Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

I left Walter Gale, feeling ticked off and disturbed. Ticked off because I hadn’t considered the possibility the forger might be an inmate currently in prison. Disturbed by the implications of having the suicide note written by somebody currently serving time. How had I managed to overlook that possibility? Who would have asked an inmate to forge the note? Another inmate? Once written, how was it smuggled out of prison? And did Walter Gale know more than he was telling me? Was he trying to point me in the right direction without getting himself directly involved? I had an idea, two ideas actually. I decided to launch them simultaneously the next morning.

With a little more leg-work, I eliminated the other two forgery suspects. I found Wendell Rich at the Utah State Hospital on an involuntary civil commitment for mental health problems. He’d been there almost two years. I found an empty house with a “for sale” sign in the front yard at Vaughn Gardner’s address. A neighbor told me he had died of a massive heart attack a year ago while mowing his lawn.

***

Having eliminated Gardner, Rich, and Gale as suspects, I did something I rarely do—act on impulse. I’d been thinking about Kate and decided to steer the Cherokee toward her condo. A little voice in my head, which I chose to ignore, told me this was not a good plan. When I reached Kate’s complex, I drove in, parked, and knocked on her front door. Much to my surprise and chagrin, an equally surprised Tom Stoddard answered the door barefoot, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a tank top.

“Kincaid, what are you doing here?”

Recovering quickly, I said, “Hoping to catch Lieutenant McConnell. I need to chat with her for a couple of minutes about the investigation.”

Speaking in hushed tones, Stoddard said with more irritation in his voice than surprise, “Man, this is Sunday evening. Can’t this wait until tomorrow morning?”

Before I could answer, an unsuspecting McConnell sidled up next to him, also barefoot, and wearing a long-sleeve yellow shirt and a pair of blue jean shorts. Her hair was wet as though she had just showered. The look on her face ranged somewhere between surprise and terror.

“Sam,” she stammered. “I take it we’ve got business to discuss. Come in. Excuse me for a second while I dry my hair.”

Stoddard ushered me into the living room and then disappeared into the bedroom. I could hear Kate and him arguing, but I was unable to make out exactly what they were saying. I couldn’t have walked into a more awkward situation. So much for acting on impulse.

After several minutes, Kate joined me in the living room. I apologized for the intrusion and offered to postpone our conversation until the next day. Stoddard hadn’t returned, but I sensed he was nearby and probably in a position to eavesdrop.

I explained the substance of my conversation with Walter Gale, including my suspicion that he might have known more than he had told me. I apologized for a second time in the span of a couple of minutes, this time for failing to recognize what should have been obvious from the get-go.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sam. No one, including me, gave a thought to the possibility an inmate forged that suicide note. The important question now is what do we do about it?”

I spent the next few minutes bringing her up to speed on the plan that had been taking shape in my head for the past couple of hours. In turn, Kate informed me that she and Vince had each located two of the three forgery suspects assigned to them. They hadn’t been able to find the other two. That eliminated seven possible suspects from our original list.

I was anxious to find out what Salt Lake City P.D. Vice had discovered from the weekend surveillance of the Starlite Motel, since part of my plan involved Sue Ann Winkler. Not caring much for Sue Ann, Kate seemed almost giddy as she described the weekend’s activities.

“We had vice teams watching the place Friday night, Saturday afternoon, and again on Saturday night. According to the report, on both Friday and Saturday nights there was a lot of activity around the place. We’re talking about johns checking in for one or two-hour dates with several different girls. Very little action on Saturday during the day until late in the afternoon, when business started to pick up again. The surveillance team identified the mother, Lou Ann Barlow, and her live-in, Frank Arnold, working the front desk and collecting money as people came in and out. Although they weren’t sure, they didn’t think Sue Ann was among the girls meeting dates at the place. The motel was definitely taking in revenue from prostitution activity. How do you think we should play it?”

“Let me pay a visit to Sue Ann right away and see what level of cooperation I can get from her. I want her to look at the enhanced videotape of the people who attended Levi’s funeral. If she’s uncooperative, then a raid on the motel might give her a reason to cooperate. I assume your vice unit would enjoy hitting the motel with a search warrant. If Frank and Mama get popped, maybe Sue Ann becomes a little more helpful,” I said.

“That works. The vice unit took surveillance photos and license plate numbers of the vehicles coming in and out of the motel. They’re busy identifying the girls and visiting a few johns. As soon as they’re finished, they should be able to get the warrant. I imagine they’ll go in, seize business records, and bust some folks. Customers will receive citations, but Frank and Lou Ann will probably get booked into jail on felony pimping charges. In all likelihood, some of the girls will turn out to be dancers from Satin & Lace,” said Kate.

She paused momentarily, lost in thought, and then continued. “Sam, we both know Sue Ann may not have been totally forthcoming in our interview with her. But what exactly do you hope to get from her?”

