by Joanne Pence
Rebecca always enjoyed entering City Hall. Its rotunda was large and lavish, and its dome even higher than the US Capitol Building. It was completed in 1913, after the original city hall—a much larger and allegedly even more beautiful building—was destroyed in the city’s 1906 earthquake.
She went up to the second floor which housed the mayor’s chambers in a series of rooms. Rebecca first entered a large main reception area filled with security. She showed her credentials and asked to speak to Sean Hinkle. He was contacted, and she was directed down a hall of mayoral portraits to the staff offices.
Sean Hinkle met her in a small reception area. The first thing she looked at was his hair, and discovered he had a lot less than she remembered. He was what was often referred to as “prematurely balding,” with a short fringe of brown hair above his ears and the back of his head, and a few longer strands like lonely wanderers across the top of his head. He had also grown a bit portly. He looked nervous, but almost immediately flashed a smile.
“Rebecca, how nice to see you,” he said. “You’re looking great. And congratulations on becoming a homicide detective. I know you always wanted that position.”
“Thank you, Sean,” she said. “I’m enjoying the job a lot. And I hope you’re enjoying working for the mayor.”
“Well, you know, I always felt I could pick a winning team.” He beamed. He was a pleasant looking man, not exceptional by any means, but she remembered why she had gone with him on a few dates. “And obviously, this time I was right. But enough of all this. I’m assuming you’re here on business.”
“I am. Can we take this to a more private location?”
“Given your position, that’s actually rather unnerving,” he admitted wryly. “Since the mayor is out of the office today, let’s go to his lounge.”
He took her arm and walked her through the mayor’s official office, an impressive, high-ceilinged, wood-paneled room. Behind it was a small hallway and kitchen area. He offered coffee or a soft drink. She refused.
They continued down the hall. “Have you been here before?” he asked.
“Never,” she said.
“You’ve got to see this, then.” He showed her an all marble bathroom.
“Oh, wow.”
“It’s the mayor’s john,” he said with a chuckle. She smiled. They continued on.
“And here’s something else you don’t want to miss.” His demeanor completely changed as he gently opened the door to a surprisingly small room. In a somber, hushed voice he said, “This is now a storage area, but it had been Mayor George Moscone's personal office.” Moscone had been mayor in the 1970’s and was murdered in that very spot by one of the city’s supervisors. The supervisor, whose infamous defense was that he ate too many Twinkies, had also killed fellow supervisor Harvey Milk. She could understand why the tragic space had been turned into a store room.
At the end of the hall they reached the lounge. It was a sports-themed room filled with photos and memorabilia mostly from the city’s great Giants and 49er teams.
Hinkle took a seat on a leather sofa, and Rebecca sat on an adjacent matching leather loveseat. She began her questioning immediately. “I suspect you’re aware that an acquaintance of yours, perhaps more than an acquaintance, Audrey Poole, was recently found murdered.”
He dropped his gaze and nodded. “I read about that.” His voice was soft. “Absolutely horrible! She was a good person, a fun person.”
“I’m talking to people who knew her,” Rebecca explained, “trying to find any leads as to why someone wanted her dead. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Well, sure. I don’t know that I can help, but I’ll try.”
“Thank you. We’re still working on a motive. Can you tell me what your involvement was with her or her business?”
He looked uncomfortable. “We dated a few times. That’s all.”
“Recently?”
He grinned. “Are you asking if I’m free again?”
She didn’t return the smile, but waited for a serious answer.
“Sorry.” He looked embarrassed. “I’m a master at bad timing. And bad jokes. We dated, but I think both of us realized that it wasn’t really working out.”
“Looking at her phone records, the two of you were in contact on an almost daily basis.”
“Her phone records? I don’t—”
“We found her personal phone. The one listed under a different name.”
“Whatever,” he said dismissively. “We were friends. We talked a lot. That’s it.”
“I’m interested in her business dealings. I understand many were with foreign investors.”
“Yes. She worked with them almost exclusively.”
“Selling residential and commercial property in the city,” Rebecca added.
“Well, she was a realtor,” Sean said with a small smile.
“And you were involved with that, how?”
“As a friend, as I already said.” He crossed his legs and folded his hands. “She had many investors who wanted to buy homes and businesses in the city. San Francisco is doing phenomenally well these days, with the Silicon Valley people moving here and—”
“I’m aware of the city’s allure,” she said, interrupting his Chamber of Commerce B.S. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “sometimes when there are legal screw-ups a contact in local government can help smooth things over, make them work a whole lot more smoothly. That’s all.”
“Someone like you?” she asked.
“Me? No, I’m just a staffer. Audrey never came to me for anything.” He folded his hands. “I could point her in the right direction, nothing more.”
“I’ve heard you were involved with her investors,” Rebecca said. Even if she hadn’t, she might have.
He gave a small laugh. “You heard wrong. Sometimes one of her investors wanted to make a charitable donation to the city and Audrey would ask me who was most in need at the moment.”
