Chapter Thirty-one

Two hours later, the motor vehicles department had returned the call with the information that Carlton Chase was also the registered owner of a 1940 Packard, license plate number 84 M 298.

Yes, Max thought. Got you, you bastard.

With that information in hand, Max and McCall went to the office of Judge Malcolm Forrest, stacks of papers ringing the perimeters of the room and a stuffed parrot on a tiny swing hanging over his desk. McCall had warned Max that the judge was a tad eccentric; he politely averted his eyes from the stuffed bird.

Forrest listened to their request for a search warrant then shifted his bulk in his chair. “It’s out of my jurisdiction,” he said. “Carmel-by-the-Sea is in Monterey County.”

McCall and Max exchanged looks.

“It’s pretty important, Judge,” McCall said. “This man is suspected of murder.”

The judge leaned back, scrunching up his mouth as if to show how concerned he was.

“No can do.”

“If you’ll excuse me, Judge,” Max said, doing his best to be polite and not call the judge a fucking moron. “These crimes were committed in this county. That would give you standing.”

Max did not bother to add that a warrant issued by a judge would stand up anywhere in the state. No use totally pissing the man off by showing how ignorant he was.

“Well, why the hell didn’t you say so before? And who are you, anyway?”

McCall jumped in before Max could reply. “He’s helping out with the investigation, Judge. A forensics expert.”

“What’s wrong with Sherry? Isn’t that his job?’

“He’s got a lot on his plate, Judge,” McCall said in a placating tone that Max had never heard before.

“And you’re sure about this phony alibi for the twenty-third?”

The question was directed at McCall. Max felt his stomach tighten, wondering if the sheriff would back him up on Chase’s alleged dinner with Babs Martindale in a restaurant that had already closed down.

McCall paused a moment, catching Max’s eye. Then said, “Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, let’s get this thing signed and you can get about your work. It’d be nice to see some progress on these cases.”

As they were leaving the courthouse, Max eyeballed McCall. “Forensics expert? That the best you could come up with?”

“That’s what you’ll be doing with the Chase car. You’re sure he won’t recognize you?”

“We’ve never met. His only dealings have been with Elizabeth.”

They brought Deputy Thompson along with them as well as Sherry. Thompson drove; McCall sat in front and Max and Sherry in back.

“What’s this all about?” Sherry asked once they were underway.

“We’re examining a car for any forensics that it might have been used in a homicide.” Max said it matter-of-factly, though he was feeling anything but calm.

If Chase’s second car yielded nothing, then they had tipped their hand and Chase might go to ground. Everything they had so far gathered on the man was purely circumstantial and speculative.

There was little talk as they sped south toward Carmel. Soon they were passing the precincts of Fort Ord, located on a huge stretch of land along both sides of the coastal road. Max tried to concentrate on this meeting with Chase, hoping to hell he had not overstepped himself.

About a half hour later they were entering the precincts of Carmel-by-the-Sea, a pastiche of an English village with narrow, winding streets, picturesque cottages surrounded by gardens. An artists’ haven; there was no war here.

Chase’s house was on a cul de sac at the south end of town, with a view of the ocean and beach. It was like a Hollywood movie facsimile of an English gentleman’s home: long cypress-lined drive, stone-faced home with turrets and all the trimmings.

As they approached the house, McCall looked skeptically over his shoulder at Max.

“You sure about this, Byrns? Looks like this boy’s got money. And money can buy some mean lawyers.”

He didn’t hesitate with his lie: “I’m sure.”

They parked the car by the massive front door, got out and looked at each other as McCall rapped on the oak.

The sound was dull. It reassured Max. This was obviously a hollow core door with veneer covering. The Hollywood effect. All for show. Like Chase himself?

They waited a moment or two and then McCall rapped more loudly.

Max felt the familiar tightening of his stomach, the nervous expectancy of a case finally breaking open.

Chase opened the door. No butlers here.

He surveyed the men, looking at badges. “Yes. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

There was no sign of stress or fear. The perfect English gentleman in his tweeds, Max thought.

“Mr. Carlton Chase?” McCall said.

“That is I.”

McCall handed him the signed search warrant. “We’ve come to examine your car. We believe that it may have been involved in a hit-and-run accident.”

Chase briefly gazed at the document, then handed it back as if it might be infected.

“Are you certain you have the correct address?”