“Two things. First, I want to find out what, if anything, she’s held back from us. Second, I want the identity of the guy who Vogue included in his sexual liaisons with Sue Ann. It’s just a hunch, but if we can get our hands on this guy, I somehow think he might hold the key to solving our case.”

“God, I hope you’re right. Worst-case scenario, it’s another dead end. And by the way, more good news. The state crime lab found absolutely nothing when they went back to Wendover and processed the crime scene and Watts’ hotel room. His car had been wiped clean. The hotel room produced a variety of latent prints they are checking out for us. But don’t hold your breath. After all, it’s a hotel room, and it ought to have prints. They’ll let us know if the fingerprint database search produces anything useful.

“And one last thing. Jim Allen called Tom late Friday afternoon. Allen wanted to meet first thing tomorrow morning, but Tom made some excuse and set the meeting for five o’clock in the afternoon. The stall is on. Apparently, the D.A. wasn’t one bit happy to hear that Richard Vogue hired private investigators without consulting anybody. Although nobody has said anything yet, the brass are probably nervous about having the Vogue family find out about Levi’s extramarital activities.”

***

I left Kate’s condo with as much grace as I could muster under the circumstances. To describe the feeling as awkward was a serious understatement. I wanted to discuss things, and I sensed she did too. This, however, wasn’t the time or place. The investigation was reaching another critical juncture. I could feel it. And distractions just wouldn’t do.

Chapter Thirty-four

At eight-thirty the next morning, I gathered my unit for a meeting at the state prison. The staff of the Special Investigations Branch consisted of six investigators, two secretaries, and me. We are a pretty close-knit bunch. As I entered the conference room, one of my investigators, Marcy Everest, was busy entertaining the staff with one of her jokes. As I sat down, I heard her say, “So this guy’s been dead for several months, and then one day out of the clear blue, he speaks to an old friend. His friend says, ‘Hey Max, is that really you?’ Max answers, ‘Oh, yes, it’s me.’ And the friend says, ‘So Max, tell me what it’s like.’ And Max says, ‘Well it’s really pretty good. I sleep in, get up when I want, have a little breakfast, have some great sex, and then take a nap. A little later in the day, I wake up again, have another meal, have some more great sex, and then take another snooze. That’s kind of my routine now. It’s good.’ So the friend says, ‘Wow, Max, so that’s what Heaven is really like.’ And Max says, ‘Who the hell said anything about Heaven? I’m a buffalo in Montana.’”

The room erupted with laughter, and then we settled down to work.

My agenda was relatively short. I wanted to talk about the Vogue/Watts murder investigation. “Folks, it’s time to use our inmate sources to see what kind of information is out there. I know when we do that it creates stress among both the inmates and the staff. But in this instance, we’ve come to a near standstill. So here’s what I want you to do. I’d like each of you to contact all of your inmate sources. See what they can find out for us. As usual, be careful what kind of reward you negotiate with them. When in doubt, talk with me first.

“Terry, get this request to all the correctional officer shift commanders so they can make an announcement at roll-call meetings. We want all our COs to keep an ear to the ground for any information that might be helpful. Marcy, you do the same thing with the clinical staff supervisors, teachers, maintenance workers, and culinary employees. Basically, we want the assistance of everybody employed inside the prison who has regular contact with inmates. We should probably anticipate the usual whining from the clinical staff. They never like it when we pressure them or inmates to provide snitch information. It interferes with their client-therapist trust-building relationship or some such bullshit. Pass them and their complaints along to me. I’ll deal with them. Any questions?”

There were none, and our meeting broke up. Terry stuck around to provide me with an update on what he’d learned from Charles Watts’ friends as well as his sister.

He dug around for a minute and finally pulled out a dog-eared, yellow lined legal pad sporting what appeared to be a large coffee stain in the middle of the page. The page was covered with unreadable handwritten notes that might have been written in Swahili. “Sorry,” he began. “I haven’t had time to sit down and translate my notes into a coherent report.”

“Are you sure we’re not going to need a team of investigators to help translate those notes?” I asked, smiling.

“Up yours. You want to hear what I got or not?”

“What’s the matter with you, Terry—you off your meds again?”

“No, but if you keep talking, you’re going to need your own meds, as in pain meds. Got it?”

“Loud and clear. Fill me in.”

“Here’s what I’ve learned so far. After asking around, I discovered an inmate by the name of Herbert Walker who probably qualifies as the closest thing to a friend Slick Watts had when he was inside. Walker described Watts as a private sort of guy; polite, but never very forthcoming. He said his contact with Watts occurred mostly in the prison culinary, where they both worked as cooks. Away from work, they spent time together gambling, poker usually. The most significant thing Walker shared concerned some things Slick said about what he was planning to do once released.”

“Such as,” I said.

