Thigpen was housed in the protective custody unit of the San Diego County Jail. McMichael walked in from the cool sunshine of Front Street, signed in at the Professional Visits Window and got a gun locker key. Escorted by a deputy to the fourth-floor sally port, he locked his gun away, glancing at the video monitors- one for each cell in case of attempted suicide or suspicious activity.
Thigpen's unit mates were child molesters and aggressive homosexuals, transvestites, a former DA prosecutor on trial for grand theft, a rapist who'd tried to kill himself. The sheriff's lieutenant eyed McMichael with a hard interest, which is what he figured most PD people got when they came to see their wayward little friend.
McMichael and his deputy escort walked past the cells until they came to Jimmy Thigpen. The deputy signaled to the command booth, then the door to Jimmy's cell slid open about a foot and a half.
"We'll be watching on the camera," said the deputy.
"Enjoy the show," said McMichael.
He shook hands with Jimmy. Thigpen was already pale from lack of sunlight and heavier from the confinement and the food. Blue pants and top shirt, white T-shirt, brown rubber shower sandals. To McMichael he still looked about eighteen- hardly any beard, pimples on his chin and cheeks, thick pink lips- though twenty-three was more like it.
"You look kind of lousy," said McMichael.
"Thirty-five nights. Three squares and a bed. Hell is boredom, and this is pure hell."
"Yeah, I'll bet. Hector says hello. Steffy, too."
"How is she?"
"House on the beach. An extra-pretty smile."
"I always liked her."
"Me too. Still do."
"And Johnny?"
"Plain old perfect."
Thigpen smiled. It was a clean and open smile and had always made McMichael think of a yearbook picture. Thigpen was unmarried and had never talked of a regular woman. He was always interested in Johnny. "What's up, Mick?" he asked.
"Pete Braga."
Thigpen nodded, looking up at the camera high in one corner of his cell. "It's got audio, too. How are your writing skills?"
"I got B's in English."
McMichael took out his notebook and pen. His knuckles barked when he squeezed the pen and wrote:
Your number in Victor Braga's dirty mag bag. What gives?
Thigpen took pad and pen, wrote something that took a while, then handed it back to McMichael: Popped him for soliciting three times in three months- same girl, same place. After you were gone. Cut him loose first two, felt sorry for him. Booked him for number three. He called me sometimes, thought I was his friend for going easy.
McMichael: When was the pop?
Thigpen: Mid-November.
McMichael: Pete know about all this?
Thigpen: Sure.
McMichael: Tangible thanks?
Thigpen: Offered five grand. I said no.
McMichael: V upset?
Thigpen: P upset. V cried a lot.
McMichael: Court together?
Thigpen: Yes. Judge Brooks OR'd him because of P and me.
McMichael: Did P punish him?
Thigpen: No idea. P's a hothead. V's dumb and strong as a horse.
McMichael: V get violent with the girl?
Thigpen sighed and looked back up at the camera. He waved, then wrote: No. It was Courtney Gonzalez, the Fifth St. junkie with the dimples, cute? Calls herself Angel.
McMichael: You moonlighting for P?
Thigpen: Got together with the V thing. Just trailering new cars down to TJ for leather, then back. P had some stolen from him once, wanted someone capable. Overpaid me as thanks for V.
McMichael: $300K worth?
Thigpen: Don't ask.
"I'm goddamned asking, Jimmy," said McMichael.
Thigpen looked up at the camera and sighed, then fixed McMichael with a cool stare.
McMichael took back the notebook and wrote: How often to TJ?
Thigpen: Wednesday nights.
McMichael: You and V?
Thigpen frowned slightly, took the pen and wrote: V once or twice.
McMichael: Who's doing it now?
Thigpen shrugged.
McMichael: Who was pissed at P, and vice versa?
Thigpen smiled as he wrote: P obnoxious. Loud, in your face. Like that old wop Partaglia in Property- remember him?