“Yes, sir,” McCall said. “Now if you would take us to the vehicle, we can proceed with our inspection and get out of your hair.”

Max grinned at this turn of phrase. McCall was trying to put Chase at ease, and it seemed to work.

The man smiled at them. “Well, then. Perhaps we should proceed.”

Chase’s sudden calm made Max suspicious, though. As if he had nothing in the world to hide. No demand to have a lawyer present. No contesting the authority of the warrant. Suddenly it didn’t feel right.

Chase led them around rather than through the house, following the pebbled drive to the double garage in back. In the left bay was the Aston Martin; in the right was the Packard.

“You don’t mind if I stay and observe, I assume, gentlemen?”

“No, no. Be our guest,” McCall said.

Chase stood by the door as Max and Sherry went about their business on the Packard. Max had already ascertained the Aston Martin was clean.

Unfortunately, he had no photos or plaster castings of tire tracks from the scene, nor did Jimmy’s clothing or body have any paint chips or markings. Often, in cases of hit-and-run, the victim’s clothing might have parallel markings that can be matched to the spring pattern of the shock absorber on the suspect vehicle. But not in Jimmy’s case. What they were looking for initially was obvious damage or signs of impact on the vehicle: a broken headlight or side mirror, dented fender, material stuck to the undercarriage of the car. Max had found none of these on the Aston Martin when Chase was talking to Elizabeth, and after five minutes of inspecting the Packard, none were found here either.

Now he and Sherry moved in for a closer inspection for pieces of hair, specks of blood, threads of fiber—the minutiae of such incidents. As they went about their work, they had Deputy Thompson take photographs of all inspection points. Max asked McCall to fetch a strong flashlight from his car so he could examine the undercarriage more closely for any imprints of clothing in the film of grease and dirt on the running gear.

McCall was not cheered by this request but got the flashlight and Max checked underneath. Nothing.

“It looks clean,” Sherry said volubly enough for Chase to hear.

“Well, I could have told you gentlemen that myself. Saved you a good deal of labor and sweat. Now, I need to return to my work.”

Max was fuming. Chase must have rented a car for the deed, he thought. The man was acting far too smug about all this. Too assured they would find noting. And now he was getting away with it. With murder. Two murders probably. Max would not let that happen.

“Our apologies, Mr. Chase,” McCall was saying. “But we need to follow all leads…”

Suddenly Max could not hold back the churn and tug in his guts any longer; but it was tempered by instinct. He thought of his initial meeting with Aleotto and an idea came to mind.

“If I might ask, Mr. Chase,” he said levelly. “You expressed no interest in knowing about the crime we are investigating.”

“Well, you said it involved a hit-and-run…”

“Yes, but you asked no questions about it. Evidenced no surprise, as if you already knew what we were talking about.”

“Really, Sheriff. I need to return to my work. If you have no further—”

“Basho!” Max suddenly shouted. “Why are you lying about your old friend, Tadeo?”

The use of the name caught Chase off guard. He froze in place for a moment, his eyes darting between each of the men. Then he bolted.

“After him,” McCall told Thompson, who soon caught up with the portly Brit and tackled him on the gravel, bloodying the man’s lip in the process.

Max and the others caught up with them as Thompson was hefting Chase to his feet and slapping a pair of handcuffs on him.

“This is an outrage,” Chase protested.

“No.” Max shook his head. “This is probable cause to extend our search warrant to your house.”

Thompson put Chase into the patrol car while McCall, Sherry, and Max went into the house, and began a thorough search.

“What are we looking for?” McCall said.

Max smiled. “That’s the lovely thing about probable cause. We’re looking for anything that might be evidence of illegal activity. Best would be something that links Chase to Tadeo and Jimmy.”

Then he recalled the conversation he’d had with Philip about how Basho/Chase might have one of these new answering machines so that his direct line could not be traced.

“We might also be looking for something that resembles a large phonograph that can record telephone messages.”

What Max and the others came up with after forty-five minutes was two-fold.

First, in Chase’s art studio, they found an old master on an easel and an exact copy of it in process on another easel facing it.

Around the spacious studio there were a dozen more such paintings in progress.

“I’ll need to get Elizabeth on this,” Max said. “But what I think we have here is an art forging factory. He buys an old master, copies it and flogs the reproductions as originals, using his own credentials to back up provenance.”

“Which explains how Chase can afford this fancy place,” McCall said.

