Guilt by Association (26 page)

Paperwork, the scourge of all cops. I had to admit, it would be embarrassing if Bailey had to write me up for illegal weapon
possession. And the possibility had grown considerably since I’d become someone’s favorite target. Besides, now that I could
count on support
from both Bailey and Graden, there was no way I’d get turned down.

“Fine. Set it up. I’ll get the friggin’ permit,” I said, grouchy with the knowledge that this would mean paperwork for me.

“You know, a normal person would be glad to do it,” Bailey said. Realizing that meant nothing to me, she shifted gears. “Think
Pickelman’s our guy?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he knows who is. Or maybe he’s guilty of something else.”

“Glad you could narrow it down,” Bailey replied.

“Always here for ya.”

We were about
two blocks from the Biltmore when my cell phone hummed in my purse. I fished it out absently. “Yep.”

“Rachel?”

I recognized Graden’s voice.

“It is.”

“I called because I’m in the neighborhood, wanted to say hey…”

His purposely neutral tone made my ears perk up. Beyond that, neither of us ever said hey, and there was nothing special about
him being in the neighborhood, since we both worked in the area. I deduced he was letting me know he wasn’t in a safe place
to talk. Likely because the FBI clones Ted and Fred were standing at his shoulder.

“Can you meet me at the bar?” he asked quietly.

I would’ve liked to have had a few minutes to pull myself together. My hair was still a mess, and I was dying to wash the
county jail off me. But I knew why he’d called, and I didn’t want to put this off just to spruce up. I’d have to suck it up
and let him see the real me.

“See you in five,” I replied, and hung up.

I snapped my phone shut and gathered my briefcase and purse. If I ran, I could make it to my room in time to spray on some
cologne and run a comb through my hair. It wasn’t much, but it was better
than nothing. I was calculating how long it would take to run for the elevator and get up to my room when Bailey broke in.

She must have heard it was Graden on the phone, because as she pulled to the curb, she turned and gave me the once-over. “I’d
get to a mirror if I were you.”

I jumped out of the car, saying, “I’ll call you later.”

I ran for the door as Bailey peeled out. Some big meeting had just concluded, and a group of office workers crowded the entrance.
I mentally groaned with frustration as I slowly wove my way through them. I trotted across the lobby and hurriedly pushed
the elevator button, facing its brass doors to shield myself from the public eye. Unfortunately the polished doors gave me
a full-on view of my reflection. My mascara had run into circles under my eyes, my hair hung in limp, scraggly clumps, and
I’d managed to smudge the collar of my blouse with… who knows what. It couldn’t have been food—my hollow stomach told me that
much. The sign above the elevator told me it had just stopped on the second floor. And then, of course, the inevitable happened.

“Rachel, hey,” Graden said as he came up beside me and touched my arm.

I fought down the wild urge to run and made myself turn to him and smile coolly. “Hey.”

He looked at me, and a smile tugged at his lips. “You’ve had quite a day.”

“What makes you say that?” When in doubt, brazen it out.

He chuckled. “I’m betting you wanted to clean up before I got here.”

Busted, I felt no need to state the obvious. I sighed in defeat.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll order the drinks.”

I made my way up to my room, repaired what I could quickly, and slid into the booth across from him just ten minutes later.
Two icy martinis sat invitingly in the middle of the table. I saw that Graden’s was still untouched.

He nodded toward the drinks. “Nice timing. They just got here. I knew you cleaned up well, but I didn’t know you did it that
fast,” he said with an appreciative glance at my combed hair and change of blouse.

Before he could ask about my day and force me into a lie I didn’t have prepared, I quickly changed the subject. “You’ve still
got the Feds breathing down your neck?”

“Oh yeah. They want to get the credit for solving this one, so they’re here to stay until the case gets cleared.”

“You still working on it with them, or have they shut you out?”

“They’re not ready to dump me just yet. If they get rid of me and then get stuck, they’ll look bad. So we’re doing a little
dance where they try to hoard all the toys and squeeze me for ideas,” Graden said, shaking his head.

“Does that mean you can’t…?”

Graden cracked the smallest of smiles. “No, it means you should be impressed at how I overcame these obstacles to slay your
dragon.”

