Treasure Hunt wh-2

by John Lescroart

  But Juhle already had stepped in front of Hunt with his ID out. Introducing himself, saying the magic word homicide, Juhle instantly transformed the cops into two nice guys who wanted to know if there was anything they could do to help.

  “She’s got it,” Hunt said.

  And sure enough, Russo was straightening up out in the middle of the mud, waving her arms.

  Juhle turned back to the cops. “Actually, guys, you can help. One of you please call dispatch and have ’em get CSI down here as fast as they can move. Tell them it’s the Como one eighty-seven.”

  Lorraine Hess, associate director of the Sunset Youth Project, stood wringing her hands in her office doorway, facing the two police inspectors. “But you’re saying you don’t know if it’s from the limousine yet, is that right?”

  “That’s right.” Sarah Russo, naturally taking point with the obviously distracted woman, nodded and spoke in her well-modulated, educated, nonthreatening voice. “All we’ve done so far is sent the tire iron itself directly down to the police laboratory for analysis. And all we know so far is that it’s the basic kind of tire iron that comes standard on a lot of cars, including the Lincoln Town Car. There’s a small chance, if it was the murder weapon, that it will still have at least traces of Mr. Como’s hair or blood or something recoverable through DNA, although maybe not. In any event, though, the thing’s a mess and it’s going to take some time, maybe a lot of time, to find out what we’re dealing with there for sure.” She trotted out her professional smile, which looked entirely genuine. “In the meanwhile, Inspector Juhle and I got to talking and realized that it would probably be worth our while to see if there was still a tire iron in Mr. Como’s limousine.”

  “But why?” Hess asked. “I thought the limousine was back here by the time he was murdered. That’s what we’ve heard.”

  Juhle decided to speak up. “That may be true, but-”

  “It is true, I believe, Inspector.”

  “Well, be that as it may, if the tire iron is in fact missing”-Juhle shrugged, nonchalant-“it at least opens the door to the possibility that someone from here at Sunset might have been involved in the murder.”

  “But the tire iron could be gone from the limo and still not have been the murder weapon.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sarah said. “And by the same token, if it isn’t gone, then we’re pretty much back where we started. It could be any tire iron from any one of hundreds of cars in the city. Anyway, the point is, with your permission we’d just like to look.”

  Hess brushed a vagrant hair away from her forehead. “Well, sure. I mean, that goes without saying, but don’t you need a warrant or something like that?”

  Juhle flashed a glance at Russo at the unexpected question. He cleared his throat. “A warrant would give us the absolute right to take that car apart and look all through it,” he said, “and I’m sure we could get one in short order. But we thought we could save some time and energy trying to find Mr. Como’s killer by just coming out here and asking if we could check the trunk, that’s all.”

  “Right,” Hess said. “Of course.”

  “Parked along the side, right?” Russo asked. “Do you have a set of keys?”

  “Yes, and, yes, I’m sure I’ve got a spare bunch of them here somewhere, or maybe in Dominic’s office. Can you give me a minute?”

  Russo nodded. “All the time you need.”

  Hess turned and went back into her office, opened a drawer or two, sighed, closed the drawers again, then came by the inspectors again and walked across the lobby and into Como’s office.

  “A little nervous, don’t you think?” Juhle whispered.

  “She doesn’t want to think it’s one of her people.”

  “I’d think she’d be happy for the chance to prove it’s probably not any of them. I mean, if the tire iron’s there…”

  “I know what you’re saying. But the more I think about it, what does that really mean? If it’s there, it means nothing. If it’s not there, by itself it means nothing either.”

  “It means somebody took it out.”

  “Big deal. When? Six months ago? Yesterday? And even if our very own tire iron from the lagoon is what killed him, how do we know it’s that particular limo’s tire iron after all?”

  “We don’t. That’s what makes this job so much fun. But it might, in fact, narrow the field. And you agreed to come out here, if you remember.”

