Part 21 (1/2)
”I'm not even so sure of that.”
”No? Why not, pray?”
”Because even if it's hers, we don't know if it's his s.e.m.e.n.”
”Granted. But we will know in a couple of days. And?”
”And you just seem to want to be building this case on one flimsy lead after another. You really don't see this?”
”I see what you're saying, sure. First we get the tire iron. We know it's Como's hair on it, but we don't know it's from Como's limo, although the tire iron from the limo is missing. Right? Right. There are a lot of tire irons in the world. Close, but not proof positive. So then we search the limo and guess what? We find the scarf. And sure, it might not be the Thorpe girl's scarf, and it might not be Como's masculine essence on it, either, but-”
”Jesus, Dev, you think you could just say 's.e.m.e.n'?”
”I doubt it. I don't even say 's.e.m.e.n' when I'm talking to Connie.”
”So what do you . . . no, never mind. Forget I asked. Go on.”
”So I agree with you, is what I'm saying, in theory. We've got all these things we don't know for sure. Could be but might not be. The tire iron, the limo, the scarf that might not be hers, the s.e.m.e.n-see, I can do it-that might not be his. But let's say-let's just say-that the elements of the trail I see here all turn out to go in our direction. I mean, it turns out the tire iron came from his limo. It's her scarf and his s.e.m.e.n. Then, in that case, she's definitely lied to us, which tells us something new, doesn't it? Now, add to that that she had daily access to the limo, that he fired her that day-”
”We don't know that. Only maybe that he said he was going to.”
”So we ask her that too. She tells us yes, she's got a motive. And all this is not even talking about Monday night, where she slept in her car out by the beach a couple of blocks below where Nancy Neshek breathed her last.” Juhle took the last loud slurp from his iced tea, held up a hand until he'd swallowed it. ”I'm not saying we're ready for an arrest here, Sarah. But come on. Put a little press on her, get another statement, see if she answers the same as last time. What have we got to lose?”
When the service was over, Al Carter hung back over in the corner of the downstairs lobby of the War Memorial building while Hunt corralled Turner, the Sanchezes, and Lorraine Hess into a circle off to the side at the bottom of the steps. Carter listened in while Hunt pinned down each of them in turn about their whereabouts the night of Neshek's death. It seemed to take some of the wind out of Hunt when he learned that they'd all been at a meeting with one another on the Monday night when Neshek had been killed. But then when he learned that Nancy Neshek had been there with them all, too, he picked up again. So, Hunt asked, what time did the Communities of Opportunity meeting break up? Where had every one of them gone afterward?
This last question got Turner hot enough that n.o.body wound up having to answer. Maybe, Turner had exploded, Hunt didn't realize that he was talking to the leaders.h.i.+p of the philanthropic community in San Francisco. None of Len Turner's a.s.sociates were suspects in either one of these murders. In fact, Turner himself had hired Hunt and these people had contributed to the reward. Weren't those the facts?
Hunt had had to admit that they were.
And then Turner went on the offensive. Carter had heard him do it before. He reminded Hunt that all of these executives had places to go and important things to do, and maybe Hunt could better spend his time following the leads he had already developed through the process they were paying him for rather than hara.s.sing them in this ridiculous manner, thank you.
After the executive group broke up, Hunt had waited until they'd all left the building, then he'd sat down on the steps and had a brief talk on his cell phone. By the time he closed the phone and slid it into its holster on his belt, Carter was standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, leaning back against the wall.
”That Len Turner, he's a force of nature, isn't he?”
Hunt stood up, nodded in acknowledgment through a frustrated grin. ”Al Carter, isn't it?”
”Yes, sir. I had a talk with one of your people the other day out at Sunset. Mickey?”
”Mickey it is.”
”And his grandfather is Jim Parr?”
”That's him. Do you know Jim?”
”I do. He was my predecessor and taught me some of the driving ropes. It's not all about steering and brakes and acceleration, you know. There's a significant political component as well.”
”I'd imagine so. In any event, Mickey mentioned that he might be trying to see you again today, as a matter of fact.”
Al Carter's wide, intelligent face closed down slightly. ”He didn't make an appointment.”
”No. I think he just planned to go out there and hoped he'd run into you.”
”Did he mention what he wanted to discuss? Maybe you and I can take care of it here, whatever it might be. Although I must tell you, my ignorance about Mr. Como's movements that last night is near total. I dropped him off near his home, as I told your Mickey and the police, and had the limo back in the school lot by six-thirty. Then I went home myself. Can I ask you a question?”
”Sure.”
”The police impounded the limo last night. Do you have any idea why?”
”I presume they wanted to search it more thoroughly.”
”For what?”
”For whatever they find. You know they think they have the murder weapon?”
This brought a little snort. ”Yes. Lorraine Hess told me. The tire iron.”
”Not necessarily the tire iron from the limo, but a tire iron certainly.”
”And are they sure?”
”Reasonably, yes. Unless there's some way Dominic Como's hair ended up on another tire iron that found its way into the Palace's lagoon.”
”Yes.” Carter's smile did not reach to his eyes. ”That would be an impressive long shot. So, presumably I had access to the tire iron more than most. Am I then a suspect?”
”I haven't heard that from the police. I don't believe they have a suspect yet.”
”Ah, I was forgetting. We don't have suspects anymore, do we? Only persons of interest. The vocabulary change affords me little comfort.” Carter's lips pursed out, and then in. His facial muscles moved in a way that suggested he was trying to smile, but this time, his lips could not hold the expression. ”Let me ask you this, then, Mr. Hunt. Among the potential suspects-people with access to the limo and the tire iron and so on-are there any other black men with prison time in their background?”
”Not that I know of.”
”Can you appreciate why this might be a matter of some concern to me? Of more than average concern?”
”Obviously. Don't take this wrong, but might someone come to the conclusion that you had some kind of a motive?”
Carter's eyes closed down almost to slits before he opened them again as the broad expressive face fell into relaxation. ”I've had the job eight years. I'm an ex-convict. All the demographics predict that I shouldn't have a steady job, much less an education, and yet I do. All compliments of Dominic, a generous and powerful man.”
”But there was a price,” Hunt said.
”If he wanted to go, if he needed to go, doesn't matter where it was, what time it was, how long you had to wait for him, whatever he was doing, you either took him and took it or he'd find someone else who would. This was unstated and intuitively understood. And an absolute job requirement.”
”So you were essentially on call all the time? Even with the other drivers he used?”
This brought a mirthless laugh. ”Again, I don't mean any kind of slur. Dominic was a great man. It was a privilege to work for him. But for the interns, the younger people without criminal records, the girls . . . there wasn't much in the line of actual driving, except to our work sites. Certainly they did not drive him to open- ended events, nighttime meetings with partners and const.i.tuents, other things. . . .”
”Women?”