Fifteen minutes thereafter, they came on the second discovery—the answering machine, tucked into a walk-in closet behind a row of tweed suits. After discovering the studio full of forgeries, Max could understand why Chase might need such a contraption. He’d want to keep his customers one step away from contacting him directly; he would need some sort of cut-out system to keep the customers straight and to filter dissatisfied buyers.

Next to the large box-like machine was a carton of cylinders with dates on them. Max could feel his heart racing. Would Chase be stupid enough to save incriminating messages? He picked carefully through the messages until he found one with a taped piece of paper: “March 3.”

The day Jimmy Suzuki had called Basho.

He eyeballed Sherry. “You know anything about this contraption? How to operate it?”

“No. No way. And if this might contain evidence, I wouldn’t want to risk damaging it.”

Max set his jaw. So close. Don’t give the bastard a chance to regain his composure, he told himself. He’s probably sitting out in that car piss-pants scared we’re going to turn something like this up. So, tell him we did, Max decided. The art of the bluff.

He set off for the stairs, cylinder in hand.

“Hey,” McCall said as Max brushed past him, taking the stairs two at a time. “Where the hell…”

But Max wasn’t listening. He got to the front door, threw it open, and stalked to the police cruiser. Chase was huddled in back. Max got in beside him, tapping the cylinder in his left palm.

Chase’s eyes grew large as he watched this.

“You really should learn to destroy evidence, Chase. Your little art forgery business is bad enough, but this message from Jimmy Suzuki is going to hang you.”

Thompson exchanged glances with Max through the rearview mirror, a questioning expression on his face.

“Look,” Max went on. “You want to save your life on this, you’ll tell us what happened right now. There’s no other way out.”

Finally, Chase screwed up his courage, sitting more upright in the backseat, as well.

“So, I’m an art forger. I plead guilty. But I have no idea what this hit-and-run business is about. And pray tell, who is Jimmy Suzuki? Sounds like a jazz band member. If he left a message for me, it was clearly a wrong number. I can hardly be held responsible for unsolicited calls.”

Max restrained himself from throttling the man. Instead he said, “We’re tracing the rental car you used to run over Jimmy Suzuki as we speak. I’ll give you one more chance. You cooperate right now or you’ll face the death penalty.”

As quickly as Chase had revived himself, he now slumped into despondency.

Right, Max thought, his chest swelling with pride. Chase had used a rental car for the deed. They would find it now.

There was a moment of silence. Then Chase said, “What guarantees do I have?”

They brought him back to San Ignacio. District Attorney Adam Farleigh was none too pleased with a guarantee of taking the death penalty off the table, but Judge Forrest was more interested in clearing cases than in vengeance.

“I don’t think a sentence of life in prison without possibility of parole is an indication of leniency, Adam,” the judge said. “But of course that’s your decision. You are the D.A. of this county.”

Sheriff McCall was also happy to clear cases. “We don’t have hard evidence on him yet. I assume we’ll find the car he hired to kill the Suzuki kid, but that’s not a shoe-in. If it’s a rental, it might have been washed and cleaned up sometime after Chase used it. And yes, we have him lying about an alibi for the night Tadeo Suzuki was killed, but again there’s no physical evidence. And the longer we let him sit and think things through, the more likely he is just to stonewall us and call in his lawyer.”

Max was in the room but remained silent; he had no real standing. The judge thought he was some kind of forensics expert. So, better to let the others speak for him, and McCall had delivered a pretty damn good argument.

The district attorney took a moment to reflect, scratched his right cheek and let out air.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

It took fifteen minutes for the district attorney, accompanied by McCall, to get a written confession.

Max was waiting outside the interrogation room as they were leaving. “I need a few minutes with Chase,” he said to McCall.

“A bit irregular, Byrns.”

“I broke the goddam case for you, McCall. All I’m asking is a few minutes with him.”

“I know Tadeo was a friend of yours. But we don’t need charges of police brutality at his point.”

“That’s not what this is about. I guarantee you.”

McCall jerked his head toward the door to the interrogation room. “Okay. But make it quick.”

Chase was seated at the table, handcuffed, and appearing dazed. He looked up when Max entered.

Max badly wanted to bash the man’s head in, the killer of his friend. But he said nothing for a full minute as they continued to stare at one another. It was Chase who finally broke the silence.

“How did you know I was Basho?”

