Pretty City Murder

by Robert E. Dunn

  “Sixteen.”

  “Take the gum out of your mouth.”

  What a noob.

  Angel looked around for a place to put the gum.

  “Swallow it. Take the baseball cap off. Put it on the table.”

  Joe saw a pack of Marlboros in the pocket of his black t-shirt. “Where’d you get the welt?”

  Angel raised a hand and rubbed his right cheek. “You know, playin’ basketball at the rec center. My mijo’s.”

  “Uh-huh. Pablo Morales, your brother?”

  “Yeah. That cop hit me.”

  Joe got a whiff. “Were you smoking marijuana?”

  “No, no way. If Jorge says I was smoking weed, ese loco.”

  “Guy’s crazy, huh?”

  “Yeah, crazy, dude.”

  “Do you smoke weed?”

  “Sometimes, dude.”

  “Inspector Varton, to you. Comprende?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Joe watched him scratch a tiny beard on the edge of his chin. “What school?”

  “Burton. Can I smoke a cigarette?”

  “Why were you and your brother and Vega walking around North Beach?”

  “Out for some fun.”

  “Get that phony immigrant grin off your face. You’re in hot water, Mr. Morales. A wallet was stolen” He looked at the officer standing over Angel. “Where is it?”

  “The desk sergeant has the wallet.”

  “Has the money been counted?”

  “I think so,” the officer answered.

  “Make sure it is...and ask the victim if he knows how much he had.” Joe thought the victim was probably too sozzled to remember.

  “Hey, I had nothing to do with it. Jorge had the wallet. I never even touched it. I didn’t know they was gonna steal a wallet.” Angel leaned back and reached for the Oakland A’s baseball cap.

  “Leave it there. You’re under arrest. A probation officer from Juvenile Probation will be assigned to you and, tomorrow, they’ll determine if you should be held over or returned home. As for tonight, you’re stuck here.”

  “Shiiiit. This ain’t chill, bro. I wanna see my brother.”

  “He’s not here, and you have your brother to thank for the trouble you’re in, not me.”

  Joe left Angel in the care of the officer.

  Jorge Vega was being questioned in the next interrogation room. The wallet lay on one end of a table. Vega sat at the other end and held a rag to his face. The toes of his Adidas shoes barely touched the floor. In an ashtray, a cigarette burned, imparting to the room the smell of hot blacktop.

  Joe listened for a few minutes and asked, “So, you and Angel took a Muni bus to the Greenwich, and Pablo and you two took another bus and got off around Stockton. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, but Angel had nothing to do with this. He’s a good kid. You can ask Pablo.”

  “How old are you, Vega?”

  “Why you wanna know?”

  “One more time. Age?”

  “Twenty-three...pig.”

  “Why did you take Angel along? He’s underage.”

  “He wanted to come. He ain’t got nothin to do.”

  Vega sounds like all the rest.

  “Hey, bro, what you got against me? Why your mother raised you this way? Racist pig.”

  “Outside.” Vega followed Joe into the corridor. “I didn’t see you in any family portraits, and here’s for mentioning my mother, calling me a pig, and bringing Angel along.” He punched Vega in the stomach, then walked to the desk sergeant and said, “Look after Vega. He fell down.”

  The man who had been robbed was sobering up with some coffee, and Joe heard him say, “I was plastered,” when asked if he could identify the suspects.

  Joe saw the arresting officer. “Nice pinch out there...did you have to run far to catch these jerk-offs?”

  “No, Inspector, they fell into our laps.”

  “Call me Joe.”

  “Thanks, but I’m good with calling you Inspector. My dad spoke highly of you.”

  Joe recognized the cop. His grandfather was Francis Upland, a highly decorated and popular cop killed in the line of duty by a bank robber in 1958. Kevin was third generation SFPD, and his father, Charlie, had just retired.

  “I worked with your father. Great cop and an even better man. How’s your mother and sister?”

  “They’re good. Thanks for asking.”

  The six-foot red-head had a Cupid’s bow and cheeks as red as a heart. The hue extended down both sides of his face to the chin, which gave him the permanent visage of a runner. He was fresh out of the Police Academy.