McMichael nodded: Any idea who killed P?
Thigpen: None at all. Employee maybe?
McMichael read the sentence, glanced up at the camera then back to Thigpen. The ex-vice cop had that wide-eyed boy's expression that was such foolproof bait to the working girls. An expression that said, yes ma'am, no ma'am- I'm just here to help.
McMichael wrote again: Thanks. Tell me what happened to you, Jimmy.
Thigpen: I just got careless.
McMichael: IAD's afraid you're going to take some guys down with you.
Thigpen: Afraid's their job.
McMichael: You could make a case- too young, not enough training and supervision.
Thigpen shrugged.
McMichael: Are you covering for other cops, Jimmy?
Something dark registered in Thigpen's eyes. Then he smiled his eighteen-year-old's smile, took the notebook and stood. He ripped out the last several pages, tore the little sheets in half, then quarters, then dumped them into his toilet and flushed it.
The escort deputy appeared and the cell door opened. "The lieutenant wants to see you," he said to McMichael.
"Later, Jimmy."
"Later, Mick."
McMichael followed him to the protective custody command booth, where the lieutenant stood, arms crossed, shaking his head. "I'd like to know what went on in there."
"We just passed kites back and forth, then flushed them."
"Yeah, I saw that. Like a couple of gangbangers. Whose side are you on anyway?"
"I'm with the good guys."
"I'll need a written statement of everything that was communicated," said the lieutenant. "We've got a full legal right to that, according to the California Penal Code."
"What I have is evidence in a murder investigation, so you get nothing. That's in the code, too."
"I can make this uncomfortable for you at Fourteenth Street."
"It's already uncomfortable. But thanks for offering, Lieutenant. I'll take my gun."
The lieutenant hesitated, then nodded to one of the deputies.
McMichael checked his weapon, holstered it and walked out. The deputies made him wait a long time at each door before buzzing him through. He could see them from the guard booths, smiling at him. But he finally made it out of the jail, steel doors slamming closed behind him.
Assistant Chief Jerry Bland sat heavily at his desk, staring at McMichael. He chewed then didn't. Behind him, the entire wall was taken up with bowling trophies and police awards.
"So is he covering for other guys or isn't he?" asked Bland.
"He's not saying."
Bland shook his head and looked at McMichael without goodwill. Then he stood and went to one of the windows. "I always liked Jimmy Thigpen. Most people did. But I really don't give one shit about a cop who propositions a whore and an undercover deputy, takes them to a hotel room full of dope. And happens to have three hundred unexplained grand in the trunk of his car. And won't talk to us. You really think he's just one bad cop, McMichael? Or did he have some help from the other guys on Metro/Vice?"
"I asked him straight out if he was covering, but he didn't answer."
"Great."
"Maybe it is great. Maybe Jimmy's just a messed-up cop who saw some easy action and took it. Solo."
Bland continued to stare at McMichael. "Wouldn't that be nice? Yeah. Maybe Jimmy's the long and short of it, like you said. Maybe I've been worrying about problems we don't have."
Henry Grothke Jr. tapped his fingers on the desktop as McMichael displayed and explained the registered mail and FedEx receipts, each secured in a clear plastic bag.
The lawyer sighed and shook his head. "I can't talk to you about these. It's a blatant breach of confidentiality."
"Pete's dead," said Hector. "So it's not going to bother him. Why's it bother you?"
McMichael tried to look patient. He liked having Hector along to play the bull.
"No," said the attorney. "I won't do it without a subpoena."
"What if you get permission from Patricia?" asked McMichael. "As executor."
Grothke hit him with a sharp little glance, then threw up his hands as if there were no limits to McMichael's depravity. "Go ahead."
McMichael got her on his cell. The connection was bad. She told him she had no idea what her grandfather might have sent to Grothke, Steiner & Grothke, but she didn't care if Henry discussed it. She'd expect a full report from McMichael. He gave Junior the cell and watched his face harden and redden.
