“You were up that late?”
“No, I was sleeping. Easier for me to breathe sitting up. I woke when I heard the screaming.”
“I don’t suppose you ever saw anyone hanging about that didn’t belong?”
“In this neighborhood?” Her laughter turned into a cough. It was a moment before she could continue. “Darned bronchitis…Where was I? A better question is who I knew. As my late husband used to say, this window is my life.”
Zwingler stepped in. “Who did you know?”
She looked out the window, then closed her eyes.
A minute or more passed by, and Casey, worried she’d fallen asleep, said, “Gladys?”
She held up one gnarled finger but didn’t open her eyes. Finally she tapped her temple as she looked at him. “Works a little slower than it used to…” She pointed to the window. “No one I knew. But I saw a girl, the one who screamed.”
“A girl?” There was nothing about any other witnesses. “You’re sure?”
“I used to see her every now and then. An Asian girl. Fairly young.”
“How young?”
“Heavens. Teens? Twenties? She was crying and ran from the alley into Mr. Singh’s shop across the street.”
“I don’t suppose you knew her name?”
“No. I saw a taxi come later that day, and she got in it. Never saw her again after that. I expect Mr. Singh knows who she was, since he was the one talking to her. I don’t see him out and about as often as I used to.” She sighed as she leaned back in her chair and looked out the window. “It was nice when he hired the security guard. We felt a lot safer, but, well, the girl was murdered anyway, and I think times are hard now.”
When she had nothing further to add, Casey and Zwingler thanked her and let themselves out.
Zwingler looked up at her apartment, then over toward the store across the street. “She’d certainly have a good enough view of the store.”
“Except Samir Singh said the store was closed and he didn’t see anything.”
“So he lied about this girl? Gotta wonder what for.”
They crossed the street, then entered the shop, where Casey detected a faint scent of curry and spices. A man of Indian descent, late fifties, early sixties, stood behind the counter watching the two sergeants warily as they approached. Casey held up his identification and star. “Mr. Singh? I’m Sergeant Kellog, SFPD, and my partner, Sergeant Zwingler.”
The man gave a slight nod to acknowledge them but said nothing.
“We’re here looking into the murder of the woman behind your store a while back.”
“The prostitute? Yes. I remember the officers coming by to ask about it. The store was closed at the time. I didn’t see what happened.”
“I realize that. I’m hoping you might remember something that might have been overlooked at the time.”
“Or,” Zwingler said, “maybe heard anything about it afterward that might help.”
The man shook his head. “No. Unfortunately not. I’m sorry…”
“One of the witnesses seems to remember you talking to someone—a young Asian girl—right after the murder.”
Singh shook his head. “Bad things happen all the time around here. That’s why I had to hire a security guard, just so my customers would feel safe shopping. It didn’t work. And after the murder, even he quit.”
“You understand you are not a suspect in this? All we’re asking for is who it was you were talking to. She might have seen something.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Why would he lie about this? Casey was at a dead end, and he referred to his notes, trying to come up with something, anything. He looked over at Zwingler, who gave a slight shrug, and all Casey could think of was what Al would do.
Of course, he thought, closing his notebook. He looked at Mr. Singh, attempting to smile with his eyes with what he hoped was something akin to Al’s fatherly concern. “Surely you remember something else?”
Singh merely stared, and Zwingler leaned toward Casey, searching his face. “You don’t look so well. You okay?”
Casey turned, coughing into his hand. “Sorry. Something caught in my throat,” he replied, then saw the Closed sign on the door. What the hell, he thought, and walked over, peering out the window. “Lot of violence in this neighborhood?”
“All the time,” Singh said.
“Like those three punks dealing drugs when we pulled up. You saw them, didn’t you, Zwingler?”
“Scattered like rats when they saw us.”
Casey nodded out toward the street. “They’re back. What do you think would happen if they thought Mr. Singh was giving us information about them?”
“Expect they wouldn’t be too happy,” Zwingler said.
“My thoughts exactly.” Casey turned the Closed sign so it was facing out to the street. Then he looked at Singh. “I have no problem calling narcotics out here right now.” He held up his radio. “Then informing them that we received info from you.”
“I haven’t told you anything.”
“You think that matters? I only hope the punks out front don’t think so.” Casey keyed his radio, which caused Zwingler’s to crackle with static.
“Wait,” Singh said. “I did see a girl.”
“And what did she see?”
“The dumb guy.”
“The dumb guy?”
Singh nodded. “Or dumb door guy. She was crying, and her English is not very good. But she made this motion.” He crossed his arms over his neck. “She told me he used a stick. Over and over. The dumb guy. Like the wizard.”
“Did this girl have a name?”
“I only knew her as Ping. I don’t think that was her real name.”
“And some reason why you didn’t mention it at the time?”
“I wanted to. But she begged me. She said they would kill her if she talked to any police. I believed her.”
“Who would kill her?”
“The snakeheads.”
