“First, we look at body temperature, which drops by about one and ahalf degrees per hour after death. Second, we look at lividity. Whenyou die, your blood pressure goes down to zero and your body begins todiscolor. We can calculate the time of death based upon the amount ofdiscoloration. We look at food in the victim’s stomach. We see howfar the digestive process has gone. We know Mr. Holmes and Ms.Kennedy each ate dinner around ten o’clock. There was undigested foodin their stomachs. Mr.
Holmes had crab cakes for dinner. Ms. Kennedy ate a little bit of acheeseburger. Of course, we do a number of other tests.”
I try to sound like an earnest high-school student.
“And from this evidence, you concluded the time of death was betweenone and four in the morning?”
“Yes. We always give ourselves a three-hour window.”
“Did you find any alcohol in their systems?”
“Yes. Mr. Holmes had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner. Ms.Kennedy had consumed a small amount of liquor late in the evening.”
I’ll bet he knows the type of salad dressing each of them had withdinner.
“Perhaps we could look at the pictures.”
“Very well.”
We start with Diana. He shows me pictures of her naked body lying onthe stainless-steel autopsy table. I’ve seen hundreds of similarphotos. Still, I’m glad I didn’t eat a big breakfast.
“Ms. Kennedy,” he explains, “died within seconds. The first bulletpierced her right pulmonary artery and the lung parenchyma, causing ahemopneumothorax. In layman’s terms, it went through her right lung,causing a collection of blood and air in the space between the lung andthe chest wall. The second bullet penetrated the left ventricle of herheart.” He nods melodramatically.
He opens a manila envelope and pulls three enlarged pictures of what Ipresume is Bob’s head. He clips them to his bulletin board. He takesout a gold Cross pen and uses it as a pointer.
“Entry was in the right parietal, just above the temple. Exit in theleft parietal, above his left ear. Slight upward trajectory.”
This may help our suicide argument. Bob was righthanded. Hisanalysis is consistent with a righthanded shooter.
“How far was the barrel of the gun from his head when he was shot?” Iask.
“The starburst splitting of the skin indicates it was a contact wound,”he replies.
“I found powder marks and burns on his head. In other words, thebarrel was placed against the head.” His delivery is calm andclinical. He could be reciting baseball scores. He gestures towardthe picture on the right.
“This is the left side of his head, or, if you’ll forgive me, what wasleft of it. The exit wound was quite dramatic.”
I’ll say. Although I can make out the left ear, the rest of his headabove the ear line is virtually unrecognizable.
“Did you find evidence of gunpowder on his hands?” When a gun isfired, traces of gunpowder and other chemicals can be found on theshooter’s hand. I already know the answer.
“As a matter of fact, we did. We found gunpowder on his right hand andforearm.”
This adds to our suicide argument. He looks at the pictures. I stopto think. I decide to probe a little more.
“Doctor,” I say, “your report indicates there may have been evidenceof a concussive wound on his head. How can you tell?”
“There was a concussive wound, Mr. Daley,” he says emphatically. Hemoves his glasses down from the top of his head so he can see up close.He points to the area about an inch and a half above Bob’s left ear.
“Do you see this area right here?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.” I’m not playing games. I haven’t the slightest ideawhat he’s pointing at.
He zeros in on a spot just above the top edge of the exit wound. Itreminds me of the first sonogram pictures of Grace when Rosie waspregnant. They looked like a test pattern to me. The OH could makeout a head, a backbone and various organs. Rosie and I stood there andsaid we could see everything.
“I’m sorry.
I’m not sure what you’re pointing at.”
“Look a little closer,” he says.
“It’s a little hard to make out in the pictures.”
No kidding.
“Right here,” he says, as he gestures again toward a spot near the edgeof the exit wound.
“It’s as clear as night and day to a trained coroner.”
I still can’t see it. Then again, I’m not a trained coroner.
“It may have been larger,” he continues, “but part of it may have beenobliterated by the exit wound. What’s left is about a quarter of aninch in diameter. There’s a small hematoma.”
People think lawyers talk in code. Hematoma is doctor speak for aswelling containing blood. It’s hard to make out on the flat pictures.I think I see something, but I’m not sure.
“How can you tell it was not just part of the exit wound?” I ask.
He points to a spot on the edge of the exit wound.
“The exit wound stops here,” he says.
