Guilt by Association (6 page)

Susan took a deep breath and opened the door, then stepped in and stopped to the right of it, unwilling to go any farther
than she had to. Bailey and I filed past her into a bedroom that was larger than most houses. It had a sitting room lined
with closets and a huge bathroom with a steam sauna shower. The south wall was almost fully occupied by a set of glass French
doors that led onto a balcony overlooking the back grounds. Her king-size bed—covered with a custom duvet colored in soft
rose and blue flowers—was to the left of the window, just five feet away.

“So, Susan, what grade are you in now?” I asked conversationally, although I already knew she was fifteen years old.

“I’m a sophomore,” she replied in a small voice that sounded like she was closer to twelve.

The rape-kit exam indicated she’d probably been a virgin too, and judging by her shy demeanor and buttoned-up style, I’d bet
that was true. Of course, I couldn’t be sure until I asked her; looks could be deceiving. Not that it mattered from a legal
standpoint—rape was rape regardless—but knowing Susan’s specific situation would let me find the right tack in handling our
interviews and
preparing her for court. To do that, I had to establish some rapport so she’d open up and talk to me—no easy task after what
she’d been through. I gazed out the window and wished for the thousandth time that rape were punishable by penis removal…
with a rusty knife.

“You go to Pali High?” I asked. Ordinarily I’d have assumed that a girl living in a mansion and neighborhood like this went
to a private school. But Palisades Charter High School was no ordinary public school. Due in no small part to the generous
donations that were solicited throughout the year, it had all the perks of a private school and then some.

Susan nodded but said nothing more. I continued with nonthreatening get-to-know-you questions. “How is it being a sophomore?
A little better than your freshman year?”

“I guess, maybe.” Her gaze slid off to the doorway, where I figured she’d like to be headed. Out of the corner of my eye,
I saw that while I was trying to loosen Susan up, Bailey was looking around the room, gathering some firsthand impressions.

I tried again, hoping to help her let go of what had happened in this room. “What’s your favorite subject this year?”

Susan shrugged, still not looking at me. “I don’t know. English, I guess.”

Aha. A hook.
“Really? That was mine too. What are you reading?”

“
Animal Farm
by George Orwell,” she replied with as much animation as I’d seen since we shook hands.

“I read that too,” I said, smiling. “What’d you think of it?”

“Um, I liked it, actually,” Susan said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “At first, you just think it’s funny, but
then it’s, like, about so much more. You know?”

“Yep. That book was so good, even school couldn’t ruin it,” I remarked with a little smile.

I was rewarded with Susan’s conspiratorial grin and brief nod. I
hated to spoil the moment, but I knew we’d have to start talking about the case sometime. I intended to ease in and let her
tell as much as she wanted to for now, then fill in the parts she couldn’t handle at a later date. I looked around the room
for a moment, then back at Susan. This time, she returned my gaze. She was ready.

“Were you awake
when he came into your room?” I asked.

“No, but I know he came in through there,” she said as she pointed to the French doors that led to the balcony. She looked
at the bed as her next words poured out in a torrent. “I was asleep. Then he jumped on my bed. He pushed a pillow over my
face, and I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die.” She paused after she said this and took a breath.

I would bet there were times she’d wished she had.

“Susan, we don’t have to get into the details right now.”

“It’s okay… I’d rather just tell you and get it over with, you know?”

I really did. If the questions that force you to relive the nightmare are unavoidable, it’s better to answer them right away
and get at least that part of the suffering over with. Postponing the inevitable only added days of dreaded anticipation to
the pain. I nodded and squeezed her arm for support, then gestured for us to sit on the upholstered chest at the foot of the
bed. As we moved into the room, I scanned the view through the French doors and made a mental note.

Susan took another deep breath. Staring at the floor, she began to speak. “I never saw him. All I know is I woke up with him
on top
of me. I tried to scream, but I had the pillow in my face, so nothing came out. Then he pulled up my nightgown and…”

She stopped, and I waited for her to recover. I hated putting any rape victim through this, but it was especially awful with
Susan. She seemed so young, so vulnerable. Just like Romy. As it had countless times before, my mind replayed my last moments
with her: my seven-year-old self saying,
“Come on, Romy, you’re not even trying! Hide better!”
Romy, shaking her head good-naturedly, walking away. The memory tightened my chest with pain and guilt, and I had to force
myself to breathe past the moment.

I was about to prompt Susan to continue but thought better of it. There was no need. I knew her rape kit had not yielded any
semen, but that wasn’t surprising—her vaginal swab had revealed lubricant of the type generally found on condoms. So he was
a careful rapist, but he hadn’t been careful enough. They’d found DNA on the nightgown that didn’t match Susan or anyone else
in the house. That was the good news. The bad news was that it didn’t match anyone in the state database either. Whoever had
done it didn’t have a criminal record, or had one in another state, or hadn’t been asked to submit bodily fluids. I’d already
made a note to myself to check and see if the so-called gangbanger Susan had been tutoring was in the DNA database. Ordinarily
I’d have been fairly certain that the first detective would have taken care of something this routine, but with Useless Hughes
Lambkin, you had no such assurance.

Based on the photographs and doctors’ reports I’d seen, there was a thinning to the hymen, which indicated there’d been sexual
penetration, and there was some degree of vaginal tearing. It was better than nothing in terms of ruling out consensual sex,
but it wasn’t a slam dunk. The fact that a condom had been used didn’t help much either. Still, from what I’d seen so far,
Susan would make a compelling witness. Providing I could find someone to arrest.

“Did you see any part of him—his face, maybe in profile? Or his back? Do you remember any particular smell?” I asked.

Susan shook her head thoughtfully. “I’ve tried to remember, but I was afraid to pull off the pillow until he was gone. In
case he might come back and…” She stopped and frowned to herself.

