Every Move She Makes, page 27
"S, Scolari. Sam. No Patricia. How long you figure they leave the names on here? Didn't think Sam still worked there." "Who knows. You guys want more coffee?" I asked, eyeing the empty pot. Considering the layoffs, I wasn't sure I wanted anyone to dwell on the employment list, not until I had a chance to mull it over myself Shipley, however, had other ideas, and started from
the first page. "No, thanks," he said. "This is too good.
Didn't know some of these guys-" "Let me see that." Reid reached over, tried to take the papers from Shipley. "Not a chance," Shipley said, backing away. He scanned the names on the first sheet. "Did you know Charlie Adkins works there? Least he did before the chief put the nix on it." He flipped through more pages. "Ho, Bettencourt. Needed a little cash, did you?"
"None of your god damned business," Reid said.
Torrance and I exchanged glances. I had no idea Reid had joined the ranks of Hilliard, and I was surprised by his almost violent reaction.
"What are you doing for them?" I asked, curious if he was merely worried about someone thinking his finances were in disarray. Which they were.
"Same as everyone else you know there," he replied.
"Working security." I wasn't sure how the DA's office handled it when their investigators wanted extra work, but every cop at SFPD who wanted a second job had to get clearance through the chiefs office, allegedly to prevent unethical situations or conflict of interest--such as investigating a homicide at Hilliard Pharmaceutical while being employed there. "Didn't you say you were working an embezzlement case at Hilliard? I'd think you'd have brought this up before now." "Jesus, Kate," he said, jumping to his feet. His chair tipped precariously. "And you wonder why we got divorced?
He stormed from the room.
Actually, not at all.
"What's with him?" Shipley asked.
That I did wonder about. Torrance watched the door, a thoughtful look upon his face. "I think we need to address this issue of Bettencourt working an embezzlement case while employed by Hilliard Pharmaceutical."
Shiplev gave a low whistle. "I'm not hearing this. Pretend I'm not here." Ignoring him, I said, "I have no idea if the dates coincide, or how involved he is. I do wonder about the money."
"Money?" This from Torrance.
Shipley no longer pretended disinterest.
"Have you noticed the new car?"
"They make loans," Shipley pointed out. "For some people. Not for Reid.
His credit was a mess when we married, it was worse after our divorce."
"Inheritance?" Shipley asked.
"No." Shipley nodded toward the employment records. "A second job, apparently."
"Or selling a news story," Torrance suggested.
"A news story?" Shipley looked from Torrance to me.
"What're you talking about?"
"About Beth Skyler," I said. "He's been on somewhat intimate terms with her, and the night of Patricia's murder, Skyler was there asking questions that someone had to have fed her."
"The son of a bitch."
"The question is, is he doing it for money or sex' " The conference room door swung open and Rocky entered, carrying the computer with him.
"Well, I've done what I can," he said, looking anything but the bearer of glad tidings.
"This is one of those good news, bad news things,
isn't it?" I asked.
"Sorry. Every file's been erased." That night, or rather early that morning, I lay in the still dark of the hotel room, thinking about the computer. Moonlight spilled through the window, lighting the carpet below with its soft glow.
Erased. Rocky's voice echoed in my head. I'd been unable to sleep.
I'd managed to pin all my hopes on that box of modern technology. I wondered who had deleted the files.
Evan Hilliard had accessed the computer in accounting.
Could he have done it? I hadn't paid that much attention to the keys he pressed. Didn't think he had time, though I suppose it was possible. And what about Reid, the way he reacted when I pulled him from the computer, and later when we learned he was employed at Hilliard Pharmaceutical?
He'd never mentioned it before, which I found curious though not all that unusual. It wasn't as if Reid and I had spent hours going over each facet of our private lives since our divorce. At the moment, it didn't really matter. Whatever had been on the hard drive was now gone, a forgotten bit of memory never to be seen again.
Or was I mistaken?
about computers, but I knew someone who did.
