One of mckay's lawyers agreed with you that Jonah's information was not enough to warrant an OSC, an order to show cause to bring Suade up on charges of contempt. He told Jonah there was nothing the department could do.
"Jonah got pissed off. Said a lotta things he shouldn't have.
That's when he left. Walked out in a rage."
"Damn it."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. I should have gone with you."
"Wouldn't have done any good," says Harry. "Believe me. When that old man gets up a head of steam there's not much, short of a two-by-four up about the back of his head, that's gonna slow him down. By the time I got outside, he was gone. Got into a cab and disappeared."
"What time was this?" Harry scratches the back of his head. Thinks for a moment.
"About two. Maybe two-fifteen. When I got home, I called his wife. She hadn't seen him. That's when I started to get worried. He said some pretty provocative things. You heard him in the office this morning."
"Did you try his boat?"
"I did. He wasn't there. No sign of his car, either."
"That means he must have picked it up," I tell him. "I took Jonah to the office this morning. He left his car in the parking lot at the marina. I was going to take him back out there after our meeting. Forgot all about it." As we reach the lobby, I see why we have come here. Susan is standing just the other side of the ticket taker with the investigator Brower. She's wringing her hands, bundle of nerves.
"Did Harry tell you?" she says as soon as she sees me.
"Yes."
"I tried to talk to him. He wouldn't see reason. The lawyer told him "
"Yes I know. Harry told me. How did you find out about Suade?"
"It came over the car radio," Brower answers for her. "Police band. I heard it in my car."
"When was it? What time?"
"Jeez. I don't know." Brower looks at Susan. "I was heading back in from that interview out in the east county. Five-thirty.
Maybe six o'clock. I called the office from the cell phone in the car.
Talked to Susan, Ms. McKay. Asked her if she'd did. She hadn't."
"I don't know if anything's moving on the news yet," says Susan.
I can tell from their collective expressions they're all thinking the same thing I am. Where was Jonah?
"Was there any information on cause of death?" I ask Brower.
"At the time, they didn't know if she was dead," says Brower.
"They were calling in the paramedics. According to the reports, it looked like a possible gunshot."
"I called your house," says Susan. "You were out. So I called Harry.
He'd just collected his messages, said you were at the show.
Where's Sarah?"
"She's inside."
"Do you want me to stay with her? Take her home?" says Susan.
I think for a moment. Sarah is going to be disappointed, but under the circumstances I have no choice.
"That would be great." I pull Harry off to one side where Susan and Brower can't hear us. "Go to Jonah's boat and sit tight. If he shows up, call me on my cell phone." I make sure Harry has the number. "Don't go near him." Harry looks at me. "You don't think ... ?"
"I don't know what to think right now. I'll call Mary at the house and see if he got back."
"Save your nickel," says Harry. "I tried five minutes ago from the pay phone out front. He wasn't there. She hasn't seen him all day."
"Wonderful. Did you tell her what happened?"
"No. I figured no sense worrying her." I stop for a moment and think.
"She had a million enemies. Why settle on our client?"
"Tell that to Brower. You saw the look on his face. Besides, if Jonah's done something truly stupid, a conversation with Suade that turned ugly, what if he goes home? If he's berserk, panicked, no telling what could happen." Harry knows what I'm thinking.
Murder, then suicide, is not beyond the pale.
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Forget the boat," I tell him. "Try his house again. If he's come home, call me on the cell line. I'll be with Brower. If he's not there, tell Mary we need to talk to her, a meeting at the office."
"At this hour?" says Harry.
"We've got to get her out of that house until we know what's going on.
Offer to pick her up. If you're sure Jonah's not there, ring the doorbell. Any pretext. Get her out of the house. Do it quickly.
Take her to the office and sit tight. Tell her anything. Tell her I'm going to meet you there. If there are any questions, I'll explain to Jonah later."
"Where are you going?" asks Harry.
"Since we don't know where our client is, I'm gonna see if I can get Brower to escort me down to Suade's office. Maybe get me through the police lines."
"What for?"
"To find out what the hell's goin' on."
"Can we help?" Susan moved closer, to a point where she might be able to hear.
