“Not much. He’s a well-known businessman in the Mission. My dad bought a building from him a few years ago. We’ve talked about doing some deals together.”
“Is he reputable? I’ve seen some stuff in the papers about him from time to time. Investigations. Grand-jury indictments. That sort of thing.”
“He has an excellent reputation. He has donated a lot of time and money to various charities in the Mission.”
“It’s been suggested that Andy Holton may have approached Donald Martinez in connection with a business transaction. Do you know anything about it?”
I can hear the disdain in his voice as he says, “People like Donald Martinez don’t associate with guys like Andy Holton.”
28
NICK THE DICK
“Things were a little different when I started working as a PI. Nobody got bent out of shape if you roughed somebody up a little bit. Nowadays, if you touch someone, they’ll haul you into court.”
—PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR NICK HANSON. SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE. WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 6.
The North Beach Restaurant has been a neighborhood hangout in the heart of the old Italian enclave for decades. Although it was refurbished a few years ago, it hasn’t changed much. You won’t find it written up in trendy food magazines. What it lacks in chic it makes up for in reliability. The long bar, paneling and heavy tables give the place the feel of a traditional men’s club. As I look around the packed dining room at noon the next day, I see only two women. Some things never change.
Molinari and I are sitting across the table from Nick Hanson, the diminutive octogenarian PI who has been working in this neighborhood since the days when Joe DiMaggio used to play baseball in an empty lot on Bay Street. If you believe Nick, he used to toss a ball around with the Yankee Clipper and his brothers. You have to take everything Nick says with a grain of salt. The tales tend to get taller as the years wear on.
Ed is attacking a sixteen-ounce porterhouse steak. I have no idea how he remains as thin as a rail. He eats constantly.
Nick is chewing on a piece of french bread. At the age of eighty-five, he can still engage in what consultants like to call “multitasking.” He can chew his bread, drink water and talk at the same time. Although he’s only four foot ten, his double-breasted suit and the fresh rose in his lapel give him a dignified air. His new toupee is reasonably convincing. He tells me that his latest mystery novel is going to hit the shelves right after the first of the year. “It’s a Mystery Guild featured selection,” he says. I tell him I’ll watch for it in my bookstore. He promises to give me an autographed copy.
If you want to talk to Nick the Dick, you have to observe several protocols. You have to take him out to lunch in North Beach. He never conducts business on an empty stomach. You can’t rush him. He says it’s bad for his digestion. You have to give him a chance to hawk his latest literary triumph. He’s very proud of the fact that he’s a published author. Most important, you have to let him wax about the good old days for at least twenty minutes. He loves to talk about his old neighbors, the DiMaggios. An audience with Nick is often an all-afternoon affair. It’s usually worth the effort, and it’s entertaining, too.
We spend almost an hour shooting the breeze. Nick reminds us he used to be the investigator for Ed’s father. He says he still has lunch from time to time at the deli on Columbus that Ed’s cousin has run for years. He says he and his childhood friends still attend mass at St. Peter and Paul’s on Washington Square. He always calls Molinari “Eddie.”
He shoves his plate across the table toward me. “You want to try some of my petrale?” he asks. “I like it broiled with just a little bit of butter.”
I take a small piece of fish. I figure if I try it, he may not insist that I eat some of the stewed tomatoes that they made up just for him. Then I take another bite out of my club sandwich.
“You know,” he says, “you should eat better. Your body needs protein. Next time you’re here, I want you to order some real food. Get yourself a nice piece offish.”
I promise him that I’ll observe the Nick the Dick diet next time.
“So,” he says, “you guys are getting down to the wire on Skipper’s case, eh?”
“Yep.”
“I talked to the cops about it.” He speaks out the side of his mouth.
“They said you might be called as a witness at the trial.”
“So they tell me.” He takes a long drink of water. “We were following your client all over town for a few months. A guy from Leslie Sherman’s campaign hired us.” He explains that he and his two sons and four grandchildren work in shifts. There was a set of Hanson eyes on Skipper at every moment from the Fourth of July until he was arrested. “By the way,” he continues, “if you see Dan Morris, remind him he still hasn’t paid my bill.”
Molinari smiles. “I promise,” he says. “Did you find anything on Skipper?”
A knowing grin. “Indeed we did.”
“And what might you have found?” I ask. Whenever I’m with Nick, it doesn’t take long before I start talking like him.
He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “You know those two hookers who appeared on the Jade Warner show?” We get a funny look from the two men sitting at the table next to us. Nick lowers his voice and says, “I found them.”
“And?”
“They were telling the truth.” He glances around. He smiles toward the owner. “I’ve got the pictures to prove it.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out photos of the two prostitutes. These must have been the shots McBride and Parnelli told me about. Molinari and I study them. “I figure they’ll call me as a witness to confirm that the two whores were telling the truth.”
Nick Hanson. A veritable temple of political correctness.
“Of course,” he says, “the fact that Skipper was sleeping around isn’t news to anybody. On the other hand, the fact that he was sleeping around with two female hookers doesn’t have anything to do with the death of a male prostitute.”
