McMichael got coffee and the morning San Diego Times, took a stool in the back bar of Spider's.
San Diego Detective Linked to Braga Murder Suspect
Defense Lawyer to File Wrongful Arrest
By Rob Skelton
A police detective in the Pete Braga murder case has been romantically linked to the woman arrested in connection with the brutal bludgeon murder.
Detective Thomas McMichael, 38, a sixteen-year veteran of the force, was seen publicly with Sally Rainwater, 28, of Imperial Beach in the days before her arrest.
Neither McMichael nor Rainwater would comment on the relationship.
However, photographs showing the two together at restaurants in Imperial Beach were made available to the San Diego Times.
"This is a mockery of law and a betrayal of trust," said defense lawyer Gene Goldman. "My client is a victim of illegal and unprofessional police procedure. She is innocent of the crimes charged. Both she and the alleged evidence against her have been manipulated by the San Diego PD and Detective McMichael in particular."
Goldman went on to say that he was "professionally and personally appalled" by the department's actions.
Earlier today Rainwater was charged with possession of stolen property belonging to Pete Braga, gross negligence for leaving him alone the night of his death, and possession of controlled substances.
Braga, former San Diego mayor, tuna fleet captain and a colorful area businessman, was clubbed to death in his Point Loma home January 8.
Rainwater is a nurse's aid employed by Braga at the time of the killing. She has not been charged with the murder.
She was questioned the night of the killing but remained free until Friday, when a search of her beachfront home netted what a Police Department spokesman described as "substantial evidence."
Detective McMichael visited Rainwater at the women's jail on Monday, according to Sheriff's Department sources. "They had a brief discussion," said one deputy, who asked to remain nameless.
McMichael read the story, his gut tightening with each paragraph, his eyes hardly blinking at all. He imagined his fist going through Bland's forehead.
The picture beside it showed him and Sally leaving Ye Olde Plank hand in hand, McMichael's face turned toward her with a sucky, solicitous smile.
Rawlings, Bland and Chief Kerr were waiting in Kerr's seventh-floor office. McMichael sat.
"You're off the case," said Kerr.
"I understand."
"Where'd they get the picture?" asked Bland.
McMichael took a deep breath and stared at him. "I have no idea, sir. The only one who had pictures like that was you."
"That Times shot wasn't on the PSU roll," Bland said. "It came from somewhere else."
McMichael marveled at Bland's breadth of deception, his bovine calm and perfect execution.
"The damage is done," said Kerr. "Don, I want you to field the press and media on this. They're not going to settle for Public Information."
Rawlings nodded, looking down with the same lightless expression he'd had a few hours earlier in his den at home. "Tom, take the Courtney Gonzalez case. Stay away from Braga and the nurse. A couple thousand miles away would do."
"Yes, sir."
"I still think a leave of absence would be the best thing for this department," said Bland.
"Then take one," said McMichael.
"Can it and beat it," said Kerr. "Take the day off and get out of here. Tom, your ice is thin."
"I want to know who took those pictures," said Bland. "One of the nurse's friends? Maybe your buddy Hector?"
McMichael looked out the window, but saw only Bland's misdirections spinning wider and wider and wider.
"We'll get to the bottom of it, Jerry," said Rawlings. "Don't worry about that."
"It's my job to worry," said Bland. "This man gets the day off and I have to scramble around here cleaning up his messes."
Enjoy the last few days you'll live out of prison, McMichael wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He slammed the door behind him and took the elevator down toward the bright sunshine.
He was about to get into his car when his cell phone rang.
"That was stupid, but she's hell for pretty," said Patricia.
"Gee, thanks."
"I'll bet you could use a little distraction."
"A long trip to a faraway planet would be nice."
"I'll pick you up in half an hour."
"Do that."
"Bring a jacket. And you gotta tell me where you live, McMike."
She was driving a red Mercedes convertible, a red scarf around her black hair, big sunglasses and a black leather car coat. Under the coat was a polka-dot outfit that reminded him of Marilyn Monroe.
"No Ford?"
"I could never tell Grandpa I bought this. Get in."
They drove to the Shelter Island yacht basin, parked in a spot at the San Diego Yacht Club.
"Provisions in the tiny trunk," she said.
McMichael carried the bag of wine, cheese and bread. Patricia led the way to a fifty-foot tournament-rigged Tiara with twin Cat diesels, new blue canvas and fresh hull paint. Corrinna Braga.
"One of Grandpa's toys," said Patricia. "I think I'll end up with it, since I'm the only one who knows how to use it."
Ten minutes later they were taxiing through the harbor, the Cats puttering them along at three knots while the breeze slapped cool against McMichael's face. There were stratus clouds high in the north and the sky was a hard, close blue. When Patricia hit the Pacific she gunned the diesels and aimed west. Standing beside her McMichael felt the power rise up under him, felt the bow lift and the stern auger down, watched a gull glide past for inspection then snap away fast in the wind.