Casey and Zwingler exchanged glances, and Zwingler said, “Snakeheads?”
Singh nodded. “The Chinese gang that runs the massage parlor.”
“This girl. She worked at the massage parlor down the street?”
“Yes.”
“She still there?”
“No. A taxi came that very day and took her away. I haven’t seen her since.”
When it was clear Mr. Singh had nothing more to add, they left, then walked down to the massage parlor.
It was located a half block down the street from the market and adjacent to the same alley where the murdered prostitute had been found. A green sign reading Massage hung from the building, a once-white facade that was now gray with filth. Rusted iron bars covered all the first-floor windows as well as the front door, where a camera looked down into the entry. Any clientele walking into that particular establishment were undoubtedly paying for something more than a back massage.
“Nice place,” Zwingler said as Casey knocked on the door.
An Asian woman, her dark hair flecked with gray strands, answered, saw their IDs, then shook her head. “No English. No English.” She closed the door before he could get a word in edgewise and didn’t answer when he knocked a second time.
“That was a bust,” Casey said.
“You weren’t expecting she’d still be here, were you? They probably moved her the moment the police ended up on their doorstep.”
“One could hope,” he said, even though Zwingler was probably right. Most of these girls were victims of human trafficking, smuggled into the country for the express purpose of prostitution, then shuffled from one so-called massage parlor to another, not only to keep the girls from attaching to customers who might help them, but to keep the police at bay.
“Maybe vice will have som
ething on her.”
But they both knew that would be fruitless, and as he and Zwingler walked back to the car, he wondered if any of those unfortunate women ever escaped that life.
“You find anything worthwhile?” Al asked when they returned to the office.
“Depends,” Zwingler said, “on your definition. We got a suspect name.”
“How’s that not worthwhile?”
“Let me count the ways,” Zwingler replied. “It’s not the most viable name we’ve ever run across. It’s officially hearsay. The woman who saw the suspect and provided the name is nowhere to be found. That, and it was reported to us after the fact with a little coercion.”
Al raised his brows. “What sort of coercion?”
“College Boy threatened to sick narcotics on the witness.”
“Our College Boy?”
“Yeah. I think he’s been corrupted.”
Al glanced over at Casey, asking, “So what was the name?”
“Dumb Guy or Dumb Door.”
And Zwingler said, “Don’t forget the thing about the stick and the wizard.”
“That, too,” Casey said. “But a lot was lost in translation. According to our witness, the girl spoke very little English, and she’s no longer available to interview.”
Al walked over, read the name on Casey’s report. “Dumb Door…stick…Wizard? What’s a stick got to do with it?”
“Not sure. But Singh said she crossed her arms, then placed them over her neck. I’m assuming she was describing how the girl was strangled.”
“So maybe the guy was holding a stick in his hand, or he used it in a carotid restraint?”
“It fits.”
The lieutenant walked in, and Al told him what Casey had found.
“What’s your gut instinct?” Timms asked Casey. “You think it’s related?”
“I don’t think we can discount it.”
“Anything else that can be followed up? Bring us more leads?”
“Possibly,” Casey said. “The victim was in rehab just prior to the murder and made some statement about having been attacked before. Maybe she reported it there.”
“Follow up on it.”
“I figured you’d want me to finish up the Presidio murder.”
“Isn’t your suspect dead? Or did that change between now and then?”
“It hasn’t. But what about Congressman Parnell and his insistence that we put forth all our efforts?”
“Last I heard, he wasn’t heading this unit. If we have our choice between a dead suspect and a live killer, we’ll take the latter. Follow up on your rehab lead. The Presidio murder will be here when you get back.”
TWENTY-TWO
Unfortunately, it wasn’t simply a matter of driving back out to the Tenderloin and the clinic to ask questions. Because of privacy laws in the medical field, Casey needed a warrant for their victim’s information.
“Why,” Casey asked Al after returning from the district attorney’s office, “is it even necessary to get a warrant for a dead patient? It’s not like they’re going to care anymore.”
“Because some dimwit somewhere figured that privacy of health information trumps the need for the cops to know. My guess? Some politician trying to avoid revealing some relative has a dreaded disease or that insanity runs in the family, thereby ruining his political career. One more hoop for us to jump through to catch a killer. Whatever. You get it?”
Casey patted his coat pocket.
“Let’s go then.”
The rehab clinic was located a few blocks from where Bella Orlando was murdered. In this neighborhood, they’d be pegged as cops the moment they left the car. It was one of the few exceptions Casey made to his rule of not violating parking laws, and he parked in the red zone in front of a corner liquor store. The clinic was a few doors down, tucked between a hotel that offered daily rates and a night club that advertised Live Girls. Men and women, their gaunt faces smudged with dirt, sat on the gray sidewalk on both sides of the street, their backs against the walls, some holding backpacks, others with large black plastic bags that probably contained their worldly possessions. Those closest to Casey watched as he and Al strode down the street, one even holding up a cup, asking for money.
