Capital Crimes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Seven AM.”

  “I wonder if we can move it to eleven without getting someone’s nose out of joint.”

  She smiled. “Sneaking in the shut-eye?”

  “Both of us. You can bunk down at my place if you want. Save you a trip over the bridge.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  12

  Barnes’s cell chirped just as the garbled PA voice issued a boarding announcement. He fished the phone from his pocket. “Did she just call our flight?”

  Amanda looked up from her paperback. “Uh-uh, Phoenix.”

  “How do you understand anything she said? It just sounds like static.” He pressed the green button. “Barnes.”

  “Sorry to bother you, Detective. It’s Alice Kurtag.”

  Barnes wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear, and found his notepad. “No bother at all, Dr. Kurtag, what can I do for you?”

  “I don’t know if this is important or not, but you asked me to call you if I thought of anything.”

  “What’s up?”

  “As I told you before, my relationship with Davida was almost exclusively business. I barely knew Minette and I didn’t know most of their friends.”

  “Okay,” Barnes answered.

  “I doubt if this is important, but I recall that about a month ago, Davida dropped by the lab with a friend—an old friend. Someone she had gone to high school and college with. They looked…” There was silence for a moment. “I don’t know how to put this. They looked comfortable with each other.”

  The implication was obvious. Barnes said, “More than chummy?”

  “Well, they were laughing and touching each other. Of course they were old friends.”

  “Do you remember this person’s name?”

  “Jane. I honestly can’t recall if Davida mentioned her last name. If she did, it’s eluding me.”

  Jane. That threw Barnes. Nothing about Jane ever seemed remotely gay. Just to make sure, he said, “What did this Jane look like?”

  “Tall, slim, pretty, Davida’s age—long jet-black hair, very striking hair. And maybe a bit…shopworn? I don’t want to be unkind but it was as if she’d been through a lot.”

  No doubt who she meant. Jane sure hadn’t had good luck with men. “Could it have been Jane Meyerhoff?”

  “Yes, it was—now I remember, she did use her last name! You know her?”

  “She’s indeed an old friend of Davida’s. All right, Dr. Kurtag, thanks for the information.” Tacking on the basic detective’s parting shot: “Anything else you’d like to add?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  But she added nothing.

  Barnes said, “Go on. I’m listening, Doctor.”

  “Davida told me that she and Jane were going to be away for a couple of days to do some white-water rafting. Davida told me that she had had an intense week and Jane had been going through a very messy divorce. Both of them needed to unwind and both of them loved physical challenges. She told me her cell wouldn’t be operative, but she gave me a contact number if something important came up in my research. She said the number was only for me and that I shouldn’t give it out to anyone else.”

  “Who would you give it to?”

  “Since we were working together so often, people would sometimes call me looking for Davida.”

  “Which people?”

  “At the capital. Sometimes friends.”

  “Anyone specific?”

  Silence.

  “Doctor?”

  “Minette called frequently,” said Kurtag. “Eight, ten times a day.”

  “That is pretty frequent.”

  “In regards to this other woman, it could be totally innocent. Perhaps Davida was taking the trip just to grab a little well-deserved privacy.”

  The one-hour flight from Oakland to Burbank was on time and blissfully free from squalling children. As soon as the plane began its descent, Barnes turned to Amanda. “I’ve been thinking.”

  She grinned. “That’s always dangerous.”

  “That’s why I don’t do it often. In terms of staging, what about that crank letter Donnie Newell showed us? Someone cutting block letters from a magazine and pasting them on a piece of paper. How Hollywood is that? We should really talk to Newell again.”

  “Minette’s been harassing Davida for a while?”

  “The woman does seem to like her fair share of attention. Maybe she was upset when Davida didn’t take the letter seriously.”

  Amanda nodded. “Good point. Now how does it connect with Minette as the murderer?”

  Barnes conceded that he had no answer. “There are other reasons to talk to Donnie. He was Davida’s ex-boyfriend in high school before she came out. Remember he said something about Davida being a pistol? How’d you take that?”

