Guilt by Association (38 page)

“Got it.” I nodded toward the door. “Go.”

Bailey opened it a fraction and looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then sprinted across the parking lot. She
stepped over the cinder-block wall and into the gas station. There were a few cars parked outside the now-closed service bay.
Bailey slipped between two of them and stood facing me. I waved from the office to show her I had her position. She lifted
her cell phone. One second later, I heard mine ring. I quickly shifted it to vibrate and answered.

“I’ve got you. I’m on my way out.”

“Remember to lock the office door and check to make sure the other one’s locked before you go,” Bailey replied, then hung
up.

I did as she said with the office door, then turned out the lights
as I went through the clinic. By the time I finished locking reception, the only light was in the waiting area. My spine tingled
with apprehension. I stopped and listened for a sound. Had I heard something? I looked around, seeing nothing but darkness.
The stillness of the office suddenly unnerved me, and I quickly moved to the front entrance. I forced myself to turn off the
light in the waiting room before opening the front door, so I could slip out as unobtrusively as possible. Then I closed the
door softly behind me. With shaking hands, I turned the upper dead bolt and the lock in the doorknob and ran around to the
staff parking lot as fast as I could without drawing attention to myself.

I stopped at the back corner of the clinic and looked around. The lot was dark, but life went on in the houses surrounding
the clinic, and in the gas station where Bailey was positioned. Somewhat reassured by the sight of others nearby, I took one
last glance to make sure no one was coming, then trotted over to Bailey’s car. I pressed the remote to unlock the door, jumped
in, and pulled out of the lot. I drove slowly toward Yucca, scanning for an empty spot on the street. I found one in front
of a tiny house that had been boarded up and graffitied, just west of North Cherokee Avenue. I backed into the space and turned
off the engine. I was parked near the clinic, with a clear view of the front door ahead of me.

I sank down to stay out of view and hoped no one would decide Bailey’s car needed breaking into tonight. Moments later, my
cell phone vibrated. I checked to make sure it was Bailey.

“Where are you?” she asked.

I told her.

“Good.” She clicked off.

On the street, young teenage boys were starting to gather into groups of two and three. Some leaned against street signs;
others against fences and the walls of houses. All were whip-thin, with long hair, almost androgynous. It wasn’t hard to imagine
Kit among
them. Or Dante. These thoughts were distractingly sad. I promised myself I’d find a way to help Dante climb out of this cesspool,
and made myself look away.

Bailey called twice more, checking in. The third time, she told me she was going in for a cup of coffee. If it’d been me,
I’d have been on my fifth cup and I’d still have been a frozen block of ice by now. “I’ll get out and cover you,” I said.

“Stay put. I don’t like you being seen getting in and out of that car. I’ll be fast,” she said.

I made a face at the phone and ended the call. Waiting was not my strong suit. Neither was sitting still.

“I got an e-mail from SID,” Bailey said during her fourth call. “Stayner’s DNA matched Susan’s nightgown.”

“Nice,” I replied. I was surprised by how anticlimactic this news was—we’d been so sure about Stayner that it hadn’t occurred
to me to worry he might not be the rapist. But now that it was official, someone could tell Janet and Susan and let them salvage
something out of the wreckage of their lives.

Bailey hung up, and I continued to watch the street.

Time passed. We checked in regularly. More time passed. Still nothing.

“I’ve got to get out and move around or I’ll lose it,” I said on our ninth call.

“Remind me never to bring you on a real stakeout,” Bailey groused. “Fine, cover me. I’ll take a bathroom break.”

“Take your time,” I replied.

I scanned the area to see if anyone was watching. There didn’t seem to be. I slipped out and closed the driver’s door as quietly
as possible, locked it with the key to avoid the “beep” of the remote, and moved down the alley along the side of the clinic,
toward the staff parking lot at the rear. There were a few bushes on the alley side of the building. I found a spot at the
corner nearest to the parking
lot and got between the bushes and the wall. The lot was still empty.

