Pretty City Murder

by Robert E. Dunn

  Hieu spoke up. “He could be. He’s a big kid and can hide it.”

  Varton looked out Larry’s door when he heard footsteps. “He’s early. I guess you want to be present, Leahy.”

  Varton exited Larry’s office before he could answer, and Hieu hastily printed the report.

  •••

  Fletcher stood looking at the name plate on Varton’s door.

  “Mr. Fletcher, Inspector Varton.” He turned and saw them coming down the hall. “This is Inspector Trang and, of course, Inspector Leahy. Come in and take a seat.”

  Fletcher sat down.

  His green and brown tweed sports coat stretched across hunched shoulders. Varton looked at the man’s black slacks, which were shiny at the knees. Old Spice filled the room. Varton slid his window open. A framed picture of his wife looked up at him.

  Varton rearranged the paper mound on his desk.

  “Inspector Varton, let me help with that,” Hieu said.

  “Leahy, please stand up. Put the paper on your chair. We won’t need it.”

  Hieu struggled to get the papers all together, and Varton let the minutes pass while looking at the picture of his wife. He had rebuilt his peak-roofed Victorian home, and together they had decorated the interior to their tastes, green and floral. Bernal Heights, known as “nanny goat hill” for the sizable number of lesbians living there, had undergone a transformation, from middle class to all types, including: white-haired, Prius-driving liberals; ex-hippies; Marxists; middle-aged libertarians; new agers; hipsters; and an ex-priest who was now married.

  Larry had informed him there was no such thing as an ex-priest.

  Varton straightened up when he saw a post-it note on his blotter reminding him of the ballroom dancing lesson scheduled for seven o’clock. Whatever pleased his wife pleased him. Attached to the sticky note was another note:

  Honey, please take the Prius in for an oil change.

  His own vehicle, an older model, gray Chevrolet Silverado, sat in Central’s garage. At night, it occupied the driveway while hers was in the garage.

  “All right, let’s go down to room two and begin the interview.”

  “Can’t we do it here?” Fletcher asked.

  “No.”

  They entered, and Fletcher eased himself into the chair in front of the desk.

  Larry and Hieu took their places on the chairs below the two-way mirror.

  Varton flipped the switch and asked, “Can you explain your role at the Greenwich, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “I watch the comings and goings of employees and report back to Mr. O’Hara.”

  “On the night of July 4, did you see anything unusual?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Fletcher, please understand we are not accusing you of anything or assuming anything. We just ask for truthful answers. What did you do before you began working as O’Hara’s investigator?” Hieu asked politely.

  “I was his chief accountant.”

  Varton watched Fletcher slump in his chair.

  He pities himself.

  “As an accountant, you know about facts and figures. You are familiar with the hotel’s finances, payroll, bank deposits, cash, et cetera. Why did you change jobs? Wasn’t it unusual to go from being chief accountant to being O’Hara’s spy?” Larry asked.

  “I’m not his spy,” Fletcher said indignantly. “I made some mistakes and O’Hara told me I would be fired.”

  “What mistakes?” Varton asked.

  “An account was short. I didn’t know where the money went. One of my employees told O’Hara I stole the money. I knew she was angling for my job, and she got it.”

  Varton saw the surprise registering on Larry’s face and asked, “How much money went missing?”

  Fletcher compressed his hands. Beads of sweat the color of dishwater ringed his hairline. He had O’Hara’s dark brown hair, but not the bravado.

  “$50,000.”

  “And you never located the money?” Varton asked.

  “No.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Three months ago.”

  “Didn’t O’Hara say anything to you about where the money went?”

  “He’s a hawk and reviews the accounts every month, but he didn’t tell me anything about where it went.”

  “What happened next?”

  “He demoted me. He said I would be fired unless I started working for him but in a different capacity. I had no choice.”

  “Did you check the vault?” Varton asked.

  “For the missing money?”

  Varton nodded.

  Fletcher didn’t answer.

  “Are you part of hotel security?” Varton’s chair squeaked.

  “No, absolutely not. I answer solely to O’Hara.”