  “That she was hot in bed.” Amanda shrugged. “So they probably fucked. What’s the big deal? It was a long time ago.”

  “It struck me that Donnie remembered the relationship so clearly and chose to mention that aspect of it with Davida lying dead with her head nearly blown off.”

  “Men are always thinking about sex.”

  “True, but that thing he told you—his wife hating Davida. Obviously, the two of them were still in contact.”

  “Minimal contact according to Newell.”

  “What’s minimal to him may have seemed like maximal to Minette. Also, from dating her in high school, do you think Donnie knew about Davida’s drinking?”

  Amanda laughed. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,”

  “Yes, you are and it seems a big jump.”

  “What?”

  “You’re seeing Newell as a suspect. First of all, we know he was in Sacramento the day of the murder because she called him.”

  “Exactly. And we don’t know the nature of the call…only what Newell told us. Maybe she says c’mon down to the office for a late-night fling and they spent a little time together. Minette told us Davida had planned to pull an all-nighter. Who said it was to work? She and Donnie are alone…drinking and…”

  “And what?”

  “Dunno, something went awry. You know people can get crazy when they’re under the influence.”

  “Do you not like this guy or something? Some kind of high school thing?”

  “I barely knew Donnie. I remember him as a skinny blond kid, that’s all.”

  Amanda wagged a finger at him. “Your imagination is doing overtime, Detective Barnes. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation.”

  “Or lack of useful evidence in the apartment,” Barnes said. “At the very least, I want to talk to Newell about Davida Grayson and Jane Meyerhoff. He inferred they’d both been party girls. Pair that with Kurtag telling me Davida and Jane were going away together, and not to tell Minette, and I’m wondering: is their relationship new or were Davida and Jane picking up where they left off in high school and college? I’m also wondering if Jane was the reason that Davida came out.”

  “How does that tie in with Newell?”

  “Maybe Donnie did a threesome with the girls and Davida discovered she liked Jane better than him.”

  “And…?”

  “And, maybe Newell felt threatened.”

  “So he decided to pop her after what…twenty-five years?”

  Barnes smiled. “Yeah, it’s thin—but think of this. Williman told us male-to-female’s an easy way to transmit the clap. And Donnie’s male.”

  “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “You want to interview Newell in hopes he’ll give you lurid details about a threesome.”

  “Maybe.” Barnes laughed. Then he turned serious. “No way to bring up gonorrhea with him in a cop-to-cop chat…okay, let’s shift gears: if there was a sexual relationship between Davida and Jane, it could be a motive for Minette being jealous. Jane just moved back to Berkeley about a year ago. After three failed marriages, maybe she wanted something from her youth.”


  Amanda regarded her partner. “Didn’t you date Jane?”

  “Uh, yeah, but not for long.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was a piece of work. No such thing as a casual conversation, everything was a debate.”

  “Did it end badly?”

  “No, it just ended. I stopped calling and she didn’t care.”

  “Seeing as there’s no hard feelings, why don’t you ask her about her relationship with Davida instead of asking Newell?”

  “Because Davida was murdered and I don’t know how truthful Jane will be with me. I can approach Donnie differently.”

  “Cop to cop,” she said. “But you can’t bring up venereal disease.”

  Barnes grew silent. “Okay, the whole thing sucks.”

  “Hey,” she said, “I like the way your mind works, I’m just trying to keep things organized. Are you really suspicious of Newell?”

  “Maybe intrigued is more the right word.”

  The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac and a flight attendant launched into the usual spiel, pretending they had a choice who to fly with. When the announcements were over, Amanda said, “I like the Davida/Jane thing. I don’t know if it’s relevant but it’s always good to look at close friends first.”

  Barnes said, “I reckon we should also think a little bit about what we’re gonna do in LA, especially since the department paid for luxurious transportation. Who’s our contact at LAPD?”

  Amanda checked her notes. “Detective Sergeant Marge Dunn. She told me her lieutenant—his name is Decker—is very curious about Marshall Bledsoe.”

  “What mischief did that dirtbag pull off there?”

