4
Jerome Melchior sat with his head between his knees in the backseat of the cruiser. He was compact with weight-lifter arms that stretched the sleeves of his black long-sleeved tee. Weeping his eyes out.
Melchior looked up as Barnes approached. Deep-set dark eyes, cinnamon hair highlighted gold and cut close to the skull. He wiped his eyes, dropped his head again. Barnes slid in next to him. “Horrible morning, Mr. Melchior. I’m sorry.”
Melchior sucked in air. “I thought she was sleeping. Sometimes she does that.”
“Falls asleep at her desk?”
The aide nodded. “When she pulls an all-nighter.”
“How often was that?”
“More often lately because of her bill.”
“Stem-cell bill?”
“Yes.”
Barnes patted Melchior’s shoulder. Melchior straightened and threw his head back and stared at the roof of the police car. “My God, I can’t believe this!”
Barnes gave him time. “When did you realize she was dead?”
“I don’t know why. I just came over and gave her a gentle shake on the shoulder. When I pulled my hand away there was blood on my fingers. It didn’t register at first…then it…did.” Melchior reached around and touched the nape of his neck. “The hole.”
Barnes took out a notepad. “So nothing immediately clued you in that something was wrong?”
“Nothing looked out of place if that’s what you mean.” He regarded Barnes. “I touched her again. Blood all over my hands, I’m sure I left bloody fingerprints—oh, God, is that going to mess up your investigation?”
“Not since you’ve told me. Your call came in to dispatch at around eight in the morning. How long after the discovery did it take you to call emergency?”
“About…two minutes, maybe less. But I was so fucked-up I dialed 611 instead of 911, I was shaking so hard.”
“That’s normal, Mr. Melchior. Let’s talk about Ms. Grayson. Politicians have lots of people who don’t like their views. Anyone in particular stand out?”
“Not enough to kill her.”
“Give me names anyway.”
“I’m talking other representatives,” said Melchior. “They may be sleazy but they’re not…okay, okay…Mark Decody from Orange County…Alisa Lawrence from San Diego couldn’t stand Davida, either. They’re both Republicans. She was also having some problems with a Democrat. In name only. Artis Handel. He’s actually been the most ferocious about the bill.”
“Why?”
“Catholic and makes a big point of it. The whole abortion-fetus thing.”
“Anyone else?”
“There’s a civilian—a nutcase, really. Harry Modell. Executive director of some fringe group called Families Under God. We’re talking extremists. I’ve heard their unspoken motto is kill liberals, not babies. He’s a kook and a grandstander, can’t say I’ve ever thought of him as this bad but…who knows.”
“How’d Davida react to the egg throwers?”
“That.” Melchior frowned. “She sloughed it off as crazy kids. I agreed, but now…”
Melchior cried some more. When he was through, Barnes offered him more coffee.
“No, thanks.”
“Anything else you’d like to say or add that you think might help?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“How about I call you in a day or so? Sometimes after the shock wears off, you remember things.”
“Sure.”
“In the meantime…” Barnes took out his card. “If you think of anything else that might help me out, give me a call.”
Melchior stuck the card in a trouser pocket.
“One more thing, sir. Would you happen to know any of Representative Grayson’s passwords for her computer?”
“Why?”
Stupid question but Barnes had heard so many of those in situations like these. “There may be important information in there. The entire machine will be taken to an expert who’ll dissect it, but any help you can give us now to speed up the investigation would be appreciated.”
“Well,” said Melchior, “once in a while, she did ask me to check her e-mail…when her laptop wasn’t working or…” He took Barnes’s pad. “Give me a few minutes to think.”
“Take your time.”
When the aide was finally able to focus, Barnes had a list of five passwords. “That’s great, sir. Would you like an officer to take you home?”
“That would be nice.” Melchior smiled. “Your brother was a legend.”
“Especially in his own mind.”
Melchior gave an honest laugh. “He seemed very passionate. I didn’t know him well.”