  “Your dad told me you got drafted by the Cubs out of high school. Sacred Heart Cathedral, right?”

  “Yes, sir, made it to Double A, and all I got was a cup of coffee...so I followed in my pop’s footsteps.”

  “Like I said, great job on the arrest.”

  “Thanks. It’s all about timing, right place, right time. Vega and Morales were pussy-cats once we got them on the ground. Vega whimpered, but the young kid acted tough and started to get up. Looked like he wanted to poke me in the teeth. So, I put a knee in his groin, and he flopped. Vega got as much. After that, I decided a little sweet talk on the way to the station would soften them up. I’m thinking this one will earn me a commendation.”

  “You did what?” Joe’s face got redder than Elmo.

  “I kneed him.”

  “Were they hand-cuffed before this happened?”

  “Yeah, Inspector, but they were moving around.”

  “Get your ass in my office...right now.”

  “What did I do?”

  “It’s a little thing called police brutality.”

  Joe marched to his office.

  The officer said under his breath, “Why’s he so pissed?”

  Joe heard the comment and turned around, yelling quietly, “I got rolled around the asphalt tonight and never had a chance to slap on some bangles.” Joe’s feet hurt and sitting down eased the pain as he prepared another reprimand. “Don’t take me for a moron! Sit down and listen.”

  Officer Upland sat in his chair, both he and the chair awkwardly poised for some time on the instructions Joe gave and his thoughts on his very reputation. “I’m known as a ‘Jack’. Argue with me, and you’ll make a fool out of yourself.”

  The night came to an end, one officer had been chided, and Joe went home. He took a hot shower, washed off his Marine finger, got into bed, and wrapped his big arms around the wife.

  She quietly said, “You feel good. Long night?”

  “Some young kid is mixed up in this Greenwich murder. At least, I think he is.”

  They fell asleep.

  Chapter 14

  Wednesday, July 10

  Larry saw a familiar name in the headline of the Matier and Ross column, “James O’Hara and Mortmain.” Five minutes had passed since the entry hall clock chimed six times. Larry poured some orange juice into his glass and read the Chronicle column.

  A mortmain transfer of land in Sonoma County to St. Francis Solano Church is underway. Mortmain is a land transfer to a non-profit for permanent ownership. Price of the land: $50,000. On one side of the vacant lot is the church, and on the other side is an adoption agency. The agency wants to sell the lot. Sources say the purchaser is James O’Hara, owner of the Greenwich Grand Hotel. According to court documents, Mr. O’Hara is the party suing the adoption agency. Purchase and transfer of the lot have been delayed. Attorneys for all sides blame legal difficulties. Just last week, a Greenwich employee from a wealthy family was killed. Is there a connection between the death and the delay? Calls to Mr. O’Hara have not been returned.

  Larry coughed up his toast and his eyes fixated on the dollar figure, the same amount taken out of the Greenwich vault, the same amount Fletcher was accused of stealing. With one hand, he dumped the newspaper and a napkin holding bits of toast into the waste basket and, with the other, poured his juice into the sink.

  Lauren walked
in, pulling on an ear lobe, and stared at the orange sink. “What are you doing?”

  “Good morning, dear.”

  “Morning. Move out of the way and let me clean it up.”

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I bet Father Ralph will be absent.”

  “I don’t know. See you tonight.”

  Standing behind her passion pink bathrobe, Larry kissed her hairnet.

  She shook her shoulders.

  In her unique way of cooking up an excuse, she turned around and said, “Some people think I’m an odd duck, but I know I have you.” She picked up the pack of Benson & Hedges and smiled, upper and lower lips fastened to the filter of a cigarette she had extracted.

  He began plotting his approach to O’Hara as soon as he got the Chevy pointed in the right direction.

  Visit or phone call?

  Seven o’clock Mass at St. Ignatius interrupted his thoughts.

  No sign of Father Ralph or Josh.

  Just as he exited through the side door, his phone vibrated.

  “Leahy.”

