MD03 - Criminal Intent Page 3

  “What was he doing at the screening?” I ask.

  Angel says, “He wanted to see the movie.”

  Ellis doesn’t strike me as a film buff. On the other hand, he has a reputation as a shrewd businessman. Millennium is borrowing millions to provide the bulk of the financing for the China Basin project. MacArthur Films is supposed to get a ten-million-dollar loan from Wells Fargo to finance its minority interest in the project. If The Return of the Master bombs, Millennium and MacArthur Films may not be able to fulfill their commitments. Perhaps Ellis was trying to gauge the creditworthiness of his new business partners. The project is undoubtedly in jeopardy now.

  “How was the party?” I ask.

  Angel is starting to settle down. “It was fine,” she says. “I don’t know if the movie was any good or not–I hate watching myself–but we had champagne and they started discussing the China Basin project. They were smoking cigars when I excused myself and went upstairs–I was tired and I hate smoke.”

  Rosie asks, “What time was that?”

  “A few minutes after one.” Her face takes on a pained expression. She turns toward the wall and says, “That’s the last time I saw Dick.”

  Rosie puts her arm around her niece’s shoulder and says, “It’s going to be all right, honey.”

  “Sure,” she replies in a barely-audible tone.

  Rosie lowers her voice and asks, “Was everybody still there when you went upstairs?”

  “Yes. I had a glass of champagne and I took a shower. I went to bed around one-thirty. The next thing I remember is somebody knocking on the window of my car at the bridge.”

  There is something in the sound of her tone that troubles me. Angel developed a pretty good poker face when her mother was drinking. I ask, “What time did you drive there?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  What? I glance at Rosie, who picks up the cue. She struggles to keep her tone non-judgmental. “What do you mean, honey?” she asks.

  Angel holds up her hands and says, “I don’t remember going to the bridge.”

  Come again? This elicits a puzzled look from Rosie, who asks, “Do you recall anything from the time you went to bed until the time the patrol officer knocked on your window?”

  “No. I must have blacked out.”

  Rosie’s lips twitch. “Angel,” she says, “has this ever happened before?”

  Her response is a barely audible, “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “A few.”

  “More than twice?”

  “Three times. All in the last couple of months.”

  Rosie takes this in without any visible reaction. Then she leans toward her niece and asks, “Do you know what caused them?”

  Angel shakes her head rapidly and says, “I’m not sure.”

  I get a quick glance from Rosie. She turns to Angel and asks, “How much champagne did you drink last night?”

  “A couple of glasses.”

  “Enough that you probably shouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel of a car?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Inspector O’Brien told me you took a breath test.”

  “I didn’t think I had a choice.”

  You can refuse, but your license will be suspended. “You did the right thing,” Rosie tells her, “but you didn’t pass.”

  “I know.”

  “And I understand your license had expired.”

  “I was supposed to send in the renewal. I got busy and I never got around to it.”

  “That’s okay, honey,” Rosie says. An expired license is the least of our problems. She takes a deep breath and asks, “Did you take anything else last night?”

  Angel closes her eyes and whispers, “I did some coke.”

  Rosie’s voice remains perfectly level when she asks, “A lot?”

  “Enough.”

  Christ. I remind myself that Rosie’s niece isn’t a baby anymore.

  Rosie asks, “Where did you get it?”

  “It isn’t hard to find.”

  Rosie searches for the right words. “Are you doing coke . . . regularly?”

  Angel closes her eyes and whispers, “No.”

  “Did coke cause your blackouts?”

  “Maybe.”

  Rosie shoots me a knowing glance and says, “Inspector O’Brien told me they found a bag of coke on the front seat of your car.”

  Angel says in a barely-audible tone, “They told me.”

  “I have to ask.”

  She stops Rosie with a raised hand. “I didn’t put it there.”

  “Any idea who did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rosie isn’t letting go. “It looks suspicious.”

  “I know how it looks.”

  Rosie tries again. “It will be difficult to explain if they find your fingerprints.”

  Angel holds her hands up and says, “I understand.”

  Rosie is giving her every opportunity to come clean. “They may charge you with possession,” she says.

  Angel doesn’t respond.

  Rosie tries once more. She takes her niece’s hands and says, “Angel, this is me—Aunt Rosie. Just between us. What you say in this room is completely confidential. Okay?”

  Angel’s eyes are staring straight down when she says, “Okay.”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  Angel clenches her jaw. She looks like the poised actress again when she says, “Do you think I’d drive around with a bag of cocaine sitting on my front seat?”

