Silent Witness (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

It was mid-afternoon by the time I left for the Snowbird Ski Resort. As I backed out of the garage, I spotted the silver Ford Explorer parked across the street and down a couple of houses. I could see a guy slumped behind the steering wheel. That would probably be Larry Holding, the PI Susan Fleming had warned me about. As I drove off, he followed at a discreet distance. He trailed along behind me all the way to Snowbird.

Kate had left a voice message on my cell phone asking me to call her. She answered on the first ring. I told her where I was going. “What are you up to?” I asked.

“I just came from a meeting with Arnold Ginsberg's older brother. He's come from New York to claim the body. I also gave him an update on the investigation.”

“Is he planning the funeral here in Salt Lake City?”

“No. There's going to be a local memorial service for him at the mortuary on Monday. I guess Rodney applied the full court press on that one.”

“Can't really blame him for that,” I said. “I'll bet most of Arnold's friends are here in Utah, not New York.”

“I'm sure that's true. It also reinforces Rodney as the bereaved partner. Anyway, then the body is going to be flown to Kennedy Airport. There'll be a Jewish service on Wednesday, and then he'll be buried in a family plot in upstate New York next to his parents.”

“Always painful to lose a loved one,” I said. “I'm not sure what you've got going now, but I'll spring for a late lunch if you want to join me at Snowbird. Interested?”

“Thanks, but at the moment, I'm sitting down the street from the house we followed Barnes to early this morning. I got here shortly before eleven. So far, he hasn't moved. I figured he'd probably be sleeping late since he didn't get in until the wee hours this morning.”

I promised to catch up with her as soon as I took care of my business. I wanted to interview the front desk and restaurant staff at the Snowbird Lodge to see whether I could pin down Steven Ambrose's presence on the property, as well as the time he checked in and went to dinner. During our interview, he had been vague about that. I wasn't sure whether his faulty memory was genuine, or whether it was deliberately designed to provide a plausible timeline for his alibi.

The drive up Little Cottonwood Canyon was stunning. On its worst day, it always was. Today was far from its worst day. Blue skies punctuated by puffy white cumulus clouds dotted the skyline while steep canyon walls shrouded the two lane road in a blanket of shade. High and deep in the cracks and crevices of the rocky mountainside, places that almost never saw the sun, I could see traces of the season's early snow, snow that had found a permanent home until sometime next summer. Most of the color was already on the ground, save a few stubborn Aspens, whose autumn leaves of orange and gold clung to their branches in quiet desperation, like a young child clinging to his mother on the first day of school.

I parked in one of the guest check-in stalls at the front of the lodge. I contacted the front desk manager and got lucky right away. Computer records showed that Ambrose, or someone using his identification, checked in at 3:05 P.M. I showed the manager and a female front desk clerk a blown up driver's license photo of Ambrose. It wasn't a particularly good picture, but they both made the identification. Not only did they remember him but they had his Visa credit card receipt and a photo copy of his driver's license taken when he checked in. There was now no doubt that Ambrose had arrived at the lodge around the time he said.

My attempt to pin down the time he ate dinner in the lodge restaurant proved more difficult. He hadn't made a dinner reservation. After leaving me to sit for a few minutes, the food and beverage manager, Albert Mason, returned with a Visa credit card receipt. “Here, I did manage to find this,” he said. “I'm afraid that I can't help you out on the time this card was used. If you can wait for about forty minutes, the wait staff will be in. They start work at four. Maybe they'll remember him.”

I couldn't make out the signature on the receipt, but the imprint belonged to Steven Ambrose. Absent someone in the restaurant who could identify him from his photograph, I really had no way to determine who had used the card. It might have been Steven or someone sent in his place. The credit card receipt also did nothing to help me establish what time he had come in for dinner. The only way I was going to find that out was to wait until four o'clock when the servers showed up for work.

I found a plastic evidence bag in the glove box of my car along with a pair of tweezers. I explained to Mason that I'd have to take the credit card receipt. The receipt might have Ambrose's prints on it and I didn't want to add mine.