Rising, I switched on the light, dug for my phone book in my purse. My childhood sweetheart worked for the Department of Justice. Bill Moore and I kept in touch over the years, mostly by phone. I was very happy for him, he was very happy for me, but our lives never meshed. City girl, country boy, we drifted apart. He'd married, had a wife, two kids, did the dad routine, made big bucks working for Microsoft. Then, when I thought he'd forgotten his country roots, he gave up the job to work as a computer expert at DOJ, all so he could live in the foothills of Sacramento and raise horses. Big loss for Microsoft, major boon to law enforcement. "What are you doing?" Torrance asked from his bed, his eyes closed against the lamplight. "Calling a friend of mmine who works at DOJ. This guy makes Rocky's computer skills look like mine." I found the number and picked up the phone. Torrance glanced at the clock. "You do realize its three-twenty?" I dropped the phone in the cradle. Bill wouldn't mind. His wife might. "Damn." "At least wait till seven," he said, rolling over so his back was to the light-and to me. His pajamas, flannel, had a sharp crease in them, and I wondered if he wore them strictly for my benefit. Putting my phone book aside, I turned out the light, nestled beneath the covers, and stared out the window into what was left of the night. "What do you normally wear to bed?" I asked, regretting my impulsive question the moment it left my mouth. "Nothing."
I took a deep breath. I'd always wondered what it meant to be sexually frustrated. Now I knew. Naturally, Torrance was dressed by the time I opened my eyes. He was not, however, reading the paper, but watching me from his chair at the table. I sat up, rubbing my neck. "Here," he said, handing me a latte delivered from room service. It was warm, though not as warm as I liked it. "We need to get moving. Big day."
"Got it all planned, do you?"
"The afternoon, at least. Paolini's case is this afternoon.
I didn't move. I'd purposefully put it from my mind.
I'd had to. I thought of the threats, all designed to keep me from testifying in this case. And now, today was the day. All I had to do was walk in, swear to tell the truth, testify, then wait. Wait to see if someone-Paolini-would make good on the threats. "I'll be damned if I let that happen." Torrance gave me an odd look at my continent. "The threats," I clarified. "Why should I wait? I say, find a way to bring Paolini in and confront him now."
"Makes you wonder why someone at the DA's office didn't think of that."
"Doesn't it, though. The question now is, what charges?"
"I'm sure if we look hard enough, we'll find something," Torrance said.
A few phone calls later, I had what we needed. "A speeding ticket," I said after I'd hung up. "He hasn't paid it yet, and it's past due."
"That's it?"
"it was the best they could do, considering. Vice is going to tail him.
They owe me for playing a hooker for them on a sting a couple of months ago." After taking a few sips of lukewarm espresso and steamed milk, I dragged myself into the bathroom to shower. I glanced at my garment bag.
What to wear while interviewing a mobster? I decided on jeans, sweater-and boots in case the crap got too deep to wade in. Brushing my wet hair, I looked in the mirror. The braise on my temple had faded considerably, now a shade of yellow ew purple. I belatedly wondered if Paolini wasn't behind the poisoned pizza caper. I'd have to remember to ask, then decided I was being overly optimistic if I expected him to answer about anything. "Ready or not, Paolini, here we come." At precisely nine, Torrance and I, acting as backup in addition to the four Vice officers, watched from our own vehicle as Paolini's black limousine pulled up in front of the Olympic Club. I thought of Reid, stopping to talk to someone in a black limo outside the PD. The city was full of black limos, and I had no way of knowing if that particular limo happened to be Paolini's. But I intended to ask. The arrest went without incident, Paolini accepting the trumped-up charge of failure to pay a traffic fine, undoubtedly because he knew that by the time the booking was filled out, his lawyer would already be there and he'd be a free man. He was searched, and brought in by the Vice detail.
At the jail we secured our weapons in the gun locker.
