Buried Evidence (35 page)

Squinting from the glare, Richard pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and slipped them on. Even though it had been overcast that morning, the sun was out now, and the temperature had skyrocketed. His shirt was damp with perspiration. “You’re probably right,” he said. “You have to realize, though, that your position places you on a different level. You’re not the run-of-the-mill criminal, Lily. And don’t forget, Fred Jameson isn’t one of your biggest fans. From what I’ve heard, he believes you ruined his chances of getting promoted. Didn’t you accuse him of falsifying evidence in the Walter Evans homicide?”

“All I did was review the case for the appellate judge,” Lily told him, defensive. “He might have ended up with a notation in his personnel jacket. He wasn’t officially reprimanded. I called it the way I saw it. That’s what I got paid to do.”

“Wasn’t the conviction overturned?”

“Yeah,” Lily said, “but it didn’t pivot around anything related to Jameson. That case was rife with errors, from the street cops all the way to the judge.” She stared out over the pool before continuing. “Jameson didn’t call me, anyway. The person I spoke to identified himself as Keith O’Malley. What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch. “Eleven-fifteen.”

“Did you check out of the ranch?”

“No,” he said, standing and following her back across the yard. “I rushed straight over here. I’ll have to go back and get my things if you want me to stay here tonight.”

“I’ll leave you my key,” Lily told him. She saw he was about
to speak, and she knew exactly what he was going to say. “You’re not going with me, Richard. It’s not even up for discussion.” She shot him a firm look, then added, “If you want to do something to help me, loan me your car. I let Shana take the Audi back to Los Angeles. I don’t think it would be wise for me to pull up at the police station in the same car I was driving when I shot Hernandez.”

“God, woman, why would you keep the car?” Richard exclaimed. “There might still be evidence inside it.”

Richard and Lily shared a number of common traits, but like most individuals, they reacted differently under stress. She liked to have everything under her thumb just as much as he did, yet she was more of a trooper, whereas Richard could become overly excitable. She couldn’t blame him, however, for wanting to protect himself. “I kept the Honda for the same reason you just mentioned,” she told him. “I’m not certain the top forensic team in the world could find anything in that car after this long. At the same time, technology is moving at such lightning speeds that we can’t be sure.” She gave him a sour look. “Three months from now, the entire science of forensics may have changed. It’s time the Honda disappears, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” he told her, scowling. “And please, don’t tell me you’re going to sell it. That wouldn’t make any sense.”

Lily managed a weak smile. “Why do you think I still have the damn thing? If you have a suggestion, I’m more than willing to listen.”

Richard shook his head. “I don’t want you to handle this,” he insisted. “While you’re in Ventura, I’ll find a wrecking yard, then drive the car over.”

“No good,” she said, a breeze whipping her hair off her face. “The police will want to impound the car if they’ve decided to reopen the case. How could I ask you to dispose of evidence for me?”

“You didn’t ask, remember?” Richard smiled. “I offered.”

“No,” she protested, explaining why she had ruled out the wrecking yard as an option. “Maybe it would be safer for me to
keep it. If they ask about the car, I’ll just tell them I don’t have it.”

“Lily,” he said, holding onto her arm, “listen.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, jerking away, “I’m listening.”

“This is what I’m going to do,” Richard told her, his agitation gone now that he had formulated a plan. “After you leave for Ventura, I’ll go to a hardware store and buy some tools. Then I’ll come back here and remove all the VIN numbers on the car, both on the engine and the frame, leaving only the license plate. That way I won’t get stopped by the police. As soon as it gets dark, I’ll drive it up in the mountains behind the ranch, find an isolated spot, then push the car over the cliff. When I go out to the hardware store, I’ll make a preliminary run up there to check out the area. If I pick the right spot, they may never find the car. Even if they do, they won’t be able to identify it or manage to trace it back to you.”

This was Richard Fowler the prosecutor, Lily thought, calling to mind the chalkboard he had kept in his office in Ventura—how he used to map out each and every detail, assembling the events of the crime piece by piece until he finally came up with a picture he was certain would convince a jury to deliver a guilty verdict.

