Close Case (3 page)

“The one and only Percy Crenshaw.”

“The reporter?” I asked incredulously.

“Didn’t I just say he was the one and only?” Johnson retorted.

I shook my head. “This is
not
good.”

“Try telling that to Crenshaw,” Walker said dryly.

Percy Crenshaw started out doing “on your side” pieces for the
Oregonian
’s Metro section. If a restaurant fed you bad meat, or your used car oozed mystery melt, or your new hairdresser surprised you with a blue mohawk, Percy Crenshaw was the go-to guy. More recently, though, he had managed to make a name for himself as a celebrity muckraker in this relatively quiet little city. Of course, like all good muckrakers, he had done that by turning what usually would have been relatively quiet stories into salacious tales of sex, greed, and corruption.

Last year, just for instance, I had worked on a case involving the murder of an administrative law judge. Sure, it had all the ingredients of a good scandal: bribery, betrayal, adultery, the works. At its heart, though, it was the sad story of a woman whose own mistakes had gotten her killed. Crenshaw had nonetheless managed to sell his version of the story, including every last irrelevant detail of the victim’s sex life, to
L.A. Magazine
.

“That’s some damn shameful timing,” Johnson said. “The man was right about to hit it big.”

“Didn’t he just sell the movie rights to that magazine article?” Walker asked.

“Yeah, he did,” Johnson said. “Got a nice chunk of change from that one actress, the blonde in all those legal thrillers.”

His partner didn’t read the entertainment section as thoroughly as I did. Walker wanted to know if she was the same actress who “gained all that weight for that one role.” Nope, they just looked alike.

I guess that’s the way the entertainment industry works. The victim dies, her family loses a daughter and sister, and I nearly get killed. But who sells the story and drives an S-Class Benz? Percy Crenshaw.

“I actually met him once,” Johnson said.

“I hope you weren’t the target of a story he was after,” I said. “From what I’ve heard, the guy left no stone unturned.”

“Understatement of the century,” Walker added. “More like he’d crawl over his dying mother to get to the last stone left unturned.”

“Nah, nothing like that,” Johnson said. “We had a real quick ‘Hello, how are you?’ kind of deal about a year ago at a Boys and Girls Club thing. There’s not too many brothers in this white-bread town with real jobs. Once you find yourself on the list of people to call for mentoring panels and whatnot, it’s probably inevitable that you end up meeting Percy.”

Fewer than 7 percent of Portland’s half a million residents are African-Americans. Take into account the predictable decision of the upwardly mobile to live with similarly situated others, and you don’t find many black professionals who move to or stick around the Pacific Northwest.

“So what was he like?” I asked.

Johnson’s eyes darted briefly to the ME van, the doors now closed. He paused, then shook his head. “Not what you’d expect,” he said. “You know, none of the ’tude he puts on in his interviews. Pretty down-to-earth. He talked to the kids about being one of the few black journalism majors at U of O. They were more interested in his work digging up the dirt. I remember him looking me right in the eye when he told them he’d thought of being a cop but wanted the freedom to do what was right.”

“I know the guy’s dead,” Walker said, “but fuck that noise.”

“No, he was all right. You get stopped a hundred times for being in a nice car, and you eventually develop a chip. Imagine what he would have written today about the protests. I feel bad for Hamilton,” he said, referring to the cop who shot Delores Tompkins, “but if this shit keeps up, the city’s going to burn.”

I could tell that Walker was poised for rebuttal, so I brought us back to the subject at hand. “Any theories yet on who might have had a chip against
him
?”

They shook their heads. “Way too soon to say,” Johnson said. “I suppose there’s always the chance he finally ticked off the wrong kind of nut job—”

“Well, you
know
that’s what they’ll be saying tonight on the six o’clock news,” I interjected.

“Of course I know that,” he acknowledged, “but I also know what you’ve been around long enough to know too: By the end of the day, we’re probably going to learn that Percy Crenshaw had something kinky going on behind the public persona.”

You’ve seen it before in high-profile murder cases. Early speculation about a motive usually gives way to a dirty little secret, lingering somewhere in the victim’s life: shady business deals, a tryst with someone else’s wife, a hidden life in Internet chat rooms—something to put the case squarely in the “comfort zone” of murder, where people toeing the straight-and-narrow are safely off limits.

“Unless,” I wondered aloud, “it’s a carjacking gone wrong?”

“A definite possibility,” Johnson said. “The guy who found the body says he noticed a couple of guys in the parking lot last night. He didn’t think much of it at the time, but maybe it plays into the carjacking angle.”

“I don’t suppose he recognized them.”

