MD03 - Criminal Intent Page 5

  Not so fast. “Come on,” I say. “If somebody was trying to frame her, they could have left her at the house with the bloody statue in her hand. Why risk taking her all the way to the bridge? Somebody could have seen them.”

  “It looks more plausible if she was trying to flee.”

  She’s grasping. “I don’t buy it. If you’re going to go to the trouble of framing somebody, why would you have planted them in a public place that’s crawling with security guards?”

  The phone goes silent.

  I add, “It would have been impossible to plan. You couldn’t have counted on the fact that she would have passed out. And we have no evidence she was drugged by somebody else.”

  Rosie is silent for a moment. Then she suggests, “Maybe it was a crime of opportunity.”

  “Maybe.” I look down the beach. “What about her clothing?” I ask. “What was she wearing when she was arrested?”

  “A sweatsuit.”

  “Is that what she was wearing when she went to bed?”

  “No. She said she was wearing a nightgown.”

  Odd. “How did she end up in the sweatsuit?”

  “She doesn’t remember.”

  “Long sleeve?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Then there would have been blood on it if she hit him. Was there?”

  “No.”

  “She could have changed into the sweatsuit after she hit him,” I suggest.

  “Or somebody could have changed her clothes while she was passed out,” Rosie says.

  Seems unlikely. “Why wouldn’t they have left her in the nightgown?”

  Rosie has no good answer for me.

  I observe the medical examiner’s van driving down the beach. Presumably, they’re getting ready to move the body. “It begs another question,” I say. “What happened to the nightgown?”

  “She says she doesn’t know.”

  This seems to be her answer for everything. I try to shift to another subject. “There’s still no motive,” I say. “Why would she have killed Big Dick? He gave her a break.”

  There’s a long pause. “I was wondering the same thing,” she says. “I asked her about their relationship again. She insisted she and Dick were getting along fine.”

  Now I really want to talk to Pete. “Do you believe her?”

  I hear a loud exhale at the end of the line. She finally gives a little. “I’m not sure. She was a little too animated when she said it.”

  “What about life insurance?” I ask.

  “There was a million dollar policy. Angel was the beneficiary.”

  Christ. Pat Quinn’s instincts are pretty good. “That’s a million dollar motive,” I say.

  “It doesn’t prove anything,” she says.

  “It doesn’t help. Have you been able to find MacArthur’s son? The cops haven’t been able to locate him.”

  Her answer surprises me. “I just got off the phone with him.”

  Really? “Where did you track him down?”

  “Napa. He was at the winery.”

  What? “When did he go up there?”

  “Last night, after the party. He said he left the house a few minutes after two.”

  He drove straight across the bridge. “Was he by himself?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Was he rational when you talked to him?”

  “As rational as a person could be in the circumstances. I told him we’ll need his help with the funeral arrangements. He’s on his way home.”

  “When can we talk to him?”

  “Later this afternoon. He said he’d meet with us for a few minutes at his house.”

  Good. “Were you able to reach Marty Kent?” Presumably Big Dick’s business manager and fix-it man should be able to assist us.

  There’s a long silence. Then Rosie tells me Kent’s adult son answered the phone at Kent’s house when she called. “His son had no idea where his father was,” she tells me. “It seems he never made it home last night.”

  *****

  Chapter 5

  “Family Matters”

  “The proposed China Basin studio project is an example of graft and influence peddling at its most blatant.”

  — Investigative reporter Jerry Edwards. San Francisco Chronicle. Saturday, June 5.

  “My daughter didn’t kill her husband,” Theresa Chavez says. Rosie’s sister is sitting on the tired beige sofa in her mother’s white bungalow at Twenty-fourth and Bryant in the Hispanic enclave in the Mission District, just south of downtown. It’s a few minutes after ten. Although the tension is palpable, the Fernandez clan has long mirrored the quiet dignity of Rosie’s mother, Sylvia. If somebody in the Daley family had been arrested earlier today, the finger-pointing and recriminations would just be starting.

  The aroma of fruit, vegetables, rice and beans wafts through the two-bedroom house that has served as Fernandez family headquarters since Rosie’s parents scraped together a down payment four decades ago. The place probably cost them about twenty thousand dollars. With a new coat of paint and a little work, Sylvia could get almost a million for it today. Not that she’d ever sell. She’s been living by herself since Rosie’s father died about ten years ago. She makes ends meet. She won’t even treat herself to a dishwasher, although she did accept a microwave from us when she turned seventy a couple of years ago. The hand-made lace curtains that I first saw when I met Rosie still hang above the windows that look out on the steeple of St. Peter’s Catholic Church. Black-and-white high school graduation photos of Rosie, Theresa and their older brother, Tony, sit in tidy silver frames on the mantle. A larger color photo of Grace hangs on the wall near the postage stamp-sized kitchen. A wedding picture of Rosie’s mom and dad sits on the end table. The resemblance between Rosie and Sylvia is striking.

