Rosie hasn’t quite bought in. She says, “So you want to blame it on the dead guy?”
“Essentially. He can’t defend himself.”
“If he had just killed MacArthur and orchestrated the perfect frame-up of Angel, why did he jump off the bridge?”
I don’t have an answer. “I don’t know for sure that he did. We shouldn’t rule out Little Richard, either. He was there after everybody else had left. He must have known about the will. He had a huge financial incentive. Maybe he hasn’t told us everything he knows.”
“You think he killed his own father?”
“He and his father weren’t the reincarnation of Beaver and Ward Cleaver. Besides, I’m just saying he had the opportunity.”
“You think he took Angel to the bridge and then drove to Napa?”
“Why not?”
Rosie gives me another skeptical look. “He drove hiscar to Napa. If he drove Angel to the bridge in his father’s car, how did he get back to his house to pick up his car?”
“It would have taken only about twenty-five minutes to have walked. Maybe he took a cab or somebody picked him up.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Suddenly, Rosie’s eyes shine. “I have a WAG.”
Carolyn gives her a quizzical look. “WAG?”
“Yes. W-A-G. Wild-assed guess.”
“I’m listening.”
“Eve.”
I reflect for a moment and say, “It’s plausible, I suppose.” I think it over and add, “We don’t have any proof that she did it.”
“We don’t have any proof that she didn’t. We should ask her about it.”
“She’ll deny it.”
“Why should we believe her?”
“We shouldn’t.”
“Do you have any other suggestions?”
Not at the moment. I ask, “How’s Angel?”
“Not well,” Rosie says. “I stopped to see her on my way back from my mother’s. They put her in Ad Seg.” Ad Seg, or administrative segregation, refers to a special area for prisoners who are believed to be in danger. It’s still the county jail, but it’s an upgrade. Rosie swallows hard and says, “Her behavior is becoming erratic. Mid-level hysterics followed by twenty minutes of silence. She stopped taking her medication a few weeks ago.”
“For what?”
“Depression. We’re trying to get a doctor to prescribe more Prozac. It’s going to take some time and it will be weeks before it really kicks in. For the moment, all I can do is try to keep her calm.”
Not good.
Rosie changes the subject. “Rolanda told me what happened with Tony.”
“What would you do if you were in his shoes?”
“It’s a mess. I think he’s going to have to cut a deal.”
“Probably. If he doesn’t, somebody else will. Then he’ll really be in deep.”
“They got him.” She scratches her chin and says, “I think I’ll spend some time with Rolanda. Then I’d better get over to my mother’s to get Grace.” She stands and heads for the door. I notice her stride seems labored.
# # #
Eight o’clock. The card table in the corner of Madame Lena’s old séance studio is covered with empty Styrofoam boxes that held burritos an hour ago. At Fernandez and Daley, our idea of haute cuisine is a little different than our contemporaries’ at the big downtown firms. Rolanda, Carolyn and I are studying the development proposal for the China Basin project. Carolyn got a copy from a friend at the redevelopment agency. She has a mole in every corner of the bureaucracy. The glossy document looks like one of those fancy annual reports for a public company and is filled with photos and graphs. The text, however, is decidedly dry reading.
“It’s pretty straightforward,” Rolanda says. “They formed a limited liability company in which Ellis Construction and Millennium Studios each owns a thirty-five percent interest. MacArthur Films owns ten percent.”
“That leaves twenty percent,” I observe. I ask who got the rest.
“Big Dick, Dominic Petrillo, Carl Ellis and Martin Kent each got five percent.”
Interesting. “Have they put any money up?” I ask.
“So far, the group has put up ten million dollars to cover start up costs,” she says.
“What happens when they need more money to start construction?”
“There’s a capital call. Everybody has to pony up cash in proportion to their respective percentage interests. The total investment is a hundred million. Ellis Construction and Millennium Studios will each have to put up thirty-five, MacArthur Films will have to put up ten and each of the individuals will have to put up five. They plan to borrow another two hundred million from Bank of America.”
“Big Dick had already put up half a million dollars of his own money?” I ask
“Yes.”
“Where did he get the money?”
“He borrowed it from Citibank. MacArthur Films put up another million. The company borrowed its share from the same bank.”
Citibank had more faith in Big Dick’s creditworthiness than I would have thought. I ask, “What if they don’t get the approvals or the outside financing and the deal goes south?”
“The entity will liquidate and the investors will lose what they’ve put up so far. If creditors are unpaid, the company will file for bankruptcy.”
