24th hour, p.20
24th Hour, page 20
That was a bombshell—and news to me.
I said, “Did Jamie know?”
“Sure, he did.”
“That must’ve ticked him off.”
“He wasn’t that way. Neither was Holly and neither is Rae. I, too, thought there would be ramifications. I’d forgotten how the Bergens, the Frickes, and their social peers played around and how they were raised. It was all allowed.”
I could imagine rampant promiscuity, maybe. But had I learned anything germane to cold-blooded murder?
“How long did the Holly and Chris, Rae and Jamie crossover last?” I asked, even using my hands to do a crisscross pattern.
Moira said, “In Rae’s case, she was with Jamie off and on for twenty years. Before Holly and Jamie were married, and during, and after she and Chris were divorced. But those two, Chris and Rae, are still the best of friends and Brock loves them both.”
I followed Moira’s comments onto a track of my own and when I tuned back in, she was saying, “Brock’s a complicated kid. Smart and clueless at the same time. He was smoking, drinking, failing classes. Rae got him into rehab, and then back into school.”
“That’s why Rae lives in Malibu.”
“Exactly. And Chris is very devoted to his son. What a wonderful man he is.”
CHAPTER 102
ON MY WAY back to the Hall, I had a dark thought about a missed opportunity. One that threw shade on Moira. It had taken me too long to figure out how to pose this question and still keep her at the table.
Her phone had rung. She’d answered and had gotten into a lengthy conversation with her producer about people I didn’t know, movie people, events and designer names that hadn’t even grazed my consciousness.
Meanwhile, I was wondering how well Jamie and Moira knew each other. Sexually? And if so, what would that mean? I tried to imagine Moira as a double murderer. I couldn’t picture it.
Moira had said over her phone, “Thanks, Peggy. I’ll call you after I do the podcast.”
Then, she clicked off, saying, “Lindsay, I have to go. Here’s my card. Send me your contact info.”
She gathered her bag, phone, sunglasses. She blew me a kiss and waved down the driver of her smart-looking car. She opened the back door and with a flip of her skirt, a kick of her heels, disappeared into the back seat. The door closed.
And Moira was gone, leaving me with a headache and a lot to think about.
CHAPTER 103
I HAD JUST parked my car in the All Day lot off Bryant across from the Hall when my hip pocket chirped out my ringtone. I looked at the screen. Arthur Bevaqua calling.
“Arthur?”
“Sergeant, I’m walking on Bay Street. Heavy traffic.”
“Same here,” I said, locking my car, picturing the former Fricke house manager I’d talked with so many times in the last year.
“You okay, Arthur?”
“Pretty much, Sergeant. Feeling sad about, well. You know. Listen, I got a call from Ms. Borinstein this morning.”
“Something wrong?”
“Mr. Jamie’s will, the draft I gave you when we were in his office.”
“Uh-huh. What about it?”
“Well, Ms. Borinstein and Mr. Jamie both signed the original and she’s a notary. So it’s stamped. It’s good.”
“Arthur, may I call you back? I’m going into the Hall—”
“Mr. Jamie left the house to Ms. Rae.”
I paused a few beats to take in this news, and it surprised me. That Jamie had loved Rae had been established. But how did that affect Arthur?
I asked, “Arthur. How does that affect you? Did you think Jamie would leave the house to you?”
“Hold on, Sergeant. Garbage truck. Okay. I’m here. I was just surprised, you know? That he didn’t want it sold. Money for his sons. Or turn it into a school or a soccer camp.”
“Is Rae at the house now?”
“No. She’s back in Malibu. She’ll be coming next week to look around. I’m just letting you know in case this changes anything.”
“I wonder if Christophe knows. He didn’t tell me.”
“And I haven’t spoken with Ms. Rae. It’s all so sudden. Call if you want to talk about this,” he said.
“Arthur, you sound worried. Why?”
“Ahh. So many questions. No answers.”
“Welcome to my world, Arthur.”
“I don’t think I would have guessed Ms. Rae was his principal heir. Well, Mr. Jamie always did follow his heart.”
