Devil's Garden (33 page)

“And he ran.”

“No, not then,” Daisy said. “He was a good boy for a while. He went back to the same ring that supplied the booze for Fatty and ended up getting sent to Plumas County to help run a moonshine still with this fella named Clio. This old-timer Clio. You shoulda seen this guy, looked like a real miner forty-niner type with the whiskers and flop hat and all. He ran a fifty-gallon still in this abandoned lumber camp that was only eight miles from the Blairsden railroad station, where they’d move a lot of the stuff. We knew every move LaPeer was going to make but played it patient waiting for the good stuff to make its way from the Philippines or up in Canada. But all of our plans got shot to shit.”

A little girl in a straw hat with a pink ribbon turned to stare at Daisy with an open mouth and then leaned back over the ship’s railing and tossed bread crumbs to a dozen seagulls. The seagulls just hung in the wind, barely moving their wings, catching and fighting over the crumbs, another dozen joining the others squawking and fighting.

“LaPeer sniff him out?”

“Mr. Mitchell and I figure we got a rat on the inside,” Daisy said. She stopped walking and found a spot to lean over the rail and look out at the fishing boats heading out through the Golden Gate. “A few weeks back, LaPeer sends Jack Lawrence back to the old lumber camp with a letter, telling him to hand it off to Clio. And of course what does Lawrence do but open the son of a bitch. It read something like, ‘I don’t know whether to trust this Australian bastard or not, keep one eye open.’ That being kind of a joke between LaPeer and Clio, I guess, because Clio only had one eye.”

“Then he ran?”

“Scared shitless.”

Sam offered her a smoke.

“Don’t you have a coat?” she asked.

“I hocked it.”

“For what?”

“A nice cut of meat.”

“Hard times.”

“Not too bad,” Sam said. “I got some bum lungs and a lousy job. You read about all these vets who come home shell-shocked out of their mind and end up checking out early with a .45.”

“That’s a solid way to look at things, Sam.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, leaning over the railing with her, about the same spot over the edge and meeting her eye. She smiled at him and he smiled back.

“Don’t you need to work?”

“Guess so,” Sam said. “Waiting for the cops to finish up with the purser and then I’m headed down below.”

“What’s below?”

“Where they kept the money,” he said. “Stronghold. So they say it’s an inside job?”

“That’s what I heard.”

Sam nodded, still staring back at Daisy. He wanted to touch her face. She had a lovely cleft in her chin.

“They pulled me off the Arbuckle case.”

“This is a big job.”

“Wasn’t the job.”

“What was it?”

“Greed.”

“From who?”

“You ever feel like you’re no better than a prostitute?”

“Every day,” she said. “You got an alternative?”

THE THREE HUGE WOODEN DOORS were brought in during lunch and placed within the witness-box. Roscoe knew about them and the fingerprints, expected them, but didn’t think they were going to get into the whole mess today. When the jury was brought in, the men and women stared at the doors, as if they’d propped up a corpse for the viewing, something tangible, the first physical piece of the St. Francis they’d laid eyes on. Roscoe poured some water from the pitcher and leaned back into his seat. He took a swallow, and as U’Ren began Roscoe started to examine his cuticles, glancing up to the man sworn in by the judge.

E. O. Heinrich. A tall, gangly man in a rumpled black suit. He wore glasses but still needed to stare up at the judge and out at U’Ren. He was nervous and bookish and that all suited U’Ren well as the bastard continued to call the witness “Professor” on every occasion.

McNab waited a minute for the accolades and then pushed back his chair, standing and cutting off U’Ren’s reading of Heinrich’s résumé credentials.

“Your Honor, we challenge this witness as an expert.”

“On what grounds?” Louderback asked.

“We have no issue with Mr. McNab asking the witness a few questions before we proceed,” U’Ren said, a cracked smile showing. “In fact, we insist.”

McNab pursed his lips, nodding, moving toward the witness, wasting no time. “What cases have you testified for in this state?”

“In this state?” Heinrich asked.

“Yes.”

“None in this state.”

“So you have never testified in the state of California on fingerprints for any district attorney.”

“No, sir.”

“Where else have you testified in the Superior Court or a court of criminal jurisdiction?”

“In the state of Arizona and the state of Washington.”

