Como’s genius lay in the fact that he’d positioned himself as the broker between all of the elements. He was the go- to guy for problems among the families of the power elite. If a judge’s son needed rehab, for example, Como’s wide- ranging connections in the social service community made it possible for a spot to open in a facility in Arizona, say, or Los Angeles, rather than in San Francisco where the boy’s presence could be politically embarrassing for the father. If a supervisor’s daughter needed a job, Como could find her a place with the Muni bus system. In fact, if a politician was having trouble with any one of San Francisco’s constituencies—unions, Hispanics, gays, immigrants, city employees—Como had been the de facto intermediary, greasing the wheels of governance through the judicious application of money or personnel.
For the simple fact was that election laws in the city forbade any individual giving more than $1,150 to any single political candidate, for whatever position, be it district attorney, city supervisor, mayor, or any other elected position. On the other hand, there was no limit at all to nonprofit charity giving, which could also be written off on taxes.
Len Turner’s position functioned entirely upon this axis. His clients, for the most part developers of multimillion-dollar, long-range city projects, found it in their hearts to be charitable to worthy foundations such as the Sunset Youth Project because the money that found its way into Dominic Como’s coffers could then be applied to the election of city officials sympathetic to these projects. Armies of volunteers, ostensibly on their own time, manned phone banks, handed out pamphlets, packed rallies, and—on a darker note—sometimes disrupted their opponents’ events. While technically illegal and certainly unethical, these practices continued unchecked because the people whose job it was to oversee these activities were among the very people benefiting from them.
Now Turner pushed himself a bit back from his table, crossed one leg over the other, and reached for his coffee cup. He met the eye of his companion and nodded. Jaime was telling him that he knew how the game was played, and signaling that he was ready to try to take his own game to the heights that Como had scaled. It was true that he wasn’t as polished as Como had been—but then who was? “Well, listen,” Turner said. “I appreciate your frankness, Jimi. Let’s let things settle for a few weeks—hell, Dominic’s not even buried yet—and then see how we stand. It’s good you’ve given me this early warning of your interest. I’ll pass it along to some of the board. Meanwhile, let’s get this reward up and running, take advantage of the opportunity that’s right in front of us. How’s that sound?”
“Good. That sounds good, Len. But I did want you specifically to know that my interest in taking over Dominic’s job at Sunset isn’t going away. If it wasn’t for the unfortunate choice of words in this situation, I’d be tempted to say I’d kill for that job.”
10
Tamara heard Hunt’s cry of delight from back in his office. She jumped up at her station, went to the connecting door, and opened it to see her boss standing up behind his desk, arms outstretched above him in the classic touchdown signal.
“I’m guessing good news,” she said.
Hunt brought his hands down, but his eyes still danced. “That was the wife, Ellen, who had just got off the phone with Len Turner. You want to guess?”
“She confessed?”
“No.”
“She gave you a list of suspects?”
“No, but she does want to talk to us. Meanwhile, how about if she puts up fifty grand on her own?”
“Fifteen?”
Hunt’s smile wouldn’t go away. “Five- oh, Tam. Fifty. She didn’t want people to think she didn’t care as much as any of the nonprofits. She’s the most hurt. She’s been damaged the most. She wants the killer to be caught more than anybody else. I feel terrible for her, but in all other ways, I’ve got to say that I’m starting to feel pretty good about this whole thing. Your brother is too much, you know that?”
“I do, but don’t tell him. He’ll get all swell-headed.”
“Don’t tell me what?” Mickey appearing as if by magic behind her in the doorway. “I promise, my head will stay the same size it is now.”
His sister half turned to face him. “Ellen Como just came in for fifty thousand, which brings us up to—you’re not going to believe this—two hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Mickey’s mouth dropped. “No way.”
Hunt nodded. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook. Ten here, fifteen there, a couple more twenty-fives. This was a brilliant idea.”
“Uh-oh,” Mickey said. “Tam’s right. I can feel my head getting bigger.” He pushed on the sides of it with both hands. “Stop,” he cried in mock desperation, “stop.” Then, smiling, “It’s no use. I’m going to have to buy a new hat.”
“You don’t have a hat,” Tam replied. “I’ve never seen you wear a hat.”
“Whew! That’s lucky. I could have been out a perfectly good hat.”
“I’ll buy you the damn hat,” Hunt said.
When the telephone rang again, Tamara pushed her brother to the side and ran over to her desk. Hunt came up to stand beside Mickey at the door, waiting to hear what was coming next.
“The Hunt Club, Tamara speaking. How can I help you?” A pause, then, “Yes. Yes, we are. Uh-huh, that would be us. Just a minute, Mr. Hunt is handling that. I’ll let you speak with him.” She covered the receiver and looked over. “It’s somebody from Len Turner’s office,” she said. “You’re not going to believe this, but the Board of Supervisors just voted to pitch in.”
By the time Hunt left the office, the city had pledged thirty thousand dollars and the total reward from still other nonprofits had grown to three hundred thousand.
It was a lifeline.