  “I just don’t know what we’re going to do if we find it’s gone.”

  “If it is, it’ll lead to something. You just watch.”

  “Great,” she said. “Words to live by.”

  And then Lorraine Hess emerged from Dominic Como’s office, holding up a set of keys, wearing a smile that managed to be hopeful and fearful at the same time.

  After swearing that she’d walked down to Union Square and bought a hot dog with lemonade and fries for lunch, Tamara gave Mickey the three names on the phone when he called in after the complete strikeout with Damien Jones.

  But hearing about the duck people and Belinda the psychic, Mickey decided he’d be damned if he was going to talk to any of them. Getting together with nutcases who at least had some kind of a whacked-out story-Damien or the Blimp Lady-was one thing; but wasting his time with automatic fruitcakes like Belinda, for example, wouldn’t help the police or the Hunt Club. There was such a thing as an automatic, commonsense pass on certain people, and he’d make that point to Wyatt the next time he saw him. Meanwhile, he told Tamara to call him if the mysterious Hang-up Lady or any more or less legitimate crazy person called back and needed to have their evidence debunked, but meanwhile he was going to try to call on another source for inside information about Dominic Como.

  “Say hi to her for me.”

  Dang. How did she know?

  But Alicia didn’t pick up when he called her on her cell phone, so he left a message and then tried her brother and got another strikeout. It was turning out to be that kind of day. So he drove back on Lincoln alongside Golden Gate Park, a plan for the next couple of hours developing in his mind.

  When he got to the Panhandle at the east end of the park, he found a parking spot and walked back to the bocce court that hid itself very effectively beneath the cypresses. Maybe his luck was changing, because there, as he’d hoped, in the company of three other old geezers was his grandfather, lining up a shot. Mickey waited until he’d thrown-a damn good roll that stopped inside all the other balls and only a couple of inches from the jack. It must have been the last shot of the round, since it drew enthusiastic applause from Parr’s team and good- natured snarling obscenities from the other men as all of them started walking down the court to pick up.

  When they turned back, Jim saw Mickey and raised a hand. “You see that shot?” he asked. “I’m on fire today. We’re up eight three this game. You know all these reprobates?” As Mickey nodded all around, Jim asked, “Everything all right? Tamara okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s good. She loves being back at work, I’ll tell you that. Otherwise, everything’s fine except nobody in the world is home, which makes it hard to hook up with people. So since I’ve got the time I thought I’d go get something for dinner and then I thought I’d stop by and see if there’s anything you especially felt like.”

  Jim shrugged. “You make it, it’s going to be good, so it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Even goat?”

  Another shrug. “Never had it. Can you just go out and buy goat?”

  “Sure. Bi-Rite’s got it. They can get anything. You’d really eat goat if I made it?”

  “I’d eat anything, Mick. You know me. You might check with Tam, though. She might have some thoughts on goat.”

  “I’m thinking of inviting somebody else over too.”

  “Whatever,” Jim said. “I’m easy.”

  One of the bocce players called over and Jim told him to keep his fucking shirt on, then came back to his grandchild. “So how’s the case going?”

  �
�Decently, I guess. Tam thinks Wyatt might have found the murder weapon. Meanwhile, I’m eliminating the bad tips and getting to meet a really fun whole new class of people that I’d never otherwise get to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Apparently sane whack-jobs.”

  “No, not what’s the fun new class of people, Mick. What’s the murder weapon?”

  “A tire iron, maybe.”

  Jim Parr’s face hardened. “Bastard. You getting any closer to who did it?”

  “Not that I know of. Maybe there’ll be fingerprints or something on the tire iron, but that would be a long shot. So probably not.”

  “Shit. Maybe I should just go out there.”

  “Where?”

  “Sunset.”

  “And do what?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to some people. See if they’d talk to me. Find out what was really happening.”

  “I’ve got a better idea, Jim. Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a really dumb idea, that’s why not.”