  Rosie looks at me. Then she turns back to her and says, “No, Angel.” She pauses and then asks, “How were things with you and Dick?”

  She answers too quickly, “Fine.”

  “I have to ask,” Rosie says. “There were reports on TV about arguments.”

  “Everything was fine, Aunt Rosie.”

  “And you were getting along last night?”

  “Yes.” Angel’s eyes turn a gleaming cobalt. She gestures with her index finger. “Look,” she says a little too emphatically, “Dick wasn’t a perfect husband to his other wives, but he was good to me. Always.”

  “Angel,” Rosie says, “was he seeing anybody else?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I’m not. Big Dick’s track record isn’t stellar. He was still quite married when he ran off with Angel.

  Rosie looks at Angel and waits. I can hear the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.

  Angel exhales. “Look,” she says, “I’m not naive. I’ve heard the rumors. At one point I got so concerned I hired a private investigator to watch him.”

  Well, that’s not a good sign. “Who?” I ask.

  She rearranges her face into an ironic grin. “Your brother.”

  This elicits a discernible sigh from Rosie. My younger brother Pete is a former cop who works as a PI. He lost his badge about ten years ago when he and some of his buddies at Mission Station got a little too enthusiastic breaking up what they thought was a gang fight, only it turned out to be two hormone-charged teenage boys who got into a fight over a girl. One of the boys suffered a concussion when Pete hit him, his father was a lawyer. The result was predictable. He’s still bitter about it. “Why did you call Pete?” I ask.

  “How many PI’s do you think I know? I couldn’t very well have asked my husband for a recommendation.”

  True enough. “Did he find anything?”

  “Just more rumors.”

  My eyes dart toward Rosie, but I don’t say anything. I’ll get the real story from Pete.

  The door opens and Inspector O’Brien enters. “I need to talk to your client,” he says.

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Rosie replies.

  “This will take just a minute.”

  “I haven’t decided whether I’m going to let you question her,” Rosie says.

  “I didn’t come to question her.”

  “What’s
this about, Jack?”

  O’Brien turns to Angel and says, “Angelina Chavez, you are under arrest.”

  Hell. Angel had been leaning against the wall. She sinks to the floor. Rosie goes over and puts her arms around her.

  “Come on, Jack,” I say. “You’re going to charge her with possession? Don’t you think she’s been through enough tonight?”

  O’Brien turns to me and says, “If it were just possession of a few ounces of cocaine, we would have gone home by now.” He turns back to Angel and says, “Angelina Chavez, you are under arrest for the murder of Richard MacArthur. You have the right to remain silent.”

  Angel starts to fold her body into a ball.

  “You have to be kidding,” Rosie says.

  “I’m not,” O’Brien responds. Then he completes the recitation of the Miranda warnings.

  Angel dissolves into tears.

  “She had nothing to do with this,” I insist.

  O’Brien is unimpressed. “That’s what she’s telling you.”

  “What’s the evidence?” I ask.

  “You’ll find out everything in due course.” He looks at Angel and says, “Ms. Chavez, I’m not allowed to question you unless your attorney gives me permission to do so.”

  “Damn right,” Rosie says. She points her index finger at Angel and adds, “I don’t want you to say a word.”

  O’Brien takes this in and says, “It doesn’t prevent me from offering you some free advice. I would suggest that you tell us everything you know. At least tell your attorney the truth. It will make things easier on everybody.”

  He’s trying a standard ploy. If you can convince a suspect to say something to their attorney, they are much more likely to repeat it to somebody else—even the cops.

  I look at Angel and repeat Rosie’s admonition to stay silent. She looks as if she’s in a trance.

  Rosie helps her to her feet. “I don’t want you to talk to anyone,” she says. “Not the police. Not the guards. Not anybody. Understand?”

  Angel begins to sob uncontrollably. Her voice takes on a child-like tone. Her breath is coming in gasps when she wails, “They’re saying I killed my husband, Aunt Rosie.”

  Rosie takes both of her hands and looks into her eyes. “I don’t want you to talk to anybody,” she repeats. “Do you understand?”

  Angel is shaking. She nods and manages to say, “Yes.” She’s still sobbing as O’Brien leads her toward the booking area.

  *****

  Chapter 3

  “It Was Covered with Blood”

  “Just when you think you’ve seen everything, some bastard comes up with a new and horrific way to kill somebody. I’ve been doing this for a long time and you’d think I’d be jaded by now, but it still makes me sick when I have to secure a crime scene.”