“A charitable donation? Why?”
He shrugged. “It shows good will towards the city, and that opens doors.”
“You spoke to her before midnight last Wednesday night. I can’t imagine that was about a donation.”
“I did?” He had a sudden deer-in-the-headlights look. “Oh, yes! How could I forget! It was because we had scheduled a nine a.m. meeting the next day to talk about the San Francisco Opera foundation. Do you know we have one of the world’s best opera companies? It is truly amazing—”
“You called that late at night about a meeting?” she asked.
“Because it was canceled. And I knew she’d still be awake. I didn’t want her to rush over here for an early meeting for no reason. And if she didn’t answer, I’d have simply left a message. But I got to speak to her. Who knew that little nothing of a conversation would be the last time.” He gave a deep sigh and dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Is your holding company involved with real estate the way hers is?”
“My … oh, I have money in a trust. That could involve holding companies. I really don’t know. I have no head for finances.” He gave a forced laugh and was clearly nervous. “I leave all that to my financial counselor.”
“I see.” She handed him her card as she rose to her feet.
He stood as well, looking relieved that the questioning was over.
“We need to continue this discussion, but we’ll do it in Homicide, fourth floor, Hall of Justice,” she said. “I’ll see you there at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You don’t need to bring your attorney, but you might tell him to be within easy reach.” Pressure—especially when it was delivered in a forbidding, scary place such as Homicide’s windowless interrogation room—did get some people to buckle and tell all. And Hinkle, she suspected, would be one of them.
He blanched and looked almost faint. “My attorney? I don’t understand. Why?”
She just smiled. “See you in the morning, Sean. I’ll see
myself out.” Why, she wondered as she walked away, had she ever gone out with him?
o0o
Rebecca hadn’t been back at her desk two minutes when Lt. James Philip Eastwood came flying out of his office. “What do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.
“What do you mean?”
“You were questioning an important member of the mayor’s staff without telling me?”
“I’m sorry, but it just came up that he was the last person, other than the killer, that I know of who talked to Audrey Poole. Of course I wanted to talk to him.”
“And you didn’t think to let me know so that when the mayor called up to ask why my detective was wasting her time harassing his staff I’d have at least a prayer of answering him?”
“I was going to brief you now that I’m back.”
“Your partner didn’t know anything about it either!” Eastwood said, his face truly red now.
She looked around. “Where is Sutter?”
“He said he was going to look for you. I suspect he’s hiding.”
She waited a moment before she added. “I’m going to formally interview Sean Hinkle tomorrow morning, right here.”
Eastwood pursed his lips. “Come into my office. I want to hear everything.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After Rebecca calmed Eastwood down and returned to her desk, Sutter reappeared. The two of them reviewed their progress on the two murders. Neither one was pleased with their findings.
Since there was still no answer at the Bay-to-Breakers Realty, Rebecca tracked down the building owner and told him she needed him to let her into the office. He insisted someone was usually there between noon and two. When she pressed, he said he’d meet her at noon.
While Sutter went to Pinocchio’s to show a picture of Sean Hinkle to the cocktail waitress who served Audrey Poole and to ask if he was the person Audrey met there, Rebecca drove out to the Noriega Street address. It was a small storefront in a neighborhood shopping area. The building owner was pacing the sidewalk as she approached. “You don’t need me to unlock it. Someone’s in there, just like I said.”
An OPEN sign was in the window and the lights were on. “I see. Thank you for meeting me in any case.”
“It’s not as if I’ve got time to come here for no good reason,” the man muttered and stormed off.
Rebecca entered. She’d never seen a real estate office as quiet and empty as this.
A young woman sat at a desk with a computer and a phone. A nameplate in front of her read “Heather Louie.” Nearby was a small table with a few small bundles of brochures and real estate flyers, and in each corner stood a spindly potted plant, probably fake. Everything seemed to have a sheen of dust over it, as if doing anything here would be disturbing history.
Ms. Louie was wearing earphones connected to her smart phone, and was so engrossed in reading, she paid no attention as Rebecca approached.
“Hello,” Rebecca said.
The woman looked up, startled. She yanked the earbuds off and shut her e-reader. “My goodness. I’m sorry! I guess I didn’t hear the door.”
“I guess not.” Rebecca showed her badge. “Inspector Mayfield, Homicide.”
“Are you looking for a house?” The woman asked with a small smile, as if having a homicide detective standing in front of her was an everyday occurrence. She was young, attractive, and looked as if she might be of Chinese descent.
“I’m not here as a client,” Rebecca said. “I’m here because of Audrey Poole.”
The receptionist’s smile never wavered. “Oh, I’m sorry. Ms. Poole isn’t in at the moment. Can I take a message and have her call you?”
“I don’t think so,” Rebecca said, then took a deep breath. She guessed it wasn’t really this woman’s fault that no one had notified her of what had happened, or that she hadn’t heard the news. She also realized how badly she and Sutter had screwed up by ignoring Poole’s office for so many days. “You are Heather Louie?” she asked, pointing at the nameplate.
