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Chapter 74

  YUKI SAT BESIDE the immense form of Len Parisi as Junie Moon’s sleazebag pimp-boyfriend, Ricardo “Ricky” Malcolm, was sworn in.

  Yuki was fully aware that Davis had hired a bounty hunter to drag Ricky Malcolm over the Mexican border for his court appearance, and as Malcolm swore to tell the whole truth, she wondered if Davis really thought this punked-out, tattooed, and homely creep could persuade the jury of anything. Davis ’s voice was confident as she asked Malcolm her preliminary questions, getting out ahead of the prosecution by getting Malcolm to say he’d served time for drug possession.

  Then Davis started her direct examination in earnest.

  “What’s your relationship to Ms. Moon?”

  “I was her boyfriend.”

  “No longer?”

  “We’re separated,” Malcolm said drily. “I’m in Tijuana and she’s in jail.”

  Titters arose in little pockets around the gallery.

  “How long have you known Ms. Moon?” Davis asked.

  “Gotta be three years.”

  “And did there come a time last January twenty-first when Ms. Moon called you at around eleven thirty at night and asked you to come to her house because one of her clients was having a heart attack?”

  “No.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re saying Junie didn’t call to tell you she needed help with Michael Campion?”

  “No, ma’am. No, she did not.”

  “Did the police question you about the dismemberment and disposal of Michael Campion’s body?”

  “Yep. I told them I didn’t do it.”

  “Were you telling the truth?”

  Malcolm started to laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I told them the truth. I never dismembered anybody. I can’t stand the sight of blood. I eat steak well-done. It was one of the wackiest things I ever heard.”

  “I agree,” Davis said. “Pretty wacky.”

  Yuki jumped to her feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Ms. Davis’s opinions are totally irrelevant here.”

  “Sustained.”

  Davis spun on her heels, took a few paces toward the jury, then turned back again. “And yet,” Davis said, her voice ringing out across the oak-paneled courtroom, “according to police testimony, Ms. Moon said that she called you because Mr. Campion was having a heart attack, and that when you arrived at her place, Mr. Campion was dead.”

  “It’s totally bogus. Never happened,” Malcolm said, clearly enjoying himself.

  “The police further testified that Ms. Moon told them that you dismembered Mr. Campion with a knife and that you and Ms. Moon then transported Mr. Campion’s remains and disposed of them in a Dumpster.

  “Did that happen?”

  “No way. Crock a’ shit. Plus, I’ve got no skill with anything but power tools.”

  “Okay, Mr. Malcolm. So, in your opinion, why would Ms. Moon say such a thing if it isn’t true?”

  “Because,” Malcolm said, looking at Junie with his spacey green eyes, “she’s simple, you know, like a special ed kid. She sucks up romance novels, daytime soaps -”

  “Move to strike, Your Honor,” Yuki said. “This whole line of questioning calls for speculation.”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Malcolm’s testimony goes to the credibility of the defendant.”

  “I’ll allow it. Go on, Mr. Malcolm.”

  Yuki sighed loudly, took her seat again between Gaines and Red Dog as Malcolm continued.

  “Like I was saying, in my opinion, right? When the cops asked her if she’d done the deed with the famous Michael Campion, that was like lighting up a wide-screen, three-D fantasy starring Junie Moon, stupid little whore -”

  “Thanks, Mr. Malcolm. Were you charged as an accessory in this crime?”

  “The cops tried, but the DA knew they couldn’t indict me on Junie’s flaky confession, especially since she, whatcha-callit, recanted.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Malcolm. Your witness,” Davis said with a smirk to Yuki.

  Chapter 75

  YUKI READ LEN’S NOTES to her, his suggested line of questioning exactly what she planned to ask, but what was underscored in her mind was how important Malcolm was to the defense. And how important it was that she nullify his testimony.

  Yuki stood, walked toward the witness stand, saying, “Mr. Malcolm, are you here today of your own volition?”

  “Not exactly. The long arm of the law reached out and grabbed me out of a nice little titty bar in Tijuana.”

  “You have friends in Mexico, Mr. Malcolm?” Yuki asked over the laughter in the gallery. “Or was this a case of ‘you can run but you can’t hide’?”