I climbed the steps, pulled open a decorative steel and glass door, and walked toward the security station.
I was still on the phone with Arthur.
“Please keep your ears open and your phone charged. Call me anytime day or night. Yes, night’s okay.”
Then we signed off. I had known Arthur for six months and, strangely, I both cared for and mistrusted him. He was distressed.
I didn’t know why. And he hadn’t really told me.
CHAPTER 104
DETECTIVE SONIA ALVAREZ sat across from her former colleague, Sergeant Robert Bailey, at a plain metal desk on the second-floor squad room of the Tahoe police station. Bailey was forty, shaggy-blond-haired, steel-blue-eyed, a former middleweight boxer, high school math teacher, undercover cop with the Las Vegas PD and now at the police station in Tahoe. He had called her this morning with a lead that went straight to the front of the line.
According to Bailey, Samuel “Padre” Rochas was a known contract killer who’d been dropping hints just short of taking credit for the Frickes’ murders. Why? Was he the doer? Did he want to get caught to forestall his imminent extradition? Or was he stupidly attaching himself to the crimes in order to muddy the opaque waters of these sensational murders and boost his street cred?
Either way, Alvarez was charged up by this unexpected development. She had questions when Bailey picked her up at the Tahoe airport about how much Padre had told his street buds.
“Just crumbs,” Bailey said. “Based on facts.”
He filled in Alvarez on the details of Padre’s claims.
“Witnesses of the seedy kind tell us that Padre definitely knew Jamie Fricke well. He dropped names, knows a lot about soccer… But mostly he described Holly Fricke as an addict and a whore and Jamie Fricke as a spiteful bastard, which Fricke certainly could be. Have you seen any of the clips of him chewing out various team players? Fricke was a brute. He fired one of the assistant coaches right off the field a couple of years ago. Got into fistfights in locker rooms and hotels—he really thought he was some kind of god.”
Alvarez said, “I never thought about Jamie Fricke at all until his wife was killed, and soccer was definitely never on my mind. I’ll study up.”
Bailey grinned at her. Good-natured teasing went both ways in their partnership and Alvarez had almost forgotten the fun they had injected into their dangerous undercover work.
“No,” Alvarez insisted. “I will. Study up.”
“Okay. I’m convinced.” As they pulled into the station, Bailey said, “So we have Rochas in the cage on the third floor getting his shit together for his flight tonight.”
“I need to talk to him if there’s a chance he’s our shooter.”
“No problem, Sonia. If you need coffee, the machine is down the hall, turn left. It’s right there. But you’ll want to talk to Rochas first and fast.”
“Lead the way, Bailey. And stay close. If I get into trouble, I’ll give you our help sign.”
Bailey put his thumb on his forehead, fingers splayed out like a fan, and he wiggled them.
He and Alvarez both laughed at their old gag. Then Bailey said, “That’s it. I think we’re good to go.”
Alvarez was expectant as she followed Bailey up the stairs to the jail. Padre, serial killer for hire. And she was going to interview him within a hand’s length of the bars.
When they reached the landing, Alvarez caught up with Bailey and grabbed the crook of his arm.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Good to go,” she said, smiling into Bailey’s face. “I really am.”
CHAPTER 105
THE INTERVIEW ROOM was a ten-by-ten screened cage at the far end of the cell row. It wasn’t private, like the interview rooms Alvarez had become accustomed to, and the acoustics on the tier were crystal clear. She walked alongside Bailey and as they approached the cage Alvarez glimpsed the prisoner.
Bailey said to Alvarez, “I’m armed. And he’s not. He’s shackled and we’re not. He’s ruthless but you’d never know it. His charm is charming, but—well, you’ll figure him out, Alvarez.”
Rochas was sitting at a table inside the cage. His ankles were shackled, his hands were cuffed in front of him, and a chain ran through the cuffs, then a metal loop in the tabletop, and fed down to connect with his shackles.
Bailey led Alvarez to the door to the cage, opened it to let her inside. He said, “Padre, this is Inspector Alvarez from the San Francisco PD.”
