The 24th Hour, page 19
Cindy unclenched her jaw and checked to see that her battery charger was still snugly in the wall socket as the guards moved the grumbling audience through the double doors.
When the doors were closed again, the judge said, “The defendant, Mr. Cates, has confessed to both the crimes of rape and aggravated assault. Mr. Cates and Mr. Schneider, please stand.”
“Mr. Cates, to the charge of rape, how to you plead?”
“Guilty, Your Honor.”
The judge asked the defense counsel to verify his client’s plea, which he did.
Judge St. John addressed the defendant again.
“Mr. Cates. In the charge of aggravated assault, how do you plead?”
Cindy saw the defendant shift his weight from one foot to the other. The judge opened his mouth to speak and Cates preempted him speedily.
“I plead guilty to that charge, also.”
“Mr. Schneider?”
“Yes, Your Honor. My client accepts the responsibility and the penalty for his actions, and he would like to say a few words to Ms. Hayes from their respective seats.”
Judge St. John asked if that was all right with Ms. Castellano. Yuki bent her head toward Mary Elena, and they exchanged two or three words. Then Ms. Hayes stood and faced her rapist and abuser. She was rigid. Not as at ease as Cindy had thought.
The judge said, “Go ahead, Mr. Cates.”
Cindy typed as Tyler Cates turned and faced Mary Elena and whichever of her personalities, maybe her own, had stiffened her spine.
“I’m very sorry,” said Cates. “You didn’t do anything to bring down my anger and violation on yourself. I hope someday you can find a way to forgive me although I will never forgive myself.”
The judge asked all to sit while he pronounced the sentence.
“Mr. Cates, for the charge of rape, you are sentenced to thirty-five years in prison with the possibility of parole. For the charge of aggravated assault, you shall receive an additional fifteen years in prison, also with the possibility of parole.”
Ed Schneider asked the judge to waive time, which Cindy understood and noted. It meant that imposition of the sentence would begin immediately.
Looking at St. John, Cindy saw that his expression had been fixed for the length of the trial. In this, the afterword, he finally cracked a small smile. He thanked the jury again and after they had filed out of the jury box and had been returned to their room, Judge Henry William St. John left the bench. Guards escorted Tyler Cates out of the courtroom by the side door, and Cindy stood in the aisle until she could throw her arms around her dear friend Yuki.
“Great job, Yuki. Great job and on the record.”
CHAPTER 98
LATER THAT MORNING, Sonia Alvarez got a call from Rob Bailey, a former Las Vegas cop she knew and trusted. Bailey had connections with official CIs and unofficial snitches and now had what he called “a smoking hot tip” for her: A known but unindicted killer-for-hire named Samuel Rochas, who went by the unlikely street name of “Padre,” was being held in South Lake Tahoe, Nevada, today before extradition tonight to Mexico City, where he was wanted for killing a high-ranking politico.
Padre was known to have associations with James Fricke via gambling and had been dropping hints to gang members and petty thieves that he may have been involved in the Fricke murders.
Rochas’s blabbing to local criminals, insinuating that he had killed the Frickes, seemed suicidal—or maybe his way of evading Mexico’s court order. Returning to Mexico was dangerous for Padre. Convicted or not, someone would get to him and put him down.
On the other hand, Bailey had sent an attachment—a mug shot of Padre. Alvarez had a very strong and somewhat supportable hunch that Padre had been at Holly Fricke’s funeral, something for which she might have evidence.
Alvarez had the mug shot side by side on her phone with Cappy’s color photo of mourners at Holly Fricke’s funeral gathered outside the chapel and a black-and-white copy of that same photo with Cappy’s handwritten names of the individuals in the shot.
Not all the individuals had been identified. Even with Arthur Bevaqua’s help, there were a dozen individuals without names. And Alvarez was particularly interested in the one who might be Padre.
