MD03 - Criminal Intent

by Sheldon Siegel

  Rosie’s instincts are usually dead on. I move on to another delicate subject. “How are you feeling, Rosita?”

  Her stoic expression doesn’t change. “I’m exhausted. I’m sick. My niece has been accused of murder, and she tried to kill herself. Everybody involved in the China Basin project is either crooked or dead. We’re going to have to try Angel’s case before a pro-prosecution judge.” She hesitates and says, “And how are you?”

  “I’m fine. I get to go to Vegas tonight. What more could a person want?”

  This gets the hint of a grin.

  We sit in silence for a moment. Then I say, “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Are you ready to talk about it?”

  “Angel’s case?”

  “Your test results.”

  A heavy sigh. She tugs on her ear. She swallows. Her eyes are still on the road when she says, “It isn’t so good.” Then she turns to me and says, “They found another lump.”

  “Where?”

  “Right breast.”

  “How bad?”

  “Worse than last time.”

  “How much worse?”

  “Enough to make things interesting. I’ve graduated to stage three-A.”

  Dammit. “What are the options?”

  Her tone remains clinical when she says, “They’re suggesting a total mastectomy.” It means the removal of the entire breast, but not the muscle tissue beneath it or lymph nodes under the arm. “Maybe some radiation,” she adds. “The good news is that I didn’t have a lot of terrible side effects from the radiation last time. The bad news is that it didn’t seem to work.” She bites her lower lip and says, “In case you’re wondering, the average five year survival rate for this stage is fifty-six percent.” She gives me a wry half-smile and adds, “You could say my chances of being here five years from now are a little better than tossing a coin.”

  “You’re going to be fine, Rosie.”

  “Yeah. I want to have it taken care of as soon as I can. I’m supposed to call in the morning.” She says she’ll schedule the surgery at the UCSF cancer center at the old Mt. Zion hospital. She adds, “I may need a little help with this.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks. I want to keep working until the prelim next week. Then we’ll have to see how it goes. I need to take care of this.”

  “Have you told Grace?”

  “Yeah. She was okay. She’s strong.”

  So are you. “And your mother?”

  “She’s strong, too.”

  It runs in the family. I tell her, “Whatever you need, Rosie.”

  “I’ll let you know.” She gives me a tired smile. “It would be nice if you could find Richard’s murderer in the next few days. I don’t think I’ll be able to take Angel’s case beyond the prelim.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks.” She forces a chuckle and says, “Look on the bright side. Except for my diagnosis and the explosion at the winery, it’s been a pretty good day.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Nobody in our family got arrested today.”

  The voice of perspective. I can’t help myself and I laugh. “We’re in trouble if that’s our new benchmark. Inspector Hart was ready to haul in Pete. He wasn’t especially cooperative.”

  “He can be difficult.”

  “He’s stubborn.”

  “How did he persuade them not to take him down to the station?”

  “He told her he was represented by Fernandez and Daley. She cut him loose right away.”

  “Our reputation precedes us.”

  We drive in silence for a moment. Our windows are open and the fog is rolling in. I take a deep breath of the cool sea breeze. “Where does this leave Angel’s case?” I ask.

  Her demeanor becomes lawyerly again. “I’m not sure. Eve and Little Richard contradicted each other about who left Big Dick’s house. If we give them the benefit of the doubt, it seems one of them was mistaken.” She gives me a skeptical look and says, “The more likely explanation is that one of them was lying. It may give us an opening.” She adds, “And now young Mr. MacArthur can’t defend himself.”

  Ever the pragmatist. “What about Eve?” I ask.

  “Kaela Joy is going to keep an eye on her while you and Pete are down in Vegas.”

  So many possibilities. I ask, “Are you going to stop at the hospital on your way home?”

  “Yeah. Somehow, I’m going to have to figure out a way to explain everything that happened today to Angel.”

  *****

  Chapter 43

  “This is America”

  “We set out to build the most elegant resort and casino in the world.”

  — Carl Ellis. Opening of the Tuscany Hotel Casino. Las Vegas Sun.

  “The Tuscany looks nice, Mick,” Pete says. He’s looking out the window of our United 737 as we are beginning our descent into McCarran Airport just south of the Vegas strip. Our plane was late coming out of San Francisco and it’s almost midnight. I look down upon the oasis of wretched excess in the middle of the desert. My dad used to say Vegas isn’t a city; it’s a state of mind.

  I wink at Pete and say, “This is America.”

  “We live in a great country.”

