MD07 - Perfect Alibi Page 11

  “We’re only interested in one: from Savage’s cell phone.”

  “He’s my boss. He calls me all the time.”

  “Why’d he call you last night?”

  “To tell me to pick up a package this morning.”

  “From whom?”

  “One of our customers.”

  “Which one?”

  “Cole Valley Auto Body.”

  “What kind of package?”

  “An envelope.”

  “What was inside?”

  “Beats me.” Hannah’s eyes narrow. “I get paid to tow cars, make deliveries, and keep my mouth shut. If you want to know what was inside the package, you’ll have to talk to George.”

  # # #

  We’re sitting in Pete’s car a few minutes later. He’s parked in the McDonald’s parking lot across the street from Kezar Pavilion. I say goodbye to Roosevelt and flip my cell phone shut.

  “Is Roosevelt going to talk to Hannah?” Pete asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell him Hannah admitted he was parked down the street from the judge’s house last night?”

  “Of course. But it doesn’t place him inside.”

  “Hannah’s rap sheet is a mile long.”

  “Roosevelt is going to talk to him.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “What else do you expect him to do?”

  “Lean on him. Hannah was in the vicinity. He got a call from a man who threatened the judge.”

  “It isn’t enough to arrest him, Pete.”

  “Hannah knows more than he told us.”

  “Maybe. Do you think it was a good idea to hassle him?”

  “I wasn’t hassling him. I was interviewing a potential suspect.”

  “He’s going to tell Savage he’s on our radar.”

  “Savage is a smart guy. He already knows.”

  “He’ll deny any involvement.”

  “Then we should watch him,” he says. “Maybe he’ll make a mistake.”

  “Maybe. Otherwise, this exercise was probably a waste of time.”

  “Not entirely.” He opens his jacket and pulls out one of the weights that Thunder was holding when we first arrived. “We should be able to lift some prints off this,” he says, “along with some DNA.”

  “You stole it?”

  “I borrowed it.”

  He isn’t planning to give it back. “You realize stealing is illegal.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “We’ll never be able to use it in court.”

  “I understand. We need to find out if the cops lifted any prints from inside the judge’s house. If we can match them to the prints on this dumbbell, we’ll know Hannah was inside. Then it just becomes a matter of proving it—legally.”

  “We still can’t use any prints lifted from the dumbbell.”

  “You’re a smart lawyer. You’ll find a way to work around it—and nobody will ever need to know about my little petty theft.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Grow up, Mick.”

  “I’ll have to deny that this conversation ever took place.”

  “Your moral indignation is duly noted. Where are we going next?”

  “It’s been a stressful day. It’s only fifteen minutes to the Tenderloin. I think I could use a massage.”

  23/ WE’RE A FULLY LICENSED FACILITY

  Saturday, June 18, 11:47 p.m.

  “This is a bad idea, Mick.”

  “I’ll be fine, Pete.”

  My brother’s modifed police-issue Chrysler is parked at the corner of Eddy and Leavenworth, halfway between the elegant shops of Union Square and the majestic rotunda of City Hall. The Tenderloin is one of the few areas in San Francisco that somehow continues to elude gentrification. Its low-rise residential hotels, teeming streets, and narrow alleys are home to the destitute and the disenfranchised. The neighborhood takes its name from an infamous district in Manhattan where the cops used to supplement their meager earnings with extortion money. They spent their spoils on the choicest cuts of meat. The sidewalks here smell of urine and the streets are populated by drug dealers and sex workers. The Sunshine Massage Spa operates on the top two floors of a crumbling three-story building. The ground-floor space next to the garage is home to a peep show and a locksmith shop.

  “Let me handle it, Mick.”

  “I want to see what’s inside.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “They sell sex, not guns.”

  “Then let’s go together. We’ll get a group rate.”

  “It’ll be less conspicuous if just one of us goes inside.”

  “They’ll know you don’t belong.”

  “They cater to judges and lawyers.”

  “I can look upscale,” he says.

  “I can act upscale.”

  My brother isn’t convinced. “Ever been inside a whorehouse?”

  “A couple of times.”

  He can’t contain a smile. “I had no idea, Mick. When you were a priest?”

  “No. When I was a lawyer. And it was official business.”

  “Sure, Mick.”

  “Rosie and I have represented a few madams and hookers.” We draw the line at pimps.

  “Did they pay their bills?”

  “Always.”

  “Did anybody ever offer you a tip?”

  “Knock it off, Pete.”

  He turns serious. “What are you planning to do inside?”

  “I want to look around.”

  “This isn’t Nordstrom’s. You aren’t allowed to window shop.”

  “I want to identify Judge Fairchild’s girl.”

  “You should let me identify Judge Fairchild’s girl.”

  “You can track her down later.”

  “What are you going to do if you find her?”

  “Ask her a few questions.”

  “You don’t get to ask questions inside a brothel, Mick.”