“How often have you testified on fingerprints in the state of Washington?”

“Once.”

“How often in the state of Arizona?”

“Once.”

Brady and U’Ren stood in unison, Brady putting his mitt to U’Ren’s shoulder and seating the boy. He said, “Perhaps it would please Mr. McNab to have Professor Heinrich take the fingerprints of every jury member, have them secretly numbered, and then test his abilities.”

McNab stuck a thumb in his vest pocket and looked over the jury box and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

Louderback yawned and told U’Ren to please resume questioning the witness. And there were degrees and citations and awards and scientific papers, and as they continued McNab started to fidget and tighten his jaw, his rough, old-man breathing growing louder until he pushed back the heavy chair and stood. “I think we’re quite aware of Mr. Heinrich’s gold stars. May we continue?”

Louderback rolled his fingers for U’Ren to move on and U’Ren smiled with his ragged little teeth and asked for the assistance of Miss Salome Doyle, who worked in Heinrich’s lab.

She was a skinny redheaded woman, flat ass, no tits, and a nervous little grin, aware of everyone watching her and loving it, as she set up an artist’s easel. Roscoe half expected her to curtsy. On the easel was an enlarged photograph with what looked like fingerprints made of silver. Roscoe leaned in, nicked a rough cuticle off with his mouth, looked down at his hands and then back at the easel.

This skinny fella Heinrich was led by the nose through the setup: Three doors from the St. Francis. Two handprints on a panel. One belonged to Virginia, with an overlay of prints belonging to Roscoe.

Roscoe looked over to McNab, but McNab showed nothing. His hands crossed over his big chest, breathing, resting like an old fighter in the corner. Roscoe thought McNab might doze off in the heated courtroom.

“And what does this pattern say? How does it speak to you, Professor?”

“It says that at some point Mr. Arbuckle had his hands over Miss Rappe’s by the door.”

“In what manner?”

“It’s of a scientific opinion that there was a struggle,” Heinrich said.

“Objection,” McNab said, on his feet. “The witness is an expert in identifying fingerprints. No body of work exists that allows Professor Heinrich or Salome Doyle to read them like tea leaves.”

“What did scientific methods show?” U’Ren said, glad of the correction, smiling and pacing. Mouth closed, waiting for Heinrich to spill what he’d been coached to say.

“My methods conclude me to believe that Mr. Arbuckle was trying to prevent Miss Rappe from leaving the room. You can plainly see the patterns formed in the aluminum dust.”

“Objection,” McNab said.

“Sustained,” Judge Louderback said. “The jury will disregard the witness’s testimony as to the events precipitating the fingerprints.”

Several jurists scribbled into notebooks. Roscoe looked at them and then back at his hands. Big paddle fans wheeled above them all. Stray coughs and seat shuffles while U’Ren drove home his points.

When he finished, McNab took his place, pulling his watch out on its gold chain to check the time and buttoning back his black coat.

“Is it possible to have these doors reexamined?” McNab asked.

“No.”

“Because too many hands have touched them.”

“In the courtroom.”

“Perhaps even wiped down with a cloth.”

“Perhaps.”

“Calling up your methods and as an expert in such matters, could these surfaces show sufficient prints after being wiped down and scrubbed with a cloth?”

“I would say not.”

“Prints would be obliterated.”

“Yes.”

McNab nodded, thoroughly interested, digesting what Heinrich had to say, slowly looking over to skinny Salome Doyle and nodding at her.

“On what days were these doors removed from the St. Francis and taken to your laboratory in Berkeley?” he asked.

“I don’t recall.”

“Did you not make notes?”

“I most certainly did,” Heinrich said, opening a thick but small ledger.

“September sixteenth. It was Friday.”

McNab smiled.

“Eleven days after Miss Rappe took ill?”

“The room had been sealed.”

Brady was on his feet and the judge motioned him over and there was much squabbling, words that Roscoe couldn’t hear. And then Brady walked back to the prosecutor’s table and sat back down.

“Was the room encased in glass?”

“The doors were locked.”

“And not a single person touched these doors since Miss Rappe was moved into 1227.”

“Yes.”

“A record of the events frozen in time.”

“Most surely.”

“And you’re sure even the most gentle wiping of a dustcloth would remove such evidence?”