Padre turned to look up at her. He gave her a second look and whistled through his teeth.
Alvarez ignored the whistle and took the seat facing the prisoner, with a clear view of Bailey, who was standing to her right outside the cage.
“Mr. Rochas—”
“You can call me Padre.”
“And you may call me Inspector Alvarez,” she said.
“Como esta?” he said with a smile.
“Pretty good, Padre, and you?”
“I guess we’ll both know after we talk. If I board a plane to Mexico City tonight, I’ll be hanging by my neck in my cell in a week. What do you want me to say?”
Alvarez said, “I’m going to tape our conversation, Padre. Save us a lot of time.”
Alvarez set up her phone on the table and pressed the button to record.
“Let’s start over again, Mr. Rochas. I’m Inspector Alvarez, SFPD Homicide. Sergeant Bailey has reported comments from confidential informants—”
“Snitches.”
“—that you had a relationship with Jamie Fricke. Did you go to his wife Holly’s funeral service in Pacific Heights about six months ago?”
“Says who?”
Alvarez picked up her phone, went to the photo gallery app, and opened Cappy’s photo of someone who may have been Rochas. She held it up to his eye level, out of reach of his cuffed hands. “Is this you?”
Rochas laughed. “I was there.”
“But you didn’t know the deceased.”
“I went out of respect for her husband.”
“Did you have anything to do with Holly Fricke’s death? Did you know about a plan for her death or take some role in a plan? Did you pull the trigger?”
Rochas grinned. For a second, gold teeth flashed under the fluorescent lights.
“Inspector, you think if I had anything to do with that whore’s death I should tell you?”
“Up to you, Padre. If you took part in her murder, you might not be going back to Mexico and life in prison. Life might be as long as a few days.”
Rochas laughed. “What you might call an interesting proposition. I have a better one. Take me back to the City by the Bay for questioning. See what I say.”
Alvarez said, “Answer the question, Padre, or I’m saying, ‘Vaya con Dios.’”
“Okay, okay, I had nothing to do with Holly Slut’s death. Nothing. Not word. Not deed.”
“Thank you,” Alvarez said. “Same questions about Jamie. The street is talking, saying you feel James suckered you into a sports bet on the Bleus while you were cruising around Vegas. That you held a grudge against him because he wouldn’t make you whole.”
“What does ‘make whole’ mean?”
“It means to reimburse you, pay you back for your loss.”
“Right. I lost a quarter of a million dollars. He wouldn’t pay me back. He was a snake and everyone knew it. You want me to confess to killing him, so we go back to Frisco? I await trial. And maybe go free? Maybe take you to a good restaurant to celebrate.”
“Did you have anything to do with Jamie Fricke’s murder, Padre? Yes or no. If yes, tell me your role.”
“I wish. I wish I had seen his face when he knew he was about to die. I wish I could have caused him mortal pain. I heard about it on the block.”
“On which block?”
“This one. Cell block. I was here when he was gunned down, babe. I mean, Inspector. I was in a cell when Jamie Fricke was killed, and I had no foreknowledge or nothing. Snitches were playing a game with Detective Bailey. I think so.”
Alvarez looked up at Bailey, who came over to the cage and said, “Padre. You shitting me?”
“You weren’t here,” Padre said. “But I was. Corcoran picked me up the night before. Estupido.”
Bailey opened the cage door and said, “Come on outta there, Alvarez.”
To Rochas he said, “Be right back.”
Alvarez followed Bailey down to booking on the first floor.
The desk sergeant opened a computer file, said, “He’s right, Rob. Checked in on Sunday, never checked out.”
“I love to look stupid in front of a dirtbag. Sorry about this, Sonia.”
Alvarez laughed. She said, “Tell Padre I said it was good meeting him. And he has a perfect alibi for Jamie’s murder.”
“What about you? What are you going to do?”
“Ask you to run me out to the airport.” She reached up, tousled his hair, and said, “Good seeing you, Bailey. Going home without a suspect, a confession, any kind of evidence, or even lunch, but it’s been great.”
