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“His hair was wet when we interviewed him right after the shooting.”
“So he showered to get rid of evidence.”
“That’s what we think.”
Red Dog pushed the folder of photos across the desk in my direction. “A shower is not probable cause. Before you search the screen legend’s house and the news media gets hold of it and that gets us sued for defamation, you’d better have something stronger than the burglar says she didn’t do it and Dowling took a shower.
“It’s not probable cause for a warrant, Yuki,” Parisi said. “It’s not going to fly.”
Chapter 106
I YANKED OUT my desk chair and crashed it hard into my trash can, then did it again for the satisfying effect of the clamor. I said to Conklin, “Red Dog won’t ask for a warrant without a damned smoking gun.”
Conklin stared up at me and said, “Funny you should say that. I was watching some old Dowling movies last night. Look at this.”
Conklin rotated his computer screen around to face me.
I sat, wheeled my chair up to the desk, and looked at Conklin’s monitor. I saw what appeared to be a movie-studio publicity still for an old spy flick.
“Night Watch,” Conklin said. “He made this decades ago with Jeremy Cushing. Terrible film, but it was what they called ‘camp.’ It became a cult favorite. Check this out.”
There was Dowling: black suit, sideburns, and a sun-lined squint. And he was holding a gun. “You’re kidding me. Is that a forty-four?”
“A Ruger Blackhawk. It’s a single-action revolver, a six-shooter,” my partner said, clicking on another picture. The famous and now-deceased Jeremy Cushing was giving the gun to Dowling as a keepsake in a handshake photo op. You could almost hear the flashbulbs popping.
Conklin hit a key, and the printer chugged out hard copies of the photos. I picked up the phone and called Yuki. “Grab Red Dog before he goes anywhere. I’m coming back down.”
We arrived at Dowling’s magnificent mansion in Nob Hill before lunch, three cars full of Homicide c
ops dying to make a collar. I rang the doorbell, and Dowling came to the door in jeans and an unbuttoned white dress shirt.
“Sergeant Boxer,” he said.
“Hello again. You remember Inspector Conklin. And I’d like to introduce Assistant DA Yuki Castellano.”
Yuki handed Dowling the search warrant. “I went to school with Casey, you know,” she said, stepping past Dowling into the vast gilded foyer.
“I don’t think she ever mentioned you. Hey, you can’t—”
Chi, McNeil, Samuels, and Lemke poured into the house right behind us with the determination of cops raiding a speakeasy during Prohibition. I had a flash of panic. Despite what I’d told Parisi—that Dowling would never ditch a souvenir of the last film Jeremy Cushing ever made—now I wasn’t so sure.
“Wait,” Dowling said. “What are you looking for?”
“You’ll know it when we see it,” I said.
I took the winding staircase up toward the master bedroom as the rest of my squad fanned out through the house. I heard the phone ring, then Dowling shouted, his voice throbbing with indignation.
“Well, Peyser, this is what lawyers are for. Come back from Napa right now.”
I entered the movie star’s room. Fifteen minutes later, there wasn’t a drawer or a shelf that hadn’t felt my hand.
I was pulling the mattress off the bed when I sensed more than heard another person in the room. I looked up to see a dark-skinned woman in a black housekeeper’s dress.
I remembered her. The day after Casey Dowling was killed, the day Conklin and I came here to interview Marcus, this woman had served us bottled water.
“You’re Vangy, right?”
“I’m an illegal alien.”
