Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (33 page)

Everything from the desk went into evidence bags, along with a digital answering machine whose memory was filled to capacity with incoming messages.

“There's no computer,” Woodhouse's partner commented.

“Check with the super whether she had a car,” Woodhouse suggested.

His partner returned a few minutes later. “He says she did have one but sold it six months ago. She rents, according to him, and takes taxis and car services.”

“All right,” Woodhouse said. He instructed the crime scene techs to dust for prints, especially in the bedroom, bathroom, and any glasses in the dishwasher. He and his partner returned to their offices at 850 Bryant, commonly known as “the hall,” and wrote up their report.

“If she was a call girl,” his partner commented, “those names on the desk calendar are a good place to start.”

Woodhouse agreed and checked his watch. “I have to get home, a family thing. See you in the morning.”

As he reached the door, his partner said, “I'd like to nail the son of a bitch who did this.”

“With any luck we will.”

And he hoped that they'd be lucky enough to not
need
luck.

 

CHAPTER

39

Sheldon Borger had not been aware that Elena's body had washed ashore and was now on a slab at the city morgue. But that changed when he opened the paper the following day and read that the original Jane Doe now had a name, Elena Marciano, and that she'd been identified by a family member. The article carried the headline M
YSTERY
V
ICTIM
N
O
L
ONGER A
M
YSTERY.
The writer reported that according to anonymous police sources, the victim, originally from Portland, Oregon, was thought to have been a high-priced call girl. There were no suspects, but the investigation was ongoing. A photo of the victim taken from the Internet in which Elena appeared to be working at a trade show accompanied the piece. Evidently she
had
done some modeling at one point in her life.

Borger had read the newspaper after returning from the airport where he'd driven Sheila Klaus for her return trip to Washington. The sessions with her, and with Carla, had gone smoothly; he was confident that the control he exerted over her was complete and that she would carry out his instructions to the letter.

“Damn,” he muttered as he slammed the paper down on the desk in his study. He cursed again, this time his invective directed at Puhlman and Gibbons. They'd assured him that the body would remain submerged.
I never should have trusted them,
he thought. If her body had been properly disposed of, no one would have missed her. After all, she was just a prostitute, he reasoned, probably from a broken home. Who would worry about her disappearance? No one. And if someone did come forward, the police would dismiss his or her concerns. They had bigger, more important things to worry about.

Borger read the article again.

Now his wrath turned on Itani. He never should have left him alone with Elena. But how could he have anticipated that the young man would turn on her and do such a thing? He was obviously mentally unbalanced. If Itani was capable of turning his inner anger on someone outside of Borger's influence, he might do it again before he was turned loose as an assassin.

He picked up the phone. “Peter, it's Sheldon.”

Puhlman had been dozing in a chair when his special cell phone rang in the Virginia safe house.

“Hello, Sheldon, how are you?”

“Not good. There's a complication.”

Puhlman had been half awake when he answered the phone. Now he snapped to attention. “What complication?” he asked. “Something with the plan here?”

“That young woman has been found.”

Puhlman's face creased with confusion. “Young woman?” The answer came to him during the silence on the other end of the connection.

“How?” Puhlman asked.

“It doesn't matter. They've found her and she's been identified.”

“Oh?” He didn't know what else to say.

“Are you there, Peter?”

“Yes, I'm here. Jake assured me that—”

“Jake's assurances are worthless.”

“What do you want me to do?” Puhlman asked, realizing that he'd begun to sweat.

“There's nothing you can do at the moment,” Borger replied. “But I wanted you to be aware of it.”

“Yes, I appreciate the call.”

“How is Iskander?”

“He's … he's fine. He's right here.”

“Put him on.”

“Hello,” Iskander said after Puhlman had handed him the phone.

“Hello, Iskander, it's Dr. Borger.”

“Hello, Doctor.”

“How are you feeling? Have your headaches returned?”

“No, they have not. I want to come home.”

Borger forced a laugh that was meant to be reassuring. “You'll be home soon, I promise you.”

“I want to fight. When will I fight? I want to see my mother and brothers.”

“Yes, of course you do, and you will see them very shortly, only another day or two.”

Borger realized that he'd said the wrong thing, and Itani picked up on it. “You mean I will be coming back to San Francisco in a few days?”

“What I mean, Iskander, is that you'll be coming back after your fight there in Washington.”

“When will that be?”

“As soon as Jake makes the final arrangements.” When Itani didn't respond, Borger said, “Revenge is sweet, Iskander.”

Puhlman watched Itani slip into a deep trance.

“You must listen to me, Iskander,” Borger said into the phone. “You know that you can trust me—and
only
me. I will always do what is best for you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I want you to hand the phone to Peter, then go to the kitchen, get a glass of water, and bring it to him.”

Puhlman continued to observe as Itani did as instructed and was surprised when Itani handed him the glass filled with water and took back the phone.

“Did you do as I told you, Iskander?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, you are to go to your bedroom and lie down on the bed. In a half hour you'll come out of the pleasant trance state you're in and feel refreshed and happy.”

“How is Elena?” Itani asked.

“Elena is fine. She asks for you often and is looking forward to seeing you again. Now give Peter the phone and go lie down.”

Itani handed Puhlman the phone and disappeared into his room.

“You gave him those instructions?” Puhlman asked.

“Yes. My control is still complete.”

“What about the other situation, the one you called about?”

“I'll take care of it. It will be necessary for you and Jake to leave San Francisco immediately after returning. I'll make all the arrangements, including the money. Our friends have been generous.”

“And you?”

“I'll need to leave, too. Is everything ready there?”

