by Alexi Venice
The three of them watched her while she watched the video. A mix of defeat and embarrassment radiated from her blotchy, red face. When she reached the end, she limply tossed Tommy’s phone back to him and covered her face again. “So fucking awful. How could I have been so stupid? No wonder he was acting so stilted and weird. He was taping me. Trapping me. Setting me up.”
“What do you mean?” Tommy asked.
“Something was different in his voice that night. Wrong. The mood didn’t feel right. Not like it had in the past. When I tied him up previously, he became excited, both physically and emotionally. Talking dirty to me. Encouraging me to do this or that. But, that night, he just said those few words. His voice was uncharacteristically flat. I knew something was wrong, especially when he said he wouldn’t be there unless I wanted him to be. That was bullshit. That’s why I untied him and went to the bathroom to change. I felt humiliated. I should’ve listened to my gut instinct and searched the room for the camera, which was at an awkward angle by the way.” She paused and stared into the air while she pieced together where Carlisle’s phone had been placed. “It was his phone, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Tommy said. “He told me he set it up while you were in the bathroom getting ready, but bumped it when you came out. That’s why it was at an angle.”
“That was the prize. The golden ticket. Get me on video in my leather corset, garter belt and stockings. If he was hired by my political adversaries to get that video, then you can be damn sure they have it. Where’s his phone?”
“In our custody with other evidence from his house,” Tommy said.
“Great. Now we wait for an envelope telling me to drop out of the race or the video will become public.” She ran her hands through her blonde-colored hair. “I need a cigarette.” She hastily lurched from her chair and stumbled over to her desk where she removed a designer purse from a drawer. She grabbed a red pack of Pall Malls and shook out a cigarette.
Not Dunhills, Tommy, Amanda and Frank thought in unison, briefly meeting one another’s eyes.
Chapter 13
Palo Alto
Montiago took a few deep drags and returned to her chair. She flopped down, the weight of her shocked body hitting hard on the unforgiving leather seat.
“Mind if I smoke too?” Tommy asked.
“Go ahead,” Montiago said.
He offered one to Amanda, but she shook him off, the smell of Montiago’s cigarette exacerbating her nicotine headache.
“Do you always smoke Pall Malls?” Tommy asked Montiago.
“No. My preference is Dunhill, but they’re hard to find. They’re sold mostly in tobacco shops, not convenience stores. I have to send my assistant, Sam, to Mac’s Smoke Shop down the street, and we’ve been so busy lately that she hasn’t had time to go. I’m afraid I defaulted to my backup. I’ve been carrying these around for a week now.”
A week, Amanda thought, and there are 20 cigarettes to a pack. “How many cigarettes do you usually smoke a day?”
“Please don’t give me a speech about smoking,” Montiago said, exhaling a plume. “I get enough of that from Sam.”
“I’m not going to. Humor me, Mrs. Montiago. How many do you smoke per day—on average?”
“One or two. I have to be careful about when and where I smoke. People can be so judgmental, and I don’t want the media to catch me.”
“And you said you picked up this pack a week ago?”
“A week. Maybe six days. Why?”
“Would you mind retrieving the pack from your bag for me?” Amanda asked, standing to prompt Montiago into action.
Montiago reluctantly rose from her chair and retrieved the pack from her purse, handing it to Amanda.
Amanda counted the remaining cigarettes in the pack. There were only five. At two per day for seven days, Montiago would’ve smoked about fourteen. The one in her mouth made fifteen. “There are five remaining in this pack,” she said to Frank and Tommy.
They nodded, knowing where she was going with her inquiry.
“Who else knows you smoke Dunhills?” Amanda asked.
“I have no idea. Besides Sam, close friends, business associates…probably more people than I care to admit.”
“Political adversaries?” Tommy asked.
“Again, I have no idea,” Montiago said.
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Amanda thought, as she looked at Tommy.
Frank spoke for the first time. “What type of lipstick do you wear, Mrs. Montiago?”