“The tests could only be conducted in my laboratory with Miss Doyle’s help.”

“Not to be repeated now.”

“Yes.”

“Because the doors are tainted.”

Brady stood and frowned. “Judge?”

Judge Louderback looked down at McNab. “Cover new ground.”

“Your Honor,” McNab said, “to ease the confusion of the court and the jury, I wish to call a rebuttal witness at this time.”

Louderback waited.

“A Miss Katherine Brennan.”

Louderback looked annoyed and bored. Roscoe poured some more water.

“And who is that?” the judge asked.

“The good woman who cleaned that room the day after the Arbuckle party. Since we’re calling her work into question, it’s only right that she has the opportunity to respond.”

THE STRONG ROOM on the
Sonoma
was a solid steel box, sealed with a solid steel door that took three keys to open. The keys belonged to the first officer, the purser, and the captain. According to the rules, all three had to be present when the door was opened and when it was closed and locked. The captain told Sam he’d made regular trips, night and day, to test the door’s integrity. But he did not open the door nor could he see inside. The strong room had no windows, no barred peepholes, and, as far as the captain knew, the loot had been stolen shortly after he’d seen the safes loaded inside at Honolulu. Fifteen chests, each one containing ten thousand gold sovereigns.

“Mr. Houdini couldn’t find his way out.”

“How much do they weigh?” Sam asked, examining the three locks.

“The chests?”

“Eighty pounds.”

“And five are missing?”

The first officer nodded. The purser joined them and then Captain Trask.

Each man showed Sam the lock procedure. Repeating it twice more. “Fifty thousand gold sovereigns. Four hundred pounds,” Sam said.

“Could they have been off-loaded with the booze?”

“What booze?” Captain Trask asked, mustache twitching.

“The booze crates you dropped at the three-mile limit.”

The captain’s eyes were very clear and very blue, and he soon blinked and simply said, “No. I watch that shipment myself.”

Trask pushed open the steel door and it groaned and clanged against the inside wall. The men waited for him outside as if their presence would taint his work. The strong room was oval and painted with a pink primer to stop the rust. Sheets of metal formed the curved corners, rivets driven in flush with each piece. Sam felt over the smoothness of the room, the gentle curves, and below him he could hear the humming and pulsing of the engine room, a
woosh, woosh
sound that was comforting.

The ten remaining chests lay in an orderly row, side by side. Everything else had been removed from the hold. Sam dropped to his knees and touched the blackened scars on the pink primer where chests had been dragged from the room. The black marks went straight for the steel door, and there were no signs that any other point of entry was possible, no ventilation ducts, no signs of drilling. Sam felt the tracks, gouging deep into the paint, where the gold was ripped from the room. He moved his hands along the path, feeling something wet and, smelling his fingers, knowing it was some really good Scotch.

The Scotch formed a very small puddle in a low spot in the steel sheeting. At some point, maybe this voyage or maybe one from years ago, a single rivet had been yanked away in the path. Most of the Scotch had drained out through the tiny hole and Sam wondered if there wasn’t a lucky crewman below who thought his prayers had been answered.

He stood in the room for a long time, hearing that gentle
woosh
, and cursing himself for not seeing the obvious.

“Sir?” asked the first officer.

Sam turned.

“We need to lock back up,” he said.

Sam nodded and stepped through the bulkhead. The door sealed and locked by all three men.

“Any clues?” Captain Trask asked.

“Your lock is brass, not steel like the others,” Sam said. “The thief or thieves changed out the captain’s lock before the trip and made impressions of the other two keys.”

The purser and first officer exchanged looks.

“It’s an inside job by someone who could get close enough to you two,” Sam said. “Now, let’s start with a list of the crew.”

The captain said he’d get a list, and they walked back through the mail room and out to a stairwell, and Sam told the men he’d like to snoop around a bit. He wound his way around the guts of the ship, through hallways of staterooms and offices. There was a barbershop and a shoeshine stand. An empty restaurant with tables changed out with fresh linen and crystal and silverware laid out for the cruise back to the Pacific. Daisy Simpkins was back by the kitchen with another dry agent. When she saw Sam, she said something to the agent and he bounded around Sam and headed up the stairs to the top deck.