Incriminating Evidence (29 page)

I walk to the front of the church and say my Hail Marys. Then I return and ask Ramon, “Do you know anything about a man named Donald Martinez?”

“Sure. I know a lot about him. He’s been coming to St. Peter’s his entire life. We couldn’t have rebuilt our church after the fire without his help. Let me show you something.” He leads me out the doors and across the courtyard to the social hall in the adjacent building. The large white structure has a fresh coat of paint. He shows me a plaque next to the entrance that says “Donald Martinez Community Center.” We walk inside to see the newly refurbished auditorium. A group of high school students are rehearsing a production in Spanish. “We have a new kitchen, lights, sound system and a complete retrofit,” he says. “All compliments of a million-dollar donation from Donald Martinez.”

Impressive. “I’m reluctant to ask,” I say, “but we think
Mr. Martinez may have been involved in some questionable activities.”

“That’s nothing new, Mike—it’s been in the papers. He’s been indicted a couple of times. The feds were after him for a few years because he supposedly put in the fix on some construction contracts at the airport. I think they accused him of racketeering. They were never able to prove anything. For what my two cents are worth, I think the charges were bogus. He’s here every Sunday with his grandchildren.”

I don’t respond.

“Look,” he says, “I’d like to help you. I’ve heard the rumors. I hold my breath every time I hear his name on the news. If he gets into trouble, so do we—he’s one of our largest donors. I have a vested interest in keeping his soul clean.”

“Fair enough.” I ask if he has any evidence of any hanky-panky in his dealings with the church.

He gives me the response I expect. “He donates money to us through a reputable charitable foundation. If there’s any funny business going on, I’m not aware of it.”

“Thanks, Ramon. Sorry to ask some uncomfortable questions.”

“You’re just doing your job.”

I’m back in my office and staring at my own computer. I’m looking at the Boys of the Bay Area Web site. I’m thinking about the meeting with Hillary Payne earlier today. All roads lead to Skipper. Two prostitutes: one male and one female. Both crossed paths with Skipper. Both were in his book-marked Web sites. I have a gut feeling that Donald Martinez is involved in some manner—I just don’t know how. The only people who could have connected all the dots were Andy Holton and Johnny Garcia. I decide to take a flier and
call the only other person we know of who had a significant relationship with Johnny Garcia: Kevin Anderson. I wonder how much he really knew about Johnny’s activities. Or Skipper’s, for that matter.

I’m surprised when he picks up his cell phone on the second ring. “I’ve been following Skipper’s case in the papers,” he says after I greet him.

“Looks like we’re heading to trial,” I say.

“If there’s anything I can do to help you—”

“Maybe there is,” I say. It’s time to call his bluff—or at least go on a fishing expedition. “Have you ever heard of a Web site called Boys of the Bay Area?”

There’s an almost imperceptible pause before he says, “No.”

“Were you aware that Johnny Garcia’s photograph appeared on that Web site?”

“No.”

I ask him whether Andy Holton was involved in a pornographic Web site. He says again he doesn’t know.

Stalemate. “Do you know anybody else who was working for Andy Holton?” I ask.

I know the answer before he says it. “No,” he replies.

I decide to move to another line of questioning. “Have you ever met a man named Donald Martinez?”

A second’s pause, then, “I’ve met him.”

I ask what he knows about him.

“Not much. He’s a well-known businessman in the Mission. My dad bought a building from him a few years ago. We’ve talked about doing some deals together.”

“Is he reputable? I’ve seen some stuff in the papers about him from time to time. Investigations. Grand-jury indictments. That sort of thing.”

“He has an excellent reputation. He has donated a lot of time and money to various charities in the Mission.”

“It’s been suggested that Andy Holton may have approached Donald Martinez in connection with a business transaction. Do you know anything about it?”

I can hear the disdain in his voice as he says, “People like Donald Martinez don’t associate with guys like Andy Holton.”