  “A local synagogue was ransacked about five years ago and Decker always felt that there was someone behind the scenes.”

  13

  Amanda couldn’t help it; she was a Bay Area snob.

  San Francisco was a city; LA was a monster. The freeways stretched for miles without a break in the urban ugliness and the traffic never seemed to let up.

  At least this time of year, the sky was clear and blue, a welcome change from the fog. Dirty air, but warm enough for the Berkeley detectives to roll down the windows of their compact rental. The tin can wheezed at the slightest hint of an incline. Barnes drove while Amanda navigated. Allowing for ten minutes of getting-lost time, it took them an hour and a quarter to reach the West Valley stationhouse—a square, windowless brick thing. Larger than Berkeley PD, but minus the style.

  There she was, Ms. I’m-So-Sophisticated. No matter how hard she fought clichés, Northern Cal—and her own social status—wouldn’t be denied.

  She tried to focus on their case, but no new ideas had surfaced since she and Will had deplaned. They walked to the station entrance in silence, and were met in the lobby by Detective Sergeant Marge Dunn.

  She looked around forty—tall, big and blond with soft brown eyes and a bright smile. Escorting them up to the detectives’ room, she knocked on the wall to the lieutenant’s cubicle even though the door was open.

  The man who waved them in was in his fifties—a fit fifties. A moustachioed redhead with flecks of white in his hair. He wore a blue buttondown shirt, coral silk tie, gray slacks, shiny black wingtips. Amanda thought he could’ve easily been a lawyer. When he stood up, the top of his head wasn’t that far away from the ceiling.

  Another big one. She put him at six four, minimum. He extended a huge, freckled hand to her, then to Will.

  “Pete Decker,” he said. “Welcome. Have a seat.” He offered them two plastic chairs. “You two want anything to drink?”

  “Coffee would be nice,” Barnes said.

  “Times two,” Amanda said.

  “Pot’s low, I’ll make a fresh one,” Marge Dunn said. “You want some, Loo?”

  “Absolutely, thanks,” Decker answered. “And while you’re out there, ask dispatch to send another cruiser by Bledsoe’s house to see if the truck’s back in the driveway.”

  Barnes said, “Bledsoe’s gone?”

  “Probably out with Mom. I don’t see him leaving town before Thanksgiving.” Decker looked Barnes and Amanda over without making too much of a show of the scrutiny. Crossing long legs, he leaned back in his chair. “I wanted to keep a low profile so we don’t spook him. All the bozo has to do is take out a checkbook, pay his fines and he’s out. We’re hoping he isn’t savvy enough to know that, although if he murdered a state representative, he’s not naïve. What evidence do you have on him?”

  “Nothing,” Barnes answered.

  Decker smiled. “Well, that’s not good. We need some excuse beyond unpaid parking tickets to bring him in for questioning.”

  “Bledsoe’s head of the White Tower Radicals,” Amanda said. “Two days before Davida Grayson’s murder, two White boys egged her on the steps of the state capitol. We think Bledsoe gave that order and maybe more.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that,” said Decker. “Those two are locked up, right? Have they implicated Bledsoe?”

  “No, but Bledsoe doesn’t need to know that,” Barnes said. “Maybe if we scare him enough, we can pry something out of him.”

  Marge Dunn came back in with the coffees. “No truck in the driveway.”

  Decker said, “Anything else besides Bledsoe on your agenda?”

  “One other interview,” Barnes said. “Some bigot named Harry Modell, heads a group called Families Under God. We found three very nasty letters that he wrote to Grayson.”

  Amanda said, “If you want us to wait for Bledsoe first before we interview Modell, we can do that. We’ll work around you.”

  Decker said, “Someone from West Valley should make the arrest, and if I’m going to give up a detective, you might as well interview Modell and make good use of your time.” He turned to Marge. “How’s your schedule looking?”

  “Holiday light,” Marge answered. “I can wait around until he shows. Just need my thermos and my iPod.”

  Harry Modell’s address was a trailer park nestled in the oaks of the foothills among miles of unspoiled landscape. Not a hint of a dug-in structure could be seen anywhere. “Happy Wandering Mobile Community” consisted of fifty slots, all occupied, with generators going full blast.