I can’t disagree with anything he’s saying. “If that’s all you found,” I say, “I’m not sure there’s anything else to discuss.”
He calls the waiter over and orders a bowl of mixed berries for dessert. He asks for a cappuccino. Molinari orders the chocolate truffle. I order plain coffee. “Unfortunately,” he says, “that isn’t the end of the story. I found out a few more things that might be of interest to the cops.”
Uh-oh. “Things?”
“Yeah. Things.”
“Like what?”
The waiter brings Nick’s berries. “I was just talking to Roosevelt Johnson and Elaine McBride about it this morning. I was at the Fairmont that night.”
Come again? “You were there?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“The fifteenth floor of the tower.”
Jesus Christ. “Where on the fifteenth floor?”
“In the room across the hall from where they found Garcia’s body.”
Unbelievable. “What the hell were you doing there?” My voice goes up as I say this.
He’s indignant. “What do you think I was doing there? I was keeping Skipper’s room under surveillance. We had a tip that he was going to be meeting with one of his hookers that night. For what Morris was paying me, I would have gotten right inside his underwear if he’d asked me.”
He’s the very embodiment of what people refer to as a professional demeanor.
Molinari asks him how he got upstairs.
“The service elevator.”
“Why didn’t your name appear on any of the police reports?” I say.
“Nobody saw me. As far as they knew, I wasn’t there.” He pauses. “I try not to advertise the fact when I’m watching somebody.”
“How did the cops find out you were there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Dan Morris told them. I admitted it when they called to ask about it.” He fingers his rose. “I don’t lie to the cops, Mike. It’s bad for business.”<
br />
“Were you by yourself?”
“Nope. My son Rick was with me.”
Just when you think you’ve heard it all, you find out that Nick the Dick has a son named Rick. Say that fast three times. “How did you get out of there without anybody seeing you?”
He sets down his spoon and says, “I’m a professional, Mike. I’ve been doing this for sixty-seven years. When I watch somebody, I’m invisible. You won’t find me in the security tapes. I’m careful about stuff like that.”
I’m sure he is. “So you were in the room across the hall?”
“Yeah. We kept the door closed. We were watching the door to Skipper’s room through the peephole.”
Here goes. “Did you see Johnny Garcia enter Skipper’s room?”
He allows himself a small grin. “Indeed I did.”
“At what time?”
“One minute after one o’clock in the morning.”
“And did he enter the room voluntarily?”
“So it appeared. He was walking.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yeah.”
I ask whether Skipper answered the door and let him in.
“Yep.”
“Did you see anybody else come or go?”
“Nope. We packed up and left as soon as we had the goods on Garcia.”
“So you can’t confirm whether anybody else entered the room after Garcia?”
“Like I said, we left right away.”
“You didn’t catch any of this on tape, did you?”
“Indeed we did. We have a miniature camera.” He pulls out a videocassette from his briefcase and slides it over to me. “You guys might want to take a look at this,” he says.
It keeps getting worse. “And you’re prepared to testify to this?”
“Indeed I am.”
Molinari and I return to the office after lunch. “We have a big problem,” I say to Rosie. I describe our conversation with Nick the Dick.
She frowns. “Do you have any reason to believe he isn’t telling the truth?”
“He’s eighty-five years old. He’s an institution in this town. He hasn’t the slightest incentive to lie.”
“Even for an extra fee?” she asks.
“Not a chance,” Molinari says. “Nick doesn’t care about money. He’s in it for the love of the chase. And the publicity. And to sell books. I don’t think he can be bought.”
“Neither do I,” I say. A moment later, the three of us are staring at the TV in the martial arts studio. Nick’s tape is less than a minute long. It’s grainy black-and-white footage of the door to Skipper’s room. I can see the peephole and the room number on the door. At precisely one minute after one, a man walks up to the door and knocks. We can see only his back. The door opens, but we can’t see who opened it. The man walks inside. The door closes. The tape ends.
Rosie scowls. “You can’t tell it was Garcia,” she says.
“You can’t tell who opened the door, either,” I say.
Molinari says what I’m thinking. “There’s no way Nick Hanson would phony up a videotape, is there?”
“Nope. But that won’t keep me from suggesting to the jury that he did.”
Skipper is incredulous. “Well, now the setup is complete,” he insists.
Molinari and I are sitting in the consultation room at the Hall later that afternoon. Ann’s here, too. She insisted on being present when we told her father about my meeting with Nick the Dick. She remains stoic as I give Skipper the details of Nick’s escapades in the room across the hall.
Skipper says, “So they’re paying off Nick Hanson, too?” There is a tone of desperation to his voice.
“How do you explain the tape?” Molinari asks.
“It’s a fraud.”
“And you think the cops are in on this?” Molinari snaps.
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
He’s losing it. He’s seeing conspiracies everywhere. “Why would Johnson and McBride pay somebody off?” I ask. “Why would they set you up? What’s their motive?”
“The cops hate me.”