At the sound of his voice, Montiago jumped as if a firecracker had exploded. Her head snapped around. “I…uh…sorry. I forgot you were here. I use Stila. Why?”
“Do you have a tube of it with you?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s in my bag.” She walked over to her desk and retrieved her lipstick tube. She set it in the handkerchief Frank was holding in his outstretched hand.
He used one corner to remove the gold cap while holding the bottom of the tube with the opposite corner. He pulled out the applicator brush, so Tommy and Amanda could see the pink color. They all nodded. He re-inserted the applicator in the tube. “Says on the bottom of the tube that this is ‘Patina-Dusty Rose.’”
“That’s right. I knew the name had ‘Rose’ in it,” Montiago said.
While Montiago watched in disbelief, Frank removed a plastic bag from his suit pocket and dropped the lipstick in it. He pulled a Sharpie from his breast pocket and labelled the bag.
“Are you taking my lipstick, Mr. …? I forgot your name.”
“Call me Frank. Yes. With your permission, I’d like to take this tube of lipstick as evidence.”
She took another drag. “What’s with the cigarettes and lipstick?”
“Think about it,” Amanda said to her. “You’re a smart woman.” Amanda wanted to see Montiago’s brain in action. Plus, it would do her some good to stop crying like a drama queen and help them piece together clues. If she was going to beat a murder rap, she had to start thinking.
Montiago drew heavily on her cigarette, as she watched Frank pocket the bag of lipstick. She seemed mesmerized by him. “I can’t believe I’m in this situation…framed for murder. Was there lipstick on Jared’s shirt collar or something?”
“Reasonable guess, but not quite. Think about why I asked you about the brand of cigarette you smoke,” Amanda said.
Montiago studied Amanda, not really seeing her. “Someone left a pack of Dunhills at his house?”
“Getting warmer. Why did we ask about lipstick?” Amanda asked.
“Someone left a cigarette in an ashtray with lipstick on it,” she said, smoking her Pall Mall.
“Close enough,” Tommy said. “A Dunhill butt in the driveway with lipstick on it.”
She collapsed into her chair again with no cushion to envelop her. She was more exposed than if she had been sitting in a metal chair in Tommy’s interrogation room at the Hall. “If someone has the inside knowledge and power to frame me with that type of detail, there’s no telling what will happen next.” She looked at each one of them in turn. “We don’t know what we’re up against.”
“Where else do you keep tubes of this lipstick?” Frank asked.
“I have a few scattered here and there. My car. My desk drawer. My makeup counter at home. Several purses. Coat pockets. I don’t know. I don’t keep track very well. They’re like my cheater glasses. I have them everywhere, so they’re there when I need them.”
“Are they all the same color?” Amanda asked.
“No. I have some deep reds for evening,” she said.
“Someone probably stole one and used it to make an imprint on the Dunhill,” Frank said.
“I’ve never even been in Jared’s house,” she said. “You won’t find my fingerprints in there.”
“Unfortunately, the absence of your fingerprints doesn’t exonerate you.” Tommy said.
“I have another request, Mrs. Montiago,” Frank said.
She swiveled her attention back to
him like a frightened dog.
“Could you kindly hand me a few strands of your hair to place in an evidence bag?” he asked.
She was surprised but plucked two dyed strands from her head and handed them to him. He dropped them in a bag and marked it accordingly.
“Our lab will crosscheck the DNA in these hairs with any DNA they find in the saliva on the cigarette,” he said.
Tommy and Amanda’s eyes met in approval.
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d also take a saliva sample,” Frank said.
With disciplined effort, Amanda held back a smirk.
“What? How?” Montiago asked.
He removed a plastic box from his suit pocket and opened it. It contained Q-tips, each neatly held in place by plastic clips. He removed one and handed it to her. “If you could just swab under your tongue with this.”