I was just about to head back toward the car when something flashed to my right. It looked like a light was on in the office.
If so, someone had gone in through the front door after I’d left the car—of course, the minute Bailey’d gone. It figured.
Scared but too curious to stop and think, I moved around to the front of the clinic and tested the doorknob. It turned in
my hand. I pushed through, slowly and quietly, my heart thudding like a bass drum.

I closed the door partway behind me but didn’t click it shut, afraid the sound would alert the suspect. I stood very still
and listened. There seemed to be movement in the first examination room, the one nearest to the reception desk. I felt in
my pocket for my .22, pulled it out, and flipped off the safety. I moved toward the reception area. I’d have to climb over
the security gate. I swung a leg up onto the counter and pulled myself over, then stepped down on the other side, one foot
at a time. The sound of footsteps emerging from the first examination room made me duck down, but they soon receded in the
direction of the second room. By the time I ventured to look out, the hallway was empty.

I duckwalked into the hall, intending to corner whoever it was inside the second examination room. I held my breath and moved
slowly, gun in both hands in front of me, pointed at the ground. I could feel my temple pulsing. I swallowed nervously as
I moved toward the doorway. At that same moment, the intruder stepped out. I barely had a second to register that it was a
woman when she swung her monstrous purse at my head. I ducked just in time, but as I raised my hands up for cover, the purse
struck my right forearm. Whatever was in that bag was mighty heavy. By the time I straightened up, the woman was running down
the hall toward the office.

I gave chase, blood pounding in my ears. She sprinted around
the corner and turned into the office. I followed, but just as I reached the end of the hall, she slammed the door. I threw
my body against it once, twice, and it flew open—just as she ran out the back door. Feet pounding on the asphalt, I chased
her through the parking lot. We were running toward Yucca Street and probably toward her car. I ran full-out, trying to gain
ground. As we hit the sidewalk, I knew there were only seconds left. In a combination of desperation and sheer stupidity,
I jumped, trying to tackle her. And missed. I barely got hold of her ankles, and my gun went flying. She went down, but I’d
fallen right behind her.

She got a foot free and landed a boot on my face, then turned over and started kicking me, hard and fast, in the chest and
head. I tried to hang on to the one ankle and roll to my side to get my head out of range, but she managed to lean forward
and pummel me with her fists, on the back, head, shoulders…. I felt myself starting to go under. My grip on her ankle loosened.
I felt her begin to stand up. In desperation, I threw my whole body into her legs, taking her down again. I heard a
whump
and a dull thud as she fell over. Still dazed, I straddled her back and saw that her head had hit the pavement—hard. Blood
trickled from her forehead. I looked around for my gun, knowing I couldn’t hold her down for long. I spotted it a few feet
behind me on the right. I leaned back and tried to reach for it, but just as I managed to get my fingers around the barrel,
she got her hands under her and abruptly shoved me backward. As I fell, I finally got ahold of my gun and slammed the grip
hard into the side of her head. She slumped just long enough for me to get an arm around her neck. Putting her in a choke
hold, I shoved the muzzle into the back of her head and yelled, “Don’t move!”

She finally lay still. Bleeding, bruised, my breath ragged, I thought,
Now what?

At just that moment, I heard the most welcome sound imaginable.

“I can take it from here, Knight. You can stand down,” Bailey said. “Or finish falling down. Whatever’s good for you.”

Relief rushed through me, and the adrenaline drained abruptly. My stomach lurched, and I crawled over to the bushes, where
I retched until there was nothing left.

When I’d finished, I sat on the ground, my back propped against the wall of the clinic. I looked at the woman, whose hands
were now cuffed behind her back. It was Evelyn Durrell. Office administrator. And, apparently, pornographer.

Bailey insisted I go
to the hospital, although I knew there was nothing really wrong with me. The doctors had taken X-rays and poked and prodded
me until I threatened a lawsuit, but in the end they found nothing had been broken or mangled. I was released that same night.

I took a long, hot shower; had a big, tall glass of Patrón Silver on the rocks; and fell into bed. In my dreams, the chase
replayed with alarming detail—right down to the pain I felt every time I tried to turn over.

