by Alexi Venice
“Not entirely because I think she’s involved,” Amanda said. “We just don’t know how yet. She’s too clean. Too smart. Too calm. Too orchestrated to be innocent. For example, I’ll bet you anything there’s nothing on her phone.”
“Probably not. I wonder if Ryan told her to expect us to take it,” Tommy said.
“I bet you that texting her assistant, Sam, to buy a burner was just a show for us,” Amanda said.
“Sam was probably hanging out in another room in Kara’s house,” Frank said, “with the burner already purchased.”
“Let’s take a look at her phone.” Amanda nodded at Kara’s phone, which was sitting on the seat beside her. She handed it to Tommy.
He entered “fuapple,” and it sprang to life. He navigated to text messages and discovered that Sam was, indeed, the last person Kara had texted, requesting her to purchase a burner phone. He scrolled, but nothing else came up. “Yep. Just what you thought. With the exception of Sam, Kara’s entire texting history has been deleted.”
“That doesn’t mean Navarro won’t be able to recover it,” Amanda said. “Kara should know that.”
“Maybe she knows something Navarro doesn’t—like how to wipe her phone so clean that not even his team can see what was on there.”
“You might be right. Look at her recent phone calls. Anything?” Amanda asked. She watched as Tommy clicked to “Recents.”
“Everything’s been deleted,” he said.
“See? Innocent people don’t do that. I think Ryan tipped her off, or that Kara has a guilty conscience and anticipated we’d seize her phone,” Amanda said.
“I’m paying Ryan a visit when we get back.”
“Click open her email accounts. How many does she have on there?”
He looked at the screen. “None, which I find hard to believe,” Tommy said.
“Impossible. A woman in her position would have at least three email accounts. She erased them from her phone before we arrived. I’d like to join you when you chat with Ryan.”
“Why don’t you let me do it—just between us cousins—if you don’t mind?”
She couldn’t believe he was serious. “Because it involves me too. I need to know what kind of crime we’re prosecuting, and whether the top dog of law enforcement is obstructing justice, or worse.” She couldn’t bring herself to list examples of what Ryan might be guilty of for fear that verbalizing them might make them true.
“He’s a fuckin’ idiot,” Tommy said.
Chapter 28
As they drove through Palo Alto, Amanda’s phone rang. The display said Stanford Hospital on the screen. “I bet it’s the Stanford Hospital attorney—shush.”
She hit the green button. “Hello?”
“This is Justin Thalacker from the Stanford Medical Center Legal Department. I’m looking for Amanda Hawthorne.”
“Hello, Justin. This is Amanda.” She nodded at Tommy.
“I’m calling about Carlos Montiago. I just spoke to the Psychiatric Department Director, and she told me that Mr. Montiago wants to talk to the ‘San Francisco police who are investigating his wife.’ I guess that means you, huh?”
Amanda glowed with warmth. There was always a crack in a case, and she expected Carlos’ interview to be a fissure leading to a spectacular chasm. Despite her excitement, she kept her voice dispassionate. “Yes. That’s good news. We’re actually in Palo Alto, so we can swing by the hospital right now.”
“Okay. Go to the third floor of the Freud building and the Department Director will meet you there,” Justin said.
“Thanks for your help. If we run into any snags, can I call you back at this number?”
“Of course. I’ll be here.”
They rang off, and Amanda informed Frank of their new destination.
When they arrived at the hospital, Frank found a spot in the parking lot and turned off the car. “We should leave our pieces under the seats.”
“Why? I bring mine into hospitals all the time. You just have to show your ID at the metal detector,” Tommy said.
“Psych Unit. Unpredictable patients. You don’t want a gun in there. Or a tie. A crazed patient could strangle you with it.”
“Right. Fortunately, I hardly ever wear a tie, so I’m good. You, on the other hand—”
“Dress like a gentleman,” Amanda inserted before Tommy could finish.
“Thank you,” Frank said, as he removed his tie.