“The concussive wound is a separate injury.”
“I see. And how was this wound generated?”
“He must have been struck by a hard object.”
I look at the pictures again.
“Can you figure out the size or the shape of the object, Doctor?”
“No. It was heavy enough to do some damage. There were no traces ofpaint or wood or metal in the skull. It’s not like he was hit by acar.”
“Is it possible it may have been an old wound? Maybe he bumped hishead a few weeks ago.”
“No. It was fresh. It’s tough to see it in the picture, but if youhad the body in front of you, you’d see the bump was just beginning toform. Of course, the swelling would have stopped as soon as his heartstopped beating. And if he had been hit after he was shot, there wouldhave been no hematoma because there would have been no blood pumped tothe wound.”
Too bad.
“Doctor, can you tell if he was unconscious when he was shot?”
“Probably.”
This isn’t helping. On the other hand, a big part of their case mayturn on his ability to convince the jury that somebody hit Bob on thehead. The gunpowder on Bob’s hand is evidence he was holding the gunwhen it was fired.
“One last question. Are you sure somebody bopped him on the head?”
He strokes his beard.
“In my best medical judgment, the answer is Sandra Wilson is the bestfield-evidence technician, or “FET,” in the SFPD. She gathers evidenceat crime scenes. Now in her late thirties, this articulate black womanmay be the ideal prosecution witness—the voice of authority combinedwith a tone of reason. There will be no Dennis Fung in this case.
I’ve left Dr. Beckert and climbed the stairs to Sandra’s small officeon the second floor, which she shares with another criminalist. Heroffice reflects her meticulous approach. Her pens and paper clips arelined up neatly in front of a small picture of her husband. There’s apicture of a toddler on the top other computer. No pictures on thewalls, although her diploma from UCLA is on display. Her short blackhair and dark brown skin frame intense eyes. Her sensible clothingisn’t accessorized. Her husband is a cop. They aren’t rolling inextra cash.
She smiles.
“If my boss finds out I’m fraternizing with the enemy,” she says, “I’llcatch hell.”
“I’ll never tell.” I like her. She’s a straight shooter.
“All right,” she says, “I’ve got work to do. What do you need toknow?”
“The usual. Got any nice evidence that will exonerate my client?” Shelaughs.
“Of course. We’ve been sandbagging you.” She takes out a thick manilafolder containing crime-scene photos.
“As you can see,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone, “Holmes was on thefloor beneath his desk, Kennedy by the door. They were bothpronounced dead at the scene at eight-twenty-two. Gun was on the desk.Your client said he found it on the floor and unloaded it.” Shestudies her notes.
“Friedman’s fingerprints were on the gun, the spent shells and theunused bullets. Also on the computer keyboard, the door handle, thedesk.”
“We know he was at the scene.”
“There’s no doubt about that.”
“You got anything to help me prove he didn’t fire the gun?”
She hands me a photocopy of a diagram showing exactly where Joel’sfingerprints were found on the gun—something she doesn’t really haveto do.
“See for yourself,” she says.
I study the diagram.
“Did you find Bob’s fingerprints on the gun?”
“Several. Just the handle, however.”
“What about the trigger?”
“Just an unidentifiable smudged print.”
I put the diagram in my pocket. I want Pete’s input.
“Did you test Joel’s hands or clothing for gunpowder residue?”
She pauses.
“No, I didn’t. He wasn’t a suspect at the scene. By the time he was asuspect, he’d showered and his clothes had been laundered. It wouldhave been too late to get anything.”
“Meaning that if you’d done it a couple of days later, it wouldn’t haveshown anything.”
She acknowledges that this is true.
“You know, Sandra,” I say, “I’ll probably have to use that at theprelim.”
“I know. I know. You’re just doing your job.”
“What can you tell me about the gun?” I ask.
“It’s a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber revolver. Forensicsmatched the bullets. The blood-splatter analysis indicates that Holmeswas sitting in his chair when he was shot.”
“What about the keyboard? Skipper thinks Joel typed the suicideEmail.”
“I hope you aren’t going to try to come up with some hokey chain-of-custody argument.” Defense attorneys frequently argue the copsmishandled or even planted evidence.
“I know better than to try to nail you on chain of custody. I’mcurious, though. Did you find Joel’s fingerprints on all thealphabetic keys?”
She glances at her notes and frowns.
“Yes,” she replies.
