Last dance, p.10
Last Dance, page 10
“How long did it last?”
“Just a few seconds.”
“Did Ms. Carson get into it with anybody else?”
“The sound guy.”
“Jerry Henderson?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Big guy with a bushy beard?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what they were arguing about?”
“I’m not sure, but at one point he grabbed her by the arm. I pulled his arm away from her and told him to lay off.”
“How did she react?”
“She was really pissed off. She told him never to touch her again.”
“Did she interact with anybody else?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anything.”
21
“AREN’T YOU GETTING A LITTLE OLD FOR THIS?”
The gregarious bartender tossed his dish towel over his shoulder, gave me a wide smile, and spoke to me in a phony Irish brogue. “What’ll it be, lad?”
“Have I ever ordered anything other than a Guinness, Joey?”
“Nope.” His grin broadened. “Coming right up, Mike.”
At ten-thirty on Wednesday night, the aroma of fish and chips and Guinness wafted through the inviting Irish pub at Twenty-third and Irving, around the corner from the house where I grew up. I looked at the framed black-and-white photo of my uncle, Big John Dunleavy, who had opened Dunleavy’s Bar and Grill sixty-five years ago after my dad helped him build the long mahogany bar. Except for the flat screen TVs and the Wi-Fi password on the blackboard, the wood-paneled watering hole looked the same as it did when I drank my first beer at fourteen and tended bar on weekends when I was in college. Twenty years ago, Big John handed over the day-to-day operations to his grandson, my cousin Joey, but he kept coming to his beloved saloon to make his fish and chips and visit with his regulars. He died of a heart attack two years ago as he was counting the day’s receipts and sipping a twenty-five-year-old single-malt Irish whiskey.
Joey filled Pete’s cup with Folgers. Big John steadfastly refused to serve fancier coffee. Then he turned to the third person sitting at our table. “How about you, Roosevelt?”
The most decorated homicide inspector in SFPD history pointed at his empty mug and spoke in a raspy baritone. “Thanks.”
Joey filled his mug. “You okay?”
“Doing fine for an eighty-seven-year-old.” My father’s first partner took off his glasses and wiped them with a napkin. He spoke in the familiar voice that I heard on Sunday nights when Roosevelt and his family used to come over for dinner. He reported that he was healthy, but an old knee injury required him to walk with a cane. His wife, Janet, had passed away a couple of years earlier. His granddaughter had just given birth to his third great-grandchild.
Joey’s tone was respectful. “Your fish and chips are ready. I’ll pack them up and you can take them home.” He headed to the kitchen.
Roosevelt turned to us. “You boys okay?”
Pete and I nodded in unison. “Fine, Roosevelt,” I said.
“I heard you picked up César’s case.”
“We did.”
“Did he do it?”
“He says he didn’t.”
“You going to be able to get him off?”
“We’ll see.”
His lips turned down. “His situation is sad. He was a good cop, but he was his own worst enemy. I didn’t think he was malicious, but he had a temper.” His voice remained even. “Melinda Wong is a good inspector. Catherine O’Neal is a fine prosecutor. You’re going to have your hands full.”
“I know.”
His eyes twinkled. “This is going to be an interesting battle. I’ll be watching.”
Joey returned with Roosevelt’s order of fish and chips. The old warhorse thanked him, excused himself, and headed for the back door.
Joey dropped the phony brogue. “Roosevelt looks good. I have more fish and chips in the back. You interested?”
“I’m in,” I said.
Pete nodded. “So am I.”
“How’s business?” I asked.
“Not bad,” Joey said. “We’re almost back to pre-Covid numbers.”
When Covid hit, Joey transitioned to takeout only. He reopened for indoor dining in early 2021, but many of his customers stayed away or sat on the makeshift patio in the back.
I took another look at the photo of Big John. The consummate barkeep was also a savvy businessman. Dunleavy’s had put his children and grandchildren through college, paid off his house around the corner, and got him a nice condo in Palm Springs.
“He would have been pleased that you stayed open during the pandemic,” I said.