I thanked Mason and wandered into the bar where I ordered a coke and sat down to await the arrival of the restaurant help. I chatted with the bartender and showed him a picture of Ambrose. He had worked the previous night but didn't recall seeing him. A few minutes later, a guy who looked markedly similar to the same character in the silver Ford Explorer plunked his ass on the bar stool next to mine. He ordered a gin and tonic. We made small talk for a few minutes. He introduced himself as Ray.

“I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name,” he said.

I smiled. “That's because I didn't give it to you. My name's Clark,” I said, extending a hand, “Kent, Clark Kent.” We shook hands. We exchanged a glance that suggested we both knew I was jerking him around.

Just then my cell phone chirped. It was Kate. “Excuse me, Ray,” I said, and stepped away.

“What's up?”

“Barnes is moving.”

“Where are you at?”

“He's southbound on the I-15, and we're about to exit east on I-215.”

“Need some help?”

“I'm probably okay for the moment—hope I don't lose him. I'm anxious to see where he's going and what he's up to. Are you still at Snowbird?”

“Yeah, do you need me to break away?”

“Nah, but keep your phone on. I'll let you know where I end up. You can join me when you're finished.”

I returned to the bar and ordered another Coke for me and a gin and tonic for ‘Ray.' “Excuse me for a minute,” I said. “I've really gotta take a piss.” I hurried through the lobby and into the parking lot. Holding's Explorer was parked a couple of stalls away from mine. I unfolded my Swiss Army knife and made a small incision in the right rear tire. That would keep ‘Ray' busy for a while. I hustled back into the bar and rejoined my new friend.

Shortly after four, I was sitting in the restaurant with a bus boy named Manuel Sanchez. He spoke broken English, and acted like he was afraid that I was about to ask to see his green card. Seated next to him was Billy Thornton, a food server. “Any relation to Billy Bob Thornton?” I quipped. Okay, so it was a shoddy attempt at humor, so what?

Thornton gave me a weak smile, saying, “I think I've heard that one before.”

“Pretty lame, huh,” I said. He nodded.

I showed them the photo of Steven Ambrose. Thornton remembered him. Sanchez seemed less certain. They bantered back-and-forth, but couldn't agree on what time he'd been in the restaurant. Thornton thought it was around nine. Sanchez thought it was earlier.

As I got up to leave, Sanchez disappeared into the back. Thornton stuck around. “The reason I'm pretty sure that it was sometime around nine o'clock is because it was slow last night. We close at nine-thirty. When it's slow, and you're not making any money, all you want to do is get out of here. The reason I remember him is that I felt irritated that the guy came in by himself so late in the evening. In the scheme of things, it wasn't like his five dollar tip amounted to much. All I wanted to do was go home.”

I thanked him and left.

Chapter Thirty-six

As I walked through the lobby, I noticed Larry Holding, a.k.a. Ray, seated on a sofa reading a newspaper. I nodded as I walked past. “Nice meeting you, Ray.” He gave me a weak smile and a half-hearted wave. I figured he hadn't yet seen his right rear tire.

Outside the lodge, I dialed Kate's cell number. She didn't answer. That worried me. I figured my best shot at getting reception was right here. Once I began the steep and windy descent through Little Cottonwood Canyon, the likelihood of my having cell phone reception was slim to none. I headed for the Salt Lake valley as quickly as I could.

As I pulled on to the highway, I glanced in my rearview mirror. Holding had backed the Explorer out of its stall and driven a few feet before stopping. The last thing I saw in my mirror was Ray getting out of the truck to check his tires.

As I emerged from the canyon my cell phone rang.

“Where are you, Kate?”

“I'm sitting in the parking lot at Starbucks on 1300 East, just south of Fort Union. How soon can you get here?”

“Ten minutes if I step on it. What have you got?”

“I followed Barnes here. Ambrose showed up ten minutes later. They're inside now, having what appears to be a serious conversation.”

A few minutes later, I slipped into the passenger seat of Kate's new 500 Series, BMW. “Damn, you've got good taste in cars.”

“Just like my men.”

“I couldn't agree more.” I'm not fussy. I'll take compliments any time I can get them.

I told her about my encounter with Larry Holding. “You actually slashed one of his tires,” she said, sounding incredulous. “And then you just left him up there.”