“Don’t get too excited. Walker was clear that Watts never got real specific. The gist of it was that Slick intimated that once paroled, he had some kind of contact on the outside who intended to employ him at something very lucrative. When pressed for details, Watts refused to be specific. Walker believed that whatever Slick had in mind, it wasn’t flipping pancakes at the local IHOP. Walker felt certain the employment involved something illegal and highly profitable, and would allow Watts to operate solo,” Burnham said.

“Shit, that could be anything from dealing dope to carrying out contract murders and everything in between,” I said. After a moment of silence, it hit me right between the eyes. “Ah, Christ, Burnham. I know where you’re going with this. You’re about to tell me that Slick Watts was working as a self-employed contract killer. Right?”

“It’s not such a terribly big stretch, Sam. Think about it. Somebody hires Watts to kill Levi Vogue. Maybe Vogue isn’t even his first victim. And then that somebody kills Slick and tries to make it look like a suicide.

“But there’s more. Yesterday, I tracked down Watts’ sister, one Vicki Gallego. She’s straight, no criminal history, married, two kids, and has worked for the past nine years at Utah Power. She’s the only member of the family that maintained any semblance of contact with Slick. The father is dead, Mom has remarried and, according to Vicki, is a serious alcoholic. The youngest sibling, another sister, resides in California and has nothing to do with anybody in the family.

“Vicki told me when she received the call informing her that her brother had committed suicide, she didn’t believe it. When I asked her why, she described her brother as narcissistic, with much too large an ego to have killed himself. She said he always bragged about some big deal that was just around the corner and would make him big bucks. She said there was no way he’d have ever been content holding down a nine-to-five job like everybody else. When I asked her if she thought he might be capable of carrying out murders for hire, she didn’t hesitate for a second. She said if the price was right, he’d do it.”

“Not a particularly flattering picture of her own brother. Anything else?”

“That’s it. I do have the names of two more guys on parole who Walker maintained were also friends of Slick when he was inside. I’ll run them down in the next day or two.”

“Thanks for the update. I don’t know exactly what to make of it, but you’ve sure given me something to chew on. Keep after it.”

Chapter Thirty-five

When I returned to my office, I found nineteen voice mail messages waiting, one of them from Kate. I hadn’t spoken with her since the episode at her condo the previous day. She asked me to call her as soon as I could. She didn’t say what we needed to talk about, but I was afraid I had a pretty good idea. I still felt embarrassed. I decided not to call her back until later in the day.

Not surprisingly, I also had a call from Jim Allen asking whether I’d been able to set up a meeting with Kate. He sounded anxious. This was a meeting we wanted to delay for as long as possible. I decided to take a chance. I dialed his number hoping he wouldn’t answer so I could leave him a voice message. He didn’t pick up. “Jim, Sam Kincaid. I still haven’t been able to reach Kate but I’ll keep trying. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have the meeting set.” I told Patti that Allen would probably be calling back and that she should tell him that I was tied up in management meetings all day. The stall continued.

***

By early afternoon I was in the field looking for Sue Ann Winkler. I found her walking to her car in the parking lot outside the Satin & Lace Club. She had some large goon in tow who appeared to be nothing more than an escort from the club to her car. He was a large Asian guy who wore his jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was wearing tight black jeans and a yellow sleeveless tank top. Both of his well-muscled arms were covered with tattoos from wrist to shoulder. Both ears were pierced and he wore a round, silver ring above his right eyebrow. If he had other body parts pierced, I didn’t want to know where. As I got out of my car, I could tell Sue Ann recognized me, but she didn’t look enthused about seeing me again. George, the gorilla, put on his most sinister look and stepped between us. Sue Ann whispered something to him and he moved around behind her, still giving me his best scowl.

“Hello, Detective Kincaid. You here for business or pleasure?” she asked. The greeting, while not dripping with affection, wasn’t hostile either.

I did my best to put on my most sincere, friendly, non-threatening face. I said, “Business actually. I’m glad I found you. I really need your help with something. It’s important. I’d like you to take a look at some video footage of people who attended Levi’s funeral. We’re attempting to identify the guy Vogue brought over to the motel on those occasions when you did the
ménage
à
trois.
”

Her facial expression hardened instantly. The nonverbal look told me that I’d pissed her off. “Oh, Christ. I don’t see how this could have one goddamn thing to do with Levi’s murder,” she hissed.

“You know what. You’re probably right. But you might be wrong, too. This is a loose end in the investigation that might be meaningless, or it might be important. Right now we’re following every lead we possibly can. And at the moment, we’ve about run out of leads. You put on a tough exterior, Sue Ann, but I believe you really cared for Levi. So I figured you’d be willing to help.” I’m wasn’t sure I really believed what I’d just said, but it sounded like the right thing to say at the time.