  “According to my former clients, you can do whatever you want as long as you’re willing to pay for it.”

  We argue about it for a couple of minutes before he finally relents. “Keep your cell phone on,” he says. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  # # #

  “Who sent you?” A stern voice barks from the intercom.

  “The judge,” I say. I’m standing in front of the iron gate at the entrance of the Sunshine Massage Spa at midnight, a thick fog settling over the city.

  “Cash only,” the voice says.

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  A moment later, an imposing young Asian man with slick black hair and arms covered with dragon tattoos appears on the other side of the gate. The Sunshine’s first line of defense wasn’t hired for his exemplary customer service skills. "What do you want?” he snaps.

  “A massage,” I say.

  “You a cop?”

  Give him points for directness. “No. I’m a lawyer.”

  “Let me see your driver’s license.”

  I hold it up to the gate.

  “Pass it through,” he says.

  “When we get upstairs,” I say.

  “Two hundred in cash,” he says. “Up front.”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Now.”

  I push a wad of twenties through the metal bars.

  “Wait here.”

  # # #

  The elegant Asian woman of indeterminate middle age with dyed black hair and a flowing red dress smiles seductively as she checks me out in the small foyer at the top of the rickety stairway. “I am Miss Amanda,” she says in lightly accented English. She’s been through this ritual countless times and is undoubtedly fluent in several languages—the most important being the language of money. “Welcome to the Sunshine.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The ten-by-ten room is furnished with an L-shaped leather sofa and two small side chairs. The cracked gray walls are covered with cheaply framed travel posters of dow
ntown Seoul. The aroma of lavender candles wafts through the heavy air in an effort to blunt the smell of cleaning solvent.

  “Louis tells me it’s your first time here,” she says.

  “It is.” Louis is the muscle-bound guy with the tattoos who answered the buzzer and escorted me upstairs. My new pal is probably a member of Miss Amanda’s extended family—the side that hits people with tire irons. He’s retreated to an adjacent office where he’s watching a Korean soap opera on a small black-and white TV. I have no doubt he’ll reappear in an instant if Miss Amanda needs assistance.

  “How did you find us?” the madam asks.

  “The judge recommended your services very highly,” I say.

  “How nice. Which judge?”

  I wonder how many judges have passed through these hallowed halls. “Judge Fairchild.”

  “Judge Fairchild,” she repeats. A phony frown replaces her phony smile. “It is very sad.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Are you also a judge?” she asks.

  “A lawyer,” I say.

  “A lawyer,” she repeats. The smile reappears. Premium rates. “How can we help you?”

  “Judge Fairchild told me you offer a variety of services.”

  “We’re a fully licensed facility.”

  I’ll bet. “The judge said your girls give wonderful massages.”

  Her gracious tone can’t mask the suspicion in her eyes. “They do.”

  “How do we start?”

  “We require a deposit of three hundred dollars from new customers.”

  High rent in a low-rent district. “I already gave two hundred dollars to Louis.”

  “That was the entrance fee for first-time guests. This is an additional deposit.”

  And a test of my creditworthiness. I’m reasonably sure there are no refunds. "That’s fine,” I say. I pull out my wallet and hand her the money.

  “I’ll need another two hundred dollars for the initial services,” she says.

  This is getting expensive. I quickly hand her more twenties.

  “Please wait here for a moment,” she says. “I’ll bring some of our girls for you to meet.”

  “Thank you.”

  She glides through the torn velvet curtain leading to the private rooms in the back. Louis eyes me warily as I wait by myself. Miss Amanda returns a moment later with a half-dozen waif-thin Asian girls wearing identical white dresses. They take their places on the sofa. The oldest looks sixteen. She’s slightly more adept at faking a smile than her younger counterparts, who look uncomfortable as they stare across the room.

  “Very lovely,” I say.

  “Thank you,” Miss Amanda says. “Is there anybody you would like to meet?”

  “Judge Fairchild’s favorite.”

  Miss Amanda frowns. “I’m afraid Jasmine isn’t working tonight.”

  I feign disappointment. I’m also surprised Miss Amanda doesn’t call Jasmine on a pager. “I would really like to meet her,” I say. “Will she be available tomorrow?”

  “Yes. She’s one of our most requested girls.”

  “I’ll come back.”

  Miss Amanda doesn’t bother making a token gesture of returning my so-called deposit.

  # # #

  My brother is genuinely interested when I get back to the car. “Did you get lucky, Mick?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You just looked?”

  “More or less.”

  Pete’s disappointed. “Did you see a guy with tattoos?”

  “Yes. His name is Louis. He’s the muscle guy.”

  “Did you get a last name?”

  “No.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “Not much. He has a limited vocabulary.”

  “He was watching you from the window when you left.”

  “I need you to find a girl named Jasmine,” I say. “It’s probably not her real name.”

  “Did you get a last name?”

