Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes (33 page)

“Yes, he whipped right through the first few witnesses, and he's playing it pretty much by the transcript.”

“Did you speak with Wald and Valle about moving the trial to the crime scene?”

“At the recess. Looks as if it's a go. You hear about getting access yet?”

“The broker's still working on it.” I took a sheaf of notes that I'd made while reading through the police files in the early hours of the morning. “You may want to look at these in preparation for tomorrow.”

He nodded and stuffed them into his inside pocket.

Judy came up to the table, her lips still taut with anger. I said quickly, “I've got to talk with Hank.”

My boss was sitting in the last row of the courtroom. When I sat down next to him, he commented, “Stameroff's giving Judy the hostile-witness treatment.”

“In case you haven't noticed, she
is
hostile. Unlike when she was a child and an easy lead, she now has a mind of her own. I'm convinced he controlled her original testimony, maybe even fed her some of it.”

“Wouldn't surprise me.” Hank watched the remaining spectators leave the courtroom, then stood and went to look out the window. “I made those inquiries that I promised you.”

“And?”

“Stameroff's been bought, several times.”

“Who told you that?”

He shook his head, picked up one of the poles used to open and close the old-fashioned windows, and hefted it experimentally. “All I can say is that they're good sources, ones I trust.”

“Who was he bought by?”

“No one whose name you'd recognize.” Hank sighted along the pole, made motions as if he were a javelin thrower. “The real powers-that-be keep a low profile. Often our elected officials aren't sure who they are. And they're almost never held accountable. Makes them damned hard to fight.”

“I used to think theories like that were just paranoia. Not anymore.”

“Yeah.” Hank jabbed angrily at the air with his pretend spear. “Anyway, Stameroff was promised the district attorney's job for a victory in the Benedict case, and that gave him a taste for trading favors. He bartered his way right on up to the state supreme court.”

“So why did he involve himself in this mock trial? Common sense should have told him it would only draw attention to what he did. The Tribunal may be publicity-hungry, but it doesn't really get that much press; if Stameroff weren't part of this, it would only rate a column in Monday's paper.”

Hank propped the pole up next to the window, looking thoughtful. “There's got to be something very damaging that he's trying to keep under wraps, but I haven't the foggiest.”

“Me, either.” I stood, and Hank followed me out of the empty courtroom. “Did you see Bart Wallace leave?” I asked.

“The homicide inspector? As a matter of fact, he and his partner asked me to tell you they'd be at Tommy's Joynt. If you don't' mind, I'll go over there with you. It's been years since I had some of their buffalo stew.”

Tommy's Joynt on Van Ness Avenue has long been a San Francisco institution. Garishly painted with slogans and ads on the outside, noisy and comfortable on the inside, it's been serving some of the best food and drink around to both locals and tourists for decades. Hank and I had to fight our way through a crowd before we found the inspectors at a table near the back. Joslyn was wading into a thick pastrami sandwich but from the appearance of the glass of dark liquid n front of him, Wallace was drinking his lunch.

Hank went to place or orders, and I sat down next to Adah. “So what do you think so far?” I asked.

“I think Stameroff is a grade-A shit,” Bart said. “If the son of a bitch ever had any humanity, he lost it long ago.”

“Other than that,” Adah added. “Bart thinks Stameroff's a hell of a nice guy.”

“Any progress in the Cardinal investigation?” I asked her.

“Zilch. Nobody in the neighborhood saw nothin', nobody heard nothin'. They—surprise!—just don't want to get involved.”

I glanced at Wallace. He wasn't paying any attention: his eyes searched the depths of his drink as if it contained the answers to the world's problems. I supposed that was as good a place as any to look for them.

Adah said, “I do have one piece of news for you. NCIC actually came through on my inquiry on Roger Woods.”

“My God.” The FBI crime information network was notoriously slow. “What did they say?”

“Woods file is classified.”

It was the last thing I'd expected to hear. “What do you suppose that means?”

“Could be any number of things. He might have been involved in some sort of covert work, or been placed in a protected witness program.”