  I was only six when I saw the twinkling lights of Vegas for the first time. Pete was still a baby and our younger sister, Mary, wasn’t born. My mom and dad used to take us down here for long weekends a couple of times a year. Reno was closer, but my dad insisted the real action was in Vegas. They’d pile us kids in the backseat and we’d go speeding down the central valley. It was a big treat for us and my dad loved to gamble. He knew some retired SFPD cops who worked in casino security. We got to stay in some of the nicer hotels for a cut rate. We’d sit by the pool all day with my mom while my dad played blackjack. He used to take us out for steak dinners when he won. We got hamburgers when he lost. Although I have no official statistics on his winning percentage, in my recollection, we ate more steak than hamburger. Nowadays, the hotels and casinos are bigger and nicer. The focus on bringing in conventions and families has taken a bit of the edge off the city’s tawdry image. Every new hotel comes with its own ersatz theme park. In some ways, it looks more like a bad Disneyland knock-off than a gambling mecca.

  Everything in Vegas is designed to get you and your money into the casinos as efficiently as possible. It takes us twenty-five minutes to breeze through McCarran and get a cab to the Tuscany. It’s ninety-eight degrees as we enter the grounds through the sculpted gardens and the huge man-made lake. The marketing materials boast that the hotel has over a thousand fountains. Waterfalls are cascading in the middle of the desert and there is an expertly choreographed water show a couple of times a day. The Tuscany has the usual assortment of upscale restaurants, pools, health clubs and spas, as well as the obligatory roller coasters. There’s even a private botanical garden and an art gallery. Most importantly, you can always gamble.

  There are no clocks in Vegas. Even though it’s after midnight, the lobby is jammed. Although the Tuscany attempts to portray an upscale image, the ever-present tour groups, businessmen, cocktail waitresses, casino workers and security guards are milling around. Mercifully, the check-in line is relatively short. Our room is in the “deluxe” category, which is at the low end of the scale. It runs over two hundred bucks a night.

  The attractive young woman behind the counter is wearing a badge that says her name is Penny Warner. She looks at her computer screen and her eyes open wide. I expect her to tell me they’ve lost our reservation when she says, “Mr. Daley, you’ve been upgraded to a suite.”

  “Really?” I’ll bet we’re up to two thousand bucks a night. I turn around and look at Pete, who is scanning the lobby area. “Looks like we’re moving up to a nicer room,” I tell him.

  He nods as if he expected it. I turn to the clerk, who hands me my credit card and says, “This won’t be necessary. Your accommodations are complimentary. Everything has
been taken care of by your host.”

  “My host?”

  “Yes.”

  My mind races. “There must be some mistake.”

  “No,” she says. “Mr. Ellis made the arrangements.”

  Welcome to Vegas. Pete taps me on the shoulder and says, “We’ll need to figure out a way to find Ellis.”

  “Looks like he found us.”

  # # #

  “Not bad, Mick,” Pete says as he flicks on the light in our two-bedroom suite on the eighteenth floor. We take a quick look out at the lake. Then we check out the plush furnishings in our sitting room. The bathrooms are larger than my bedroom at home. “It reminds me of the time we stayed in that suite.”

  My dad’s former partner knew somebody whose brother was the night manager at the old Flamingo. On one of our last trips down here, he was able to get us a suite that was bigger than our house. We felt like high rollers. We spent most of the weekend in the room watching TV. We wanted to savor the experience. In retrospect, I’m sure the accommodations were on a par with your average Embassy Suites. It made an impression on me. “This is nicer,” I tell him.

  He looks around the room and smiles. “Carl Ellis put us up in nice digs.”

  “That he did. He knows we’re here. We need to contact him.”

  “He’ll contact us. He wants to talk. He wouldn’t have paid for the room if he didn’t.”

  I pick up the phone and call Rolanda’s room. No answer. I try her cell. I get voice mail.

  “Sit tight,” Pete says. “He must know we’re here by now.”

  The phone rings five minutes later. I glance at my watch. A quarter to one. An unfamiliar baritone says, “Mr. Daley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Carl Ellis.”

  “Good evening. What can I do for you?”

  “Armando Rios and I are dining with your associate. We were hoping you’d join us.”

  “We’d love to.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Where should we meet you?”

  “Firenze.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  *****

  Chapter 44

  “We Have Found it Necessary to Reevaluate the Project”

  “I run a successful and completely legitimate business.”

  — Carl Ellis. Las Vegas Sun.

  Carl Ellis bears an uncanny resemblance to Edward G. Robinson. He sounds like him, too. “Welcome to Las Vegas, Mr. Daley,” he says.

