, maybe?”
“Anything bigger?” Casey asked.
“No. Nothing that I can see in the last few months. Big deposits, of course. I expect those are contributions, but withdrawals?”
He printed out the corresponding documents and handed them over.
Al thanked him then to Casey said, “Show him the photo.”
Casey took his phone and brought up the picture the CSI had sent, showing it to Mr. Kingston. “Any chance this money came from your bank?”
Bob’s gaze narrowed. “Can you enlarge the writing on the currency band?”
Casey ran his fingers across the photo so that the writing filled most of the screen.
Bob nodded. “It had to come from this office. That’s our branch number.”
“Any idea who might have written that on the band?”
“That’s got to be the teller’s initials. AB…” He glanced out to the floor. “Possibly April Brennan?”
“Mind if we talk to her?”
“I’ll get her for you.”
He walked over, said something quiet into the teller’s ear. He stood by while she finished her transaction then put a Closed sign in her window. She followed him over to his desk, where he introduced her to Casey and Al, finishing with, “They have a few questions about some money you may have handled.”
She seemed a bit nervous but smiled at them, saying, “Okay.”
Casey showed her the photo on his phone. “Is this
your signature?”
The bank teller looked at the photograph of the mustard yellow band around the stack of hundred-dollar bills. “My initials. Yes.”
“Any chance you recall banding this money?”
The young woman stared at the photo for several seconds. “Is something wrong? I counted it very carefully.”
Al leaned forward slightly so that she could see his face as he turned that fatherly smile on to her. “You’re not in any trouble, April. Anything at all you can tell us about that money and whoever you gave it to will help.”
She smiled back, nodded, then returned her gaze to the band. “A woman came in. She had ten thousand dollars in cash in her purse. A lot of tens, mostly twenties. She said she found it in her grandmother’s closet after she died. Her grandmother, uh, didn’t believe in banks, is what the woman told me.”
“You’re sure that was this stack?”
“Definitely. It’s the first time I ever counted that much money. Like I said, all tens and twenties.” She glanced at the manager, then back at Al. “She wanted it changed to hundreds, so I counted the money from her purse, then turned it into the manager to exchange it for a bundle of hundreds. I’m new. So I wanted to make sure everything was right.”
“And when was it you put your initials on the band?”
“After I removed the hundreds, counted them out to verify, then rebanded them.”
“Did she count them at all?”
“Not here. She watched me count it, of course. Then she put the stack in her purse and left.”
The manager said, “We can pull the security video for you to see if that will help. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Casey told him. As he left, Casey said to the teller, “It’d help if you recall anything else about her.”
She glanced toward her window as though trying to remember that day. “I remember she was dressed all in black and wore a big hat and sunglasses. She told me her eyes were swollen from crying. But I recognized her anyway.”
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