Last Ferry Home

by Kent Harrington

  “I saw it in the office, on his desk. I knew I would have to take on his responsibilities, so I took it. After all, he was dead.”

  “So you went into your son’s office?”

  “Yes. I was looking for the girls. I told you. I didn’t know what had happened. I saw the door was open to the office and I went in and saw Rishi’s phone.”

  “You didn’t come back into the house once you found the girls at the neighbors?”

  “No. I sent a message to Uber from the Gilberts’.”

  “Did you tell the neighbors—the Gilberts—what had happened?”

  “No. Of course not. The children were there. I said nothing.”

  “Why are your grandchildren being taken to India?”

  “We thought it best under the circumstances. My wife is coming to pick them up. She’s taking them back to India on our company plane.”

  “Does Asha Chaundhry know you plan to take her daughters to India?” O’Higgins said.

  “I’m not sure. I believe my wife got Asha’s permission on the phone.” That seemed impossible, given Asha Chaundhry’s insistence that her daughters be brought to the hospital.

  Michael glanced at Marvin. “Can I have your son’s cell phone? We will need it for our investigation.”

  “I’m afraid the Indian government took possession of it.”

  “The Indian government?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand,” Michael said. He looked again at Marvin, who was studying Chaundhry.

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment on this,” Chaundhry said. “You will have to take it up with the Indian Embassy in Washington.”

  “Was the phone you took your son’s primary cell phone?” Marvin said.

  “I believe so. It’s what was on his desk. And it’s what I’ve seen him use.”

  “How long were you in the house after you discovered your son’s body?” Marvin asked.

  “I couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. I’m not sure exactly. I was upset. It seemed an eternity.”

  “You searched the entire house in ten minutes?”

  “Yes, looking for the girls, as I said.”

  “You didn’t go into the elevator, step inside and try to help your son?”

  “It was obvious to me he was dead. I thought it prudent not to disturb things.”

  “You weren’t afraid someone was in the house? The person who had attacked your son?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” O’Higgins said.

  “I’m not sure, really. Perhaps because I knew who had done it,” Chaundhry said, and smiled.

  It was a horrible smile, O’Higgins thought, deprecating and inappropriate. He may be crazy. He’d seen a similar smile on the face of the serial killer he’d roughed up. It was a smile designed to egg him on. It was arrogance personified.

  “How about the nanny,” O’Higgins said. “Did you know her? Bharti Kumar?”

  “She was the nanny. Of course I knew her,” Chaundhry said. The man looked at his lawyer. The lawyer was busy writing down the question, but he looked up.

  O’Higgins thought he caught a micro expression of shame on Nirad’s face, but because Chaundhry had turned his head to the side, to look at his lawyer, he wasn’t sure. Shame’s micro expression was difficult to catch, one of the harder ones.

  “We would like the police to release the house,” Nath said. “Failure to do so might create an international incident between our two countries.”

  “Well, gentlemen, I’ve got an important lunch date,” Chaundhry said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “We would like you to stay in San Francisco for the time being. Thank you for your time,” O’Higgins said.

  The two looked at each other. It was clear that Nirad Chaundhry not only didn’t like him for questioning him about something so trivial as the murder of his son, but Chaundhry probably thought him stupid to boot.

  “I’m scheduled to return to India at the end of next week,” Chaundhry said. “I don’t see any reason to change my plans.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Homicide Division was set to move in a week, out of its storied headquarters at 850 Bryant Street to the SFPD’s new “Public Safety Building” in Mission Bay. The new headquarters, a soulless glass-and-steel edifice in an East Coast style, represented the City’s transition from a rough-and-tumble legendary west coast port city, to the rudely homogenized and bland one-size-fits-all New America. Marvin Lee didn’t like the building, and told his wife it made him feel uncomfortable every time he drove by it. His younger partner had loved it calling it “cool” when they’d driven by.

  “Close the door please, Marvin,” Captain Towler said. Marvin closed the inner office door behind him. The Hall Of Justice building had an old San Francisco feel to it that Marvin liked, complete with opaque glass doors with hand-painted black numbers and lettering: Homicide Division, Vice, Traffic, and the rest of the force’s divisions marked in a typeface reminiscent of when the San Francisco police were almost entirely male, Irish and white. And it smelled oddly like his father’s pool hall in West Oakland. Marvin had come up the department’s ranks from patrol to detective, so the building meant something to him, personally. It had not been easy for a black man to climb the SFPD’s ranks.

  “How are you, Marvin?” Towler said. Towler was an old-school cop who had started working as a beat cop when the department truly was the Wild West. Eastwood had chosen the SFPD as the Dirty Harry’s department for a reason.

  “Good, boss. Caught a high-profile double.”

  “Yeah, I know. The wealthy Indian family. Thanks for coming in.”

  “What is it you wanted to see me about?” Marvin asked.

  “Couple things. First, how’s your gorgeous wife?” Towler smiled. He had the Irish gift for leveling tension.

  “She’s good,” Marvin said, smiling back. “She’s working too much, but — that’s how we can pay for all the junk we buy at Costco. And private school. Jesus.”