“That makes two of us.”
The scene had become dense with live bodies skittering around like ants. Two CSU techs, a police photographer, a pair of investigators from the coroner’s office—Tandy Halligan, big and tall and female, Derrick Coltrain, small, black, and male.
“How’s the hubby?” Coltrain asked Amanda.
“Retirement doesn’t wear well on him.” Ten years ago, she’d met Lawrence Isis, a half-Irish, half-Egyptian Copt software engineer at a campus concert—Celtic folk music, Amanda had gone on a lark, a friend’s urging. The chemistry had been instant, despite the fact that Larry resembled Woody Allen with dark hair and a terrific tan. He’d signed on early at Google, rose through the company, accruing stock. Lots of stock. After living well below their means in Amanda’s Oakland condo, they’d made the quantum leap to the mansion two years ago. Seventeen rooms still empty, but Amanda loved the echoes. Larry, though, needed a hobby.
Derrick Coltrain said, “I wouldn’t mind early retirement if I had all the toys.”
Giving her a curious look. The unspoken message: what the hell are you doing here?
On a day like this, good question. She’d gone through Grayson’s phone, had progressed to the representative’s state-issued BlackBerry. The woman’s life had been a series of endless meetings. Over the last two years, she’d scheduled one vacation—a trip to Tecate, Mexico. Probably the spa. Amanda and Larry had been there. She loving the exercise, he bemoaning the lack of wireless.
Coltrain said, “What’s he into, the genius?”
“He’s thinking of starting up another business.”
“Hey, let me know when he’s about to go public.”
Tandy Halligan said, “By the time it goes public, it’ll be too late.” She began the process of examining the body. Going slowly, nervous, which wasn’t like her. But what if the head detached from the body?
Carefully, she lifted each hand, examined digits closely. “No ligature marks on the wrists. Fingers and nails look clean and undisturbed, doesn’t appear there’s much, if anything, to scrape.”
Steeling herself, she rotated the head to get a side view of the face.
“No scratch marks on the right side…none on the left either. But there is a sizeable bruise on her forehead.”
“She was sitting at her desk, someone came from behind, shot her and she fell forward,” Amanda said. “Or she napped through the whole thing and the impact bounced her forehead into the desk. The floor is old wood planks, it squeaks when you walk on it. Alone, late at night, if she was awake she’d have heard someone behind her.”
Tandy said, “Unless she was too focused. Like talking on the phone, or typing.”
Amanda wondered if there had been an intruder. No pry marks on the front entrance, the lock was a dead bolt, solid, in working order. The windows also appeared untouched. “Or she wasn’t concerned because it was someone she knew. Which doesn’t negate the sneak-up-and-blow scenario if the killer paid her two visits. The first was a ruse, to get the door unlocked. The second was to blast her.”
Derrick Coltrain said, “Can I suggest something? Sometimes representatives make a fetish about keeping their doors open. To be accessible, kind of a Berkeley thing.”
“At that hour?”
No answer.
Amanda said, “A
ny idea when she was murdered?”
“Maybe six to eight hours ago but that’s just a guess.”
Will entered the office and heard that. “Between two and four AM?”
“It’s a guess,” said Tandy. “Ask Dr. Srinivasan.”
Amanda said, “No pries on windows or doors. You know her to leave her door open?”
“She had a rep for hospitality,” Barnes said. “Continuous coffeepot, plate of crullers. For anyone who stopped in, including the homeless. It was chilly last night. Maybe she let one of them crash in the outer office while she worked. Maybe he had a psychotic break.”
“A homeless man with a shotgun?”
Barnes shrugged.
Amanda said, “I went through her cell calls last night. Lots came in but she only returned a few. One she returned was to a Donald Newell in Sacramento—”
“Donnie’s a homicide detective.” Barnes sighed. “I think they were friends in high school.”
“Another homeboy. How big was your town?”