  “A little of both.” Malcolm shrugged, giving the jury a glimpse of his terrible, gappy smile.

  “A few minutes ago you swore to tell the truth, isn’t that right?”

  “I got nothing against the truth,” Malcolm said.

  Yuki put her hands on the railing in front of the witness, asked, “How do you feel about the defendant? Ms. Moon.”

  “Junie’s a sweet girl.”

  “Let’s see if we can refine that answer, okay?”

  Malcolm shrugged, said, “Refine away.”

  Yuki allowed a smile to show the jury she was a good sport, then said, “If you and Junie Moon were both free to walk out of here, Mr. Malcolm, would you spend the night with her?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “And if she needed a kidney, would you give her one of yours?”

  “I’ve got two, right?”

  “Yes. Odds are you have two.”

  “Sure. I’d give her a kidney.” Ricky Malcolm grinned expansively, conveying what a generous guy he was.

  “During your three-year-long relationship with the defendant, did you share things with her? Enjoy doing things with her?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “And how do you feel about her now?”

  “That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”

  Davis called out, “Your Honor, is this the Dr. Phil show? There’s no relevance -”

  “If the court would give me a moment to show relevance,” Yuki interrupted.

  “Overruled, Ms. Davis. Proceed, Ms. Castellano.”

  “Thanks, Your Honor,” Yuki said. “Mr. Malcolm, your feelings aren’t a secret, are they? Would you please roll up your right sleeve and show your arm to the jury.”

  Malcolm hesitated until the judge asked him to do it. Then he exposed his arm to the jury.

  Called a “full sleeve” by tat aficionados, a dense collection of tattoos ran up Ricky Malcolm’s pale skin from his wrist to his shoulder. Among the snakes and skulls was a red heart branded with the initials R.M. hanging from the hook of a feminized crescent moon.

  “Mr. Malcolm, could you tell us what the letters underneath that heart tattoo mean?”

  “You mean T-M-T-Y-L-M-J-M?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Malcolm.”

  Malcolm sighed. “It stands for ‘Tell me that you love me, Junie Moon.’ ”

  “So, Mr. Malcolm, is it fair to say that you love the defendant?”

  Malcolm was looking at Junie now, his face heavy, having lost its wiseass expression, Junie looking back at him with her huge slate-gray eyes.

  “Yes. I love her.”

  “Do you love her enough to lie for her?”

  “Sure, I’d lie for her, what the hell?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Malcolm. I’m done with this witness, Judge,” said Yuki, turning her back on Ricky Malcolm.

  Chapter 76

  JACOBI CALLED THE MEETING to order at the crack of eight a.m. He asked me to come to the front of the room to brief the troops on our arson-homicide case and where we were with it – that is to say, nowhere. I was wearing jeans and a beaded tank top, a pair of moccasins, and a faded denim jacket that I’d left at Joe’s place before the fire.

  It was all that I had.

  I got whistles, of course, one beefy old-timer shouting out, “Nice rack, Sarge.”

  “Shut up, McCracken,” Rich shouted back, makin
g me blush, extending the moment as my fellow cops laughed and made raunchy comments to each other. After Jacobi kicked a desk so that a hollow boom silenced the room, I filled everyone in on the Meacham and Malone homicides.

  Assignments were divvied up, I got into the car with Conklin, and we drove to one of the dark and grubby alleys in the Mission. We were doing it again, more down-and-dirty detective work, hoping for clues in the absence of a single hard lead.

  Our first stop was a pawnshop on Polk called Gold ’n’ Things, a shop piled high with outdated electronics and musical instruments, and a half-dozen glass cases filled with tacky bling. The proprietor was Rudy Vitale, an obese man with thick glasses and thin hair, a marginal fence who used the pawnshop as his office while making his real deals in cars and bars, anywhere but here.

  I let Conklin take the lead because my insides were still reeling from the sharp turn my life had taken only twelve hours before.

  My mind was stuck in a groove of what the fire had cost me in emotional touchstones to my past: my Willie Mays jacket, my Indian pottery, and everything that had belonged to my mother, especially her letters telling me how much she loved me, a sentiment she’d only been able to write when she was dying but was never able to actually say.

