The 7th Canon (23 page)

Donley wasn’t in the mood to go to confession. The memories of his father had returned from wherever Donley had buried him. With those memories, Donley’s resentment and anger had also returned. If he was being honest, Donley was scared he wouldn’t be able to control it, and what he might do as a result.

“I’ll keep you posted on what happens,” he said, and left the room.

Inside the building, Ross walked down chandelier-lit hallways with high ceilings. He wore coveralls he kept in the trunk of his car and a nylon-mesh baseball cap. Apartment 6B was the last door on the right. Ross pulled the bill of his hat low over his eyes and knocked. He held a clipboard in one hand and a toolbox from the trunk of his car in the other. Fastened around his waist was a tool belt. In the front pouch, a hidden camera lay inside what appeared to be a twenty-five-foot measuring tape.

“Who is it?” A man’s voice. He sounded aggravated.

“Roto-Rooter.”

“I didn’t call Roto-Rooter. You have the wrong apartment.”

Ross lifted the clipboard and pretended to read from it. “Apartment 6B, 1281 Clay Street?”

“Yes, but—”

“Got a call from the superintendent.”

Michael Whitney opened the door dressed in slacks and a V-neck T-shirt that showed off a thick gold-chain necklace. Thin as a rock star, Whitney pulled his long blond hair back in a ponytail.

“Do you know what time it is?” Whitney asked.

Ross checked his wristwatch. “Eleven twenty-four.”

“I meant—”

“And I’m hoping this is my last call of the night because, boy, my dogs are barking. Ms. Jamison in 4C appears to have developed a problem with her waste line, and I don’t mean her figure, you know.” He laughed out loud.

Whitney didn’t find it amusing.

Dolt.

“Anyway, superintendent has asked that we check each of the units on the same line.”

“Who is it?”

The question came from inside the apartment, the voice of an impatient-sounding woman.

Whitney leaned forward. “This is not a good time right now.”

Ross winked. “I understand, partner. Tell you what, if you have any raw sewage come floating up into your bathroom from the toilet, give us a call. We’ll have somebody out here within seventy-two hours. Stuff towels under the door to keep it contained. It can be a health hazard.”

Ross turned to walk away.

“Raw sewage?” Whitney asked with alarm.

“Ruined Ms. Jamison’s party,” Ross said. “Every time someone in the building flushes the toilet, she ends up with turds on her bathroom floor. We think it’s probably a tree root. Tree roots can grow right on up the pipe. You can snake the lines from here to China, but until you get the tree root out of the pipe, you’re just wasting everybody’s time. No pun intended.”

Whitney gave no response. This guy had the IQ of tree bark.

“How long do you think this will take?”

Ross winked. “I’ll have you back in the saddle in no time.”

Whitney opened the door, and Ross stepped into the apartment and turned left in the direction of the woman’s voice. Abigail Collins reclined on pillows by a fireplace sipping from a wineglass. Articles of clothing littered the room. Mrs. Collins pulled a blanket tight around her, but not before an enhanced breast tumbled out.

Click.

“Evening, ma’am. Sorry to disturb you so late.”

Click.

Collins looked to be in her mid-thirties, fifteen to twenty years younger than Mr. Collins.

“Who the hell are you?” she hissed.

“I’m Marty. I’m here to check your toilet.”

Click.

“It isn’t my toilet.”

Click.

Whitney grabbed Ross under the elbow. “The bathroom is the other direction, first door on the right.”

Abigail Collins reached up playfully and grabbed Whitney’s hand.

Click. Click.

Whitney stumbled and fell onto the pillows. Abigail Collins leaned across him, her breast again popping free.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

“Could be hair in the drains,” Ross said, snapping pictures as quick as the camera allowed. “Hair in the drain will be the end of the entire sewage system in all of the largest cities.”

Whitney pointed as he struggled to get up from the pillows. “Down the hall. Down the hall.”

“Got it,” Ross said. Mr. Collins had enough photographs to do a photo shoot, and Ross had just paid the mortgage for the next four months.