  Modell’s slice of LA real estate was Space 34. His TravelRancher was sided in yellow vinyl with white trim. Perched on a flat roof, a dish aimed south. As Barnes and Amanda climbed a makeshift plywood ramp to the front door, they saw TV images blinking through a stingy front window. Barnes knocked on the door, waited an appropriate amount of time, got no answer and knocked again.

  A voice from inside told him to go away.

  “Police,” Barnes yelled. “We need to speak with you, Mr. Modell.”

  The voice, louder, creaky, told him to fuck himself.

  Barnes blew out air and looked at his partner. “We can’t force our way inside.”

  “The guy sounds old,” Amanda said. “We’re worried for his safety.”

  “That’s not going to—” Abruptly the door swung open. The man in the wheelchair was ancient with a cue-ball head, sunken, jaundiced eyes and ill-fitting dentures that clacked as he rotated his mandible. Small-jawed face once round, now sagging in the middle like a bell pepper. Grainy complexion, more wrinkles than smooth flesh. Stick legs, but his arms were surprisingly muscled. Probably from wheeling around.

  “Mr. Modell?”

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “To talk to you.”

  “What the fuck about?”

  “May we come inside?” Amanda asked.

  Modell eyed Amanda. “You can, he can’t.”

  “We’re a team, sir.”

  “Then go play a fucking game.” But Modell didn’t wheel back into the trailer and Amanda saw something in his eyes other than hostility.

  A faint longing.

  She smiled.

  Modell said, “Ahh, why the fuck not, I’m bored.” He propelled the chair to the side so they could enter.

  They walked into a hothouse. Th
e temperature must have been hovering in the nineties. Three humidifiers filled the cramped, dim space with mist. The upside of the oppressive micro-climate was tables of flora—bromeliads, African violets, wild beautiful blooms Amanda didn’t recognize.

  She began to sweat and glanced at Will. He took off his jacket. His shirt was sodden.

  Modell ignored them and wheeled to the only surface devoid of plant life—a rickety card table that hosted bottles of pills, an ancient-looking burrito and the TV remote. Modell muted the sound but left the picture on. Some old movie in black and white.

  Amanda said, “We have a few questions for you if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” Modell said, clacking his teeth. “But can I stop the minions of HAG?”

  “HAG?”

  “Heathen Atheistic Government.”

  Modell reached over to pinch off a papery old African violet bloom.

  Barnes got right down to business. “Could you tell me where you were two nights ago?”

  Modell squinted at the detective. “I’m always here. Does it look like I can go anywhere?”

  “You moved to this trailer park recently,” Amanda said.

  “You got that right, lady. I sold my house in Orange County, pocketed an absurd profit and decided to spend my days doing what I do best—communicating with atheists, reprobates and perverts. God knows there are enough of them to fill my time.”

  “Communicating with letters,” said Barnes.

  “Lost art,” said Modell. “All that e-mail buggery. When I was at my peak, I sent out thirty, forty a day. Now I’m down to five. The hands.” Waving gnarled digits. “Damn shame, the perverts seem to be multiplying faster than ever.”

  “Which perverts have you written to lately?”

  Again, Modell squinted. “What the fuck do the police care about an old man writing letters?”

  Amanda said, “An old man who heads Families Under God.”

  “Not anymore. I gave that up two years ago. Don’t you police people keep abreast of the times?”

  “Why’d you resign?” Amanda asked.

  “I started the ministry thirty years ago all by my lonesome. Built it up big.” He shook his head. “Too big. The members decided they needed a board. To do what, I don’t know, but the assholes started telling me how to run my organization. So I told them to fuck off and I quit. Damn shame, at our heyday we were a powerful force against the perverts. What they’re doing now, don’t know, don’t care. I write five letters to perverts, God’s happy. Now if you don’t tell me what you want, you can just leave. At least, you can leave. I don’t mind if the lady stays…unless you’re one of those lesbos. Then you can be the first out the door.”