“Slash is kind of a strong word. Let's just say I nicked one of his tires.”

I forged on. “What the hell did you think I was going to do? Flatten his tire, apologize, and offer the scumbag a ride home.” It was really a rhetorical question, although I thought it was safer if I answered it myself rather than hear more from Kate on the subject. I had to admit that trashing peoples tires didn't seem like appropriate police behavior, but, under the circumstances, it felt like poetic if not vigilante justice.

“So, what's going on here?” I asked.

“I don't know. They've been in there for a while, though.”

I noticed a digital camera in her lap. “Are you planning to snap some pictures when they come out?”

“Yeah, but it's better than that. I actually went in and managed to snap a couple of pictures of them together.”

I shook my head. “How did you manage that? Did you just walk up and say, smile, you're on candid camera?”

She laughed. “Not exactly. I stood in the hallway by the door to the ladies' can and just fired away.”

I actually didn't care how she'd done it. I was just glad that she had. We could use the photos during what I was now sure would be a future interrogation of both subjects.

“Here's what we ought to do,” I said. “When they come out, if they go some place together, we both follow, taking turns as the lead car. If they split, and that's what's likely to happen, you follow Ambrose and I'll take Barnes. Ambrose doesn't know you, but he'll sure remember me. We can stay in touch by cell phone and get together afterward.”

Kate nodded, “Okay.”

I returned to my car and we continued to wait. I called Sammy Roybal's cell but he didn't answer. I left a message reminding him that I needed him at the Lucky Gent later in the evening to continue schmoozing with Barnes.

A few minutes later, Barnes and Ambrose walked out of Starbucks together. They took off in opposite directions. Ambrose headed south on 1300 East while Barnes headed north. If my guess was correct, Barnes was probably headed to work at the Lucky Gent. I followed him until he turned into the bar parking lot fifteen minutes later.

I called Kate. She had followed Ambrose to his office on South State. I joined her there.

“Anything going on?”

“I followed him out here and figured he had a massage appointment. I was about to bag it and call you. And then guess who rolled in?”

“How about Rodney Plow?”

“You got it.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Well, it could be a coincidence, I suppose.”

“I thought you didn't believe in coincidences.”

“I don't. How's this for a case theory. What if Rodney planned Ginsberg's killing and got his lover, Ambrose, to do it.”

“And how does Anthony Barnes fit in?” I ask.

“Not sure. Maybe Rodney knew Barnes from the Lucky Gent and recruited him to assist Ambrose. Or maybe it was Ambrose who brought Barnes into the conspiracy.”

“Good theory. Now if we can only prove it. So far we haven't been able to establish a solid motive for Rodney to kill his partner. It's possible that Barnes and Ambrose are the killers, and Rodney isn't involved.”

“Don't forget the infidelity.”

“I know, Kate, but there's got to be more to it than that. Think what a good defense attorney will tell a jury: You don't have to commit murder to get out of a relationship. For all we know, Ambrose may have arranged the murder because he's in love with Rodney. Maybe Rodney wouldn't leave Arnold.”

“Possible, I suppose,” said Kate. “Ambrose decides to kill Ginsberg to get him out of the way and recruits Barnes to help him.”

Kate's phone rang. She glanced at her caller identification. “Oh, damn. This is one of our lab guys. He left a message for me earlier and I forgot to call him back.”

She answered and immediately went into apology mode. “Sorry, Earl, it's been kind of busy out here. Can you hang on for a few minutes? We'll be right in.”

Kate disconnected and glanced at me. “I think we just got a forensics break. Let's get downtown right away. I don't see much value in sitting out here any longer.”

I didn't either. I followed Kate downtown to police headquarters.

Chapter Thirty-seven

We headed straight for the crime lab. Kate introduced me to Earl Stafford. Stafford was a forensics specialist who looked like he'd been around for about a hundred years. I'd never met him before. He had a few wisps of hair across the top of his head and a pencil thin mustache. He looked at us with small specs perched on the end of his nose. His area of expertise was hairs and fibers.

“What have you got for us, Earl?”

“Well, Lieutenant, when we examined the victim's navy sports coat, we discovered a single strand of hair.”

“Hmm,” said Kate. “And….”

