MD03 - Criminal Intent

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Nothing in particular,” Rosie says. “We wanted to avoid any surprises.”

  “Sure.”

  “In any event,” Rosie says, “Pete’s people didn’t find anything.”

  I detect a small sigh of relief from Angel.

  “But Pete’s very thorough,” Rosie continues. “He wanted to be absolutely sure that we weren’t overlooking anything. That’s what you want from a PI, right?”

  Angel nods.

  “In fact, that’s probably why you hired him to watch Dick when you suspected him of cheating on you, right?”

  An uncomfortable swallow followed by another nod.

  “Well,” Rosie continues, “his thoroughness may have paid off. In fact, he thinks he might have figured out what really happened.”

  Angel’s eyes start to dance. “Richard killed his father,” she says. “Eve admitted it.”

  Rosie’s lips form a tight line across her face. She looks at her niece and says, “We’re not so sure.”

  Angel’s face remains impassive. “What are you talking about, Aunt Rosie?”

  Theresa gives her sister a stern look and says, “What are you saying, Rosita?”

  Rosie places the printout on the table in front of Angel and Theresa. “The police gave us printouts of all of the phone records from young Richard’s house,” she explains. “We also got the phone records from Eve’s house and the Ritz. We looked at the cell phone records for everybody who was at the screening on Friday night. It took a little while to sift through them.”

  “What did you find?” Angel asks.

  “As it turns out, nothing,” Rosie says.

  I think I can see relief in Angel’s eyes. “Then what’s this?”

  Rosie leans back in her chair and says, “Pete has a friend who works nights down at AT&T.”

  “So?”

  “Pete asked him to pull the records for every payphone in the northwest quadrant of the city from early Saturday morning. There are a couple at Baker Beach and several in the Presidio and the bridge. This listing shows all calls made from the payphone at the corner of Lincoln Boulevard and Bowley Street from midnight until five a.m. on Saturday morning.”

  The room is now completely still. All eyes are on Rosie. Angel glances at her mother. Neither of them speaks. Finally, Rosie breaks the silence. “There were only three calls from that phone during that time period,” she says. “I guess it’s what you would have expected. It was the middle of the night and it’s a secluded area with little traffic.”

  Sylvia stops cutting her chicken. She takes a sip of water and says, “What’s this all about, Rosita?”

  Rosie looks at the printout. Then she turns to Theresa and asks, “Do you recognize the last phone number on this list?”

  Theresa studies the list for a moment. Then the color leaves Theresa’s face. She glances at Angel. Then she turns back to Rosie and says, “It’s mine.”

  Silence. All eyes turn to Angel. Rosie takes her hand and says, “Who do you think called your mother at three-thirty on Saturday morning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rosie forces herself to keep her tone even when she says, “Why did you call your mother, Angel?”

  “I don’t remember. I blacked out.”

  “No, you didn’t, Angelina.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “That was the story you made up. I believed you. So did Mike. We wanted so much to believe it that we talked ourselves into it.” She squeezes Angel’s hand. Then she looks at her sister, who is visibly shaken. Rosie says to Angel, “Everything we say here stays in this room. It’s time to tell the truth, Angelina.” She hesitates and adds, “I want to hear it from you. I don’t want to ask your mother.”

  I can see tears welling up in Angel’s eyes. She pulls her hand away from Rosie and takes Theresa’s hands. Then she whispers, “I’d had too much to drink, Aunt Rosie. I did some coke with Daniel. I was so angry about the miscarriage. Then Dick embarrassed me in front of everybody. He told everyone my performance was worthless–that I was worthless. He said he was going to ask for a refund for the acting lessons. It made me sick. I was humiliated and went upstairs.

  Angel wipes the tears from her eyes with her napkin. She looks at her mother for moral support. Then she turns back to Rosie and it all comes pouring out. “I did some more coke and came back downstairs after everybody had left. I was so angry. Dick and I had a huge fight.”

  Rosie asks, “What were you arguing about?”

  She lowers her voice and says, “Everything. The movie. The baby. The house. His infidelities.” She swallows hard and says, “He was taunting me, Aunt Rosie. He was shaking the Oscar in my face the entire time. He said he’d given me every possible chance: he’d paid for a new nose, two boob jobs, a tighter butt, a new wardrobe, a new house and a car. He gave me a big allowance.”

  Rosie and I look at each other in silence.

  Angel’s voice is now barely a whisper. “He slapped me,” she says. “He said he’d spent a million dollars on me for nothing. He shoved the damned statue into my hands and said that was the closest I would ever come to holding an Oscar.” She hesitates for an instant and adds, “That’s when I lost my head. When he turned around, I hit him. The Oscar was heavy. I had no idea I could have been so strong. I didn’t realize what I was doing. Then he fell off the deck and landed on the beach.”