Patricia yanked off her scarf and tossed it belowdecks, started talking fast and loud over the engines:
"I love this thing, Tom. I'd have gone with twin Mercs or eight-ninety-twos for more speed but the Cats get me around. Only got sixty hours on them. Pete gave this to my mom and dad the year before they died in the wreck. Named it for my mom. I gave it back to him when Anna died, seemed like the right thing to do. Pete and Gar and me, we'd scream over to Catalina and fish for a couple of days, live right on board, cook up our catch and drink good port. Hours of that. Gar would vomit and sleep until noon. God, I miss him. Pete, not Gar."
"Not Gar."
"Hey, I'm still a speed demon, Tom, remember that old Mustang I had back after high school and how we'd get it going out the Eight toward Yuma, hit a hundred and float past the sand dunes thinking we could hop from mirage to mirage? Man, that was great, remember that Ford V-Eight with the air conditioner that blew cubes and we could get from San Diego to Rosarito on the toll road in nothing flat? Eat lobsters and drink tequila 'til we rolled to a hotel, get up and have more lobsters for breakfast?"
"Yeah, I remember."
"So how could you get mixed up with the nurse?"
"Good question."
"Thing is you can't hit a hundred on water, but fifty feels just like it, maybe better because you get the up and down and the yaw. More dimensions of speed. Was it anything like we used to be, you and that young blonde?"
"Let's talk about something else."
"You and Stephanie like us?"
"Chrissakes, Pat, just drop that shit, will you?"
"You're right, McMike. I said I'd distract you!"
She eased the boat into a loose port turn, then tightened her into a dizzying spin that sent McMichael's brain to one side of his skull as the hull dug into the sea and the spray shot off to starboard and the engines groaned against the load and the backwash almost bucked them over. Patricia laughed and straightened Corrinna Braga, heading east at a less adamant pace.
They came back into the harbor, chugged north past the navy boatyards. McMichael stared at the battleships and destroyers and the floating hospital- majestic gray mountains of steel sitting impossibly high in the water, bristling with ordnance.
Back in the slip at Shelter Island they sat down by the bait tank with their backs to the wind and the wine open between them.
"Who killed him, Tommy?"
"I can't talk about it."
"Are you still on the case?"
"Just the edge of it now."
"Because of the nurse?"
McMichael nodded, drank some wine, said nothing.
"It was the nurse, wasn't it? She suckered you in so you'd lose your bearings."
He shrugged.
"So, I can't talk about your exes and I can't talk about my grandpa. Are we down to odds on the Super Bowl?"
"It was nice of you to rescue me today," he said.
"You're such a square, Tom. You were always such a square. Although, for a few months there, when we were nineteen, I really had you going."
Oh, did you, he thought.
She moved the wine, sat close and put her head on his shoulder. McMichael smelled perfume and salt air. He put his arm around her, felt her shudder. He wondered what it would be like to love her again, after the lifetime that had ended when he and Stephanie broke apart. It wasn't like it was, because Johnny had most of his heart and Steffy maybe some, and even Sally Rainwater had a piece of it. Patricia had her part, too. But there was a big piece that was still his, oddly aloof and calculating and convinced of its own value, though willing to be given.
He felt a slight tapping on his thigh, looked down to see the drops soaking into his jeans.
"Stupid," she said.
"What is?"
"Me. This. I'm unraveling, ever since Pete. Like he held me together. I obsess. I can't turn it off."
She wiped her face, set her hand on his leg by the teardrops. "I think about Garland and who I am and what I'm going to do. And I think about you all the time like some kind of mantra or something. I go back twenty years and start thinking that was my life, that was the best it was ever going to be and I was too dumb to know it. I think it's just that I'm older, McMike. I hate getting older. This is the first time I can remember not looking forward to something."
"You're thirty-eight. You're a beauty and you've got a whole life out there."
"Where?"
"Wherever you make it."
"Selling Fords in San Diego?"
"Sounds good to me."
"Yeah. Sure, Tom. We have the best climate in the world."
"And the zoo."
"I can still have a child."
"That would be good."
"Gar shot blanks. My boyfriend before Gar got me pregnant but it didn't take. Twice."
"You've got the time."
"I'm leaving for good."
"You mean that?"
"Going to wrap up the estate, fly away. I'll rent out the fancy condo. I'm thinking Santa Cruz or maybe Newport Beach. Gotta stay near the water."
She sniffed and straightened and ran her fingers under her eyes, looked at the melted makeup. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
"Thanks for hanging. Nice to have a friend. Come on, I'll take you home."
