The Big Exit (17 page)

“F
ORMAN, YOU GOT COMPANY
.”

One look at Madden’s wry smile and something tells him that this may not be such a welcome visitor. At first he thinks it’s
someone from the DA’s office, but then he looks past Madden and sees the cop from last night, Carlyle, escorting a familiar
character, the Oddjob look-alike, which makes his eyes light up.

“We found one of your Tongan friends,” Madden says.

“Bravo, Detective. I didn’t think you had it in you. Where’s his buddy?”

“Still looking for him.”

“You holding anybody else?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t he be more comfortable in his own cage?”

“Sure.”

Madden opens the door and steps out of the way, leaving Richie face to face with his old acquaintance, Oddjob, who doesn’t
seem terribly happy to see him again. The guy gives him a hard stare, followed by an almost comical guttural noise, a cross
between a growl and grunt.

“Marty’s not going to be pleased about this,” Richie says.

“Probably not,” Madden says. “But I’ll let him know this is how we roll here in Mayberry.”

Smiling at the comment, Carlyle removes the Tongan’s wrist restraint, then gives him a nice nudge into the room and shuts
the door.

Richie braces for confrontation but once inside the guy just brushes past him and sits down on the bench, rubbing his wrists.
He
decides to give him space—the little he can give. He takes the few steps to the other side of the small room and leans his
back into the wall and looks up at the ceiling, searching one more time for the microphone or camera that Lowenstein had suspected
was there. He’d promised to keep his trap shut, but he’s curious as hell to know why they arrested the guy.

“What’d they get you for?”

He waits for a response but none comes. So he rephrases:

“What’d they charge you with? They told you what they charged you with, didn’t they?”

His new roommate turns his head a little to the right—away from him—and mumbles something out of the side of his mouth that
he can’t decipher.

“What, bro?”

“I ain’t your bro.”

“Fair enough. But what’d they charge you with?”

“Failure to stop and assaulting an officer.”

Richie lets out a low whistle. “Assault, huh? A cop? That could get you some jail time. You got a record?”

He shakes his head. The guy still refuses to look at him when he speaks. Dressed respectably enough in gray cargo pants and
a black collared untucked short-sleeve shirt, he seems like a relatively normal kid. He’s just big, with a wide, round face,
a buzz cut, and dark, dull eyes. Shark’s eyes. A little puffy. Tears? Maybe. Despite the earlier growl, Richie detects a touch
of fear.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. You seems to know who I am, so it only seems fair I should know who you is. Unless you prefer I make up a name.
I’ll try to keep your weight out of it but I can’t promise anything.”

“Tevita,” he says quietly after a moment. “But people call me T-Truck.”

“As in tow truck?”

“No. As in I will run your shit over, bro.”

“Charming. You Tongan?”

“Why you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“With that accent?”

“I didn’t know I had an accent.”

“Well, you do.”

Silence.

Richie: “So how’d you get wrapped up in this little mess?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“I know how you feel. But how’d you end up working for Mark McGregor?”

“Who said I worked for Mark McGregor?”

“Oh no? Who then?”

“His wife.”

Richie pushes himself forward off the wall. “His wife?”

“Yeah. Ms. Hill.”

“Why were you working for her?”

“She offered us double what her husband was paying us.”

“Really? And did you keep collecting from McGregor?”

He smiles. “Yeah.”

“Sounds like a pretty awesome arrangement. So he’s paying you to follow her around and she’s paying you to do what exactly?”

“She had us working on a couple projects.”

“Like what?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, we were supposed to hang out in front of your building, keep tabs on you for a couple of days.”

Richie takes a step closer.

“Why?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“To get your attention. Reverse psychology, bro.” He taps his temple a few times, a smile breaking across his face. He seems
rather pleased with himself. “You tell someone to stay away and they can’t.”

“The old forbidden fruit trick.”

“Yeah. Forbidden fruit.”

Regrettably, he’s right. After the run-in with the Togans, he’d only been able to hold out for a day before the urge to contact
Beth had grown too powerful. He hadn’t called her from his cell. Instead,
as a precaution, he’d called her from a public phone, which hadn’t been easy to find; he had to go to the Caltrain station,
a ten-minute walk from his apartment. She’d answered on his third try, her voice tentative. As soon as she figured out who
was calling she got nervous. “I can’t talk,” she said. “Just wait. I gotta go.” And then she was gone.

He did wait. About a minute later the pay phone rang. He thought it was Beth calling back so he picked up. But he got a man’s
voice.

