Cicero's Dead (12 page)

“Yes?”

“We’d like to see the AR on a decedent, Dominique
Lamont.”

“You are?”

I flipped my PR license. “Nick Crane.”

“You have no authority here.”

“She does.”

Jade stepped forward and showed lemon mouth her
driver’s license. Her mouth puckered.
 
She snorted and trundled off to do our bidding. I grinned at Jade and a
moment later, the woman returned, handing it over. The Office was kind enough
to supply tables in an adjoining viewing room; Jade and I sat side-by-side and
read the Autopsy Report.

Witnesses:

SFPD-Northern Police District Detectives Franco
and Moskowitz were present at the autopsy.

Opinion:

The cause of death is a single shot from a Heckler
& Koch HK4 semi-automatic pistol to the right temple. The gun in question
was legally registered to decedent. The bullet passed entirely through the
skull of the decedent exiting from the left side of the skull just above the
hairline. The bullet traveled at an approximate 20% upward trajectory.
 
Toxicology tests revealed no illicit
substances. The decedent had taken a therapeutic dose of alprazolam
approximately two hours before her death as well as a standard dose of aspirin.
Trace amounts of Wellbutrin (bupropion) were also found in her system.
 
The amount of alprazolam appears
insufficient to have altered decedent’s ability to think or reason at the time
of the fatal incident.

The mode of death would appear to be suicide.
Decedent’s medical records show that she had been depressed for several months
at the time of the incident and had been in therapy with June Iverson, Ph.D.
Although Dr. Iverson, when contacted, chose not to release decedent’s
confidential information, she did state that decedent had suffered from
moderate to severe depression and had been prescribed Wellbutrin in addition to
alprazolam by her M.D. Dr. Iverson did state that decedent had discontinued her
therapeutic dose of Wellbutrin because it gave her “splitting headaches.”

Powder burns were evident at the star-like
aperture where the bullet entered decedent’s skull. In addition, there was
gunpowder residue on decedent’s right hand. These facts are consistent with
suicide. In addition, only one shot was fired which is also typical of
suicides. The bullet followed the upward trajectory consistent with suicide and
was fired at point-blank range as evidenced by the star-like wound formation
and the gunpowder residue. Had this been homicide, the shot would most likely
have been fired from a distance of at least 12 inches resulting in minimal
star-like formation and little if any gunpowder residue. Furthermore, had this
been homicide, there would be no powder residue on decedent’s right hand.

The theory of suicide is further supported by the
fact that decedent had old knife cuts across her wrists suggesting an earlier
suicide attempt at some point, perhaps two or three months before her death, as
well as minor knife wounds in her chest area, suggesting aborted suicide
attempts and apparent suicidal ideation.

Inasmuch as there is no evidence of any sort
consistent with homicide, the inescapable conclusion is that decedent’s death
was self-inflicted and was caused by the single pistol shot.

Lisa Gavin, M.D.

Deputy Medical Examiner

We then read the Investigator’s Narrative, which,
while exhaustive, revealed no information inconsistent with the theory of
suicide. Dominique’s roommate, Alexandra Snow, had discovered the body upon
returning home from lunch with a client at 2:30 in the afternoon, on August 28,
2007. She confirmed that Dominique had been quite depressed, and stated that
she’d been worried about her. She also stated that Dominique had broken up with
her boyfriend, Anthony Romano, a few weeks before her death.

There was no evidence that anyone suspicious had
entered the Pacific Heights duplex between 11:00 a.m., when Alexandra had left
for her lunch date, and 2:30 p.m., when she returned. Both the house phone and
Dominique’s cell had been checked. The only incoming calls to the house were
business calls for Alexandra.
 
Dominique had received no calls during this period, although she had
called 310/555-2257 repeatedly, once at 11:30, once at 11:54, and three more
times between 1:00 and 2:15.
 
310/555-2257 had not answered and Dominique had left no messages.

“My God, that’s Richard’s old number.”

I looked at her. “She was trying to reach him.”

“Shit. Why didn’t he pick up? It might’ve--”

“--You don’t know that, so knock it off.”

She nodded and bit her lower lip. “Dominique was
left-handed, yet according to this, she did it with her right hand. Why?”