“What if somebody can’t come up with their share?”
“The other members have the right to buy out the defaulting party.”
“And if somebody dies?”
“Same deal. The other investors can buy him out at a formula price based upon the book value of the company at the time of the buy-out. The buying parties would get a substantial discount on the true value of the company, assuming the deal moves forward.”
We look at each other. All of the investors were at the MacArthur home on Friday night. Two are dead. The others now have the right to buy out the interests of MacArthur Films, Big Dick and Marty Kent at bargain prices. Somebody is going to make out on this deal. It could be Dominic Petrillo and Millennium Studios. It could be Carl Ellis and Ellis Construction. It could be both of them.
The phone rings. It’s Pete. He’s still at Little Richard’s house. I ask, “Anything interesting?”
“Maybe.”
“Like what?” My head is throbbing. I’m not in the mood to play cat and mouse tonight.
“A limo just pulled up.”
I put him on the speaker phone. “What’s the license number?”
“ALLURE1.”
*****
Chapter 17
“Don’t Let Them Out of Your Sight”
“Some people are content to make little movies. Not at Millennium Studios. We’re in the dream business. We think people should have big dreams.”
— Dominic Petrillo. Profile in Daily Variety.
We’re still on the speaker phone. “Who’s in the limo?” I ask Pete.
“Wait a minute.” The phone goes silent for a moment. I can barely make out his voice above the static when he whispers, “The studio guy—Petrillo.”
“He went back to L.A.”
“No, he didn’t, Mick. He just walked into Little Richard’s house.”
“Anybody else?”
“No.”
I glance at my watch. Eight-fifteen. “Where are you?”
He gives me an address on El Camino Del Mar.
“Do they know you’re there?”
“I’m a professional, Mick.”
“Sorry.”
“Do you want me to talk to them?” he asks.
My mind races. “No.”
“What if they leave?”
“Call me on my cell and don’t let them out of your sight. We’re on our way.” I hang up and look at Rosie. I say, “Feel like going for a ride?”
Her eyes light up. “You bet.”
I reflect for an instant and ask, “Should we call Little Richard?”
“That would be the polite th
ing to do.” She gives me a melodramatic frown and adds, “Of course, then they’d know we were coming.” She adds with a wry grin, “We’re all family. I’m his stepmother’s aunt, for God’s sake. That makes him my step grand nephew.”
“Something like that.”
“In any event, I’m sure he won’t mind having a couple of drop-in guests. He’s always welcome at our house, right?”
“Absolutely.” I add, “Call your mother and tell her you’re going to be late picking up Grace. I’ll get the car.”
# # #
I have to adjust some plans, too. “I’m going to be late,” I tell Leslie. I’m talking to her on my cell as I’m walking toward my car.
Judge Shapiro is unamused. “Not again. I was making you an elegant dinner.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“When?”
I don’t know. “I’ll call you with a status report in a little while.”
There’s a pause. “Business relationships have status reports,” she says. “Personal relationships don’t.” She corrects my wording and grammar when she’s annoyed. Her language in casual conversation is as precise as her legal opinions. I can’t live up to such a high standard.
“I’m sorry, Leslie. I’m in a hurry.”
“What’s causing you to change our plans this time?”
A murder investigation. “We’re trying to talk to Petrillo.”
“I thought you said he went back to L.A.”
“He lied.”
“What makes you think he’ll talk to you?”
“My powers of persuasion are magical.”
This gets a chuckle. “I forgot about that,” she says. “It’s more fun being a judge. People return my calls. It’s easy to get their attention if you can throw them in jail for contempt.”
I’ll bet. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
She lets me off the hook. “I know you aren’t doing this on purpose, Michael. You didn’t get up this morning and try to think of another new and unique way to tick me off.”
“That’s true.”
She turns serious. “I would really like to see you tonight,” she says. “And not just because I’d like to sleep with you.”
Uh-oh. “You do still want to sleep with me, right?”
“Definitely. But I want to talk to you, too. I’ve been thinking about our conversation the other night about our. . .” She clears her throat as she searches for the right word. Finally, she selects, “situation.”
“I’m glad.” At least I think I am. I get into the car and put the key in the ignition. I brace myself and ask, “Do you want to give me a little preview?”
“We’ll talk about it when you get here, Michael.”