28
NICK THE DICK

“Things were a little different when I started working as a PI. Nobody got bent out of shape if you roughed somebody up a little bit. Nowadays, if you touch someone, they’ll haul you into court.”

—P
RIVATE
I
NVESTIGATOR
N
ICK
H
ANSON
.
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
C
HRONICLE
. W
EDNESDAY
, O
CTOBER
6.

The North Beach Restaurant has been a neighborhood hangout in the heart of the old Italian enclave for decades. Although it was refurbished a few years ago, it hasn’t changed much. You won’t find it written up in trendy food magazines. What it lacks in chic it makes up for in reliability. The long bar, paneling and heavy tables give the place the feel of a traditional men’s club. As I look around the packed dining room at noon the next day, I see only two women. Some things never change.

Molinari and I are sitting across the table from Nick Hanson, the diminutive octogenarian PI who has been working in this neighborhood since the days when Joe DiMaggio used to play baseball in an empty lot on Bay Street. If you believe Nick, he used to toss a ball around with the Yankee Clipper and his brothers. You have to take everything Nick says with a grain of salt. The tales tend to get taller as the years wear on.

Ed is attacking a sixteen-ounce porterhouse steak. I have no idea how he remains as thin as a rail. He eats constantly.

Nick is chewing on a piece of french bread. At the age of eighty-five, he can still engage in what consultants like to call “multitasking.” He can chew his bread, drink water and talk at the same time. Although he’s only four foot ten, his double-breasted suit and the fresh rose in his lapel give him a dignified air. His new toupee is reasonably convincing. He tells me that his latest mystery novel is going to hit the shelves right after the first of the year. “It’s a Mystery Guild featured selection,” he says. I tell him I’ll watch for it in my bookstore. He promises to give me an autographed copy.

If you want to talk to Nick the Dick, you have to observe several protocols. You have to take him out to lunch in North Beach. He never conducts business on an empty stomach. You can’t rush him. He says it’s bad for his digestion. You have to give him a chance to hawk his latest literary triumph. He’s very proud of the fact that he’s a published author. Most important, you have to let him wax about the good old days for at least twenty minutes. He loves to talk about his old neighbors, the DiMaggios. An audience with Nick is often an all-afternoon affair. It’s usually worth the effort, and it’s entertaining, too.

We spend almost an hour shooting the breeze. Nick reminds us he used to be the investigator for Ed’s father. He says he still has lunch from time to time at the deli on Columbus that Ed’s cousin has run for years. He says he and his childhood friends still attend mass at St. Peter and Paul’s on Washington Square. He always calls Molinari “Eddie.”

He shoves his plate across the table toward me. “You want to try some of my petrale?” he asks. “I like it broiled with just a little bit of butter.”

I take a small piece of fish. I figure if I try it, he may not insist that I eat some of the stewed tomatoes that they made up just for him. Then I take another bite out of my club sandwich.

“You know,” he says, “you should eat better. Your body
needs protein. Next time you’re here, I want you to order some real food. Get yourself a nice piece offish.”

I promise him that I’ll observe the Nick the Dick diet next time.

“So,” he says, “you guys are getting down to the wire on Skipper’s case, eh?”

“Yep.”

“I talked to the cops about it.” He speaks out the side of his mouth.

“They said you might be called as a witness at the trial.”

“So they tell me.” He takes a long drink of water. “We were following your client all over town for a few months. A guy from Leslie Sherman’s campaign hired us.” He explains that he and his two sons and four grandchildren work in shifts. There was a set of Hanson eyes on Skipper at every moment from the Fourth of July until he was arrested. “By the way,” he continues, “if you see Dan Morris, remind him he still hasn’t paid my bill.”

Molinari smiles. “I promise,” he says. “Did you find anything on Skipper?”

A knowing grin. “Indeed we did.”

“And what might you have found?” I ask. Whenever I’m with Nick, it doesn’t take long before I start talking like him.

He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “You know those two hookers who appeared on the Jade Warner show?” We get a funny look from the two men sitting at the table next to us. Nick lowers his voice and says, “I found them.”