Grothke handed him back the phone like it had Ebola virus on it. He looked at Hector, then McMichael, then walked past them and shut the door. When he sat back down his composure was back. He buzzed the receptionist and told her to hold his calls.
"Pete was thinking about removing the diocese from his will," he said. "He sent us two letters to that effect- November and December of last year."
"How come you didn't tell us before?" asked McMichael.
Grothke looked at him with affronted pride. "It was a matter between a man and his god. You don't consider God a suspect, do you?"
"That's a dumb thing to ask," said Hector.
"Remove the diocese why?" asked McMichael.
Grothke sighed and cleared his throat. "Mr. Braga was unhappy with their decision on naming the new parish out in Poway. Mr. Braga suggested St. Peter's, in consideration of his generous gifting to the diocese for the last four decades. Pete knew, of course, that the name would only be coincidental to his own. Unfortunately, there is already a large parish in a nearby community, Fallbrook, named St. Peter's. The diocese had to decline."
Grothke waited.
"But Pete wouldn't take no for an answer," said McMichael.
"Not Mr. Braga," said Grothke, with a hint of contempt. "He then argued that it be called St. Anna's in memory of his wife. But there is no St. Anna in the Catholic religion. So Pete insisted on St. Victor's, but he's not a saint, either. Rumor had it that the diocese decided to go with its original choice, which was Saint Gabriel's."
"Ouch," said McMichael.
"No shit?" asked Hector with a big smile.
"None whatsoever."
"Well," said McMichael, "Pete wanted a vanity church and he got shot down. He wanted to cut the diocese out of his will. Why the stonewall and the closed office door?"
Grothke folded his hands on the desk and cleared his throat. "He wrote us two letters to that effect. And we lost them."
"How exactly do you lose a letter?" asked Hector. "They got here- the receipts prove that."
"Right," said Grothke quietly. "And then they actually vanished from my desk. The first time it happened I was out of town, though my secretary assured me that a FedEx letter from Mr. Braga had been placed on my desk. I never saw it. I thought, well, all right, there must be some explanation for it. I apologized to Mr. Braga and asked him to send a copy. He ranted and raved because he'd typewritten the letter. He had no computer, nor, apparently, any carbon paper. He procrastinated and probably fumed mightily before he got us a second set of general amendment requests one month later. I read that letter and filed it immediately to protect it from office clutter and prying eyes and careless janitorial people. Three days after I filed it, it was gone, too. Mr. Braga was even more furious. He threatened to take his business somewhere else."
"What happened to the letters?" asked McMichael.
Grothke shook his head and looked down. "I don't know. My secretary has been an employee for eighteen years and has never lost anything, to my knowledge. My father's secretary has been with us for four decades. She's terrific. Our receptionist is intelligent and thorough. There are three partners here, and three other associates. Six paralegals, two secretaries and occasionally an intern. These are top-notch people. They would have no reason to come into my office when I'm not here and take a piece of mail. The janitorial people come and go- they're part of a service contracted by the building management company. Why would a janitor want a valueless letter? Our offices have never been broken into. After-hours security is good. So, all I can conclude is that some visitor to the firm managed somehow to walk out of here with them."
"Which one?" asked Hector.
"If I had a suspect, I'd turn him over," said Grothke. He chuckled quietly.
McMichael and Hector went quiet, let the silence sink in.
"What?" asked Grothke.
Hector offered a meaningless grunt. McMichael stood and went to the window. "Did Pete come here, try to find those letters?"
"Well, he came here to vocalize his concern. He didn't physically look for the letters."
"There were two Sunday meetings with you on his calendar," said McMichael. "They took place just after the letters had been mailed and apparently lost. Did you meet with him here or somewhere else?"
"At the Sea Market Restaurant, there in Tuna Harbor. After mass at St. Agnes."
Hector shook his head. "So, Pete can't buy his name on a church, but he still attends?"