“How are you going to get back here?”

“I have two feet,” Richard said. He patted the small roll around his midsection. “And a little exercise won’t kill me. All I have to do is walk down the hill, then I’ll stop by the Plow & Angel, have a few drinks, and catch a cab back here to your place.”

Lily started to protest, then stopped herself. He wanted to do this; she could read it on his face. This was his way of reassuring her that whatever happened in the future, he was in too deep to walk away.

R
ICHARD HAD
loaned Lily his cell phone, and on the forty-five-minute drive to Ventura, her thoughts turned to Bruce Cunningham. She called and asked the operator for the number to the
company the police had told her he worked for—Jineco Equipment Corporation. She had located the company’s Web page several months back and had thought of sending the former detective an e-mail, wanting to tell him that she was okay and had taken another job as a prosecutor. “They have a toll-free number,” the operator said. “Do you want me to give it to you?”

“Yes,” she answered, repeating it several times so she wouldn’t forget, then quickly punched the numbers into the dial pad. As soon as a female voice came on the line, she gave her name and asked to speak to Bruce Cunningham.

“I was wondering when you were going to get around to calling me,” Cunningham said, his deep voice resounding in her ear.

Lily smiled, feeling as if she had reconnected with a powerful force. “How is your family? You know, the wife and kids.”

“Fine,” he said. “The youngest went off to college this year.”

“Your job?”

“Great,” he said, pausing for several moments. “What’s going on? You didn’t call me just to shoot the breeze, did you? A fellow claiming to be a detective called here a few days back, asking questions about the Hernandez homicide. Said his name was Fred Jameson. Do you know him?”

The phone slid out of Lily’s hands. Richard had tried to warn her that Jameson might be involved, but knowing that he had already gone to the trouble to track Bruce Cunningham meant the police were not merely mulling over reopening the Hernandez case, as she had hoped.

She parked along the side of the freeway, bending down to pick up the phone off the floorboard, assuming Cunningham had been disconnected. About to hit the redial button, she glanced at the LCD display, then brought the phone back to her ear.

“I’ve been waiting for them to outlaw driving with those damn phones,” Cunningham said before Lily began speaking. “How many people do you think have been killed because some bozo was driving down the road talking on his phone, not paying attention? At the very least, they should make it mandatory that
people wear a headset, or that they have one of those speaker phones installed in their cars. What do you think, Forrester?”

“You haven’t changed, Bruce,” she said, swallowing hard before continuing. “What did you tell Jameson when he called?”

“About you or about the case in general?”

“All of the above,” Lily said, seeing the sign for the Victoria Boulevard exit only a short distance away.

“I didn’t tell him anything that would incriminate you,” the former detective said, carefully measuring his words. “All I said was Hernandez was a rotten apple, and I didn’t think the man merited a waste of the taxpayers’ money to put his killer behind bars.”

“A detective named O’Malley called and insisted that I come down today,” Lily told him, the muscles in her neck and back tightening. “I’m about to pull into the parking lot of the police department right now.”

“When you think about it,” Cunningham said wisely, “you might be better getting this out in the open rather than spending the rest of your life waiting for it to jump out and bite you.”

With the stress she was under, Lily wondered if Cunningham was suggesting that she clear her conscience and confess. By accepting whatever punishment the state imposed, would she finally free not only herself but the individuals she’d held captive by involving them in her crime? She had already confessed to Cunningham six years before. He had taken it upon himself to withhold the information she had given him. She had not pleaded with him, or coerced him in any way. Unlike the impulsive act Lily had committed, Cunningham had carefully weighed the circumstances and arrived at his decision that sending Lily to prison would not constitute an act of justice.

Bruce Cunningham had sacrificed both his moral and professional integrity in order that a daughter would not lose her mother at the time when she needed her the most; the state would not forfeit a brilliant and dedicated attorney; and the death of a man who had killed brutally and without provocation on two separate occasions would not be avenged.

