“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Laura took a sip of her café mocha. “I gave you something, so how about a little reciprocity?”
“Davida had lots of enemies in the capital.”
“And the sky’s blue, so what? Everyone knows the capital runs on bile but how many politicians are mowed down with a twelve-gauge shotgun?”
“Who told you about the weapon?”
“Word gets around.” Laura ran a finger across her lips.
Barnes stared at her.
She said, “Loose lips at the crime scene- your own people.”
“Great. Anything else I should know about?”
“Don’t be sulky, Will, it’s how I make my living. How about giving me something that every other reporter doesn’t have?”
With her tentacles, maybe she’d learn something and trade it back to him. “We’re investigating some hate mail.”
“From…”
“You can use the hate-mail part, but not the name. Agreed?”
“Absolutely.”
“I mean it, Laura.”
“So do I. Who’s the hate-mailer?”
“Some whack job named Harry Modell, executive director of Families Under God. Ever hear of them?”
“I have. Modell sent her nasty stuff, huh?”
“According to Lucille Grayson. The old woman still has the letters. Plus- and you can print this- rumor has it that Ray and Brent Nutterly from the White Tower Radicals are going to be charged with the egging incident. Police have eyewitnesses, including several who recorded the whole incident on their phone videos. You want more information, talk to Detective Don Newell, Sac PD.”
“That’s good, Will, I can run with that. Thanks so much.”
Touching his hand.
He said, “Speaking of running, I’d better get back.”
“The White Tower boys…,” Laura said. “They’re into survivalism.”
“And a shotgun’s a hunting weapon. Unfortunately, the Nutterly brothers were behind bars last night, so it wasn’t them.” Barnes stood up. “I took a chance meeting you like this, Laura.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Dinner sometime?”
Her smile was wistful. “I wish you had asked me two weeks ago.”
Seeing someone. Barnes working his smile hard. “Good for you.”
Her cheeks were flushed. She touched her hair. “It probably won’t work out, but what the hell, Willie. Live dangerously.”
Since Lucille Grayson was staying in Berkeley for the night, Don Newell and Amanda Isis took the train to Sacramento together, leaving Barnes behind with the nasty job of sorting through thousands of Davida’s computer files, decoded easily by Max Flint.
Seated in a comfortable chair, rocked by Amtrak’s wheels, the Sacramento detective was fighting the urge to sleep. He glanced at his seatmate. A few calls had filled in her history. A Google gazillionaire. And definitely someone with clout. By the time they stepped onto the train, she had appointments with three different state reps.
Now she was napping, pretty face all peaceful and unlined.
Newell forced his eyes open. Lucille Grayson had chosen to remain in Berkeley until the body was released, and entrusted him with a key to her house and directions where to look for Harry Modell’s hate letters. Newell had called up his partner, Banks Henderson, and told him to meet him there at the old lady’s place with an SPD video cam and a civilian witness. He didn’t want to be accused of planting anything.
He sneaked a sidelong glance at Amanda. Good-looking woman- great-looking really, with that soft skin- kind of a fifties-movie-star glamour.
Maybe she knew she was being watched because she woke up and got back to work on her Starbucks. Without looking at Newell, she began writing furiously in her pad.
“Inspiration?” Newell wasn’t so much curious as he was trying to stay awake. Making conversation with a pretty woman was a bonus.
Amanda looked up. “Just writing down any possible questions I can think of for the pols.”
“C’mon,” he said. “What’s the likelihood that it’s a politician?”
“Low, I grant you. But so many of these people attract hangers-on and whackos. It’d be stupid not to ask them, right?” She gave Newell a hard look.
He said nothing.
“Is there a problem,” she said, “my operating in your territory?”
“Not mine at all. Capital police territory, we just cover the real people.” Newell’s smile didn’t get Amanda’s lips curving. “No, no problem. Even if it was my turf. I was just thinking out loud. Truth is, I have seen plenty of those yokels and no matter how they undermine each other on one bill, next day they’ve got their arms around each other on another one. Take Davida. She’s worked on several projects with Eileen Ferunzio and at that time, they were the best of friends.”
“You kept in contact with Davida.”
“We’d run into each other now and then. Like I said, work brings me to the cap. I used to see Eileen and Davida eating lunch together all the time.” Newell shrugged. “Not so much lately.”
“Any occasional lunches between you and Davida?”
Newell’s smile was easy, but cold. “Oh, I see where this is going. Let me get it on the table: we were just friends…not even close friends. My wife didn’t like her.”
“Why’s that?”
“Jill’s just that way. She met the woman and took an instant dislike to her. Every time Davida called I knew it was her, by the look on Jill’s face.”
“Why’d Davida call you?”
“I was her contact in the police department, she was my contact in the halls of government. Mutually beneficial relationship, but nothing more. The woman was gay, Amanda. That means she don’t like men.”
“Some gays have relationships with the opposite sex.”
“Well, if she was doing a guy, I didn’t know about it. Why would I? We didn’t work like that.”
Amanda nodded. “You don’t mind my asking you these questions, do you, Don?”
“Not at all,” he said glibly. “It’s good for me. Gives me empathy for what it’s like on the other side of the table.”
8
Winding through the Berkeley hills on streets barely wide enough for a compact, Barnes went over the crime scene in his mind. After much prodding and some not-so-subtle threats, Minette Padgett had finally coughed up an alibi name.
Kyle Bosworth hadn’t said much over the phone other than to admit being with Minette from ten PM to a little past two. When Barnes wanted to interview him in person, Bosworth balked, but Barnes assured him it wouldn’t take more than a half hour of his time. Besides, it was better to have such interviews prearranged than to have the police barge in on him.
Finding the address, Barnes wedged his tiny wheels into a half space and felt lucky to get that. The sidewalks were pushed up and cracked from majestic pines that shadowed postcard lawns. About half of the houses were turn of the century, mostly California bungalows. The others were expensive remodels. Up in the hills, the real estate, like the air, was rarefied.
A tall, emaciated man answered Barnes’s knock. His amber hair was messy; his brown eyes, raw and red and drooping. He wore a blue flannel robe over red flannel pajamas, sheepskin slippers on narrow, pale feet. He gave Barnes a quick once-over.
“Mr. Bosworth.”
“In person.”
“Would you like to see some identification?”
“Not necessary. You look like a cop.” Bosworth’s smile was feeble. “ Hollywood’s image of a cop.”
Barnes went inside. “Those guys are macho and good-looking.”
“Yeah, but there’s always one guy…how should I put it? You know, the older, craggy one who drinks too much, but still shows the rookies how it’s done.”
“That’s me, huh?”
“That’s you. Have a seat. Do you want some coffee?”
“I wouldn’t mind.” Barnes remained standing. “Did I wake you, Mr. Bosworth?”
“Actually Minette woke me. The first time she called, she was hysterical and she made me hysterical. It took a Valium to calm me down.”