  “Have you talked to O’Hara, yet?”

  “No, and a good thing, Joe. There’s a Matier column about O’Hara and $50,000.”

  “I’ll read it later. There’s an arrest warrant for Pablo Morales. His sixteen-year-old brother, Angel Morales, and another idiot named Vega are being held for robbery pending action by the District Attorney’s office.”

  “What happened?”

  “Upland and two other officers made the arrest on Broadway and Powell. Kevin Upland. We’ll talk about it after your little chat with O’Hara. Do it before you come traipsing into the office. Understand me?”

  Oh, yes.

  The first reading at Mass had described the suffering in hell, where there’s “weeping and gnashing of teeth,” and Larry was feeling the heat, but before he could utter a word, he heard Varton’s voice whispering in his ear.

  Martin Flaherty.

  It was Flaherty who had killed Kevin Upland’s grandfather during the bank robbery, and Varton had purposely reminded Larry.

  Larry hopped into the Chevy and would arrive at Central on time. After a few minutes had passed and the Stockton Tunnel was behind him, Larry loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He knew a city attorney he could call about the newspaper column. He pulled into the Central garage and walked to the sidewalk. Reception in the garage was poor.

  “Hello, Mr. Crowley. This is Larry Leahy. Do you have a minute?”

  “How are you, Larry. What’s on your mind?”

  “Did you read the Matier and Ross column in today’s Chronicle?”

  “Nope. What’s it about?”

  “Matier talked about a mortmain transfer. It’s related to a homicide that I’m investigating: the MacKenzie case.”

  “That case has been in the newspaper more than once. Is it mortmain you want to understand, and you think I can help?”

  “Can you?”

  “I’ll give it a try. During the Middle Ages, the Church acquired land that it kept in perpetuity. The land was never inherited by a descendant. The Church held onto it, which caused problems between Church and King. Mortmain statutes were enacted to prevent land from being transferred in perpetuity. Mortmain statutes were replaced by the modern rule against perpetuities. In what way is the word being used in the column?”

  Larry said, “A land transfer to St. Francis Solano Church in Sonoma.”

  “One doesn’t hear the word ‘mortmain’ these days. If land goes into a charitable trust for the promotion of religion, then mortmain, or, more apropos, the modern rule against perpetuities, would not apply. It is legal to donate land to the church in the form of a charitable trust.”

  “All right. So, the land can be donated legally. Thank you.”

  Larry pulled the newspaper out of his pocket. “Purchase and transfer of the lot have been delayed.”

  Something else was standing in the way.

  Larry called Hieu. “Meet at the Greenwich. I’ll tell you why when you get there.”

  Inside the lobby, at half-past eight, they sat down on the three-seater, and Larry began. “Today’s Matier column said that O’Hara tried to purchase some land from the Solano County Catholic Adoption Agency for $50,000 and is now suing the agency. The amount is more than a coincidence...and there’s an arrest warrant on Pablo Morales.”

  “Joe told me the story about the Morales clones when I arrived at Central,” Hieu said.

  “Let’s have a friendly chat with O’Hara and ask him about being at the Greenwich at midnight on the night of the murder. I know he’s here because I saw his Rolls in the basement. For all the interviews he’s been through, he will complain like a whore who’s not been paid in eight weeks.”

  It dawned on Larry that he had never heard a single vulgarity from his partner.

  Hieu said, “Angel Morales was released to his mother. The assistant DA told Joe that Angel’s a minor without a record and it would be hard to prove he touched the wallet.”

  “Let’s take another walk around the building before we talk to O’Hara. You never know what we will see or find...like the last time when we found the fingernail.”

  In the back of the hotel, Larry had a richer view of the details of the employee entrance and the garage ingress. He looked up and thought he could see the bottoms of O’Hara’s shoes resting on the window sill. A strip of decaying mortar hung below the window.

  He looked down in time to avoid tripping over a homeless man who was passed out. “Get going.” When the man failed to respond, Larry got closer and shouted, “Wake up!” Larry noticed small bits of broken mortar on either side of the sleeper.