“Big, but small. Shit, I wonder if Donnie knows. I’ll give him a call.”
Simultaneously they looked back at the body. Tandy was in the process of wrapping it up in plastic sheeting when screaming outside the office froze her. Through the window, Amanda saw two policemen trying to restrain a hysterical young woman. She was trim with shoulder-length platinum hair, pink cheeks, and Marilyn Monroe lips. Tight black leotard top over low-rider jeans, high-heeled sandals.
The two detectives rushed outside.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m going in!” screamed the blonde. “Bastards!”
The cops looked to the detectives.
Amanda said, “Crime scene, no entrance.”
The young woman cursed. Her cheeks were tear-streaked, her eyes were bloodshot, and her breath reeked of alcohol. “Do you know who I am?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Her lover! Did you hear me—her goddamnfucking lover!”
“Sorry for your loss,” said Barnes.
“You still can’t go in there, but let’s talk,” said Amanda. She placed her arm around the blonde’s shoulders, closing her nostrils to the booze stink. A smell she knew so well, growing up.
The blonde relaxed. Sniffed. “I’m Minette. Her lover.”
Amanda motioned the cops to let her go. “Let’s go somewhere quiet, Minette.”
5
It took all of Amanda’s emotional and physical energy to ease the woman away from the scene and into a squad car. Minette The Lover sobbed until she’d cried herself dry. Amanda offered her a tissue.
“Thank you.”
“I’m so sorry, Minette. What’s your last name, please?”
“Minette Padgett. What ha…happened?”
“We’re at the beginning of the investigation, Minette. I wish I could give you some details but I can’t.”
“But she’s…gone?”
Feeble hope in her voice; this part never got any easier. “I’m sorry, but she is gone.” Fresh batch of tears, an explosion of grief. “Minette, right now we’re getting information about Davida. Is there anything about her life that might help us out?”
“What do you mean? Like did she have enemies? She had a slew of them. Assholes in the capital hated her because she was gay. Lots of people didn’t like her messing with stem cells.”
“We got some names from her aide: Harold Modell—”
“Motherfucker.”
“Mark Decody and Alisa Lawrence—”
“Motherfuckersss.”
“Artis Handel—”
“Turncoat.” Minette looked up. “She expected grief from the others, but Artis…he’s a Democrat, she was especially upset about him.”
“Anything more you can tell me about any of them?”
Minette thought a moment, then slowly shook her head. “They were just giving her a hard time. Politics.”
“Anybody else I should know about?”
“I don’t know…I can’t think—my head is…I can’t think.”
“What about personal relationships, Minette? Did she have any problems with friends or relatives?”
“Her mother’s a profound pain in the ass, but that’s just the usual mother–daughter thing. She doesn’t have any sibs. Her father lives in Florida in case you want to talk to him.”
“Why would I want to talk to him?”
“Because he’s an asshole and deserted Davida emotionally after he remarried.”
Amanda wrote that down. “Anyone else?”
A pretty brow knitted, then returned to youthful serenity. “Look, I just can’t process right now.” A big sigh. “Has anyone called her mother?”
“We’ll take care of that.”
“Thanks, ’cause I sure don’t want to do it. The old bitch doesn’t like me, never did no matter how hard I tried.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know. If I did, I’d work on it. Sometimes it’s like that, you know. People take an instant dislike to you. Sometimes I take an instant dislike to someone. In Lucille’s case, I think we took an instant dislike to each other.”
“Tell me about your relationship with Davida.”
Minette snapped her head up. “What about it?”
“I know this sounds insensitive but I have to ask it, Ms. Padgett. Were there any problems between you two?”
The young woman shot her a look of disgust. “No, there weren’t any problems between us two!”
“I’ve been married for ten years, Ms. Padgett. There are always ups and downs. Please don’t take it personally.”
Minette didn’t answer but it was clear from the look on her face that she wasn’t mollified.