"Of course. He was devout."
"What did you tell him about cutting the diocese out of his will?" asked McMichael.
"Well, nothing really. It was up to Pete."
"Did you tell the bishop?" asked Hector, smiling.
"Gentlemen," said Grothke, "absolutely not."
"Who did you tell?" asked McMichael. "Think before you answer."
Grothke frowned and looked at his desktop. "I discussed it with no one. We practice family law here, Detectives. We're all sensitive to privacy and confidentiality issues. At some point, I would have talked with my father and whichever associate we asked to draft the amendment. But it was too early for that."
"So none of the secretaries or paralegals or other lawyers here could have known that Pete was going to cut out the church?"
"It's possible, but I doubt it," said Grothke.
"Unless they saw the letter," said McMichael.
"Correct."
"Sharona," said Hector. "Before she puts mail on your desk, does she open it?"
"Opens but does not read."
"Saves you lawyers from paper cuts."
McMichael looked down at Grothke's in-box- an old three-tier tray with the mail neatly sorted.
"I heard that your father went on a document-shredding expedition last month," he said.
Grothke blushed and glanced at him unhappily. "I'm surprised Patricia would tell you."
"But he could have shredded those letters?" asked Hector.
"No. They had been… misplaced, before the incident."
"Maybe there was another incident," said Hector.
"Yes," said Grothke. "Maybe he lets himself in on a nightly basis and selectively destroys documents. That is possible. Gentlemen? I've been as helpful to you as I can. I'm tired of you and I have a practice. Would you please leave?"
Old Grothke sat in his wheelchair near the window and turned to watch the detectives as they walked by. The red blanket across his lap matched his red vest, worn smartly with a brown tweed suit. McMichael saw the light of recognition in his bright blue eyes and the old man nodded, then looked away.
Sharona Saddler looked without warmth at Hector.
"So," he said. "You and your fiancé that got you the earrings- when's the date?"
"June."
"Going to do it over at St. Agnes?"
"We're Lutherans," she said. "I doubt it."
"I don't think the Lutheran tipped off the bishop," Hector said when they got outside. "More like old Grothke shredded those letters, or maybe thought they were toast and ate them for breakfast."
"I was thinking along those lines, too."
"Maybe talk to him somewhere else, away from Junior and earrings. See what he has to say."
"You don't think Junior's the fiancé, do you?" asked McMichael. "He doesn't wear a ring. I never heard of him being married. Sharona has her nice big diamond."
Hector frowned. "He's sixty and she looks thirty. Junior's about as cute as a stool sample."
The cold east wind nudged McMichael and Hector down Broadway under a blackening winter sky. Workers spilled from the buildings onto the sidewalks, hands at the collars of their coats, leaning homeward. McMichael felt the chill in his legs.
By the time they got to the car he had told Hector about the pizza lunch with Johnny and Sally Rainwater.
"Man," said Hector. "Johnny okay?"
"He's more rattled by Sally than by almost getting killed."
"He's at a sensitive age, Mick."
Hector, a childless bachelor, never seemed to tire of giving McMichael child-rearing tips. "And you ought to stay about a hundred miles away from that woman. Until this case is wrapped."
"She can help us."
"Don't tell me that's why you're making dates."
"Only part of it."
"About this big a part, Mick." Hector pinched his fingers together and smiled. "Yeah, okay, sure. I can see why. I can definitely see why. You figure out if she was in bed with him or not?"
"Haven't asked."
"I'd want to get clear on that. If that's what she was doing to keep those gifts coming in, I won't let you get mixed up with her. Even if I have to tie you down."
"I think she's straight up, Heck."
Hector blew a faint plume of breath into the air, dug his car keys from his jeans. "Want a ride?"
"I'll walk it."
"I'm gonna make some calls on Hank Jr. I think it's kind of weird he keeps losing things. So I'll see you tomorrow. And Mick? Nobody with bullet holes in her neck is straight up."