  Larry heard a tapping coming from above. James opened his window further and yelled down at the bum, “God dammit. Get out of here...for the last time, you bastard.”

  The man sat straight up and said, “That bastard doesn’t know how to run his hotel.”

  It crossed Larry’s mind that the vagrant might have some kind of inside knowledge on the Greenwich, but the man got up and staggered down the alleyway.

  Keck sat sideways looking at her computer screen. Larry took several long strides and cleared his throat to get her attention. The hefty desk couldn’t hide a florid face and bouncing bosom as she rose and stood erect in a pink lemonade, leather mini skirt with side ruffle, and asked, “Do you wish to see Mr. O’Hara?” Her silk stockings, which were stitched in a crisscross pattern, exhibited a lustrous sheen sufficient to mesmerize a snake charmer’s cobra.

  “He should be ready to see us.”

  The back of James’ chair faced Larry and Hieu. The window was wide open. Larry could barely see the ornate, black-iron balcony outside the window. On a wall to the right, the television blared San Francisco crime statistics. A cut-glass decanter and set of five glasses sat on the credenza behind O’Hara. A sixth glass, which was half-filled with dark orange liquid, was next to James’ blotter.

  He swung around.

  Larry and Hieu sat down.

  “You know why we’re here. You tried to buy a piece of property in Sonoma.”

  “You read the paper.”

  “I manage from time to time.”

  James swung around and put his feet back on the window sill. He puffed and, with the strong push from one foot, swung around again. “See that hotel across the street. It’s killing me. We have a convention in September, and we’re limping along, and we’re in summer. That worries me.” He took off his monogrammed glasses, rubbed his eyes, and stared at Larry.

  “Back to the Chronicle column. You tried to buy a piece of property in Sonoma.”

  “I tried to buy the property, but some bozo objected.”

  “When did you start calling lawyers bozos?”

  In a barely audible voice, he answered, “I tried to buy the land, which is worthless, and give it to the church. Anything wrong with that, Larry?”

  “No, but why would you buy a worthless piece of land?”

  “I had a
problem that needed fixing.”

  “I think there is something else going on. Now, I’m speaking as a cop. An investigation is going on, and you are part of it. What you say is extremely important.” To underscore his point, Larry lifted his chair off the carpet and set it down on the desk-side of the black and white fret print border, which left no extra room for his knees.

  James swung around. “See those, Larry. Those are vertical exhaust vents to let out stale, hot air. We’re covering the same ground.”

  Larry stood up and banged his hand on the desk, rattling the glass. “Answer me. What’s going on?”

  James spoke to the window. “I got someone pregnant and the adoption agency got involved. I wanted some retribution. I tried to buy the land and sued them. I may be an SOB, but then most people would do exactly what I did, if they could afford to.”

  “Maureen or Pepper? Which one is pregnant?”

  Now facing Larry and Hieu, he said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Maureen.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Larry spoke slowly. He glanced at Hieu, who was sitting as straight as a totem pole, and back at O’Hara. “You planned on buying land for $50,000, the same amount that went missing from a hotel account. The deal fell through, and you placed the money in the vault, oh, forgetting to tell Fletcher, but he’s as good as a galley slave. Next, you dreamt up a scheme involving Cornelius and Pepper. That brings us back to Pepper.” He spoke more deliberately and slowly than before. “How is she involved?”

  “That tramp thought she was in love with Cornelius. He confided to me that he had a gambling debt, and I got Pepper to bring him the money.”

  Larry had to refocus his eyes, the admission was so stunning. “You sent her the e-mail?”

  “Mm.”

  “You had $50,000 on hand to buy the property, which, coincidentally, was the same amount as Cornelius’ debt. You can’t think anyone would believe that his debt was the same amount as the purchase price of the land. Now, give me all the truth.”

  “You think you know everything.” He looked Larry in the eye, took a swig from the glass, and looked over the rim. “Cornelius was in debt up to his eyeballs...and he didn’t want Ralph to know. I showed him some mercy. He promised to pay it back out of his salary, and the actual amount of his debt was a little less.”