MD03 - Criminal Intent Read online

  “I said it’s a possibility.”

  “It was her husband’s car.”

  “So what? Maybe she planted some clothes in hercar. Her gym bag was in the trunk.”

  I take the offensive. “What happened to the bloody nightgown? You haven’t found it, have you?”

  “We will,” O’Brien says.

  “I bet you won’t. It doesn’t exist.”

  “She got rid of it,” he insists.

  I dig in. “You’re saying she got rid of the nightgown, yet she left a bloody Oscar in her trunk and a bag of cocaine on her front seat. Why would she have gotten rid of the clothes, but kept the coke and the murder weapon?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Did you find any blood on her hands?”

  There’s a pause before he says, “No.”

  “How do you account for that?”

  O’Brien gives me a serious glare. Then he points to the hose and says, “We think she used the hose to clean her hands and face.”

  “Did you find any fingerprints on it?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t she clean the Oscar at the same time?”

  “I don’t know. Ask her.”

  I’m not finished. I ask, “What about the baggie with the coke? Did you find any fingerprints?”

  “Your client’s.”

  “I was assuming you would. Anybody else?”

  O’Brien clears his throat and says, “Daniel Crown.”

  Well, what have we here? This is the first mention of Angel’s co-star. “What did he have to say about it?”

  “He admitted he did some coke Friday night.” He scowls and adds, “He’s agreed to cooperate fully with the investigation.”

  I’ll bet. “How did his fingerprints get onto the baggie?”

  “He said he handled it.”

  “No kidding. But did he provide the coke?”

  “He said he didn’t.”

  Sure. He’s probably still on probation from his last bust. “Are you planning to charge him with possession?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “And did he know how the coke got into Angelina’s car?”

  O’Brien doesn’t hesitate. “He said she put it there. He said she was high as a kite.”

  I’ve got to get to Crown right away. “Did he say anything about Kent?”

  “He said Kent was nervous and distracted. Something was definitely wrong.”

  “Did he have any idea why?”

  “The movie. The China Basin project.”

  “What time did Crown leave?”

  “Two o’clock.” He says Crown’s wife left with him.

  How convenient. They can alibi each other. “Was anybody still there?”

  “Kent and MacArthur’s son.” He gives me a sideways look and adds, “And your client.”

  “And I take it Angelina’s husband was still alive when Crown left?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Is it possible somebody might have come back to the house?”

  He’s heard enough. “When are you going to face the facts? Your client is the only one with no plausible explanation. The sooner she starts telling us what really happened, the better off she’ll be.”

  I don’t engage. “What’s the word on the Kent autopsy?” I ask.

  “It was still going on when I came here to see you.”

  “Any hints?”

  “Beckert said he drowned. He also had multiple traumatic injuries, probably from a fall. In other words, it looks like he jumped.”

  “Is it possible he was pushed?”

  “You’ll have to ask Rod. We aren’t ruling out homicide.”

  “Did you talk to Kent’s son?”

  “He said there was no indication Kent was upset, depressed or otherwise suicidal.”

  “We understand his wife died last year and that he was under a lot of pressure in connection with the movie and the China Basin project.”

  “True. But he was used to dealing with stress. He said his father was not suicidal.”

  I’m not so sure. Crown said he was upset. So did Angel. So did Petrillo. “Do you believe his son or do you believe Daniel Crown?”

  “We’re still investigating.”

  It’s the standard response. I ask if he left a note.

  “No.”

  “Did anybody at the bridge see anything? Maybe a toll taker or a security guard?”

  “We’re still checking.”

  He’s holding something back. “Nicole told me they found Kent’s fingerprints on the steering wheel of Big Dick’s car.”

  O’Brien purses his lips, but doesn’t respond.

  I’m not going to let it go. I ask, “How did his fingerprints find their way onto the steering wheel?”

  He responds with a shrug. “We’re checking into it.”

  “Surely you must have more than that?” I say.

  He meets the question with an icy glare.

  “Did you talk to Dominic Petrillo?” I ask.

  “Yes. He left the MacArthur house with Carl Ellis at one-forty-five. They went back to the Ritz together in Petrillo’s limo.”

  It’s the same story Petrillo told us. “Have you talked to the driver?”

  “Yes. She confirmed the timing.”

  I ask her for her name. “Did you talk to Ellis, too?”

  “Yes.” His story matches Petrillo’s almost perfectly. Either they’ve compared notes or they’re telling the truth.

  “Did Petrillo or Ellis see anything?”

  “No.”

  “Were either of them mad at MacArthur?”

  “Not as far as we could tell.”

  “And they knew nothing about what happened?”

  “That’s correct.”