Her eyes had settled on an unidentified Mr. X. He looked to be fortysomething, white, average height and weight, with medium-length dark hair. His sunglasses obscured a quarter of his face and his clothing was unremarkable: a dark sports jacket and trousers. He was standing alone, looking out at the bay, his face in profile to the camera. No matter how much Alvarez enlarged the photo, she couldn’t say with a real degree of confidence whether or not this person was the man in the mug shot she had on her phone.
But Bailey had said, “Alvarez, Padre’s a psycho. If you want him for killing Jamie Fricke you need to get to Tahoe today and stake your claim before he’s transported back to Mexico City.”
There was a flight to Tahoe leaving in an hour and a half, but Alvarez needed authorization to make the trip, stay in a motel, buy breakfast.
She’d left a message for Brady, who was in a conference and hadn’t called her back. Even Brenda couldn’t reach him.
Likewise, she’d left messages for Conklin, who was at the crime lab in Hunters Point, and Lindsay, who might have turned off her phone during her meeting with Christophe Picard, Rae Bergen’s ex-husband. At any rate, none of the three had called her back and she couldn’t make the plane wait for her.
Alvarez was still at her desktop, her eyes fixed on the screen while obsessively checking the time on the blinking clock app. If she didn’t get a call back, Padre Rochas would be in Mexico City tonight and she wouldn’t be able to question him.
As point person for the SFPD, it looked as though Alvarez was going to have to bring Rochas in on her own.
CHAPTER 99
THERE WAS MOVEMENT at the halfway point in the bullpen. Alvarez looked up to see Cappy arriving at his desk, dropping his weight into his chair.
She called out, “Cappy. Can you please take a look at this?”
He called back, “Sure, okay. Ten minutes. I have some stuff I have to do.”
“Cappy, this will be fast. Two minutes. I swear.”
Cappy muttered, “Whose definition of two minutes?” He hoisted himself out of his chair, went to Alvarez’s desk in the pod she shared with Conklin and Boxer. He took Boxer’s seat, rolled the chair closer to Alvarez’s computer.
She said, “I got a reliable lead on a hired gun, gambling pal of James Fricke. Given name, Samuel Rochas. Goes by Padre. Apparently, he says ‘Rest in peace’ when he pulls the trigger.”
“I don’t know the guy,” Cappy said.
Alvarez said, “Look here, Cappy. That photo you took at Holly’s funeral service, the one on the chapel lawn.”
“Ya-hunh. That’s mine.”
Alvarez pointed to a man in the photo who might be Sam “Padre” Rochas, standing alone, staring into the distance in profile. She zoomed in on his face.
Cappy peered at the color image. “I don’t recognize him. I don’t even remember seeing him. There were swarms of people moving around. Circling swarms.”
“I have a mug shot,” said Alvarez. “Check this out.”
She opened her phone, scrolled through her photo gallery, and opened the mug shot of Sam Rochas. Was he the no-name guy who’d been at Holly’s funeral? She had to know.
Alvarez filled Cappy in on Rochas’s background. Bailey had told her that Padre was from Chicago, had a sealed juvie record, including gang activity, misdemeanors. Later, he’d been accused of shooting a liquor store owner, raiding the cash register, and getting away. Next stop, Nevada. More shootings, and although no one had made a successful case on him, the Mexican police wanted him for killing a popular politician.
Extradition papers had been submitted and signed up the line, and this shooter, with a reputation as a first-class silent killer for hire…
Cappy said loudly, “Alvarez, you saying this guy shot the Frickes?”
“Cappy, I’m going by this. A close source of mine from Vegas PD, now in Tahoe, told me that Padre hung with Jamie when they did a tour of the hotels and casinos. That Padre was a big fan of the Bleus and bet on Jamie’s team to win. He went all in. And lost. Big-time. And Padre held a grudge.”
Cappy said, “I want to look at some of the other shots I took of the funeral party. Find a different angle on this guy’s face.”
“Can you do it now?” Alvarez asked. “There’s a flight leaving any minute. I’ve gotta meet with some cops I know about whether Padre was the last person Jamie Fricke saw before he died.”
Cappy said to Alvarez, “How would anyone know that?”
“I guess he said so.”