Outside McMichael's apartment Patricia slid the car into park and reached across him to dig into the glove box. She pulled out some sheets of paper, folded lengthwise, opened them and set them in his lap.
"Henry finally came up with these letters from Grandpa," she said. "You guys hadn't presented a subpoena for them and he figured the best thing was to get them to you this way."
McMichael studied the letterhead, the typed text, the aggressive signature of Peter Braga at the bottom. "Where were these?"
"Old Grothke had them in his suit coat pocket."
"Oh, come on. Junior said they'd looked everywhere for them."
"According to Junior, they'd checked his father's pockets every day since the letters got lost. And his blankets and the Sea World bag on his wheelchair and his briefcase, too. Who knows? Maybe he's got lots of suits."
The letters were addressed to Henry Grothke Sr., at the downtown address.
Dear Henry,
It has come to my attention that I've ponied up almost two million dollars to the San Diego Diocese over my lifetime. In light of that faith and goodwill I proposed that the new church being built in north county be named either St. Peter's, St. Anna's or St. Victor's in tribute to the Braga family. From the Diocese I've received only reasons why this cannot be done. Therefore, I want to remove the Diocese from my will. They will receive nothing upon my death. Please rewrite the will accordingly. I also want you to reverse the charitable remaindered trust we set up to give them the houses in Rancho Santa Fe and Mammoth. Cut them out totally, Henry. I've had enough of their hypocrisy!
Sincerely,
Peter Augustino Braga
The second letter was a shorter, more vehement version of the first, with elaborate scoldings of Grothke, Steiner & Grothke for "losing, throwing away or shredding" the previous directive. There was a threat at the end of it to "swing" Pete's legal business elsewhere if Grothke couldn't "keep track of things" and do as he "was told."
"Take them," said Patricia. "Maybe they'll help."
McMichael thanked her, kissed her cheek and pushed his way out of the convertible.
He shut the door and waved to her but she was staring down at the steering wheel and didn't look up.
Gabriel sat on his usual stool, the usual pint and shot on the bar before him. He saw his son, broke into a dissociated smile.
McMichael sat beside him, ordered up a pint from Hugh.
"You fell for the nurse," said Gabriel.
"It's over and I'm off the case."
"Ah, son, the things life throws at us."
McMichael drank the stout, watched Tim Keller shuffle in from the street, heard the cook slapping the pub grub plates onto the counter under the heat lamps. He caught Hugh in a sideways glance.
"Take a walk with me, Pop."
"But why?"
"Just to walk."
"I do enough of that."
"I don't. Come on."
They headed up Front Street in the fading light, pigeons lifting up to roost in the eaves, the traffic thick on Ash, an ocean breeze tossing Gabriel's thick white hair. McMichael looked behind them to see Tim Keller ambling along, making no attempt to hide his surveillance of Gabe.
"Where were you the night Pete was killed?" asked McMichael. "Don't tell me Spellacy's because I know you weren't."
"The damned publican, telling stories again."
"It wasn't Hugh. Now come on. Cough it. I'm trying to tie up some loose ends."
"But a man's got a right to his privacy, Tom."
McMichael pulled his father by the arm, not hard, but threw his back up against the bank building. His father's lightness surprised him, and so did his poor balance, and the impact.
"Sorry, Pop. Really."
"I'd have beaten you for that just a few years ago."
"This is now. And I need to know where you were that Wednesday."
Gabriel blinked slowly and turned away, shaking his head. "Tim and I, we bus and hoof to St. Agnes's on Wednesdays."
"What for?"
"That's your business, too? Be careful."
"Why? Why go there?"
"It's not your concern."
"Tell me why."
"There's no reason to-"
"Goddamn it, why go to St. Agnes's? What the hell do you and Tim have to do at St. Agnes's?"
Gabriel started off down the sidewalk again, McMichael keeping pace.
"Why, Pop?"
"For the food, son."
The food. Son.
God, thought McMichael. It hit him hard, brought things he'd never wanted to see right into focus. Gabriel McMichael on the dole at St. Agnes's, shoveling down the free food to make it back to the pub for more drinks.
Gabriel looked back with the same expression that he'd worn for all the years McMichael had known him: shameful pride.
"Come on, Pop," McMichael said quietly. "Slow down. I'm sorry."
They made their way back toward Spellacy's. At the corner of Front and B Gabriel stumbled off the curb and McMichael caught him by his coat sleeve, yanked him away from a car that threw a wave of gutter water that half drenched the old man and McMichael, too, sent them staggering backward while someone yelled stupidfuckers from a yellow convertible.
"You all right, Pop?"
"Sonofabitch, Tom."
"You gotta be careful, Pop."
"I saw him, Tommy. Just couldn't get the old bones moving in time."
"You okay?"
"I'm okay, I'm okay. Let go of me."