I make a mental note to see if Bob’s E-mail used all twenty-sixletters in the alphabet. That seems unlikely.
“What about the numeric keys and the function keys?”
“We found your client’s fingerprints on all of the numeric keys andthree of the function keys.”
That’s odd. Lawyers use the keyboard to send E-mails and to do someword processing. They rarely touch the numeric or function keys.
“Did you find Bob’s fingerprints on the keyboard?” I ask.
She frowns again.
“No.”
That’s really odd.
“I see. Let’s talk about the tapes for a minute.”
“The voice mail from Friedman to Holmes was recorded at twelve-thirty.We tested the system. We’re sure about the time. We’ll call an expertif we have to.”
It’s probably not worth fighting over the time of the call.
“What about the call to Diana?”
“Phone company records indicate the call was initiated at twelve-fifty-one a.m.
It lasted one minute and thirty-four seconds. We found the tape inDiana’s answering machine.”
“You’re sure of the timing?”
“Yes. We tested the timing mechanism on the answering machine. It wasworking.
And don’t even think about arguing the tapes were tampered with, Mike.The fact is, they weren’t.”
“You guys aren’t doing me any favors.”
She looks serious.
“This is a highprofile case. Word came from above—no screwups.That’s why I’m involved. That’s why Rod Beckert did the autopsy.
That’s why Roosevelt is in charge of the investigation. They put thefirst team on this one. If Skipper loses this case, it won’t bebecause we screwed up. If you’re looking for Mark Fuhrman, he doesn’twork here.”
Swell.
“Sandra, do you have anything else that might be useful?”
“I’ll send you copies of the security tapes.”
“Any other fingerprints?”
“We found prints from everybody you’d expect—from his partners to hissecretary. We found Vince Russo’s fingerprints on his desk. We evenfound one of your fingerprints on his desk, Mike.” She grins.
“We’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
I glance at the picture of her son.
“Rod Beckert seems to think that somebody smacked Bob on the side ofthe head with a heavy object. Did you find any blood or hair onanything in his office that could have been used to knock him out?Maybe a book or a stapler or something?”
“No.”
That helps our suicide argument. I thank her for her time. She’sgoing to kill us at the trial.
CHAPTER 18
NOBODY’S TALKING
“Simpson and Gates has no comment concerning Mr. Friedman’s case. Wehave faith in the system and we are confident justice will beserved.”
—arthur patton. san francisco legal journal. friday, january 16 “Mr.Patton will see you now, Mr. Daley.” At nine o’clock the nextmorning, I’m back in familiar territory—the reception area at Simpsonand Gates.
Art Patton’s secretary ushers me to his museum like corner office onforty-six.
Like most high-powered civil litigators, there are no files in hisoffice. He has slaves to handle the grunt work. TheLouisthe-something furniture contrasts with the heavy oriental rugs.Several modern sculptures adorn his credenza. The walls are coveredwith photos of Patton with local politicians. He stands to greet me.Chuckles is sitting in one of Patton’s overstuffed chairs. He doesn’tget up.
Patton’s all smiles.
“It’s good to see you,” he lies. He doesn’t sit down. If he has hisway, this is going to be a short visit.
“I didn’t realize you were going to convene an executive committeemeeting on my behalf.”
Not surprisingly, Patton is going to act as spokesman.
“When you called, we thought it would be better to do this together.We’re extremely busy.” His eyes dart toward Chuckles.
“Look,” he says, *T know you want to talk about Joel’s case. It’s avery serious subject. A great tragedy.” He nods solemnly.
“We have given our statements to the police. We’ve put Joel onadministrative leave and we’re going to let the justice system take itscourse.
It’s all we can do.”
Smooth. And carefully rehearsed, no doubt. I decide to attackquickly.
“The police reports said you were in the office that night. I waswondering what time you left.”
“If you’re suggesting somebody in this room was involved, you’remistaken.”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just trying to piece together whathappened.”
He knows I’m lying. On the other hand, he’ll appear evasive if hedoesn’t answer.
“I left at one-thirty. Charles left a little later. We were workingon the Estimate. Neither of us saw or heard anything.”
It’s certainly convenient they can alibi each other.
“Thanks. I’m sure your story will be borne out by the securityvideos.” They glance at each other. Let them sweat a little.
“I understand from the investigating officers that somebody from thefirm said Joel was having an affair with Diana.”