  As Conklin showed insurance photos to Vitale, I glanced at the display cases, still in a daze, not expecting anything, when suddenly, as if someone yelled Hey in my ear, I saw Patty Malone’s sapphire necklace on a velveteen tray, right there.

  “Rich,” I said sharply. “Take a look at this.”

  Conklin looked, then told Vitale to open the case. Baubles clanked as Vitale pawed through them, handed the necklace up to Conklin with his catcher’s mitt of a hand.

  “You’re saying these are real sapphires?” Vitale said innocently.

  Conklin’s face blanched around the eyes as he placed the necklace down on the photograph. It was clearly a match.

  “Where’d you get this?” he asked Vitale.

  “Some kid brought it in a week ago.”

  “Let’s see the paperwork.”

  “Hold on,” Vitale said, waddling back to his cage.

  He moved a pile of auction catalogs and books on antique jewelry from his desk chair, then tapped the keys on his laptop.

  “Got it. I paid the kid a hundred bucks. Here you go. Whoops. I just noticed his name.”

  I read the receipt over Conklin’s shoulder, the name Clark Kent, an address somewhere in the middle of the bay, and the description of a “blue topaz necklace.”

  “Was he wearing a suit and eyeglasses?” Conklin yelled. “Or maybe he’d changed into tights and a cape?”

  “I’ll need the tape from that,” I said, pointing to the video camera anchored in the corner of the ceiling like a red-eyed spider.

  Vitale said, “That’s got a twenty-four-hour loop. He’s not on it anymore. Anyway, I dimly remember the kid, and I don’t think he was the tights-and-cape type. More of a preppy look. I think maybe I sold him some comic books one time before.”

  “Can you do better than ‘preppy look’?”

  “Dark hair, I think. A little on the stocky side.”

  “We’ll need you to come in and look at our mug books,” I said. “Talk to a sketch artist.”

  “I’m no good at faces,” said Vitale. “It’s like a disorder I have. Some kind of dyslexia. I don’t think I’d recognize you if I saw you tomorrow.”

  “Bull,” Conklin snapped. “This is a homicide investigation, Vitale. Understand? If that kid comes in again, call us. Preferably while he’s still here. And make a copy of his driver’s license.”

  “Okay, chief,” Vitale said. “Will do.”

  “It’s something,” Conklin said to me as he started up the car. “Kelly will be glad to have something from her mom.”

  “Yeah, she will,” I said.

  My mind flew to my own mom’s death. I turned my head so that Conklin couldn’t see the tears that came into my eyes.

  Chapter 77

  CHUCK HANNI STOOD with me and Joe in the dank basement of the building where I used to live, showing us the fine points of archaic knob-and-tube wiring as water dripped on our heads. The door to the fuse box was open, and Hanni held his Mag-Lite on a fuse he wanted me to see.

  “See how this penny is annealed to the back of the fuse?”

  I could just make out the dull copper blob.

  “The college girls on the second floor – you know them?” Hanni asked.

  “Just to wave hi.”

  “Okay, well, apparently they’ve been blowing fuses every other day with their hair dryers and air conditioner and irons and whatnot. And your super got tired of running over here to change the fuse, so he put this penny in here.”

  “Which does what?”

  Chuck explained everything that happened, how the copper penny overrode the fuse so that the circuit didn’t trip. Instead the electricity went through the penny and melted down the wiring at its weakest point. In this case, the ceiling lights on the second floor and the electric sockets in my apartment.

  I visualized flames shooting out of the socket, but I still didn’t get it – so Chuck took his time explaining to me and to Joe how my building, like a lot of old buildings, had “balloon construction,” that is, the framing timbers ran from roof to ceiling without any fire stops in between.

  “The fire just races up through the walls,” Hanni said. “Those spaces between the timbers act like chimneys. And so when the fire reached your apartment, it came out the sockets, set your stuff on fire, and just kept going. Took out the roof and burned itself out.”

  “So you’re telling me this was an accident?”

  “I was suspicious, too,” Chuck told me.

