Capital Crimes (6 page)

Amanda thought about that, had no clear answer. She said, “Until we know more, I don’t think it would hurt.”

Spoken like a true politician.

9

A
s luck would have it, Barnes found a parking space right on Telegraph, the avenue swimming with the typical time-warp mix of hippies, retro-hippies, one-note fanatics and junk entrepreneurs looking scruffier than any of the others. The uniform was torn jeans, message T-shirts, leather headbands and glassy eyes. Booths were set up on the sidewalks, hawking everything from Maoist theory and anti-Amerikan nihilism to mood rings, organic Viagra, and scented candles. Music blared from speakers attached to competing CD stores. The resulting aural broth was a wall of white noise to Barnes’s ears, but what did he know, he’d never progressed much past Buck Owens.

Noise and body odor notwithstanding, Barnes was happy to be there. The day had turned sunny, the skies were clear and his lungs needed to suck in something other than death. On Telegraph, that meant secondary smoke not from tobacco.

Back in the Stone ages, when he’d been an eighteen-year-old high school graduate, advanced education in his circles meant two years at a community college learning animal husbandry. He’d been a decent, but uninspired student and a good varsity football player. Unfortunately there weren’t a whole lot of jobs for “good but never, never, ever gonna make it to the pros” running backs. Ergo, the military, and that had been okay for a few years. When he finished up his tour, he had narrowed his future to farming, trucking, or the police academy. Law enforcement was the decision because it seemed like more fun, and Barnes had some book smarts so he advanced within a narrow sphere.

As a detective, he got to use his brain, and, sometimes, he felt like he had a good one.

Still, whenever he had any business at the UC, he felt uncomfortable. He had never attended classes at a genuine university, and the Berkeley campus was as big as a city. It had its own government, its own police force and its own set of rules, explicit and otherwise.

As he walked along leafy lanes, some of the buildings were downright imposing, others looked as inviting as a concrete bunker and he felt like an invader from outer space. Invader past his prime.

Using his little map as a guide, he couldn’t help but notice how young the kids were and that made him feel even older.

Dr. Alice Kurtag’s lab was housed in a six-story, post-modern, brick and concrete structure that had been retrofitted for earthquakes. Berkeley wasn’t perched directly on the San Andreas Fault, but like all the Bay Area, the ground was plenty seismic and no one could predict when The Big One was coming.

And yet, thought Barnes, we pretend. He entered Kurtag’s building, drawing stares from a clutch of grad students. Kurtag’s lab on the fourth floor was sizeable; her office was not. Her private domain barely held a desk and two chairs. It did have a nice view of the city and the water beyond. The fog had lifted several hours ago and the burn-off had produced a blue sky streaked with white clouds and contrails.

Kurtag looked to be in her fifties, a handsome woman with strong features and a short efficient hairdo. She had blond streaks running through dark hair, and strong brown eyes. She wore little makeup, just a dot of red on her cheeks and something soft and wet on her lips. She had on a long-sleeved green blouse, black slacks and boots. Her ears were adorned with diamond studs. Her nails were short but manicured.

“Do you know anything about a memorial service?” she asked Barnes.

Her voice was soft and surprisingly airy.

“No, Doctor, I don’t. But I’m sure there will be one as soon as the coroner releases the body.”

“I suppose it’s premature at this stage.”

Barnes nodded.

“This is just terrible. What happened? Was it a robbery?”

“I hate to sound evasive, but we just don’t have all the facts. I know the city council is going to hold a town hall meeting tonight at seven. Maybe we’ll know more by then.”

“I certainly hope so. This is so upsetting. I work late at night. I’m alone here myself quite often. I’d hate to think of a predator stalking single women. And of course, poor Davida.”

“How’s the security here?”

“It’s a university. It’s filled with people who belong and people who don’t. Most of the time, I bury my nose in my work and don’t look around too much. Now I’m so upset, I can barely concentrate.”

“Were you and Davida close?”

“Over the past year, we’d become very close, working on her bill. Now…without her as an advocate…I really don’t know what chance we have for passage.”

Barnes said, “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Yesterday afternoon.” The doctor’s voice cracked. “It seems so far away now.”

“What was the occasion?”

“She stopped by to pick up some reports for some lobbyists. She was going to hit the capital full force this week and needed all the scientific information I could muster. I had some of the material ready, but not all of it. She was going to come by this afternoon to pick it up…” Again, her voice broke, but this time her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s a terrible thing,” Barnes said. “Did you socialize with Davida outside of work?”

Alice Kurtag wiped her eyes with a tissue. “With Davida, everything was work—from her parties to her meetings. Occasionally, when we were working long hours, we’d treat ourselves to dinner and a movie. Neither of us have children to rush home to.” The scientist smiled sadly. “We weren’t lovers if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

Barnes gave her a neutral shrug. “Did she ever confide in you?”