He shut the door to a green-marble bathroom with gold fixtures, removed a socket wrench from the toolbox, and knelt down to rap on the pipes. On a glass shelf above the bathroom sink, he spied a framed picture of Michael Whitney with Abigail Collins in front of the bicycle shop on Angel Island. Ross had once taken Frank Jr. there. What caught his attention, though, were the two little girls on miniature bikes with colorful streamers protruding from the handles. The girls were dark-skinned with rugged chins and bore a striking and unmistakable resemblance to their father. He put the picture back and sat on the toilet feeling sick to his stomach. Then he dropped the wrench into the toolbox and walked back into the living room.

Whitney and Collins sipped wine on the pillows. “You’re done?” Whitney asked.

Ross looked past him to Abigail Collins. “The picture, those are your daughters?”

“Yes,” she said, looking and sounding uncertain.

Ross tipped his cap. “They’re beautiful,” he said. “And precious. You folks have a nice night. I’ll see myself out.”

Ross closed the door behind him. Andrew Collins had said he and his estranged wife had no children. The son of a bitch was going to use the pictures not just to keep his wife from getting the money. He wanted to keep her from battling him about child-support payments—using Ross to get out of taking care of his kids while he drove down the coast to screw a young girl who worked in the golf shop at Pebble Beach.

Ross removed the tape measure from his belt buckle, located the clasp on the side, and opened it, exposing the film. He’d find another way to pay the mortgage.

Chapter 15

December 28, 1987

Gil Ramsey looked up from his desk as Linda St. Claire walked into his office on Monday, holding a sheet of paper. “Nice party the other night. How’s the hand?” she asked.

Ramsey squeezed his bandaged right hand, which still stung from the cigar burn. He’d told the guests that he’d burned his hand on the oven. “Did you get laid?”

She smiled. “He owns the biggest private defense practice in the city, Gil, and a ranch in Portola Valley. Just doing my part for the campaign.”

Ramsey turned toward the window. “Is that why you’re still smiling?”

St. Claire laughed and sat in one of the leather chairs, crossing her legs. “Actually, the news I have will put a smile on both our faces, and neither of us will have to remove an article of clothing.”

“Too bad,” Ramsey said.

She held up the paper. “The lab tests on Andrew Bennet’s clothing came back. They detected two types of blood. The kid is B positive. They also found O. Guess whose blood type is O.”

“Father Martin.”

St. Claire lowered the piece of paper. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d be jumping up and down.”

“I don’t jump up and down. What did Donley say about a plea?”

She shook her head, exasperated. “He didn’t take the bait. Who cares? Did you hear what I just said?”

“I heard. Call Donley, and make the bait a little more intriguing. Give him this latest bit of information.”

St. Claire was incredulous. “Why? We have a positive match.”

“Which means shit, if it isn’t admissible,” Ramsey said.

“This wasn’t found in the locked office, Gil. It was found on Bennet’s clothing. It’s over.”

“If the other evidence doesn’t come in, we have no murder weapon and no motive. We have O-positive blood. I’m O positive. It is the most common type out there.”

“This is the hammer, Gil. If he survives the beating he took, Father Martin’s facing a death sentence,” St. Claire said.

“Exactly. And Mr. Donley knows there is no guarantee he will win his motion and keep the evidence out, and we can’t guarantee the judge will let it in,” Ramsey said. “The difference is, if we gamble and lose, we have options. We may find more evidence when we go into the shelter, and even if we don’t, we go forward with our case and get to a jury. If he gambles and loses, he has no options. This evidence will convict his client, and after his appeals are exhausted, Father Martin will die by lethal injection.”

St. Claire sat back. “He can’t take that chance.”

“No, he can’t, no matter how big a set of balls he has. So go to your office, get on the telephone, and tell him the news. Then tell him Father Martin has until Thursday morning,
before
the hearing, to plead guilty. If he does, we will strongly consider a sentence of twenty-five years to life and recommend twenty-five years. If he does not, the offer is off the table, we will seek the death penalty, and Mr. Donley will be playing Russian roulette with Father Martin’s life.”