  “Anything else you can tell us? Any other irregularities?” Varton asked, looking past Fletcher at the wall behind him.

  “No, I’ve told you what happened.”

  Varton stood behind his chair. Each time he passed the chair, he would pull it back and let it ease forward, “I’m sure your current job is very important to hotel management. But we’re here to find out what you know. Did Pablo Morales ever mention owning a gun?”

  “No. Why would he say that to me? I told you I’m not part of security. They would know the answer. Morales wouldn’t be so stupid to bring it to work.”

  Varton watched Larry moved his chair far forward, its leg touching Fletcher’s leg.

  Fletcher didn’t budge.

  “Did you call Inspector Leahy and tell him to stay away from the Greenwich?” Varton asked.

  Fletcher didn’t answer.

  “In that anonymous call, did you say anything about guns?”

  “No!”

  There it is.

  Varton let go of his chair. It hit the desk, which moved a little closer to Fletcher.

  “Back to Morales. What do you know about him?”

  “He’s a good-for-nothing beaner.” Beads of sweat now clung to Fletcher’s stubble.

  “Tell me more.”

  “It’s an opinion I’ve formed over the past year. He’s a low-class, son-of-a-bitch and shouldn’t be at the Greenwich. Our guests are well-to-do, and he’s not the right fit.”

  Larry moved his chair up to Fletcher’s leg. Fletcher tried to pull his leg away. Larry’s lips withdrew into his face, and he said, “You were the anonymous caller.”

  “I suppose you’ll find out eventually...yes, I was. O’Hara put me up to it.”

  Fletcher’s lips looked crooked.

  “Why would he do that?” Then Larry raised his voice. “Didn’t he know you had an appointment with us?”

  “You would have to ask him.”

  Varton calmly said, “Don’t worry, we will. But this interview is about you, and I’m not sure we have the whole story, yet. Please proceed.”

  “I’m thirsty. Does anyone ever offer a person a drink?”

  “Oh, I apologize for our rudeness. Inspector Trang, would you get a bottled water for Mr. Fletcher?”

  “No, I mean a real drink.”

  Varton circled around and looked at the ceiling. “Do you have anything else to say?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? You have a chance to talk about the activities of the other employees, and you don’t want to? You have an opportunity to tell us about the outstanding job you’re doing, and you don’t want to? You have a moment to quell some doubts, and you don’t want to? Leahy, move your chair. Our good man here needs some space.”

  Larry was staring at Fletcher.

  “Now.”

  Varton watched Larry pick up his chair and bring it over to the two-way mirror.

  “I know how good you are at observing. You patrol the Greenwich. You stick to the basement garage, the first floor, and the second floor and seldom go to the twelfth floor, if ever, but you’re in a position to see everything that’s going on. Do I have that right?”

  Fletcher nodded.

  “Ple
ase, tell me more.”

  Fletcher put his head in his hands.

  “All right. I saw O’Hara enter the building.”

  “What time was that?”

  “It was about ten after twelve.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “The second floor.”

  “To his office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Fletcher, look at me. Why did he go to his office?”

  “I don’t know. All I saw was the elevator stopped at the second floor.”

  “Very good. Thank you for the time. Be available for further questioning. You can leave.”

  Fletcher dragged his gimpy leg to the door.

  Hieu asked, “Do you know the way out, Mr. Fletcher? Can I help you?”

  “Of course, I do. Do you think I’m an idiot? I’ll be okay if I can get to the bus stop quickly.”

  Hieu speedily opened the door.

  “Of course, you know the way. If any pertinent information comes to your attention while carrying out your duties, give us a call.”

  Hieu watched him leave and shut the door.

  “I appreciate those words, Hieu, but they came a little late...after the interview.”

  “Inspector Varton, I...”

  Larry said, “He’s an old fart.”

  Joe puckered his lips to conceal a smile. “Fletcher suffers from cerebral rectumitus – head up the ass.”

  Hieu sat down next to Larry and said, “What’s behind O’Hara telling him to make an anonymous call?”