After parking the car, Lily began walking toward the front
entrance of the police station, the heat of the midday sun and the intensity of emotion causing her to feel as if her feet were made of cement. If the Ventura D.A.’s office accepted the case for prosecution, Cunningham would be subpoenaed to testify, in addition to the two people who were the closest to her heart—her daughter and Richard Fowler. How would she feel if Shana, Richard, and Cunningham were forced to stand in the witness box with their hands on the Bible, listening to the bailiff pose the age-old question echoing inside her head? “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

A
t one-fifteen Saturday afternoon Lily was ushered into an interview room at the Ventura Police Department by Detective Keith O’Malley. A tall, good-looking man in his late thirties, he had blond hair and a ruddy complexion. Fred Jameson was already seated at the table.

“Did you have a pleasant drive?” Jameson asked, smirking. “I love that stretch of freeway, the way it runs parallel to the ocean. I used to fantasize about owning a beach house one day. There’s this one area. What’s it called? You know what I’m talking about, Lily. Lots of trees, sort of juts out into the ocean.”

So this is how he wanted to play it, Lily thought, slowly lowering herself into the chair.” There’s several areas like the one you described,” she said, setting her purse down on the table. “Did you call me down here to talk about real estate?”

O’Malley was standing behind Lily. He made the time-out sign with his hand, wanting to remind Jameson that Captain Nelson had placed him in charge of the investigation.

Jameson ignored him. “This place, well,” he continued, “it reminds me of a cheaper version of that fancy section in Malibu where all the movie stars have their homes. Of course, on a detective’s salary, the only kind of oceanfront real estate I’ll ever be able to afford would be next to that sewage plant in Channel Islands. Now, if someone hadn’t falsely accused—”

“Knock it off, Fred,” O’Malley barked. He set a tape recorder in the center of the table. He then proceeded to read Lily her Miranda rights. Once he was finished, he pulled out a chair and took a seat at the head of the table.

“The area in Malibu is called the Colony,” Lily said, fixing him with a steely gaze. “When people used to mention it when I
was a kid, I thought they were referring to an ant colony. Maybe you should check it out, Fred. You might fit in perfectly.”

Keith O’Malley placed his large hands on the table. “We’re here to discuss the homicide of Bobby Hernandez.” He stated the date and time and, as a safeguard, asked Lily once more if she was waiving her right to have an attorney present during questioning.

“I am an attorney,” Lily told him, one corner of her mouth curling into a smile.

“That’s not the question,” O’Malley said, pulling his collar away from his neck.

“Yes,” she said, leaning forward. “I waive my right to an attorney.”

The detective pulled out a piece of paper, questions he and Jameson had prepared over the past two days. “Did you know Bobby Hernandez?”

“No.”

“You do know who I am referring to?”

“Not necessarily,” Lily answered, crossing her arms over her chest. “Bobby Hernandez is a common name.”

“Cut the crap,” Jameson interjected. “You know the guy we’re talking about, damn it. This isn’t a courtroom. It’s not like you’re on the witness stand.”

“Didn’t you read me my rights?” Lily asked, pointing at the tape recorder. “You’re recording this conversation. And you just informed me that whatever I say can be used against me in a court of law.”

“May I handle this, Fred?” O’Malley said, beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead.

“Handle your partner, O’Malley,” Lily said, her temper surfacing. “He’s already wasted enough of my time today. I agreed to speak to you without an attorney. Return the courtesy by conducting yourself in a professional manner.”

Jameson left the room to cool down. Not only did he have a personal agenda when it came to Lily, he’d never gone head to head with a district attorney, and certainly not one as cunning and strong-willed as Lily Forrester.

O’Malley waited until he heard the door close behind the other man, then turned back to Lily. “Bobby Hernandez was identified as one of the five gang members who killed Carmen Lopez and Peter McDonald. Since you prosecuted that case, Ms. Forrester, I’m certain you recall Mr. Hernandez.”

“Now that you’ve clarified yourself,” Lily told him, “the answer to your question is yes.”

“Fine,” he said. “How did it come to light that Hernandez had participated in the McDonald-Lopez killings?”