  Firenze is the Tuscany’s culinary crown jewel. The luxuriously-appointed Italian restaurant overlooks the lake. In typical Vegas fashion, the hotel imported an expensive facsimile of an acclaimed restaurant in New York. It’s a far cry from the pizza and pasta places in North Beach or the Tuscan villas in Florence. The posh room is an elegantly-crafted combination of red velvet chairs, starched white tablecloths and colorful murals. Except for the staff and two ominous-looking security guards, Carl Ellis, Armando Rios, Rolanda and a gnome-like man whom I don’t recognize were the only people in the restaurant when Pete and I walked in a moment ago. We’re sitting at one of the round tables in the corner under a mural. The restaurant is completely silent. The effect is unnerving.

  Ellis’s slicked-back silver hair contrasts with his black Armani suit and matching silk shirt. He isn’t wearing a tie. He’s one of the few people in Vegas with the clout to turn the Tuscany’s finest restaurant into his private dining room. “I trust you found your accommodations satisfactory?” he says.

  “Indeed. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “You’re quite welcome.” He motions us to sit down. “Our firm was the contractor on this hotel. The management allows me to host private parties from time to time. I’ve asked the chef to prepare something for the table. I hope that will meet with your approval.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He motions to the waiter, who points toward a colleague standing near the entrance to the kitchen. Looks like we’re getting the works. I glance at Rolanda, who never takes her eyes off Ellis. Rios is frowning, but says nothing.

  I look at Ellis and say, “I don’t believe we’ve met your colleague.”

  Ellis looks at the studious man and says, “He’s my attorney. He wanted to be here when I spoke to you.”

  That’s understandable. The morose man extends a chubby hand, which I shake. Then he sits down without a word. Ellis’s self-confident grin vanishes and he takes the offensive. “I presume you came down here because you wanted to talk to us about your client’s case.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I have been a respected businessman in this community for many years. I believe in telling the truth. It’s the right thing to do. And it’s good business.”

  It’s good bullshit, too.

  He uses a sterling knife to dab butter on a piece of bread. He says in an offhand tone, “I’ve given my statement to the police. I’ve been told I may have to make myself available to testify at your client’s preliminary hearing. I assumed you were going to contact me sooner or later. When I found out you were coming, I thought it would be better to talk in civilized surroundings.”

  It also gives him an opportunity to put a favorable spin on his story. “How did you know I was coming?”

  “The studio project is a major matter for our company. Your client’s situation is a substantial and unnecessary complication. So are the untimely deaths of Dick MacArthur and his son. We’re monitoring the situation. In all honesty, as part of the process, we decided to monitor you.”

  “You’ve been following us?”

  “Yes.” He hesitates and adds in an accusatory tone, “Turnabout is fair play, Mr. Daley. You were following Mr. Rios.”

  “How did you know?”

  He looks at Armando and says, “We’ve been following him, too.”

  Rios’s frown becomes more pronounced. I look at Ellis and say, “We understand you met with Mr. Rios earlier today.”

  “We did.” He glances at Rolanda. Then he turns to me and says, “I asked Mr. Rios to provide a status report on the China Basin project.” He turns to Rios and says, “Tell him what you told me, Armando.”

  Rios is unhappy about being addressed as if her were a trained seal. Nonetheless, he says in an even tone, “There are serious complications in our attempts to obtain the approvals for the China Basin project.”

  Ellis leans back in his chair and answers for him. “Mr. Daley,” he says, “in light of this week’s events, we have found it necessary to reevaluate the project.”

  “Are you still planning to move forward?”

  “Yes.” He pauses and says, “But the project will have a revised investor group and a new major tenant. Dom Petrillo and I believe MacArthur Films is no longer a viable partner. We instructed our attorneys to submit a new proposal to the redevelopment agency.” He glances at Rios and says, “It does not involve MacArthur Films.”

  Presumably, it won’t involve Armando Rios, either. “Will you be calling upon Mr. Rios for his assistance with the new proposal?”

  “No.”

  The squeeze out is now complete. Big Dick didn’t get his studio. Little Richard didn’t get his inheritance. Marty Kent didn’t get his bonus. Armando Rios didn’t get his payoff.

  “Mr. Ellis,” I say, “How long have you known Mr. Rios?”

  “We met for the first time earlier today.”

  “Did you know that he had been hired to assist with the approval process?”

  “Yes. It’s customary to hire a consultant. His reputation is very good.”

  The corner of Rios’s mouth turns up slightly.

  I say, “Are you aware of the fact that there have been allegations of money changing hands in order to facilitate the approval process?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Did you have any knowledge of any such payments?” I sit back and wait for the denial.

  He points an emphatic finger at me and says in an even tone, “I want to assure you that I knew nothing about
any alleged payoffs, and I wouldn’t have condoned them if I did.”

  I’m assured. Armando Rios must be burning inside. I ask Ellis, “I don’t suppose you might know who was bankrolling this activity?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “It wasn’t Dominic Petrillo, was it?”