“Dunleavy’s never closes,” Joey said.
“How’s Margarita?”
His eyes danced. “We’re thinking of moving in together.”
“That’s great.”
He had just turned forty. At six-four and two-forty, he had continued our family tradition of playing football at St. Ignatius. The former offensive lineman was still imposing, although he was getting a little soft in the middle. His bright red hair had turned gray, and his jowls had expanded along with his girth. He got a business degree from State and went to work for Big John. He almost got married to his high school sweetheart, but it didn’t work out. About a year ago, Rosie’s mother introduced him to the granddaughter of one of her neighbors. Margarita Mares worked for a tech start-up and was smart, ambitious, and independent. Rosie and I were hoping that Joey and Margarita would make their relationship a permanent one.
We exchanged gossip for a few minutes. He invited me to the annual Memorial Day fish-and-chips marathon. I invited him to join us for brunch on Sunday after church. It seemed as if we’d been having the same conversation for forty years.
His voice finally turned serious. “I hear you’re representing César. Are you going to do it yourself, or are you going to hand it off to somebody else?”
“I’m going to take the lead for now,” I said. “Rolanda is back in the office, and she’s going to help. Pete is lending a hand on the investigation.”
“I always liked César. He’s a hard-ass, but you always knew where you stood with him.” He turned to Pete, “After everything that happened, you’re helping him?”
“We go back a long way.”
“Not in a good way.”
“He stood up for me. Now I’m going to stand up for him.”
Joey knew better than to argue. “Did he do it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Do you think he did?”
“If you had asked me twenty years ago, I would have said no. Nowadays, I don’t know.”
Joey turned back to me. “Why don’t you let Rolanda handle it?”
“We’re trying to manage her workload. She has two kids in diapers at home.”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Aren’t you getting a little old for this?”
“I’m not that much older than you are, Joey. And by the way, shut up.”
He chuckled. “Have you talked to Jason Strong yet?”
Pete and I exchanged a glance. “As a matter of fact, we just did.”
“I heard that he was at For Gentlemen Only on Friday night. I take it that he didn’t confess to killing Chloe Carson.”
“No, he didn’t. How did you know?”
“Everybody knows.” Joey pointed at the TV, which was tuned to SportsCenter. “It was on the news. Somebody took a video of Strong at the club. He was talking to Chloe Carson. A big guy with a beard interrupted them and grabbed her arm, and Strong shoved him out of the way. The guy who took the video posted it on X, or whatever they call Twitter now. It probably has ten million views.”
Pete and I pulled out our phones and searched Twitter. He found it first. The video was barely five seconds long. It showed Strong talking to Carson. Henderson came over and grabbed Carson’s arm. Strong pulled Henderson’s arm away. Carson said something to Henderson. Strong walked away.
We watched it a half-dozen times. We couldn’t hear what was said. It was already the top story on the Chronicle, ESPN, and countless other news outlets. Strong had issued a tweet admitting that he was at the club and apologizing to his wife and children. He asked for privacy and understanding while he worked out a “personal matter” with his family. His agent put out a damage-control statement that Strong was not involved in Chloe Carson’s death and was cooperating with police. The Giants issued their own statement saying that the team was investigating the incident. Major League Baseball said that it was aware of the situation.
Pete grinned. “A lot of lawyers and PR people are going to be up all night. Strong can’t blame us for it going public.”
“I feel for his wife and kids.”
“So do I. He isn’t going to be doing commercials for Nike much longer.”
“He brought it upon himself.”
“Yes, he did. When he woke up this morning, he was a hero to millions and one of the highest-paid players in the big leagues. Now he’s just another jerk who sneaked off to a strip club while his wife was out of town.”
Joey grinned. “He’s still highly paid,” he observed.
Pete returned his smile. “Yes, he is. He is also now a suspect in a murder case.”
22
“THINGS WILL LOOK BETTER IN THE MORNING”
“Where are you?” Rosie asked.
“I just passed the south tower of the bridge,” I said.
