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Pescoli expected a cool reception from Detective Tanaka.
She wasn’t disappointed.
The San Francisco detective was definitely not thrilled that Pescoli had driven her two stepnephews into the station. Though Tanaka tried to hide her feelings under a mask of indifference, Pescoli felt the other woman’s hostility. The plain fact of the matter was that Tanaka didn’t trust her. For that, Pescoli didn’t blame her. Didn’t she herself feel the same sense of ownership when she was deep into a case?
As Macon had suspected, he and Seth were split and interviewed separately, Pescoli kept out of the loop. She’d finally convinced Macon to talk to the authorities and just tell the truth, but she’d also advised him that if at any time during the interview he thought he needed counsel, he could stop answering questions and demand a lawyer.
“Fine,” he’d finally acquiesced, “but you need to be with me. If not in the room, then watching . . . otherwise, it’s a no-go.”
Now, standing in a darkened chamber with Paterno and a couple of other cops, Pescoli was allowed to observe both interviews in progress. Macon had been correct. The interviews were filmed by a technician at a desk in the room with the cops.
On his side of the glass, Macon slumped in one of the two molded chairs, arms crossed over his chest, answered succinctly, without much expression, and didn’t elaborate a lot. Somehow he kept his anger in check.
His alibi was simple and straightforward. He’d stayed at a friend’s apartment, which he did often.
When pressed, he said further, “I didn’t get along all that great with my father and he wasn’t happy that I was taking a term off from UCLA. It wasn’t always comfortable at home. Dad thought since it was ‘his’ house, I needed to play by ‘his’ rules. I didn’t see things that way so I spent a lot of time at Corey’s . . . Corey Mendicino. I’ve known him since junior high. He knew the situation. Gave me a key to his apartment.”
“Gave it to you?” Tanaka repeated.
“Yeah, it’s here. On my key chain.”
“Was Corey with you that night?”
“Not all night. Not until around two when he got home. He bartends down at Culpepper’s Ale House. When he got home I was on his couch.”
“There were beer cans in your room at the house.”
He shrugged. “Probably from earlier.”
“The housekeeper comes in every day.”
“Then I can’t explain them.” He looked irritated at Tanaka’s insistence.
She changed tack and asked about the firearms.
“That’s the one thing Dad and I had in common, I guess. Otherwise he was always on my ass, telling me to get my act together—that’s how he put it—and think about my future.”
“You liked his guns.”
“Yeah. His collection’s bitchin’. Man, really great, y’know.”
“Was it insured?” she asked.
“Well, yeah. Had to be. Some of the pistols were from like World War II, and I think he said the Colt, yeah, that was from like 1848, I think. Five shot. Six-inch barrel. Baby Dragoon. Really sweet.” He then went on about some long gun, a musket from the period of the Revolutionary War.
“He’s not holding back,” Paterno whispered to Pescoli. “We have an inventory of Latham’s collection from the insurance company, and both those guns were listed.”
“But missing. Stolen.”
“Along with jewelry also listed and probably papers. Don’t know for certain on that count. Only certain about what was insured.”
“Were Paul and Brindel killed with one of his guns?”
“Don’t know yet. He did own a .380, so it’s possible that one of them was killed with it. But the victims were killed with separate guns by what appears to be two different killers, working in tandem.”
“Premeditated,” she said, thinking aloud as she envisioned the scene in her mind. “And orchestrated.”
He nodded, his gaze never leaving the viewing area.
