“What brings you to see me, Detective Kincaid? And if you don’t mind my asking, how did you get my name?”
“Well, Steven—may I call you Steven?…”
“Please call me Steve, that’s what most people do.”
“Okay, Steve. As a part of our investigation into the murder of Arnold Ginsberg, we’re talking to anybody who might have information that would help us figure out who committed this horrible crime. As to how we got your name, I’m not exactly sure.” I lied. “I can tell you that in cases like this, as we talk to people, they invariably supply us with the names of additional people who either knew the victim, or somebody else connected to the case.” That part was true.
He studied me for a moment, sipping his beer. “Okay, fire away. How can I help?”
“Maybe you can begin, Steve, by telling me how you became acquainted with Arnold Ginsberg?”
“Sure. I’m a personal trainer and I met Arnold through the club. He was a member.”
“The club you’re referring to, that would be the Fit for Life Club, in Sandy, correct?”
“In Midvale, actually, but yes.”
“And Arnold worked out at the club?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Did Ginsberg employ you as a personal trainer?”
“Uh, no, not exactly. Mr. Ginsberg paid me to serve as a trainer and fitness coach for his partner, a guy named Rodney, oh, what’s his last name? Plow, that’s it—Rodney Plow.”
“Would it be fair then to say you are better acquainted with Rodney Plow than you were with Arnold Ginsberg?”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
This guy wasn’t volunteering much. “Just so that I’m clear, you earn a living as a personal trainer/fitness coach, is that correct? Are you employed doing anything else?”
He stammered. “Well, yes. I’m also a licensed massage therapist.”
I feigned surprise. “Oh, and do you work on your massage clients at the Fit for Life Club?”
“On occasion, but I have an office on South State in Sandy.”
“Okay. And did you provide massage services to Arnold Ginsberg or Rodney Plow?”
On this one, Ambrose hesitated before answering. “I don’t recall ever giving a massage to Arnold, but I do work on Rodney occasionally.” He forced a laugh. “Sometimes I work Rodney out so hard that he needs a massage afterward.”
“That a pretty regular thing with Rodney, the massage, I mean?”
“No. Only occasionally.”
“And do you provide massage services here in your condo?”
“No. I never bring clients back here. I always use the massage studio in Sandy. I don’t keep a table here.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “We’ve got reliable information that you and Rodney get together periodically right here in your condo during the day when Arnold is at work. Now, if you never bring clients over, Steve, what would you be doing here with Rodney?”
All the color drained from his face. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He went into denial mode. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never had Rodney Plow here.”
“Cut the bullshit, Steve. Want me to show you the surveillance photos?”
He broke eye contact and took another swig of his beer. “Okay, what if he was here a few times, what does that prove?”
“Only that you’re a liar. And if you’ll lie about something like this, I have to wonder what else you might be lying about?”
“Such as?”
“No, Steve, I’m asking the questions here. Isn’t it true that you and Rodney have had an intimate relationship going on for some time now, all of it, of course, occurring behind Arnold Ginsberg’s back?”
He looked at me wondering exactly how much I knew. “We’re friends, that’s all there is to it. There’s nothing wrong with that, so why don’t you stop trying to run a guilt trip on me?”
“That’s interesting, Steve. Let me refresh your memory about something. Do you remember the woman who ‘accidentally’ walked in on you and Rodney several weeks ago in your office? That’s the time the two of you were locked in a sixty-nine position on the massage table. That woman was a PI, for Christ’s sake. She’d been tracking you and Rodney around town for weeks. We’ve got surveillance notes and photos, not to mention her eye-witness testimony of what was going on that day in your office. Still want to deny the physical relationship?”
He thought for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, so we were involved. What does that prove? I didn’t have anything to do with Arnold’s murder if that’s what you’re implying.”
I just stared at him for minute. “Stranger things have happened. As I said before, if you’re lying about this, who knows what else you’re lying about? Now, how long have you and Rodney been an item?”
“Six, maybe seven months.”
“How did the two of you get together?”
He looked resigned. “It happened over time. Mutual attraction was part of it. It didn’t take very long before I realized that Rodney was tiring of the relationship with Arnold—big age difference for one thing.”
“Did Rodney ever mention to you the possibility of killing Arnold or hiring someone else to do it?”
“God, no. We were having an affair, man. That’s a long way from murder.”
“Maybe so, but not always. Got to ask you this: Did you have anything to do with either planning or carrying out the murder of Arnold Ginsberg?”
“Of course not. I had nothing to do with it, and I don’t know who did. Are we about done?”
“Yeah, Steve, I think that about raps it up. Just a couple more questions and then we’ll be finished.” He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders in mock frustration.
“Are you gay, Steve, or do you go both ways?”
“I’m bi, not that it’s any of your business. I was married once. I’ve got a seven-year-old son. What does this have to do with anything?”
“Probably nothing. Just one more question. I need to know your whereabouts on the evening Arnold was killed. That would have been last Monday, say between four in the afternoon and eight P.M.”
“You think I had something to do with this, don’t you?”
“Not necessarily, Steve. This is all pretty routine in a murder case. You’re not the first person I’ve asked, and I can assure you, you won’t be the last.”
