MD03 - Criminal Intent

by Sheldon Siegel

  “How is that possible?” I ask.

  “I’ve only been dealing with one person on this matter.”

  “Who?”

  “I won’t reveal any names unless and until I have an immunity agreement in place.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Get your lawyer up here.” I pull out my cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?” he asks.

  “Sergeant Alvarez.”

  *****

  Chapter 35

  “He Told Me the Situation Was Under Control”

  “The reports that I was involved with the recent fire at a Mission District liquor store are completely false. I would never condone such activity.”

  — Armando Rios. KGO Radio. Tuesday, June 8. 11:00 a.m.

  Rios is still scowling two hours later. The modest gathering in his office has expanded into a full-blown summit conference that now includes Sergeant Alvarez, the captain from Mission Station, Lisa Yee and Rios’s attorney. We’ve worked through the terms of an immunity deal. Rios’s morose downtown lawyer has asked him a dozen times whether he really wants to proceed. Rios keeps repeating his mantra that he has no choice. Political consultants lose a substantial amount of influence after they’ve been indicted.

  Alvarez takes the lead. He asks Rios, “Who approached you to obtain the support of the local businesses for the China Basin project?”

  “Martin Kent.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “I understand from the news reports that he committed suicide.”

  “Did you deal with anybody else?”

  “All of my contacts were through Mr. Kent. He was representing a group that included MacArthur Films, Millennium Studios and Ellis Construction.”

  Sounds like Rios is trying to put some distance between himself and Ellis and Petrillo.

  Alvarez asks, “What were you asked to do?”

  Rios’s explanation jibes with Tony’s. About a dozen businesses in the Mission were offered twenty thousand each to sign a letter supporting the China Basin project. Each of them got to keep ten grand. The balance went to the Mission Democratic organization. The money changed hands, and the letters were signed.

  Alvarez says, “I presume you are to be paid a fee for your services?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  Rios scowls. He glances at his lawyer, who tells him he has to answer. “Fifty thousand dollars up front,” he says, “and another two hundred thousand when the permits are issued.”

  Not bad. A quarter of a million bucks for a few days of influence peddling. I’m in the wrong line of work. I ask, “Have you been paid?”

  “Just the first installment. I’ll get the rest when we get the approvals next Friday. There is nothing illegal about accepting a fee for consulting services.”

  No, there isn’t. Paying bribes to public officials is another matter. Give him credit. He remains self-confident even when he’s being questioned by the cops.

  Sergeant Alvarez is not so easily impressed. He asks, “What went wrong?”

  He remains defiant. “Nothing. Then the press somehow got wind of it. Jerry Edwards started asking questions. A number of participants got nervous.”

  “Did you report the problems to Mr. Kent?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “We called him last week.”

  Rios has suddenly shifted to the royal we.

  Alvarez pushes forward. “Where did you leave it with Kent?”

  “He said he’d deal with it.”

  “Did he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Alvarez chews on a toothpick. Then he asks Rios about the fire at Roberto Pena’s store.

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Did Mr. Pena accept money to support the studio project?”

  “Yes.” He hesitates and adds, “I told Mr. Kent I thought Mr. Pena had been approached by the police”

  Alvarez bores in. “Coincidentally,” he says, “there was a fire at his store just before we finalized his immunity agreement. Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “Absolutely not.” He says he deals in influence and money. He leaves muscle to others.

  They volley back and forth for more than an hour. Rios implicates Kent in the payoffs, but claims he has no idea who provided the funding. He insists the entire scheme was legal. He disavows any knowledge of who ordered the fire at the liquor store or the photos of Rolanda. Without further evidence, it will be difficult, if not impossible, to figure out if Big Dick, Little Richard, Ellis or Petrillo, or, for that matter, anyone else, had any direct involvement.

  Alvarez tries another angle. “After Mr. Kent’s death,” he says, “to whom did you report developments on the studio project?”

  Rios tries to evade the question. “He died only a couple of days ago.”

  I decide to offer a little help. “Our investigator saw you at Richard MacArthur’s house last night. Did you talk to him about it?”

  Rios appears flustered by the news that he was being watched. Then he says in an even tone, “I explained the situation to Mr. MacArthur.”

  “Was he aware of the arrangements you had made with Mr. Kent?”

  “He certainly was after I talked to him last night.”

  “Did he know about it before you told him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he still want to proceed with the China Basin project?”

  “Yes.”

  Not according to Kaela Joy Gullion.

  Alvarez asks, “Did he give you any further instructions?”

  “He told me the situation was under control and I should not take any further action.”