“Fine. Let’s see that mug shot again.”
Alvarez scrolled down in her photo gallery and passed the phone to Cappy, who began memorizing the man’s features.
He took out his phone and looked at the four shots he’d taken of the crowd outside the chapel at Holly’s funeral.
He said, “My last shot catches this guy’s head from the back. No help. But I’ll say this, Alvarez, he’s not seen talking to anyone here. Not even Jamie, who was the bereaved. If this dude was checking out the family, Holly’s funeral was a scouting operation. In my opinion, Padre’s worth a look-see and a chat with the arresting officer and the CO.”
“Okay. I’m going. I need you to say, ‘Go for it, Alvarez,’ and sign off on moderate expenses, okay?”
“Go for it. I’ll sign a requisition and email it to Brady. Just call home. And if you think he’s the doer, call Clapper and demand to be put through.”
“Thank you, Cappy.”
“Sonia, be careful. Call me every couple of hours and let me know where you are.”
“Will do.”
CHAPTER 100
I’D KNOWN OF Christophe Picard’s jewel of a bistro in Presidio Heights for years. I’d never been inside but had driven past its outdoor café and thought that someday I’d come here with the girls for dinner. Yet now, I was sitting at a small square table by the fireplace without the girls, dressed in my usual work clothes, badge hanging from a chain around my neck, holstered gun at my waist. I was appropriately dressed. I was working.
While waiting for Christophe to leave the kitchen and join me, I listened to French folk music and thought about Rae Bergen’s ex-husband. I was hoping that I was going to learn something from Christophe that would lead to an arrest. He’d invited me to drop by and talk with him. Maybe he wanted to gauge what I knew about the killer. Either way, he’d opened a door and I’d walked through.
While waiting, I mentally reviewed Paul Chi’s earlier interview notes with the restaurateur, which ended with “Christophe Picard; alibi checked out, not suspected.” I was tapping my feet, twiddling my wedding ring, when Christophe slipped into the chair opposite mine wearing chef’s whites and a red scarf knotted around his neck. We shook hands.
Christophe asked if I trusted him to order for me.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Excellent.”
Minutes later, a waiter delivered the first course.
Oranges? I looked up at my host.
“Blood oranges,” he said. “With caraway seeds and a Champagne vinaigrette. Have a taste, Sergeant. I think you’re going to like it.”
He was right, and I told him so.
“Just getting started,” he said.
“Me, too. I think you invited me to lunch so you could tell me something.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. Talk to me, Christophe. Do you know or have any idea who hated Holly and Jamie enough to have killed them?”
“You get right to the point, don’t you?”
“Yes. I hope you do, too.”
“Shoot,” he said. “I mean…”
“I get it,” I said to the good-looking guy in blazing white sitting across from me. “I’ve spoken with Rae, but briefly, and she was guarded. I just want to understand her, and you, better.”
“Ask me anything.”
“Here we go. Where were you on Tuesday morning last week, between eight and eight thirty?”
“That’s when Jamie was murdered? That’s easy,” he said. “I was in LA, and a lot of people can vouch for that. Also, I paid tolls with my card.”
I had my phone in hand and typed notes as he spoke. He went on.
“I drove down to LA on Monday night and stayed with Rae in Malibu. On Tuesday we picked up Brock on campus at Pepperdine University and went to Venice Beach for the day. Look.” He removed his watch so I could see a tan line.
I didn’t look impressed.
“And then?”
“Then we all went out to dinner, Chinese restaurant en route. I’ll have the name on my credit card receipt if you want it. Then we drove the kid back to school. We didn’t know about Jamie’s death until we got back to Rae’s place. I had another overnight with my ex-wife and we talked about Jamie’s death all night. I was in the kitchen here by eleven fifteen. I can account for my time and Rae’s.”
I asked him to go through his wallet now and give me the toll and restaurant card receipts and he did it.
“I’d like these back, okay?”
“I’ll get them back to you this afternoon. Now, I’d like to know more about Rae and James Fricke.”
“That’s a very long and old story. Let me put some more food in front of us, before I start talking.”