“I can tell you that it's human hair, not animal. When I put it under high magnification and compared it to the samples the ME took from the victim, I was able to eliminate him. The color and diameter are different.”

“What part of the body did the hair come from?”

“It's head hair.”

“Have we got the root?”

Stafford smiled. “It wasn't cut. We've got the follicle.”

That was important because sometimes a single strand of hair with the root attached can provide enough DNA for testing. The problem was we needed comparison samples from a suspect in order to test. While comparison can show similarities between hair samples, it couldn't prove a definite link to a particular suspect. DNA could.

We thanked Stafford and turned to leave. “Oh, by the way,” he said, “When I examined the hair under different light, I could tell that it had been dyed. It looks to be a gold color.”

Kate and I looked at each other. Steven Ambrose's hair had been bleached with streaks of gold.

***

We stopped downtown for dinner at PF Chang's. I was starving. Kate, claiming not to be very hungry, ordered an egg roll and an iced tea. I ordered Hunan beef with fried rice and a side order of pot stickers. I'd been with Kate long enough now to know that she would eat her egg roll and then go to work on my Hunan beef like she hadn't seen a hot meal in a year. I'd learned to compensate by ordering extra food. I had been trying for months to convince her that this habit of claiming not to be hungry, and then attacking my plate like locusts at a backyard barbeque, must be a symptom of an eating disorder. She assured me that it wasn't, instead merely a girl thing. I wasn't so sure.

While we waited for food, I called Sammy Roybal's cell phone number again. He hadn't returned my original call, and he wasn't answering this one. I left him another message.

“I think I liked dealing with Sammy better when he was an inmate. At least I always knew where I could find the little prick,” I said, genuinely irritated.

“It must be easier working with an inmate snitch than one on the outside.”

“In some ways it is, and in other ways, it's not. Passing snitch information is easier and less complicated outside the prison than it is inside. I worry more about the safety of inmate snitches than those outside in the community. If we make a mistake inside, the snitch can easily end up with a shank in his neck.”

We devoured dinner while trying to figure out what to do next. “Thank God for forensics,” said Kate. “I think we should go to work on an affidavit for a court order to obtain DNA and hair samples from Steven Ambrose. We've got more than enough.”

“I think you're right. If we take the affair between Plow and Ambrose, and then factor in Steven's meeting earlier today with a suspect whose prints are on one of the murder weapons. That should do it.”

“And let's not forget Ambrose's alibi,” said Kate. “It's convenient for him in one sense, but hardly airtight. It's clear that he had ample opportunity to check into the Snowbird Lodge, return to Salt Lake, commit the murder, and make it back to Snowbird in time for a late night dinner in the restaurant.”

As we kicked around our options, I suggested a different plan. I had thought of a way that would increase the pressure on Rodney Plow and possibly provide the missing link to Anthony Barnes. It might also give us a way to circumvent having to get a court order for the hair and DNA samples.

After a hurried dinner, I followed Kate back to Ambrose's office not expecting to find either of them still there. But they were—both cars parked exactly as we left them a couple of hours earlier.

The plan called for us to separate them. I would go to work on Plow while Kate used her charms to cajole Ambrose into voluntarily providing hair samples, saving us the time and hassle of getting the court order.

We stepped quietly to the office door. The lights were on and we could hear muffled voices inside. Kate gently turned the door knob. It was locked. She glanced at me, shrugged her shoulders and rapped on the door. “Mr. Ambrose, this is Lt. McConnell, Salt Lake P.D. Homicide. Could you open up, please? I need to talk to you.”

There was a short pause. We could hear the hushed sound of whispered conversation. They were probably trying to figure out how to play an obviously awkward situation. After a moment, the door opened a crack and Ambrose peeked out.

“Can't this wait until morning, Detective McConnell? I'm here with a client.”

“Sorry, but it can't. And we also need to speak with Mr. Plow.” She motioned toward the parking lot. “I believe that's his car parked next to yours.”

With a look of resignation, Ambrose opened the door and motioned us in. I could tell that he wasn't happy to see me again, especially so soon. I ignored him and addressed Plow.