  # # #

  We regroup in the back of Tony’s market a little while later. I say to Tony, At least your immunity agreement is in place.”

  “I hope I live long enough to enjoy it. If Rios is telling the truth, the only guy we know was involved was Kent.”

  “The other investors in the China Basin project must have known,” I say.

  “We don’t know that for sure. And we have no way of proving it.”

  “Somebody put up the money,” I say. “Maybe Little Richard knew more than he let on.”

  “Maybe.”

  I’m frustrated. “We can connect the dots from Rios to Kent,” I say, “but that’s as far as we can go. Dennis Alvarez said he had someone talk to Little Richard about his conversation with Rios. Not surprisingly, he said it was the first he’d heard about the arrangements Kent had made to grease the approvals. He said he was surprised Kent had gotten involved in something so sordid. He also denied any knowledge of the fire at the liquor store.”

  Tony shrugs and says, “Big surprise.”

  I look at Rolanda and Tony and say, “I think we should make Rios nervous.”

  Rolanda gives me a puzzled look. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Let’s fight back. Let’s keep him under surveillance. Maybe he’ll lead us to his source. Let’s see how he likes being watched.”

  Rolanda’s eyes light up. She says, “I’m in. Let me watch him. See how he likes it.”

  Tony gives me a concerned look and says, “I don’t like it.”

  Rolanda replies, “I won’t do anything stupid.”

  Tony says, “I still don’t like it.”

  Rolanda is adamant. “I’ll stay out of anything dangerous. I’ll call Dennis Alvarez if it looks like anything is going to happen.”

  Tony stokes his chin. Then he says, “Maybe it isn’t a bad idea.”

  # # #

  I call Rosie at the hospital and tell her about our visit with Rios.

  “At least Tony’s off the hook,” she says.

  “If they can protect him.” I tell her about our plan to keep Rios under watch.

  Her voice turns somber. “Is it safe?”

  “Rolanda is cautious. She’ll be careful.” I
ask, “How’s Angel?”

  “Physically, she’s going to be fine. Emotionally, she’s a train wreck.”

  “Are you going to stay there for a little while?”

  “Yeah. Then I need to get to the office.” She pauses and says, “Did you see Jerry Edwards on the news this morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He left a message for you. Apparently, Crown denied he was the father. He wants to interview Angel.”

  “Forget it. Maybe this will light a fire under Ward and O’Brien to consider Crown as a suspect.”

  I hear Rosie sigh. “This is a disaster,” she says. “Angel is going to be hysterical when she sees the papers. My sister will be beside herself.”

  “We’ll just have to take it one step at a time,” I tell her. The tired cliché rings hollow as I hear myself say it.

  “Can you imagine the headlines, Mike?”

  “Angelina Chavez was carrying Daniel Crown’s love child,” I say.

  “Something like that. She’s going to be absolutely devastated by this.”

  “We’ll deal with it, Rosie.”

  “Yeah.” The line goes silent. The wheels are already starting to turn. “We need to talk to Daniel Crown,” she says. “And Little Richard.”

  “I’ll get to them as soon as I can.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “I’m going for a boat ride with Pete. We’re going to see who got invited to Big Dick’s funeral.”

  *****

  Chapter 36

  A Fitting Tribute

  “The Northern California Neptune Society offers a variety of services to accommodate all needs. Our trained specialists will ensure that arrangements are handled in a supportive and dignified manner. Special services, scatterings at sea and pre-need arrangements are available.”

  — Brochure for the Northern California Neptune Society.

  “Are you all right?” Joey D’Augustino asks me. The retired-cop-turned-fisherman’s weather-worn face breaks into a wide grin, exposing deep crevasses in his leathery skin. He gives me a fatherly pat on the shoulder and says, “Did you take the Dramamine like I told you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How much?”

  “Not enough.”

  “You’ll be all right, Mikey.”

  I hope so. I look up at Pete, who is doing his Captain Ahab imitation. He’s trained his binoculars on the Neptune Society’s yacht, the Naiad, which is about a half mile ahead of us. We’re trying to remain inconspicuous, but it’s hard to hide a twenty foot fishing boat in the middle of the bay. We’ve just passed under the Golden Gate Bridge at one-thirty on Tuesday afternoon. It’s a beautiful day for a funeral. The sun is shining and my head is splitting. The water is calm, but my stomach feels as if I’m reliving the climactic scene in The Perfect Storm. I could have let Pete come out here alone with Joey, but I thought the fresh air would do me good. Bad idea. The salt water spray and the diesel fumes are making me sick.