# # #
Eight-twenty-five. Rosie is in the passenger seat of my Corolla. There are no freeways between downtown and Sea Cliff. Back in the fifties, there were plans to build a highway through the center of town. The neighborhood groups screamed and construction was halted. Pine Street is our best bet and we’ve taken the wide one-way street from downtown past Chinatown. My Corolla does its best to struggle up Nob Hill. Then we barrel through Polk Gulch and the Western Addition or, as the developers now call it, Lower Pacific Heights.
As always, Rosie is offering helpful driving suggestions. She says, “Can’t you get this wreck to go any faster?”
I don’t answer. My car is semi-retired. I can take it up hills only twice a week. “What are we going to tell Little Richard when we get there?” I ask.
“I’ll come up with something. We’ll have to sweet talk your friend Eve to get into the house. Then we’ll wing it.”
We cross Presidio Boulevard and veer left onto Masonic, then take a right onto Geary, the main thoroughfare out to the Richmond district. Traffic is heavy and I have to slow down as we cross the numbered avenues.
Eight-forty. We’re a mile from Little Richard’s house. My cell phone rings as I’m turning right onto Twenty-fifth. “Petrillo’s leaving,” Pete says. “He just got into the limo.”
Dammit. “Is Little Richard with him?”
“No.”
“Can you stop him?”
“Only if I ram his car.”
“Don’t do that. Can you follow him?”
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“Twenty-fifth, just north of Geary.”
The line crackles. “He’s moving,” he says. “I’m with him. We’re coming south on Twenty-fifth, straight toward you. You want to try to block the road?”
Are you out of your mind? “No. I’m not a trained stunt driver.”
“Fine,” he says. I can hear the agitation in his voice. “Can you put on your turn signal and make a very careful U-turn and try to follow us?”
“Yeah.” I hand the phone to Rosie. “You talk to Pete. I’ve got to drive.”
I make a quick U-turn, much to the chagrin of the Lexus SUV behind me. I look in my rearview mirror and wait. The third car to pass us is a black Lincoln with license ALLURE1. Although it’s almost dark outside, I can make out the silhouette of the driver. I can’t see anybody in the backseat through the tinted windows. My engine is running and my adrenaline is pumping. Two more cars pass us. Then Pete goes flying by us in his old unmarked police car. He gives us a wave and I can hear his voice as Rosie holds the cell phone to her ear. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I turn to Rosie and say, “You in the mood for playing cops and robbers tonight?”
“I didn’t have any plans. It would be nice to get Grace to bed at a decent hour.” Then she turns serious and says, “Let’s see where they’re going.”
We head south on Twenty-fifth and keep our distance as we pass through Golden Gate Park. We pick up Nineteenth Avenue, the main thoroughfare on the south side of the park. Traffic gets heavier as we roll through my old neighborhood and past Stern Grove, Stonestown Mall and San Francisco State. Rosie is still on the phone with Pete. We’re crossing Brotherhood Way and getting onto the 280 freeway when Rosie hands me the cell and says Pete wants to talk to me.
“Check your mirror,” he says. “There’s a black Suburban two cars behind you.”
He has eyes in the back of his head. “So?” We’re now going sixty.
“Keep me in view,” Pete says. “Now change lanes.”
I do as he says. The Suburban also changes lanes.
“Change back,” Pete says.
I switch lanes. So does the Suburban. “We’ve got company,” I say. Rosie gives me a puzzled look and I gesture behind us with my thumb. I ask Pete, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Lose him.”
Yeah, right. I give Rosie a helpless look. “This isn’t a James Bond movie,” I say.
“And you’re definitely not Sean Connery,” she says.
I’m trying to keep Pete in sight while I switch lanes to try to lose the van. I’m able to keep Pete in view, but I can’t shake the van.
Our convoy is doing the limit as we drive through the fog past the Serramonte Mall. I edge closer to Pete, who still has the Lincoln in sight. “The limo driver doesn’t seem to be in any hurry,” Rosie observes.
“They don’t want to draw attention to themselves,” I say. “We’re the ones who decided to turn this into the Daytona 500.”
“Just drive.” She looks ahead toward Pete and adds, “And be careful.”
I shut up and drive. Pete’s about a quarter of a mile ahead of us. The limo is about three car lengths in front of him. The Suburban is right behind us. I glance at my rearview mirror and I can make out a light-skinned man with a mustache in the driver’s seat. I think I can see somebody in the back seat. He’s making no effort to conceal the fact that he’s following us. The limo exits 280 onto the 380 cutoff, which connects to the airport. When we get onto 380, I can see Pete, but I’ve lost the limo. “Do you see him?” I ask Rosie.
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