Johnson smiled, familiar with my impatient tendency to hope for early lucky breaks. “Nope. Two white guys in jeans and rain gear. He thinks he might recognize them, though, so we’ll sit him down at the station with some mug shots. The poor guy’s kicking himself, feeling guilty as shit.”

“For what?”

“He’s the superintendent for the whole complex.” He checked his notebook. “Peter Anderson. He found the body in the carport when he went to replace the motion-activated light that’s supposed to be there. Percy put in a maintenance request for the burnt-out bulb a week ago, and Anderson was running behind. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he’ll be lucky to avoid a lawsuit.”

A holler from across the parking lot interrupted us. “Detectives, when you got a sec, we got something you might be interested in.”

After exchanging glances with Walker, Johnson volunteered—“I’ll go”—and started a slow jog toward the patrol officer.

“Anyway,” Walker continued, “we’re keeping the car-jack scenario as a possibility, but usually they take the car, plan gone wrong or not. We found the keys right there.” He pointed to a numbered evidence placard marking a spot by the driver’s side door. “Crenshaw probably dropped them during the attack.”

I looked more closely then at the area surrounding the Benz. Low spatters of crimson marred the barren white Sheetrock of the carport. A wet stain that might otherwise be mistaken for oil spread beneath the front tire like a Rorschach test. I suspected that the matte smear down the side of the car’s waxed front panel was also blood.

I turned back to Walker. “Was he shot?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. He was beaten real bad. Unclear whether the technical cause of death’s going to be the internal bleeding or some real nasty damage to his head, but I’m guessing there was a weapon involved. Maybe a bat or a crowbar.”

I swallowed, relieved that I hadn’t arrived a few minutes earlier, before the gurney was covered. “So what are you working on?”

“We’ve got patrol officers canvassing the complex in case a neighbor saw something. Doubtful, though. In a place like this, someone would have called it in.”

“Did you notify the family?”

“Not yet. We’re working on that as a priority. We’ve got the place closed off, but it won’t be easy keeping this quiet. I assume everyone in the complex knows whose car that is, and it’s pretty obvious what’s going on here.”

“He’s single, right?”

“Yeah. Ray put a call in to the
Oregonian
for next-of-kin information. Hopefully his family’ll hear it from us before it hits the news.”

“Have you gone into his place yet?”

“Working on that too. He lived alone, so we’re getting a warrant. Should be easy.”

“Who’s working on the applications?” I asked. Judges routinely sign warrants for a homicide victim’s home and office, so the paperwork was straightforward.

“Mike and Chuck are taking care of it now, back at the office. They’ll page you when they’re ready for you to look at it.” Detectives Mike Calabrese and Chuck Forbes were partners, also in the Major Crimes Team. I’d seen the latter just three hours ago when he rolled out of my bed, pulled on his clothes, and kissed me goodbye. In addition to his position in the bureau, Detective Forbes also filled the role of my current boyfriend. And, technically, I suppose he rolled out of “our” bed, because as of a week ago we were officially shacked up.

“Any legal work you need me to do?”

“Not yet.” He squinted at me, anticipating what was coming.

“So why am I here?”

“Appearances,” he said bluntly. “I called Frist as part of the usual procedure, but I told him we didn’t need anyone at the crime scene.”

“And he said?”

“Something along the lines of”—Walker channeled his best Frist—“‘Uh, that’s fine, Detective Walker, but, you know, the news’ll be all over this one. Why don’t I go ahead and ask you to get Kincaid out there; it’ll be easier down the road if something comes up.’”

“Your impersonation’s better than ever.”

“I’m pleased that you’re pleased. Now, as for why he dimed you up instead of someone else in the unit, I can only guess.”

“And your best guess?”

“Honestly? To see how you’ll cut it. You’ve got to admit, the one other time you got handed a hot potato, your approach wasn’t exactly traditional.”

He was referring, of course, to the aforementioned case of the missing judge. By the time that one played out, I had leaked information to a defense attorney and helped him subpoena some of the biggest mucketymucks in the county. Yes, I suppose Walker was correct: My boss wanted to put me to the test.

Ray Johnson walked back to the carport with his black leather steno pad open in front of him, Montblanc pen in hand.

“They find a neighbor?” I asked.

“Looks like we’ve got a possible girlfriend.”

That got Walker’s attention. “I thought the guy at the paper told you there was no girlfriend.”

“So maybe Percy didn’t tell the guys at work everything. A couple nights ago, one of the neighbors came home late to find a car parked in her designated spot. She got ticked and took down the plate so she could complain the next day. Later on, she saw Percy walk the lady to her car. He gave the neighbor the mandatory apologetic wave, so she let it go, but she’s still got the plate for us.”