I felt something tickle my right knee under the table and looked down to see that it was a small manila envelope. He’d managed
to get the photograph of Kit Chalmers that had been found on Jake. I took it and gingerly slid it into my purse.

“Don’t worry, it’s already been processed for prints and all,” Graden assured me.

I looked at him with gratitude. “I am impressed. I can’t thank you enough, Graden. I know this was risky.”

“It was. But it was worth it. I can’t say what the Feds are doing, but I can say this much: the more I see the way they’re
pursuing this, the more I think it’s a good thing that you’re looking into it yourself.”

I took in this sobering information. Whatever hope I’d had that the FBI would look beyond the obvious and possibly find an
innocent
explanation for Jake’s presence in that motel room evaporated in that moment. It was all on me now. Me and Bailey.

“I’ll do whatever I can, Rachel. But you’ve got to be careful. You get caught, and you’ll be lucky if all you lose is your
job.”

Disbarment, possible arrest for obstruction… those were the least of my worries, after having my car savaged and getting shot
at and kidnapped. But I decided this probably wasn’t the best time to tell him that. Instead, I proposed a toast.

“To my new career in ostrich farming.”

We clinked glasses carefully and sipped our martinis. I filled Graden in on the fact that we’d been able to eliminate Luis
Revelo as the rapist—though of course I didn’t tell him about our visit to Bauchet Street. And I told him about our contact
with Duane Pickelman, who was starting to look good for the rape.

“You’ve got tabs on him, right?” Graden asked when I’d finished telling him about Duane’s refusal to come in for DNA tests.

“As much as we can. Bailey’s getting the court order as we speak.”

Graden nodded, though he didn’t look all that hopeful. He wasn’t wrong—getting a judge to authorize forcible testing on someone
who hadn’t been arrested yet was no easy thing. But I didn’t want to make that arrest until I was damn sure I had the right
guy. The defense always loves to tell the jury about all the people we arrested and had to release before we finally landed
on his client. It doesn’t look great, to put it mildly.

From there, we segued into judges we did and didn’t like, which of course took us to Toni and J.D. and how much we admired
them, singly and as a couple.

“He was a great guy on the force too,” Graden remarked. “I wish I knew what his problem was.”

“What do you mean?”

“With Toni. I know he’s really into her, but he never manages to pull the trigger.” Graden shook his head, confused.

“I figured it was a commitment-phobia thing on both sides.”

“Uh, I think maybe on just one side.”

I looked at Graden quizzically.

“I think she’s commitment-phobic. He’s afraid to get turned down.”

“Seriously? Are you sure about that?”

Graden shrugged. “In my experience, women tend to think men are commitment-challenged when the truth is, we’re a lot more
willing to settle down than most women are.”

This conversation had taken an unexpectedly serious—and uncomfortable—turn. My own uneasiness with the topic forced me to
consider the possibility that he was right. I had to admit that the moment any man wanted me to say I wouldn’t see anyone
else, I felt the walls closing in. That moment had led to the death of more than one relationship. At least it had until Daniel.
I caught myself midrumination and realized that Graden was waiting for a reaction.

“They do say that single women are a lot happier than single men,” I joked, tossing back my drink.

He acknowledged my deft evasion with a small smile. “Another one?”

I looked into my glass. “This one does seem to be empty.”

We moved on to lighter topics, including my intention to get a gun permit, and we chatted and laughed companionably as customers
came and went. Graden walked me to the elevator.

“By the way, I’ll approve your permit,” he said.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I
am
confident… that you’ll carry anyway,” Graden replied, chuckling.

I laughed my acknowledgment, and he joined me. I didn’t feel a pressing need to tell him I’d been carrying all along.

The elevator dinged its arrival, and when the door opened, I put out my hand to hold it there.

“Thank you,” I said on a more serious note. “For everything.”

He looked into my eyes for a moment. “Any time,” he replied softly.

Back in the room, unsure whether I was buzzed from that look or the two martinis, I watched some television then showered
and fell into bed early. The possibility of a serious relationship with Graden floated luminously in the distance. Whether
it would materialize—whether I even wanted it to—was unclear. Too tired to ponder the question further, I closed my eyes and
was asleep within minutes.

When I awoke the next morning,
I uncharacteristically popped straight up, jangling with a sense of urgency. There was something I had to do right away.
What was it? I got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face.