  — Inspector Jack O’Brien. KGO Radio. Saturday, June 5. 6:30 a.m.

  “I don’t have time to talk,” Inspector Jack O’Brien tells us a few minutes later. He’s standing by the elevator just outside the intake area.

  Angel is in booking. She’s being photographed, fingerprinted, strip-searched and showered with disinfectant. Her last vestiges of self-respect will disappear when she receives a freshly-washed jumpsuit.

  Rosie tries to strike a conciliatory tone. “I was hoping we might be able to talk.”

  O’Brien punches the elevator button and says, “The arraignment is Monday.” The elevator door opens. We get inside with him and the door closes.

  Rosie says, “Just a couple of minutes, Jack.”

  He knows we’re fishing. “I have to get out to the scene,” he tells us. “I presume your client doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  Rosie nods. That would be correct.

  “Then I have nothing to say to you. We’ll talk after the arraignment.”

  Rosie keeps her tone measured. “Come on, Jack. This makes no sense. Her first starring movie is coming out next week. It’s her big break. Why would she have killed her husband?”

  “You’ll have to ask her. You won’t let her talk to me.”

  Rosie tries again. “Her husband may have been drunk. He probably fell off the balcony. She’s already lost her driver’s license–charge her with a DUI or even possession of cocaine, but don’t push a murder charge.”

  O’Brien takes in Rosie’s appeal with the stoic cynicism of one who has heard multiple permutations of every conceivable story at least a dozen times. “Are you finished?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the elevator door. “It was no accident,” he says. “Somebody hit him and pushed him off the balcony.”

  “How do you know?” Rosie asks.

  “We know.”

  “Are you saying he was already dead by the time he hit the ground?”

  “I’m not the medical examiner. There was a significant trauma to the back of his head. The paramedics said his skull was cracked.”

  I interject, “He could have fallen and hit his head on a rock.”

  “Somebody definitely whacked him on the deck,” O’Brien says.

  “How do you know?”

  “We know.”

  Dammit. “How do you connect this to our client?”

  “She was there. She admitted she’d had a lot to drink. She was probably high on something, maybe coke. There was the coke in her car.”

  “You don’t know how it got there.”

  This elicits and eye roll. “She tried to flee.”

  Rosie insists, “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Sure we do. How else did she get to the bridge?”

  “Somebody could have driven her.”

  “She was sitting in the driver’s seat.”

  “She wouldn’t have stopped in a public place if she was trying to flee.”

  “She was drunk and high. She got as far as she could and pulled off the road.” O’Brien’s voice drips with disdain when he adds, “She’s lucky she didn’t kill somebody else.”

  It’s difficult to surmise how much of this conversation is pure bluster. I say, “You aren’t considering other possibilities. There were a lot of people at the house, and he wasn’t exactly the most beloved character in town.”

  He looks at us knowingly. “Your client can’t provide any explanation.”

  Rosie fires back, “That’s your job. You won’t get past the arraignment.”

  “Yes we will.”

  “Just because you found cocaine in her car doesn’t mean she killed her husband.”

  “We found something else in the trunk.”

  Uh-oh. Rosie darts a glance in my direction. “What?” she asks.

  O’Brien gives us a triumphant look. “Her husband’s Oscar statue.”

  “So what?” I say. “It was his car. He probably put it there himself.”

  “I doubt it.” We get to the ground floor and the elevator door opens. “It was covered with blood,” he tells us. “We’re going to test it, but I’ll bet you it matches her husband’s.”

  *****

  Chapter 4

  “That’s Where He Landed”

  “This is a quiet neighborhood. I can’t believe something like this happened in Sea Cliff.”

  — Robert Neils. KGO Radio. Saturday, June 5. 7:00 a.m.

  “There’s the deck,” Officer Pat Quinn says to me. He’s pointing up toward a balcony that extends the length of the second floor of the back of the MacArthur residence, a white stucco palace that hangs perilously at the top of the ridge overlooking Baker Beach. We’re standing at the edge of the water about fifty yards behind the house, just outside a ribbon of yellow crime-scene tape. A zigzagging stairway has been carved into the rocky embankment to provide access to the public beach. A short retaining wall at the base of the stairs is covered with barbed wire and no trespassing signs, as well as a locked iron mesh gate. The residents of Sea Cliff value their privacy.