I smack Harry on the back. "Go." I turn to Susan and Brower. "You can,"
I tell her. I fish for the theater ticket stub in my pocket and give it to Susan. Her hands are trembling. She gives me a hug, a kiss on the cheek. "I hope it's okay, Mr. Hale I mean. I'm sure he had nothing to do with it. I'll take Sarah to my place when the movie's over. The girls are there with a sitter. They can play for a while." I thank her, check my watch. It's now eight-twenty. I prevail on Brower. Any hesitation is quickly crushed by Susan, who directs him to do whatever he can to assist. It's nice having a woman with a private police force.
Twenty minutes Later. I'm sitting in the passenger seat of brower's county car as we pull into the same parking lot where earlier in the day I'd sat and watched Suade play hit-and-run with the homeless.
So much has happened that it seems as if a month has passed since witnessing those events.
Cops seem to have a sixth sense, a traction beam that carries them to the scene of violent death, like iron filings drawn to a magnet. If it is anywhere within fifty miles, they will find their way there. The place looks like a motorcycle convention. Cops in leather jackets and riding boots, black-and-whites everywhere.
It has an otherworldly appearance about it. The parking lot at the strip mall across the street from Suade's shop is filled with emergency vehicles, flashing lights from patrol cars and paramedic units, a fire truck, cops controlling traffic on Palm at the cross streets.
People are slowing down to rubberneck. Kids cruising, seeing where the action is.
Across the street the entire building that houses the Copy Shop, from the corner on Palm to the neighbor's fence behind the rear parking lot of Suade's office, is quarantined behind yellow police tape. Cops, some in uniform, others in plainclothes, are milling everywhere, most of them outside the tape.
"You let me do the talking," says Brower.
"You got it."
"This is crazy," he whispers under his breath as he shakes his head and gets out of the car. Brower is not a happy camper playing safari guide to a defense lawyer, escorting the enemy into the cops' camp. I exit from the passenger side and together we walk through the crush of cops and media, cam crews with their vans, satellite dishes aimed skyward. We cross the street.
A large blue van with white letters a foot high emblazoned on the side SDC's id is parked just outside the tape. Its two rear doors, guarded by a cop in uniform, are open.
"County's Scientific Investigation Division." Brower whispers under his breath.
"If they're here, you can be sure she didn't die of natural causes," he says.
They are gathering trace evidence as we approach.
The large blue town car, the one I'd seen Suade driving that morning, is parked in the same place I had seen it earlier. Near its left rear fender, several figures, a woman and two men, seem to be crouching under bright lights. One of them is videotaping. I can see a single foot: the sole of a shoe, what appears to be a woman's high heel, protruding just beyond the rear wheel of the town car. The rest of the body I cannot see.
"Johnnie Brower. What brings you out on a night like this?" The husky voice comes from a uniformed cop, a big man with a beefy smile, shoulders like a bull, with sergeant's stripes on them. He is standing at the tape offering a ready hand to Brower, who seizes it.
I stand in close, riding on coattails so that I can follow Brower under the tape if he makes his move.
"Just makin' sure you guys don't step in the evidence," says Brower.
"Sam, meet Paul. Paul Madriani, Sam jenson, one of San Diego's finest."
Sam shakes my hand and gives me the once-over, one eyebrow raised as if Brewer's okay, but he's not so sure about me.
"We were just drivin' by. What's goin' on?" says Brower.
"They're getting' ready to put the body in the bag," says jenson.
"As for me, it can't happen soon enough." He rolls his toes in his shoes and rocks back on his heels. "Feet are starting to go flat" he says.
"You just noticed?" says Brower.
"Yeah, well, us real cops gotta work for a living. Not like some truant officers I know. Please, Mr. Policeman, don't slap me with that ruler."
Jenson looks at Brower, then winks at me and offers up a beefy laugh.
"I'll have to remember that next time I get called to a domestic dispute," says Brower. '"Be sure to let one of you real cops go through the door first."
"That's us, fuckin' bullet fodder with flat feet," says Jenson.
"So, what happened here?" says Brower.
"Looks like she bought it as she was gettin' ready to go home from work.
Just outside the back to her shop there."
"Not a good way to end your day," says Brower.
"No."
"So, what are they thinking?"
"Probably a robbery," says Jenson. "SIDS working the area over pretty good. Still can't find no weapon, though. At least not so far."
"How'd she get it?" says Brower.