“You mean he might have been FBI or an informant?”

“Or had something to do with any one of a number of other agencies or operations.”

Hank returned with coffee and bowls of buffalo stew. I stared at mine, realized I'd lost my appetite. “You know,” I said to Joslyn, “I have an idea about Roger Woods. That Cedar Rapids couple in Cardinal's address book—Mary and Rod. Could you have misread the name? Maybe it's actually Mary and
Rog.”

“It's possible.”

“Have you called them?”

“Tried to. There wasn't any answer.”

“Why don't you try again?”

She frowned. “You think Roger Woods has been hiding in
Cedar Rapids
for thirty-some years?”

“It's as good a place as any. Besides, maybe he's not hiding.”

Josyln nodded and tossed her napkin on the table. I stood so she could squeeze past me. As I sat down, Wallace muttered something, still staring at his drink.

“What did you say?” Hank asked him.

“I said, the bastard's going to go on and on untouched, no matter what anyone does.”

I realized he hadn't heard a word of Adah's and my conversation. “Stameroff, you mean?”

He nodded.

I glanced at Hank, who was wolfing down the last of his stew and greedily eyeing my untouched portion. “Bart, isn't it time you explained the history between Stameroff and you?”

He was silent, hands cupped around his glass.

Hank now wore an expression worthy of a Famine Relief Fund poster boy. I sighed and traded my bowl for his empty one.

Wallace echoed my sigh. “Story time, huh?” he said. “Do you think I should start it with ‘once upon a time.' Once upon a time I had an older brother—Burton. Burt and Bart. Cute.” His tone was laced with bitterness.

I waited.

“Burt was in private security. He and another guy had their own firm. In ‘sixty-seven they got a contract to provide security for a rock festival at a big arena. Riot broke out, Burt was killed. Plenty of witnesses saw the kids who were responsible. I was only a rookie at the time, but Homicide let me review the file; plenty of evidence. But when the file went over to the D.A.'s office, they declined to prosecute.”

Wallace raised his glass, took sip. “Lack of evidence, they said. Bullshit. What it was was our D.A. making a deal. One of the kids' fathers was a big honcho in the aerospace industry down the Peninsula. Few months after that, Stameroff bought the house in Presidio Heights.”

He was silent for a moment, then added, “One thing it did, it made me the cop I am today. Before Burt died, I was thinking of leaving the department, joining his firm. Afterward I decided to be the best damn cop I could, build cases that couldn't be dismissed for lack of evidence. And I swore that one day I'd bring Stameroff down. Watching him in that courtroom this morning, though, I realized it'll never happen.”

“You don't know that,” I said. “Stameroff looks good only because the defense hasn't presented its case.”

Wallace shrugged, drank some more. I knew he didn't believe me. I wasn't sure
I
believed me, either.

“Sharon?” Joslyn stood by the table.

I moved my chair to let her by. “Did you reach anybody?”

She nodded. “You were right—the geezer in Cedar Rapids is Roger Woods. He's been in a nursing home for a couple of years now, but I spoke with his wife. She didn't sound too upset about Melissa, and she wouldn't say much about Roger.”

“Did you ask her why his FBI file is classified?”

“She claims she didn't know he had one.”

“What about the rumor that he died on the Seattle docks in the fifties?”

“That surprised her. And when I mentioned the possibility of a connection with the American Communist Party, she damn near threw a fit. Said they've always been ‘decent Republicans' like everybody else around there.”

“Interesting.” All sorts of odd twists there, and none that I could reconcile with what people had told me about the man.

I glanced at my watch: approaching one-thirty, no time to think this through. “Thanks for checking, Adah,” I said. “I'll keep you posted.” Then I hurried back to City Hall, sticking Hank with the tab for the buffalo stew he'd so cleverly made off with.

Nell Loomis sounded harried when I called her from one of the fourth-floor phone booths at City Hall. The artichoke-heart shots, she said, were all screwed up, and she hadn't gotten to my prints yet, much less searched the files in the loft. When I pressed her, she promised to start on it within the hour. After all, she needed the money. I said I'd call back at three.

