The Holy Trinity, thought McMichael: a man's wallet, his calendar and his address book. You want to know the man, believe in these.
He sat with his back to the window in Pete Braga's office, second floor, Monday morning, nine o'clock.
Downstairs, Hector and Barbara were deconstructing the garage in search of cigar boxes that might or might not contain twenty thousand in cash. McMichael could hear Harley and Erik outside, yakking away while they dug for the dog.
Braga 's office was a large room, with six oak file cabinets, an old desk and chair, a typewriter and a banker's lamp. No computer. There was a shortwave radio setup, a Grundig weather radio, fax and answering machines- no messages other than the two that Barbara Givens had heard on the night of the murder.
Framed photographs of Pete's tuna boats graced one wall: Cabrillo Star, Princess Anna, Lisbon Queen. The centerpiece was a poster-sized black-and-white picture that showed a wiry young man fighting a big tuna with a bamboo pole, muscling an animal twice his weight into the air while the black ocean around him boiled with leaping fish. His back was arched and his arms were bulging but there was a calm focus, almost a serenity, in the unmistakable Braga face.
Other photographs showed two men with two poles working a single line and a single fish. In others, three and even four fishermen pulled together to haul aboard their enormous and valuable treasures. That was before Franklin 's time, McMichael thought, back when they broke their backs on the fish rather than on the nets.
Another wall was dedicated to Pete the car man and Pete the politician. There were photos of him standing next to outlandish Ford concept cars, gleaming Mustangs, Ford formula racers and funny cars. Shots of Pete and Anna with a trail of governors, and Tony Gwynn, and Dennis Connor and a Chargers quarterback McMichael didn't recognize. A picture of Pete and Anna with President Kennedy. And Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton and Bush again.
Well, McMichael thought, looking at the Kennedy shot: there was at least one Irish-American that Pete didn't hate.
Pete's address book was an old leather-bound spiral volume with his name embossed in gold on the cover.
Using Henry Grothke Jr.'s list of heirs and the disinherited, McMichael found that they were all listed here, except for the estranged son, Carl. He looked to see if Raegan's Libertad was listed, but it wasn't. He wrote down Victor's address and room number at the Horton Grand Hotel. Grothke, Steiner & Grothke, of course. Sally Rainwater. He put a last name to deep-voice Dom from Libertad- da Rocha. He noted numbers for the mayor, the city councilmen and women, the county supervisors, the Democratic Party chairman, the chief of police and three of the assistant chiefs- Almanza, Bland and Dodge. The port commissioners. And the San Diego diocese, the bishop. Pete had come a long way, McMichael thought, from fisherman to friend of the bishop.
The calendar was a plastic-clad book, very similar to McMichael's own.
He turned to Wednesday, January 8, the day Pete had died: Dom 8 breakf/plumber 10
Dom, of the Tunaboat Foundation? McMichael made a note to call him.
And Tuesday, January 7: call Camlin 9:30/MRI 12
Monday, January 6: Grothke noon
Sunday, January 5: Grothke noon
McMichael wondered why you'd meet your lawyer at noon on a Sunday. Golf? Something social? Old Grothke or Junior?
He found a number for Myron Camlin in Pete's address book and dialed. A receptionist told him he'd reached the law office of Myron D. Camlin. McMichael told her who he was and she put him through. He asked the lawyer why Pete Braga had called.
"He was unhappy with Grothke, Steiner and Grothke," said Camlin. "He wanted to talk to me about managing his estate and probate matters. Keep that between us if you will."
"Unhappy why?"
"Apparently they'd lost some documents," said the lawyer. "Pete didn't say what. He was very angry. We set up an appointment for this Friday, so he could tell me exactly what was going on."
McMichael wondered if Pete's Sunday visit to Grothke was to give him one last chance to come up with what was missing. He found the date and time of the Camlin appointment on the calendar. "He didn't say anything more specific about what was lost?"
"No. He said 'documents pertaining to my estate,' or something very close to that. I figured some hard drive crashed and Grothke hadn't backed it up."
"Do you know when these documents went missing?"
"He didn't say."
"Did you and Pete talk about anything else?"
"Nothing. We weren't friends, just acquaintances. I met him at his dealership. Bought some cars from him over the years, kicked a little money into his war chest when he was running for mayor. That was a while back. Do you have a suspect?"
"We're looking at all the leads. Let me give you my number, in case you think of anything that might help."
After hanging up, McMichael searched Pete Braga's office for last year's calendar. He finally found it in a folder labeled "Taxes 2002."
Working forward from last January, he looked for signs of when the documents might have been lost by Grothke, Steiner & Grothke. Pete had met with "Grothke" on November 15, 16, 17. Again on December 20, 21 and 22. Two of the meetings were on Sundays.
McMichael found Pete's phone bills in the tax file, and checked both his home and cell phone calls to Grothke, Steiner & Grothke.
