Silent Witness (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

While Kate gathered information about Steven Ambrose, I tapped into department records searching for information on the whereabouts of my former snitch, Sammy Roybal.

I found Roybal at the home of his grandmother, in the Rose Park area of Salt Lake's west side. Despite his California inclinations, he hadn't left Utah. That didn't surprise me. I'd known Sammy for nearly six years during two separate prison commitments. Despite his criminal lifestyle, he always seemed highly devoted to a large, local, extended family. He'd been raised by a mother who'd been widowed since the age of seventeen. His father had been a small time crook with a heroin problem. He died of an overdose before Sammy was born. Sammy and a half-sister had been raised by his mother and a collection of aunts, uncles, and grandparents.

By any measure, Roybal's criminal career was also a petty one, punctuated by brushes with the law for such things as drug possession, theft, check and credit card forgery. It wasn't the seriousness of his criminal record that had earned him two stints at Point of the Mountain, but the length of it. Through sheer persistence, he accumulated a long record of petty crimes beginning at age fifteen. He had also managed to annoy every cop, prosecutor, and judge that worked with him because they saw him so often. He was now twenty-six and recently paroled for a second time. The fact that he'd been out for several months was a good sign since most inmates failed within the first ninety days. If you could keep an ex-con violation-free beyond ninety days, the odds improved that he might make it.

In prison, Sammy found a comfortable niche because he was both smart and gay. He worked as a legal assistant helping other inmates prepare writs and appeals in the law library by day, and ran a thriving prostitution business at night. The inmates hadn't nicknamed him Slammin Sammy for nothing. In the course of performing both jobs, Sammy Roybal heard a lot. He slipped me information on everything from crooked staff to drug trafficking to inmates with escape plans. He was even responsible for preventing a couple of planned gang hits on other inmates in the prison population. I almost hated to see the guy paroled.

When I called, his grandmother answered the phone. I'd managed to catch him just before his departure for an evening on the town. I could only imagine what that might entail.

“Hello, Sam,” he purred into the phone. The guy had propositioned me more times than I cared to count.

“Hi, Sammy, got a little job for you if you think you might be interested.”

“Anything for you, big boy,” he cooed.

“Knock that shit off, would you? You know I don't like it.”

“My, my, aren't we a little grouchy tonight. What's the job?”

I explained about the Lucky Gent, Anthony Barnes, and the murder of Arnold Ginsberg. He listened patiently until I finished.

“What's in it for Slammin Sammy, big boy?”

I had always found that Roybal responded well to material things or the cash that could buy them. In prison, we quietly added money to his commissary account, always making it look like the money came in from a family member on the outside. I figured between what Kate could pull from her budget and what I could take from mine, we'd have more than enough cash to interest Sammy. I tossed a number at him.

“And you'll cover all my expenses as well?”

“What expenses, Sammy?”

“Oh, expenses like the food I'll need to order, and of course, my bar bill.”

“Okay, okay, we'll cover your expenses, too.”

“I'll do it. Anything to help my good friend, Sam Kincaid,” he said. “But I won't wear a wire. I won't have that cold goo taped to my hairless chest.” He giggled. “It's not the kind of lubricant I like, and besides, it's not in the place I like it.”

“Fair enough,” I said, trying my best not to sound like a judgmental, homophobic jerk. We exchanged cell phone numbers, and Sammy promised to visit the Lucky Gent later in the evening.

***

Kate had given me a home address for Steven Ambrose. She'd also pulled his vehicle registration information. Ambrose drove a 2006 Jeep Wrangler and lived in a condo in Midvale. Susan Fleming's report gave me addresses for the health club he worked out of as well as an office on South State Street where he booked his massage appointments.

We left Salt Lake police headquarters at the same time in separate cars. We decided to use our cell phones to coordinate the timing of the interviews. We also decided not to question either subject until we found them both.

Kate followed me to Sugarhouse. I wanted to stop at Terry Burnham's house, check things out, congratulate him for his start in alcohol counseling, and encourage him to stay with it. When I called earlier, he hadn't answered. I was relieved to see his car parked in the driveway and the lights on in the house. Now if only he was sober. We parked on the street and approached the front door.

We could see Terry through the front window. He must have heard us approach because he looked up from the television and hollered at us to come in. He was sitting in front of the TV watching an NFL game while drinking a can of diet coke and eating Doritos. The house had been cleaned up. It was a far cry from the mess it had been the night before when I stopped by to tell him that he was suspended from duty.

