Last dance, p.6
Last Dance, page 6
“No comment.”
We were sitting on opposite sides of a glass-topped table in a windowless conference room in the ME’s new facility in India Basin, about halfway between downtown and Candlestick Point. The location isn’t as convenient as the old ME’s Office in the bowels of the Hall, but the state-of-the-art examination rooms and expanded morgue are a substantial upgrade.
Time for business. “I’m representing César Ochoa. I understand that you handled the autopsy of Chloe Carson.”
“I did.” She folded her hands and placed them on the table in front of her—a gesture that mimicked Dr. Siu. She wore her black hair in a pixie cut. Her makeup was exact, her voice precise. “I will make my report available to the police as soon as I receive the toxicology results. I presume that they will forward it to you in due course.”
“Any preliminary results on toxicology?”
“There was a small amount of alcohol in her system—below the legal limit. I found traces of cocaine. Enough to create a buzz, but not enough to kill her.”
“Preliminary cause of death?”
“Massive blood loss from a stab wound to the neck.”
I grimaced. “Was it painful?”
“Briefly. She would have lost consciousness almost immediately. She had no chance.”
“Time of death?”
“Between one-oh-five and four AM on Saturday, May sixth.”
Medical Examiners always give themselves a little wiggle room. “Will you be able to narrow it down a bit?”
“Doubtful. The manager of For Gentlemen Only told me that the decedent left the club at one-oh-five AM.” She estimated the window based upon the usual markers: state of digestion of food in Carson’s stomach, rigor mortis, body temperature, etc. “The body wasn’t discovered until seven AM. The EMTs pronounced her at the scene at seven-forty. I didn’t perform the autopsy until two-thirty the same afternoon. Because of the time gap, it will be difficult to provide a tighter window.”
Not surprising. “Evidence of a struggle or defensive wounds?”
“None.”
“You’re saying that she was killed by someone that she knew?”
“It’s possible that someone surprised her or approached her from behind.”
“Any other signs of trauma?”
“No.” She pushed out a sigh. “It was a quick hit.”
I asked her about the alleged murder weapon.
“The fatal wound was consistent with a stabbing inflicted by a serrated knife like the one covered in Ms. Carson’s blood that the police found in the Dumpster next to the body.”
“Photos?”
“They will be included in my final report.” Her lips turned down. “It was gruesome. The force of the stabbing practically decapitated Ms. Carson.”
Got it. “There would have been a lot of blood, right?”
“Right.”
“Did you find any traces of my client’s blood or DNA on the body?”
“No.”
“Given the nature of the wounds and the close quarters of a stabbing, some of Ms. Carson’s blood would have found its way onto the killer’s hands and clothing, right?”
“Probably.”
“Does it strike you as odd that the police didn’t find Ms. Carson’s blood on my client’s hands or clothing?”
“That’s a question for Inspector Wong and the evidence technicians.”
Rolanda looked up from her laptop. “Did you get anything useful from Dr. Leung?”
“Not much.”
She listened as I summarized my conversation with Leung. Then she issued her clear-eyed verdict. “Mostly bad facts. A few that might work slightly in our favor if we’re trying to get to reasonable doubt. Nothing that will get the charges dropped at the prelim or a slam-dunk acquittal at trial.”
“Sounds about right.”
Rolanda, Pete, and I were meeting in the conference room at the PD’s Office at five o’clock on Tuesday afternoon. The office was buzzing with activity. Rosie’s predecessor and our long-time mentor, the legendary Robert Kidd, always said that the only way to survive as a PD is to focus on completing just enough work each day to get to tomorrow.
“Did you get anything else from the DA?” I asked.
Rolanda nodded. “A preliminary list of people who were at For Gentlemen Only on the night that Chloe Carson died. Additional police reports should arrive tomorrow.”
“It’s a start. Security video?”
Pete spoke up. “There’s footage from the camera in the front, but none from the back. The late show ended at twelve-forty-five AM. People cleared out quickly. It was almost empty when they closed at one. Witnesses confirmed that César left through the back door at one AM. Chloe followed him about five minutes later.”
“Any evidence that he stayed in the alley and waited for her?”
“There’s no video from the alley, Mick.”
“Did you get anything from your sources at SFPD?”
“Not yet.” He said that he was working his contacts in North Beach.
Dazzle knocked on the open door. “I need to get over to the club. Do you need anything from me?”
“We’re good,” I said. “Did you have any luck chasing down any connections at For Gentlemen Only?”
“Yes, I did.” She handed me a piece of paper with a phone number. “Sheema Smith used to work at the Gold Club. She moved over to For Gentlemen Only a couple of years ago. She’s a terrific dancer, a straight shooter, and a nice person. Tell her that I sent you.”
11
“SHE WAS A NICE PERSON”
The willowy African American woman with the chiseled cheekbones and braided black hair glanced at her watch as she nibbled at a baby kale salad. “I need to get to work.”
“We won’t take up much of your time,” I said. “Thank you for seeing us.”
Sheema Smith flashed a photogenic smile. “Thank you for buying me dinner.”