I woke up the next day feeling like a bulldog’s chew toy. The slightest move made every muscle in my body scream. Needless
to say I called in sick. But apparently word of my exploits had spread fast. Not long after I’d called in, I got a big bouquet
of roses from Eric and the deputies in Special Trials, with a card that said I was pretty cool. Actually it said: “For Rachel,
who goes beyond the call of duty—and the pale of sanity.” Sweet. Graden had shown he knew who he was dealing with: he sent
me a bottle of Russian Standard Platinum vodka. He also sent a sweet note: “Do that again, and I’ll revoke your permit.”

I noticed I’d gotten nothing from Vanderhorn. I guessed that might have something to do with the fact that I’d tagged one
of his major campaign contributors for murder—what a spoilsport.

Toni’s trial was over, so she was free to fuss over me. She did such a thorough job of it, I finally had to tell her to go
watch television in the other room and let me get some work done. I had calls to make and research to do. Bailey was hard
at work too, and we compared notes throughout the day, including an interesting nugget on Stayner that Bailey’d dug up.

The following morning, I hobbled down to the hotel lobby and tried not to lean against the wall while I waited for Bailey.
There was no part of my body that didn’t hurt to be touched.

She pulled up in front of the Biltmore. I gingerly got into the car, trying not to wince.

“You look good,” Bailey said.

“Thank you,” I replied with as much dignity as my bruises and scratches would allow.

They were keeping Evelyn Durrell at the Hollywood Station jail. It was smaller and safer than some of the others, and the
detectives there were good friends of Bailey’s. Evelyn had told the officers who’d taken her in that she wanted to talk. But
our forty-eight hours ended today. That meant I had one chance to see what I could get out of her.

When Bailey and I walked into the small interview room, Evelyn Durrell was already there, cuffed to the table. I was gratified
to see that she looked bruised too. I glanced up to make sure the red light of the video camera was on. Then Bailey read Evelyn
her rights, and she waived them.

“Since we found the ionizers and cameras in your purse”—hence the heavy bag—“we’ve got you dead to rights on the pornography
charges,” I began. “I can’t even tell you how many counts you’ll be facing, but it’ll add up to a lot of years.” Evelyn already
knew she was in deep shit, but I wanted her to realize just how deep. “So if you think you’ve got information to bargain with,
it better be good.”

She lifted her chin, looking me in the eyes. “I know I do.”

She sounded pretty confident. We’d see if she had reason to be.

I decided to start with the most obvious point. “Stayner rounded up the kids for you, right?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied.

“So who first came up with the idea to use the clinic for child pornography?” I asked.

“Carl. He’d bring kids to the clinic a lot. We’d talk. He never told me what he was up to, but it didn’t take long to figure
out he was probably pimping them. After a while he brought up the pornography idea. Said those kids were selling it anyway,
so what difference did it make?”

Even if that was true, Evelyn had been a willing accomplice. Pretty cold for someone who works with kids.

“And Densmore, was he in on it?” I asked.

“Up to his neck,” she answered, her voice tinged with anger. “Matter of fact, that’s how Carl knew where he lived. Densmore
had him over to talk about putting cameras into the high-end clinics too.”

I shook my head. “I don’t buy it,” I said. “Densmore’s rich enough without this slime money. Why would he risk everything
by getting in bed with you and Stayner?”

“Because he’s one of ’em,” Evelyn said. “He likes boys.” She looked at me. “Didn’t know that, did you?” she asked, a slight
tinge of triumph in her voice.

As a DA in Los Angeles, few things had the ability to surprise me—this wasn’t one of them. Still, I had to push back.

“Why would I believe that?”

“Because I can prove it,” she replied smugly. “I’ve got him on videotape making it with one of those little hustlers in the
Hollywood clinic.”

I took a deep breath. “When?” I asked.

“A few years back,” she said. “But, trust me, he’s still at it. He likes ’em older. Eighteen, twenty.”

I paused a beat, considering what she’d said.

“You got Densmore on videotape with a hustler,” I said.

“You bet,” she said smugly.

I wanted to smack her. Really hard…

“That means you already had a camera in place, Evelyn. Your operation was already up and running.”