MD03 - Criminal Intent

by Sheldon Siegel

  Rosie tries to refocus Angel’s attention back to the timeline. Angel confirms the champagne started flowing at twelve-thirty and she went upstairs around one.

  “Honey,” Rosie says, “where did you keep the Oscar?”

  “On the mantle in the living room.”

  “Was it there Friday night?”

  “Yes. Then I put it on the table with the champagne glasses. I thought it would make a nice centerpiece.”

  That would also explain how Angel’s fingerprints found their way onto the statue, if they weren’t there already. “Did anybody else touch it?” Rosie asks.

  “Everybody did,” she says. “We passed it around for good luck. People don’t get to hold Oscars every day. Dick was holding it when we toasted The Return of the Master.”

  It may also explain some of the unidentified fingerprints on the statue. Rosie tries to keep her engaged. “Where was it the last time you saw it?”

  “On the table.” Her tone is steady when she tells us again she has no idea how it got into the trunk of her husband’s car.

  Rosie shifts gears and asks, “Was anybody else upset that night?”

  “Just Marty. Like I said, he was unhappy about the China Basin project. He said they were having problems with the redevelopment agency. I heard him say he thought it was a lousy investment.”

  “Did you get along with him?” Rosie asks.

  Angel tenses and says, “I didn’t know him very well.”

  “Did Dick and Marty get along?”

  The corners of Angel’s mouth turn up slightly. “They were like an old married couple. They argued constantly, though Dick used to say he couldn’t live without him. Everybody was under a lot of pressure. Dick had a temper, and so did Marty.”

  “Did either of them lose their temper the other night?” Rosie says.

  “No.”

  “What happened after you went upstairs?”

  Her story doesn’t change. She took a shower, put on her nightgown and went to bed.

  “When did you change into the sweatsuit?” Rosie asks.

  “I don’t remember.” She says she doesn’t know what happened to the nightgown.

  I catch a hint of skepticism in Rosie’s eyes. “You have no idea how you got to the bridge?”

  “That’s right.”

  I tell her about my conversation with her neighbor. This gets a discernable grimace. I ask, “Did you know them pretty well?”

  “No. They kept to themselves.”

  “He said he heard shouts from your deck around three,” I say. “Did you hear anything?”

  “No.”

  We talk for a few more minutes. Rosie reminds her that the arraignment is tomorrow. “Just follow my lead,” Rosie tells her. “When the judge asks for your plea, you should stand up and say ‘not guilty’ in a clear voice. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  # # #

  “We didn’t get much out of Ward,” I say to Rosie as we’re driving toward the Ritz for our promised audience with Dominic Petrillo.

  She’s in a contemplative mood. “I didn’t expect much,” she replies. Then she adds, “She’s very pretty.”

  “She’s also a good prosecutor. The judges love her.”

  “So does the press. She’s savvy. She knows Angel is attractive. It couldn’t hurt to give the judge a smart, beautiful prosecutor.”

  Trial work is theater. When you’re in court, you use whatever you have at your disposal. Nicole Ward doesn’t need to rely on good looks. That doesn’t stop her. If I looked like she did, I’d use it to my advantage, too. I ask, “Do you think Angel was telling the truth?”

  She reflects for a moment and says, “Her story hasn’t changed. That’s good. On the other hand, there are still some gaping holes.”

  I’m a little surprised by her equivocation. “What’s bugging you?”

  “The three hour gap from the time she went upstairs until she was found at the bridge.”

  “You don’t buy the blackout?”

  “Maybe, but I find it hard to believe she didn’t hear anything at all. I have a lot of trouble where she says she woke up a mile away in different clothing in her dead husband’s car.”

  So do I.

  She adds, “I’d like to find out what happened to the nightgown.”

  “Me, too. I’ll have Pete search the area between the house and the bridge.”

  “That would be a good idea.”

  Time for a reality check. I say, “You don’t seriously think she’s a murderer, do you?”

  This time she doesn’t hesitate. “I can’t see it.”

  I trust her instincts. “But?”

  “I don’t think she’s told us everything. And I’m certain she’s shading it in a manner favorable to her.”

  “Every client does.”

  “I know. Still, I have a feeling she’s holding something back.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “We might be able to get something from Little Richard,” I say, “or some of the others who were there. We should try to get to the caterers, too. And I’m still trying to figure out how the China Basin project fits into all of this.”

  “Me, too.”

  I pull into the driveway of the Ritz. I look at Rosie and say, “Let’s see what Dominic Petrillo can tell us.”

