Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter

by Lee Goldberg

  They continued walking for a while in silence, crossing the river to the other side of the beach, where his car was parked along the promenade. When they got to his car, he opened the hatchback and retrieved his research notes from his suitcase.

  "Very cute," she said from behind him.

  "What is?" he asked.

  She grinned. "If I I said your fanny, would it make your day?"

  "My decade," Mark said.

  "I was talking about your car," she said.

  "Maybe I'll put spinners on the rims to give it some gangsta edge," Mark said.

  "That's fine," Betsy said, "but what are you going to do about the driver?"

  Mark reached into the front seat; grabbed a pair of sleek Ray-Ban sunglasses, and slipped them on.

  "It's a start," she said.

  He handed her the list of names and addresses he'd gleaned from researching Stryker's phone bill. "Do any of these names or addresses mean anything to you?"

  "Sure," she said. "A lot of these are currency collectors and dealers who sold him bank notes. And I know Jimmy shopped at some of these cigar stores."

  "Was Jimmy a big cigar smoker?"

  "He had a private humidor at Hampshire's, a Beverly Hills tobacconist, as well as a four-thousand-dollar rosewood humidor at his office. At home, he had a humidified room kept a constant temperature of sixty-five degrees just for his cigars. Jimmy treated his cigars like bottles of wine. He said they only got better with age. He smoked one every night. God knows how many he went through at the office or the blackjack table. Some of my clothes still smell like his damn cigars."

  She handed the notes back to Mark.

  "Thank you so much, Betsy," Mark said. "You've been an enormous help."

  "Let me know how things turn out, okay?"

  "Absolutely." Mark shook her hand. She turned and started walking back towards the beach.

  Mark got into his car, sat on the edge of the seat, and wiped the sand off his feet.

  "Hey, Doc," Betsy called out. Mark looked up.

  "Your fanny is pretty cute, too."

  He felt himself blush. He couldn't remember the last time that had happened.

  She smiled, amused with herself, and continued on her way. Mark did the same.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Harley Brule didn't look too comfortable sitting in the lop sided chair reserved for suspects in the interrogation room. The hard-assed arrogance was still there, but now the effort that went into sustaining it was showing.

  Steve sat across from Brule and didn't have to put any effort into looking relaxed. He was. He didn't feel any tension at all.

  "You know how the game is played," Steve said. "So I'm not going to waste any time. Here's where things stand. We've got you. We've got your wife. We've got your entire crew. We've got all the evidence we need. This will be the easiest case the DA has ever prosecuted."

  "Then why the hell are you here?" Brule said.

  "I'm thinking about your wife and kid," Steve said. "We're going to come down hard on you no matter what you tell us. We have to make an example out of you. But maybe we can get your wife probation so she can take care of your kid. All depends on whether you talk."

  "If your case is so good, what do you need me to talk about?"

  "You could plead guilty, save the taxpayers some money," Steve said. "You can also tell us who capped Nick Stryker."

  "Nick who?"

  Steve leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "The guy who was blackmailing you. The guy who said if anything ever happened to him, his files would go to the police. I've got a news flash for you, Harley. He wasn't bluffing. We've got the photos, the videos, the phone taps, and the stolen goods he won in your eBay auctions."

  "You know that, then you know I paid him." Brule said. "We gave him ten percent off the top to keep quiet."

  "Harley, you've seen what prison does to a woman. Do you really want your wife to go through that? Think what kind of life your son is going to have in foster care. You can save them."

  "I didn't kill Nick Stryker," Brule said.

  "I'm sure you didn't, Steve said. "You got someone to do it for you. I want a name, Harley."

  "I don't have one to give you because I didn't kill the sonofabitch."

  There was a knock from the other side of the interrogation room mirror, behind which was an observation room where people could watch without being seen.

  Steve rose from his seat. "A man takes care of his family. I guess you're not much of a man."

  "I can give you something else." Brule said. "I can tell you who sold us the merchandise."

  "We arrested the ValTec security guards, too." Steve shook his head and walked to the door. "You'll have to do better than that."

  Owen Penmore was waiting for Steve in the corridor, a file in his hand. The ADA looked very pleased with himself.

  "The raids were a complete success. We've gathered enough stolen goods to fill a moving truck and apprehended every member of Brule's unit except one."

  "Who?"

  "Detective Arturo Sandoval."

  "How did he get away?"

  "He didn't," Penmore said. "Sandoval hasn't showed up for work in three days."

  "Has anybody else seen him?"

  "Nobody knows where he is. His girlfriend hasn't heard from him in a week," Penmore said. "She figured he was working undercover or something."

  "Is he?"

  "The MCU isn't running any undercover operations," he said. "They're too busy robbing people. We've put out an APB on his car."

  Steve thought for a moment. "Can you pull his jacket for me? I want to know if he's ever been shot in the shoulder."

  "I can tell you that right now." Penmore opened the file in his hand and flipped through a few pages. "Yeah, he took a bullet five years ago. Why?"

  Steve smiled to himself. "I think we're going to have to amend the charges against Brule."

  "To include what?"

  "The murder of Nick Stryker," Steve said.