While she swabbed, Frank removed a clean Ziploc from his pocket and held it open for Kara’s wet Q-tip. “Thank you.” He sealed the plastic bag and wrote her name, the date and time on it.
At that moment, Amanda concluded that Frank was welcome to join them in future interviews and investigations, now considering him a grossly under-utilized asset in the role of her security detail.
“Thanks, Frank,” Tommy said.
“No problem.”
“So, who’s your weed dealer?” Tommy asked Kara.
She groaned and slumped even further in her unforgiving chair, her elbows searching for nonexistent support. “Really? In the face of everything, you’re going to trace where I buy my recreational marijuana?”
He paused a minute. “I’m just interested in who brought the dessert to the party. You or Jared?”
“Both of us. I have some at my apartment.” She winced as soon as she said it, correctly suspecting that Tommy would want to visit her apartment next.
“We plan to go to your apartment after this interview,” Tommy said. “Carlisle already told me about it. Can you give me the address and keys, please?”
Montiago mumbled to herself when she turned her back on them and walked to her purse. She removed a key from her ring and gave it to Tommy along with the address. “Just leave the key on the table when you’re done. I have another.”
“Thanks for the access,” he said. “Is there anything specific you want us to look for or be careful of while we’re there?”
“No. It’s pretty nondescript,” Montiago said.
Amanda was convinced they wouldn’t find anything useful in the apartment since Montiago was allowing them full access without asking to be present.
Tommy took a different tack. “It’s time for you to give me the list of names of your former lovers.”
Contrary to her earlier resistance, Montiago leaned back, rested her head on the back of the chair and methodically provided the names of her former lovers, including their work titles and current whereabouts. She recounted 12 years’ worth—as if the affairs had happened yesterday. Or, as if she had recently run the same drill mentally, if not verbally.
“We’ll start with Vincent Voss, but we’re gonna need to talk to each one of these guys,” he said. “When word gets out that Carlisle was murdered, these guys will probably be scared.”
There was a knock on the door. Montiago leaned forward and held up a finger for Tommy to stop. “One sec.” She went to the door and opened it a crack. Amanda saw Sam, who whispered so softly that Amanda couldn’t hear what she was saying. However, she did hear Montiago ask Sam to clear her calendar for the next two days.
When Montiago returned, Tommy said, “Back to Vincent Voss. Does he work here?”
“No. He’s one of our IP lawyers in the city,” she said, stabbing out her cigarette in a glass ashtray.
“IP?” Tommy asked.
“Intellectual property. He writes patents on our software,” Montiago said while smoke rolled out of her mouth.
“What firm?” Amanda asked.
“Voss & Baker.”
“He’s the named partner?” Tommy asked.
“His father. And his grandfather before him. Family business.”
“How old is he?” Amanda asked.
“At least ten years younger than I am. Probably 42ish.”
And, why not? Amanda thought.
Montiago glanced at Amanda, as if she expected Amanda to bust her on sleeping with younger men. Instead, Amanda asked, “Why not divorce your husband?”
Montiago grunted sarcastically. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. Too costly both financially and politically. He started the company with me, then stayed home with the children because I was the one with the technical knowledge and skill to run it. He’s been by my side ever since. If we divorced, I’d have to give him half of everything. And just as important, a woman can’t run for President without a suitable husband by her side, can she?”
Assuming Montiago’s question was rhetorical, Amanda let it pass without an answer, although she was thinking, or a suitable wife by her side.
Tommy used the pause to jump back in. “Back to Vincent Voss. Don’t tell him we’re going to interview him today. After we visit your apartment, we’re driving to his office. Don’t call him, text him or email him that we’re coming. If you do, I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice. Understand?”
Amanda knew that was a stretch and a bluff, but she’d support whatever got the job done.
“I get it,” Montiago said. “What do you want me to do today?”
“Lay low,” Tommy said. “Carry on with a normal routine. Don’t talk to anyone about this investigation. No one knows about it except you. So, if you want to keep it under wraps, then stay quiet.”