At eleven-forty-five that same night, I was talking to Rosie via the hands-free as I drove my Prius north on the Golden Gate Bridge through what tourists would correctly call rain, and natives would describe as mist. Traffic was light. I couldn’t see anything to my left except the blurry headlights of cars driving in the southbound lanes. I could make out the Alcatraz Beacon in the middle of the Bay. The Berkeley Hills wouldn’t reappear until tomorrow.
“Are you at home?” I asked.
“I was at a meeting at City Hall that ran late, so I decided to stay at the apartment in the City. You’re up late.”
“It’s been a long day. Pete and I went for a beer at Dunleavy’s.”
“Are Joey and Margarita still an item?”
“Yes. They’re talking about moving in together.”
“I’ll let Mama know. She will be very pleased.”
I drove up the hill and into the Robin Williams tunnel separating the Marin Headlands from Sausalito. The fog broke as I exited the tunnel and headed downhill.
Rosie’s voice turned serious. “I saw the video of Jason Strong at For Gentlemen Only. Rolanda said that you talked to him.”
“We did. He didn’t confess to killing Chloe Carson.”
“You believed him?”
“Let’s just say that I remain appropriately skeptical.”
She chuckled. “When you took this case, I’ll bet that you didn’t expect that the Giants’ left fielder would be a suspect.”
“At the very least, we know that he was there, and he had a conversation with Chloe Carson and Jerry Henderson.”
“You’re going to need some solid evidence to suggest that he killed Chloe.”
“That’s why we have Pete.”
“Why do men always pander to their magical parts?” She quickly added, “Present company excepted.”
“Thank you. It seems to be in the male DNA.”
“Do you have anything substantial enough to get the charges dropped at the prelim next week?”
I answered her honestly. “I’m not wildly optimistic.”
“You have some potential alternate suspects.”
“Trying to blame Jason Strong, Jerry Henderson, Tyler Benson, John Foreman, F.X. Quinn, or even Dave Callaghan might help us get to reasonable doubt at trial, but it won’t be enough to get the charges dropped at the prelim.”
Her tone softened. “You sound tired.”
“We’ll get through it. We always do.”
“Are you going to stay at the house tonight?”
“I’m heading to the apartment. I have to pick up a few things, and I need to check on Wilma.”
“Give her a hug for me.”
Wilma is the snow-white cat who lives in my apartment. She used to live next door. When my neighbors had twin boys, Wilma started coming over to my place for peace and quiet. It turned out that the twins were allergic to cats, so my neighbors asked me to adopt Wilma since she was already spending most of her time with me. I was happy to do so, and Wilma was delighted to have her own space and a human who changed her box and kept her water bowl and kibble dish full. I checked in on her at least once a day. She’s one of the sweetest creatures on Planet Earth. As far as I can tell, she spends about twenty hours a day sleeping on the sofa and pondering the things that cats ponder.
“Have you been to the gym?” Rosie asked.
“It’s been about a week.”
“Dr. Partida wants you to stay active. At the very least, you should get out and walk the steps in the morning. It’s good for you, and it will make Zvi happy.”
“I can’t keep up with him.”
“Neither can I.”
Our friend, neighbor, and hero, Zvi Danenberg, is a relentlessly upbeat ninety-eight-year-old retired science teacher who stays in exemplary shape by climbing the one hundred and thirty-nine steps connecting Magnolia Avenue in downtown Larkspur with the houses on the adjacent hill. He used to do it every day, but he slowed down to twice a week after he turned ninety-five, and his doctors advised him to preserve what was left of his overworked knees. I join him from time to time. The classical music afficionado still goes to the symphony regularly, and he maintains a magnificent collection of classical records that he accumulated over eight decades.
“Give my best to Zvi,” she said. “And get some rest, Mike. Things will look better in the morning.”
My phone vibrated at six AM. I answered on the second ring.
Pete’s voice was raspy. “You up, Mick?”
“I am now.”
My eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness in the bedroom of my cozy apartment behind the Larkspur Fire Station. The mismatched furniture included a mattress perched on a wooden frame held up by cinder blocks, a second-hand nightstand, and a dresser from IKEA. Wilma was sleeping next to me—she wouldn’t be up for at least another hour.
Pete cleared his throat. “Meet me at Café Trieste at eight AM. We’re having coffee with somebody who knows everybody in North Beach.”
23
“INDEED I AM”
“Are they still coming?” I asked.
Pete pulled up the collar of his bomber jacket to fend off the morning fog as he stood in line underneath the cheerful green awning in front of Café Trieste, which has been serving espresso and pastries on the corner of Grant and Vallejo since 1956. “Any minute now.”
I looked up Grant Avenue, the narrow street that bisects Chinatown and North Beach. Nowadays, the Italian restaurants in the two- and three-story post-Earthquake buildings are interspersed with sushi bars, burger joints, Nepalese cafes, burrito shops, dive bars, and, more recently, marijuana dispensaries. The air is always filled with the glorious aroma of tomato sauce, garlic, olive oil, parmesan cheese, espresso, and cannoli.
Pete pointed at the top-of-the-line black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows pulling into the red zone in front of Café Trieste. “They’re here, Mick.”
The chauffeur opened the door to the back seat. A diminutive man wearing a three-piece Brioni suit, a blindingly white shirt, and a Turnbull and Asser silk necktie emerged, tugged at the fresh rose on his lapel, and smiled at the dozen people standing in line.
“Good morning,” he chirped in a singsong voice.
Everyone in line returned his smile, and several sang out, “Good morning, Nick.”
His rubbery face transformed into a broader grin as he turned to Pete. “Great to see you, Pete. How the hell are you?”
“Great, Nick.” He pointed at me. “You remember Mike?”
“Indeed I do. Good to see you, too.”
I shook his hand. “Same here, Nick.”
Nick “The Dick” Hanson was still spry at ninety-five. He had founded the Hanson Investigative Agency seventy-five years ago in an office above the Condor Club around the corner at Broadway and Columbus. He was the chairman emeritus of the biggest private eye operation on the West Coast.
A young woman also emerged from the Escalade, asked Nick’s long-time driver to come back in an hour, and headed toward us. Her face bore a resemblance to Nick’s, but she towered over him by at a foot, and her jet-black hair had a magenta streak.
Nick handled the introductions. “You remember my great-granddaughter, Nicki?”
“Of course,” I said, shaking her hand. “Nice to see you again.”
“Same here.” She smiled as she exchanged greetings with Pete.
Nicki was the head of the agency’s cybersecurity group. The thirty-year-old had a computer science degree from UC San Diego and a master’s in data analytics from UCLA. She was one of dozens of Nick’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who worked at the agency.
Nick pointed at the door to Café Trieste. “Shall we?”
I couldn’t resist. “Indeed we shall. After you.”
The people in the queue parted like the Red Sea as Nick led us inside and past the display case filled with Italian pastries, cannoli, cookies, brownies, bagels, and other treats. The aroma of espresso, cappuccino, latte, and mocha filled the intimate room, which had a half-dozen small tables along the window and a few larger ones in the back. The walls were lined with photos of generations of North Beach notables. Opera music played on the sound system, and four dedicated employees made perfect drinks at the classic espresso machine. A hand-lettered sign reminded patrons that Café Trieste is still a cash-only operation.
We followed Nick to a table where a hand-lettered sign said, “Reserved.” He took a seat with his back to the wall so that he could see his domain, and his admirers could see him. He was the son of Russian immigrants who became small-time vaudeville stars. They got tired of the travel and moved to San Francisco, where Nick’s uncle was a longshoreman. Nick’s father opened a magic shop next door to the Tosca Café. Nick played baseball with Joe DiMaggio on the North Beach playground. During the Great Depression, he helped his father make ends meet by sweeping up at the Valente, Marini, Perata Funeral Home on Green Street, handing out towels at the Italian Athletic Club, and bilking tourists at three-card monte.
