“You recognized her?”
“She cashes checks in here all the time. Give me a sec and I’ll think of her name. She was always so nice. Chatting about this or that…Why do I think her last name starts with an F? On the tip of my tongue.”
The manager returned. “I have the video if you’d like to come back and see.”
The three followed him to a back office where he accessed a computer, bringing up the day in question, fast-forwarding until the teller stopped him. “Right there,” she said, pointing to the screen. “That’s her walking in the door.”
And as described, they saw a woman wearing a black hat, the wide brim shadowing most of her face. It was only when she turned slightly that Casey saw she also wore sunglasses, the sort favored by movie stars who wanted to hide from public view. She was dressed completely in black and carried a black tote over her shoulder. Casey watched as she waited in line, then strode up to the teller window, placing money on the counter from her tote.
“Foulke!” the teller said, her face lighting up. “Her last name.”
Al, his gaze still on the video, said, “Any chance you recall a first name?”
She eyed the screen, then closed her eyes. “Marge?”
“She have an account here?” Casey asked.
“I don’t think so. She came in quite often, though. To cash checks. Nothing too big. One or two hundred dollars. But they were all from the same account.”
“Belonging to…?”
“Congressman Parnell.”
Al nodded at the monitor. “Can you back up that video to when she walks up to the teller window?”
The manager did as asked.
“Recognize that hat?” Al asked, pointing. “The purple flower?”
The moment he mentioned it, Casey remembered where he’d seen it. “The coatrack in Marcie’s house.”
“No,” the teller said. “Not Marcie. Margie. That was her name. Margie Foulke.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Marcie’s first instinct after receiving the call from Sergeant Kellog was to telephone Devin to let him know. But ever since Trudy’s murder and the installation of their alarm system, he treated her like she was this fragile thing that might break.
In some ways he was right. If it weren’t for the pills he was giving her at night, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. How could she? Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Trudy’s lifeless eyes staring up at her.
The guilt weighed on her.
Gnawed at her gut.
She’d thought Trudy was sleeping with Devin. How could she not with all the time those two seemed to have spent together?
Planning a birthday getaway, Devin had said. And she opened the drawer in the kitchen, found the pamphlet for the bed and breakfast in Napa. She’d ruined everything with her petty jealousy of Trudy.
Everything.
And now the police wanted to talk to her. Again.
That gnawing feeling intensified, and she sucked in a breath, told herself it was nothing. What was the term they used? Just routine? And really, if it was something serious, wouldn’t they ask her to come down to the Hall of Justice? Not come here?
That was the thing she clung to. The belief that if they thought she was guilty of something, they wouldn’t be talking to her in her own house.
She glanced up at the camera on top of the refrigerator aimed toward the back door. Ever since that one night, there had been no more incidents. Granted she never returned the spare key to the flower pot on the back porch. That whole thing, finding the door open, had been freaky.
The knock at the front startled her, even though she’d been expecting it. She returned the pamphlet to the drawer, closed it, then walked into the living room.
At the second sharp knock, she hurried over and opened the door to the two detectives who had been there before. She told herself to smile but somehow couldn’t make it happen. “Come in,” she said.
They filed past her into the living room. The older one removed his hat, saying, “Thank you, Mrs. Valentine. We appreciate your time.” His gaze caught on the coat-tree. “Is that yours?”
“What?”
“The hat. I noticed that on our first visit. It’s yours?”
She eyed it, trying to figure out why he’d be interested. “Yes.”
“I like hats. You wear it often?”
“Not really. I just like the way it looks there.” She saw him pull out his phone, accessing something on the screen. “Is there something I can do for you?”
He smiled at her, then turned to his partner, Sergeant Kellog, who opened up a dark-blue portfolio containing a manila folder thick with papers. “Mrs. Valentine,” Sergeant Kellog said, “can you give me your cell phone number? We don’t seem to have that number listed anywhere.”
“Of course.” She gave it to them. After all, she’d erased the texts.
The front door burst open, and Devin strode in. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Sergeant Kellog stood. “Just a few more questions while we try to finish up our investigation.”
“Then you can come back when our attorney is present,” he said. “My wife is under enough stress without you interrogating her in our own living room.”
“Why would I need an attorney?” she asked, worried that the very mention of one made her look guilty. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Devin pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling him now,” he said.
She turned to the two detectives. “What other questions are we talking about?”
Sergeant Kellog deferred to his partner, who said, “Do you have an account at Bay Trust Mutual?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone named Margie Foulke?”
Devin looked up from his phone at the name.
She tried to remain calm. It meant nothing. “You mean Marcie Foulke? It’s my maiden name. What does this have to do with anything?”
“Because,” the detective said. “Someone wearing that hat with that flower”—he said, nodding toward the coatrack—“cashed checks under the name Margie Foulke.”