Pete had made a flurry of short calls the day before each meeting. Asking where the docs were? Yelling at somebody to find them? Making appointments to come down and harangue them face-to-face? McMichael wondered if Pete's calendar dates were real appointments, or if they were simply reminders to go downtown to the law offices and raise a little unannounced hell.
Maybe young Grothke would explain it. Something told McMichael that he wouldn't. But if Grothke wasn't forthcoming, he could always sick Patricia on him.
McMichael heard voices from the yard below. He looked out the window to see Harley and Erik, both wearing masks, staring down at a sandy wet clump of what looked like bedsheet. Erik poked at it with a shovel and said something McMichael couldn't make out. Harley slid a body bag next to the clump and unzipped it. Erik looked up and gave McMichael a victory sign.
Pete's wallet was thick and bent from years of use. Two hundred and forty-five dollars- all twenties plus the five. One credit card, an ATM card, a long-distance calling card, proof of car insurance that had expired six months ago, a California fishing license. There were four pictures in the little plastic windows: one of Anna Braga on her wedding day, one of her and Pete, arm in arm maybe ten years later, a mug of Victor and a slightly unfocused snapshot of Sally Rainwater holding a Jack Russell terrier in her arms.
Down in one of the credit card slots McMichael found a small replica of a tuna fish. His scraped knuckles burst into flame as he worked it out. It was flat and made of steel. The detail was good and true: the big eye, the sickle tail, the bumps between the dorsal and tail fins. The words "Lord Protect Us" were etched on the back, and below them "Cabrillo Star- August 1952." It had the same gentle bend as the wallet. Fifty years, thought McMichael, fingering the object, wondering how many voyages the Cabrillo Star made in 1952, and if this August trip had been Franklin McMichael's fateful journey.
He worked the talisman back into its place. In the slot just behind it McMichael found a FedEx airbill for an envelope sent by Pete Braga for overnight delivery to Henry Grothke Jr. on November 11 of last year, and a U.S. Postal Service Registered Mail receipt for a letter from Pete to Grothke Jr., received December 17. Checking the calendar again, McMichael saw that the letters were sent just prior to Pete's repeated calls and visits to the law firm.
So, he thought: the lost documents were letters.
Letters important enough to register with the post office, or to send overnight with a private carrier.
Important enough for follow-up calls, follow-up visits.
Important enough to make Pete Braga want to take his business to another firm. After doing business with Henry Grothke for what, fifty or sixty years?
McMichael put them back, then checked the calendar to see what Pete was doing on the night his dog suddenly died.
December 31: guests arrive 7
Throwing a party, thought McMichael. Maybe one of the guests tossed Zeke a bone and it choked him. Everybody drunk and loud, maybe nobody noticed.
He closed the calendar and booked the Holy Trinity as evidence.
Next he looked through Pete Braga's phone bills, bank statements and tax records. Pete Braga Ford had been a moneymaker for the last ten years, so far as McMichael could tell, and probably for many years before that. The accounting and depreciation schedules were dizzyingly complex, the way each new car was ordered and priced according to dealer incentives and buyer rebates and general demand, then began dropping in price as taxes and floor space took their tolls. McMichael wondered why the dealership documents weren't at the dealership, in the business manager's office. Because Pete ran a tight ship, he thought. Because Pete would rather do the work himself than trust someone else to do it.
And Pete had apparently managed to keep all his balls in the air, year after year, hauling down three or four hundred thousand dollars of after-tax income each and paying out close to two million to his employees. So far as McMichael could tell, Pete had never been audited by the IRS. He'd contributed $75,000 to the San Diego diocese each of the last five years.
McMichael found five fat folders containing statements from Pete's stockbroker, Herrold, Teller & Co. of San Diego. Just as Grothke had said, most of Pete's holdings were in blue chips- Ford, of course, Schlumberger, Boeing, Merck, RJR Reynolds. McMichael saw that Braga had not invested since 2000, with the exception of one company- Pacific Transfer- in which he purchased five thousand shares in 2000 at ten dollars per share. In 2001, five thousand more at almost eleven; and in 2002, five thousand at almost thirteen dollars a share. According to the last statement from Herrold, Teller & Co., the stock was valued at $10.45 a share at the end of November. McMichael had never heard of it. He wrote the company name in his notebook and circled it twice.
He found another folder containing Sally Rainwater's professional references. There were four letters, dating back seven years. We have found Sally to be a terrific person, a wonderful nursing aid, and an important part of our lives. He booked them.
Hector and Barbara had pulled dozens of boxes into the driveway in front of Pete's garage. McMichael looked down into them at the ancient Christmas ornaments, maternity clothes, toys and rain boots and fishing tackle. No cigar boxes.
McMichael used one of Pete's ladders to get to more boxes up on the rafters. They were arranged on thick plywood, high enough to be difficult to open and almost impossible to see down into. He wrestled them down to Hector one at a time, his knuckles and elbows screaming under the bandages.
He looked at the gauze on his fingers: no blood.
