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“I’m stirring up my memory. Okay. Marty told the boss that D’Amato was dirty. Something about looting a crime scene. Billy was pretty by-the-book, maybe a year or so out of the academy on the job, tops. Marty had friends in medium-high places.”
“So, what happened to D’Amato?”
“Well,” said Cappy. “He wasn’t going to fight the decision or join up another PD with ‘looting a crime scene’ in his file. I’m really reaching for an actual memory, Lindsay, but I think he moved to LA and got a job as a consultant to a cops-and-robbers TV series. But Marty really did hate the guy. If I had to guess, I’d bet that D’Amato ratted Marty out for looting. And Marty punished him for it by flipping the story.”
“You know, Cappy. There’s no shortage of people who hated Marty. If I’m going to nail his killer, I don’t need to tell you, we need a witness. A murder weapon. Evidence. This case is all needles, no haystack.”
“I didn’t hate Marty, kiddo. But I wouldn’t have trusted him with a stick of gum.”
“Thanks, Cappy.”
I returned to the bullpen. Conklin and Alvarez were both at their desks. I told them about my conversation with Cappy and said, “Let’s find out where D’Amato lives, what he does now, and any other bit of information that could add up to a hit on Marty Boxer.”
Alvarez is a wiz at technology. I’d put her up against any computer pro. We didn’t have loads of time but Alvarez typed, refused to be drawn into any conversation until she was done.
“I’m still working my way through Los Angeles,” she read, “but I’ve got this: ‘William A. D’Amato, creative consultant onThe Crack of Dawn,an HBO production, also worked with Randy Wilson on a film calledThe Beat.’”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Uh. Date on this article is five years ago. Just over.”
“Anything else?” Conklin asked.
“I’ll keep looking,” said Alvarez. “Oh. I’ve got a cell phone number. LA area code.”
“See if you can get him on the phone.”
Alvarez punched in a number, said her name, and why she was calling.
Then she handed me the phone.
CHAPTER 28
“HELLO, MR. D’AMATO? This is Sergeant Lindsay Boxer.”
He said, “Lindsay, Lindsay, it’s Billy D’Amato. Great of you to call. I just heard the news about your dad on TV. I’m actually in San Francisco with my wife, Beverly, for the week. She remembers you as a kid. My God, I’ve been thinking about you. My condolences. Do you remember me?”
“I’m sorry to say I don’t. But I’d love to talk with you.”
“Your wish is granted,” D’Amato said.
Beverly. Beverly, Bill’s wife came into my mind. I’d gone to the D’Amatos’ dinner party at what I thought of then as a grown-up restaurant.
Bill was speaking, “Lindsay, I can be at the Hall in half an hour. Is that good for you?”
“It sure is. You remember Cappy McNeil? He’s still here. I know he’d like to see you, too.”
I joined Alvarez in a digital file search but switched from General to Specific. I opened the SFPD personnel files and found Marty Boxer and Billy D’Amato. There was more in there than I’d expected. Three commendations for bravery and three reports to the commissioner’s office.
I was glad to see that Sergeant Marty Boxer had been cited for bravery under fire, but of course more interested in the reports.
“Alvarez. Look at this. Cappy was right.”
She scooted her chair next to me and we looked at D’Amato’s complaints. Marty had been cleared of two charges, and the third was unresolved. He was damned lucky he didn’t go to jail.
“See here?” I said to Alvarez.
The first complaint was an accusation of theft of a solid gold cigarette lighter from a Mrs. Reva Bolo’s house in Russian Hill. Mrs. Bolo called the police to report a possible stalker. Marty Boxer and Billy D’Amato had caught the call. A day after the police came to Mrs. Bolo’s home, she reported that a gold lighter that had once belonged to Vincent Lombardi was missing. It wasn’t discovered missing until after the police had left Mrs. Bolo’s home. The stalker was never found. Neither was the lighter.