“I don’t know anything about that. If I did, I’d tell the cops—notyou.”
“I was hoping you’d confirm you made those statements to the police.”
“We’ve given our statements to the police.” He starts walking towardthe door in an effort to escort me out.
I don’t move.
“I know you told the cops you thought Joel and Diana were having anaffair.”
“We have given our statements to the police,” he repeats in an eventone.
I decide to try a different angle.
“Is it true the firm defaulted on its equipment loans to First Bank?” Iwant them to think I know more than I really do.
Patton takes the offensive.
“The financial health of the firm is excellent. If I were in yourshoes, I would be preparing a defense for my client, not harassingus.”
“I can subpoena the firm’s financial records if you won’t answer myquestions.”
“This meeting is over, Mike.”
Things aren’t improving later the same morning. First Bank’s generalcounsel, Jeff Tucker, is a tight-assed little man in his mid-thirtieswho started his career at S and G. He went to work at First Bank twoyears ago when he didn’t make partner. Bob Holmes stabbed him squarelyin the middle of the back at the partner election. He’s still bitter.He works in a ten-by-ten office with a small window on the third floorof a boxy seventies office building on the south side of Market Street.In the mid-eighties, First Bank was a high flier By the earlynineties, the real-estate market tanked and so did First Bank. Itschairman was indicted for cooking the books and a Japanese conglomeratetook over. To cut costs, the bank moved its headquarters from palatialspace on the fortieth floor of the Four Embarcadero Center tower tooffices formerly occupied by a now-defunct insurance company.
It’s a quarter to twelve and Jeff wants to go to lunch. He squints atme through uncomfortable-looking contact lenses.
“I don’t know anything that would help you,” he says.
Not a bad strategy. When in doubt, try to deflect.
“I understand S and G is having some financial troubles.”
He scratches his balding head.
“You know I can’t talk about the bank’s customers.”
“I’m a former S and G partner. If the firm goes belly-up, I may becalled upon to cough up money to help cover its debts. As a result, ina very real respect I’m your customer. If you’d prefer, I’d be happyto come back with a subpoena.
I’d rather not.” A little overbearing, perhaps. But the tough-guy actusually works with people like Jeff.
He performs some sort of mental calculus.
“What do you really need to know?”
“I need to know if the firm is in financial trouble.”
“The answer is yes.”
“Has the firm defaulted on its equipment loans?”
His lips get tighter.
“Yes.”
“How big were the loans?”
“About twenty million.”
“Have you foreclosed?”
“Not yet. My superiors said it would be bad PR to foreclose on thefirm right after the tragedy.”
“I see.”
“So we gave them an extension.”
Very unbanklike behavior.
“Really? How long?”
“Sixty days. Either they raise the twenty million by the end ofFebruary, or we’ll foreclose. It’ll probably throw the firm intobankruptcy.”
Great.
He stands.
“I’ve already told you more than I should have. I’m late for lunch.”
At noon, I’m eating a quarter pounder at the McDonald’s on Pine Streetand talking to Rosie on my cellular.
“Were you able to reach Beth Holmes?” I ask.
“Yeah. She isn’t saying much. She claims she doesn’t know anythingabout Bob’s finances or investments. She doesn’t know anything abouthis will or his life insurance.”
“Great.”
“Guess who’s the executor of the estate?”
Easy question.
“Charles Stern?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“Everybody at the firm uses Charles. Dead people feel very comfortablearound him.”
She laughs.
“How did your meetings go with your former partners?”
“Lousy. Nobody’s talking. Total stonewall.”
“No big surprise. I gotta run.”
At one o’clock, I’m admiring the view of the Golden Gate Bridge fromthe thirty-eighth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid. Jack Frazier,Continental Capital Corporation’s mergers-and-acquisitions stud,occupies a corner office that’s far too large for athirty-two-year-old. He’s a tall blond with a vacant expression wholooks out of place behind his large mahogany desk. It’s hard tobelieve this guy persuaded his corporate masters in Connecticut to paynine hundred million dollars for Vince Russo’s company. From what Igather from Joel, he’s one of those young MBAs who got out of school atjust the right time. At the next downturn in the economy, he’ll bedriving a cab.
Before I can sit down, Frazier announces, “Continental CapitalCorporation has no comment with respect to the matters surrounding thedeaths of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy.”