“Who’s this?” the caller asked.

Richie’s first reaction was to hang up, but then he reconsidered.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Who this?”

“Ms. Hill’s assistant.” The accent was English, poorly done. “Are you trying to reach her?”

“I think you have the wrong number.”

“You called, bro.”

“No,
you
called,” he said, and hung up.

His heart was pounding. What the hell? Was that who he thought it was? And his heart was still pounding a minute later when
the phone rang a second time.
Let it go
, he thought. But then he heard his father again telling him to go to trouble. And he thought,
Fuck it
, and picked up. This time he didn’t say anything.

“Richie? Richie, are you there?”

It was Beth’s voice.

She’d called him back from a friend’s phone. She said Mark had installed some sort of spyware on her phone. He could hear
who she was talking to, see who she was texting and emailing. She’d heard a weird echo and had taken her phone into the Verizon
store. A repair guy there told her she had spyware on her phone and that there was no way to get rid of it. He told her to
trash the phone but she hadn’t because then Mark would know she’d replaced it.

“It’s bad, Richie,” she said.

He thought of mentioning the call he’d just received from her fake assistant, but she already sounded stressed enough. “How
so?” he asked.

“Mark’s gotten really weird. He’s paranoid. He thinks I’m having an affair. He thinks people want to kill him.”

“Maybe he’s right.”

“He started a new company.”

“I heard. Riding high. The next big thing.”

“It’s not like that,” she said. “There’s a lot of anxiety. He had to go back to investors. I don’t know how much longer I
can live like this.”

“Did you come to my apartment building, Beth?”

Silence.

“The other day, you were there, Beth, weren’t you?”

If she denied it, he was ready to say he’d seen the photo, but he didn’t have to.

“I was up in the city. I stopped there. I rang your buzzer, but you weren’t in. Then someone let me into the building. I waited
a bit, then left.”

“How do you know where I live?”

“Mark knows. He told me at some point. A few months ago he said you were living in the same building that Christopher Markus
used to live in years ago. Bayside Village.”

“Why’d you come, Beth?”

A moment of hesitation, then a soft voice. He could barely make out what she was saying. She was going to give him something.
He thought he heard her say “rug.” But that didn’t make any sense.

“My what?” he asked, and just as he did, he realized what she’d really said.

“Your ring.”

She enunciated the word this time, said it very clearly, and it hit him harder than he expected. Maybe it was how she said
it. The way it came out made it sound as if it had never belonged to her. She was harboring stolen goods. Or rather, she’d
borrowed it and now really wanted to return it. She didn’t want it on her conscience anymore.

How he got all that from two short words she’d uttered he wasn’t sure, but he suddenly felt sick.

“I thought, you know, you should have it back,” she said. “That you might be able to get good money for it. I know what it’s
worth.”

So did he. He’d bought it for $24,000. He’d gotten a deal on it through his father’s friend in New York. A real rock.

“I told you I didn’t want it back,” he said.

“I know. But I thought your sentiments might have changed.”

“I gave it to you, so it’s yours. It always will be.”

“It’s a beautiful ring, Richie. You should have it.”

The whole thing was killing him. The goddamn ring not only reminded him of sweeter times, but of his father, who’d helped
pick it out and had died while he was in prison. A wave of anger swept over him and he released it in a way he was all too
familiar with toward the end of their relationship. He let her have it.

“So let me get this straight, you’ve got a paranoid husband who put spyware on your phone and you’re coming to my place? Did
it occur to you that someone might be following you? If he’s got shit on your phone, he’s also probably got something on your
car.”

“I made sure no one was following. I was careful.”

Not careful enough
, he thought.

“Did Mark say anything about me demanding money from him? Did he say I was trying to blackmail him? Anything about notes or
calls or emails or anything like that?”

“No. Why?”

“I don’t know. I think someone may be trying to get money out of him using me as leverage.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Just stay away, Beth. And tell that psycho husband of yours to stay away. I don’t need this shit. I’m doing
okay here.”

“Richie?”

“What?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Go to the police, Beth. Go right now, do you understand? File a report.”

“What am I going to report?”

He heard an echo of himself in that response.

“Show them your phone,” he said. “Show them the spyware.”

“And what?”

“And I don’t know. It’s not my problem.”

“I don’t want the ring, Richie.”

“I don’t want it either. So we’re even.”

“You think about it.”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“You will,” she said. “I know you will. You’re stubborn but you’re also practical. I know you’ve changed, but some things
never change.”