  He said that he’d questioned everyone himself: the building manager, the girls downstairs, and in particular our aging handyman, Angel Fernandez, who admitted he’d put the penny behind the fuse to save himself another trip up the hill.

  “If anyone had died in this fire, I’d be charging Angel Fernandez with negligent homicide,” Hanni said. “I’m calling this an accidental fire, Lindsay. You file an insurance claim and it will sail through.”

  I’d been trained to read a lie in a person’s face, and all I saw was the truth in Chuck Hanni’s frankly honest features. But I was jumpy and not quite ready to let my worst suspicions go. Walking out to Joe’s car I asked for his point of view as a guy who’d spent a couple of decades in law enforcement.

  “Hanni didn’t do it, honey. I think he’s suffering almost as much as you are. And I think he likes you.”

  “That’s your professional opinion?”

  “Yep. Hanni’s on your side.”

  Chapter 78

  YUKI WAS WIRED.

  We were eating lunch at her desk, both of us picking through our salads as if we were looking for nuggets of gold instead of chicken. Yuki had asked me how I was feeling, but I didn’t have much to say and she was pent up, so I said, “You first,” and she was off.

  “So, Davis calls her expert shrink, Dr. Maria Paige. Ever heard of her?” Yuki asked me.

  I shook my head no.

  “She’s on Court TV sometimes. Tall? Blond? Harvard?”

  I shook my head no again and Yuki said, “Doesn’t matter. So, anyway. Davis puts this big-name shrink on the stand to tell us all about false confessions.”

  “Ahh,” I said, getting it. “Junie Moon’s ‘false’ confession?”

  “Right. And she’s a bright babe, this shrink. She’s got it all down. How and why Miranda rights came into being so that cops can’t coerce suspects. The landmark studies by Gudjonsson and Clark having to do with the suggestibility of certain subjects. And the Reid book for cops on how to get around Miranda.

  “She sounds like she wrote the fricking book, Lindsay,” Yuki continued, getting even more pissed off. “She says with authority how cops can browbeat and trick suspects into making false confessions.”

  “Well, some might do that – but I sure didn�
��t.”

  “Of course not. And so then she says how certain people with low intelligence or low self-esteem would rather agree with cops than disagree with them. And so the jury looks at Junie.”

  “Junie confessed all on her own -”

  “I know, I know, but you know what Junie looks like – Bambi’s baby sister. So finally Dr. Paige wraps it up, and I’m wondering how I’m going to cancel out her testimony without showing the whole two-hour tape of your interview with Junie.”

  “Well, you could’ve done that,” I said, snapping the plastic lid closed on my salad and tossing it into the trash can. Yuki did the same.

  “Two hours, Lindsay? Of Junie denying everything? So listen. I got up and said, ‘Dr. Paige, did you ever meet Junie Moon?’ ‘No.’ ‘Ever see the tape of the interview with the police?’ ‘Yes.’ So I said, ‘Did the police browbeat the defendant or lie to her or trick her?’ ‘No, no, not really.’ ”

  Yuki sipped her tea, then continued her reenactment of her cross-examination of Dr. Paige.

  “So then I make a mistake.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was exasperated, Lindsay.” Yuki grimaced. She raked her hair away from her lovely heart-shaped face.

  “I said, ‘So, what did the police do, exactly?’ I know not to ask a question I don’t have an answer to, but shit! I’ve seen the damned interview two dozen times and you and Conklin did nothing!

  “And now Red Dog is glaring at me, and the shrink is saying, ‘In my opinion, Miss Moon not only has bottomless low self-esteem, she feels guilty because she’s a prostitute and her confession was a way of reducing her guilt.’

  “I couldn’t believe she was asking the jury to swallow that, so I said, ‘So you’re saying she feels guilty that she’s a prostitute and that’s why she confessed to manslaughter?’

  “ ‘That’s what I’m saying,’ Paige says, so I say, ‘That’s all, Doctor.’ And Bendinger tells her to step down, and I’m squeezing in behind Red Dog’s chair, facing the gallery, and there’s Twilly,” Yuki said.

  “Isn’t he there every day?” I asked my friend.