“Good,” I said. “Run it and find out her story. Anything else?”

“That’s it from the patrol so far, but Chuck just called. He and Mike are working last night’s PPDS entries from the area.” The Portland Police Data System is the clearinghouse for every piece of information collected by the bureau. Generating a list of arrests, stops, and traffic tickets in a given location during a stated time range was a snap.

“Anything worth following up on?” I asked.

Johnson glanced at his notes. “Yeah, maybe. They’re still culling through the full list, but there’s a couple that jumped to the top. A broken taillight on a two-time car thief down on Twenty-third Avenue. A stop-and-talk with some kid at the bottom of the hill; we still need to get the details from the patrol officer.” He flipped a page of his notebook. “Another stop farther up Burnside; that one’s for drugs. We’ll see, right?”

He closed his notebook and switched gears.

“Also, I finally got through to the human resources chick at the
Oregonian
. Crenshaw’s local emergency contact is just a friend. Closest family’s his parents down in Cali.”

“I’ll do this one,” Walker said quietly.

Johnson tucked in his lower lip and nodded. I knew how much they hated notifying the families. “Oh, before I forget,” he said, pointing at me, “when I talked to Chuck, he and Mike were just finishing the warrant applications.”

It was time for me to head down to MCT.

On my way up the Justice Center stairs to the Major Crime Team’s fourth-floor offices, I passed Jessica Walters on her way down.

“I’m afraid to ask,” I said, looking up at her.

“You should be. The custodies still aren’t done, but at least we got things sufficiently under control for intake to finish on their own. Now I’ve got to deal with whatever the hell’s waiting for me back in Gangs.”

I looked at my watch. Nearly eleven.

“How could they not be done by now with all those extra bodies?”

She scoffed. “Yeah, right, all those extra bodies.” She ticked them off on her fingers one by one. “Jennifer Loving came over from Child Support and spent the whole morning. So did some new guy from the misdemeanor trial row, but he was so slow it barely made a dent. Harding came over from General Felonies, but was suddenly paged back. Kessler was over from DVD, but, lo and behold, he was mysteriously paged away too. Anyway, you get the picture.”

Rocco Kessler was my former supervisor in the Drug and Vice Division, before my promotion to the Major Crimes Unit. I had no problems picturing him, Peter Harding, and most of my other colleagues cooking up fake pages to weasel out of intake duty.

“Even worse, it turns out I’m probably going to have to take a bunch of those dog cases over to Gangs.”

I gave her a puzzled look. The Gang Unit rarely handled misdemeanors, even when they involved gang activity.

“Looks like we had a pack of kids totally out of control up on Northwest Twenty-third after the protests were dying down. They did a shitload of property damage. Bashed in a mess of parked cars, even smashed in a couple of storefront windows. The neighborhood association’s freaking out, so Duncan told me he wants me to handle them as felonies.”

“Good luck,” I offered facetiously. She’d need it. Unless it’s a domestic situation where the victim knows the perpetrator, finding the culprit in a property damage case is nearly impossible. That would not be the answer the public wanted, though. Twenty-third Avenue was the crown jewel of Portland’s burgeoning collection of quaint but happening hot spots. Pillaging there was equivalent to taking a can of spray paint to the Lincoln Memorial. There would definitely be pressure to find the culprits.

“What about you? I take it you had a real reason for leaving?” she asked expectantly.

I looked around to see if anyone was in earshot. For the Justice Center, the place was remarkably quiet.

“You could say that.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “The call-out was on Percy Crenshaw.”

Her eyes widened. “Percy Crenshaw killed someone?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s the
victim,
bludgeoned to death in his carport up on Hillside, right in those big condos on the heights.”

She looked genuinely stunned and placed a hand on the underside of her extended belly. Reading her expression, I immediately regretted what must have come across as an excited tone.

“Oh, God, Jessica. I’m sorry. Did you know him?”

She sighed and seemed to snap back into character. “No, I guess I wouldn’t say I knew him.”

“But?”

She paused. “Sorry, I just kind of freaked for a second. God, this kid must be making me hormonal. Anyway, Percy did some work on a case of mine about a year ago. He was friends with the vic’s mom, I guess, and I wound up talking to him a few times on the phone. He came in for grand jury too.”

“You called a reporter into grand jury?” I asked. Jessica was known for her doggedness, but dragging information out of a journalist involuntarily was nearly impossible.

“Not as a reporter,” she said. “It was a gang shooting, and he was poking around on the side. He managed to get a lot more out of the victim’s gangbanger buddies than the police ever did. Apparently he was a PI before we all got to know him as a reporter. Still had his license and everything.”