His ever-present attorney, a sour-looking fiftyish drone named MartinGlass, interrupts him.
“Mr. Daley,” he says, “we have given our statements to the police. Wehave nothing further to add at this time.” He takes off his thick,frameless glasses and puts them on Frazier’s desk. As far as he’sconcerned, that’s the end of the story. It’s amazing how everybodyclams up when a defense attorney shows up.
Time to play bull in the china shop.
“I don’t need a lot of your time,” I say.
“I’m just trying to figure out what happened that night. What time didyou guys leave?”
Glass responds.
“It’s in the police report. I left a few minutes before ten. Jackleft around one-forty-five. We went home.” They’ve compared notes.
“Where do you guys live?” Again, Glass does the talking.
“I live in Seacliff.
Jack is on Russian Hill.”
“I see.” I know I can confirm the departure times from the securitytapes. So far, so good. Now, let’s see if I can get anything good.
“How was the deal going?”
They look at each other.
“Fine,” says Glass.
Good answer. Says nothing.
“Was it going to close?”
“Yes,” says Glass, nodding.
“All the papers were signed.”
“What happened the next morning?”
“I got a call from your client. He told me what happened.”
I pause.
“I understand there was a big breakup fee in this deal.”
Before Glass can respond, Frazier says, “Yes there was.” I make amental note that Frazier can be jumpy. If he’s really as smart aseveryone at CCC seems to think he is, he’d shut his mouth.
“How much?”
“That’s confidential,” Glass says.
“May I assume it was big enough that you didn’t want to pay it?”Frazier smiles and says, “You never want to pay a breakup fee, Mr.
Daley.”
Glass interjects, “I don’t see what this has to do with your client.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what was going on.” And to see if yourclient had motive.
“Mr. Daley,” says Glass, “we’ve told you everything we know. I feelbadly. I like Joel Friedman. I hope he didn’t do it. Of course, ifhe did, I’m sure he’ll get what he deserves.”
At two o’clock, I walk into Assistant City Attorney Ed Ehrlich’swindowless office on the fourth floor of a mid-rise fifties officebuilding near the Moscone Convention Center. The city can’t becriticized for spending taxpayer funds to lease opulent offices. Theowl-eyed Ehrlich looks at home behind his metal desk. There’s noartwork on the walls.
“I’m due at the redevelopment agency,” he says as I walk in.
“Can we talk later?”
“Sure. Can I ask you a few quick questions before you go?”
“Make it fast.”
“How late were you at the S and G offices that night?”
“I went home around ten.”
“Was the deal going to close?”
“As far as I knew. It was approved by CCC’s board. Everythingdepended on Vince Russo.”
“Was the city happy with the deal?”
He looks at his blank walls.
“For the most part. Some people were worried about funding for ourloan. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“When did Clan Morris leave?”
I see distaste in his eyes before he masks it. Seems Ed and themayor’s political fixer may not be the best of friends.
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he stay?”
“To do what he always does—work the room. He wanted to suck up to theCCC people for a while. Guys like that are always playing theangles.”
“See anything suspicious that night?”
“No. It was the usual legal bullshit.” He looks away.
“I gotta go.”
At two-thirty, I’m walking up Montgomery Street, talking to Pete on mycellular.
“Did you find anything?” I ask.
“As a matter of fact, I did. I did a little checking on Vince Russo.It’s correct that he never went back to the Ritz that night. The copwho found his car at the Golden Gate Bridge didn’t see anyone. The carwas registered to a limited-liability company called CamelotInvestments, LLC, which is owned by two trusts in the Bahamas. One iscalled the International Charitable Trust. The other is the CharitableTrust for Humanity. I’m checking it out.”
“Keep looking, Pete.”
My day hasn’t gotten any better as I sit in Clan Morris’s office atthree o’clock. Not surprisingly, the political consultant’s office isa monument to his favorite person—himself. Two walls are lined withpictures of Clan grinning with local dignitaries whose politicalfortunes he’s orchestrated.
Another wall is adorned with framed political posters for hiscandidates. A paunchy redhead, Morris is known as the Chameleon inSan Francisco political circles because he’ll represent candidates ofevery political denomination, as long as they’re able to come up withthe four hundred thousand dollars he charges to run a campaign. Heisn’t a nice human being, but his candidates win.