“Now and then, I guess. She’d tell me how worried she was about the bill. She only had support in the House if every one of her fellow Democrats chose to back her up. Some had changed their minds, others gave her a hard time from the beginning.”

“How so?”

“They objected to the cost of funding the proposition, said give the initiative-funded institute a chance.” Kurtag frowned. “Science doesn’t come cheap. What worthwhile endeavor is cheap?”

“Did she ever talk to you about personal fears?” When Kurtag seemed puzzled, Barnes clarified his question. “Was she specifically afraid of someone or something?”

“She never said anything to me…other than to complain how betrayed she felt.”

“Betrayed?”

“By her colleagues.”

“Which ones?”

“I don’t recall. I organize data, conduct experiments, write reports, Detective. I don’t do the actual lobbying.” She paused. “There was a woman representative…Elaine something.”

“Eileen Ferunzio.”

“She’s the one. Davida was furious with her. Apparently, Davida had recently thrown her support behind one of Eileen’s bills, so when she didn’t get reciprocity, she felt totally betrayed. But there was never any hint that Eileen was dangerous. That’s absurd.”

Barnes wondered. “We’ve heard Davida had received some threatening letters.”

“Threatening letters?” Alice thought about that. “Oh, from that crackpot down in Orange County? She seemed more amused by it than scared.”

“Do you remember the crackpot’s name?”

“Harry something.”

“Harry Modell?”

“Yes.” The doctor appeared annoyed. “If you know all of this, why are you wasting my time?”

“I know some things but not everything. So she didn’t take Modell’s threats seriously?”

“Not to my eye. She mentioned something to the effect that she knew things about him, and that all his threats were nothing but bluster.”

“What kind of things?”

“She didn’t specify.”

“Blackmail things?”

“Oh please, why would she waste time blackmailing a loser like him?”

Barnes pressed on. “After Davida mentioned these ‘things,’ did the threatening letters stop?”

“I really don’t know. It wasn’t the focus of our meetings.”

“How often did she mention Harry Modell?”

Expansive. “Maybe twice, three times.”

“When was the last time she mentioned him?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, Detective.”

“A week ago? A month ago?”

“Maybe a month, but I couldn’t swear to it. Really you’re making too big a deal out of him. Is that all? I’m distracted enough as it is. I really need to get back to work.”

“Please, Dr. Kurtag, just bear with me. Did Davida ever talk to you about Minette Padgett?”

Alice appeared uncomfortable. She didn’t answer right away. “You think Minette murdered her?”

The frankness of Kurtag’s question took Barnes aback. “What do you think?”

“I think that unless you think Minette had something to do with her death, I don’t want to talk about her.”

Barnes ignored her and pressed on. “Minette was having an affair…with a man. Did Davida know?”

Kurtag’s eyes hardened. “Davida didn’t place a premium on her domestic life. She had bigger issues to deal with.”

“What does that mean? She knew but didn’t care?”

No answer.

Barnes said, “Was she was going to dump Minette? Was she having an affair herself?”

Alice Kurtag’s eyes drifted to the ceiling. “It would be helpful if you asked your questions one at a time.”

“Okay,” said Barnes. “Did Davida know about Minette’s affair?”

“She hinted about it—Minette thinks she’s subtle, but she’s not. But she didn’t seem to care, Detective. She was getting a bit tired of Minette’s whining.”

“Was she going to dump Minette?”

“That never came up.”

“Do you know if Davida was involved with someone else?”

“No, I don’t. Frankly, I don’t see when she would have had the time.”

“I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Dr. Kurtag, but where were you last night?”

Alice was silent. Then she said, “Where I am practically every night. Here, at the lab, working.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone. Who else works at two in the morning?”

Davida had been at her desk at two in the morning. Barnes kept his thoughts to himself. “When did you leave the lab?”

“I didn’t. I slept here last night.”

“Where?”

“At my desk.”

And Barnes thought he had a lonely life. “Do you often sleep at your desk?”

“Not
often.
” Alice shot him a cold stare.
“Occasionally.”

“If I offended you,” Barnes said, “that wasn’t my intention. I have to ask sensitive questions, Doctor. Right now, I’m trying to piece together a time line. So you were here all night?”

Kurtag showed him her profile. Tight lips, squinty eyes. “All night,” she said softly.

“Alone.”

“I already told you that.”

“You’re sure no one saw you here?”

Kurtag’s smile came nowhere near mirth. “I suppose that means I have no alibi.”

“Would you mind if I gave you a gunshot residue test—just a swab of your hands?”

“I would mind because I resent the implication. But go ahead, do it anyway. Then you can leave.”