  “I have to see Angel,” Theresa says. There is panic in her red eyes.

  “I’ll take you down there in a little while,” Rosie assures her.

  “She never should have married Richard MacArthur,” Theresa adds. She fires off a round of questions. Has she been arrested? On what charge? Will they set bail? What happens next?

  Rosie patiently answers her sister’s questions in a measured tone.

  Theresa is fighting back tears. She’s forty-four, a year younger than Rosie. A large woman with bloated features and tired eyes, her alcohol problems have led to an irregular heartbeat and high blood pressure. I glance at her high school graduation photo. It’s hard to believe the woman sitting before me was once the pretty girl in the white dress who was the prom queen at Mission High. Now she lives by herself in a small condo three blocks from here. A life once full of hope and seemingly endless potential is littered with disappointments. A failed marriage. The death of a young child. Bouts with depression, diabetes and alcohol.

  Theresa’s life revolves around her baby, Angel. Their relationship has gone through many stress points over the years. They barely spoke when Angel was in high school and Theresa was on the bottle. They came to a brief reconciliation when Angel went to UCLA and started working as an actress. Things hit another speed bump when Angel announced she was going to marry Dick MacArthur. Theresa came to the wedding, but the tension was unbearable. Angel extended an olive branch when she invited her mother and Rosie to her house last Christmas, but Rosie described it as an “uncomfortable” event. Angel visits her mother at least twice a week at her condo, but Theresa won’t go to Angel’s house anymore. It’s an uneasy truce.

  Sylvia talks quietly to Theresa in Spanish. I have seen Sylvia lose her composure only once, when Rosie and I were engaging in an ill-conceived custody battle. She pooled her resources with my mother and they told us we had to put our differences aside for Grace. I came to my senses a short time later and the world became much brighter. She says to Theresa now in a tone that leaves no doubt, “Rosita and Michael will take care of everything.” She gives us an authoritative nod and adds, “Family matters.”

  Grace has a serious look as
she walks in from the tiny bedroom that Rosie used to share with Theresa. Tony slept on a cot in the dining room. “I saw you on the news, Daddy,” she says as she gives me a hug. The top of her head comes up to my chin. She’s the spitting image of Rosie and, by extension, Sylvia. “You said Angel was innocent.”

  “She is.”

  “Then why did they arrest her?”

  Rosie answers for me. “It’s a big mistake, honey.”

  Angel spent a lot of time at Rosie’s house when she was growing up. She used to babysit Grace and became something of an older sister to her, and the bond between the first cousins is undeniable. Grace worships her, in fact. Angel had promised to take Grace to the premiere of The Return of the Master, but it looks like those plans may have to be put on hold. Grace says in an even tone, “Angel didn’t kill her husband, Mommy.”

  Rosie gives her a comforting nod. “I know, sweetie,” she says. “Daddy and I are going to take care of things.”

  “Can I help?”

  She’s only about fifteen years from getting her law degree. “We need to do some lawyer stuff. Maybe you can help Grandma around the house.”

  “How about if I check the Internet to see if I can find anything about Angel’s case?”

  “That’s a good idea,” I say. Sometimes, your parental decisions are somewhat less than stellar when you find yourself in the middle of a murder investigation.

  Rosie’s brother lets himself in. Tony owns a produce market on Twenty-fourth. It’s a grind, but his customers are loyal and he scratches out a living. “There are reporters outside,” he says as he closes the door. “I told them we have no comment.”

  His instincts are good. He hugs his mother, Theresa and then Rosie. “Helluva time for a family reunion,” he says. He’s a couple of years younger than I am. His chiseled body has the weight-lifter look. His wife died of leukemia right after he bought the market, and since then, he’s spent most of his time running his business and going to the gym. His daughter, Rolanda, graduated near the top of her class at Hastings last year and had her pick of big downtown firms, but following in the footsteps of her misguided aunt and ex-uncle, she decided to become a criminal defense attorney. Now she works with Rosie and me. I admire her values and question her sanity. Tony loves to talk about his daughter the lawyer.

  “I got here as soon as I could,” he says. “They said on the news they’ve charged Angel with murder. They’re crazy, right?”

  “Of course,” Rosie says. She fills him in. His focused expression never changes. Tony never went to college, but he should have. He’s a smart guy with good judgment who never panics. Rosie says to him, “Can you stay here for a little while with Mama?”

  “Sure.”

  Rosie turns to Theresa and says, “Get your stuff. I’ll take you down to see Angel.”

  “I’m ready,” Theresa replies.

  I offer moral support. “Want some company?” I ask.

  Rosie’s eyes dart in Theresa’s direction and then back toward me. “No,” she says. “I’ll meet you at the office.”