  “Well, it’s hard for me to believe that nobody out there knows anything at all. I mean, Dominic just has a regular day of work and then goes home and meets somebody who kills him? Somebody must have known or seen something, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I do. But we can’t seem to get started down any trail that leads anyplace.”

  “All I’m saying is maybe I could.”

  “Right. And why is that? Because you’re a trained investigator?”

  “Hey, smart-ass, I’m as trained as the next guy. If I heard something important, I know for damn sure I’d recognize it. I know those people out there.”

  “But we don’t know it’s one of them.”

  “Well, that just goes to show what you know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, it’s staring you right in the face and you don’t see it.”

  “What is?”

  “The plain, simple truth about Dominic, which is that Sunset was his whole life. He lived and breathed it, morning, noon, night, weekends, holidays. His. Whole. Life. Get it? If somebody killed him, and it wasn’t completely random, it had to have something to do with Sunset. Period. Maybe only a little bit. But something. Which means it’s probably right there if you know what to look for.”

  This speech, since there was little to refute in it, shut Mickey right up. He took a few deep breaths through his nose, his mouth a tight line. “You might be right about that,” he said finally, “but you going out there is still a dumb idea.”

  “Oh. Okay, then. I won’t.”

  “Jim.”

  “No. You convinced me. I promise I won’t go out there.”

  “A promise is a promise, you know.”

  “Absolutely. Scout’s honor too. Now listen, I’ve got to get back to kicking some ass in my game, and you’ve got to go buy some goat. I’ll see you tonight, all right?”

  “Right.”

  15

  Once upon a time, in the early days of the current administration of District Attorney Clarence Jackman, Gina Roake had been an original member of his “kitchen cabinet,” advising him on municipal and legal matters while he grew into the position to which-much to his surprise-he’d been appointed. The cabinet remained in its informal existence, meeting almost every Tuesday for lunch at Lou the Greek’s for about a year, and during that time, its members found that they had formed strong bonds with one another. Defense attorneys like Roake, her partner Dismas Hardy, and her then-fiance David Freeman somehow managed to find common ground with the likes of Jackman, the city and county’s chief prosecutor, and Abe Glitsky, then deputy chief of inspectors of the San Francisco Police Department.

  Also among the members of the cabinet was Jeff Elliot, the writer of the Chronicle’s popular CityTalk column. Elliot had contracted multiple sclerosis as a young man and over the years had gradually declined to the point where he now only rarely left his wheelchair or his desk in the basement of the Chron’s building at Fifth Street and Mission. Bearded, decidedly heavyset, and with thick graying hair grown well over his ears, he was nevertheless as sharp as ever, a repository of pretty much everything that could be known about the city, its residents, or its institutions, public or not.

  Now, unable to allay her concern about her boyfriend Wyatt Hunt’s nonchalance in his attitude toward both his investigation into Como’s death and the presence of Len Turner in the mix, Gina Roake was sitting on a hard wooden chair catercorner to Elliot in his tiny cubbyhole of an office.

  It was four-thirty on Tuesday afternoon.

  “Actually,” Elliot was telling her, “if I believed in coincidences, I’d say it was quite a coincidence you happening to come by here today with that question.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because just today, I…” Rummaging around on the surface of his desk, he extracted a sheet of paper from a small pile of them. “Well, here. Troglodyte that I am, I still ask for and get hard- copy galleys. They hate me for it, but what are they going to do? I’m a star. So, anyway, this is tomorrow’s column. You might find it somewhat interesting.” CityTalk BY JEFF ELLIOT Everyone knows that the murder last Tuesday of community activist Dominic Como has left his flagship Sunset Youth Project (“SYP”) in a precarious state. But CityTalk has learned from sources in the city’s Health Services Department that its troubles may have begun before Mr. Como’s death. The sources, who wished to remain anonymous because the reports they spoke about were not due to become public until later this week, portrayed an organization rife with political intrigue and corruption.