Devin pinned his gaze on her. “Not another word, Marce,” and then into the phone, he said, “Adam? Devin Valentine. The police are here questioning my wife…” He turned his back to them, walking out to the porch, where he lowered his voice. “I don’t know…Some stupid hat hanging in our house. Black with a blue flower.”
“Purple,” Marcie corrected.
“Purple flower,” he said, sounding annoyed. “They think my wife was wearing it in a bank where some checks were cashed…”
Marcie leaned forward so that she could see out the door. His back was to them, and she saw his shoulders tensing as he nodded. “Okay. Got it.” He turned, walked into the house, faced the two detectives. “You need to leave. At once. If you want to question us further, you can do it through our attorney, Adam Murphy.”
“Actually,” the older one said, “we’re questioning your wife. The decision is hers.”
Marcie glanced at her husband. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. She could see it in his face. “I’m sorry,” she said to them. “You’ll have to leave.”
Devin stood aside, waiting for the two detectives to file past him and out the door. The older one smiled again. “We’ll be in touch.”
Devin slammed the door, then faced Marcie. “What are you thinking, talking to them?”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Call me. Lucky for you, one of the neighbors did. What if you said something that—” He suddenly remembered that their attorney was still on the phone, and he put it to his ear. “Sorry, Adam…. Yeah. They’re gone.” He listened a moment, then, “We will. Talk to you later.”
He shoved the phone in his pocket then walked over to Marcie. “No more talking to the cops without Adam by your
side. Promise?”
“Promise.”
She glanced out the window, saw the two detectives standing by their car. But instead of getting in and driving off, they walked over to Tony’s door. “Why are they going over there?”
“Doesn’t matter. Tony’s not home,” Devin said, pulling the curtain aside. And sure enough, a moment later the cops returned to their car then drove off. He faced Marcie. “What did you tell them?”
“I didn’t need to tell them anything. They wanted my cell phone number.”
He walked to the front door and opened it.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Out. This is too much for me to deal with. I just need some alone time.”
She heard his car drive off. Then she sat there, chewing her nails to shreds, the whole time her gaze locked on that hat…
TWENTY-EIGHT
The office was abuzz with activity when Casey and Al returned with the bank documents as well as the photo Al took on his phone of Marcie’s hat. But before they even had a chance to sit down and analyze the significance of what they’d learned, Zwingler called them over to his desk. “You have to see this. The video I picked up yesterday from your reporter friend.”
Casey hesitated. There were definite issues with what they’d discovered at the bank, possibly turning the Presidio investigation around. Casey wanted to be there when Al briefed Lieutenant Timms on what they’d found. But his curiosity about what might be on Jenn Barstow’s flash drive got the better of him. “How long are the videos?”
“Not more than a couple minutes each.”
Al slapped Casey on the back. “You go ahead. I’ll get started with Timms.”
“Be right there,” he told Al.
Casey rolled his chair over to Zwingler’s desk and sat while Zwingler inserted the flash drive into his computer. “Check out the date,” Zwingler said, tapping his monitor.
There were four files containing video clips, each marked by the date about a week before the murder, and he opened the first. It appeared to have been filmed from inside someone’s vehicle, but between the poor resolution, the glare of headlights, and the sound of passing traffic, little could be heard of what was going on outside. Just shaky video images of Bella Orlando walking the street. Every now and then a vehicle would stop, and Bella walked up to talk to the driver. Most times the vehicle left. On one occasion, Bella got into the car. But instead of driving off, the vehicle backed up then pulled into the alley, driving to the far end.
Zwingler tapped his screen again. “Isn’t that where she was killed?”
Casey leaned in for a closer look. “Looks like it.”
But if he was expecting anything unusual to happen there, nothing did. Not that they could see into the truck, since the headlights were on. After a few minutes, Bella got out, pocketing money or drugs, then sauntered back down the alley to the street where she waited for the next customer.
The second clip was much the same as the first. The third, however, was shot just before dusk, giving them a better view of the vehicles and the men driving them. A pickup truck slowed, the driver rolling down his passenger window, leaning toward Bella, apparently conversing with her. But suddenly Bella started yelling at someone off camera—at least it appeared that way, since she was too far for them to hear—and they only had Jenn’s voice, narrating, “Uh oh. I think she got caught,” as Bella stormed toward the source of her displeasure. A uniformed security guard walked into view, pointing with his side-handled baton, as though telling her to leave, and Jenn saying, “Yep. Caught,” as the driver of the pickup truck sped off, probably unnerved by the guard’s presence and the verbal altercation. It ended with Bella running the opposite direction and the guard following her.
It didn’t seem like anything that could be used.
The fourth clip was filmed on the same date as the third and started with a shot of the same alley with Jenn’s voice narrating. “I hope she’s okay. I’m worried in case that guard called the police on her—” She stopped when Bella stumbled into view from a recessed doorway in the alley. The prostitute hesitated then walked across the street toward Jenn Barstow’s car, which is when the picture abruptly shifted, the view swinging toward the steering wheel, then downward, everything going black, as though Jenn had dropped the phone out of view, not even having time to shut off the video as a muffled voice said, “Hey. Let me in.”