“Raymond Johnson from MCT had crossed paths with him too. Said he was a pretty good guy.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding, “I think he was. Unless, of course, they’ve found out otherwise already.”

“Nothing yet, but it’s still early. The police haven’t even looked through his place. I’m headed up to review the warrants now.” I pointed up the stairs.

“Well, let me know if you need anything. This one’s going to get some attention.”

Chuck and his partner, Mike Calabrese, were gathered at the unofficial MCT powwow spot, a small conference table situated in the middle of a cluster of detectives’ cubicles. Both were in familiar positions, Chuck teetering his chair at a 45-degree angle, his fingertips pressed against the table for balance, Mike centered solidly in the seat nearest the minifridge.

I paused in the doorway and took a good look at Chuck. After adjusting to my divorce a few years ago, I had sworn that my French bulldog Vinnie would be the closest thing I’d ever have again to a housemate. But last spring Chuck and I took the leap from gratingly platonic flirtatiousness to an in-your-heart-and-guts thing that had begun a decade and a half ago at Grant High. I resisted the change at first, but somewhere over the summer I stopped analyzing our budding relationship and resolved to enjoy the ride. By the end of August, Chuck was dropping hints that the rent on his apartment was going to waste, and by October I had invited him to move into my Alameda bungalow. We celebrated our first night as live-ins by dressing up Vinnie in his cow costume and doling out candy to the kiddies on Halloween. I suspect Vinnie found the whole thing emasculating, but Chuck and I had a blast.

“There she is!” Mike hollered out, when he saw me lurking. “Ray told us that Frist was putting you front and center on this one.”

Chuck eyed me mischievously but maintained his promise not to spill the beans about my birthday. “And we all know how much Samantha Kincaid loves to be in the spotlight.”

“Well, that all depends on what it’s for, doesn’t it? Hopefully, this time around it’ll be because you find the bad guys and hand me a slam-dunk case.”

“We’re trying,” Mike said. “Meanwhile, though, Frist’s looking to shine himself by going after our boy Hamilton.”

My boyfriend’s protective tendencies kicked in. “C’mon. If Sam could control Russ Frist, there’d be a whole lot about her office that would change.”

“What? I can’t kid her like any other DA?”

This was precisely why I had insisted from the very beginning that Chuck leave the rest of the law enforcement crowd out of the loop about the change in our domestic arrangements. Our ability to maintain a professional distance was questioned enough as it stood. Chuck being Chuck, he was more cavalier about the line between our personal and professional lives, seeing the subject as one more humorous opportunity to see me sweat.

“Hey. Guys. Yoo-hoo.” I threw in a little wave. “Still in the room. And for what it’s worth, Calabrese, as the new kid in the MCU sandbox, I haven’t exactly been consulted on the resolution of your
boy
Hamilton’s situation.”

Cops are never happy when their use of force is questioned, but they are especially incensed when the criticism comes from prosecutors who bill themselves as the real crime fighters without ever dealing with the rough stuff. Mike Calabrese wasn’t ready to let the subject of the bureau’s most recent police shooting drop. “Yeah, well, you got to admit: Every fuck in your office creams at the idea of going after one of us. It’s a direct route to superstardom in this PC little hippie town.”

Mike was a transplant from the NYPD and would probably never fully adjust to a population that favored community policing over Giuliani-style street-crime sweeps. He may have been right that a few cop-prosecuting DAs had jumped on the fast track to become judges and politicos, but I still resented the accusation.

“Maybe you should rethink your meaning of
us,
Mike. I would certainly hope you’d never put a bullet in an unarmed woman’s head during a traffic stop.”

“Unarmed, my ass. A moving car’s just as lethal as a loaded gun, and if you were ever on the street—”

“Yo, time out.” Chuck made a T with his hands, bringing his chair back down to all fours. “Why don’t we agree to disagree, since the last time I checked we had other things to deal with. Besides, none of us know a damn thing about what happened out there with Hamilton.”

“Knows,” I said, after a pause.

“What?” Chuck didn’t hide his irritation.

“None of us
knows
a damn thing. Singular. You said
know
.”

Mike laughed. “Now
that’s
fucking funny. If the two of you ever decide to tie the knot, you should have one of those reality shows, like that girl who asked her husband if Chicken of the Sea was really chicken. I could watch this shit for hours.” He folded his arms in front of his chest and smirked.

“Glad we could amuse you,” I said, throwing an uncomfortable look at Chuck. “You guys done with the warrant applications?”