The custody officers had already moved Paolini into an interview room. I had my feelings about facing Paolini, the man suspected of placing the hit on me at the Twin Palms. I wasn't afraid, but neither was I comfortable with it. I wanted a clear head, and thinking about the night I was shot did little to help. With Torrance at my side, however, I felt a slight degree of comfort. Especially once I stifled the outlandish thought that Paolini had put the jail guards on his payroll somehow. It could happen, and it had happened, but I couldn't go through this interview worrying about it. Paolini smiled when I entered the room. He unnerved me still, and I wondered if his looks didn't play a part in that. He was tall, thin, olive-complected. His narrow face and aquiline nose were strangely handsome. Seeing him this close was like stepping back in time to the night we attended the Save the Rain Forest dinner together. Instead of a tux, however, he now wore a pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt and tan slacks neatly pressed. He sat on one side of the table, barely sparing Torrance a glance, and appearing for all the world as though we were calling for tea. "Inspector Gillespie. So nice of you to visit. And you brought your friend." "Such a pleasure to see you again, too," I said. Two things I knew from countless jailhouse interviews were, never show fear and don't let them get the upper hand in the conversation. Paolini would take advantage of both.
"We're not here to play good cop, bad cop. We want some answers."
"And perhaps I can give them to you," he said, still with a smile. "My attorney is on his way. I feel magnanimous in that I am to be released soon." I bet you do. "Tell me about the warehouse owned by Hilliard Pharmaceutical." He looked mildly confused. I gave him the address. "Oh, yes. An import/export business. Until the unfortunate matter with the on-site manager." "The money laundering scheme disguised as a Save the Rain Forest fundraiser dinner," I supplied. "So the police tell me."
Aside from the money and drugs we'd confiscated, for which his case was on appeal, he'd skated on the money laundering charges, gathering a one-year sentence. But there was still the dead body to be reckoned with. "You aren't aware of the freezer left there?" "We had no freezer, Inspector. Who is your friend?" he asked, nodding to Torrance, who leaned against the door, strong, silent, arms crossed, very much the bodyguard.
"Lieutenant Torrance from IA."
"Found yourself in a bit of trouble?" I hid my exasperation at Paolini's attempt to steer the conversation. "There was a body in the freezer."
"Inspector Gillespie. I do hope you are not blaming me for a body you found?" "I don't know who to blame. I was hoping you could shed some light on the matter." "If I could help you, I would. But I don't know much of what's gone on in the outside world this past year. What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into?" he asked, eyeing Torrance.
"You're saying you have no idea a body was found in your warehouse?"
"None.
"Okay, let's move on to Reid Bettencourt."
"The DA investigator?"
"Yes." Paolini waited.
I had nothing solid, but I forged ahead. "You were seen talking to him."
"And I want to know why."
"Perhaps it would be best if you asked him."
"I'm asking you."
I waited several seconds. He remained silent, smiled.
"Very well," I conceded. "Phone threats."
"I have received none." I wanted to wipe that smirk right off his face.
Was it a guilty smirk, or the type all ex-cons gave to cops who come to question them? It bothered me that I couldn't tell. "Do you deny that you've had someone calling me over the last year, making threats that if I testified at your trial, you'd kill me?" He steepled his fingers, placed the tips at his mouth, his expression serious. "Why would I bother?"
"Because you believed I might be intimidated by threats?
Suddenly he laughed. "Inspector Gillespie. Why would I threaten you, and not the officers who were listening on the wire? Were they not also a part of that case?" They were, and he had a point, though a minor one.
They could only testify to what they heard, and I failed to see how that could make him innocent. I was-receiving death threats about his case.
"Okay, let's say you didn't order one of your men to do this. How do you explain the hit on the two property clerks, and the destruction of the evidence in your case?" "An unfortunate incident with fortunate results." I shot from my chair, slamming my hands onto the table. My face was inches from his, and I expected to feel Torrance grab my shoulder, restrain me. It occurred to me he might have to restrain himself "Two innocent people are dead because of that. They had families. Grandchildren." He stared a moment, then gave an apologetic smile. "You'll have to forgive me. What I said was tactless." The smile vanished, and he continued, "But I did not have those men killed. My attorney promised me that I'd be getting off on a ... technicality.