“So things were fine—”
“I think I already answered that.” Minette faced Amanda. “So you’ll call the old lady?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because I got a lot of shit to deal with and someone has to start making arrangements. It might as well be her.”
“My God! Davida Dead?” Don Newell’s voice bellowed through the phone. “That’s fucking crazy! What the hell happened, Willie?”
“You know how it works, Don. I wish I had more details but I don’t.”
“Davida…oh, man, that’s—at least tell me how she died.”
Barnes figured there was no sense being coy. “Twelve-gauge shotgun.”
“Oh, man—a typical shotgun thing?”
“It was ugly, Donnie.”
“That’s insane…fuckingshit almighty—does her mom know?”
“It’s being handled, Donnie.”
“If Lucille Grayson hasn’t left for Berkeley, I’m taking her personally. Even if she has left, I’m coming down.”
Newell’s basso was rimmed with a weird, almost hysterical tension. Even allowing for the shock, Barnes wondered what the connection was between a married Sacramento homicide cop and a gay representative. Now wasn’t the time to press.
He said, “Donnie, everyone knows she had enemies in the capital. That egging may have been more than a prank. We could use you on home turf. Unless we get a quick solve down here, my partner and I will be coming your way soon, anyway.”
There was a long pause. “Will, I’m not dumb and I know what you’re thinking because if things were reversed, I’d be thinking the same thing. There was nothing between Davida and me other than a casual friendship. Nothing. Get it?”
“Sure do,” said Barnes, lying smoothly.
“Why would there be anything, Will? Davida’s gay. Sure, once we were close—yeah, yeah I’ll stay out of your business but I will talk to Lucille. Two kids and now she’s lost both of them.”
“Don, do me a favor, assemble everything on Davida that you can. When I see you next, it’ll be nice and official.”
“It is official, Will. I mean it’s personal, but it’s official too.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Barnes. “Now I need to get this out in the open, Don. You talk to
her last night?”
“Checked her cell?” said Newell. “Yeah, sure, I called her because we arrested a couple of White Tower boys for the egging. Brent and Ray Nutterly. But I know it wasn’t them who killed her because we put their asses in jail.”
“What about their buddies in the organization?”
“We were just starting to work that angle, as a matter of fact, because of other things.”
“What other things?”
“A couple of months ago, she got an anonymous threatening letter. Low-level stuff—you know, letters cut out of a magazine. We could never could trace it to anyone specific but I wanted to do more. Davida said no, didn’t want me making a big deal about it. She said too much of that kind of publicity gave the bastards what they wanted and made her look bad.”
“Look bad how?”
“She was big on her public image, gay and progressive but above the fray—her words. She also didn’t want anyone to think that she wasn’t accessible. Looks like she was too fucking accessible—I should have been more insistent! Damn it, just last night I told her to think about hiring a bodyguard. She blew me off.”
“Tell me more about her political enemies.”
“Enemies is too strong a word. I’d call them opponents. No one crazy enough to kill her, Will.”
“Did she ever talk to you about specific people she was afraid of?”
“First of all, we didn’t talk on a regular basis. Second, if she did, don’t you think I’da told you? Paranoia wasn’t Davida’s style. Just the opposite; she minimized danger. When this letter thing came up, she was blasé. To my eye, the woman was never afraid of anything.”
While the Loo, the captain, and Amanda Isis fielded questions from the fire-stoking press and strident community activists ready to be outraged about anything, Barnes went through the evidence picked up by CSU. Doorknobs had been wiped clean—a tell, in itself, that supported premeditation—but a partial bloody thumbprint was found on an interior jamb. Bloody shoeprints were of interest, as were multiple red fibers, stray hairs, a used coffee cup, and a cigarette.
Pathology would analyze forensic information taken off the body. Amanda had gone through Davida’s cell phone and her BlackBerry. That left Barnes with the onerous and time-consuming task of scouring Davida’s computer, desk calendar, business files and written correspondence.
Capital Crimes Page 3