“Well, maybe you figured wrong, Kincaid,” she said, her stern facade starting to slip. I stopped talking and allowed a moment of awkward silence to fill the space between us. She finally said, “Ah, shit. Let’s get it over with. I guess it could be worse. You might have brought Kathryn the Great with you, or should I say Kathryn the Bitch. In that case, I’d be telling you both to fuck off.”

“I appreciate your willingness to do this. You can follow me in your car or ride with me, and I’ll drive you back afterward. Your choice.”

“How long do you expect this to take?”

“One hour at most.”

“Then I’ll ride over with you.” She got in the passenger side of my department-issue Chevrolet Impala and looked over at me, smiling. “You know, Kincaid, you’re kind of a cute guy in a funny sort of way. A little too straight-looking for my taste, but what the hell. Why don’t we spend that hour you want me looking at video over at the motel. If you want to watch movies, I’ll show you some really hot video. We could have an intimate party for two. I’ll make sure you leave relaxed and with a smile on your face.”

I smiled back and said, “That was a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one. And it almost sounded like you were soliciting me.”

“I wasn’t soliciting. I didn’t ask you for money, honey. This one’s free—on the house, so to speak. What do you say?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her a vice raid at the Starlite Motel was imminent, and that it was a good place to avoid for the next little while. “Thanks for a very tempting offer. I’m flattered. I really am. And you’re a beautiful lady. But I’m a little busy right now trying to solve a couple of murders. Some other time, maybe?”

She gave me an indifferent shrug and didn’t say anything more. I felt as though I’d managed to extricate myself from an awkward situation without offending her.

I called ahead and had Patti set up the videotape in our conference room. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. When we arrived, the TV monitor was on and everything was ready. The only thing missing was the beer and hot buttered popcorn. The tape had a total running time of approximately forty-five minutes. About halfway through, Sue Ann asked me to stop the tape and back it up a little. I had no sooner hit the play button when she said, “Hold it. That’s him. That’s the guy I did the three-way with.”

I backed it up and ran it forward once more. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. That’s the dude Levi brought with him to the motel. The two things I distinctly recall about him were the tattoo I told you about and what a little dick he had. I mean, at full attention, we’re talking about something the size of your little pinkie. I remember thinking later that any woman deserved more than that.”

I excused myself momentarily and hustled over to my office, where I picked up a current copy of the Utah Department of Corrections Annual Report. I brought it back to the conference room and flipped through it until I found the page I was looking for. It was a section of the report devoted to the Utah Board of Pardons and Parole. This particular page included individual head-and-shoulder shots of each member of the board. The photographs were significantly larger than the video images she had just viewed to make the identification. I set it down in front of her and asked her to make the identification again. She didn’t hesitate, pointing immediately to the picture of William Allred.

“Wow. So this Allred dude is a member of the parole board just like Levi was?” she asked. “I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. Do you think he’s mixed up in Levi’s murder?”

“That’s a very good question, Sue Ann, and the answer is, I just don’t know.”

***

I took Sue Ann Winkler back to the Satin & Lace Club, then I headed to my office at the prison. I called ahead to Terry, who was waiting for me when I arrived. I told him what I’d learned from Sue Ann. I said, “I want Bill Allred placed under visual surveillance. Call the Board of Pardons and find out discreetly Allred’s hearing schedule for the next several days. Then we can assign some of our staff to track his movements.

“I want to know where this guy goes and who he sees when he’s not conducting parole hearings. That means getting him up in the morning, following him to work, following him if he leaves for lunch, and then following him home in the evening. Once he’s safely tucked in for the night, then it’s okay to discontinue the surveillance. But somebody has to be back on him early the next morning.”

“That’s really going to stretch our resources,” said Burnham. “I think I can free up two investigators, and I’m available to help. We’ll have to work solo, which will be tough if he’s on the move very much. If this goes on very long, we’ll need additional personnel.”

“I’ll see if I can convince McConnell to provide some help. She’s been less than enthused about this line of pursuit. But maybe the current revelation from Sue Ann will change her mind. In the meantime, we’re still trying to identify the guy who wrote the forged suicide note.”

“You want his phone records?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Find out which company provides cell phone service for the Board of Pardons. All the board members carry a cell. Let’s get both his home and cell phone records for the past six months. Who knows, the phone records may turn out to be more useful than all the time-consuming visual surveillance. And also have somebody snatch his garbage can and sort through the trash—never can tell what might turn up in the garbage.”

“You must really think Allred’s involved.”

“Hell, I wish I knew, Terry. It’s a calculated gamble, that’s for sure. When I interviewed him, he acted kind of funny when I asked about his friendship with Levi. At least now we know why. I’ve got to trust my instincts, and right now, my instincts are telling me somehow Bill Allred’s involved. I’ve been wrong before. It wouldn’t be the first time. But over the years, I’ve guessed right a lot more often than I’ve been wrong. We’ll know soon enough.”