  “You’re a lucky dog. Do you know that? She’s too good-looking for the likes of you,” Towler said.

  “I know. I know,” Marvin said and meant it. His wife had been a swimsuit model who’d traveled in the fast lane in LA, working up to walk-on roles on network TV. But she’d slid into a serious coke addiction, flirting with the LA underworld. She’d found both God and a husband after walking into a random Baptist church in San Francisco’s Western Addition, desperately stoned and terrified of what she’d done to herself. She’d slid, disheveled in a short black dress and clutching a $14,000 Louis Vuitton bag, into a pew next to Marvin. She’d run out of a hotel room up at the Fairmont. She’d been the only white person in the place, looking like a “Las Vegas” hooker, Marvin had told her years later. She never confessed to her husband, who she adored, just how close she’d come to that being true.

  “What did you do that was so good you got her to marry you?”

  “I go to church. I just had to be there. That’s where the girls are. I keep telling everyone that.”

  “How’s Michael doing?” Marvin knew that what was left of the old-boys Irish network was looking after O’Higgins on principle, and not just because of the horrible tragedy. He was one of them.

  “Mike’s okay,” Marvin said.

  “You’re sure? I know you’ve been partners for a long time. But you have to tell me if — if you think he’s not up to the job. For everyone’s sake. This is a high-profile case. Maybe it’s too much to come back to, so soon after what happened.”

  “He’s fine,” Marvin said, not sure he meant it.

  “He’s coming in for a scheduled review next week. A talk, really. I didn’t expect you guys to catch a big high-profile case right off the bat, obviously,” Towler said.

  “Luck of the draw,” Marvin said.

  The two m
en looked at each other. Towler was tall and thin and drank down the street at a famous cops’ bar, the 441. It showed on his face: a little bloated, his skin paper thin. Towler’s blue eyes seemed very alive, despite that.

  “I got a call from Detective Michael Rodriguez from Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. He and his partner are putting together a task force for high profile murders for the state’s Department of Justice. He wanted to know who our best guys were, and who might be right for the task force. I gave him your name, and O’Higgins’ name too.”

  “I know his partner, Rich Tomlin,” Marvin said. “He caught the Phil Spector case. He and Rodriguez run the Murder School for LA County.”

  “Rodriguez said they would work high-profile cases like this Chaundhry case. Run out of the state’s Attorney General’s office,” Towler said. “Are you interested? It’s a big deal, career-wise.”

  “Maybe,” Marvin said. “Have to talk to the wife.” He suddenly wanted to get up and leave Towler’s office. He was harboring a serious fear that his partner wasn’t well at all. Several times in the last few days, he’d seen O’Higgins drift away in a kind of trance. Marvin could just tell he wasn’t present even when Michael was in the car sitting next to him. It was probably safe to tell Towler that O’Higgins might not be ready for such a high-profile case, but he decided not to roll on his friend.

  “How’s it progressing?” Towler asked. “The Chaundhry case.”

  “We need to get our hands on both victims’ cell phones. The father in-law took Rishi Chaundhry’s cell phone to the Indian Consulate. The Consulate people are holding it, saying it’s to do with official state secrets. And we just don’t know what happened to the nanny’s cell phone. We can’t find it. We know she had one, the neighbor said the girl always carried one. They’d seen her on it. But no carrier has her listed. There are thousands of Kumars in the Bay Area.”

  “Marvin, the feds are watching this case, closely. I had someone from the State Department call to tell me how sensitive this case is. And they support the Indian government holding Rishi’s phone,” Towler said. “It’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you today.”

  “Two people dead,” Marvin said. “We need both victims’ phones. You know that. Phones are key.”

  “And the Indian Consul General here in town wants to know why we haven’t released the scene. The father has some big-shit law firm calling the DA every day, asking the same question,” Towler said.

  “Rene and everyone just finished up. And we have not locked the principal suspects into stories yet,” Marvin said. “The wife has been in the hospital. We’re waiting to do a formal interview. Maybe we’ll try again tonight. The wife was still out of it when we spoke to her at the hospital yesterday.”

  “You know the victim’s father is one of the richest men in India? And he’s close to their government, and ours.” Towler leaned forward to make his point.

  Marvin got the feeling that this was why he’d been called into Bryant Street—to be sent a message, obliquely, from the DA’s office.

  “Yeah, I know about the father. But I don’t understand what the rush is about the scene,” Marvin said. He did understand, but he wanted Towler’s take on the situation—exactly—so he could see how far he could challenge the pressure coming from outside to release the scene.

  “My feeling is that the victim worked for our government in some way. The father, too. I don’t get calls from Washington about nobodies. And that’s what this is really about.”

  “Works for us?”

  “Just a guess, but everything the woman said on the phone hinted at that, without coming right out and saying it.” Towler made air quotation marks. “Good friend of America. Important political ally in the War on Terror. Nirad Chaundhry may be the next Prime Minister of India. We shouldn’t strain the relationship over this tragedy.”

  “Yeah? No shit,” Marvin said.

  “The State Department wants us to release the scene as soon as possible. They called the prosecutor’s office, too. Just in case I didn’t understand English,” Towler said.

  “Okay, I got it,” Marvin said. “They want the house back.”