"Accident on a mountain bike, huh?" asked Hector.
Barbara cocked an ear in McMichael's direction. Hector and Barbara both knew he was lying about his injuries and they both knew he'd come clean with them when he wanted to.
"It was either put it down or hit the cactus," McMichael said lamely.
Two hours later they'd gone through every box, every shelf, every corner of Pete Braga's garage.
"Twenty grand," said Hector. "Just stuck in a box. Whoever took it probably knew where to look, Tom. One of those good-for-nothing great-grandchildren. They took the money and the cigar boxes, too. But you know- it was six months ago. It might have had something to do with Pete last week, or it might not have."
"My gut says it did," said McMichael.
"Mine says it didn't," said Hector.
"Mine says take me to lunch," said Barbara. "Come on, let's get this stuff put away."
Erik walked past with the body bag on his way to the CSI van, whistling "How Much Is that Doggie in the Window?"
McMichael passed on lunch. Instead, he wandered the Braga household, trying to figure why someone had killed Pete but not bothered to take the cash from his wallet or the watch off his nightstand or the jewelry from the box in Anna's dresser.
They killed him because he'd done something.
They killed him because he hadn't.
They killed him to keep him from doing something.
They killed him for the fun of it.
In the sun-splashed kitchen he played the messages on the answering machine again. Health insurance for seniors, offered by a recorded voice. Victor, announcing himself and waiting for the answer, then finally hanging up.
He walked the crime scene twice, trying to reconstruct the events based on Sally Rainwater's account and the physical evidence. He noted that the sliding glass door had not one but two locks on it, as well as a partial broom handle down in the track. This made it difficult to get out the door. Unless, of course, you knew about them in advance.
He sat in the chair next to the one that Pete had died in. He imagined being Sally Rainwater and having Pete next to him and what they would talk about. Cars? Peptones? The storm, maybe. Sally, can you go get us some firewood? Had Pete heard the footsteps coming up behind him a few minutes later? With the wind outside, maybe not. And the guy comes in and takes the murder weapon off the wall. Knows it's there? Sure. You don't show up for a murder without having a weapon. The guy's been inside before. Knows the place, knows Pete? McMichael wondered if it was someone Pete knew well. Well enough for an argument to escalate. That could explain why the club was used, instead of something easier and more efficient, and it could explain why Pete was sitting instead of fighting. McMichael pictured the old man, back turned to his assailant while he chewed him out or pretended to ignore what was being said.
He looked out the window at the dazzling day, then into the black maw of the big fireplace. He looked again at the cutesy plastic sconce that housed the surveillance camera. Too bad on that, he thought: he and Barbara had looked at hours of the surveillance video she had discovered in the library, and found nothing substantial. Pete with dealership employees, Pete with one of the city council members, Pete with the Padres' hitting coach, Pete with Malcolm Case- his ally on the Port Commission. Present with Case was a very large man whom Barbara had identified as Alex Dejano- a casino manager who'd done time for manslaughter. On the tape, Pete, Case and Dejano had talked fishing and football.
McMichael walked through the bedroom and bath again, then out to the deck where he'd made love to Patricia twenty years ago. He toed the platform where the mattress had rested in summer and fall. It impressed him that two decades could rush by so fast. You'd figure a decade would be big and lumbering and slow. A lot had happened, sure, but twenty years? He was glad now that she had broken his wild little heart back then. If not, he would never have known Stephanie and there wouldn't have been a Johnny. He'd never stopped wishing Patricia well, or thinking about her. Never really wanted back that piece of him that she'd taken and not returned. Like that silly poem. He shook his head and went back inside.
Standing in one of the first-floor bedrooms, he realized it was Victor's. The bedspread had pictures of sporting equipment on it- balls and bats and baseball gloves and tennis racquets. The wallpaper had sailing boats. In one corner sat an old wooden crate filled with deflated balls, vintage kites and ancient skateboards as well as a new pair of in-line skates and a folding scooter and a lunchbox with Luke Skywalker on it. There were tattered posters of Superman and Mickey Mouse and Roadrunner, and newer ones of Batman and the Power Rangers and Digimon. Caught forever in a ten-year-old's mind, thought McMichael, decade after decade, for an entire life. Up in the closet he found a plastic bag of porno magazines that confirmed the age of Victor's body.
McMichael pulled out a scrap of yellow paper from the bottom of the sack. A phone number. The handwriting was childlike and the number was familiar.
He stepped into the hallway and dialed.
"Hi, this is Jimmy Thigpen with the San Diego Police Department. Please leave a message."
"McMichael calling."
He heard the line click alive.
"Hello, Sergeant. This is Sergeant Robb, Internal Affairs."
"I found this number with Victor Braga's collection of naughty magazines."
"Interesting," she said.
"I thought so."
"Maybe you can explain it, McMichael."
"I can talk to Thigpen."
"Good luck," said Robb. "He's not cooperating."
"You weren't Metro/Vice."