10

T
he Ronald Tsukamoto Public Safety Building housed both the fire and police departments of the city of Berkeley. The two-story entrance was shaped like a sewing spool with the bottom foot lopped off. It was Deco in style, each of the two semi-circular levels punched with large rectangular windows that sat atop each other with geometric precision. The paint job, however, was pure Victorian—ecru trimmed in robin’s eggshell blue and bright white.

Once inside, anyone having business with BPD waited in a rotunda with multi-colored abstract mobiles hanging from the ceiling. A spiral staircase with spaghetti-thin railings wound its way to the second story. The station was pleasant and clean, with checkerboard flooring and soft natural light filtering in from the generous windows.

The actual working interior was plain-wrap cop shop: windowless beige walls, fluorescent lighting, small cubicles with charmless but functional workstations. The equipment was often mismatched, and in the case of some of the computers, sorely outdated. The conference room furniture consisted of white plastic tables and black plastic chairs. Maps of the district, a calendar, a video screen and a chalkboard made up the wall decor. An American flag stood in one corner, the Golden Bear stood sentry in another.

It had been a hellish morning for Berkeley PD, but it was the captain on the hot seat. At six years away from retirement, Ramon Torres now had to explain to the mayor, the governor, and his highly vocal constituency how a beloved state representative had been nearly decapitated in her office and no one knew a damn thing about it.

The captain was short, stocky with leathery brown skin and piercing eyes one shade lighter. Each month expanded his bald spot; what little hair remained was black and that offered him some consolation. He winced as he read through the hate-spewing letters penned by Harry Modell, executive director of Families Under God.

Torres put the missives down and looked across the conference table at Isis and Barnes. Two of his best detectives and they’d learned nada.

“They’re obviously written by someone who’s bigoted and mean-spirited, but I don’t see enough actual threat for us to act. The First Amendment doesn’t discriminate between civil and barbaric.”

Barnes said, “I’m not recommending that we prosecute him, Cap, but both Amanda and I think it’d be negligent if we didn’t at least talk to him.”

Amanda said, “He’s written other poison-pen letters to female members of our state congress. If something happens to one of those ladies, we’ll be in deep waters.”

Headlines flashed in Torres’s head. Talking heads on the tube, his own name bandied about like a cussword. “How many women are we talking about?”

“At least two.”

“What about men?” Torres asked.

Amanda said, “None so far, but Detective Don Newell from Sacramento PD is investigating.”

Torres said, “Then maybe you should wait until Newell makes his report before I allocate the funds to send you down south.”

“I have another reason for wanting to go to LA this week, sir,” Barnes said. “Detective Newell arrested two losers who were behind the assault on Davida Grayson last week.”

“The egging.”

Barnes nodded. “Coupla morons named Ray and Brent Nutterly from the White Tower boys. Their boss, Marshall Bledsoe, might be visiting LA.”

“Bledsoe,” said Torres. “Suspected synagogue bomber but he was never charged. Egging seems lightweight for him.”

“True, sir, but Newell is pretty sure the Nutterly boys wouldn’t have acted without Bledsoe’s go-ahead. In light of Grayson’s murder, we should question him. That’s two obvious reasons for going south.”

“Obvious,” Torres repeated.

Amanda said, “Bledsoe lives in Idaho but we’ve got a bench warrant for outstanding traffic violations. His mother lives in the San Fernando Valley and Thanksgiving’s coming up.”

“Dropping in on Mommy,” said the captain. “You do any prep on this?”

“We called LAPD West Valley Division and they called saying there’s a pickup with Idaho plates in Mom’s driveway. That was an hour ago.”

Barnes said, “Four months ago, Modell moved about ten miles north of Bledsoe’s mother.”

“Convenient,” said Torres. “Do the two of them know each other?”

“Good question.”

Torres glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s too late to put you two on a plane and get you back in time for town hall. If Bledsoe is visiting Mom for the holidays, he isn’t going anywhere. The community meeting’s been pushed back from seven to eight. Community affairs is making up a list of mock questions. Go over them so you’re prepared. I know I don’t have to tell you this but I will anyway. No mention of Modell or Bledsoe by name. If someone asks about suspects, tell them we’re focusing our attention on a few persons of interest. You do all that, you can book tickets to La La Land.”

“Thanks, got it,” Barnes said.

“Meanwhile,” said Torres, “go down to the morgue in Oakland and see what forensics you can get on Grayson. Coroner’s running a full toxicology screen. Given an overkill shotgun thing in the wee hours of the morning, I’m still seeing red flags for a dope deal gone sour. Her blood turns up dirty, we’ve got a new kind of complication. Afterward, grab some dinner and clean up before town hall. I want you both presentable.”

