Cicero's Dead

by Patrick H. Moore

  He was grinning. “That’s a nice place you have there, Beauty. I think I’m moving in. My goats will make short work of your carpet.”

  “Did they give you any trouble at the desk?” Jade was curious.

  “Just the usual. Terror. Astonishment. I gave them the 1000 yard stare. It’s a good thing you phoned in advance. Otherwise, they would never have let me in. As it was, I had to show them my I.D. and give them my phone number.”

  Jade thanked him. We all shook hands and watched him nose back into traffic.

  I was painfully aware of Jade’s presence as we worked our way through security, and finally took our seats. Once we were on the plane, I closed my eyes and tilted back my seat, feigning drowsiness in order to collect my thoughts. Jade thumbed through the flight magazines. She had that old lady’s habit of dampening her index finger before turning the pages. I actually did doze for a few moments as the flight attendant gave pre-flight instructions, and then we accelerated up the runway.

  It was even worse once we were in the air. The cabin was dim, most of the passengers were either asleep or reading, and Jade and I had an empty seat to our left. She had freshened up while we were waiting to board, and wore a light perfume that reminded me, for all the world, of the pink and yellow roses in my backyard that bloom every November. Once we’d reached 30,000 feet and the seatbelt light went off, Jade placed her magazine back in the rack and turned to me.

  “What a day. I guess I lost it there for a while.”

  “You did good. Nobody said this was gonna be easy.”

  “Detective Karsagian and his chunky buddy, the Sergeant, had I looked like this instead of an insane bag lady, would’ve kept questioning me. As it was, they couldn’t wait to get it over with.” She shrugged, her disappointment in the male gender, obvious. “For once I’d like to be surprised.”

  “We’re not all stereotypes.”

  “There are exceptions -- you, Ron. But you’re few and far between. He didn’t take himself too seriously, except for his acting, of course. He was a funny, gentle guy. Made me laugh a lot.”

  She choked on her emotion and fell silent, looking out of the window at the moonlit sky. I gently patted her left hand. She looked at me, her green eyes liquid in the dim light. As a single tear trickled down her left cheek, she wiped at it impatiently, placed her head on my chest and began to sob quietly. I put my arms around her. Anyone would have done the same. The world seemed to compress until all that was left was her fragrant hair, her quiet tears, and a pounding in my heart that rose and fell to the rhythm of her pain.

  After what seemed an eternity, she disentangled herself and sat up straight, taking a Kleenex out of her purse, wiping her eyes.

  “I’m a wreck.” She balled up the damp tissue and looked at me curiously. “How come your heart was pounding so hard?”

  “It was?”

  She smiled at me knowingly, and ran her pink tongue across her bottom lip. I was already horny, and this turned the spark of desire into a flame. She leaned in, her mouth almost caressing mine. I started to sweat as my heart pounded on the inside of my rib cage, begging for release. Her eyes closed, her mouth opened and our lips touched. Soft, warm and wet. Her tongue slid into my mouth and suddenly I realized what I was doing and quickly pulled back. She opened her eyes, more bemused than angry and frowned her question.

  “I’ve a family.”

  “I wanna fuck you, not marry you.”

  I wiped a shaking hand across my mouth and leaned back out of harm’s way. “Oh, you don’t make this easy.”

  “I couldn’t make it any easier.”

  “I appreciate it, I really do, I mean, jeez, but I love my wife.”

  “That’s very gallant, Nick. Actually, it’s refreshing.”

  Regret was gnawing the inside of my thigh, and gallantry started to feel like a fool’s errand. The flight attendant wheeled her trolley next to us.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’ll have a double bourbon, up, and Jade?”

  “Same, please. Water back.”

  “Sure.”

  She handed each of us 2 miniatures of Woodford Reserve with plastic cups, and another for Jade’s water.

  “Thanks. How much?”

  “$32 even, please.”

  I handed her $40. “Keep the change.”

  “Wow, thanks. Here,” she smiled and handed me another small bottle of water.