“Where would they get the money to pay off Nick Hanson? And why would Hanson take it?”
I get an icy stare. “You’re supposed to figure that out,” he says. “You’re my lawyers. You have to come up with a reason why they want to get me.”
I toss my pen onto the table. “Give me something,” I say. “Dan Morris hired Nick the Dick. Do you think Morris is paying him off?”
“Maybe,” Skipper says.
“But why?” I ask again. “Once they placed Garcia in your room, they had you. Why would Morris go to all the trouble to set you up for murder?”
“Maybe Garcia was prepared to admit it was a setup. Maybe he wasn’t cooperating.”
“You think Morris killed him?”
He throws up his hands. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
For the first time since this case started, he’s acting panic-stricken. He’s just accused his daughter’s boyfriend and campaign manager of murder. Skipper looks at her. She’s standing in the corner, her face impassive. Then he turns back to me. “He was mad at me,” he explains. “And he was thinking of running for governor in two years.”
This doesn’t qualify as a convincing explanation. “So?” I ask.
“So was I.”
I dart a glance at Molinari. “And you think he set you up for murder to get you out of the way so he could run for governor two years from now?” I ask.
“That’s one scenario I’ve considered.”
That’s one scenario I hope we won’t have to try to sell to the jury.
Molinari scowls. “You’ve got to come up with something better than that,” he says. “It’s preposterous.”
“Look at it this way,” Skipper says. “If he can pin Garcia’s murder on me, he wins twice. His candidate wins the AG race and he has a clear shot at the governor’s seat in two years.”
It’s still preposterous.
Molinari turns to Ann. “He’s your campaign manager,” he says. “Was he planning to run for governor?”
She glares at her father. “Maybe. And for the record, if you’re suggesting that Dan had anything to do with the death of Johnny Garcia, you’re wrong.”
We sit in silence for a moment, avoiding eye contact. Then I say, “Skipper, do you know anything about a man named Donald Martinez?”
“I know a lot about Donald Martinez. We’ve been trying to nail him as long as I’ve been in office. The feds have been after him for tax evasion and racketeering. They think he’s been taking payoffs on construction projects for years. We’ve never been able to prove anything.”
Ann rolls her eyes. “Come on, Father,” she says, “they’ve been making those charges for as long as I can remember. There’s nothing to them. Besides, what makes you think Donald Martinez has anything to do with this case?”
“We have reason to believe that Martinez may have been approached by Andy Holton,” I say.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Skipper says. “If somebody is involved in drugs, prostitution or gambling, Donald Martinez has a hand in it. Anything for money.” He pauses and adds, “You might check with Turner.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s Martinez’s lawyer.”
I get the expected indignant response when I call Turner from my cell phone on my way back to the office. “Donald Martinez is a respected businessman in the Mission District,” he says. “All of his business activities are legal and aboveboard. I will not comment further because of client confidentiality.”
This doesn’t stop me. “Was he involved with Andy Holton?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Something stinks. I don’t believe him. I don’t trust him about this or anything else now. And it stinks even more when the guy’s your client’s old buddy. Whose side is Turner on, anyway?
29
THE DONALD
—THE MAYOR OF SAN FRANCISCO.
Donald Martinez has given us a nine o’clock appointment the next morning. Rosie and I are sitting in the leather chairs in his office in an old department store at Twentieth and Mission. The building houses his produce distribution business as well as the offices of the Mission Redevelopment Fund and the Donald Martinez Charitable Foundation. Martinez could run his empire out of a high-rise downtown, but he’s chosen to stay in the neighborhood. He’s a tanned, charismatic man in his late fifties who looks and talks a little bit like Ricardo Montalban. He’s only about five ten, but his erect bearing gives the impression that he is taller. His presence leaves no doubt that he is a man who gets what he wants.
The office is full of pictures. He’s got his life on display. There’s one of his wife, adult children and four grandchildren on his credenza. On one wall there is an enlarged photo of an old delivery truck bearing the logo of Martinez Wholesale Produce. Martinez tells us proudly that he started his business thirty years ago with that single truck. There are pictures of several low-income housing developments on the opposite wall. I can see citations from the mayor, the Mission Youth Center, St. Peter’s and various other community agencies. We exchange polite, labored conversation for a few minutes. Then we get down to business.
We’ve agreed that Rosie will start. “Mr. Martinez,” she says, “we understand that you provide start-up financing for local businesses.” Her tone is mild.
“That’s true, Ms. Fernandez. I have personally funded several new businesses in the area.” He names two restaurants and three dot-coms. “I think it is important to provide economic opportunities to members of our community. Traditional sources of funding such as bank loans often are unavailable.” He gives us a half-smile and adds, “In the current vernacular, I’m called an ‘angel’ investor.”
Perhaps, but he is no angel. Rosie pushes on and asks if he ever met Andy Holton.
His response is businesslike. “I believe I met him once, Ms. Fernandez,” he says. “He lived in the neighborhood. For a while, he lived at the youth center.” Smooth as silk.
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