"Gunshot. Small caliber. That's what the paramedics who got here before us said. They probably kicked the fuckin' gun down the alley into the next block. you know the emts with all that shit," he says. "tramp through the evidence. By the time we get on the scene, you can't tell what the hell was where. You're looking for a bullet hole, they got a fucking tracheotomy in it."
"Sounds like a vote against first aid," says Brower.
"That's a thought. All the good it did her," says Jenson.
"Who called it in?"
"Do-gooder citizen with a cell phone," says the cop. "Some rummy stepped out in front of her car, flagged her down. God knows why she stopped.
You should get a load of this guy. "Jenson's got a big grin on his face, looks around, first one way, then the other, sees what he's looking for off behind us, in the back of one of the parked squad cars.
"Over there." He points. "Guy looks like an escapee from Father Damien's leper farm. I'm afraid to look under the rags. His nose might fall off.
I had him put in the back of Jackson's cruiser, cuz he ain't gett'n' in mine."
"Rank's gotta have some kinda privilege," says Brower.
"Damn right." Jenson and Brower continue kibitzing as I study the figure in the back of the patrol car. The shadows are deep, and all I can see is a silhouette. But if there was any doubt, it is resolved by the shopping cart parked near the rear fender of the patrol vehicle. There can't be two with the same arrangement of plastic bags and wobbly third wheel not quite reaching the ground, the bundled treasures I'd seen scattered all over the sidewalk that morning.
"Did he see anything?" asks Brower.
Jenson gives him a shrug of the shoulders. "Let me put it this way. If I was the fuckin' shooter, I'd want him as the witness," says Jenson.
"Any chance he coulda done it?" I ask.
"Only if somebody showed him where to find the trigger and kept the muzzle out of his mouth cuz it looked like the business end of a bottle.
I don't think he's high on our list. Two of the guys had to carry him to the car. Walking him was taking too long."
"No other witnesses?" says Brower.
Jenson shakes his head. "Not that we found so far, though the evening is young." While we are talking, another man, in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, the knot partway down his chest, approaches the yellow tape.
He's wearing white surgical gloves, and Jenson lifts the tape so the guy can slip underneath without bending too low. He's holding two small paper bags in one hand, and a plastic evidence bag in the other.
"Whatcha got there, Vie?" Jenson's all eyes.
"A spent one." Vie, the tech, holds up the Baggie. There is a small bullet cartridge inside, tiny, almost invisible at this distance.
"Three-eighty," he says. "Enough to do the job. Close range.
Found it right by the body. We think it got caught up in her clothing.
When he dumped her, it fell out on the pavement."
"What do you mean, 'dumped'?" says Brower.
"We think she was in a car, parked there facing the alley with whoever killed her. Whoever did her, shot her inside the vehicle, dumped the body, and drove off. Down the alley." He points back in the general direction with the hand holding the paper bags.
"How did you come to that?" saysjenson.
"Cuz we found what appears to be stuff from the ashtray of the car, dumped on top of the body."
"What kind of stuff?" Vie opens the paper bag, gingerly puts his gloved hand inside, and carefully removes two cigarette butts.
"Got a little lipstick on 'em," says the tech. "You can see it right there. Looks like it matches the color of the gloss in the victim's purse. Also her brand of cigarettes."
"Her purse was there?"
"And her wallet with almost two hundred dollars in cash, and her keys, and enough credit cards to give the average junkie one hell of a shopping holiday."
"There goes the robbery theory," saysjenson.
"I'd say so. But he also left something else," says the tech.
He drops the cigarettes back into the bag, looks inside the other, and reaches in. This time he comes up with something larger, brown and cylindrical--the stubbed-out remains of a good-sized cigar.
"Maybe they'll find some chompers on it," he says. He's talking about tooth impressions that a forensic tech might be able to cast to match the cigar with its owner.
I suspect that the crime lab will be working overtime on this. I can tell that this thought is also running through Brower's mind.
For the moment he is simply staring at me, a portrait of angst.
He is feeling around, inside his coat to the breast pocket of his polo shirt, where he finds what he is searching for: the cigar given to him earlier in the day by Jonah, at the meeting in my office.
chapter Nine.
the county is a paichwork quilt of Law enforcement.
The larger cities within it have their own police departments.
