First he called John Sackowitz, and then he patched Brady into the call and told both of them what he knew.
He said, “It looks like O’Brien died from an accidental drug overdose. The deceased was in possession of a backpack that was a forensic lab’s dream. There’s a recently fired .38 with one slug left in the six-chamber cylinder and a street suppressor. Also, get this, we found a key card from the Warwick. I’m going to take a wild guess and say it opens room three twenty-one.”
Sac and Brady were suitably impressed and excited.
Conklin kept going. He was on a roll.
“How’d he get the card? This, I don’t know. But we have his cell phone. Maybe his call history will give up the other players in this thing. Oh, and to really seal the deal here,” Conklin said, “Joan Murphy’s diamonds were also in O’Brien’s backpack. All of them, and they were nicely wrapped in a bandana. CSI found O’Brien’s prints on all of it.”
Brady said, “Good work, Inspector Conklin. Take a bow and the night off.”
It was a quarter to six, so Conklin called Cindy and said, “I’ll pick up a pizza.” Then he sent her a phone kiss.
After that, he called Joan Murphy’s phone and left a voice mail. “Joan, this is Rich Conklin. We’ve recovered your jewelry. There are about three pounds of diamonds here, including that pendant that I think belonged to your mother. Call me, please. We’ll need you to identify it.”
He clicked off and then spoke to the disconnected phone, “And by the way, Joan, I also need to talk to you about Sam Alton and Arthur O’Brien, both of whom are now deceased. You’re starting to look like the center of a category 5 storm to me.”
His phone buzzed.
It was Joan.
It was almost as if she’d heard him.
She said, “Hi, Richard. I’m doing all right. Keeping it together. I want to remind you that someone tried to murder me. I don’t want to give this person another shot at it. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”
“Where are you? Everyone’s been worried about you. Robert called you in as a missing person.”
“Never mind that. Look, Richard, the important thing is that I think I know who was behind all of this.”
But then the phone went dead in his hand.
Conklin hit the Return Call button. He listened to the ringtone and got Joan’s outgoing voice mail message.
“This is Joan. You know what to do.”
Conklin said, “Call me back, Joan. Call me.”
He got out of his car and walked over to Claire. She was shutting the back doors to the van.
“Joan just called me. She won’t tell me where she is, but she said that she’s staying out of harm’s way. Then she hung up on me.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Claire.
“Do you get the feeling,” Rich asked Claire, “that she’s making things harder for us on purpose? Why would she do that?”
Chapter 22
That night Cindy and Rich got into bed before ten. It was an early night for them and that was a kind of blessing.
It was good to be home. Their apartment on Kirkham Street was small and cozy. They’d decorated it together so that it fit them like a hug.
Richie’s arm was around Cindy, and she was wrapped around him with her cheek pressed to his chest. Streetlights sliced through the blinds, striping the walls and ceiling. Their alarm clocks were set. They each had glasses of water on their nightstands, and she had the extra blanket. Rich had the king-sized pillow behind his back.
And they had the luxury of these quiet hours to talk about their days. She loved listening to the sound of his voice.
Rich was telling her about Arthur O’Brien, the shooter who’d killed Samuel J. Alton and wounded Joan Murphy. He explained how Arthur had been the one to steal her jewelry, expose her affair, and then step off stage into the shadow of death.
“And after all this craziness about whodunnit and why,” said Rich, “he keeps all the evidence in his backpack and leaves it for us to find.”
“Careless,” said Cindy. “It’s basic hit man 101. The first thing you do is get rid of the gun.”
“That’s the thing, Cin. He was not a pro. Not even semi. Still, he got a key card, got an unregistered gun, shot two people, and ditched with the jewels. He got out of the hotel just like that. Shazam.”
“It seems too neat,” said Cindy. “How did a drug addict and occasional film extra get onto Joan and her jewels? Someone had to have put him up to it. If I had to guess, someone gave him a playbook.”
“You’re right. We downloaded the call log on his phone. We found a lot of stuff there, but at first look, nothing was incriminating. He called his mother regularly. He had a few friends, none of whom connected him to Alton or the Murphys. But then we found several calls to a burner phone in his call history. If he was given instructions, I bet it went through that phone. I’m thinking that if O’Brien was the shooter, he was supposed to cash in the jewels. But he flamed out before he could collect his check.”
Cindy asked, “What’s your next move?”
“Wait for the lab reports. Sam Alton’s widow wants justice. The Murphys are out of it. Joan is alive. She has the jewelry plus a great story for all of her dinner parties, and a couple of decorative scars.
“I don’t understand her,” Rich continued. “I’d expect her to want me to catch the person who did this and killed Sam.”
“That might be the snag,” said Cindy. “Maybe she doesn’t want to admit to having an affair with Sam.”
“Sure. Maybe that would torpedo her marriage. But do you think that Robert doesn’t know? Is he really so clueless? Or is he grilling her when the cops aren’t there? Is that what’s making her stick to her story? ‘I was drugged and kidnapped and shot and I don’t know who that hairy fat guy was who was found naked on top of me.’”
Cindy laughed and Rich joined her.
It was all so crazy.
But it was just the kind of mystery Cindy loved to solve.
Chapter 23
The next morning, Cindy and Rich said good-bye on the street and got into their cars. Rich headed to the Hall, and Cindy set her course toward Seacliff.
She didn’t tell Rich where she was going. She knew what he would say. “You’re poking into a police investigation. It’s dangerous.” Or words to that effect. Either way, it wouldn’t be something she’d want to hear.
If she listened to Rich and some of her well-meaning friends, she’d be writing a fashion column. Or maybe pieces about local politics.
But she was a crime writer. Crime was not just her beat at the Chronicle, it was her passion. She’d written a bestselling true-crime book, sold two hundred fifty thousand copies in paperback, and had a standing offer from her publisher that he’d entertain any book ideas she might have. So, yeah.