The door to the office opened without a knock. Augustus Ramsey paused in the doorway, considering St. Claire.

“Hello, Governor,” St. Claire said, standing.

“Hello, Ms. St. Claire. Did you enjoy yourself the other night?”

“I did. Thank you for having me.” St. Claire turned to Gil Ramsey. “I’ll go make that call.” She excused herself and walked out.

Augustus Ramsey followed her with his eyes. When the door closed, he turned to his son. “Are you getting a piece of that?”

Ramsey returned to his desk. “Why are you here, Dad?”

“Your mother and I missed you Christmas Day. We missed seeing our grandchildren.”

“Change of plans,” Gil Ramsey said. “Linda wanted to see her parents.”

Augustus Ramsey didn’t pursue it. He sat in the chair St. Claire had vacated.

“I’m very busy, Dad.”

“Just thought I’d check in and see how the priest case is coming along. I understand you have a positive match on the blood.”

Gil Ramsey felt his stomach grip. “How would you know that, Dad?”

“A man has his sources.”

“Not all men, Dad. Just you.” Ramsey walked to the window behind his desk but closed his eyes to the view, feeling nauseated. “Why are you so interested in this case, Dad?”

“I told you why. I’m just looking out for your best interests. It’s unfortunate what happened to the priest. I heard he nearly died. Mistakes happen, I guess.”

Nothing had been printed about the screwup at the county jail that resulted in the priest’s jacket file being changed from red to yellow. Yellow-coded jacket files indicated general-population prisoners. Red was for isolated prisoners. The deputy who had come on duty swore that Father Martin’s jacket had been yellow. Other than the sheriff’s office, which was investigating the matter, and Gil Ramsey, no one knew that information. Ramsey hadn’t even told St. Claire.

Ramsey turned and looked at the man sitting in the chair across his desk. “How do you know that?” Augustus Ramsey did not answer. “What the hell did you do?”

Augustus Ramsey lifted his hands like a priest greeting his congregation. Irony had always been one of his strengths. “I did what a father does for his son. I took care of things for you.”

The nauseated feeling intensified. “For me? Or for you?”

“I wouldn’t have had to do anything if you had done your job and convinced that attorney to take the plea,” Augustus Ramsey said. “Instead, he made you look incompetent on national television. I hope this time you’ll be more persuasive.”

Ramsey looked at the man sitting across from him and felt nothing but disgust. “I’m washing my hands of this.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“I’m no fool, Dad.”

His father did not reply.

“And I want no more of this. I want no more of you. I want you out of here. I want you away from me and my children. If you interfere again, I’ll . . .”

Augustus Ramsey smiled. “You’ll what? Go to the police? How is that going to look, the district attorney offering a murder-one suspect a plea agreement?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why would you do that when everyone knows the DA doesn’t plea murder-one suspects? Why would you do it in this case unless you had some personal interest?”

For a moment, Ramsey couldn’t speak. His throat had gone dry. He licked his lips. “You set me up?”

“My career is over,” his father said. “Who has the most at stake, the most to lose? Who had the greater motivation to make this go away, to make that kid go away? It’s a crime to use your office to obstruct justice.”

A cold sweat overcame him. He felt chilled to the bone. His legs weak, he sunk into his chair. “You knew. You knew about the tapes,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’ve had reason to suspect they existed, yes.”

“And Connor? You’re aware of Connor?”

“Not initially, no. We’ll raise the money and put this behind us.”

“And you used me,” Ramsey said. He looked up at the ceiling and laughed, disbelieving.

August Ramsey picked a piece of lint from his coat sleeve and rubbed it from his fingers, watching it float to the ground. “Grow up, Gil. Here’s a news flash: Everybody uses everybody. It’s how you get to the top. It’s how you stay on top. And I intend to stay on top. The only question is, do you?”