  “Appreciate it.”

  She moved off and we poured our bourbon into the plastic cups. I slugged half of it, and was grateful for the instant warmth as it spread through me, calming me down.

  Jade sipped hers and asked, “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Who?”

  “Your wife.”

  “Very, and she’s got personality. Lots of it.”

  “Show me a picture. I want to see her.”

  “Don’t have one with me.” I lied. It would have felt like an act of betrayal.

  “No picture? For shame.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  We arrived at SFO shortly after 2:00 a.m. I had to go through extra screening to retrieve my gun, and it was 3:00 by the time we pulled out of the Avis parking lot, in a rented Chevy Impala. We were both exhausted and as soon as we hit the freeway, Jade slumped over against the passenger door and slept.

  40 minutes later, I checked us into a two-story Best Western on Van Ness. I half-carried her up the stairs to her second floor room, steered her toward the bed, and went back down for our luggage. When I came back up, she was asleep on top of the covers, her skirt hiked part way up her thighs. I forced myself to look away, loaded and holstered my gun, and went down to the lobby. It was empty except for the deskman; in another hour they would be bringing out the coffee. I found a chair near the fireplace, leaned back and closed my eyes.

  One by one, the players from the past few days appeared. Reggie Mount constructed a corral out of the bleached white bones of small animals, and Arnold looked at me with smug complacency. Ron’s head lay on Towne Street, his eyes staring mute reproach, and Richie, his eyes big from chemicals, mumbled something. Finally, I drifted into oblivion. I was roused a few hours later by the voices of guests pouring their complimentary coffee, and making their selections from the tired array of English muffins, plastic-wrapped Danishes and bright-hued herbal teas. I looked at my phone, 7:00 a.m.

  Pulling myself to my feet, I staggered outside. The Van Ness traffic was in full force, three lanes churning in both directions. I smiled. It was good to be back in the City. This was where I had seduced Cassady, in her Noe Valley Victorian flat, the day my life changed forever. This was also where Brad and I had a thousand conversations over beer, at his apartment and mine, talking about crime, women, guns, books and our aspirations. Where he had met Keri, and where I had first met Bobby in sociology class.

  Like any city, for all its beauty and warm, fuzzy memories, it also has its cold, dark side. Dominique Dominguez Lamont had either sucked the end of the gun barrel, or someone had shoved it in her mouth for her. This could be a rough day for Jade, but every day had been that way lately. I glanced at the Chronicle headlines: WILDFIRES RAVAGE SOCAL. It made me feel right at home. I went back inside, grabbed two coffees, two Danishes and went upstairs. I knocked and announced myself. Jade didn’t answer, so I let myself in. She was in the shower, the door ajar.

  “I’m back.”

  “Thank God.” She turned off the spray. “Could you hand me my bathrobe? It’s right on top of my suitcase.”

  It was white pique with blue piping and felt expensive; I hung it on the inside of the bathroom door.

  “Thanks.”

  I turned on the news and drank my coffee. Ten minutes later, she came out, her robe belted loosely around her waist, exposing the top of her café con leche breasts. I imagined that her nipples were more brown than pink, swallowed hard and pointed to her coffee on the table.

  “Th
at’s yours.”

  “I need it.”

  She sipped and paced, stopped and stared at me. “Nice of you to tell me you were going out. I was scared, you know.”

  “Sorry. I needed to think and fell asleep in the lobby.”

  Jade nodded and frowned, deep in thought. She crossed to the door and retraced her steps. “Halladay knows I depend on him. I can’t believe he’s so involved in this mess.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “I was there in the office with him and Daddy when they set up the trust. He told me that Halladay was like my honorary uncle, and that I could always count on him.”

  “What did Halladay say?”

  “He was flattered.”

  “But--”

  “--But it didn’t stop him from devouring me with his eyes. It was creepy.”

  “But ‘til now, he’s done right by you. Yeah?”