The sound of automatic locks popping, a door opening then closing, the locks again, and Jenn saying, “What were you thinking out there?”
A hoarse laugh. “Ruin your big ex-pose-ay?”
“Forget the article. He could have you arrested.”
They heard a sharp intake of breath and then several loud thuds as though someone was hitting the car or its windows. Then a man’s voice yelling, “You bitch! Look what you did to me!” More pounding.
Bella’s voice saying, “Go to hell.”
“Oh my God,” Jenn said. A rustling noise as she pulled her phone from wherever it was hidden. Then brightness, the picture flashing across her purse, then to Bella in the passenger seat. And finally a shot of a man at the window, a stream of blood pouring down his temple.
He slammed his hand against the glass. “Bitch! I’ll kill you! Look what you did to me!”
And the video stopped.
“You see that?” Zwingler said, his voice excited.
“What do you think? She whacked the guy with something?”
“Not that. Take a closer look at the guy in the window. Hold on.” He backed it up to that point. “Right there.”
It was a moment before Casey saw past the bloody hand against the glass, concentrating less on the man’s reaction and more on his identifying features. And that was when he realized what it was he’d missed the first time around in the corner of the screen. There one second, gone the next.
A white patch on the dark sleeve of the guy’s jacket. Not the whole thing, but enough to be sure.
“The security guard,” Casey said.
“What are the chances he’s the same one listed as a witness in her murder? That Francis Dunmore.”
Casey leaned back in his chair, his thoughts spinning as his gaze settled on the far side of the room where Robbery was housed. “Hey. Edwards. You ever get a CSI to check that banister for prints out at Ghirardelli?”
Virgil Edwards looked up from his computer. “Yeah. Good catch, by the way. We found one. But it was a partial. Decent, but unless you’re pulling a suspect out of your hat, there it sits. Useless.”
“Actually, I might have one for you.”
“You’re kidding?”
“A long shot, but worth looking at.”
Edwards slid his chair back, stood, then walked over.
“Play the last video, Zwingler,” Casey said.
He did as asked, and Edwards watched it through to the end. “What makes you think it’s related?”
“That video from Ghirardelli shows a guy in dark slacks and dark shoes. What if it’s the bottom half of a security uniform? Who better to blend into the background than a security guard?”
“Hey, Bishop,” Edwards called out. “Bring over that Ghirardelli CD.”
Mark Bishop gave it to Zwingler. “About three minutes in.”
Zwingler popped it into the drive, opened the file, and found the segment.
“Pause it,” Edwards said. Then to Bishop, he asked, “That look like a security guard’s bottom half to you?”
Bishop leaned in closer for a better look. “Or a bus driver.”
“Son of a…Zwing, show Bishop the video of the guy banging on the window.”
Zwingler switched to that picture.
“Damn,” Bishop said. Then to Casey, “You got a name for this guy?”
“Possibly Francis Dunmore, the security guard named as a witness in the murde
r of Bella Orlando. That’d be the girl sitting in the passenger seat.”
Bishop jotted the name down on a piece of paper. “If he’s working security anywhere, there’s gotta be prints on file. I’ll run him, see if we can get those prints, and do a comparison on that partial.”
He and Edwards returned to their desks, and a moment later Al walked in from the lieutenant’s office. “Find something interesting?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“Hey, Kellog!” Bishop called out from across the room. “What’s the name of the security company Dunmore was working for at the time? I ran him, and he’s not showing up as a licensed guard in California.”
“A2Z,” Casey said. “The two being a numeral.”
“Thanks.”
Al said, “What’s that about?”
Casey told him about the security guard in Jenn’s video.
“Huh. Wouldn’t that be the catch of the decade.” He set a thick manila folder on Casey’s desk. “More good news. Texts from Trudy’s phone are in.”
“What about Marcie’s?”
“Different phone company, unfortunately. But they’re pretty quick.” He opened the folder, tapping on the top page. “This, College Boy, is about as close as you can get to a smoking gun. Trudy’s affair was not with the office manager. It was with Congressman Parnell.”
“Can’t imagine his constituents would be too thrilled if that were to get out.”
“Can’t imagine he would be, either. The lieutenant wants us to get out there and serve that search warant on Parnell’s office ASAP.”
TWENTY-NINE
As much as Casey wanted to find out the results on Bishop’s comparison of Dunmore’s prints to that found at the Ghirardelli assault, his priority was the Presidio murder. Between the teller’s recollection of checks being drawn on Parnell’s account and the phone records showing what could only be described as highly suggestive texts between the congressman and Trudy Salvatori, the course of their investigation had changed. If anyone had reason to silence Trudy Salvatori about the affair, it would be the man up for reelection.
The Last Good Place Page 17