“Mr. Plow, I think we may have a break in the investigation. Would you mind stepping outside with me for a moment so that we'll have some privacy?”

I didn't wait for his answer. Instead, I guided him by the elbow right out the front door. Kate promptly closed it behind me. She would go to work on Ambrose. Plow looked decidedly uncomfortable. That could be because he felt embarrassed that we'd caught him in another tryst with his lover before Ginsberg was even cold in the ground. Or, his discomfort might be the result of his own involvement in the conspiracy to murder his old partner. I was about to put some pressure on him and see how he reacted.

“Rodney, have you ever heard of a gentleman by the name of Anthony Barnes?”

He looked like he was about to throw up. “No,” he stammered. “Should I….”

“Not necessarily. Do you ever spend time in a gay bar called the Lucky Gent?”

“Not very often, but I know that it's a popular hangout for members of the gay community. Why do you ask?”

For the moment, I ignored his question and asked another. “What about Arnold? Did he frequent the Lucky Gent?”

“I'm sure that he's been in the place, but I can tell you that Arnold didn't hang out in bars, gay or straight, much at all. He was kind of a home body. It was a struggle getting him out of the house at all unless it had something to do with his work. What's this all about anyway, and who is this Anthony Barnes?”

His anxiety meter appeared high. It was time to bait the trap. “Anthony Barnes works as a bartender at the Lucky Gent. He's an ex-military guy with a nasty temper, who left the service under something of a cloud.” Pretty accurate so far, I thought.

“What's that have to do with Arnold's murder?” he said.

It was time to be deliberately evasive. “For the time being, I'm afraid that I'm not at liberty to disclose that. But I will tell you that we now have evidence linking Barnes to the murder.”

He pressed, “What kind of evidence?”

“As I said, I'm not able to discuss that at the moment. But I can tell you that we'll have something definitive for you very shortly.”

He pressed some more. “That's not good enough. I demand to know….I have a right to know how the investigation stands.”

I apologized but held my ground. “Look, I can't be more specific right now, but I will tell you that what we've developed is very solid and very incriminating evidence. Just give us another day or two.”

“Well, at least tell me whether you've questioned this Barnes.”

“We haven't questioned him yet, but we're about to. We've been waiting for a bit more information to come in, and I think we're about there.”

“If you have this very incriminating evidence, why haven't you arrested this Barnes? What if he takes off?”

“He won't, Rodney. Why should he? Remember, he doesn't even know that we're on to him. There's no reason for him to run. If we believed there was any chance that he'd rabbit, we'd pick him up. But I can assure you that Anthony Barnes' world is about to come crashing down around him.”

We had been having this discussion while walking slowly through the parking lot outside Ambrose's office. It was dark and it was getting cold. I decided to leave him with one parting shot. “We'd better get back inside,” I said. “There's one more thing that I need to tell you and I'm sure that it will come as a shock.”

The look on his face was one of, oh, shit, what now? “Yes….”

“We don't mean to pry into your personal life, who you choose to see, that sort of thing. But you should know that we now consider Steven Ambrose to be a person of interest in the murder of Arnold Ginsberg.”

Plow feigned a look of great surprise before saying, “What do you mean? You think Steven is somehow involved in Arnold's death?”

“All I can tell you is that Kate is in there with him right now asking that he voluntarily provide hair and DNA samples.”

“What if he refuses?” asked Plow.

“Then we'll be back tomorrow with a court order requiring him to provide the samples.”

“You think he could be involved with this Barnes fellow?”

On this one I lied. “We aren't sure yet. Look Rodney, all I'm telling you is that it might be a good idea to put some distance between yourself and Ambrose. And I wouldn't discuss the case with him under any circumstances until we get this sorted out.”

Plow's demeanor changed on a dime from shock at the news that Ambrose might be involved in the killing to one of tears and sorrow. His voice cracked when he spoke. “To think that my meaningless little fling with Steven might have triggered Arnold's murder is almost more than I can endure.”

The guy could turn it on and off like a faucet. His dripping, emotional performance could have earned him a gig on a daily soap. I steered him back to the office just as the door opened and Kate emerged. I could see Ambrose standing in the background looking like a mortar round had just gone off in his ear. We said our goodbyes and left.