We exchanged greetings and small talk before Terry asked, “Sam, can you tell me anything about the investigation?” Before I could answer, he continued. “And what about this head-hunter from the sheriff's office IA unit, Egan, I think her name is?”

“Slow down a minute, take a breath, will you?”

“Sorry. Sit down guys. Can I get you anything?”

We both declined. “I don't know her either, Terry. Her name is Melanie Egan. She's a sergeant in the unit with a solid reputation. She transferred into IA from patrol a few months ago.”

“Don't know if that's good for me or not,” he said. “She called late this afternoon, and I'm scheduled for an interview at ten in the morning.”

“Where?”

“Her office. How do you think I should play it?”

“Just be honest with her, Terry. Explain what happened and what you're doing to correct the problem.”

“The waiting is killing me. How soon do you think I'll hear something?”

“Just hang in there. I don't know for sure, but I think we'll know something fairly soon. This isn't a particularly complicated case. Once Sergeant Egan interviews you, I think she's finished. It's just a matter of how quickly she puts a report together. In the meantime, don't drink, continue seeing Marilyn Hastings, and do exactly what she says.”

We got up to leave. Burnham was suddenly looking sheepish. “Sam, I owe you an apology for last night. I was so far out of line. I know you were trying to help me out. I'm really sorry.”

“Don't worry about it. That was the booze talking last night. Just keep working on getting your shit together. That's what you can do for me.”

As we walked to our cars, I glanced at Kate. While not unfriendly, she hadn't spoken to Terry beyond hello and goodbye. “What's bothering you, Kate? You almost came across as hostile in their.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to. It's just that I don't have a good feeling about this. The investigation has moved so quickly.”

“So?”

“Well, you don't know this Egan, right?”

“True.”

“And you don't really know how your new boss is going to be looking at this?”

“True enough, I guess.”

“You essentially advised Terry to throw himself on the mercy of the system. What if the system decides not to treat him leniently? Isn't it possible that he could be charged with a felony?”

“Possible, but not very likely. Based on similar cases I've seen over the years, this one doesn't merit a felony filing. A misdemeanor, maybe.”

“For your sake, Sam, I hope you're not so close to this that you can't see the forest for the trees. I don't know what you've got up your sleeve, but I hope it doesn't blow up in your face.”

How did she guess? Indeed, I did have something up my sleeve. But it wasn't time to play that card, at least not just yet.

Chapter Thirty-two

Kate and I left Burnham's separately. I headed out to see Steven Ambrose while she drove to Ginsberg's home hoping to find Rodney. The medical examiner's office had released Ginsberg's body, and his brother from New York was in town making funeral arrangements. I wondered if Kate would find Rodney at home assisting with the funeral plans or whether he might be out on the town celebrating his new found freedom.

I located Ambrose's Midvale condo. The covered parking spaces had assigned numbers to correspond with individual condo units. Each unit had been assigned one parking stall with a storage closet located at the front. I circled the lot until I found number 142, a match with Ambrose's unit number. There was no sign of his late model Jeep Wrangler. I drove around the rest of the complex to be sure that he hadn't parked the SUV elsewhere. The Jeep wasn't there.

I parked in the visitors section, grabbed a flashlight, and stepped into the cool night air. Dusk had given way to darkness, reminding me that the autumn days were growing shorter. The evening temperatures were also falling fast—a sure sign that Utah's arctic winter was just around the corner.

I found Ambrose's condo. The lights were off and it looked like nobody was home. I knocked on the door. No answer. I returned to Ambrose's assigned parking stall, looked around, and seeing no one, turned the handle on his storage closet door. It was unlocked. I had just turned on my flashlight when the headlights from an approaching vehicle lit up the area around me like a Christmas tree. I stepped into the storage locker, doused the flashlight, and closed the door behind me. Safe enough, I thought. This would give the approaching car a chance to pass and I could then return to my illegal snooping.

The driver of the approaching vehicle had other plans. Instead of passing, it turned head-on into the parking stall where I now found myself trapped like a thief in the night. The idling engine was now just inches from the storage locker and the headlights illuminated the cracks around the door. I held my breath. If this was Steven Ambrose, imagine his shock if he opened the locker door only to find a perfect stranger staring back at him. What the hell could I say? ‘Hi, I'm your new neighbor—just checking for termites. If you'll excuse me….' Maybe if he opened the door, I should just whack him with my flashlight and make a run for it.