  So they say. “Do you know where I can reach them?” I don’t want him to know I’ve already spoken with Petrillo.

  “Petrillo flew to L.A. Ellis went back to Vegas.”

  “Do you believe them?” I ask.

  He responds in a measured tone. “We have no reason not to.” He reflects for another moment and says, “That’s all I can tell you for now.”

  I want to keep him talking. “Come on, Jack,” I say. “You’re going to have to share your information with me.”

  “That’s all I can tell you for now,” he repeats.

  He knows California law requires him to show me everything he has sooner or later. The courts don’t allow surprises in criminal matters. It doesn’t make for great theater, but it puts everybody on an even footing. If I were in his shoes, I’d stonewall, too. They’re still gathering evidence. The Kent autopsy is ongoing. That doesn’t stop me from letting him know we’re paying attention.

  I try for a tone of reason. “Look,” I say, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It will be a lot easier if we cooperate.”

  O’Brien measures his words. “I can assure you,” he says, “that you’ll get everything to which you’re entitled at the appropriate time.”

  “And when might the time be appropriate?” I ask.

  “We’ll be in touch with you after the arraignment.”

  Carolyn has started preparing subpoenas for the police records and the autopsy reports. For that I’m grateful. I ask for the phone records for the MacArthur house and the cell phone records for everybody who was at the screening on Friday night. We aren’t going to get a tremendous amount of cooperation from the police.

  *****

  Chapter 16

  “It Can’t Hurt to Ask Around”

  “Police are searching the Presidio and Baker Beach for clues relating to the murder of Richard MacArthur.”

  — San Francisco Chronicle. Sunday, June 6.

  Pete meets me in front of the MacArthur house a short time later. It takes us twenty-five minutes to walk along Baker Beach past the Lobos Creek water treatment plant and the old military installation at Battery Chamberlin and then up through the Presidio to the bridge. We see police officers and a couple of the free
-lance PI’s who work with Pete searching the area along the way. They haven’t found anything relevant so far.

  As we reach the administration building at the bridge, I observe, “It would have taken only five minutes to have driven here from the house.”

  Pete nods and says, “If the cops are right, Angel would have had plenty of time to have hit her husband and driven over here after everybody had left.” He squints into the fog and adds, “There were places along the way where she could have stashed her nightgown.”

  “If there was a nightgown,” I say.

  “The cops will say there was.”

  I know. It worries me. I keep thinking they’re going to call and say they’ve found it in a tree stump in the Presidio. I glance at Pete and say, “Your guys had better keep looking.”

  “They will.” He looks around and observes, “Somebody could have walked from the house to the bridge. Or they could have walked back.”

  “We shouldn’t rule out any possible scenarios.”

  We don’t say much as we walk back along the wooded bluffs on Lincoln Avenue. I pull up my collar as the wind picks up. The cold doesn’t seem to bother Pete. We stop at the intersection of Lincoln and Bowley, a narrow access road to the Baker Beach parking lot. There is a garbage can, a pay phone and a fountain. I take a drink of water. Pete pokes through the trash. I look up across the street at the old apartments known as Wherry Housing, where a few retired service people still live. The cheaply constructed buildings are now in a national park.

  Pete is constantly looking around. He says, “She must have driven right by here.”

  I correct him. “Or somebody drove her.”

  “Yeah.” He looks at the apartments and says, “Maybe somebody saw something.”

  “It was three in the morning.”

  “It can’t hurt to ask around.” He says he’ll come back in the morning.

  We head down Bowley and walk through the parking lot back to the beach. We stop at Battery Chamberlin, where four cannon fortifications were built in 1902. One of the 95,000-pound cannons has been restored, and Pete and I sit on the cement wall at the edge of the bay and stare out in silence as the salt-water breeze hits our faces. To our right is the Golden Gate Bridge. In front of us are the Marin Headlands. A quarter of a mile to our left is Dick MacArthur’s house. A little farther to the west are Land’s End and the Pacific Ocean.

  Pete gives me a knowing look and says, “They’re going to check every inch of this area, Mick. If they find a bloody nightgown, Angel is going down.”

  “They won’t find it. It isn’t here.”

  “How do you know?”

  I don’t. “Instinct.” I give him a quick grin. “Just in case I’m wrong,” I say, “tell your guys to be careful. If it’s out here somewhere, it would be better if we find it first.”

  # # #

  “Did you get anything useful out of O’Brien?” Rosie asks.

  “Not much,” I say. It’s seven-thirty the same evening. I’ve returned to the office. Pete’s back at Little Richard’s house. I tell Rosie and Carolyn about my tour of the MacArthur mansion and my conversation with O’Brien. Then I describe my stroll with Pete to the Golden Gate Bridge. Rolanda is in her office putting together an immunity agreement for her father. I say, “There are things we can use to our advantage—things that don’t fit.”