  Roake looked up from the page. “Let me guess,” she said. “Como and his pals were lining their pockets with grant money.”

  “Damn,” Elliot said. “You stole my scoop. Who woulda thunk it?”

  “Okay, so let me go double or nothing. Just a wild guess. Somehow Len Turner’s in this up to his eyes.”

  Elliot sighed. “You’re psychic.”

  Gina shrugged. “It’s a small talent.” She went back to the column. According to documents released by the federal government last Friday, the SYP is to be barred access to federal grants and contracts for up to one year due to its unauthorized use of AmeriCorps funds. AmeriCorps has contributed over $4.6 million to SYP over the past four years. According to its contract with AmeriCorps, SYP agreed to use these funds to pay tutors at its Ortega campus, to redevelop certain selected properties to be used as residential treatment facilities, and to assist with marketing and operations in SYP’s other subsidiaries, such as its moving company, art gallery, and theater. Instead, the documents list a number of violations against Mr. Como, including: • Misuse of AmeriCorps funds for his personal benefit, including paying several different drivers to take him to personal appointments, wash his car, and run personal errands. • Unlawfully supplementing the salaries of instructors at the Ortega campus with federal grant funds by enrolling these instructors in the AmeriCorps program and giving them federally funded living allowances and education awards. • Improperly using AmeriCorps members for political activities, such as pamphlet distribution and telephone solicitation. • Misusing AmeriCorps members as janitors and clerical personnel at the Ortega campus, not as tutors. “So how’d they find out?” Gina asked. “Tell me someone in the organization ratted him out. I love it when the vipers turn on each other.” “Nothing so dramatic. At least not that we know of. Someone with the federal Corporation for National and Community Service caught some irregularities. You gotta see the full report. It’s pretty blunt.” “Bean counters,” Gina said. “You gotta love ’em.” Elliot nodded. “Keep reading. Now comes the juicy local stuff and affirmation of your psychic power.” In a closely related matter, just this past weekend the San Francisco Board of Supervisors released its yearly budget analysis of the Communities of Opportunity (“COO”) program, headed by Len Turner. Mr. Turner, apart from this mayoral-appointed position, also serves as legal counsel to several servic
e-oriented nonprofit organizations, including the Mission Street Coalition, the Sanctuary House for Battered Women, and, notably, the SYP, among several others. The COO program has supplied nearly $4 million, mostly foundation money from private sources, into community redevelopment for some of the city’s most poverty-stricken neighborhoods. But the just-released budget analysis has revealed that despite this influx of cash-earmarked for after-school tutoring, health care, addiction rehabilitation, and job placement-the program has essentially nothing to show for its efforts over the past two years. “So,” Gina said, “the Supes found out this was coming?” “Looks like it.” “And they were shocked, shocked, that there was gambling going on at Rick’s.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So where did the money go?”

  “Read on.” Below is a partial listing of questionable expenses so far unearthed: conferences for community development professionals ($602,335), theatrical and musical events ($136,800), consultants and public relations ($477, 210), program office and community staff ($372,000), and community outreach ($256,780). Beyond these “expenses,” nearly $2 million went to “community-based organizations and other services”-i.e., to the very nonprofits who were charged with administering the COO funds. And finally, in the COO program alone, Mr. Turner pulls down a salary of $370,000 per year. Revelations such as these lend credence to the pejorative term sometimes used to describe these professional fund-raisers and community activists: “poverty pimps.” They like to describe themselves as people who are “doing well by doing good.” They are doing very well indeed. In fact, judging from the financial improprieties apparent in these two recent reports, it seems that in San Francisco, nonprofit is in fact a high- profit, big- money game. And taking into consideration Mr. Como’s murder, it may also be a deadly one.

  Gina Roake handed the galley sheet back to Jeff Elliot. “Looks plenty grafty to me,” she said. “Not to mention slightly dangerous, which is exactly the message I’ve been trying to get through to Wyatt.”