  I ask Pete, “Can you see them?”

  “Yeah. The captain is at the wheel. There are a couple of deck hands. Gilligan, Ginger, MaryAnn and the Professor are sitting in the stern. The Howells are drinking mint juleps.”

  “Come on, Pete.”

  “Your stomach will feel better if you lighten up, Mick. There are only four other people on the boat. Little Richard is wearing his sailor costume.”

  My brother doesn’t make jokes on dry land. Why he’s chosen to do his Jay Leno imitation escapes me. “Who else is with him?”

  He studies the Naiadfor a few seconds. He says to Joey, “Can you get us a little closer?”

  “Sure.” He guns the motor and we head toward the Point Bonita lighthouse on the Marin side. I can see Big Dick’s house perched on the bluff above Baker Beach to the south. We make a wide semi-circle around the Naiad, which is about half-way between the bridge and the ocean.

  Pete stares intently through his binoculars. “One of the deck hands is giving MacArthur a container,” he says. “It must be his father’s ashes.”

  “Who else is there?” I ask.

  “Two men and a woman with long hair and dark skin.”

  Eve. I throw caution to the wind. I stand tenuously and take the binoculars. My legs feel like silly putty. I focus on the Naiad and see Little Richard standing next to Eve. Then I look straight into the eyes of Dominic Petrillo, who must have flown up from L.A. I adjust the focus and can’t believe my eyes. Daniel Crown is standing next to Petrillo. The father of Angel’s unborn child is one of three guests at her husband’s memorial service.

  I feel Pete’s hand on my arm. “You okay, Mick? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  I tell him about Crown.

  He gives me an incredulous look and says, “What the hell is he doing there?”

  My mind races. “Either he hasn’t the slightest sense of decency or Angel’s lying.”

  I see a flash and hear an explosion. The passengers and the crew of the Naiad flinch and then look up at the sky. The Pacific provides a spectacular backdrop as we watch Big Dick’s ashes explode. It’s a fitting tribute for a man who spent his life making fireworks.

  # # #

  “Are you sick?” Nicole Ward asks. “You look awful.”

  Thanks. “I was out on a boat,” I tell her.

  It’s three-thirty the same afternoon. Rosie and I are meeting with Ward in her office. Jack O’Brien is sitting at the end of the long conference table, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. Lisa Yee is next to Ward, who summoned us to get an update on Angel’s condition. In the spirit of cooperation, she’s also promised us some new information.

  The DA gives me a puzzled look. “You thought it might be a nice day to go sailing?”

  “I went to see who was at MacArthur’s funeral.” I tell her I saw his son, Eve, Petrillo and Crown.

  Her eyebrows go up. “Crown was there?”

  Rosie interjects, “It’s disgusting.”

  Ward gives Rosie a suspect look and says, “That assumes your client is telling the truth about the baby.”

  Rosie lowers her voice and says. “Crown’s the father. He was furious at Dick MacArthur for causing the miscarriage. That makes him a suspect.”

  “We don’t know who the father was,” Ward says. “Your client admitted she was angry at her husband about the miscarriage. Maybe that’s what motivated her to kill him. You don’t think Crown would have shown up at the funeral if he was the father, do you?”

  I catch Rosie’s eyes. She tells Ward, “You should ask him about it.”

  “We did. He denied it.”

  “Of course he did. Why did you take his word for it?”

  “Until we have some evidence to the contrary, his word is better than your client’s. She’s desperate. She made the whole thing up to try to deflect blame.”

  “You don’t know that,” Rosie says.

  “We take everything your client says with a healthy dose of skepticism.”

  “We’ll ask for DNA testing.”

  “So will we.” Ward tells us it’s unclear whether there are any tissue samples from the fetus. She says they’re checking the records at Saint Francis Hospital.

  Rosie glares at her and says, “You said you had some new information.”

  “We do.” Ward nods to O’Brien, who cues the VCR. The picture on the TV is fuzzy. I see a black-and-white video that looks like something from America’s Most Wanted.

  “This is a tape from the traffic camera that’s mounted on the administration building at the bridge,” O’Brien explains.

  It’s the view I see every day on Mornings on Two. We study the grainy footage. The date and time are stamped in the lower left corner in block white letters and numerals. We’re looking at Saturday morning at three-thirty a.m. The screen is dark gray. “Are you sure it was working?” I ask.

  “It’s hard to see,” O’Brien acknowledges. “It was foggy.”

  I can make out a few cars coming southbound. A sign on the northboun
d side that says two lanes are open.