How else did you think we were granted a retrial?"
"You tell me."
"The lab worker who tested the drugs was dirty. He could very well have switched the product, tainted the evidence. Or hadn't you heard he was arrested for falsifying evidence and being under the influence of the very drugs he was testing?" Taking a breath, I sat and leaned back in my chair. It suddenly occurred to me that Paolini might be behind the corruption and arrest of Scott Forrest, the lab tech. His arrest had produced a domino effect throughout the city. Paolini's case was tainted by Forrest, which meant Paolini would win his appeal on the drug charges, undoubtedly get credit for time served on the money laundering charge if not be totally acquitted on that as well. He'd be released in a heartbeat.
Unless we could get him on witness intimidation-me.
Despite my false bravado, I had to admit I was somewhat intimidated. I suppose it came from being shot at close quarters. Even so, I would never let him see it. "You expect me to believe you're innocent?" I asked slowly, evenly, not willing to give an inch. "You know very well I was shot outside one of your drug runner's motel rooms a year ago. I've lived with constant threats of death. Someone almost made good on it the other night. Someone you know quite well." He never blinked.
"Antonio Foust," I announced.
His gaze widened almost imperceptibly. His jaw clenched. "Inspector Gillespie," he began, his voice low, tinged with anger, his gaze cutting into mine. "It appears I have been made the fool." "And how is that?" I asked, hiding my surprise at his reaction. I would have expected the earlier smirk, not this bridled anger.
"You have proof that Tony tried to kill you?"
"His fingerprint in my house."
"A print?"
"Not to mention a couple bullet holes in my bed. Or isn't that enough?"
Paolini stared at his hands on the table before him, palms up. "What happened to you a year ago, at the Twin Palms ... I was most sorry to hear." His gaze met mine once more, the anger diminished. "I liked you.
Had I not, you would never have gotten the information you had. You would never have gotten so close. But I was not responsible. I had no idea until the news made it to me through the usual channels. "And as I said earlier, I did not order the threats on your life. I did not HI, nor did I order anyone to kill the two men who worked for your department. I am a businessman. Perhaps unscrupulous at times, but not to the point of killing innocent people."
"And if you didn't do it, who did? And why?"
"The why of it is easy. To set me up, of course."
"Come again?"
"My dear Inspector. If I am found guilty of murdering your two officers, possibly receiving the death penalty, there is one person who stands to gain everything." "And that would be?" The anger returned to his eyes. A vein on his temple pulsed. "Antonio Foust."
What's this about Bettencourt?" Torrance asked after e left the jail.
"I saw him talking to someone in a limo. It was purely a guess."
"Apparently an accurate one."
"Right now, I'm more interested in what Paolini had to say about Foust.
Do you believe him?" The heels of my boots clicked across the floor, echoing to the end of the hall. Several staccato beats later, he answered. "What he's saying makes sense." "Sense? How does a man guilty of the crimes Paolini's committed make a claim that he doesn't kill innocent people?" "Think about the known hits. True, never proved, but what kind of people were they?" Torrance was right. If Paolini hadn't had them killed-allegedly, I forced myself to add-they undoubtedly would have killed him or someone else. It didn't excuse the man. But it did make sense. So did the fact that his case was bound to be dismissed on the basis that the lab tech, Forrest, was dirty. Every other case that had made it to retrial because of the same reason had been dismissed. I needed to think about this logically. "Okay. Foust makes the phone threats the moment Paolini is in jail, perhaps at first with his blessings, until Paolini's released. Later, Foust learns his boss's case is up for appeal, and concocts this plan to set him up? This is ridiculous," I said, frustrated. I was having a difficult time changing my mind about Paolini's guilt after so long. I bore a scar on my shoulder, for God's sake. Who shot me? Was it, as Paolini had said, an unknown person? Did he really have no knowledge? I supposed it was possible. And for the moment, water under the bridge. I stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked at -Torrance. "If what he is saying is true, then Foust has been planning this for a long time.