  “O’Hara’s a master manipulator. He runs his hotel like a maharajah.”

  “And Fletcher is his maharani.”

  Larry and Hieu started laughing, and Joe interrupted, “What’s so funny? O’Hara needs a good kick in the ass. Larry, you talk to him. He’s your best friend. Ask him why he had Fletcher make the call and what he was doing at the Greenwich before you called him down there and,” and he raised his voice, “why he left that bit of essential information out. He didn’t ‘forget’ where he was or when. You’ve got the statement. Read it again.”

  “O’Hara is a wily man. You interviewed him. I thought you had a favorable opinion. Now you’ve got a different opinion. He threatens Fletcher, has him on his knees begging for his job, and, for the coup de grâce, gets Fletcher to do his dirty work.”

  Joe shoved his pencil into the desk and slammed it shut. “Just do it.”

  Without looking back, he threw the key for the recorder on the desk and said, “I have a dancing date with my wife tonight. After that, I might return to the office and handle some things begging for attention. You know how it is, Leahy.”

  He left the door open on his way out.

  Joe and Aioki drove out of the Bernal Center parking lot as the lights were turned off. Before he dropped her at home, they laughed at Joe’s comment that all the dancers were “green terrorists,” the name he had given native plant enthusiasts. She didn’t complain when he said he had some work at the office.

  He pried off the cowboy boots. The tango made his feet ache. After three hours, he filed everything in his drawer. A clean desk added to satisfaction over the interviews of Chase, Smith, and Fletcher and the Morales report Hieu had filed.

  For all Leahy was supposed to know about the people involved, he wasn’t doing much, and there were still plenty of unanswered questions about his playmate, O’Hara.

  He shook his head, knowing that his desk wouldn’t stay clean for long and gingerly stuck his feet back into the boots.

  The night air renewed his depleted energy, and the nocturnal chill made him hungry.

  One block ahead was Tosca Café.

  It occupied a tiny spot on busy Columbus Street less than three hundred feet from the Broadway Street corner made famous by topless go-go dancer, Carol Doda. Joe took a window seat, washed down some hot-buttered French bread with warm, sugary red wine, and looked across the street at City Lights Bookstore.

  A week before, he had read his poem to stony faces in the audience. It parodied the Board of Supervisors and got a mention in the North Beach News.

  Joe had moved to the Tosca after a falling-out with the owners of a musical espresso house two blocks up the street. The Caffe Trieste’s proprietors, Fabio and Sonia, had asked Joe to leave after he got into a fiery argument with Lawrence Ferlinghetti. After providing some light SFPD supervision for a scene from Dawn of the Planet of the Apes in front of Tosca, Joe’s locus had changed. At the Tosca he found a more welcoming home.

  His cell phone rested on the spoon. He sat back and felt stiff from the effects of a long day that was ending at half-past twelve. On the other side of the street, a thug-type ambled past a young man slumped against the book store. The man’s head hung over his chest. He was coatless and wore a Hawaiian shirt, proving he must have lost his companions somewhere in the mix of live sex shows, Chinese kitchens, and Italian side-walk bistros.

  Out-of-towner.

  Consoled by the thought that alcohol would keep the young man warm, Joe set his wine glass next to the bill.

  His glasses hung on his chest, and he squinted to get a clearer picture. Two ruffians in dark hoodies followed closely on the heels of their leader. Joe watched him flick a cigarette into the street, reverse direction, and walk past the drunk again. The other two stood watching, half-on and half-off the curb. Their leader made a signal and instantly all three pounced on the victim. They rifled through his pants. Joe watched a wallet yanked from a pocket. The leader thumbed through it quickly and passed it. Two charged toward Broadway and disappeared around the corner, and the leader ran in the opposite direction.

  Joe stood up, throwing enough bills on the table to cover his meal. It looked as if his shift just got extended, but it didn’t matter. He lived for spectacle, and crime was not going to get a pass on his time. He flung open the door, sailed off the curb, paved a way in and out of headlights, and called dispatch to report the robbery.