Sheema, Pete, and I were sitting at a corner table in the Old Ship Saloon, an upscale watering hole and restaurant that opened at the corner of Battery and Pacific in 1851 when San Francisco Bay extended all the way to Montgomery Street. The original inn was built from the wreckage of a Gold Rush ship called the Arkansas, which ran aground at Alcatraz. It was replaced by a boarding house which was destroyed by the 1906 Earthquake. The current red-brick building was erected shortly thereafter and now stands among swanky condos, high-end restaurants, trendy boutiques, and law and architecture firms. The walls are adorned with black-and-white photos of the historic landmark, the crowd is professional, and the food is hearty.
Sheema took a sip of her iced tea. “I heard that Dazzle is working at the PD’s Office. Does she like it?”
“She likes the regular paychecks, health insurance, paid vacation, and retirement plan,” I said.
She let out a full-throated laugh. “Sounds pretty good to me.” She said that she was an Oakland native, divorced twice, no kids. She had done some modeling, worked on and off as a dancer, and did short stints at advertising agencies. “Are there any openings at the PD’s Office? It might be a nice change of pace.”
I handed her a business card. “Email me your resume.”
I wasn’t sure how Rosie would react if I hired another dancer.
Pete spoke up. “Mike is representing César. How well did you know him?”
“Not that well. He works the front of the house. I work the stage. He’s always been professional to me.”
“Did he have many interactions with Chloe Carson?”
Her tone turned thoughtful. “He and Chloe talked from time to time. I think César was trying to help her avoid some of his mistakes. He encouraged her to stay away from coke and go back to school.”
Pete scowled. “How much coke was she doing?”
“Enough.”
“Do you know where she got it?”
“It isn’t hard to find.”
“Somebody at the club?”
“A lot of people pass through the club.”
Not a very enlightening answer.
Pete took a sip of coffee. “How well did you know Chloe?”
“Not that well. She worked at the club for about six months, and she kept to herself. She was a nice person and an excellent dancer.”
“Was she well-liked?”
“For the most part.” A pause. “We’re all competing for the same customers. Some of the girls thought that Chloe was a little aggressive in pursuing their regulars.”
“The police told us that Chloe and César got into an argument on Friday night.”
“They did. It lasted only a few seconds. I don’t know what it was about.”
“We talked to Dave Callaghan. He said that Chloe gave him some trouble.”
“Dave is hard on everybody. Chloe showed up late a few times. He told her that if she did it again, she would regret it.”
“He threatened her?”
“He threatened to fire her.”
“Do you think there was more to it?”
A shrug. “Dave has a temper, but I’ve never seen him make physical contact with anybody.”
“Did Chloe have many friends?”
“She used to hang out with another dancer named Kelly Ryan, who started around the same time that she did. Kelly is also very good. And she’s a nice person, too.”
“Is she working tonight?”
“I think so.”
We’ll find her.
Pete looked my way, and I picked up the cue. “We heard that Chloe had an argument with the sound guy on Friday night.”
“She did. Jerry Henderson isn’t as good as our regular guy. The sound went out a couple of times during Chloe’s set. She was pretty upset about it.”
“Is he working tonight?”
“He works once or twice a month. He probably won’t be in for a couple of weeks.”
“Any idea where we can find him?”
“He lives in North Beach and plays in a band. If you can find where the band is playing, you can find him.”
Good advice. I reached over and picked up the check. “We’ve talked to Callaghan. We’ll track down Henderson and Ms. Ryan. We’re also trying to talk to others who were at the club on Friday night, especially the regulars. Is there anybody you would suggest?”
She thought about it for a moment. “Tim Volpe was there on Friday night.”
Pete’s eyes opened wide. “The cop?”
“Yes.”
“On duty?”
“No. He comes in all the time. He’s a sweetie and an excellent tipper.” She picked up her gym bag. “I need to get to work.”
12
“IT ISN’T ILLEGAL”
Sergeant Tim Volpe adjusted the collar of his SFPD windbreaker and took a draw of his Lagunitas IPA. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Thanks for seeing us,” Pete said.
Pete, Volpe, and I were sitting at a table next to the window in the narrow balcony of Vesuvio, an unpretentious watering hole on Columbus Avenue across Jack Kerouac Alley from Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s legendary City Lights Bookshop. In 1948, an art lover named Henri Lenoir opened a bohemian gathering spot in a two-story 1913 Italian Renaissance Revival building on the border between the financial district, Chinatown, Jackson Square, and North Beach. It looks like a pirate ship filled with bounty: mismatched tables, Tiffany chandeliers, a giant wicker chair where the poets used to read, stained glass windows, and Fifties artwork. The Beats are long gone, but the walls are still lined with photos of Kerouac, Dylan Thomas, and Allen Ginsberg. The current owners pay homage to the neighborhood’s heritage by sponsoring poetry readings and art exhibitions. In a modest nod to Twenty-first Century tastes, the updated menu includes organic wines, beers, and spirits.
“How old is your daughter?” Pete asked.
“Middle school,” Volpe said.
Pete grinned. “Watch out. The girls are light-years ahead of the boys.”