The driver cut the engine, got out, and started to walk away. Just as I began to breathe again, my cell phone began to chirp. Christ, it must be Kate wondering why I hadn't called. I grabbed it, not sure whether I should smother it, swallow it, or smash it into a million pieces. To stop the noise, I punched the answer button but didn't speak. I didn't dare. Again, I held my breath hoping that whoever got out of the vehicle hadn't heard the bloody phone go off. Seconds passed and I didn't hear the sound of footsteps returning. Cautiously, I opened the door and peeked out. A red Jeep Wrangler occupied the stall. Steven Ambrose must have come home and, thank God, hadn't heard me rummaging inside his storage locker.

I took a fast look around the shed. It contained the usual assortment of stuff people commonly store, nothing to get excited or suspicious about.

I checked my cell. It was Kate who had called. I called her back.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, sounding genuinely irritated.

“You don't want to know. I'll tell you later. I feel like Inspector Clousseau in one of those old Pink Panther movies. Ambrose just got home. I'm ready to go in for the interview. What about Rodney?”

“Rodney's home but he was less than enthusiastic about my stopping by—said he hadn't been sleeping much and was going out for a while. Let's go get 'em and we'll catch up afterward.” She was gone.

***

Ambrose answered the door carrying a partially consumed bottle of Coors Light. I introduced myself, flashed credentials, and explained what I wanted. He invited me inside. We sat in the living room, me on the leather couch, him in a leather recliner. He offered me a beer. I declined.

“What brings you to see me, Detective Kincaid? And if you don't mind my asking, how did you get my name?”

“Well, Steven—may I call you Steven?…”

“Please call me Steve, that's what most people do.”

“Okay, Steve. As a part of our investigation into the murder of Arnold Ginsberg, we're talking to anybody who might have information that would help us figure out who committed this horrible crime. As to how we got your name, I'm not exactly sure.”
I lied
. “I can tell you that in cases like this, as we talk to people, they invariably supply us with the names of additional people who either knew the victim, or somebody else connected to the case.”
That part was true
.

He studied me for a moment, sipping his beer. “Okay, fire away. How can I help?”

“Maybe you can begin, Steve, by telling me how you became acquainted with Arnold Ginsberg?”

“Sure. I'm a personal trainer and I met Arnold through the club. He was a member.”

“The club you're referring to, that would be the Fit for Life Club, in Sandy, correct?”

“In Midvale, actually, but yes.”

“And Arnold worked out at the club?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Did Ginsberg employ you as a personal trainer?”

“Uh, no, not exactly. Mr. Ginsberg paid me to serve as a trainer and fitness coach for his partner, a guy named Rodney, oh, what's his last name? Plow, that's it—Rodney Plow.”

“Would it be fair then to say you are better acquainted with Rodney Plow than you were with Arnold Ginsberg?”

“Yeah, that's true.”

This guy wasn't volunteering much. “Just so that I'm clear, you earn a living as a personal trainer/fitness coach, is that correct? Are you employed doing anything else?”

He stammered. “Well, yes. I'm also a licensed massage therapist.”

I feigned surprise. “Oh, and do you work on your massage clients at the Fit for Life Club?”

“On occasion, but I have an office on South State in Sandy.”

“Okay. And did you provide massage services to Arnold Ginsberg or Rodney Plow?”

On this one, Ambrose hesitated before answering. “I don't recall ever giving a massage to Arnold, but I do work on Rodney occasionally.” He forced a laugh. “Sometimes I work Rodney out so hard that he needs a massage afterward.”

“That a pretty regular thing with Rodney, the massage, I mean?”

“No. Only occasionally.”

“And do you provide massage services here in your condo?”

“No. I never bring clients back here. I always use the massage studio in Sandy. I don't keep a table here.”

“That's funny,” I said. “We've got reliable information that you and Rodney get together periodically right here in your condo during the day when Arnold is at work. Now, if you never bring clients over, Steve, what would you be doing here with Rodney?”

All the color drained from his face. For a moment, he didn't know how to respond. He went into denial mode. “I don't know what you're talking about. I've never had Rodney Plow here.”

“Cut the bullshit, Steve. Want me to show you the surveillance photos?”

He broke eye contact and took another swig of his beer. “Okay, what if he was here a few times, what does that prove?”

“Only that you're a liar. And if you'll lie about something like this, I have to wonder what else you might be lying about?”

“Such as?”

“No, Steve, I'm asking the questions here. Isn't it true that you and Rodney have had an intimate relationship going on for some time now, all of it, of course, occurring behind Arnold Ginsberg's back?”