  “I have a Code 33, Code 33. On view 211 in front of City Lights on Columbus. Suspects are three Latino males who split up and are running. Two are headed westbound on Broadway toward Grant. The other ran down Columbus, turned the corner at Pacific, and is headed westbound to Grant. 10/25. 10/25.”

  Their heading in opposite directions indicated to Joe that they were experienced. Pedestrians flooded the picturesque district. Automobile traffic and barkers in front of clubs kept everything at a fever pitch, making it difficult to hear the dispatcher’s response.

  “No! Three suspects.” He rushed his words. “Suspect one is LMA, 20 to 25, 5’8, 170, dark hoodie, and jeans. Suspect two is LMA. 15 to 25, 5’9, 140, dark hoodie, and jeans.”

  Joe breathed deeply. “Suspect three is a Latino, 20 to 25, tall.”

  He pocketed his cell phone and sprinted up Broadway in the direction of suspects one and two. Number three was free. It didn’t matter. Back-up was on the way. The enchantment of an evening of tango had worn off, but his boogie had been reborn.

  At Grant, he saw his suspects at the Stockton corner. Soon they would be lost in the crowd, but the sound of his cowboy boots crushing sidewalk grit had a pleasing effect.

  I’m still up to the challenge.

  The service semi-automatic attached to his belt bounced up and down. When he reached Stockton, he stopped. Flashing lights one block ahead at the corner of Powell lit up a scuffle. Both suspects were down.

  Joe looked down Stockton. He retraced his steps to Grant, Chinatown’s busy main street, and hoped to see number three. He moved back and forth on his boot toes. Over tops of heads, he spotted a figure running for his life across Grant. Joe vaulted in the direction of the man he was sure was his. Midway down the street he felt as if the sidewalk were a conveyor belt. Slowing down was out of the question and, just when he needed it, a bolt of energy propelled him into fast-forward mode and supplied what was needed to catch a man half his age.

  The sound of boots sent pedestrians whirling in opposite directions. Clubbers looking for a late-night tan
doori bite looked up and scattered. At the corner, he caught a glimpse of his man running up the hill. The suspect suddenly switched direction. Joe raised his hand to stop a motorist, but it didn’t matter, because the suspect tore down the street past him.

  The smell of sweet and sour and saffron filled Joe’ lungs.

  At the next corner, the suspect turned right. In three more smelly and thirsty blocks, the foot chase had moved into the financial district beneath the Transamerica Building. Joe lunged forward and reached for his shoulders. In the roll, Joe recognized his man: Pablo Morales.

  They flipped over, and Joe put his right knee on Morales’ back, but Morales lifted him off in a single motion. Morales stood up straight. Joe looked up and watched as Pablo followed the glare of moving red lights.

  Damn!

  He had lost Morales. With pants torn at the knees, Joe stomped back to Central. As he got closer, he noticed one of the other suspects had happy feet in Central’s wind-swept side alley.

  Joe blocked his exit. Feeling so angry he could punch a baby in the face, he landed a fist on the suspect’s nose. The man’s knees buckled, and he dropped like a slug in a parking meter. The collapsing body of this jackal shielded drops of his own blood spilling on the asphalt.

  The other officer picked up the man and dragged his fat legs back over the threshold of the side door. Joe looked up at a seagull eyeing the scene, flapping its wings, and squawking at the unexpected smash-up.

  “Who tackled the suspects?” Joe asked, inside the holding area. He held out his other hand and withdrew a camouflage-colored handkerchief to wipe off the blood on his finger. “Great job. Do we know their names?” Joe looked down at his shoes and tried shedding himself of sticky asphalt.

  “Yes, sir. Jorge Lopez Vega and Angel Ernesto Padilla Morales.”

  Joe pulled his head back. “Morales?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let me speak to him. I’ll see him in room two.” Joe asked the desk sergeant to issue an arrest warrant for Pablo Morales and entered the interrogation room. He sat on the edge of a table and waited under a single florescent light. Another officer led Angel into the room and sat him down in the only chair.

  “I’m Inspector Varton. You’re Angel Morales?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How old are you?”