  # # #

  “Could you please call Mr. Petrillo’s room,” I tell the concierge at the Ritz. Rosie and I are standing in the understated lobby of what many consider San Francisco’s finest hotel. The classical nine-story structure at the top of Stockton Street near Union Square was built as the headquarters for an insurance company. It has evolved several times and was converted into the Ritz in the early nineties. The dark wood walls and deep carpets create an elegant ambiance. Sunday brunch is being served in the five-star restaurant, known simply as the Ritz Carlton Dining Room. The inviting aroma of eggs, bacon, waffles and coffee envelops us.

  The officious man in the dark suit eyes me suspiciously. He says in a clipped tone, “And you would be?”

  “Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez. Mr. Petrillo is expecting us.”

  He glances at his computer screen and frowns. Then he folds his arms and juts out his chin. “I’m afraid Mr. Petrillo has checked out.”

  I try not to show my irritation. Angry outbursts don’t play well at the Ritz. “When?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Has he left the building?”

  “I’m not sure,” he says. He motions to a uniformed bellhop, who practically sprints across the carpet. He whispers into his ear and the young man starts walking toward the restaurant. “He’ll try to find Mr. Petrillo,” he tells us.

  “Is Carl Ellis still here?” I ask.

  He recognizes the name immediately. The concierge at the Ritz has to be good at remembering names. “He checked out late last night.”

  Dammit. “I need to reach him,” I tell him. “One of his business associates died suddenly yesterday. Do you know if he went to Las Vegas? I have some information for him about the funeral arrangements.”

  “He seemed upset,” the concierge acknowledges. “He left in a hurry.” That’s all he’ll tell me. He adds, “Please sit down while our bellman tries to find Mr. Petrillo.”

  I glance at Rosie and ask the concierge, “Where is your restroom?”

  He motions down the hall.

  “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Rosie catches my eye and says, “Me, too.”

  We head toward the fancy dining room. When we’re out of the concierge’s earshot, Rosie says to me, “Are you going into the restaurant?”

  “Of course.”

  Her eyes gleam. We walk by a security guard who is on his way to the lobby. Rosie whispers, “Looks like they’re calling out the troops to follow us.”

  “We really look like criminals. The first thing most big-time crooks do is introduce themselves to the concierge at a big hotel right before they steal the silver.
”

  She smiles. I open the door to the restaurant. The wood-paneled room with heavy tables and velvet chairs has a clubby atmosphere. The smell of French toast is making me hungry. I’m operating on a couple hours of sleep and almost no food.

  The maitre d’ is standing behind a tall kiosk. He looks a little like Sir Alec Guinness. He addresses me with a polished British accent. “Do you have a reservation, sir?” He pronounces it as if it were spelled, “suh.”

  Rosie is standing to my left. She’s scanning the dining room while I filibuster. “I’m afraid not,” I say. I glance around the room. The tables are full. “We were supposed to meet Mr. Petrillo.” I pause and say, “Is he dining with you today?”

  “One moment, sir.” His face rearranges itself into a scowl. He puts on his half glasses and studies his reservation chart.

  Rosie nudges me. “There he is,” she whispers. She points toward the corner of the room, where an unhappy-looking Petrillo is sitting by himself.

  “I think I see him,” I tell Sir Alec. “We’ll join him for a few minutes.”

  “Will you be dining with us, sir?”

  “I don’t think so. It looks like he’s almost finished.”

  He escorts us to Petrillo’s table where he is talking on his cell. There is a sign by the door requesting patrons to turn off their cell phones, but guys like Petrillo play by their own rules. He scowls at us when we arrive. He cups his hand over the mouthpiece and says, “I’m almost done. Why don’t you wait outside?”

  “We can wait here for a few minutes,” I tell him.

  He gives the maitre d’ a helpless look and says, “It would be better if you wait outside.”

  I glance at Rosie, who gives me a quick nod. We don’t want to make a scene with Sir Alec still standing here. “We’ll meet you outside,” she whispers.

  “Right this way,” the maitre d’ says. He leads us to the entrance. We wait just inside the door. I don’t want Petrillo to give us the slip by going out through the kitchen.

  Petrillo makes us wait for another fifteen minutes. I can see him gesticulate as he talks on his cell. His pained expression suggests his business matters aren’t going well. Finally, he snaps his phone shut, finishes his coffee and heads in our direction. He opens the door and leads us into the corridor. “Business,” he mutters. He offers no further explanation.

  Rosie jumps right in. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened Friday night,” she says.

  He keeps walking toward the lobby. “Your niece has put us in a very difficult position,” he says. “I’ve given my statement to the police and I’m already late for my plane.”

  Rosie keeps firing questions as we follow him. “Can you tell us what you saw?”

  Petrillo responds grudgingly, “I didn’t see anything. I got there around eight. We had dinner and watched the movie. We had a drink and my driver took me back to the hotel.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “A quarter to two. Carl Ellis rode with me. He can confirm the time.”