“We’re not presentable?” Amanda asked.

“You are,” Torres said. “Barnes looks a little wilted.”

“I’ll unwilt, sir, maybe even shave. When should we leave for LA?”

“Book a seven
AM
tomorrow. Call up Southwest and JetBlue. Go with whoever’s cheaper.”

It took ten minutes for Amanda to connect with the deputy coroner in charge of Davida Grayson’s autopsy. Dr. Marv Williman was in his late sixties but had the voice of a much younger man. “Detective Isis. Well, this is kismet. I was just about to call you.”

“And here I am,” Amanda answered. “Will Barnes and I are on our way to see you.”

“I finished up the autopsy an hour ago. That means we can meet somewhere other than the crypt.”

“That’s fine with me. I’m wearing a designer suit.”

“Hoo hah,” said Williman. “Berkeley’s coming up in the world. I’m a little hungry. There’s a great Italian place named Costino’s about three blocks from my office, more trattoria than osteria.”

“Sounds good.” Amanda secured the address. “We’ll see you in about thirty, forty minutes.”

“What sounds good?” Will asked.

“We’re meeting Dr. Williman at an Italian restaurant instead of the morgue.”

“Pasta in place of pancreases, excellent. It’s been awhile since I ate something serious.”

“What constitutes awhile?”

“Depends on my mood.”

The pasta was excellent but Barnes was so hungry, he barely registered the taste until he polished off the plate. Linguini with fresh tomatoes, basil, garlic, smoked ham and fresh parmesan cheese. Williman seemed equally enamored of his osso buco. Amanda nibbled one slice of her mini white pizza and picked at her salad greens.

“Are you going to eat that?” Will asked, pointing to the pizza.

“Knock yourself out,” Amanda answered. “Want a slice, Marv?”

Williman said, “You’re not going to eat it?”

“I’m full.”

“Big lunch?” Barnes asked.

“Just trying to take off a little weight.”

“Where?” both men asked simultaneously.

“I hide it well.” She put down her fork. “So what can you illuminate for us, Dr. Williman?”

The doctor took a gulp of Chianti and set down his wineglass. “Actually I have a couple of important things to pass on.”

“Wait a minute.” Barnes wiped his face with a napkin, appalled at all the sauce it had soaked up, then fished out his notepad and pen. “Okay, go, Doc.”

Williman opened his briefcase and handed Amanda and Barnes a two-page stapled summary of the autopsy. “I haven’t finished the complete transcription but I wanted to give you this right away.”

He let them scan, then continued. “As you can see, the tox screen came up negative for the usual array of street drugs—”

“Is that blood alcohol level right?” Barnes remarked.

“Ah, you noticed. Very good. Yes, we ran it twice. Did this woman hit the bars last night?”

“I was told she went out to dinner with her mother at the ladies’ club then headed straight to the office. According to the server, they left around nine. Her mother was the last person to see her alive, other than the killer.”

Williman said, “I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t work very effectively with a BAL of .22. Any idea how much alcohol she consumed over dinner?”

Amanda said, “According to the waiter, it was the old lady who was shooting back the booze. Davida just had a single glass of wine.”

“Well, she made up for lost time, later. And her drinking wasn’t a one-shot deal. Her liver was in the early to middle stages of fatty cirrhosis.”

Amanda said, “I don’t recall anyone saying Davida was a heavy drinker. It’s Minette who imbibes.”

Barnes said, “The people I’ve talked to say Davida spent most of her time working, a lot of that alone. Maybe she was a secret drinker.”

Williman said, “She got booze in her system somehow. Chronically.”

Amanda said, “A BAL of .22 could explain why she was napping at her desk and didn’t hear anyone enter her office.”

“True,” said Barnes. “I like that.”

“I’ve got something else to add to the mix,” Williman said.

“Don’t tell me,” said Barnes. “She was pregnant.”

“Close—”

“She had had an abortion?”

“No—”

“Willie, you’re fixating on her female parts,” said Amanda.

“Because everyone’s fixated on their respective parts.”

“In this case,” said Williman, “Detective Barnes is on target. Davida had gonorrhea.”

The table went silent. The doctor continued. “Now, I’m not saying it isn’t possible to transfer the disease from female to female, but it’s considerably more likely to transfer the disease from male to female.”

Amanda said, “Did she know?”

“There were no external symptoms,” said Williman. “With women especially it can be like that. Makes it worse, by the time you find out, there’s damage.”

Barnes said, “Did you happen to find semen? Something we can send to the lab for DNA?”

“No semen, just bacteria,” said the pathologist. “And it took an eagle eye to spot ’em floating around.” He polished his knuckles. “So to show your gratitude, I’ll let you pick up the tab.”