He called the waiter over, spoke a dozen words in fluent French, and turned back to me.
Christophe said, “Sergeant, most of what I know about Jamie comes from Rae. We were brothers-in-law, of course, but I didn’t socialize with him, especially after the divorce. It’s whatchacallit, hearsay, Sarge. Personal stuff through Rae, or what I read in the media. Theory seems to be that the same person killed both Holly and Jamie? Is that true?”
“It’s still a theory. We have no proof.”
A waiter removed our dishes, then put down more surprise food from Christophe. It was a baked ravioli dish. “What is it?”
“Go ahead, Sarge. Taste it,” he said. “Then, you tell me.”
I took a taste and guessed. “Ravioli stuffed with some kind of squash.”
“Very good. Butternut squash.”
“Delicious. So, Christophe…”
“Chris is fine.”
“So, Chris. What do you know about the relationship between Jamie and Rae?”
CHAPTER 101
CHRISTOPHE SAID TO me, “Too late for that long old story now. See that pretty woman who just came in?”
“Short print dress. Long wavy hair?”
“That’s the one. Moira Benet.”
She was coming toward us, right up to the table, when Chris stood up, gave her a good hug, and introduced us.
“Moira Benet,” said Chris, “meet Sergeant Lindsay Boxer. Sergeant, Moira is the heart of gossip central, right, Mo? And Sergeant Boxer is the top cop on the Fricke murder cases.”
“Lindsay Boxer,” Moira said. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Moira is an old friend of Rae’s,” said Chris. “You two should talk. I have a nice table opening up on the patio. Lunch is on the house.”
We moved to seats at a teakwood table under a striped umbrella outside. Chris moved Moira’s handbag out of the aisle and said, “You need anything, just ask.”
“He’s such a dear,” Moira said of Chris.
Turned out Moira wasn’t one for banter. She took the reins and talked through the first course. Her key point was that she and Rae were tight.
“We share many friends, have attended many red-carpet events together, countless parties and after-parties.”
Moira told me that she wrote a column for the Tribune and also had a podcast that was offered by invitation only and not available at any app stores.
There was no way to say it modestly, so Moira smiled broadly as she told me that she had the inside track with the rich and famous. I hoped that was true. I didn’t know enough about Rae Bergen to keep her name on the persons-of-interest list or cross her off. And doing that was my number one goal.
Moira had no questions about me and our investigation, and I was relieved. I wanted information from her, but I wouldn’t be able to tell her anything.
When the main course came to our table, Moira left a space between words. I grabbed it.
“Moira, what can you tell me about Rae and Jamie Fricke?”
“I thought Rae told you. She utterly loved Jamie and he loved her, too. Since the day they met. It was complicated, of course. Rae got together with Jamie whenever it was possible. He sent her to the moon and drove her back to the airport. She is devastated that some mofo blew him away.”
I said, “Yes, I know. But did Rae’s love affair with Jamie cause trouble in her relationship with Holly?”
“Oh,” said Moira. “I get it. You’re asking, was Rae so jealous of Holly that she killed her? No, no, no way. Not ever in this world.” She pushed her chair back a few inches from the table.
“Moira, don’t judge the question. I’m a cop trying to solve a very bloody puzzle and the longer it takes, the less chance we have of finding out who killed Holly and Jamie Fricke.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get that. But you don’t know Rae. She and Holly were so close, they were like twins.”
“Please go on,” I said and meant it.
Moira said, “Well, do you know about Christophe and Holly?”
“I don’t know about that. Please fill me in,” I said as I typed “Chris + Holly” on my phone notepad.
Moira put down her fork and leaned in toward me.
“It’s not a secret,” she said. “Not anymore. May I call you Lindsay?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Lindsay. Once, a couple of years ago, Christophe and Holly ran off together for a week to an absolutely amazing hotel in the South of France. Cannes, I think. Rae showed me the pictures. Frisky ones. I had to look at those images over and over because Rae and Holly look so much alike. But it was Holly, confirmed by Rae.”