So he was in high spirits as, following Ellen Como’s phoned instructions, he pulled his Mini Cooper into the sandstone driveway in front of the mansion on Cervantes Street. Getting out of the car, he looked up at the façade in front of him, marveling at the way some people managed to live. He loved his giant old warehouse, of course, but that was industrial and mostly his own handiwork.
This place just took his breath away. Looking as though it had only yesterday been painted a rich Tuscan orange, it might have been plunked down whole and set here from the hills outside Florence. An actual turret rose over a circular entryway, giving the place the feel of a castle. One side of the face of the second story was a picture window that would, he knew, command a view of the Marina, the bay, and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond. Over the garage directly in front of him a riot of bougainvillea bloomed, and above that, apparently another entire wing stretched to the property line at the side and well into the back.
He took the fifteen curving steps up through a flowering garden of herbs and brightly colored blossoms and stopped at the top to check out the view behind him, which was, if anything, grander and more expansive than he’d imagined. Even the entry floor here was higher than the tops of the residences across the street, so the vista included the dome of the Palace of the Legion of Honor (in the lagoon in front of which Mickey had found Como’s body) and, beyond that, the greenery of the Presidio.
He tarried a moment longer, taking it all in, and was just about to turn and ring the doorbell when the door suddenly opened behind him.
“Mr. Hunt?” Ellen Como waited expectantly. “I didn’t hear the bell but I saw you standing out here.”
Hunt shrugged an apology. “I’m afraid I got mesmerized for a minute. This is quite a view you have.”
Cursorily glancing behind him, she nodded. “I tend not to notice it much anymore. It never changes, you know. But, please.” She stepped back and pulled the door with her. “Do come in.”
They sat on matching chairs with a table between them. The table held a plate of chocolate chip cookies, a floral pitcher of water, a coffeepot, sugar and cream, two cups and saucers, and two glasses.
Ellen was very nearly beautiful, obviously fit, and exquisitely tu
rned out. Here in the midafternoon, she wore a demure, dark brown, tailored evening dress. Not a perfectly dyed reddish-brown hair on her head was out of place. Hunt thought it was possible that she’d had a face- lift and maybe other cosmetic surgery, particularly around the eyes, but if so, the work was all but undetectable. He noticed her hands—usually a giveaway of age—and they were smooth and graceful-looking. She might equally have been thirty-five or forty-five and, at whatever age, a product of wealth and breeding.
“Before we get started,” Hunt began, “I wanted to express my condolences to you. I realize that this must be an incredibly difficult time, and if at any point you don’t feel up to talking . . .”
She acknowledged him with a small nod, a tiny lift of her cheekbones that might have been an attempt at a smile. “Thank you, but I asked you here, if you recall. I’m very grateful to you for coming out.”
“Of course. So how can I help you?”
She gathered herself, drew in a breath, folded her hands together on her lap. Her shapely legs were crossed at the ankles under her chair. “You said you’d be looking into tips you got from people who might want to claim part or all of the reward?”
“Right.”
“Well, I thought to do that efficiently you might need to have background on Dominic, on what he was involved in, who he was involved with.”
Hunt decided to come out with it right away. “Are you talking about Alicia Thorpe?” He’d already gotten the report from Mickey that Ellen had sent Juhle and Russo to talk to Alicia, to consider her a suspect.
Ellen Como narrowed her eyes, perhaps surprised by the question. “I mentioned her to the police,” she said, “and they didn’t seem too interested. They seemed more concerned with where I was, my so-called alibi.”
Hunt was canted forward on the chair, comfortable. “They did go and interview her,” he said. “I think the problem is that they don’t have any physical evidence yet. The murder weapon, anything like that.”
“So you’ve been talking to them too? The police?”
Hunt gave her what he hoped was a reassuring look. “Last time, just about three hours ago. We’re in pretty close communication.”
“When you saw them, did they mention that girl?”
“As a matter of fact, they did. I think they’re considering her a person of interest at this time, but as I say, since there’s no actual evidence ...”
Her eyes flashed in sudden anger. “What do they need? There’s plenty of evidence that she and my husband . . . I told them this, but they won’t do anything.”
“I’m sure they would if they could, ma’am. They’re under a lot of pressure to make an arrest soon. If they get something on anybody, they’ll move quickly on it.”
She now came forward herself. “Listen to me. I’m telling you for an absolute fact that my husband was infatuated with that girl. He told me so himself. He thought it was only fair that I should know.” She coughed out a bitter laugh. “He said they hadn’t done anything, if you want to believe that. Lorraine Hess as much as told me that she caught them in flagrante in the office. And she said it wasn’t the first time. As if that mattered. He said he was ‘just kind of in love with her,’ whereas he loved me. That was the real thing, where with her it was just something he was going through, he was sure he’d get over it, but he wanted me to know. He wanted to be honest, whatever that meant. It was all so civilized. He didn’t want to hurt our marriage.”
“So what did you do when he told you that?”