No, they don’t
, he now thinks.
You knew, didn’t you? You knew saying that would remind me of that stupid song. You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t
you?

“The bitch done you good, bro.”

Richie looks over and realizes T-Truck’s been talking but he hasn’t been listening. For a moment, he’d forgotten he was there.

“That your buddy who was monitoring her calls?” he asks him. “Mr. Soul Patch? It sounded like him.”

T-Truck looks at him quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

“She had spyware on her phone. You guys were monitoring her calls.”

That gets a chuckle.

“That what she told you?”

“Yeah.”

He laughs again. “She played you good, bro. Spyware. That’s a good one. I certainly hope you aren’t—”

He coughs in the middle of the sentence, garbling the end of it.

“What?” Richie asks.

T-Truck takes a moment to clear his throat. “I said I certainly I hope you aren’t protecting her. ’Cause she set you up, bro.
Just like she set us up.”

“How’d she set you up?”

“She gave the cops a picture of us. Made it seem like we got something to do with this. We’re all over the fucking Internet.
That’s why the cops was after us.”

“What do you mean? I told the cops about you stupid fucks. I was the one who—”

A sound at the door. The jangle of keys. They both look that way. In the little window, they see Carlyle, who yanks the door
open. He’s standing there with Madden and another officer behind him.

He motions for T-Truck to come out.

“Your lawyer’s here, shithead.”

“Lawyer?”

“Yeah, your mama sent over a lawyer. It’s your lucky day.”

“Am I getting out now?”

“Not that lucky.”

“Y
OU THINK YOU GOT HIM OUT IN TIME
?”

Madden’s back in the commander’s office, sitting in the same chair he was sitting in earlier that morning, but this time there’s
no Crowley. It’s just Pastorini seated at his desk and Carlyle standing behind Madden, leaning up against the wall, brooding
a little, holding an icepack to his elbow. Pastorini keeps encouraging him to get over to the clinic and have it checked out,
but Carlyle keeps insisting he’s okay.

“I don’t know,” Madden says. “We’ll see.”

“Mr. T was doing well until he started whining about being a victim himself,” Carlyle remarks.

Madden thinks:
How many times had they told the kid to let Forman do the talking? How many?
But he should have expected it. There’s only so much coaching you can do in twenty minutes.

Pastorini had agreed the chicanery was worth a shot. If they could get Forman thinking Beth had sold him out, maybe he’d give
her up. But Pastorini was concerned about the case falling apart on some technicality. “You can try it, Hank,” he said, “but
I want him in and out of there. If it’s going nowhere, you pull him, tell him his lawyer’s here. Understand?”

So after one last quick rehearsal, they’d tossed Tevita in with Forman and retired to a small room just down the hall. Not
much bigger than a walk-in closet, the room was filled with high-tech equipment and looked like a mini recording studio. They
each put on a pair of headphones.

It was going a whole lot better than Madden thought it would,
especially considering an hour ago the guy was sitting in the back of the Yukon, a blubbering mess, with Carlyle showing him
his heavily bruised elbow and telling him they were going to “lock his ass up,” that he’d ruined his life and his mama was
going to be disappointed.

Carlyle played the mama card early and often after they learned the kid’s mother was a nurse. “I bet your mama puts in long
hours at the hospital so you can go to college,” he said. “Doesn’t she?”

His name was Tevita Taupa and he said he was enrolled at Foothill, the junior college that some kids mockingly referred to
as Harvard on the Hill. He claimed he had a year’s worth of credits and was hoping to get a football scholarship somewhere.

“This is the kind of shit you get yourself into?” Carlyle went on, keeping up the pressure. “And with your luck, you’re gonna
pick yourself up a murder charge. You know you were driving a dead man’s car? You worked for him? As an intern? Really? I’m
not buying that—Hank, you buying it? A fucking intern. I ain’t never seen no intern who looked like you. At a tech company?
Come on. All they got there is fucking geeks and little hotties to give the geeks some reason to work at the company. McGregor
may have had you on the payroll as an intern but you weren’t no intern.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Tevita said, tears running down his big, round face. “I swear. We were just supposed to follow the
guy’s wife around.”

“Did you have an encounter with Richie Forman a couple of weeks ago in front of his apartment in the city?” Madden asked.

“Yeah. Fucker broke my nose.”

“That doesn’t sound like you were just following the guy’s wife around.”

No response. He just lowered his head.