  “Like what?” Carolyn asks.

  “Angel’s nightgown,” I say. “I can’t figure out how and when she changed clothes.”

  Rosie says. “Maybe somebody changed them for her.”

  “Maybe. If she was framed, it means somebody was in the house, found her unconscious or drugged her, changed her clothes, took her downstairs and put her in the car. He also cracked Big Dick on the deck and found a way to put the Oscar in the trunk without leaving any tracks or getting any blood inside the house. He had the presence of mind to put the coke in the car. That’s a lot of movement in a short period. It couldn’t have been planned in advance.” As I say all of it out loud, I begin to realize how contorted the frame-up scenario will appear to a jury.

  “Maybe somebody spiked her drink,” Rosie suggests. “Maybe more than one person was involved. Maybe they thought it would seem more realistic if they made it look like she was trying to flee.”

  “Other than the booze and the coke,” I say, “we have no evidence that Angel was drugged. And it still leaves the nightgown. Why didn’t they just leave her at the house with the Oscar and the nightgown?”

  “Because there wouldn’t have been any blood on the gown,” Carolyn says.

  “They could have wiped some of MacArthur’s blood on it,” I say.

  Carolyn shakes her head. “The FETs are good at analyzing spatter patterns. If the killer tried to pick up some blood by rubbing the gown on the deck, the FETs would have known it was a set up. I tried cases where the defendant walked because the pattern didn’t fit. They may be better off with no nightgown than one where the pattern doesn’t match.”

  “Are you suggesting the cops may not try too hard to find it?”

  “I’m simply pointing out that the wrong pattern could undermine their case.”

  I’d rather know what happened. The last thing we need is for the gown to magically reappear on the eve of trial. “You know all about spatters because you used to be a prosecutor,” I say. “Your garden variety murderer isn’t so sophisticated. The chances that the people who were there on Friday night are so knowledgeable is very low.”

  “True. I’m just trying to give you some plausible options.”

  Frankly, a more plausible explanation is that Angel realized she was wearing a blood-spattered gown and somehow got rid of it on her way to the bridge.

  Rosie asks, “How is O’Brien explaining it?”

  “He’s saying Angel hit her husband, went up the gangway, put the Oscar in the trunk, changed clothes and drove off.”

  “Where did she find the extra set of clothes?

  “They found her gym clothes in a bag in her trunk. They think her sweatsuit was in her car and she changed in the garage.”

  “And where did she get rid of the nightgown?”

  “Somewhere between the house and the bridge. You can bet they’re checking every garbage can along the way.”

  Rosie is skeptical. “Why didn’t she get rid of the Oscar and the coke at the same time?”

  “He didn’t have any explanation for that.”

  “Do you find his version the least bit plausible?”

  “I’m trying not to rule anything out.” And I’d like to think I’m maintaining an appropriate level of professional skepticism about our client’s story.

  Rosie asks, “What else doesn’t fit?”

  “They found Daniel Crown’s fingerprints on the baggie,” I say. “He told them he had no idea how it got into Angel’s car.”

  “Sounds like Crown may be having a heart-to-heart talk with his parole officer.”

  He’ll also be having a somewhat less pleasant conversation with his wife and manager. “It may give us an opening,” I say. “We can start deflecting blame away from Angel.”

  “It’s a start, but it only shows he may have shared some coke with her.”

  “It puts his fingerprints in the car,” I say.

  “But it doesn’t tie him directly to Big Dick.”

  Carolyn adds, “And you can bet his wife will provide an alibi for him.”

  “I know. All of which leads us to another possible alternative.”

  Rosie says, “And that would be?”

  “Marty Kent. Angel told us he was upset on Friday night. Crown and Petrillo told the police he was stressed about the movie and the China Basin project. He had a temper. He and Big Dick used to fight.”

  “It doesn’t get you to murder,” Rosie says.

  “Not yet. On the other hand, his fingerprints were on the steering wheel of MacArthur’s car. They have no explanation for how they got there.”

  “They were friends,” Rosie
points out. “It was a new Jaguar. Maybe Dick let him take it out for a test drive.”

  “Maybe. We should use it to our advantage until they come up with a better explanation. Kent is the one guy who would have had the presence of mind to have framed Angel.” I point out that he was a lawyer and an ex-Marine who wasn’t prone to panic and was trained to keep a level head at the sight of blood. He knew Angel had financial motives. “The same can’t be said for anybody else who was there that night, with the possible exception of Little Richard.”