The three of them serpentined their way from the front reception desk to the third floor, moving from the new part of the hospital to an older section. Once they were outside the double doors of the locked Psychiatric Unit, they were met by a hospital security guard.
They showed him their badges and IDs and explained the reason they were there. He texted someone, and, after a few minutes, the double doors clicked open. An attractive woman with short, brown hair and a deep, golden tan emerged. She had compassionate brown eyes.
“I’m Charlene, the Director of the Unit.”
Tommy, Frank and Amanda again performed the ritual with their badges and IDs. Tommy scratched his beard, looking all rugged and handsome, and smiled. “We’re sorry for interrupting your day, Charlene, but we heard that Carlos Montiago wanted to speak to us.”
Charlene’s face changed when she smiled in return, her full lips opening wider on the right than the left, the asymmetry adding a touch of whimsy. “No worries. We set aside a conference room for you.”
“How thoughtful,” Tommy said. “Will you be joining us?”
“Gosh, no. Mr. Montiago doesn’t need staff in the room with him, and I don’t want to be a witness to whatever he says.”
“That’s a shame,” Tommy said. “I was sort of looking forward to working with you.”
A flirtatious chuckle bubbled from Charlene’s throat. “Let me show you in. I think one of my staff went to get Mr. Montiago.”
She scanned her badge, and the doors unlocked. Charlene led them through a common area, past some patient rooms, and down a hallway by the nurses’ station. She looked through the window of a door to a conference room, then turned to Tommy, who was right behind her. “Yes. Mr. Montiago is waiting for you inside. About how long do you think you’ll be?”
“Hard to say. Maybe 30 minutes?” Tommy said.
“I’ll ask a nurse to swing by periodically,” Charlene said. “Holler if you need anything. You’re not carrying, are you?”
“No. Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tommy said.
She turned to Frank.
“Neither am I,” he said. “I’ll be standing outside the door, so no one interrupts.”
“Are we free to go in now?” Tommy asked.
“Go ahead,” Charlene said.
Tommy opened the door and entered. Montiago sat on the other side of a rectangular conference table that was too big for the small room. He stood, bending at the waist and leaning over the table to shake Tommy and Amanda’s hands. He had a firm, confident shake, his mitt dwarfing Amanda’s small hand.
She thought Montiago looked remarkably healthy and peaceful given his current status and location. He definitely didn’t look agitated or suicidal to her.
Once they were seated, she watched his large, bedroom eyes assess both Tommy and her, but not in a nervous or rushed way. There was something very comforting and protective about his large presence. From his oversized hands to his broad shoulders, Amanda could see what must have initially attracted Kara to him. Even in his white T-shirt and jeans, he had a refined bearing that exuded confidence and intelligence. She could easily picture him by Kara’s side, and running their empire if he chose to. Amanda found herself feeling sorry for the absence of intimacy in their relationship.
Tommy and Amanda remained silent since Montiago had called the meeting. Amanda almost guessed he was on tranquilizers because he didn’t start any conversation. Behind the calm veneer, however, she saw a sharp mind at work.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Montiago?” Tommy finally asked.
“I hea
rd you wanted to talk to me,” he said.
“Oh. That was true a few days ago, but I think we got everything cleared up now,” Tommy said.
Lying out of the gate, huh? Amanda thought of Tommy’s remark. It was a reasonable tactic. Instead of chasing, Tommy wanted Montiago to voluntarily cough up information. She hoped to hell Montiago didn’t invite them here thinking he was going to get information from Tommy.
“Cleared up? How?” Montiago asked.
“With respect to Jared Carlisle’s murder,” Tommy said.
“Yes. That’s what I thought you wanted to talk to me about. What do you mean you got it cleared up?” Montiago asked.
“We initially wanted to confirm your wife’s alibi with you, but we were able to do that through another means, so no worries.”
Montiago’s right eye twitched. Tommy’s strategy of doling out some misleading information had worked. The downside to hiding in a Psych Unit was that Montiago was deprived of information, and, as they all knew, information was power.