The news from Cathy Potter was better. Keyes Development had gone for my proposal. “You were right about them thinking the publicity might attract a buyer,” Cathy added. “And I just hope I'm the one who brings him through.”

I told her I'd get back with her later to finalize the details, and left her to dreams of an enormous commission. Then I hurried to the court room.

Judy was on the stand again, and Jack was beginning his cross-examination. It went well. During the lunch recess both had recovered their customary poise, and from the smoothness of their performances, I assumed they'd rehearsed, in spit of frequent objections from Stameroff. Jack managed to establish reasonable doubt on several points of her direct testimony—points that the justice wasn't able to undermine in redirect.

Stameroff approached the actress playing Louise Wingfield, routinely leading her through testimony that was almost identical to that in the trial transcript. Jack's questions on cross deviated markedly from those of Lis Benedict's inept public defender.

“The note summoning Cordelia McKittridge to the Institute's Seacliff estate arrived when, Ms. Wingfield?”

“June twenty-first, the day before the murder.”

“And
where
did it arrive?”

“At an apartment in North Beach that Cordy and I shared with several other women.” The actress gave the address.

Stameroff looked up, his mouth tightening; it was obvious he knew about the apartment and didn't like this line of questioning one bit.

“Was this apartment a full-time residence of Ms. McKittridge?” Jack asked.

“Objection. The question pertains to matters not covered—”

“Your honor, the door to this line of inquiry has been opened by the prosecution. We will demonstrate relevancy.”

“Overruled.”

“Ms. Winfield?”

The actress explained about the apartment and described the kind of activities that went on there. Voices murmured, and Judge Valle called for order.

“So various men were frequent visitors at the apartment?” Jack asked.

“Yes.”

“Vincent Benedict?”

“Yes.”

“Leonard Eyestone, son of the Institute's director?”

“Yes.”

I glanced at Eyestone, who sat in the fifth row. His face was unperturbed.

“Did anyone else connected with the Institute for North American Studies visit there frequently?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Let's get back to the day the note arrived, Ms. Wingfield. Was there anyone at the apartment besides you and Ms. McKittridge?”

“Melissa Cardinal was there. She saw the note.”

“Was it your impression that she knew it was from Vincent Benedict?”

“Objection. Calls for a conclusion from the witness.”

“Sustained.”

“Let me put it this way, Ms. Wingfield: Had Melissa Cardinal ever mentioned Vincent Benedict's notes to you?”

“Yes. She said—”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

Smoothly Jack switched to another tack. “Now, Ms. Wingfield, you stated on direct examination that you knew the note was from Vincent Benedict because you recognized his handwriting?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a friend of Mr. Benedict? Have you had occasion to received notes from him?”

“Objection!”

“I'll allow it. Witness is directed to answer.”

“I was a friend of Mr. Benedict.”

“And you have received notes from him?”

“Occasionally.”

“For what reason.”

The actress, one of several who frequently appeared before the Tribunal, did a stagy impression of a witness in distress. She wrung her hands, wet her lips, looked for a way out. Too many reruns of “Perry Mason,” I thought.

“For what reason, Ms. Wingfield.”

“To set up . . . assignations.”

Jack drew back, feigning shock. We'd have to curtail his late night TV viewing, too. “Ms. Winfield,” he said, “are you admitting to having had an affair with Vincent Benedict?”

The little ham hung her head, then told her—Louise's—sorry tale. It made me glad that Wingfield wasn't there to see her reputation soiled in such a careless way, no matter how little she claimed reputations mattered. But by the time the witness was dismissed, Jack had installed more doubt in the minds of the jurors.

Stameroff had sunk into a moody silence during the latter part of the testimony, scarcely objecting to all, and then only in a routine fashion. When he called the man acting the part of Leonard Eyestone, however, he became more alert. I glanced back at the real Eyestone, saw he was leaning forward in his seat, interested and vaguely amused.