Whatever the reason, Rich wasn’t going to chance it. He called Joan’s number and left a message. “Joan, it’s Rich Conklin,” he said. “Please call me. I’m concerned for your safety.”
Chapter 19
Rich was at his desk when John Sackowitz dropped by and sat down in Lindsay’s chair. Sac was a big man and was wearing a gray jacket, jeans, white shirt, and a weird pink tie.
Sac moved the desk lamp out of his way so he could look Conklin directly in the eye. Then he said, “Sam Alton’s betrayed widow, Rachel, is in shock. It’s nightmare city over at her house. God, I hate notifications. Did you get a chance to speak to Joan?”
“She’s gone missing. That’s according to her husband anyway. I’m heading out to Seacliff to tour the house and grounds. I’ll call you later.”
Sac stood up and said, “I’ve got some paperwork to do.” He lumbered over to his desk across the room and began typing up his report.
Conklin turned off his desktop and waved good-bye to Sac.
A few minutes later, he was in his car and driving out to Seacliff when Brady called.
“Conklin, a dead body was found in an apartment building in West Portal. Welky was the first one on the scene, and an ADA just brought him a search warrant. Welky found two IDs in the room and a wallet that belongs to Samuel J. Alton.”
Seriously? There was no way Samuel J. Alton had died twice.
So who was this dead man with his wallet?
Conklin made the excruciatingly slow drive to the middle-class, family-oriented neighborhood. He got stuck at the lights at both the entrance and exit of a three-block shopping district, and then, once he’d gotten free of that, he hit another traffic snarl on a block filled with homey bars and restaurants. Twenty minutes after leaving the Hall, he parked in front of an apartment building on West Portal Avenue, between a cruiser and the coroner’s van. He hopped out of his car and headed toward the crime scene.
The building was a classic midcentury San Francisco–style home with five stories of gray stucco, arched windows, and a view of the West Portal Muni. A half dozen trees out front softened the lines of the building under a clear sky overhead. A light-rail car rattled by as Conklin entered the building. If he hadn’t been summoned there on police duty, he would have never guessed that there had been a murder inside.
The old man behind the front desk pointed to the elevator behind him, then raised four fingers.
Fourth floor. Got it.
Conklin was met upstairs by the two beat cops who’d arrived on the scene first. Their names were Officers Calvin Welky and Mike Brown. Conklin signed the log, put on booties and gloves, and then walked into a clean, bright three-room apartment.
Welky said, “The manager, Mr. Wayne Murdock, said the apartment belongs to one Arthur O’Brien, an actor and probably a junkie. Murdock got a call from O’Brien’s mother. She hadn’t heard from her son in a couple of days. She said he wasn’t returning her calls. Murdock went to the young man’s residence, found his body here, and called it in.”
Conklin looked around the living room. It was dominated by a fifty-two-inch TV. Across the room from it sat a nondescript brown couch. A set of weights took up one corner of the space. It looked to Conklin like this was a single man’s apartment. There were no knickknacks or sentimental items breaking up the uniform brown color palette. But the most telling detail of all was the drug para
phernalia that was scattered across the coffee table.
Conklin noticed a stubby candle, a scorched spoon, a box of matches, and a flock of opaque glassine envelopes that were coated with white powder.
Conklin walked to the bedroom, stood in the doorway, and nodded to the two CSIs who were photographing the dead man. His body was lying in the center of the unmade bed.
Conklin said hello to Claire and Bunny, and then he took in the whole of the room. There were movie posters on the walls, a laundry bag by the window, a desk with an open laptop computer, and a knapsack up against the wall. His eyes went back to the dead man lying in a relaxed fetal position.
If you squinted, you could almost imagine that Arthur O’Brien was sleeping.
Conklin wished that he could shake the man to ask him some questions.
Who are you, bud? Why do you have Sam Alton’s wallet?
Chapter 20
Claire Washburn photographed the deceased from every angle with her old Minolta camera while she and Bunny waited for Rich Conklin to arrive.
The dead man’s real name was Arthur O’Brien. He was white and in his thirties, but since that’s where his similarities to Samuel J. Alton ended, it was a wonder that he was in possession of Alton’s identification.
Arthur O’Brien didn’t have a double chin or love handles. He was as thin as a rail, and had spiky blond hair and a square diamond earring in one ear. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved blue knit shirt. One of his sleeves was rolled up, almost to the shoulder, revealing a length of rubber tubing knotted around his left biceps. The track marks that ran down his arm showed that this had not been his first time at the rodeo. The syringe was lying on the sheets about three inches from his right hand, and there was a puddle of vomit on a pillow.
Probable cause of death: suicide, most likely unintended.