  She nodded. “He thanked Cicero for placing so much faith in him, and told me he would always do his best for me.”

  “Money’s killed a lotta friendships.”

  “What about loyalty? Cicero made him a very rich man.”

  ‘Cold world,’ I thought, but said nothing.

  “Or maybe he has ulterior motives. After all, he’s the one who phoned me in Austria.”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  “And the money’s his motive.”

  “How much control over the trust does he have?”

  “Power of attorney, but only if both of us are deceased or incapable of managing our own estates.”

  I locked eyes with her and she nodded her understanding.

  “Jesus.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, breathed out through my nose and replied, “Doesn’t mean he killed him.”

  “No, but one day Daddy told me that Halladay was jealous of him, because he was richer than he was. That’s the only time he ever said anything negative about him.”

  “It provides motive, but that’s all.”

  “A few years ago, Cicero started talking to me about money, and how to manage it. He had tried to teach Richard, but he showed no interest and, I guess out of frustration, he turned to me.”

  “Was Halladay privy to this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Cicero tell you how he made all his money?”

  “He was very proud that he’d made millions in the refrigeration business. Proved he was a sharp guy, and not just another drug dealer.”

  I finished my coffee.

  Her eyes flashed hard. “How much is he paying you?”

  “Six figures. On the nose.”

  “What?”

  I shrugged. “Like I said, he made it very clear that I was to keep him out of this.”

  Jade collapsed on the edge of the bed. She leaned forward, placed her elbows on her knees and her palms to her temples, and rocked back and forth. Then she sat up straight.

  “Would we be better off if the police were more involved?”

  “Ordinarily, I’d say yes. The problem is your brother, and Arnold strikes me as one of those controlling psychotics who likes to interact, but only on his terms. If he finds out the cops are involved, he’ll get skittish and who knows what he could do to Richard. No, we’re better off without them.”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to do anything that puts Richard in more danger.”

  “If Halladay is involved, that makes it all the tougher.” I spoke softly but my words were still audible. “When I met him, he struck me as a callous bastard, and what I’ve heard about Arnold is that he marches to a particularly cruel drummer.”

  Thinking out loud can get you in trouble. I immediately regretted my last statement, but it was too late. Her shoulders slumped forward and emotion closed her throat.

  “I just don’t understand what Richard sees in him.”

  “Jade, without him, Arnold has no game. He’s not gonna hurt him.”

  “If he does, I’ll give you a million dollars to kill him.”

  I sighed and looked at her steadily. “You say that to the wrong person, and you’re gonna be doing a 20 year bid for conspiracy.”

  “Then lucky I said it to the right one.”

  “No you didn’t and please, I don’t wanna hear it again.”

  It was a crisp, Indian summer morning. We headed south on Van Ness through the Tenderloin. A short while later, we crossed Market and headed into SOMA, where signs of gentrification were everywhere, not unlike the L.A. warehouse district, east of Alameda. But there were still plenty of pockets of decay. Every big city seems broken if you look in the wrong places.

  Brad called. “Hey, Boss. How’s San Fran?”

  “Still here.”

  “No news, I’m afraid. We closed the bars, but they never showed.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At your house. You want us back in the clubs tonight?”

  “Let’s wait and see what happens with Bobby.”

  “Okay,” said Brad and hung up.

  Our first stop was the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street. This is the new cop shop; the striking old Hall of Justice on Kearny Street, near Chinatown, was torn down in 1968. The new building is boxy, made of glass and steel, a soulless edifice promising little other than efficiency. We parked and headed for the Office of the Medical Examiner.

  The dignitary behind the counter was a plain-looking woman with wide hips, tight red curls and a mouth that looked like she’d sucked a lot of lemons. She gave us the once over, barely able to hide her disapproval.

  “Yes?”

  “We’d like to see the AR on a decedent, Dominique Lamont.”

  “You are?”

  I flipped my PR license. “Nick Crane.”

  “You have no authority here.”

  “She does.”