“That’s right.”
“Your position?”
“Ms. Poole calls me her office manager.”
Of course she does. “Have you worked here long?”
“I guess. About three months.”
“I see. And who opened up the office for you today?”
“Nobody. Ms. Poole trusts me with her key. It’s not as if there’s anything here to steal. The computer has a nice looking monitor, but it’s just an XP. I didn’t think it would even work, but it’s connected to the internet, and that’s all I ever need. I come in a few hours each week to check on the place, handle mail, deal with emails. That sort of thing.”
“I see. Do you keep any files in the office?”
“No. Anything Ms. Poole wants, she picks up. But almost everything is junk mail and gets thrown away.”
“Did you have contact with anyone from Bay-to-Breakers today?”
“Only Ms. Poole. I mean, there’s no one else here but Ms. Poole. And me, of course.”
Rebecca was taken aback. “Wait, are you saying you spoke to Audrey Poole today?”
“No. I rarely talk with her. But I forwarded some emails and typed up her voice messages and emailed them. She does her important work by text or her private number, but she prefers I send emails because most of the calls that come through this office aren’t high priority. They can wait.”
“Did you type up messages from Inspector Mayfield, Homicide?”
“Yes, several.” Heather’s eyes widened as she put two-and-two together. “Oh.”
Rebecca’s lips tightened. “When did you last actually speak with Ms. Poole?”
“Speak to her? Gee, I’m not sure. Maybe last week.”
“So what were the emails you sent today?”
“You mean, you want to see them?”
“That’s right,” Rebecca said.
Heather opened and shut her mouth a couple of times as if unsure what to say. “Ms. Poole said I should never tell anybody about any of her clients. Not unless she specifically tells me it’s all right.”
“I see,” Rebecca said with a sage nod. “Maybe you can tell me if anyone seemed particularly angry at Ms. Poole. Is there anyone she dealt with that worried you, perhaps? Or maybe even scared you a bit?”
The receptionist’s brow formed a worried frown. “Not that I can think of. Why? Is something wrong? Did something happen to Ms. Poole?”
“Try to think if there’s anyone troubling to you, please.”
Heather bit her bottom lip. “Hmm. Nobody important ever comes into this office. Most people phone. And they just ask to talk to Ms. Poole, you know. Nothing more. I mean, some sound anxious, like they’re in a hurry. But not angry.”
“Tell me,” Rebecca said, “are you by any chance Chinese?”
“Yes.” Ms. Louie smiled. “Ms. Poole does a lot of work with China. Every so often she asks me to translate something for her. Or to talk on the phone to someone in Shanghai. She mostly deals with Shanghai—lots of money there. She said she’ll take me with her the next time she goes.”
Hearing that, Rebecca decided it was time to come clean. “I’m sorry to tell you, I’m here because I have some bad news.”
Heather paled. “Yes?”
“Ms. Poole was attacked Wednesday night on the street near her home. I’m afraid she didn’t survive.”
“Didn’t survive?” Heather whispered, then stood up. “She’s dead?”
Rebecca nodded. “Now, I need you to think very clearly. Is there anyone at all who might have wanted to harm Ms. Poole?”
“I don’t know. She seemed as if everyone liked her. Oh, my!” She sat down again and stared up at Rebecca, her eyes filled with tears. “That’s terrible. I liked her. It would have been so neat to travel with her.”
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. It seemed she was saying that a lot lately. “I’ll be sending some computer experts from CSI to go through your computer. They’ll contact you shortly to make su
re you’re here when they arrive.”
“Okay,” Heather murmured.
“Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything that might help.”
With that, she placed her business card on the desk and walked out of the office. She was about to turn towards her SUV when she noticed someone familiar sitting in a pick-up parked across the street. She stared. The person scrunched down and turned his head away.
She walked up to the pick-up’s passenger door, and when it wouldn’t open, knocked on the window. “Open up, Vito.”
“Inspector! What a surprise!” He sat up and unlocked the door. “I was trying to find some good music on the radio and didn’t see you.”
“Sure you were,” she said and got into the car beside him. “Why does Richie have you watching Audrey Poole’s office?”
“Uh…”
“Out with it.”
“He wanted me to see if anyone takes over for Ms. Poole.”
She nodded. “And?”
“No one.”
“Why does he care who takes over?”
“It might be something about his mother. I’m not sure,” Vito said. And from his tone, he didn’t want to know. Thinking about Richie’s mother, Rebecca didn’t blame him.
“Who have you seen entering or leaving the office?”
“Besides the secretary, only one person. You. And I been here three days now. But the place is mostly closed. The girl, I mean, young lady, shows up a couple hours a day, weekdays only from what I’ve seen. Then she leaves, and so do I.”
“Okay, thanks. I told her Audrey Poole is dead. No one contacted her, apparently, and I guess she doesn’t bother with local news. CSI will show up for her computer, and after that, I expect she won’t be back.”