He sighed. “I had checked into the Snowbird Lodge earlier in the afternoon. I spent the night there.”
“What time did you check in?”
“I don’t recall exactly, but I think it was mid afternoon.”
“Were you with somebody?”
“No, I was alone. That’s not unusual for me. I use the Snowbird Lodge occasionally as a getaway from the hustle-and-bustle of the valley. I particularly like to hike the area in the fall with all the gorgeous colors.”
“Who were you hiking with?”
“Like I said, I was alone. I checked into my room, took a short nap, and then went out for a hike. I got back about dusk.”
“What did you do then?”
“I got cleaned up and then went out to dinner in the lodge restaurant.”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, I’m not sure. It was dark though.”
“You’ve got to do better than that, Steve. You must have some idea what time you went to dinner.”
“Well, I can’t be sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say sometime between eight and nine.”
“I assume you kept receipts.”
“For the hotel room, yes—I’m not so sure about the dinner.” He walked over to his dining room table and began rummaging through what looked like a stack of mail. Moments later, he handed me the Snowbird Lodge receipt. “I paid for the dinner with a Visa card, but I don’t know where the receipt is.”
“That’s okay, this helps,” I replied.
I stood up to leave. “That
will be it for now. Thanks for your help. By the way, mind if I have a look around your condo?”
The look of disgust on his face suggested that I’d just crossed an invisible line. “You got a warrant?”
“No, but if you don’t have anything to hide, I just thought….”
“Well, think again. I’d like you to leave now.”
***
I left Steven Ambrose with the strong suggestion that he not leave town without notifying either me or Kate. I intentionally decided not to ask him about Anthony Barnes or the Lucky Gent. I didn’t see the point in telling him that we were already on to Barnes. There would be time for that later. In the meantime, if he was mixed up with Anthony in some way, and my interrogation rattled his cage sufficiently, maybe he’d contact him. The prospect of a connection between Steven Ambrose and Anthony Barnes made my mouth water. I also made a mental note to contact Ambrose’s ex-wife and see what, if anything, she might be able to tell me.
Kate and I hooked up on our cells and agreed to meet at her place and drop one of the cars. We were both anxious to compare notes about what we had learned during our respective interviews. We decided that a good place to debrief would be the parking lot of the Lucky Gent.
How was I to know that a short stop at Kate’s condo would turn into a two hour delay before we made it to the bar?
Chapter Thirty-three
By the time we left Kate’s place, it was after midnight. We drove in relative silence to the Lucky Gent on 300 West in South Salt Lake City. There were still a handful of cars in the lot despite the lateness of the hour. The bar had to be close to last call. We spotted Anthony Barnes’ black Honda CRV parked in the rear near the back door. We parked across the street in the parking lot of a plumbing supply business. I dialed Sammy Roybal’s cell number but he didn’t answer.
“Don’t know about you, but I feel pretty good right now.”
Kate smiled. “Took the edge off, didn’t it? It did for me, too.”
“I wish we’d hear something from Sammy,” I said. “I neglected to ask him what kind of wheels he’d be driving. He could be inside right now and we wouldn’t know it.
“I can tell you one thing. I’m sure as hell not going to walk in there looking for him. If I did, it would be like wearing a flashing neon sign that read, ‘Hey, catch the straight cop.’ If I know Sammy, we’ll hear from him before long.”
“What makes you so sure?” asked Kate.
“Cool, hard cash. Sammy’ll want a down payment for this evening’s work. He’s a pay-as-you-go kind of guy.”
“Assuming he’s inside, I wonder what he’s learned?” said Kate.
“Hard to know. I can tell you that Sammy is a prolific talker with a line of bullshit a mile long. If there’s anything to learn, Sammy will get it.”
We sat for nearly an hour. Customers drifted out of the bar, and the parking lot slowly emptied. The down time gave us a chance to compare notes. I went over what I’d learned in my interview with Steven Ambrose. Kate listened attentively. When I finished, she said, “What do you make of his alibi?”
“On one hand, he was real fuzzy when it came to time lines—couldn’t remember when he checked in or what time he went to dinner. On the other hand, I’ve got a credit card receipt in my pocket for the room.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean he used the room. It only proves that he or someone using his credit card checked in.”
“True. It occurred to me that if he was involved in the murder, the Snowbird Lodge would be a good choice for an alibi. It’s out of town, but close enough that you could check in, drive to Salt Lake City, commit a murder, and haul your ass back with your alibi still in tact. I’ll go up their tomorrow. I’ll bring along a photograph of him and we’ll see if the front desk and restaurant staff can identify him. Maybe I can also pin down some times.”
Kate had about the same level of success with Rodney Plow as I had had with Ambrose. After significant prodding, Plow admitted the affair, but chose to cast it as an inconsequential fling that occurred because of Arnold’s growing inattentiveness. Rodney had not only denied any involvement in the murder, but he vociferously expressed shock and outrage that Kate had dared ask. Like me, Kate hadn’t said anything about Anthony Barnes or the Lucky Gent in her interview with Plow.