“Maybe she was holding her phone in her left hand.
There’s no evidence that this was murder, so the real question is, why was your
mother depressed enough to take her life?”

Jade stood up and moved woodenly toward the door.
I quickly gathered the documents, gave them to the red-haired clerk, and
followed Jade outside.

We got in the Chevy, and as if by reflex, I headed
toward Pacific Heights. Jade sat with
 
furrowed brow, deep in thought.
 
She opened her purse and thumbed through a small address book.

I glanced at the ink filled pages. “Didn’t know
they still made ‘em.”

She closed it and put it back into her purse. “I
screwed up. I was so upset over Cicero’s death that I didn’t consider the
effect it had on Mother.”

“How was she at the funeral?”

“Stricken. She came alone and left immediately
afterward to catch her flight. Richard was crying and he never cries. It was
weird, too, because we were the only family members. Nearly everybody else were
Cicero’s guys. I remember thinking that his people were dressed way too sharp
for a funeral.”

“Sound like nice guys.”

“If you like thugs, but that was his world.”

“Did you speak to her after that?”

“Uh-huh, a couple of times over the next week. She
seemed okay, but was good at hiding her feelings. I guess it was all part of
being in a loveless marriage for so long, and being a mom at too young an age.”

“She was from the Islands?”

“Yeah and sometimes I think she left her soul
there and never went back to reclaim it. Her mother was a housekeeper and her
father a janitor at one of the hotels. Mother, Richard and I flew to the
islands when I was 11 and I met them, only once, though.” She fell silent and
looked wistfully out of the window. Close to tears, talking was obviously
cathartic for her. “My grandfather called me his little California
florita
, and would give me rides on his
shoulders. I missed him when we left.”

“Did you ever write?”

“No. You know how thoughtless children are. I
don’t believe he could read or write anyway.”

“What was your grandmother like?”

“Emilia, she was broken, having been endlessly
abused at the big house where she worked. They were rich people from Baltimore
and by all accounts, had wild parties. God only knows what went on. Anyway,
when I met her, she was mostly silent. I look like her though, more so than
Mother did.

“She’s still alive?”

“They both are, and don’t know Mother’s dead.”

Pacific Heights is probably the most affluent
neighborhood in San Francisco. It was originally mostly small Victorians, but
was largely rebuilt after the great earthquake. Today it is a mix of Edwardian
and Chateau-style homes, interspersed with lovely blocks of Queen Anne Victorians.

“Trust Mother,” said Jade, “to find the trendiest
neighborhood in the trendiest city in the western hemisphere.” She studied her
address book. “She lived on the top floor of an Edwardian mansion, on Jackson
Street, sharing the flat with Alexandra Snow.”

“How did they meet?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was through her boyfriend,
Anthony Romano, who I believe runs delicatessens. I’ve got his number.”

“Good, ‘cause we’re gonna talk to everybody.”

“What about the cops?”

“They won’t tell us anything that’s not in the
coroner’s report.”

Alexander Snow’s phone number turned out to be her
answering service. She was apparently some kind of personal adviser. I didn’t
leave a message.

Jade was despondent. “Guess we’ll try her later.”

“Not answering and not being in are two different
things.”

Parking on Jackson Street was non-existent, so we
resorted to a small, overpriced lot on Fillmore. Ms. Snow’s Edwardian was on
the northeast corner of Jackson and Divisadero. We studied the nameplates.
Snow’s was silver calligraphy on ebony backing:
Alexandra Snow, Advisor
. We rang the doorbell and waited, but there
was no answer, so I rang long and hard. Finally, a reluctant, irritated voice
said, “I’m not expecting visitors. Please call if you want to make an
appointment.”

“I’m Dominique Lamont’s daughter.”

“Come again?”

“Jade Lamont, Dominique Lamont’s daughter.”

A moment trudged by and finally the buzzer
sounded. “Fourth floor.”

Despite the elevator sounding like it could use a
good oiling, we were deposited, without incident, directly into Ms. Snow’s
foyer. A thin-faced, timid looking maid, wearing a long apron, peered at us.