“Alibi?” Montiago asked.
“Yes. Your wife’s alibi for the night Jared Carlisle was murdered. We confirmed it.”
“How?” Montiago asked. “She wasn’t with me.”
“Since this is an on-going investigation, I’m not at liberty to say,” Tommy said.
“She’s my wife. I think I have a right to know where she was that night.”
“Did you ask her?”
“We had a short conversation before I came in here.” Montiago waved his hand at the walls.
“What did she tell you?” Tommy asked.
“That she’s been having an affair.”
“With whom?” And, just like that, Tommy had turned the tables and was now asking the questions.
“A lawyer named Vincent Voss. In the city.” Montiago paused and looked at the wall. “Come to think of it, that’s probably where she was the night Carlisle was killed.”
“How long has she been seeing Voss?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
“What about Carlisle?” Tommy asked.
“She told me she had an affair with him, too, and that’s why you were investigating her.”
“True fact,” Tommy said. “What else did she say?”
“That she’s had multiple affairs over the years—since I had my prostate removed.” Montiago sighed and clasped his hands on the table in front of him.
“Did she say how many?”
“No. She just said, ‘several.’”
“Give any names?”
“Just Carlisle and Voss. That was enough,” Montiago said. His face contorted in pain, presaging a sob, but he quickly collected himself, raising a plastic cup to his lips for water. “I’m sorry. It’s so goddamned painful. That’s why I’m in here. I wanted to kill myself after she told me what she’d done.”
“I’m sorry,” Tommy said, but the perfunctory response lacked emotion.
Amanda followed Tommy’s eyes to Montiago’s cup. She could read Tommy’s mind. He wanted the fingerprints off the cup so badly he might as well have screamed it.
“Can you pass that?” Montiago asked Amanda, pointing to the box of Kleenexes next to her.
“Sure.” She slid the box down to Montiago, and he plucked a tissue. He held it up to his misty eyes then blew his nose. When he was finished, he looked around the room for a waste basket. When he spied one in the corner on his side of the table, he tossed the used Kleenex into it.
Tommy and Amanda waited while Montiago took another drink of water.
“I’m sorry for your troubles,” Tommy said. “I hope you’re getting the help you need here.”
“I am. More than you know. The shrink has helped me process some stuff, and group therapy has been interesting, to say the least,” Montiago said.
“Good to hear. Do you have any information that might help us find who killed Jared Carlisle?” Tommy asked.
“I doubt it. It’s really none of my business.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, where were you the night Carlisle was killed?”
“At home, putzing around like I do every night. Probably in the garage working on one of my cars.”
“You have an impressive collection. We caught a glimpse of it this morning.”
“Only American cars.”
“I noticed. Which one is your favorite?”
“The Mustang, by far.”
“What year is it? Wait,” Tommy held up his hand. “Let me guess. ‘65?”
“Close. She’s a ‘66.”
“Is it black or dark green? I couldn’t tell from a distance.” Another lie, Amanda thought. You took closeup photos of it.
“She’s the classic, ivy green,” Montiago said, his voice softening as he spoke about his pride and joy. “You just don’t see cars in that deep, rich green anymore.”
“She’s a beaut, all right. Do you ever drive her?” Tommy asked.
“Once in a while. The engine is in top form.”
“Good for you.” Tommy let a beat pass. “How about Mrs. Montiago? Does she ever drive them?”
Carlos rolled his eyes. “She’s a bit snobby about her ride, preferring high performance to classic. However, once in a while I catch her out in the Mustang. She wouldn’t be caught dead in the gold Caddy.”
Tommy nodded and smiled. “Understandable.” He rested a beat before resuming the march. “When you were at home that night, was anyone else with you?”
“The kids were in and out. Hard to keep track of them nowadays.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Not really,” Montiago said. “Kids come and go all the time.”
“Mind if we talk to them about you?” Tommy asked, not caring if Montiago minded or not.
“Please, go ahead,” Montiago said. “But remember they’re still teenagers. Neither is even twenty yet.”