“I’m glad we opted not to play the Anthony Barnes and Lucky Gent card with those two,” said Kate. “We will have hit the mother lode if either of our interviews spooked these guys into an emergency strategy session with Barnes.”
I nodded. “That would be the connection we’re after, that’s for sure.”
Just before closing, Sammy walked out of the Lucky Gent. He was alone. I redialed his cell number, and this time, he answered.
“When you get into your car, look right across the street. We’re parked in the plumbing supply lot.”
He pulled up next to us, shut the engine off, and rolled down his window. “Think you guys could have parked in a more obvious place—might as well have parked under a spot light.”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t exactly make us now, did you? Learn anything useful in there tonight?”
“Not much. It’s gonna take Sammy a while. I chatted up this guy, Tony, like you asked. He was workin behind the bar. After a few drinks, and me complimenting the shit out of his bar, he mentioned that he was buying the joint. I’ll go back tomorrow night and keep working on him. You got some cash for Sammy?”
I looked at Kate. “What’d I tell you?” Kate and I had pooled our available cash. Between us, we’d managed to come up with $90.00. When Sammy reached for the dough, I asked, “Did you get me a receipt?”
He looked at me like I’d just kicked him in the nuts. “Are you crazy, man? You think Sammy’s going into a place like that and asking for a receipt?”
I was laughing at him. “Hey, relax, Sammy. I’m just teasing you, man.” I reached across and handed him the money. He counted it quickly before looking up with a scowl.
“This all you got? This’ll barely pay my bar bill.” He was working me now.
“What did you expect? You didn’t exactly come back with a boat-load of good information tonight, ya know.”
“Hey, man, Sammy’s just gettin started. Sammy’ll be all over that faggot tomorrow like a wet blanket.”
“You do that, and I’ll get you more cash tomorrow. In the meantime, don’t bust my chops.”
He ignored me. “Yeah, well tomorrow, bring Sammy something besides pocket change. I can get this kind of cash out of a coke machine.” With that, he drove off.
“That guy’s a piece of work,” said Kate.
“You’re telling me.”
A little after two, Barnes came out the front door of the bar, locked it, and walked to his Honda. We followed him a short distance to an all-night Denny’s restaurant where he ate a meal by himself while we sipped burnt coffee purchased from a nearby convenience store.
By three, he was back in the Honda, but he wasn’t headed home, at least not to Ogden. We followed him again, this time to an old house on ninth east near downtown. He parked on the street and walked to the front door. We weren’t close enough to tell if he had a key or just walked in. The house was dark.
“He’s staying with somebody down here,” I said. “Let’s give it a minute and then cruise by the house slowly. I’ll get the address.”
We drove back to Kate’s condo so that I could pickup my car. “Want to stay over? I hate having you drive all the way back to Park City this late.”
“Thanks, but I’m feeling the need to spend some time with Sara and Aunt June. I’ve been working a lot of hours lately. Besides, I think I’m on duty later this morning with Bob the Bassett Hound. He’s due for round one of his new weight loss training program. I’ll be marching his sorry butt all over Park Meadows come morning.”
“I hate to tell you, but it’s already morning.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Forty m
inutes later, I was home. Bob the Bassett Hound must have heard me tiptoe in through the garage. I heard a couple muffled woofs coming from Sara’s bedroom. The lazy mutt didn’t even come out to see who was in the house. Some watch dog.
Chapter Thirty-four
I woke to a wet tongue caressing my cheek, and I knew instantly that it wasn’t Kate’s. It was Bob the Bassett Hound probably hoping that a little early morning schmoozing might save him from a vigorous round of exercise with me. Not likely.
Sara was sitting on the bed, witness to the spectacle, giggling her head off. “I’ll give you something to giggle about.” I grabbed her, held her down on the bed, and gave her a major tickle. While it might be too early to tell, it seemed like Bob was having a positive effect on her. Since his arrival in our home, the problem of getting Sara to bed at night had abated.
I got up to the aroma of fresh coffee and the sound of Aunt June milling about the kitchen. She was in the midst of fixing breakfast.
“Good morning, Sam. I didn’t hear you come in last night. I hope that I didn’t let Sara into your bedroom to early.”
“Not a problem. There’s nothing quite like waking up to a big wet one from Bob the Bassett Hound.”
Aunt June chuckled. “I hope you don’t mind, but Baxter will be here shortly. I invited him to breakfast, and then he and I are off to a couple of garage sales. I warned him that we were getting a late start—early bird catches the worm, you know. If you go to these things late, the best stuff is already gone.”
“What’s he looking for?”
Before she could answer, Sara interrupted, “When’s breakfast? I’m starving.”
“Sara, don’t interrupt. You’re doing that a lot lately. Aunt June and I were talking. Since you’re here, you can help me set the table. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. We’re waiting for Uncle Baxter.”
I turned back to Aunt June. “Sorry, you were saying.”
“Beats me, I’m not really sure whether Baxter is looking for anything in particular. Frankly, I think he enjoys going out and rummaging through other people’s stuff. And then if something strikes his fancy, he goes into negotiating mode. It seems like a waste of time, if you ask me.”
Silent Witness Page 17