  It was late afternoon by the time Mark left Capitola. He decided to put off the five-to six-hour drive back to Los Angeles until the next morning. There was no point in exhausting himself. He chose instead to spend the night in Monterey, the former Spanish colonial capital of California.

  He checked in at the Portola Plaza Hotel, located on the harbor in the center of town, right at the base of Old Fisherman's Wharf. The desk clerk won Mark over immediately by giving him two hot chocolate chip cookies in a little Baggie along with his room key.

  Mark took his overnight bag to his room, plugged in his laptoop, and sat down to make a few calls to the people on Stryker's phone bill. But first he needed to figure out what lie he was going to tell.

  The truth was too complicated to explain and unlikely to win the cooperation of those he was calling.

  After a moment he came up with a lie that was close enough to the truth that maintaining the deception wouldn't tax him too much. It was also the kind of lie that could prove alluring to the people he was calling.

  He began by calling the currency dealers. He introduced himself by his real name, explained that he was writing a book about the Jimmy Cale murder case, and wanted to learn more about the man as a "three-dimensional person" rather than simply an embezzler and adulterer. Part of understanding Cale meant learning more about his passions, and there was nothing the man loved more than his money.

  With the exception of passing himself off as a writer researching a book, Mark's pitch was pretty close to the truth, and everybody he called was eager to help him.

  He learned that Cale was well known in numismatic circles and had a collection that was the envy of many in the field. But Cale made a lot of enemies on the way to accumulating that collection, using his wealth to pummel his opponents. Few could afford to outbid him, and he thought nothing of overpaying for an item just so he instead of someone else could possess it.

  When Cale's collection went up for auction alter his murder, it created a feeding
frenzy among the wealthiest numismatist though their identities remained secret and their bids were made anonymously through brokers or front men.

  This was not unusual. Because the paper money fraternity was quite small, Mark learned, it wasn't in any collector's best interest to let his specialties become too well known. So to shield their anonymity, and get the best price, the wealthiest collectors worked through middlemen.

  Some of the collectors who were outbid at the auction still hadn't given up on getting what they'd lost.

  When an uncirculated hundred-dollar brown seal, 1882 series gold certificate believed to have been part of Cale's collection had recently come back on the market, a broker acting for a secret buyer nabbed it for a whopping three hundred thousand dollars, well over its actual value. The same broker bought an 1880 series hundred-dollar silver certificate signed by Register of the Treasury Glenni W. Scofield and U.S. Treasurer James Gilfillan, like one Cale owned, a few months earlier.

  The broker's name was Sanford Pelz.

  Mark wasn't surprised to find that Pelz appeared several times on Stryker's phone bill. Pelz was also the last person Stryker had called before disappearing.

  When Mark tried to call Pelz, all he got was an answering service. The broker's address was a post office box in Kingman, Arizona.

  He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly eight o'clock. His stomach growled, reminding him that all he'd had to eat since lunch was two chocolate chip cookies.

  Mark e-mailed his notes to himself, shut down his computer, and left the hotel in search of some dinner. He strolled down Fisherman's Wharf, which was lined with souvenir shops, candy stores, and seafood restaurants. The air was heavy with the smell of salt water, fried fish, and roasted nuts. In the harbor, barking sea lions piled up on buoys and sailboats chugged slowly to their moorings.

  At one time, Monterey was one of the largest suppliers of sardines in the world, shipping two hundred thousand tons a year, until the ocean was finally fished dry. Now the once bustling Cannery Row, immortalized by John Steinbeck, was an outlet mall. There was no place for history in America, Mark thought. But there could never be too many outlet malls.

  Mark didn't consciously pick a place to eat. He kept walking until he came to the restaurant at the end of the wharf. He didn't feel like turning around to see what restaurants he'd missed, so he went inside without even glancing at the menu displayed out front. The restaurant had a marvelous view of the bay and, as it turned out, served decent seafood, too.

  His mind was a blank while he ate. He was letting the events of the day, and all the facts he had accumulated, churn in his subconscious without any prodding from him.

  He'd set out to discover what happened to Nick Stryker by following the detective's trail until he disappeared. But now Mark realized he had to do more than that. He had to follow the man's thinking.

  Bert Yankton hired Stryker to prove he didn't kill his best friend, Jimmy Cale, the man who betrayed him by plundering their business and seducing his wife. Mark knew Stryker wasn't interested in correcting a miscarriage of justice. Stryker took on only work that had a potential for blackmail. So what was the blackmail potential in this case?

  Did Stryker actually believe Yankton was innocent? Or was he stringing Yankton along until the money ran out? That was the most likely scenario, but it didn't explain why Stryker actually seemed to go to work on the case.

  If Stryker believed Yankton was innocent, did he intend to blackmail the real killer and let Yankton remain imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit?

  Why did Stryker bother talking to Betsy? What did Stryker hope to learn from her? What did he learn? Mark didn't know. All he knew was that after talking with her, Stryker spent the next several days contacting currency dealers all over the United States.

  What was Stryker looking for?

  Why was he so interested in Cale's money?

  One obvious conclusion occurred to Mark: Jimmy Cale wasn't killed by Yankton. He was murdered for his currency collection.