“I believe so. Colin's deputy called with final instructions.”

“Good. Keep a close watch on Iskander until it's done. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And I suggest that you not tell Jake about this turn of events.”

Puhlman readily agreed. Gibbons had become obsessed with the potential ramifications of having gotten rid of Elena's body. Knowing that she'd been discovered might put him over the edge.

The call completed, Puhlman paced the room. Gibbons had gone for a walk and would be back in an hour. The news about Elena being found hit Puhlman in the gut like a sledgehammer. The assassination of Senator Mortinson did not unduly worry him. Borger had the backing of powerful people, including elements of the CIA. But the murder of Elena was another matter, one that Puhlman was afraid was beyond Borger's ability to control. He didn't need Borger's advice to leave San Francisco immediately upon returning. He'd been planning to do so ever since that morning when he and Gibbons disposed of her body. The need to leave the city hadn't been particularly urgent as long as she remained in her watery grave in San Francisco Bay. But now …

*   *   *

While Borger had put on a confident façade during his conversation with Puhlman, his true state approached panic. Like Puhlman, his fears didn't revolve around the assassination of Mortinson. But Elena's murder was beyond his scope of influence.

He forced himself to get his emotions under control and to think clearly.

Much depended upon what the police would find in her apartment. Had she kept a diary, or a so-called little black book with the names and addresses of her clients? He could only hope not. But he had to plan as though she had.

Assuming that his name was found in her possessions, and further assuming that the police would follow up, he had to have his story straight. The housekeeper and cook certainly knew that Elena been at the house on a number of occasions, and had even stayed over a few nights, especially when the young prizefighter, Iskander Itani, had been there. But there was nothing beyond that to link him to her death. “Yes,” he said aloud as an idea struck him. He would say that he'd been counseling her to leave prostitution before something nasty happened to her. What would he say if they asked whether he'd availed himself of her sexual services? He'd make light of it and say that it was only after he'd been a client that he began working with her as a patient. He might even say he'd fallen in love with her. No, that was too over the top. His story would be that she'd become a patient and … and he would also say that she'd confided in him that she'd recently been stalked by a client who'd threatened to kill her. He'd urged her to go to the police, but she was afraid because of her illegal occupation.

Satisfied with that story line, he proceeded to ponder who else might link him to her. He thought back to what Itani had told Mica Sphere when she'd spent time with him at the house, that he had a girlfriend named Elena. But why would the police question Mica? They didn't even know that she existed. Elena was not such an uncommon name that Mica would remember it. Elena had been identified as Elena Marciano, but she used the name Jones when working. If Itani had told Mica Elena's last name it would have been Jones, not Marciano.

What about Puhlman and Gibbons?

He had no choice but to trust them and get them out of San Francisco as quickly as possible. Their work with him was strictly off the books, cash provided by the CIA in most cases, augmented by funds from his backers in the assassination plot.

Of course, there was Itani, who'd actually killed her. But his induced amnesia was rock-solid as far as Borger was concerned, both of having killed Elena and for having been programmed to assassinate George Mortinson. And if things went as planned in Washington, Itani wouldn't live to tell anyone anything.

*   *   *

As Borger formulated his story, Detective Duane Woodhouse and two colleagues were sifting through Elena's calendar and address book.

“This name ‘Borger' appears on four days on the calendar,” a detective said, “and there's an address and phone number for Dr. Sheldon Borger on Nob Hill in her book. Must be the same guy. And look at the last date. It coincides with the approximate time the ME said she died.”

“Let's pay the good doctor a visit,” Woodhouse said.

Borger saw the unmarked car pull up at the gates and a man in a suit get out and press the intercom button.

“Yes?” Borger said into a unit in the kitchen.

“Dr. Borger?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Woodhouse, San Francisco PD. We'd like to have a word with you.”

“May I ask what this is in reference to?”

“It'd be easier to explain in person, sir.”

“All right,” Borger said, pushing a button that electronically opened the gates.

Woodhouse and his partner got out of their car and approached the front door. Borger opened it before they reached it and said, a wide smile on his face, “I'm not used to being visited by members of the city's finest.”

“We appreciate your time, sir,” said Woodhouse.

“Come in, come in.”

He led them to his study and asked if they wished something to drink.

“No thank you, sir. We're here regarding a young woman named Elena Marciano.”

“Elena?” Borger said, feigning surprise. “What about her?”

“She's been the victim of a murder.”

“Oh, no. Murdered? When? Where?”

Woodhouse ignored the questions and said, “We have reason to believe that you and the deceased had some sort of a relationship.”

“Relationship? Yes, I suppose you could call it that. I was her psychiatrist.”

Woodhouse and his partner looked at each other. Borger's response was unexpected.

“She was a patient of yours?”

“Yes. I can't believe what I've just heard. Good Lord, who could have done this horrible thing to her?”

“That's what we're trying to find out, sir. Were you aware of how Ms. Marciano made her living?”

Borger paused before saying, “I'm not sure just how much I should reveal about her. After all, she was my patient and there's the doctor-patient privilege to consider.”

“That really doesn't hold water, Dr. Borger,” Woodhouse said, “not when a homicide is involved.”

“Please don't misunderstand,” Borger quickly added. “I want to be of as much help as possible. You ask about what Elena did for a living. She was a prostitute.”

“Yes, we've pretty much established that,” Woodhouse said. “Did she talk about her customers with you?”

“Customers? She referred to them as clients.”

“Did she name any of them?”

Borger displayed his widest smile and raised his hand. “I think we're veering into a touchy area,” he said.