“We’ll have to do this again,” he said.
Just before Alvarez boarded her plane, he kissed her goodbye. She stowed her carry-on bag in the overhead rack. She thought about Padre. There was nothing, not even circumstantial evidence, suggesting that he’d killed Holly. He hadn’t killed Jamie, either, having the perfect alibi. He was in jail at the time. Now he was going to jail in Mexico… where he would surely get jailhouse justice.
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 106
CHRISTOPHE TEXTED ME the following morning, inviting me to lunch again, saying he needed to talk to me. The word “need” hooked me. I was 95 percent sure that the restaurateur had fobbed me off on Moira the day before so that he could avoid telling me something I had to know. I hoped we would have time alone without distraction and bull. If Christophe had inside knowledge of the Fricke murders, I was determined to learn something that would advance the investigation. Or God willing, close these open cases.
I agreed to be at Bonhomie at one. I spent the morning meeting with the team, a somber group of detectives who had nothing to bring to the war room but hope. Even Brady was pinning hope on me getting the name of a killer from Christophe Picard.
I arrived at a crowded Bonhomie on time and Chris greeted me at the door. He looked different than he had a day ago. The ebullience was gone. His face was drawn and he had dark smudges under his eyes.
He led me to an inside table, in a nook between the kitchen and the dining room. The table was up against the wall and the light was low. Chris opened a bottle of wine. I refused the drink but encouraged him to go ahead. Not a problem.
Once Chris had downed his glass and poured another, I crossed my arms on the table, leaned in, and said, “Chris. I need you to tell me the truth. What do you know or surmise about Holly’s and Jamie’s killers? No ping-pong—”
“Ping-pong?”
“No games. No diversions. I need information. Understand?”
He nodded miserably. Filled my glass with something I’m sure was rare and wonderful, but I pushed the glass aside and waited.
“If I knew,” he said, “I would tell you.”
I placed the flats of my palms on the table, pushed off, and got to my feet. “That’s too bad, Chris. If something comes to you, call or write.”
I edged out of the privacy booth and was heading to the exit when he said, “Wait. Please.”
I turned and looked into his sorry hound-dog face and walked back to the booth.
When we were both seated, Chris said, “I don’t know who killed them, Sergeant, but this I know. I loved Holly. I’ve loved her for decades. What happened to Holly destroyed me. Thinking how she was gunned down! That she had time to realize she was going to die. I wake up every morning wanting to kill myself.”
His voice broke and tears came. He covered his eyes with his hands and cried. I didn’t speak. I. Just. Waited. Him. Out. After he mopped his face with a cloth napkin, he said “Sorry” three times.
“It would be a relief to join her in death, but I can’t,” Chris said. “People depend on me.”
A waiter put a charcuterie board of cheese and sausage in front of us. Aromas from the kitchen filled our small space. I quashed my hunger pangs and did a gut check.
I believed Chris had told me the truth about his feelings for Holly and his grief at her loss. But I felt just as strongly that he was leaving out the answer to who killed her and Jamie.
I tried him on as the killer.
If Chris had killed Holly for rejecting him, if he’d killed Jamie for winning the prize so long ago, it was hardly even a theory. I had nothing to support it.
That really ticked me off.
CHAPTER 107
I STOPPED OFF at MacBain’s for a take-out BLT and cursed myself for declining a meal at Bonhomie. I had a small brown bag with the sandwich in hand when I breezed through the gate to the squad room. I said “Hey” to Bobby Nussbaum, our gatekeeper, as I passed his desk on my way to our pod just beyond him, but he stopped me.
“Sarge, I’ve got a message for you.” I turned and he told me, “Anonymous tip.”
I groaned, “Great.”
He said, “I think this one’s good.”
“Hit me,” I said.
“It was a woman. Her voice was muffled, like she was whispering or blocking the receiver with her hand. She asked for you, then gave me a message but not her name. Says she saw you at Bonhomie and won’t ID herself.”