  And provide an alibi. “Who else was still there when you left?” I ask.

  He rattles off the names of Angel, Little Richard, Crown, Springer and Kent.

  “Was anybody upset?” I ask.

  “Everybody was in a great mood.” He says he didn’t see or hear anything unusual.

  He isn’t an especially convincing liar. We’re approaching the concierge’s desk when Rosie asks, “How was Dick MacArthur acting?”

  “He was very pleased with the way the movie turned out.”

  “And Ms. Chavez?”

  “She’d had too much to drink. In all honesty, her behavior was erratic.” He asks the concierge to have the bellhop bring his bag to the curb. Then we follow him out the door.

  Rosie asks about Kent.

  Petrillo responds, “He seemed fine to me.”

  “He’s dead,” I say.

  “That’s what I understand.”

  “Do you have any idea if something was bothering him? Was anybody mad at him?”

  “He was under a lot of pressure.”

  Rosie asks, “Is the movie still going to be released on time?”

  “I hope so. Some of my colleagues believe it would be in bad taste to release the movie this week. It might appear as if we’re trying to exploit Dick’s death. From a business standpoint, I’d like to do it. We’ve already spent a lot on advertising and promotion. The theaters are booked. It would be expensive to pull back now.”

  His bottom line view doesn’t surprise me. He takes a business card out of his pocket and says, “Give me a call at the office if you want to talk some more.”

  A burst of cool wind hits me in the face. “Just a few more minutes of your time,” I say.

  The bellhop comes by with Petrillo’s overnight case. “I’m late,” he says.

  Rosie and I watch him get into a waiting Lincoln. I memorize the license number. It says, “ALLURE1.”

  *****

  Chapter 13

  “Since When Did You Start Hanging out with Movie Stars?”

  “We are continuing our investigations of the deaths of Richard MacArthur and Martin Kent. We are unable to provide any additional details at this time.”

  — Inspector Jack O’Brien. KGO Radio. Sunday, June 6. 1:00 p.m.

  I find a parking space down the block from the office. Our humble corner of downtown is quiet on Sunday afternoon. A few reporters are milling around in front of our doorway. Rosie and I wave them away and we head inside without comment.

  The aroma of stale coffee greets us as we walk up the rickety stairs toward Rosie’s office, where Carolyn greets us with a sarcastic smile. “How’d things go with Ms. Victoria’s Secret?” she asks. There is no love lost between Carolyn and Ward.

  I catch the hint of a grin from Rosie. “Great,” she says. “She’s going to drop the charges and issue a heartfelt apology. Then she’s going to take us for dinner at Boulevard.”

  “You guys are good.”

  “Not that good,” I say.

  Carolyn turns serious. “Be careful with her. I’ve seen some good defense attorneys turn into Jello after she looked at them with those big eyes and gave them the million dollar smile.”

  “I’m not so easily impressed,” I tell her.

  Rosie says, “Yeah, right.”

  I tell Carolyn that Lisa Yee is the ADA assigned to the case.

  This elicits a frown. “She’s a good prosecutor.”

  “I know.” I describe our meeting with Ward and Yee and our conversation with Angel. Then I tell her about our less-than-enlightening visit with Petrillo. She takes copious notes and asks a few poignant questions.

  Rosie asks, “Anything from the police?”

  “They aren’t talking,” Carolyn says. “Their reports aren’t finalized. I’m sure they’re going over them to make sure they’re right.”

  This is undoubtedly true. The cops don’t want to screw up a high-profile case.

  Carolyn adds, “I’ve prepared the standard requests for documents. The DA’s office and the police are playing this by the book. They’re saying they have solid evidence tying Angel to the murder, and they aren’t releasing any additional information.”

  That’s smart.

  Carolyn smiles and says, “You have messages from all the TV and radio stations. CNN wants to talk to you. So does Daily Variety.”

  I say, “I trust you told them our client is innocent and we had no comment.”

  “Correct.”

  Carolyn is always thinking at least three steps ahead.

  Rosie asks, “Did anybody else call?”

  “Your mother. She said Theresa isn’t doing too well. Pete checked in too. He’s watching young Richard’s house.”

  “Did he find out anything useful?” I ask.

  “Not yet. He said he’d talk to you later.”

  I ask her about Marty Kent.

  “He checked out. For a guy who has spent his life in the movie bu
siness, there aren’t any skeletons in his closet. As far as I can tell, he’s a very solid guy. Born to an affluent family in L.A. Top of his class at UCLA and Harvard Law School. Served in the Marines. Moved here about five years ago. Married thirty years. His wife died about a year ago from cancer. Two grown children. No arrests. No funny stuff.”