He looked at me wondering exactly how much I knew. “We're friends, that's all there is to it. There's nothing wrong with that, so why don't you stop trying to run a guilt trip on me?”

“That's interesting, Steve. Let me refresh your memory about something. Do you remember the woman who ‘accidentally' walked in on you and Rodney several weeks ago in your office? That's the time the two of you were locked in a sixty-nine position on the massage table. That woman was a PI, for Christ's sake. She'd been tracking you and Rodney around town for weeks. We've got surveillance notes and photos, not to mention her eye-witness testimony of what was going on that day in your office. Still want to deny the physical relationship?”

He thought for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, so we were involved. What does that prove? I didn't have anything to do with Arnold's murder if that's what you're implying.”

I just stared at him for minute. “Stranger things have happened. As I said before, if you're lying about this, who knows what else you're lying about? Now, how long have you and Rodney been an item?”

“Six, maybe seven months.”

“How did the two of you get together?”

He looked resigned. “It happened over time. Mutual attraction was part of it. It didn't take very long before I realized that Rodney was tiring of the relationship with Arnold—big age difference for one thing.”

“Did Rodney ever mention to you the possibility of killing Arnold or hiring someone else to do it?”

“God, no. We were having an affair, man. That's a long way from murder.”

“Maybe so, but not always. Got to ask you this: Did you have anything to do with either planning or carrying out the murder of Arnold Ginsberg?”

“Of course not. I had nothing to do with it, and I don't know who did. Are we about done?”

“Yeah, Steve, I think that about raps it up. Just a couple more questions and then we'll be finished.” He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders in mock frustration.

“Are you gay, Steve, or do you go both ways?”

“I'm bi, not that it's any of your business. I was married once. I've got a seven-year-old son. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Probably nothing. Just one more question. I need to know your whereabouts on the evening Arnold was killed. That would have been last Monday, say between four in the afternoon and eight P.M.”

“You think I had something to do with this, don't you?”

“Not necessarily, Steve. This is all pretty routine in a murder case. You're not the first person I've asked, and I can assure you, you won't be the last.”

He sighed. “I had checked into the Snowbird Lodge earlier in the afternoon. I spent the night there.”

“What time did you check in?”

“I don't recall exactly, but I think it was mid afternoon.”

“Were you with somebody?”

“No, I was alone. That's not unusual for me. I use the Snowbird Lodge occasionally as a getaway from the hustle-and-bustle of the valley. I particularly like to hike the area in the fall with all the gorgeous colors.”

“Who were you hiking with?”

“Like I said, I was alone. I checked into my room, took a short nap, and then went out for a hike. I got back about dusk.”

“What did you do then?”

“I got cleaned up and then went out to dinner in the lodge restaurant.”

“What time was that?”

“Oh, I'm not sure. It was dark though.”

“You've got to do better than that, Steve. You must have some idea what time you went to dinner.”

“Well, I can't be sure, but if I had to guess, I'd say sometime between eight and nine.”

“I assume you kept receipts.”

“For the hotel room, yes—I'm not so sure about the dinner.” He walked over to his dining room table and began rummaging through what looked like a stack of mail. Moments later, he handed me the Snowbird Lodge receipt. “I paid for the dinner with a Visa card, but I don't know where the receipt is.”

“That's okay, this helps,” I replied.

I stood up to leave. “That will be it for now. Thanks for your help. By the way, mind if I have a look around your condo?”

The look of disgust on his face suggested that I'd just crossed an invisible line. “You got a warrant?”

“No, but if you don't have anything to hide, I just thought….”

“Well, think again. I'd like you to leave now.”

***

I left Steven Ambrose with the strong suggestion that he not leave town without notifying either me or Kate. I intentionally decided not to ask him about Anthony Barnes or the Lucky Gent. I didn't see the point in telling him that we were already on to Barnes. There would be time for that later. In the meantime, if he was mixed up with Anthony in some way, and my interrogation rattled his cage sufficiently, maybe he'd contact him. The prospect of a connection between Steven Ambrose and Anthony Barnes made my mouth water. I also made a mental note to contact Ambrose's ex-wife and see what, if anything, she might be able to tell me.

Kate and I hooked up on our cells and agreed to meet at her place and drop one of the cars. We were both anxious to compare notes about what we had learned during our respective interviews. We decided that a good place to debrief would be the parking lot of the Lucky Gent.

How was I to know that a short stop at Kate's condo would turn into a two hour delay before we made it to the bar?