  # # #

  “Mike,” Tony says to me, “can I talk to you for a minute?” We’re sitting at his mother’s kitchen table. Sylvia is in the bedroom talking on the phone. Rosie and Theresa just left.

  “Sure.”

  He lowers his voice and says, “I haven’t mentioned this to Rosie or to Mama.” He pauses and adds, “Or to Rolanda.”

  Uh-oh. “I won’t say anything unless you tell me it’s okay.”

  He takes a sip of coffee and leans forward. He says in a low whisper, “There’s something going on in the neighborhood.”

  There’s always something going on in the Mission. The blue-collar community that was home to Irish immigrants fifty years ago is now inhabited by a mix of working-class Hispanics and high-tech yuppies. Rents have shot up. Independent businesses like Tony’s are struggling to stay afloat. The long-time residents don’t want to give up their neighborhood without a fight. I don’t blame them.

  “In this part of town,” he continues, “you have to scratch a few backs to stay in business.” He gives me a sideways glance. “Do you understand what I mean?”

  I nod. This is Tony’s polite way of saying that in the Mission, it isn’t uncommon—and some would say it’s essential—for businesses to pay protection money to the local gangs. In all the years he’s owned the market, he’s been robbed only twice. In both instances, they caught the bad guys within hours. It isn’t a news flash that there are also payoffs in the produce business. “You do what you have to do,” I say. I try to cut to the chase. “Is this a gang issue?”

  He drums his finger on the table. “It’s more complicated.” He glances toward his mother’s bedroom and then adds, “Armando Rios stopped by the store.”

  Rios is a high school buddy of Tony’s who became a lawyer and is now a local political operative. His official title is Chairman of the Mission Chapter of the San Francisco Democratic Steering Committee, but his influence extends much farther. He used to be law partners with the mayor and he knows his way around city hall. He has the goods on everybody. In the vernacular of San Francisco, he’s what we call an “expediter,” which means he’s a one-stop shopping center for political connections. If you need a building permit, Armando can get it for you. If you need somebody to make a few inquiries of the mayor, he’s your guy. If you want to build a new movie studio, he’ll make sure your permit application finds its way through San Francisco’s byzantine planning process. He claims he is simply providing a legitimate service to his clients. Perhaps. Most of us believe he’s nothing more than a shameless—albeit well-compensated and highly effective—influence peddler. I ask, “To what did you owe the honor?”

  “You know about the redevelopment project in China Basin?”

  “Hollywood North,” I say. “What about it?”

  “The neighborhood groups are howling.”

  This is an accepted part of the urban planning process in San Francisco. You can’t build a single-car garage for your house, let alone a movie studio, without some turbulence. The same groups try to derail every major development plan. Certain anti-growth lawyers appear on TV every few weeks to complain about another new building, which they always describe as a blight upon our community. Then the attorneys for the developers get their turn to proclaim the project will enhance the quality of our lives for centuries. The truth usually lies somewhere in between. If the project is particularly big, the mayor will get into the act. It’s free publicity and great theater. The script never changes. Some of the plans get approved and some don’t. It’s just how we do things.

  “I thought it was a done deal,” I say. The Chroniclesaid the permits are going to be issued after a perfunctory final hearing in a few weeks.

  “I thought so, too,” he says, “but Armando said there may be a competing proposal.”

  “I thought the low-income housing deal was dead.”

  “It is. They’re talking about something else.”

  “What is it?”

  “A bigger office park.”

  Just what we need. “The redevelopment agency will never go for it.”

  “They might. Apparently, it will include some condos.”

  “How many?”

  “About five hundred.”

  Not bad. “Any below market units?”

  “A few. It’s just window dressing. The rest will be very expensive. The smallest will run at least a half a million dollars.”

  So much for trying to increase the stock of affordable housing. “It’s better than nothing,” I suggest.

  “I suppose.”

  “What does this have to do with you?”

  “Armando said the partners in the China Basin project have invested millions in start-up costs and plans. A lot of people like the idea of building a movie studio.”

  Unlike the working class city of my youth or the mythical “Baghdad by the Bay” described by legendary Chronicle columnist Herb Caen, modern S
an Francisco is becoming a town of million-dollar condos, designer restaurants and movie moguls. Grumpy natives like me mourn the loss of our home. Rosie says we’re going to wake up one day and find San Francisco has turned into an enlarged Carmel.

  I’m becoming impatient. “Tony,” I say, “this is all very interesting and I can see where Big Dick’s death may have some ramifications for the studio development, but I still don’t see why Armando came to see you.”

  “The studio guys are getting nervous. The head of the redevelopment agency is unhappy because the studio project doesn’t include housing. Some of the business owners in the Mission and on Potrero Hill spoke out against it at the earlier hearings. They wanted a guaranty that locals would get first crack at jobs.”