“Yes or no, asshole?” Carlyle said. “What’s the answer? We want some fucking answers.”

“Mr. McGregor said this guy Richie was trying to get money out of him and might have something going on with his wife. He
was the ex-boyfriend, I guess. Mr. McGregor wanted to send a message. Let him know he was being watched.”

“Why’d you go see Ms. Hill at the Rosewood Hotel this morning?”

“I told him not to. I told him we shouldn’t.”

“You told who?”

No answer.

“Who, Tevita?” Madden cut in. “You partner? You got a name for us?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Well, it isn’t going to make a difference because once we catch him we’re going to tell him you coughed him right up. And
I bet if I go through your phone, he’s going to show up pretty quick. So you might as well tell us.”

He shook his head, which made Madden think that his buddy must have a real hold over him.

Carlyle: “Why’d you go to the hotel to see Ms. Hill?”

“Because Edwin thought the bitch set us up.”

“Edwin? That’s his name?”

Realizing his mistake, Tevita winced.

“Why would he think that?” Madden asked.

“Someone texted him that our pictures were up on the Internet. And as soon as we saw that, we were like fuck, she fucked us.
That shot was from the day we were up in the city with Forman. It makes it look like we were talking to him, you know, like
having a meeting. She purposely went up there, knowing we were following her. And when we went back later, she followed us
and she took those pictures. That or someone who was working for her.”

They both knew there was a different explanation, but it did make Madden wonder whether Beth knew she was being followed.
A guy like Tevita didn’t exactly blend in. He’d be an easy spot, especially after you saw him a couple of times.

“So let me get this straight,” Madden said. “You were following her and then she started following you? That’s what you’re
saying?”

“Something like that.”

Carlyle: “How’d you know she was at the hotel?”

Good point. Madden hadn’t thought of that.

“We could track her by her phone,” Tevita explained.

“By her phone?”

“Yeah, as long as she kept it on we knew where she was. There was a program on the phone. It kept the GPS on even if she tried
to turn it off. Mr. McGregor installed it.”

Carlyle looked at Madden. That seemed to confirm what Forman
had told them. He’d said something about McGregor putting spyware on her phone.

Madden: “So you go talk to her at the hotel and—”

“I stayed in the car.”

“Okay, so your buddy Edwin goes in and talks to her …”

“Yeah. He thought he was going to have to go looking for her but she was sitting right there in the lobby.”

“What’d she say?”

“She denied it. She said she had nothing to do with the photo.”

“And then what?”

“She asked him if we saw anything, if we knew anything about her husband getting killed.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said fuck that.”

“Those were his exact words?
Fuck that
?”

“I don’t know exactly what he said. She just asked whether he knew anything about her husband getting killed. She wanted to
know if he’d seen anything. He got the sense she was kind of worried he had seen something.”

“Had he?”

“Fuck no.”

“That’s it?”

“Then she told him he’d better turn himself in to the police.”

“Good advice,” Madden said. “Why didn’t he listen?”

“I don’t know. He kind of panicked, I guess.”

Carlyle: “He got a record, your friend? We found some pills in the car. He do a little dealing on the side?”

He nodded, the tears welling up again. “That’s how he met Mr. McGregor. He met him at the gas station.” He stared down at
his feet, sniffling loudly. “I don’t want to go to jail,” he said. “I didn’t do nothin’. Honest. Mr. McGregor wanted a big
guy. But I did some intern stuff. I worked in the office some days. You can ask. What if—”

His voice trailed off.

“What if what?” Madden said.

“If I help you. Will I have to go to jail?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How helpful you are.”

Never mind that if he was who he said he was and got himself a half decent lawyer, he probably wouldn’t do any jail time.
They leaned, he swayed, that’s how the game was played. Like Carlyle said, the kid was doing fine until he went off-script.
But Madden heard it coming. Holed up in the recording room, he thought they were toast as soon as Tevita said, “Just like
she set us up.” Carlyle’s eyes lit up at the same time as his and they both tore off their headphones and bolted out of the
room.

When they replayed the tape it seemed clear that Forman had a strong inkling something was amiss. But hopefully they’d intervened
before he could start connecting too many dots. At least that’s what they’re telling Pastorini, who’s called them into his
office and now takes a sip from his tall can of Java Monster Loca Moca “energy” drink and says:

“I want you boys to listen to something. While you were busy playing around with our main suspect, we had multiple tips come
in from people who claim to have seen Forman and Hill around town.”