Lately, he has been running a Senate campaign for Edward Cross, aRepublican, and a congressional campaign for Leslie Sherman, aDemocrat.
At three-thirty, I’m still sitting in his office, watching him operate.He’s been on the phone since I arrived. In the last fifteen minutes,he’s raised about a hundred thousand dollars for Cross and anotherfifty grand for Sherman.
He cups his hand over the phone and mouths the word “Sorry.” He holdshis thumb and index finger about a quarter of an inch apart, indicatingthat he’ll only be a minute.
Finally, at three-forty, he hangs up.
“Raising money is the shits,” he says.
“I understand.” Don’t feel any obligation to apologize to me.
“I hate to do this to you, but I’ve got to run. I’m due at the mayor’soffice in ten minutes.”
“Can we reschedule for tomorrow?”
He’s putting on his coat.
“I’ll have to call you. I’m flying to L.A. first thing in themorning.”
“Can’t we talk for just a minute?”
“Can’t keep the mayor waiting. I’ll call you.” He’s out the door.
At four-thirty, I walk into Harrington’s, an old, dark, wood-paneledpub on Front Street that’s now surrounded by highrise officebuildings. I want to get there before the evening rush.
Rick Cinelli is an olive-skinned, dark-haired man with a raspy voiceand a reserved manner. He’s been tending bar at Harrington’s fortwenty years. He could run for mayor. I take a seat at the bar and hepours me an Anchor Steam.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Mike,” he says.
“Been busy, Rick.” I sip my beer.
“You know I left S and G.”
“I heard.” He walks down to the end of the bar to attend to acustomer, then he comes back.
“Helluva thing about Bob and Diana,” he says.
“I hear you’re representing Joel.”
“Yeah.” I pause.
“Actually, that’s why I’m here. I understand Joel and Diana were herethat night. The cops talked to you.”
He nods.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Ask away. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“They say you told the police Joel and Diana had a fight that night.”
“They did. One minute they were ordering dinner. The next minute theywere arguing. Next thing I knew, she stormed out. It lasted a minuteand a half.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Now, the important part.
“Do you happen to know what they were arguing about?”
“Nope.” He shrugs.
“It was busy. They were sitting in the corner. As long as they payfor their drinks, I leave them alone. That’s why I’ve been here for solong.”
It’s what I expect him to say.
“Could you tell if they were fighting about work?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Did you hear anything in particular?”
He looks across the room.
“I heard him say he was going to get her for something. I rememberthat distinctly. He said it a couple times.
“I’ll get you for this.”
” Swell. I pay him for the beer and I thank him. He promises to callme if he hears anything.
“Mr. Kim, may I speak to you for a moment?” I approach Homer Kim, ayoung Korean custodian, at the employees’ entrance to the Bank ofAmerica Building at five o’clock. The evening shift is about to start.I introduce myself and hand him a business card. He lookssuspicious.
“I wonder if I can ask you a few questions.”
He looks apprehensive.
“Late for work,” he says in broken English.
“It’ll take just a minute.”
He looks perplexed.
“Okay.”
I explain I’m representing Joel. He recoils.
“I understand you spoke to the police.”
He’s suspicious. He should be.
“Did you tell the police Mr. Friedman and Mr. Holmes had a fight thatnight?”
His eyes wander.
“Yes,” he says tentatively.
“Mr. Friedman was very angry at Mr. Holmes.” He starts to moveaway.
“Do you know why?”
His eyes dart away.
“No.”
“What did Mr. Friedman say to Mr. Holmes?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t know. I walked by the office. Mr. Friedman was yelling atMr.
Holmes.”
“Mr. Kim, do you know what they were arguing about?”
“Don’t know. Late for work.”
“Did you hear any shots?”
“No. Late for work.” He pushes his way around me. A good prosecutorwill get him to say exactly what he wants.
At six o’clock, I’m in my office with Rosie when Pete calls. I put himon the speaker phone.
“You guys get something?” he asks.
“Nothing useful,” I reply.
Rosie says, “Me neither.”
I ask Pete if he’s found anything.
“I had someone watching your friend Arthur Patton last night.” I canhear the grin in his voice.
“You were right about his divorce. He and his wife separated a couplemonths ago and he’s living in an apartment on Russian Hill. Aroundeight last night, he went over to pay a condolence call to the WidowHolmes.”
He pauses. I look at Rosie.