  Jesus. We sit in stone cold silence for what seems like an hour, but is probably only a moment. Rosie and I exchange a long glance. Then she asks Angel, “What did you do?”

  Angel takes a drink of water and says, “It’s all a blur. I panicked. There was blood everywhere. I knew I had to get out of there. I never went back into the house. I ran up the gangway and washed my hands with the hose. His car was blocking mine, so I put the Oscar in the trunk of his car. My gym bag was in the garage. I changed into my sweatsuit and put the bloody nightgown into a plastic bag. I loaded everything in the car and started driving. I wasn’t sure where I was going. Then I decided to drive up to the winery. I guess I thought the cops might believe me if I told them I left right after everyone else did. It wasn’t a great alibi, but it was the best I could come up with.”

  Rosie says, “But you stopped along the way, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you made a phone call.”

  “Right.” She looks at her mother and says, “I needed help. I knew I could trust you.” She says she told Theresa what had happened. Theresa’s eyes are filled with tears as she confirms Angel’s account.

  Rosie’s hands are folded in front of her. She asks in an even tone, “What did you ask your mother to do?”

  “I was desperate, Aunt Rosie. I had just killed my husband. I left the bloody clothes in the garbage can by the payphone. I asked Mama to pick them up and get rid of them. Then I kept driving.”

  Rosie asks Angel, “Why didn’t you leave the Oscar there, too?”

  “I thought it would have been difficult for Mama to get rid of it. I was going to drop it off the bridge on my way to the winery.”

  “You really thought nobody would see you?”

  Angel exhales loudly. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “So you stopped at the bridge.”

  “Yes.”

  Rosie turns to Theresa and asks, “Where did you find the nightgown?”

  “Right where she said it was. I took it home and burned it.”

  “You knew what had happened?”

  “Yes.” Theresa holds up her hands and says, “My daughter was in trouble, Rosita. What else could I have done?”

  What else could she have done? Angel is a murderer. Theresa is at least an accessory after the fact. A look of compelling frustration crosses Rosie’s face. She doesn’t respond for a moment. Then she turns back to Angel and says, “What happened at the bridge?”

  “I couldn’t get onto the deck. The gate to the walkway was locked. So I decided to get rid of the Oscar up at the winery. I must have passed out in t
he car.”

  “That’s when the cops found you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the coke in the front seat of the car?”

  “Daniel gave it to me.” Angel emits a painful, sarcastic laugh. “Pretty pathetic, isn’t it? I didn’t have any plan to get rid of the murder weapon, but I made sure I had some coke with me for the ride.”

  Rosie holds her chin in her hands and heaves a long sigh. The bottom of my stomach is burning. Rosie glances at her mother, who is staring at her plate with a look of profound pain.

  “What made you do it, Angelina?” Rosie asks.

  “He hurt me in so many ways, Aunt Rosie. He cheated on me. He humiliated me. He manipulated me. He hit me.” She pauses and adds, “He killed my baby.”

  Sylvia’s dining room is completely silent. Angel is still holding hands with her mother. Rosie shoots another look at Sylvia. Rosie’s frustration turns to anger. She gives Angel a look that I’ve seen from her only on rare occasions. “It didn’t give you the right to kill him,” she says.

  Angel looks down at her plate for what feels like hours. “I know that, Aunt Rosie,” she says. “And honest to God, I didn’t mean to. It just happened.” The air of resignation in her voice is palpable.

  Rosie emphasizes every syllable when she says, “Murders don’t just happen.”

  “This one did.”

  “And this had nothing to do with money or movies?” Rosie asks.

  “Nothing.”

  I’m not so sure. “You must have known about the prenup,” I say. “You must have known he was planning to file divorce papers and modify the will.”

  “I swear to you it wasn’t about the money,” Angel says. “Sure, I knew about the will and the prenup. I knew I was going to be better off if he died. And I knew he would write me out of the will if we got divorced. But it wasn’t about money. It was about respecting me—as a person and as an actress.”

  Rosie is fighting a desperate battle to maintain what’s left of her composure. “You can’t kill people because you don’t think they’re showing you enough respect,” she says.

  Angel is sobbing. “He killed my baby,” she says. “He took away my self-respect. Maybe I didn’t have the right to kill him. It must have given me the right to do something.”

  Rosie gives me a helpless look. She hesitates for a moment and asks, “What about Daniel Crown? Was he the father of the baby?”

  Angel’s eyes turn down. “No, he wasn’t. There was nothing between us.”

  Rosie’s eyes are on fire. “And you were prepared to ruin his reputation and his marriage just to save yourself?”

  “I was desperate, Aunt Rosie.”

  “So you lied to us about that, too,” she says. “In fact, you lied to us about everything—from day one.”

  Angel’s eyes are full of tears. “I wasn’t lying on purpose, Aunt Rosie.”