Imperial Beach is not one of these. It contracts with the county sheriff for most aspects of high-end enforcement and investigation, including homicide.
At three in the morning, I am wiping sleep from my eyes as I steer Lena into one of the parking spaces marked visitor outside the sheriff's Imperial Beach station.
In law school I savored the notion that only emergency room physicians kept hours like this, an illusion that twenty years of criminal law practice has crushed.
According to Jonah, he has not been arrested, only detained.
Still, they allowed him to make one phone call, and he placed it to my pager. In turn, I called Mary and told her I would try to bring him home. She is worried sick. I then called Harry. I decided not to wake Susan. Fortunately, she has taken Sarah for the night.
From my conversation with Jonah, he required two things: legal advice and clothes. I asked him about the second, and he told me he would explain when I got here.
For a Saturday morning the place is quiet, a drunk being hauled out of the back of a squad car for his turn on the intoxalizer. I grab the shopping bag on the front seat next to me and move quickly through the parking lot to the entry and under the bright fluorescent lights of the lobby. Here the walls are an antiseptic shade of white, functional linoleum tiles on the floor, and bulletproof glass.
The cops are on the other side.
A big black woman in a halter top and shorts that fit her like a glove is arguing with the booking sergeant at a counter inside. I can see them through the glass. Her voice is muted by the thick wall of acrylic.
Still she makes herself heard, insisting she was just looking for a ride when the cops happened on her at the curb. Every other word out of her mouth is "entrapment." She looks at me through the glass and says it one more time, in my face as if maybe she's not pronouncing the word right--like "open, sesame." She says it a couple of more times, and they haul her away, through a door that opens electronically and leads to the bowels of the building and the holding cells.
The cop gives a quick shove with his feet, and his chair wheels from the booking desk to the public counter where I am standing.
"What can I do for you?" I slip a business card into the sliver of an opening in the stainless-steel frame around the glass. I speak into the small microphone embedded in two inches of bulletproof acrylic.
"I represent Mr. Jonah Hale. He's being detained. I'd like to see him."
The cop on the other side picks up my business card and looks at it, then at me. "You got a bar card?" I fish it out of my wallet and the sergeant takes it, my passport to the nether regions, then writes my name, bar number, and time on the log in front of him.
"Have a seat," he tells me.
"I'd like to see Mr. Hale now."
"I'll convey the message," he says. "Have a seat." I hit the hard bench across the room, check the time, and start counting floor tiles. It is then that I notice I have slipped my feet into my loafers sans socks; white ankles beneath the cuff of my pants. I cool my heels for several minutes and wonder if I am going to get any sleep this night.
"Mr. Madriani." When I look up there's a tall man standing there, suit and tie, close-cropped hair, and slender build. He has a pleasant smile, though his dark face has business written all over it.
"I'm Lieutenant Avery." He hands me a business card: Floyd Avery, detective lieutenant Homicide/Robbery Division I take his card and introduce myself.
"I understand you're here to collect Mr. Hale. He's in the back," he says.
"Is he free to go?"
"I thought we could talk for a minute," says Avery. Never-never land: not under arrest, but not exactly free either.
Avery leads the way. By the time his hand hits the knob on the door, the buzzer erupts, triggered by the cop behind the glass, and we are through. He takes me down a short corridor, stops at a door and opens it.
Inside I can see Jonah sitting at a table. As soon as he sees me, he's on his feet, a look of relief. He's dressed in an orange jumpsuit with large black letters stenciled across the front as if he were the property of the county jail.
As I enter the room, I see another man lurking in the corner, a mirror centered in the far wall, the distinct impression there are other eyes watching us: one-way glass.
"This is Sergeant Greely," says Avery. "Bob, this is Attorney Madriani."
I nod. We don't shake hands. It isn't that cordial.
"Is my client under arrest?" I ask.
"No." There is no hesitation from Avery.
"May I ask where his clothes are? Why the jail jumper?"
"We sent them to trace evidence." Greely is more direct. The aggressive one.
I give him a questioning look. "I take it you have a search warrant?"
"We don't need one to search what he's wearing," says Greely.
"Really? If you're searching his pockets for weapons, for evidence of contraband, maybe," I tell him. "But if you're vacuuming his clothes for trace evidence, hair and fibers, I beg to differ."
"Your client volunteered." Avery rescues his partner.