  Jade stepped forward and showed lemon mouth her driver’s license. Her mouth puckered. She snorted and trundled off to do our bidding. I grinned at Jade and a moment later, the woman returned, handing it over. The Office was kind enough to supply tables in an adjoining viewing room; Jade and I sat side-by-side and read the Autopsy Report.

  Witnesses:

  SFPD-Northern Police District Detectives Franco and Moskowitz were present at the autopsy.

  Opinion:

  The cause of death is a single shot from a Heckler & Koch HK4 semi-automatic pistol to the right temple. The gun in question was legally registered to decedent. The bullet passed entirely through the skull of the decedent exiting from the left side of the skull just above the hairline. The bullet traveled at an approximate 20% upward trajectory. Toxicology tests revealed no illicit substances. The decedent had taken a therapeutic dose of alprazolam approximately two hours before her death as well as a standard dose of aspirin. Trace amounts of Wellbutrin (bupropion) were also found in her system. The amount of alprazolam appears insufficient to have altered decedent’s ability to think or reason at the time of the fatal incident.

  The mode of death would appear to be suicide. Decedent’s medical records show that she had been depressed for several months at the time of the incident and had been in therapy with June Iverson, Ph.D. Although Dr. Iverson, when contacted, chose not to release decedent’s confidential information, she did state that decedent had suffered from moderate to severe depression and had been prescribed Wellbutrin in addition to alprazolam by her M.D. Dr. Iverson did state that decedent had discontinued her therapeutic dose of Wellbutrin because it gave her “splitting headaches.”

  Powder burns were evident at the star-like aperture where the bullet entered decedent’s skull. In addition, there was gunpowder residue on decedent’s right hand. These facts are consistent with suicide. In addition, only one shot was fired which is also typical of suicides. The bullet followed the upward trajectory consistent with suicide and was fired at point-blank range as evidenced by the star-like wound formation and the gunpowder residue. Had this been homicide, the shot would most likely have been fired from a distance of at least 12 inches resulti
ng in minimal star-like formation and little if any gunpowder residue. Furthermore, had this been homicide, there would be no powder residue on decedent’s right hand.

  The theory of suicide is further supported by the fact that decedent had old knife cuts across her wrists suggesting an earlier suicide attempt at some point, perhaps two or three months before her death, as well as minor knife wounds in her chest area, suggesting aborted suicide attempts and apparent suicidal ideation.

  Inasmuch as there is no evidence of any sort consistent with homicide, the inescapable conclusion is that decedent’s death was self-inflicted and was caused by the single pistol shot.

  Lisa Gavin, M.D.

  Deputy Medical Examiner

  We then read the Investigator’s Narrative, which, while exhaustive, revealed no information inconsistent with the theory of suicide. Dominique’s roommate, Alexandra Snow, had discovered the body upon returning home from lunch with a client at 2:30 in the afternoon, on August 28, 2007. She confirmed that Dominique had been quite depressed, and stated that she’d been worried about her. She also stated that Dominique had broken up with her boyfriend, Anthony Romano, a few weeks before her death.

  There was no evidence that anyone suspicious had entered the Pacific Heights duplex between 11:00 a.m., when Alexandra had left for her lunch date, and 2:30 p.m., when she returned. Both the house phone and Dominique’s cell had been checked. The only incoming calls to the house were business calls for Alexandra. Dominique had received no calls during this period, although she had called 310/555-2257 repeatedly, once at 11:30, once at 11:54, and three more times between 1:00 and 2:15. 310/555-2257 had not answered and Dominique had left no messages.

  “My God, that’s Richard’s old number.”

  I looked at her. “She was trying to reach him.”

  “Shit. Why didn’t he pick up? It might’ve--”

  “--You don’t know that, so knock it off.”

  She nodded and bit her lower lip. “Dominique was left-handed, yet according to this, she did it with her right hand. Why?”

  “Maybe she was holding her phone in her left hand. There’s no evidence that this was murder, so the real question is, why was your mother depressed enough to take her life?”