“Tadeo often told a story about the sins of drinking and how it had led to violence between his best friend in Yokohama. We traced your father to his service in Yokohama.”

“That easy?” Chase shook his head. “So many years ago, and that easy to trace.”

“Actually, I should say my wife tracked you. Elizabeth Byrns.”

Chase tugged against his handcuffs. “You’re her policeman husband, then.”

Max made no reply.

“Have you come to gloat?”

“No. Actually just to impart a little piece of information. You see, I had a theory. You’re a collector. A collector with an obsession. You wanted to add the Spring Takanubo print to the one you already have, Summer. A reminder of your youth in Japan. A reminder of your closeness to the Yumamato family in whose home you first saw all four of the prints.”

Chase seemed to take interest now, sitting up straight and glaring at Max.

“That’s your theory.”

“Yes. I think I’ll stick to it. And you found out, as you easily could, who used Summer as collateral for a loan from the Bank of America. Thing about it is, you didn’t expect to be confronted by your old friend from Japan. You knew Tadeo as Yumamato, but he’d changed his surname to Suzuki when coming to the United States.”

Chase blinked several times at this.

“Look,” Max said. “None of this matters now. You’ve signed a confession. You’re going away. I’m not trying to trap you.”

“Curious, are you?” Chase said.

“Professional curiosity, yes. Tadeo was a friend of mine.”

“I know. I never met you, but I learned that Tadeo had a white friend, name of Max Byrns. That’s why I hired your wife for the Cimabue restoration. Not that she did not do a good job, but I could have done that work myself. I needed an intermediary, a broker with the Suzuki family.”

“I figured that,” Max said. “But why didn’t you wait, then? Why kill Tadeo?”

Chase groaned. “He may have seen me when I first came to the Suzuki place. He wasn’t home at the time, but I quickly gathered that it was my old friend who owned the print I wanted. You’re right. I’d desired that series ever since first setting eyes on them in the Yumamato house. And then Tadeo and I had a falling out…”

“Over you becoming a Kempeitai agent,” Max said.

Chase nodded. “Yes. A youthful indiscretion that was coming back to haunt me. I saw Tadeo’s photo on the wall and was leaving as quickly as I could when Tadeo himself drove up in this old Ford…”

“And he recognized you.” Max needed to know, needed this final reckoning. And he also wanted to impart a final blow on the man. Psychological rather than physical.

“I don’t know if he recognized me… he might have,” Chase said, his shoulders slumping again. “It was then I hired your wife, but I already had a plan in mind. I couldn’t let Tadeo live. Tadeo’s wife told me he would never sell. An earlier representative I had sent got the same answer. I determined it would be easier to deal with the Suzuki family without Tadeo, so I lured him to the Bluff with the promise of reconciliation and killed him.”

Max’s nostrils flared at this dispassionate description of the murder, but he breathed deeply, containing himself. “That’s what you told the D.A.?”

“They wanted motive. I wanted to avoid hanging or the gas chamber. But in fact, Tadeo’s refusal to sell was an obstacle, merely. Far worse was the possibility that he had recognized me as I was leaving. I was so close, you see.”

“To the OBE?”

Chase looked at him in amazement. “Elizabeth said you were a great policeman. So you may already know that my father was passed over several times for such an honor. And now finally I was on the cusp of attaining it. But Tadeo could spoil all that with tales of my youthful indiscretion becoming a Kempeitai agent. No, Tadeo had to die.”

“And Jimmy, too?” Max said. “The grandson.”

“Well, he was able to make contact. I felt I needed to retrieve that slip of paper with the number that I’d sent to Tadeo. Evidence.” He emitted a low, ironic laugh. “Stupid of me, even with my answering machine. So we met and, yes, I confess I ran the young man down. He had the paper with him, in his pocket. Dreadful, digging about in a dead man’s pockets.”

Max felt a sinking sensation. In the end there was no joy in learning that his speculations about the case had been accurate, only a despair that Tadeo and Jimmy should die for such paltry reasons.

“So, it all started because of a piece of art?”

Chase shrugged. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Ironic then, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“No more art for you. Ever. You’re going to be looking at the grey walls of a ten-by-eight cell for the rest of your life.”

He left the room without waiting for Chase to reply. His small bit of revenge for Tadeo’s death.

As he was going out the building, McCall, accompanied by Agent Henshaw, approached.

“You got a minute, Byrns?” Henshaw said. “We need to talk.”