“We will,” Tommy said. “Sorry to ask these questions, but I have to. Let’s turn to later that evening. Do you remember what time Mrs. Montiago returned home?”
“Late. I was already asleep.”
“Did you wake briefly when she came home? Maybe look at the clock?”
“If I did, I don’t remember. When you reach a certain age, your short-term memory just doesn’t store information like that.”
“I get it.” Tommy turned to Amanda. “Amanda, do you have any questions for Mr. Montiago?”
“Gosh. I can’t think of any. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Montiago. Thank you for your time.”
“Glad to be of assistance.” He paused a second. “You were at my house earlier today?”
“Yes,” Tommy said.
“Were the kids there?”
“Yes. We met both of them. You have beautiful children.”
“Thanks. How were they?”
“They looked concerned,” Tommy said.
Montiago stared at the wall and nodded. “They’re the best reason for me to get healthy and get out of here.”
“Agreed,” Tommy said.
Montiago made direct eye contact with Tommy and Amanda and nodded his head, indicating the conversation was over. He pushed away from the table.
They all stood and shook hands. Tommy was closest to the door, so he opened it wide to find Frank standing guard. Montiago left the room, giving Frank a sidelong glance but not stopping to introduce himself.
Tommy, Amanda and Frank watched Montiago walk down the hall and turn a corner.
“Frank, do you have any Ziploc bags on you?” Tommy asked.
“Yeah. How many do you need?”
“Two. Don’t let anyone see you give them to me.”
Frank turned and slipped a few from his coat pocket and handed them to Tommy.
“I’m gonna shut the door again. Don’t let anyone in here,” Tommy said.
“You got it,” Frank said.
Once the door was closed, Amanda said, “You’re picking his used Kleenex from the trash and bagging it, aren’t you?”
Tommy
donned a pair of blue gloves. “You got it. That’s a DNA gift from heaven.”
She watched as he rounded the table and squatted down in front of the trash can. There was a clean bag in it, so Montiago’s crumpled Kleenex was the only item. Tommy fished it out and dropped it in the Ziploc. Next, he grabbed the plastic cup and dropped it in the second Ziploc.
“Might be hard to pull a fingerprint from plastic,” she said.
“I know. Just in case, though. Might even get saliva from the rim.”
Surprising Amanda, Tommy removed a travel-size fingerprint dusting kit from his suitcoat pocket and sat in the chair Montiago had occupied. He carefully dusted the edge of the table where Montiago had briefly rested his fingertips. Tommy tried to pull the prints, but it looked like they were smudged and there were more than just Montiago’s prints present, which wasn’t surprising considering it was a conference room. It was all they had at this point, however, so Tommy had to try.
Amanda glanced around the room, letting her eyes travel up the walls to the ceiling. Bingo. “We have a surveillance cam above us.”
Tommy looked up. “Good. We can ask Charlene if they recorded our meeting with Mr. Montiago. I’d like both the audio and video.” He concentrated on lifting the prints and carefully preserved them in his kit.
“Well done,” Amanda said, watching him.
“Thanks. Let’s get out of here.”
They opened the door to find Frank chatting with Charlene.
“Well, hello,” Tommy said. “Good timing. We have a question for you.”
“I hope I can answer it.”
“We noticed a security cam in the ceiling of the conference room. We’d like to get the recorded footage of the meeting we just had with Mr. Montiago. Can you do that for me?”
She scrunched her face in a doubtful look. “Maybe. We mostly just use it to see if staff need to intervene in a dangerous situation. I’m not sure any footage is recorded or saved. I’ll check and be right back.”
Charlene scurried off in the opposite direction Carlos had walked. While they waited, Tommy, Frank and Amanda surveyed the therapeutic milieu before them. The common areas were quiet and calm, a patient walking here or there. A few patients sat in comfortable chairs, reading under sun lights that flooded the living area. The atmosphere was more relaxed and pleasant than Amanda had seen on hospital floors, much less in an inpatient psychiatric unit.