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything for a while. I was just numb. Here was my husband of thirty-two years telling me he was in love with another woman, but somehow that didn’t mean he didn’t love me too. Or even more. So for a couple of weeks, I think I just sleepwalked around the house, trying to understand.” She let out a long breath and straightened up with her back against her chair. “Then I came to my senses and told him that I just couldn’t take this any longer, that he had to fire her.”
“When was this?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Not the exact day. But recently, anyway. In the last week before he . . . he disappeared.”
“And what did he say to that? Your demand that he fire her?”
“He said he didn’t know if he could. It wouldn’t be fair to her.” Suddenly, she slapped her palm down on her lap, and again, and again. “Fair, fair, fair. As if what he was doing to me was fair. All that talk of fair, it made me sick. Literally sick. He didn’t know if he could. Can you imagine?”
Hunt could only nod.
“He kept saying that because they weren’t doing anything, and by that he meant having sex, that he was still faithful to me, that he wasn’t cheating. But I didn’t even know what he meant by having sex. I mean, since Clinton, who knows what that means anymore? Maybe they were doing everything but. . . .” She blew out heavily. “Oh, listen to me. It doesn’t matter what they were doing. He was in love with her. That was the important thing.”
Hunt gave her a few seconds to get herself under control. Then he spoke quietly. “So what finally happened? How did you leave it?”
Her head nodded several times. “Last weekend, his last weekend, I mean, I told him I was kicking him out if he didn’t fire her. That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. We had a terrific fight.”
“And?”
“And he agreed.”
“He agreed to fire Alicia?”
“Yes. I told him it was me or her, and for once he made the right decision.”
“And this was just before he went missing?”
Another nod. “A day or two before.”
Hunt mulled this over for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet hers. “Ellen, did you tell all this to the police?”
She hesitated. “Not all of it,” she said, then went on. “They made it clear they thought it might have been me who killed him. They wanted to know what I had done the night . . . the Tuesday night. They kept going on about was I sure what I’d done and what time I’d gone to sleep, and why didn’t I report him missing until the next day.” She sighed. “Anyway, it was just clear to me that they thought it must be the spouse, it was always the spouse. They weren’t going to look too closely at the Thorpe girl, no matter what I said, they already thought it was me. But then I got to thinking that maybe I didn’t tell them what they’d need if they talked to her. I was just mad, and not thinking too clearly, since they’d only just told me they’d found Dominic.”
Hunt paused again. “So did he, in fact, fire her?”
“Yes.” She tightened her lips. “On that Tuesday, he called me at home to tell me specifically that he had told her it was over. She was done working for him.” She gathered herself, drew herself up. “Then I’ll tell you what happened. Then she met with him that night to beg to get her job back, and he told her he couldn’t give it to her, and she went into a rage and killed him.”
Hunt let out a breath. This was a compelling and believable enough scenario. Unfortunately for Ellen, there was an equally compelling argument to be made that everything had been exactly as she had described it except for Dominic actually firing Alicia. Instead, perhaps Ellen had followed him to the Palace of Fine Arts, and heard him tell Alicia he was leaving his wife to be with her. If it was going to be either Alicia or Ellen, Como might have said, it would be Alicia. And so by the time Alicia left, Ellen had worked up enough of her own jealous rage to kill him herself.
But Hunt only said, “Do you mind if I go back to the police and give them the parts of this story you left out?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I wish you would. I should have told them the first time. I just wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“They may want to come back and talk to you again.”
“That would be fine,” she said. Then she added, “I know if they look, they’ll find something on her.” Then, suddenly, as though someone had thrown a switch, she broke a really beaming smile, wiped her palms on her dress, and stood up. “I’ve already sent Len my
check,” she said. Crossing back to one of the sideboards, she turned. “This is going to sound a little funny,” she said.
Hunt got up on his feet as well. “What’s that?”
“If it turns out that that girl did kill Dominic, and I’m certain that it will, and it’s on my information that they get her, I’m going to claim that reward. All of it.”
11
The press release went out at 3:45 and Tamara got the first call at 4:08.
“You-all ain’t cops, right, ’cause I ain’t talkin’ to no cops.”
The caller identified herself as Virginia Collins and she lived alone on a thirty-foot sailboat named Delightly, berthed in the Marina. She’d heard the announcement about the reward on KNBC’s four o’clock news on her radio, and she wanted to know who she could talk to to give her information. She wanted to make sure that there was a record of exactly who she was and when she had called so that if her information checked out, she would get the reward.
She’d heard all kinds of stories, she told Tamara, about where they’d announce a reward and then deny payment to the person who really helped get the arrest and conviction because they weren’t connected and didn’t know anybody who had to do with releasing the reward funds. And also, she wanted to know about the conviction part. What if they just arrested the person you’d helped to identify, and then they couldn’t convict? Did you still get the money? Or any part of it?
And while she was at it, did Tamara know how hard it was to get convictions on anybody in San Francisco? It was common knowledge that juries in this town never convicted. Virginia’s brother John had been an attorney for a while, working for the DA, this was back in the eighties, and even then it was nearly impossible to get a jury to convict somebody.
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