Casey hesitated until Al said, “Negative, Boy Scout. You can give to the homeless shelter. At least you know where the money’s going to.”
They reached the clinic, and Casey pulled open the door, then held it for Al, both stepping into a small reception area. A few clients sat in the chairs in reception, one woman bouncing her foot up and down as she waited. She stopped abruptly when she saw them walk in. A counter separated the space from the office, where an auburn-haired woman sat at a desk, absorbed in reading something on the screen of her cell phone. She glanced up and saw them. “Can I help you?”
Casey showed his star and credentials. “We need to check into the records of a past patient.”
“Sorry. But we don’t give out that info. HIPAAs, you know.”
“We have a warrant.” He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to her.
She unfolded it, scanned the contents, then stood. “Can you wait a sec? I need to show this to the manager.”
“Sure thing.”
She returned shortly. “This way,” she said.
They heard a buzz coming from the door. Casey opened it, and the secretary pointed down a narrow hallway. “Third door on the right. Dr. Arbuckle is who you want to talk to.”
The floor dipped in some spots, the boards beneath the drab brown carpet squeaking as Casey and Al walked to the indicated room. A sign on the door read Dr. Arbuckle.
Inside, a gray-haired woman sat behind a desk, working at her computer. She closed a thick file that she’d apparently been reading. “Officers?”
Casey introduced himself and Al then added, “We’re hoping you can provide us with some information on a past patient. Bella Orlando.”
“The name’s not familiar. What’s this regarding?”
“She was murdered about six, seven months ago.”
“Of course. That occurred right before I started working here. I cover the weekends only, though. Sit, please. I’ll look up her file.”
She typed something on her keyboard, checked the monitor. “Not a lot here. Heroin addict with a history of prostitution, trying to kick…Second time in, left before treatment was over. No reason given.”
Al leaned forward, smiling. “Anyone working here back then who might recall the woman? Or any of her visitors or stories? Why she left?”
She stared at the computer screen. “Um…Yes. Her therapist. I’ll get her for you.” She picked up the phone and made a call. “Char? Can you come on down? Two police detectives are here to talk about Bella Orlando.”
A few minutes later, a stout, middle-aged woman entered, glancing at Casey and Al before turning her attention to the doctor. “I’ve got a session starting in just a few minutes.”
Al stood. “This shouldn’t take long. Please have a seat.”
She settled into Al’s vacated chair. “I’m not sure what I can offer. She wasn’t here all that long.”
Al nodded at Casey to take over the questioning. He opened his notebook, poised his pen over paper. “What do you remember about her?”
“With as many patients as I’ve worked with over the years, I think the only reason she stands out at all is because she was murdered after she left here.”
Al smiled. “Anything at all will help.”
“I remember she was nice. She really wanted to get out of that life, but…” The woman gave a slight shrug. “I think if she could have left the city and somehow gotten away from that pimp of hers, the methadone might have worked. In a city like this, it’s hard when you have no available support system. Medicaid can only take you so far.”
“She ever tal
k about it?” Casey asked. “Anything that ever happened to her out there? Anyone in particular?”
“No one that stands out. It was always about what she was going to do once she was clean. Write a book about her life and her sucky childhood. There were some definite abandonment issues in her past. I do remember her saying that working the streets was nothing like Pretty Woman, where Prince Charming comes to sweep you off your feet. It was usually dirty men trolling for a quick trick. Other than that…? I couldn’t tell you.”
“What about someone attacking her? Before she came in for treatment the last time?”
“Not that I recall. But we would’ve noted any injuries in her records.”
Casey glanced at Dr. Arbuckle. “Is there anything there?”
“Nothing stands out,” she said. “At least there were no visible injuries documented.”
“Anything else?” he asked the therapist.
“Honestly? Not that I can remember.”
The doctor glanced at the clock. “Thank you, Char. You should probably get to that session.”
She stood and started from the room.
“Thanks,” Casey said. Then, to the doctor, “Her sister mentioned that she’d talked about someone who attacked her right before she entered rehab that last time.”
Char stopped in the doorway. “What sister?”
“Jenn Barstow,” Casey said. “She’s a reporter at the Union-Examiner.”
Char shook her head. “Reporter, maybe. Sister? No. That’s the one thing I definitely remember about Bella. No family.”
“What makes you think they’re not related?”
“She blamed the foster system for everything that happened to her. Shuffled about until she ended up in a home with foster parents who only required her attendance when the social worker came by for monthly visits. That’s how she landed on the streets. Needed some way to support herself.”
Al asked, “You’re sure about this? Her not having a sister?”
“Definitely. We have a lot of former foster children here. It’d be nice to think that every person who applies to take children in is picture perfect. And some are, which is when the system works. When it fails, it’s an epic failure. Not surprisingly, a lot of them end up on drugs.”
The Last Good Place Page 14
