City of Fire (12 page)

“Who the hell do you two think you are? I’ve done everything I can to help. Now I want my fucking lawyer.”

He said it. The magic words.

Now I want my fucking lawyer.

Lena got up from the table. “Who’s your attorney, Mr. Brant?”

“Buddy Paladino.”

BUDDY Paladino opened the glass door to the captain’s office and flashed that million-dollar smile. It was a big, wide-open spread that exposed his capped teeth and had become the man’s trademark. Lena guessed that over the past decade that smile appeared in every newspaper in the country, every cable channel on TV. The gesture wasn’t really directed at anyone in particular. Instead, Paladino flashed his dental work at anyone and everyone who looked his way. It was a smile, but it was also a warning, like a domesticated animal that appears tame but bites just as you reach down to pet it.

“Have you had a chance to speak with your client?” Barrera asked from behind the captain’s desk.

“I have, Lieutenant,” Paladino said in a smooth and creamy voice. “I have.”

“Then take a seat.”

The entire team had been waiting with Lieutenant Barrera in the captain’s office for over an hour, along with Roy Wemer, the deputy district attorney assigned to the case. Captain Dillworth was away on an early vacation, cruising the Mediterranean with his wife in anticipation of murder season, which usually got under way in June. But even when the captain was in town, his office was regularly used by detectives and never locked. The only conference table on the third floor was in this office, the end of the table pushed against the front of his desk. And the homicide logs were here—a library of bound ledgers summarizing every murder that occurred in
the county dating back to the nineteenth century. Lena found these books fascinating. Over the past two months, she’d examined the logs whenever she had a few minutes’ downtime or decided she needed a break. The books were split into two sections, the first amounting to a list of homicides kept in chronological order and filled in by hand. Beside the victim’s name was a page number referencing the case summary. The summaries were no longer than a paragraph or two, detailing the major components of the crime. And every time Lena read one she was reminded of how much the world had changed. How neurotic things were becoming with the march of progress in the so-called Technological Age. Between 1899 and 1929, the entire homicide log filled a single book. By the 1960s, a new volume was required for each year.

Buddy Paladino entered the room.

Lena watched the defense attorney settle into the open chair at the head of the conference table. His dark hair was cropped short and combed so neatly it could have been painted on his narrow skull with an airbrush. His suit and shirt were obviously handmade. She noted the manicured fingernails, the silk tie and gold watch, trying to calculate how much money it might take to get Buddy Paladino dressed and ready for the world every morning.

More than the value of her car, she figured. Maybe twice that.

It was 10:00 a.m. Saturday morning. Paladino had returned to Los Angeles from San Francisco on the first plane out. He arrived at Parker Center an hour and fifteen minutes ago, ordered coffee and croissants for his client, then closed the door to Room 2. Now he sat before them with his legs crossed, beaming from head to toe like a man who thrived on having an audience. Any audience, Lena imagined. Even a room stacked heavy with cops.

Buddy Paladino had made his mark as a criminal defense attorney after the 1992 riots. Most of his clients in the early days were underdogs. Most of his cases, pure fiction. He
began by targeting the department and soaking the taxpayers for hundreds of millions of dollars in damages. Although his courtroom antics were oftentimes outrageous, his techniques were flawless. A rumor was circulating through the department that Harvard Law School was devoting an entire course to his work next year and calling it “Precision: A Trial Attorney in the Real World.”

Once Paladino started to make headlines, however, he switched gears and began representing only those clients who could afford his burgeoning fees. Lena remembered reading about a case he handled five or six years ago. A college student stood accused of plowing his car through a crowd of people on a street that was shut down for October-fest. Three people died, fifteen more were injured, and a blood test indicated that the boy behind the wheel was using PCP. A bystander recorded the crime on videotape, and more than ten witnesses, including the student’s roommate, claimed the act had been deliberate. But the boy’s father was the CEO of TEC Energy Group and started writing checks payable to Buddy Paladino the night his son was arrested. In spite of the evidence, Paladino zeroed in on the car and its maintenance history. The mechanic owned a successful business but was a reformed alcoholic, and the attorney used his frequent meetings with a recovery group to destroy the man’s good reputation. Once Paladino tainted the car his client was driving, he focused on the condition of the street and a pothole that seemed particularly deep. When he was finished, the crime had the feel of an act of God, and the jury delivered a not-guilty verdict to the surprise of no one but the families of the victims. Two years later when the boy’s father stood accused of redirecting money earmarked for the pension fund to an account in the Bahamas, Paladino got him off as well with nothing more than a fine. A large fine, worthy of headlines on most business pages, but one the man could easily afford.

Buddy Paladino was a special kind of attorney, and his presence in the room made Lena feel uncomfortable. He was
slippery, but he was also extremely smart. No matter how good a case might seem on paper to the prosecution, Paladino was a genius at finding the loose end, unraveling it before a jury, and making everyone look like a fool.

He cleared his throat, his dark eyes sparkling as he ignored DDA Wemer and directed his full attention to Lieutenant Barrera.

“I’ve had a chance to speak with the young man,” he said. “Yes, I have. And I’ve read that statement you good people took down before he had the benefit of conferring with an attorney, which is his legal right.”

Barrera cut in, “Wait a minute, Counselor. He waived his rights and we’ve got it on videotape. When he asked for an attorney, we made the call. That was seven hours ago.”

“Yes, yes,” Paladino said. “It’s unfortunate that I was in San Francisco when I received the message. My flight was delayed because of fog. You have my apology, Lieutenant. All of you do.”