“Hello,” she said, in heavily accented English.
“Come with me,
por favor
.” She led us
into a drawing room, which looked out over Jackson Street, and was flooded with
natural light. It was NorCal hip, tastefully New Age. Copies of Psychic
Reporter and Psychology Today
filled
a magazine rack next to
the door. A
graceful tiffany table lamp topped a cherry wood table standing next to an
antique settee, and a leaded glass mirror hung on the wall opposite the window.
Apparently, the New Age approach was good for business.

A few minutes later, Alexandra Snow swept into the
room wearing a Romanian peasant blouse, her long, thick hair spread about her
shoulders like a fan.

“Hello,” she smarmed, looking at us curiously.
“You are Ms. Lamont, no doubt. Your friend?”

“Nick--”

“--Crane,” I smarmed back.

“Dreadful business.”

“We’re trying to come to grips with Dominique’s
death,” I said helpfully. “We’ve been to the coroner’s office and are convinced
it was suicide. We’re hoping to understand why.”

“Ah yes, of course,” said Ms. Snow. “It’s very
upsetting when a loved one turns their hand against themselves.” She gave us
both a keen look, with eyes that were rather small, bright blue and wide-set.
“If I might ask, Mr. Crane, where do you live and what do you do?”

“Private investigator from Los Angeles.”

“I see.”

“You’re a psychic advisor?”

“I help people make decisions and find their
correct path.”

“Then you may have a unique insight into
Dominique’s state of mind.”

Ms. Snow hesitated, weighing her response.
“Although I did spend a lot of time with her, she was hard to get close to.”

This struck a chord with Jade and she nodded in
agreement. “You’re right about that.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that
dreadful day I found your mother,” turning to Jade, “dead in her bedroom.”

The words slammed into Jade; she sat there,
fighting back tears. I wanted to reach over and choke the New Age bitch for her
callous remark. Ms. Snow sensed my anger and slapped on a peacenik smile.

“Are you alright, my dear?” she inquired gently.

Jade nodded and choked down her emotion.

“It must have been a horrible shock,” I said.

“It was. Fortunately, I don’t scare easily,
although for a time I considered moving, but decided it was unnecessary. I’m
not aware of your mother’s spirit having remained at this address, or even in
San Francisco, for that matter. She wasn’t here long enough to grow that type
of attachment.”

I was struggling to remain calm and was tiring of
her pretentious mumbo jumbo. “What type of attachment is that, exactly?”

“Spirits or ghosts, if you prefer, develop an
attachment to their physical surroundings. That’s how hauntings occur.”

She was irritating the piss out of me, though for
all I knew she was right about the ghosts. “So you don’t think she’s here?”

“I’m almost certain she’s not. What I do know is
that Dominique was a divided soul. We met in a grocery store on Webster, when
she was new to the City and staying at the Drisco Hotel on Pacific. Her
boyfriend lived in Seacliff, I believe, and she wanted her own place.”

Jade asked quietly, “Was he nice to her?”

“I couldn’t say, but the first thing I noticed
about her were your emerald eyes.” This made Jade smile and Ms. Snow
reciprocated, this time with sincerity. “Your mother was genuine, a rare
commodity in this neighborhood. On a whim I told her that I had a spare room,
actually an entire spare wing, and that she was welcome to take a look if she
wanted to. She didn’t squabble about the rent. I appreciated that. I don’t like
to argue about money.”

“One thing about Mother is that she spent freely.”

“You alluded to not being close to her. Was
Richard?”

“He was, yes.”

“She was matter-of-fact when she talked about you,
but for him she had overwhelming love and sadness, as if she’d betrayed him
somehow.”

“I feel that way too.”

“You can only be responsible for yourself, my
dear.”

Jade couldn’t hold back. Her tears fell, big and
wet. Ms. Snow handed her a box of tissues. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes
and took a deep breath.

“We all felt abandoned but it was never clear who
was abandoning whom.”

“Yes. I’m sure that was very hard.”

“Any thoughts on the boyfriend you never met?”

Ms. Snow locked her gaze on me. The faintest of
smiles creased the corners of her mouth. “Although you might not put any
substance in what I do, Mr. Crane, I could tell you a lot about yourself.”