  “Nope.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Young, Asian, and petite.”

  “That’s helpful, Mick. Can you be more specific?”

  “I’m afraid not. She wasn’t working tonight.”

  “How much cash do you have left?”

  “About five hundred bucks.”

  “You’ve already dropped almost a thousand bucks?”

  “Justice is expensive, Pete.”

  “I’m in the wrong line of work. I hope you can bill this to the client.”

  “I can.”

  “Gimme the money, Mick.”

  I hand him a roll of twenties. “Are you planning to sample the goods?”

  “I’m a married man. Donna would kill me.”

  “You aren’t tempted?”

  “That would involve unpleasant ramifications for some of my favorite body parts.”

  “Got it. So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to find Jasmine.”

  “Right now?”

  “Later. I want to show you something first.”

  24/ IT’S A CHOP SHOP

  Sunday, June 19, 1:18 a.m.

  “Why are we here?” I ask Pete.

  “Keep your voice and your head down. You’re going to ruin my day if you get our asses killed.”

  Over the years, I’ve learned it’s good for my health to do as he says. We’re parked at Third and Oakdale—known to the locals as the corner of Heroin and Crack. It’s the scariest spot in San Francisco’s most dangerous neighborhood. The Bayview once housed thousands of people who worked at the adjacent Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, a massive base shut down in the seventies. It’s been a decaying toxic swamp ever since. The Bayview now has the highest poverty, unemployment, teen pregnancy, and homicide rates in San Francisco. An attempt to redevelop the old Naval base finally gained traction during the boom times in the nineties. There are signs of economic life in the depressed community. Real estate prices are starting to edge upward, and a new light rail line connects the southeast corner of the City to downtown. Whether there will be sufficient economic momentum to replace the numerous liquor stores and currency exchanges dotting almost every corner remains to be seen.

  I try again. “Why did you drag me down here?”

  “To show you where George Savage works.”

  The expansive impound lot is encircled by an electrifed chain link fence topped with razor wire. Hundreds of towed cars are parked haphazardly inside. There’s a small tollbooth-like structure at the gate where you go to retrieve your car from the helpful attendants who work behind bulletproof Plexiglas.

  “I would have taken your word for it without a tour,” I say. I point toward a two-story brick building on the corner of the lot surrounded by yet another barbed-wire fence. Savage values his personal safety as much as his inventory. The lights are on, and there is activity inside. “What’s in there?”

  “That’s the warehouse for Savage’s auto parts business,” he says. “He’s one of the biggest distributors on the West Coast.”

  “I didn’t realize the auto parts business was a round-the-clock operation,” I say.

  “It isn’t—except here. At night it’s a chop shop.”

  It’s the euphemism for an operation that resells stolen auto parts. “Why don’t they shut him down?” I ask.

  “He’s the biggest employer in the Bayview. He paid for a couple of new baseball felds. He gives money to the schools and hires kids from the area.”

  “The DA filed criminal charges against him for skimming money.”

  “Savage paid his fine and picked up where he left off.”

  “What does this have to do with us?”

  “Maybe nothing.” He gestures toward another small building adjacent to the warehouse. “That’s where they crush the junkers.”

  “So what?”

  “I’ve had somebody watching them tonight. Among other things, they crushed a gray Crown Victoria.”

  “You think it was the C
rown Vic that was parked in front of Judge Fairchild’s house last night?”

  “I don’t know. It could be just a coincidence.”

  25/ I’M GETTING TOO OLD FOR ALL-NIGHTERS

  Sunday, June 19, 1:40 a.m.

  “Inspector Johnson,” the voice says.

  “Roosevelt, it’s Mike.” The fog hanging over the bay makes it hard to see as I drive across the Golden Gate Bridge. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

  “I was still up.”

  He’ll never admit he’s tired.

  He quickly adds, “This better be good if you’re calling at this hour.”

  “Pete and I spent some time with George Savage’s operator in Cole Valley.”

  “We’ve already talked to Brian Hannah.”

  He’s moving quickly. “Did he mention that his truck was parked down the block from Judge Fairchild’s house at midnight last night?”

  “He said he was looking for cars in the vicinity.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier for him to have cruised the neighborhood in his truck?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Did he tell you he got a call from Savage at eleven o’clock last night?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Roosevelt and Hannah are playing it straight. “Did you consider the possibility he may have been looking for Judge Fairchild?”

  “The thought crossed my mind. There’s still the small matter of proving he was inside the judge’s house.”

  “Did you check for his prints?”

  “Of course. We had his prints on file from his prior arrests. So far, no matches inside the house.”

  So much for Pete’s stolen dumbbell. “He could have worn gloves,” I say.

  “Thanks for bringing it to my attention, Mike.”

  “Did you find any other prints in the house?”

  “Your client’s. His father. His brother.”

  “What about unidentifable prints?”

  “A few.”