“Don’t make any public appearances, and don’t give any interviews,” Amanda said.
“When will Jared’s name be released to the media?” Montiago asked.
“Not until Ryan Delmastro has spoken to his family,” Tommy said.
“I feel horrible for them. His death has impacted me even though we broke up a few months ago. Murdered! I can’t believe it. I’m a mess.” Montiago ran her hand through her hair.
“That’s the reason you should take it easy. Clear your mind,” Amanda said.
“Which reminds me,” Tommy chimed in. “May I have your passport? It’s a precautionary measure to eliminate the risk of flight given your wealth and mobility. I assume you own a private jet?”
“I do, but that’s beside the point. I’m not going anywhere.”
“The jet is exactly the point. Please surrender your passport to me.” The finality in his voice pre-empted any challenge by her.
She went to a painting on the wall and swung it open like a cupboard door. Behind it was a small safe. She placed her hand on the security screen, and they heard the safe unlock. Amanda couldn’t see what was in it from her angle, but Montiago retrieved a passport and relocked it, carefully swinging the painting back over it.
“Here.” Montiago tossed her passport to Tommy.
He stuck it in his breast pocket. “Thank you for your cooperation. It will go a long way in this investigation.”
“I hope so. I’m telling you right now that I’m being framed for murder. By the way, if I think of something that might help, how should I contact you?”
“I’ll give you my business card,” Tommy said, removing his bifold and sliding a card out. “My cell and email are on there.”
Amanda did the same.
“Speaking of email. We’re gonna need to take your computer,” Tommy said, nodding toward her desk.
“By all means, go ahead,” Montiago said. “I’ll unplug it for you.” She went over to her glass desk and busied herself with disconnecting the cords. Frank followed and picked it up. It was small compared to the dinosaurs they had at the Hall of Justice.
“Will that be all?” Montiago sounded exhausted and defeated.
“Actually, no,” Tommy said. “We have to interview your husband today as well.”
“You’re going to drag Carlos into this?�
� She covered her face with her hands again. “It will kill him.”
“Sorry. We have to. He’s part of your alibi for last night,” Tommy said.
She dropped into her desk chair and draped herself over her knees, openly disturbed by the notion that Carlos would be informed of her transgressions. “Just give me time to tell him first, would you?”
“No problem. We have to visit your apartment and return to the city for the Voss interview. It will be late afternoon before we come back to Palo Alto. What’s your home address?” Tommy asked.
She gave it to him.
Everyone shook hands, and the three civil servants left through the open area of glass cubicles where the hipster Millennials openly stared as if aliens were passing by. Given their age and attire, Tommy, Amanda and Frank clearly weren’t part of the tech industry or the political machine.
Amanda wore an expensive suit, of course, and her designer bag cost as much as a Prius, but she still didn’t fit the mold of private commerce, her bad-assed demeanor practically parting the air as they walked by. The teaser of Frank carrying Montiago’s computer would give the curious employees a riddle to solve over lunch.
When they reached the elevators, Sam Westby caught up to them. “Hello. Finished with Mrs. Montiago, I see. Let me escort you out.”
“I’m pretty sure we can find our own way,” Tommy said.
“I’m sure you can too, but it’s my job.” She wore the worried look of someone who intuited danger but didn’t have a grasp on the breadth or depth.
“Do you ever buy cigarettes for your boss?” Tommy asked while they waited.
“I’m sorry?” Sam asked.
“Cigarettes for Mrs. Montiago. Do you buy them for her?”
“I wouldn’t be allowed to say,” Sam said, as the elevator doors opened.
“How about I bring you back to SFPD on suspicion of being an accomplice to murder? Would you be allowed to say then?” They stepped into the elevator.
The color fell from Sam’s face. “Right. Sorry. Yes. I do buy Dunhills for Mrs. Montiago. At Mack’s Smoke Shop in Palo Alto.”
“Good. Been there recently?” Tommy asked.