  “Who are your suspects?” Towler asked.

  “Right now we have the wife and our friend the next prime minister of India, I guess.”

  “I’ll make a call about the phone,” Towler said. “See what I can do. Maybe they’ll at least let you take a look at it.”

  “Great. That would help.”

  “Let me know if Michael is holding up his end. And Marvin, sometimes — sometimes when it gets like this, investigations can go sideways. You know what I mean. It won’t be your fault.”

  Marvin got up and left, not saying anything. He knew what Towler had said was bullshit. They would be blamed, and quickly.

  ***

  O’Higgins called Officer Madrone’s cell number and waited for her to pick up. He’d read her short report while sitting alone in Rishi Chaundhry’s office, after speaking to the Gilberts, the Chaudhrys’ neighbors, on the phone. He’d caught a contradiction between the Gilberts’ interviews, given to Madrone the night before, and what Mrs. Gilbert had just told him.

  They’d gotten a call from Social Services saying that the Indian Consulate had turned them away, not allowing them to interview the Chaundhry girls. The social workers had seen photos of the girls playing inside the Consulate, and the girls seemed fine physically. A consular official had told the social workers that the children were going to be sent back to India soon.

  It seemed strange to both him and Marvin that the girls were being sent out of the country so soon, and before they’d seen their mother. It wasn’t clear at all, either, that Asha Chaundhry was aware that her daughters were going to be taken to India. The fact that the police might want to interview the girls seemed to be of no interest to the Indian government.

  Something in Madrone’s voice was different from when she was on duty, a softer feminine quality. O’Higgins thought he heard music, Dolly Parton playing in the background.

  “It’s Detective O’Higgins.”

  “Yes sir,” Madrone said.

  “Listen, you’ve got here, in your report, that the Gilbert family, when you interviewed them last night, said that the father —”

  “Hold on a moment, sir.” Madrone left the line, and the music playing in the background stopped. “Sorry, sir. I wanted to hear. I’m at home this morning. It’s my day off.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Madrone said.

  “It says here, in your report, that — Paul Gilbert told you Mr. Chaundhry, the victim’s father, came for the two girls at 5:45. Is that right?”

  “Yes, if that’s what I wrote. Yes, that’s what Gilbert said. I remember now. His wife was cooking something and had just noted the time when the girls’ grandfather rang their bell. The husband answered. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but the wife said she did. I spoke to them both.”

  “I was on the phone with Mrs. Gilbert, just now. She says that the grandfather was there at 5:15. That’s a big difference. Are you sure you caught the time right last night?” O’Higgins said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Could I see you sometime?” O’Higgins said. “Drink or something?” It came out of his mouth before he realized he’d said it. It was as if someone else had broken into the conversation and interrupted him.

  “Sure. Yeah.”

  “It’s Michael. Call me Michael.”

  “Sure — Michael.”

  “Today at five, the bar at Kokkari? You know where it is? The Greek place downtown.”

  “Yeah. I know. On Jackson.” She was surprised, he could tell.

  “Okay. Listen, I’m going to go over there and interview the wife. Five forty-five is what she told you? You’re sure?”

  “She was cooking — pa
sta, she said. They were going to eat at six because they had to go to a parent-teacher night at their daughter’s school. It’s the same school the Chaundhry kids go to. I remember what she said. Five forty-five,” Madrone said. “I’m positive.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I’ll see you there — at Kokkari, then.”

  He ended the call before she could answer. He looked around him as if he’d dropped something. He realized he’d wanted to have sex with Madrone from the moment he’d seen her. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. She was attractive, petite, a blonde. And then it hit him: she looked like his wife.

  He stood up and moved away from the desk, out of the office, down the stairs. He had a crazy idea that he would call his psychiatrist and tell her what he’d just done. How strange it seemed. But he didn’t.

  He crossed the street and went to the Gilbert house. Their house was directly across from the Chaundhry’s. It was foggy out, the street painted in grey tones. It was three in the afternoon and he wasn’t sure anyone would be home.

  “Hello, my name is Detective O’Higgins. We spoke earlier on the phone.”

  “Hello, Detective.”

  The woman who answered the door was about 35. Pretty, tall, athletic looking. He’d noticed the wives in the neighborhood were younger than their husbands, for the most part. He’d checked several of the names in Madrone’s report, looking for anyone with a record. It had been a random search, but he wanted to start ruling out the possibility that despite the neighborhood, they had someone who was known to the police, a Peeping Tom or the like. Patrol had interviewed several of the neighbors on the block. Some of the houses that had not been contacted were owned by foreign corporations and had been a dead end when he looked into them. Two, side by side, were owned by Aramco in Saudi Arabia. No one living on the block had any kind of police record.

  “I’m Detective O’Higgins,” he said again. He showed her his ID. “Are you Mrs. Gilbert?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Yes, of course, Detective. Come in.”

  Like the Chaundhry mansion, the Gilberts’ place was plush and huge. Modern art hung on the walls, cold and slightly corporate in feel with a lot of abstract works in black and white. Mrs. Gilbert was wearing teal yoga pants, and her butt was pressed up against them. He tried not to look at her ass.