  * * *

  Steve was reasonably certain who killed Nick Stryker and why. The only thing left to do now was prove it.

  While Burnside and Penmore were busy hustling more search warrants against other criminals in Stryker's files, Steve contacted Dr. Amanda Bentley at the morgue. He told her about Arturo Sandoval, the missing member of the West Valley Major Crime Unit who once took a bullet in the shoulder.

  Amanda said she would pull Sandoval's dental records and medical files and compare them with the unidentified charred corpse in her freezer.

  In the meantime, Steve interrogated the other members of the Major Crime Unit. None of them would cut a deal to testify against Brule or their fellow cops. And none of them would admit to any involvement in Stryker's murder. The ValTec security guards, the ones who did most of the actual stealing, weren't any more helpful, mainly because their involvement in the scheme ended once they sold their stuff to Brule.

  Steve would have to crack Brule. He'd left Brule alone and handcuffed in the interrogation room to stare at his own reflection and wonder what would become of himself and his family.

  It was nearly six p.m. when Amanda finally called Steve with her results: The charcoal man was definitely Detective Arturo Sandoval. Now all the pieces fell into place. There was a homicide case to close, and Steve was going to close it.

  Steve returned to the interrogation room to confront Brule with the new information.

  Brule was sitting in his chair, legs stretched out, feigning sleep as Steve came in.

  "About time," Brule said. "I've been in here for hours'

  "Would you prefer a cell?" Steve took the seat across from him and set a file down on the table.

  "I'd prefer a bathroom." Brule said. "You know how long it's been since I've taken a leak?"

  "No," Steve said, "but I know what happened to Arturo Sandoval."

  Steve pulled a picture of Sandoval's charred corpse from the file and slid it across the table to Brule.

  "He torched Stryker's office a couple nights ago and managed to torch himself in the process."

  "So?" Brule slid the picture back to Steve.

  "Sandoval was one of your crew," Steve said. "You ordered him to kill Stryker and destroy his files."

  "You can't prove that, Brule said, nervously shaking his leg. Steve wasn't sure whether Brule was doing it out of anxiety or to control his bladder.

  "Stryker was blackmailing you and the crew. You were Sandoval's commanding officer in the MCU and on the street. Stryker was murdered, his office was burned down, and Sandoval's body was found at the scene. Come on, Harley, how do you think that's going to look to a jury? They'll connect the dots and end up with a pretty picture of an electric chair—with you strapped into it."

  Both of Brule's knees were bouncing now. He leaned forward, sweat glistening on his bald head.

  "Look, Artie hated giving that parasite Stryker a percentage," Brule said. "I said it was the cost of doing business, but Artie didn't see it that way. He wanted us to kill Stryker and torch his office. I said no, it was too big a risk. What if Stryker's threat was real? What if the files weren't in his office? Artie says so we make him tell us where the files are and then blow his brains out. I told him to live with it. I guess he couldn't."

  "You're saying Sandoval acted alone," Steve said.

  "Yeah, that's what I'm saying," Brule said.

  "You expect me to believe he'd defy you and risk the consequences?"

  "What choice do you have." Brule said.

  Steve shrugged. "I can pin it on you."

  "Go ahead and try."

  "Tell me where the body is," Steve said. "That's your only bargaining chip."

  "I told you, I don't know," Brule said. "But I'll testify to whatever you want against Artie and you can close the Stryker case. It's a win-win for you."

  "You think that's all you've got to give us to get your wife probation?"

  "It's a good deal. The do
ubleheader of arresting me and solving Stryker's homicide will play well in the press. The DA will make the deal whether you like it or not," Brule said, then turned and looked directly into the mirror. "Now will somebody take me to the goddamn bathroom before I wet myself?"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Brule's right," Penmore told Steve later as they stood in District Attorney Neil Burnside's office. "It's a good deal."

  "See?" Burnside said to Steve. "I told you the facts surrounding Stryker's murder would shake out in the normal course of events."

  "Brule is lying." Steve said. "He ordered the hit and he's letting a dead man take the fall. So are we."

  Burnside shrugged. "So what?"

  "He's getting away with murder' Steve said.

  "He's doing time. Nobody is getting away with anything. Do you have any idea what it's like for a cop in prison?" Burnside said. "It's going to be living hell for ten long years."

  "If he survives," Penmore said.

  Steve couldn't argue with that. And yet he still was uneasy about the deal. Burnside seemed to read his mind.

  "The fact is, Detective, even if Brule ordered the hit, he sure as hell didn't pull the trigger," Burnside said. "Sandoval did that. This is the best outcome we could possibly hope for without Sandoval's testimony against Brule."

  "I know," Steve said. "I don't know what my problem is."

  "I do." Burnside said. "It's not that Brule isn't being charged with murder. It's that he's getting what he wants. He won the contest in the interrogation room."

  Steve sighed. "I hate to admit it, but yeah, you're probably right."

  "It would bug me, too. I like to win. But you've got to look at the big picture, Detective," Burnside said. "You closed two big cases today and we're going to reward your efforts with two big convictions. And this is just the beginning."