“My daughter saves most of her drama for my ex-wife.”
Pete gave him a reassuring nod. “Our daughter was the same way with Donna.”
Volpe was in his mid-forties with a muscular frame, angular features, and basset hound eyes. He was a steady cop who grew up a few blocks from Kezar Stadium and graduated from S.I. and State. His parents ran a bar on Stanyan Street. His now-ex-wife was an executive at Wells Fargo who got a little too cozy with one of her colleagues while Tim was working nights at Park Station. It caught him off guard, and he was still hurting from the divorce.
He looked at Pete. “Did César kill Chloe Carson?”
“He says that he didn’t. You think he did?”
“I barely know him.”
“A dancer named Sheema Smith told us that you were at For Gentlemen Only on Friday night.”
“I was.”
“You go there often?”
“On occasion. It isn’t illegal.”
Pete arched an eyebrow. “You ever see any of my former SFPD colleagues there?”
“Sometimes.” Volpe turned my way and smirked. “I see more people who work at the DA’s Office and the PD’s Office.”
I’m not surprised. “Care to mention any names?”
“Uh, no.”
Pete put his hand over his coffee cup—a reminder that I should let him do the talking. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary on Friday night?”
“No. Usual stuff. A bachelor party. Frat boys. Businessmen. A few older guys.” He said that he arrived at the club at eleven PM and stayed for the late show. “I left right after it ended around twelve-forty-five.”
“Did you see Chloe Carson?”
“You couldn’t miss her. She was a terrific dancer.”
“Did you know her?”
“Only as an appreciative audience member.”
“The manager told us that Chloe and César got into an argument shortly before closing time.”
“They did.”
“Do you know what they were talking about?”
“Afraid not.” He said that Chloe appeared to be pretty upset.
“We heard that she also got into it with the sound guy.”
“She did. The sound went off for a few minutes during her set. Chloe told him to get his act together.” Volpe smiled. “She may have used a slightly more colloquial term.”
“How did he take it?”
“Not well.”
“You know him?”
“Afraid not.”
“Any hints that he might have been the type of guy who would have taken out his frustrations on her?”
A shrug. “Like I said, I don’t know him.”
“Is there anybody else that we should talk to who might have some information about what happened on Friday night?”
“I’m sorry, Pete. I don’t know.”
Pete pressed his phone against his ear as we stood on Columbus Avenue outside the door of Vesuvio. He ended his call and looked at me. “I have somebody looking for Jerry Henderson.” He looked at his watch. “You got a little time?”
Not really. “Sure.”
“Let’s go for a walk over to For Gentlemen Only.” He grinned. “I’ve been a little stressed lately. I think it would be good if we had a drink and went to a show.”
“Anybody in particular you’d like to watch?”
“One of my operatives informed me that Chloe Carson’s friend, Kelly Ryan, is headlining the late show.”
13
“SHE WAS AFRAID OF HIM”
“We enjoyed your performance,” Pete said.
Kelly Ryan took a sip of San Pellegrino and flashed a practiced smile. “Thank you.”
Pete, Kelly, and I were sitting at a table against the wall at For Gentlemen Only at twelve-ten on Wednesday morning. The club was closed, but Dave Callaghan said that we could stick around for a few minutes. The room smelled of stale beer, leftover steaks, and cleaning solvent. The houselights were up, the custodian was mopping the floor, a server was counting her tips, and Callaghan was at the bar adding up the night’s receipts.
“How long have you worked here?” Pete asked, already knowing the answer.
“About six months,” Ryan said.
“You like it?”
She darted a glance at Callaghan. “It’s fine.”
“Where do you live?”
“Vallejo.”
“Long commute.”
“Yes.”
Ryan was twenty-four, but she could have passed for a teenager. The waif-thin dancer had changed into a navy windbreaker bearing the logo of the U.S. Women’s National Soccer Team. Her bleached-blonde hair was cut into a Megan Rapinoe pixie cut. Her eyes were crystal blue, cheekbones high, features soft. Offstage, her makeup was modest—a little rouge, lip gloss, and eyeliner. She had wiped the sparkle from her cheeks.
“We’re representing César,” I said. “Did you know him pretty well?”
“Not really.”
“Did he ever give you any trouble?”
“He was always nice to me.”
Good. “You were here on Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“We heard that César and Chloe got into an argument.”
“They did. It didn’t last long. I don’t know what it was about.”
“Any guesses?”
She shrugged. “César liked to give advice. Chloe didn’t like to take it.”
Pete hadn’t taken his eyes off Ryan. “We talked to Sheema. She said that you and Chloe were friends.”
“We started working here around the same time, so we got to know each other a little. We didn’t socialize outside of work.”
“What was she like?”
“Great dancer. Always working. Always hustling.” She took a deep breath. “Chloe had it rough growing up. Her mother is an alcoholic. She barely knew her father. She couldn’t afford to finish college. She made enough money from dancing to pay for her apartment. She was thinking about going back to school.”
“We understand that she may have had some drug issues.”
“Coke.”
“Bad?”