“And?”

“They were telling the truth.” He glances around. He smiles toward the owner. “I’ve got the pictures to prove it.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out photos of the two prostitutes. These must have been the shots McBride and Parnelli told me about. Molinari and I study them. “I figure they’ll call me as a witness to confirm that the two whores were telling the truth.”

Nick Hanson. A veritable temple of political correctness.

“Of course,” he says, “the fact that Skipper was sleeping around isn’t news to anybody. On the other hand, the fact that he was sleeping around with two female hookers doesn’t have anything to do with the death of a male prostitute.”

I can’t disagree with anything he’s saying. “If that’s all you found,” I say, “I’m not sure there’s anything else to discuss.”

He calls the waiter over and orders a bowl of mixed berries for dessert. He asks for a cappuccino. Molinari orders the chocolate truffle. I order plain coffee. “Unfortunately,” he says, “that isn’t the end of the story. I found out a few more things that might be of interest to the cops.”

Uh-oh. “Things?”

“Yeah. Things.”

“Like what?”

The waiter brings Nick’s berries. “I was just talking to Roosevelt Johnson and Elaine McBride about it this morning. I was at the Fairmont that night.”

Come again? “You were there?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“The fifteenth floor of the tower.”

Jesus Christ. “Where on the fifteenth floor?”

“In the room across the hall from where they found Garcia’s body.”

Unbelievable. “What the hell were you doing there?” My voice goes up as I say this.

He’s indignant. “What do you think I was doing there? I was keeping Skipper’s room under surveillance. We had a tip that he was going to be meeting with one of his hookers that night. For what Morris was paying me, I would have gotten right inside his underwear if he’d asked me.”

He’s the very embodiment of what people refer to as a professional demeanor.

Molinari asks him how he got upstairs.

“The service elevator.”

“Why didn’t your name appear on any of the police reports?” I say.

“Nobody saw me. As far as they knew, I wasn’t there.” He pauses. “I try not to advertise the fact when I’m watching somebody.”

“How did the cops find out you were there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Dan Morris told them. I admitted it when they called to ask about it.” He fingers his rose. “I don’t lie to the cops, Mike. It’s bad for business.”

“Were you by yourself?”

“Nope. My son Rick was with me.”

Just when you think you’ve heard it all, you find out that Nick the Dick has a son named Rick. Say that fast three times. “How did you get out of there without anybody seeing you?”

He sets down his spoon and says, “I’m a professional, Mike. I’ve been doing this for sixty-seven years. When I watch somebody, I’m invisible. You won’t find me in the security tapes. I’m careful about stuff like that.”

I’m sure he is. “So you were in the room across the hall?”

“Yeah. We kept the door closed. We were watching the door to Skipper’s room through the peephole.”

Here goes. “Did you see Johnny Garcia enter Skipper’s room?”

He allows himself a small grin. “Indeed I did.”

“At what time?”

“One minute after one o’clock in the morning.”

“And did he enter the room voluntarily?”

“So it appeared. He was walking.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yeah.”

I ask whether Skipper answered the door and let him in.

“Yep.”

“Did you see anybody else come or go?”

“Nope. We packed up and left as soon as we had the goods on Garcia.”

“So you can’t confirm whether anybody else entered the room after Garcia?”

“Like I said, we left right away.”

“You didn’t catch any of this on tape, did you?”

“Indeed we did. We have a miniature camera.” He pulls out a videocassette from his briefcase and slides it over to me. “You guys might want to take a look at this,” he says.

It keeps getting worse. “And you’re prepared to testify to this?”

“Indeed I am.”

Molinari and I return to the office after lunch. “We have a big problem,” I say to Rosie. I describe our conversation with Nick the Dick.

She frowns. “Do you have any reason to believe he isn’t telling the truth?”

“He’s eighty-five years old. He’s an institution in this town. He hasn’t the slightest incentive to lie.”