Lieutenant Frank Barrera’s approach to life was straightforward. He began his career in uniform, rose in the department by avoiding politics as best he could and downplaying the petty games that went with it. He was fair-minded, a good judge of character, and from what Lena could tell, had the support and respect of the detectives he supervised. But Frank Barrera was a busy man and liked people who got to the point. Buddy Paladino was a ballroom dancer—a magician—who may have risen from the streets but had also mastered the art of the shell game. From the guarded expression on Barrera’s face, it seemed to Lena that her supervisor had already lost his patience and was repulsed. Still, Lena had never seen Paladino in real life before and couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

“Is there a problem with the way your client has been treated?” the DDA asked.

“I’m not exactly sure, Mr. Wemer. I’m just not sure. Mr. Brant told me that he waived his rights because he thought he was assisting with the investigation, not a person of interest. The young man didn’t believe he was a suspect and wanted to do everything he could to help.”

Paladino stressed the word
help
, glancing at Lena. Had he been wearing a hat, she was sure he would have tipped it.

“Then what’s the problem, Counselor?” Barrera asked.

Paladino cleared his throat again. “It seems the young man wants a polygraph test.”

No one said anything for a long time. Barrera and Wemer smiled, and so did Paladino, though in a different way. But not Lena. And when she traded quick looks with Novak and Rhodes, they weren’t smiling either. Something was going on. Something they weren’t aware of or missed. She had never heard of a defense attorney agreeing to a polygraph performed by the police without first hiring an expert and trying it out on his own. Particularly an attorney of Paladino’s stature and experience.

“I’ve advised him against it, of course,” Paladino said. “But he insists. It seems the young man thinks he’s innocent of all charges. He’d like to clear up any discrepancies there might be between his statement and the statements of others. He’d like to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, so to speak. I never had the pleasure of meeting his wife, Lieutenant, but I understand that she was quite lovely. Everyone in this room knows exactly what will happen when the press picks up on this most unfortunate situation, particularly in light of its similarity to other crimes of the same nature making headlines these days. The young man would like the story to include the fact that he’s not hiding from anything or anyone. Far from it, he’s doing everything he can to cooperate with you good people and help find the poor soul who actually perpetrated this egregious crime.”

Paladino was slippery. For some inexplicable reason Lena thought about her car. It needed an oil change.

“The investigation is just getting started,” Barrera said evenly. “Mr. Brant has the opportunity to lower our suspicions. Taking a polygraph would be a great help.”

“I’m sure you realize, Lieutenant, that based on the evidence you have at this time, you have no right to hold Mr. Brant against his will. That his presence and participation is a voluntary act on his part. And that after the test, he will
walk through that door with me no matter what the outcome.”

Barrera’s eyes flicked to the door and back. When he nodded, Lena thought the gesture appeared tentative.

“When can you be ready?” Paladino asked.

“It’s Saturday,” Barrera said. “We’ll have to bring someone in.”

“Two hours,” Novak said.

Paladino checked his gold watch and looked back at Barrera. “Noon,” he said. “We’ll be ready at noon then.”

Paladino flashed that smile again, then rose from the chair and slithered out. Lena watched him cross the alcove, heading toward the interview rooms. When he shut the door to Room 2, Barrera shook his head and slapped the captain’s desk.

“I need a fucking bath,” he said. “What’s an accountant doing with a slime-bag lawyer like Paladino?”

“It turns out that Paladino knows the family,” Rhodes said.

“Brant’s father,” Sanchez added. “They grew up together.”

Barrera turned to Novak. “Why do you think Brant’s changed his mind and wants the polygraph?”

“Maybe he thinks he can beat it.”

“You better make sure he’s not on anything.”

DDA Wemer got out of his chair and started pacing by the window. He was a small, wiry man who had spent ten years as a prosecutor. They were working together on the Lopez case as well. As far as Lena knew, he hadn’t yet made a name for himself. When Wemer turned to Novak, he looked drained and particularly worried.

“You’re absolutely sure you’ve got the right man?” he asked.

Novak shrugged. “There’s a history of abuse pointing to motive. We found no signs of forced entry. There’s evidence to support that the victim wasn’t raped and knew the doer. That the doer spent at least three hours in the house after the murder, and that the murder weapon wasn’t brought in from
the outside. Brant offered an alibi, but we picked it apart and what’s left doesn’t make sense and can’t be verified.”

“It’s worse than that,” Rhodes said. “The doer attempted to wipe his semen off the dead body. If he’d come from the outside and was concerned about his DNA, he would’ve worn a condom. Instead he made the decision to clean her up after the fact.”

Barrera sat back in his chair, thinking it over. “The blood work comes in on Monday?”

“Late afternoon,” Novak said. “If we’re lucky.”

“What about fingerprints?”

“It’s early,” Novak said. “We’ve only had time to compare the prints in two rooms, but there’s no evidence of a third party.”

“So what you’re saying is that we can’t hold him until Monday. You heard Paladino. They’re out of here this afternoon no matter what. How bad’s it gonna be when he walks?”

While they had waited for Paladino to show up, Lena met with Lamar Newton and added the crime scene photos to the murder book. Now she opened the binder and laid it out on the desk. Barrera flipped through the pages with Wemer, eyeing the collection of images from yesterday’s visit to hell. Nikki Brant’s childlike body lying in a sea of blood. Her face poking through the rip in the grocery bag. Her breasts disfigured with bruises, and the semen wiped away from the sheet between her open legs.

“He’s a possible flight risk,” Lena said. “He’s no longer showing any remorse. His behavior appears erratic and unpredictable.”

Barrera reached the shot of the victim’s missing toe and pushed the binder away. “What’s wrong with these guys? Why don’t they just get a fucking divorce?”

It may have been the question of the century, Lena thought, but no one said anything. No one in the room had an answer.