He turns to his computer screen, which is facing away from Madden, and maneuvers his mouse onto something, and clicks on it.
A moment passes, and they hear a male 911 dispatcher’s voice speaking to them through Pastorini’s crappy little PC speakers,
asking the caller to “state your emergency.”

A woman’s giddy voice: “This isn’t really an emergency. But you know the guy who got arrested for killing that Mark McGregor
guy? Well, I saw him yesterday and I’m pretty sure he was with the guy’s wife. In fact, I’m certain.”

Dispatcher: “Okay. Thank you for calling. Can you please give me your name and the best number to reach you at?”

The woman, who sounds young, states her name and gives a phone number.

“So where did you see them?” the dispatcher asks.

“At Watercourse Way. I’m a receptionist there.”

“Watercourse Way? I’ve heard of that. The spa? In Palo Alto?”

“Yes, we’re sorta like a spa. I mean, we
are
a spa, we have spa services, but we’re also, you know, a bathhouse with hot tubs.”

“And what time did they come in?”

“Right before two. The woman made a two-o’clock reservation. She didn’t use her real name.”

“A reservation for what?”

“A tub.”

“Okay, and you say she was with this man you say was arrested.”

“Yes. I just thought, you know, that someone should know. That it might be pertinent.”

“Yes, thank you. I just want to let you know that we’re recording this call and I’m going to pass on your info to the detectives
here. Is there anything else you can remember that they should know?”

A pause. “No. Well, she paid in cash. I don’t know if that’s important or not.”

“Okay, that’s good to know. Someone will get back to you soon.”

“I’m working today. I’m here.”

“Okay, someone will definitely be in contact.”

The call ends. Pastorini closes out the audio player on his computer, then swivels his chair toward Madden and says:

“Watercourse Way. You ever been there, Hank?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Me neither. But last I checked, people went there to relax or fuck. In this case, I’d bet on fucking.”

“They don’t call it Intercourse Way for nothin’,” Carlyle murmurs, coaxing a smile out of Pastorini.

“No, they don’t,” he says. Then, looking at Madden: “You don’t seem surprised, Hank.”

“I didn’t think she was being completely honest with us.”

“The question is why,” Pastorini says. “She had to know it would eventually come out.”

Madden: “People have a bad habit of developing selective memory under duress.”

Pastorini shakes his head. He seems dismayed. “All I can say is that if Forman did it, he sure didn’t plan it out too well.”

“Maybe that was his plan,” Madden says.

“To make it look like he’s a fucking idiot? That was his plan?”

“Maybe. He’s a smart guy. Maybe that’s his defense. I’m a smart guy so why would I not plan this thing out better.”

“I still think he didn’t plan it out. That was his problem. I bet McGregor found out about this little excursion to Watercourse
Way. He confronts Forman and they get into it. He takes a whack
at him and Forman goes berzerko. Years of pent-up aggression.”

“Why would Forman be at the house?” Madden asks.

Pastorini considers that.

“I don’t know,” he says after a moment, stumped. “If she set him up and brought him there hoping he and her husband would
have it out, why not just come out and say that’s what happened? The other thing I don’t get is if she’s involved, what does
she really have to gain? She divorces McGregor, she does all right. Why risk so much for an extra five or ten million when
you’ve already got a nice chunk of change coming to you?”

Madden: “What if it’s more?”

“How much more?”

“Say twenty.”

“Twenty? You know that?”

“No, but I’m just saying. Hypothetically speaking.”

“Well, no more guessing,” Pastorini says. “I want to know exactly where these people were and when. I want cell-phone data.
I want witnesses on the ground. I want a murder weapon.” He holds up his iPad and practically thrusts it in Madden’s face.
On the screen is a Google Maps satellite image of McGregor’s street. “I want some goddamn virtual pushpins in my goddamn virtual
map.”

“Pete?” Madden says.

“What?”

“How many of those drinks have you had today?”

“I don’t know. Two. Three. Why?”

“I’m getting a contact high just sitting across from you. And I think your iPad’s charging in your hand.”

Carlyle lets out a little laugh that elicits a surprisingly sharp, reproachful look from Pastorini. Normally, he takes ribbings
about his caffeinated soda habit in stride.

“Pushpins, Hank,” he repeats. “Start with this receptionist at Watercourse Way. When you get it all confirmed, I want you
to ask Carolyn what her client was doing there with Forman at two in the afternoon. And if she keeps stonewalling, I want
her arrested.”

“On what charge?”

“I don’t know. You’ll think of something. You always do.”