“Hot off the presses,” Chuck said, handing me a set of papers for review.

It was the standard packet of forms we used for searches after a homicide: a warrant authorizing a search of the victim’s home, cars, and office and a bare-bones affidavit about the crime. I signed off on the DA line, and Mike volunteered to find the nearest judge for the signature that actually counted.

“How’s the birthday so far?” Chuck asked, once Mike had left.

“Word hasn’t leaked, so it’s been fine under the circumstances.”

“Why are you being so secretive?”

Maybe this guy didn’t quite get me after all. “Because.”

It seemed like a perfectly satisfactory explanation to me, but Chuck was clearly looking for more. “Why in the world do my coworkers need to know that I managed to live another year?”

“Beats the alternative, right?”

“Trust me,” I said, “those guys at the courthouse are always looking for an excuse. They get one inkling that it’s my birthday, and my office will be plastered with birthday cards featuring five-by-seven glossies of naked geriatrics.”

“Hmmm,” he said sheepishly. “I may need to run out and get you another card.”

“Funny. Hey,” I said, changing the subject, “you weren’t kidding about your buddies having a bee in their bonnet over the Tompkins shooting.” I glanced toward the door Mike had just used. “What’s up with him? Are he and Hamilton tight?”

“Not that I know of.” He pulled a PPDS report across the table toward him.

“So what’s his deal?”

“He’s a cop. Hamilton’s a cop. Delores Tompkins was not a cop. That’s enough for some people.”

“Some
cops,
maybe.”

“Are you trying to start a fight with me? I told you last night, people are getting pissed that your office is even looking into this. They expected Griffith to have issued a statement by now saying the shooting was good.”

“With what’s been going on in the streets? You have to know that’s ridiculous.”

“I see both sides. I just told Mike that, right?”

“Not really. You said we should agree to disagree.”

“And I also said we have work to do. I’m still going over the PPDS entries from last night.” He waved the green printout at me.

He was right. The two of us weren’t going to settle the question of whether Officer Hamilton should be prosecuted for shooting Delores Tompkins. Better to focus on Crenshaw.

“Anything interesting?” I asked, sitting on the tabletop to get a better view of the printout. “Johnson said something about a few stops near the condo.”

“Maybe. It’s been slower going than usual, though. Take a look at how thick this thing is from just one night. Fucking protesters.”

“Tell me about it. Until I got called up to Crenshaw’s, I was stuck at intake dealing with the custodies.”

“So you understand what a cluster fuck it is. When I restricted the search to just a few blocks around Crenshaw’s up on Hillside, I only got a few hits.” He pulled a different, thinner printout toward him. “Nothing obvious, but I circled a few worth looking into. Best one’s probably a traffic stop on a guy with a couple UUV pops.”

“Johnson mentioned that one.” Given the carjacking-gone-bad scenario, the proximity of a defendant twice convicted of Unlawful Use of a Vehicle was at least interesting.

“I don’t have high hopes, though,” Chuck said. “The guy was stopped heading east, which would put him on his way
to
Crenshaw’s place. Possible a guy would try to pull something off right after being stopped by a cop, but—”

“Not likely,” I agreed.

“Right. So then I expanded the search to include a mile around the vic’s place. That’s when I got this massive thing,” he said, holding up the thicker report again. “We wind up hitting downtown and all the crap from last night. It’s taking me awhile to get through it all.”

“You going out on the warrants?”

“You bet. Ray and Jack will take the car and the condo, but Mike and I are doing the office.”

“Call me if you find anything?”

“But of course, madame.”

“And make sure the other boys keep me in the loop too?”

“No one’s out to get you, Sam.”

“Just make sure they don’t shut me out.”

“Consider it a birthday present.”

Chuck was right. Even for cops like Calabrese, the ribbing I was getting was just collateral damage from bombs directed at the man who walked into my office a couple of hours later.

Russ Frist is best pictured as a young Kirk Douglas in a Brooks Brothers suit, if Kirk had been built like a side-by-side Sub-Zero. I told him the other day that any more time on the weights and his seams were going to burst open à la Dr. David Banner, but without all the incredible green hulkiness.

Frist rapped his knuckles against my open door before plopping his dense body down in my guest chair. “You keep any aspirin in this dump?” He grabbed a mail-order running-gear catalog from the corner of my desk and started flipping through it, propping one wingtip on the unoccupied chair next to him.

“You comfy there?” I asked. “Can I get you a pillow? Maybe some chamomile tea?”

“Tea’s for wusses.” He looked up from the magazine to give me a self-mocking tough-guy look while he shifted his weight to rest both feet on the ground. “Got an aspirin?”