  “There’s no such thing as an accidental lie.”

  “What do you want me to say? I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. I was—I was—acting.”

  “Acting?” Rosie’s voice gets louder as she says, “There’s a big difference between lying and acting, Angelina. This isn’t a game. Your killed your husband. You murdered your husband. You made your mother an accessory to murder. Marty Kent and Dick’s son are dead. This isn’t acting. This isn’t an audition. Three people are dead—in real life.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand, Aunt Rosie.”

  “I never will.”

  Angel’s mother pulls away from her daughter and says, “Neither will I.” She looks her daughter straight in the eye. Her voice is filled with disappointment when she says, “You used everyone, Angelina. You used your husband to get into his movies. Then you murdered him. You used your aunt to help you get off. You lied to her and to Mike. She’s delayed her surgery to work on your case. And you have the nerve to talk about respect?”

  Theresa starts to cry. Rosie takes her sister’s hand. Angel stares at them in stone cold silence.

  Sylvia is looking at her plate. I think I can see her mouthing the words to a prayer.

  Finally, Angel looks at Rosie and asks, “Are you going to turn me in?”

  Rosie sighs. “There’s nothing we can do. The police can’t arrest you again without some new evidence. Even if they did, we’d argue that the charges should be dropped because of the prohibitions against double jeopardy.” She points a menacing finger at her niece and says, “You have just caught the greatest break of your life. I would suggest that you try to handle it with as much grace as you can.”

  Angel doesn’t respond.

  “Bear in mind,” Rosie says, “that they may still find these phone records. If they do, you can be sure they’ll go running back to a judge to ask if they can file new charges. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t sleep too soundly tonight.” She hesitates and adds, “I want to make one other thing clear to you, Angelina. If they figure this out and they bring new charges, or if you ever get into trouble again, I will not represent you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Aunt Rosie.” Angel bites her lip and says, “Do you think you can help me find a probate attorney? I may need some help with Dick’s estate.”

  The callousness in her tone leaves Rosie visibly shaken. She doesn’t respond.

  Sylvia has been sitting silently throughout the conversation. A look of cold, hard steel crosses her face. She looks at her granddaughter and says, “You killed your husband, Angelina. Now you want his money? It’s blood money.”

  “Actually, Sylvia,” I interject, “she isn’t going to see a nickel of it.”

  This elicits a scornful look from Angel. “I’m going to challenge the amendment of the will,” she says. “I’ll get something.”

  You greedy little girl. “No, you won’t,” I say. “I talked with your husband’s probate attorney. He said the amendment of the will complied in all respects with California law. It’s perfectly legal. Your husband’s son was the sole beneficiary.”

  “He’s dead,” Angel says.

  “Yes he is,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean you’re entitled to anything. Your husband’s assets will all go to his son’s estate.” I glance at Rosie and add, “The probate attorney told me that Little Richard had a will, too. But he hadn’t gotten around to amending it in anticipation of his pending divorce.”

  “So?”

  “His assets will all go to his soon-to-be-ex-wife.”

  Rosie turns to me and says, “Does that mean–”

  “Yes. The stock in MacArthur Films, the house at Sea Cliff, the winery and all of the other assets will all go to Little Richard’s wife.”

  The irony is not lost on Sylvia, who gives Rosie a knowing nod. I think I see the hint of a smile in the corner of Rosie’s face. She turns to her niece and says in a tone that remains perfectly even, “If you challenge your husband’s will, I will do everything in my power to make sure you never see a dime of it.”

  *****

  Chapter 50

  Ever After

  “The San Francisco Redevelopment Agency announced today that it has received expressions of interest from three Bay Area developers for a low-income housing project and mixed-use development at the China Basin site that was considered for the MacArthur Films studio project.”

  — Jerry Edwards. Mornings on Two. Friday, June 18. 7:00 a.m.

  Rosie’s eyes flutter open. A look of recognition crosses her face. “What time is it?” she whispers.

  “Nine o’clock.”

  She gives me a weak smile and asks, “Morning or evening?”

  “Evening.”

  “Is it still Friday?” Her voice is hoarse.

  “Yeah.”

  It’s a week later. The private rooms at the UCSF cancer center at the old Mt. Zion Hospital aren’t bad. She had her surgery yesterday.

  I ask, “How are you feeling?”

  “Thirsty.”

  I give her a sip of water. I look at the IV in her arm and the bandages across h
er chest. Beautiful Rosie. “Does anything hurt?” I ask.

  “Everything hurts. They took out half of my chest yesterday. It’s supposed to hurt.”

  “I can get the nurse.”

  “Relax, Mike.”

  “I’ll go find a doctor.”

  Her eyes brighten and she says, “It’s okay, Mike. All things considered, I don’t feel too badly. The nurse comes in every hour and gives me more painkillers. I haven’t felt this good since I was in college.”