Then I remembered. I quickly threw on some jeans and a sweater, grabbed my laptop and purse, and ran out to the elevator.
I got off at the second floor and went straight to the corporate office of the hotel.

“Zoey, do you mind if I use your scanner for a quick minute?” I said.

Zoey was not exactly who you’d expect to see in the corporate office of a huge hotelier. She’d been born in the ’60s, so hippies
were an artifact by the time she was old enough to become one. Undaunted, Zoey wore colored granny glasses and dressed in
wide, colorful skirts, sandals, and beads. Incense always seemed to circle the air around her long hair. Zoey never walked;
she flowed like a babbling brook—everything about her was mellow. Yet she managed to run the office like a Swiss clock. It
was an act of legerdemain: she moved at warp speed while appearing to stand still.

Zoey looked over the top of her granny glasses. “Sure, man, help yourself. Want me to show you?”

“No, that’s cool. I know how.”

I went over to the scanner and prepared all the settings, then slipped the photograph of Kit onto the platen, closed the cover,
and hooked up my computer. Within seconds, I’d captured the image, stuck the photograph back into my purse, and disconnected.

Zoey was on the telephone, so I mouthed my thanks. She waved, and I headed back to my room. I quickly opened my laptop; drafted
an e-mail to Clive, my vigilante buddy; and attached Kit’s picture.

I was about to tuck the photo back into the zippered pocket inside my purse when I stopped to study it again. Kit didn’t appear
to be posing—in fact, the shot seemed to have caught him in an unguarded moment. In spite of all the cool-guy tatts and piercings,
Kit had the hollow-eyed look of a lost child. I felt my heart twist at the sight. I’d seen that look on the faces of too many
kids in juvenile court. The ones who’d been brought into the world by accident and left to grow like weeds. The closest they
ever got to finding a parental figure who cared enough to lay down some rules was the judge and their probation officer. I
turned my attention back to the picture and studied the background area behind Kit, looking for clues as to where it had been
taken. There wasn’t much to go on. No tables, no chairs, no furniture. But I did notice that there was a vertical black line
in the background. I held the photo closer. What was that? Was it on the wall behind Kit, or just some artifact caused by
a flaw in the camera? I couldn’t tell. I made a mental note to check it out with a magnifying glass and went to shower.

I’d just finished toweling off when my phone rang.

“Dress casual,” Bailey said, the sounds of traffic behind her telling me she was in the car.

I put my jeans back on and topped them off with a long-sleeved T-shirt and heavy cable-knit black sweater. I did a quick,
perfunctory job on my makeup and hair, then checked my e-mail. Clive had written to say that he’d gotten the photograph and
that he’d let me
know what he found out. Feeling efficient and for once loving our computer age, I closed my laptop, stuffed it into the carrying
case, grabbed my purse, and had one foot out the door when I realized I’d forgotten my nemesis. Even though I’d be with Bailey,
if we were going casual, that meant we’d be outside. I tromped back into the room, dragged the bulletproof vest out of the
closet, and grumpily took off my heavy sweater. After I’d strapped myself into the vest and gotten redressed, I stomped out,
feeling like a child who’d been forced to wear saddle shoes instead of sneakers.

“I can’t believe I have to wear this thing the whole damn day,” I said when I got into Bailey’s car.

She just looked at me. “Deal, Knight.”

I tried to cross my arms in front of me indignantly, but the vest made the reach too wide and they slid apart. Out of the
corner of my eye, I saw Bailey smirk.

We turned onto Fairfax and headed south. As we crossed Beverly Boulevard, the famed hangout known as the Oki-Dog came into
view. It was only 10:30, too early for the outdoor tables to have filled up, so we’d have the place to ourselves for a little
while. As Bailey parked in a public lot across the street, I marveled at the popularity of this dumpy little hut. With its
barred windows and fading paper signs announcing the various forms of its artery cloggers du jour, it couldn’t by any stretch
be called inviting. But for some reason it attracted a wide array of devoted customers. And if baby gangster Hector Amaya
had been telling the truth, one of them had set him up for the burglary in Susan’s neighborhood. Once we figured out who that
guy was, we could work on why he’d done it. It might not be related to the rape, but if it was, we’d be a big step ahead.