“I don’t blame you. I would’ve been afraid too, Susan,” I reassured her.

She nodded, took another breath, and continued. “I think he left through the balcony, because the French doors were still
open, and I would’ve heard if he’d left through my bedroom door.”

I nodded. The French doors opened onto a semicircular balcony. Those doors now sported a not-so-decorative bolt-style lock.
I scanned the room. Probably the crime scene tech had gotten all there was to get, but again, with Lambkin in charge, I had
reason to doubt. Bailey noticed my look and nodded.

“Susan, would you mind if we had another crime scene technician take a look around?” Bailey asked. “We’ll be neat.”

“I don’t care. I don’t sleep here anymore,” Susan admitted. “I took the maid’s old room. I don’t even get dressed here.”

I couldn’t blame her. I got up to go, but Susan reached out and touched my arm, stopping me.

I turned to her.

She darted a furtive look at the doorway, then whispered with urgency, “Don’t listen to my dad. It wasn’t Luis. I know it
wasn’t!”

Luis, the gangbanger, I knew from the file.

Struck by the vehemence in her tone, I asked, “What makes you say that?”

Susan shook her head sadly. “I know you must think I’m some little sheltered rich girl, and I am. But I’m not stupid. And
I know Luis. He worked hard. He was looking to get out of his… situation. He might be a lot of things; he probably is. But
he’s not a rapist. And he’d never hurt me.”

“Are you…?” I began.

She shook her head rapidly. “He’s just a friend.”

“Any idea where we might be able to find him?”

Susan dipped her head and looked at the floor. “No. I never knew where he lived. And I haven’t seen him since…”

We knew he’d been in the wind ever since the rape, which did not help his cause any—Susan knew it too. It wasn’t proof beyond
a reasonable doubt, but I couldn’t blame Frank Densmore for thinking otherwise. I always kept an open mind to all possibilities
in the beginning of a case, but I had to admit that finding Luis was at the top of our to-do list.

I looked at Susan. Rich and sheltered, she certainly was, but she was a tough little thing for all that. And her willingness
to stand up to her father for this Luis guy was impressive, even though it might be ill-advised. I had a feeling Daddy was
always right, even when he wasn’t. Densmore didn’t seem like an easy person to stand up to.

We headed downstairs, and all of us were relieved to find that Daddy Dearest was gone.

“He had to go back to the office,” Janet explained. “He’s running six pediatric health centers,” she said apologetically.
“All the kids in the neighborhood go to him. And then he’s got his charity work,” she said, a tinge of pride creeping into
the apology. She sighed. “He’s spread awfully thin.”

He didn’t seem the saintly type, but there was no benefit in arguing the point with Mrs. Densmore. I figured nearly all of
his clinics were in high-dollar neighborhoods. More businessman than doctor nowadays, Densmore rarely saw patients. “Not a
problem,” I said.

“By the way, I noticed the bike rack,” Bailey said, nodding toward the Cayenne in the driveway. “Who’s the cyclist in the
family?”

“Both of us,” Janet replied. “But Frank’s the real enthusiast. He does those marathon rides for charity. I tried it once,
but…” She shook her head and gave Bailey a measuring look. “I bet you can do them.”

Bailey nodded. “On a good day.”

That, I knew, was bullshit. Bailey was a monster on two wheels.

Janet looked at me questioningly, but I shook my head. “Not me. Those crazy rides are a bridge too far.” This pulled a little
smile out of Janet. I got her permission for a “do over” for the crime scene techs in Susan’s bedroom, and we said our good-byes
for the time being.

As I got into Bailey’s car, I noticed a twenty-four-hour neighborhood patrol vehicle roll by. It said
PALISADES SECURITY—24-HOUR PATROL
on the driver’s-side door.

“We should check out the security patrol for this joint. They might have some ideas about who had access to the house,” I
said.

Bailey nodded. “They might be on that list themselves.”

“Might be,” I agreed. It wouldn’t be the first time the security was actually the culprit, though I expected the background
checks for a company that worked in neighborhoods like this were pretty thorough—if only to avoid the inevitable lawsuit if
a baddie slipped through the cracks. “Did Useless door-knock the neighborhood?”

“Report says he did, but he doesn’t list any leads. My bet is he kissed off whatever the uniforms got as a dead end so he
wouldn’t have to do the follow-ups. I’m starting over with my own team,” Bailey said, her voice grim and shaded with disgust.
“We’ll run rap sheets on everyone, check ties to the Densmores, alibis—the whole shootin’ match. Start with neighbors tomorrow.”

“Make sure someone’s working on finding our gangbanger Luis Revelo while you’re at it—”

“Got it,” Bailey interjected.

She hated when I stuck in my two cents—especially on the obvious stuff. This never stopped me.

“Lot of workers in a place like this too,” I continued. “Pool men, gardeners, personal trainers—”

“Contractors, architects, carpenters, decorators—yeah.” Bailey’s tone told me I was pushing it now.

“Decorators?”

She shrugged. “Can’t get stuck on stereotypes.”

The decorators I’d met wouldn’t even walk
around
a ladder, let alone climb one to break into a young girl’s bedroom, but Bailey was right about stereotypes. “Have at ’em.”

We headed east on Sunset, now at a crawl through the thick commuter traffic.

“What do you think?” Bailey asked.

I watched as the neighborhood gave way to meaner streets and tiny storefronts bearing signs in foreign languages—moving backward
on the game board, going from St. Charles to Oriental to Baltic and Mediterranean, heading toward “Go.”

“This guy Luis dropping out of sight like that? Seems awfully obvious, don’t you think?” I asked rhetorically.

“Does.”

I nodded. “I hate that.” But I also knew better than to fight it. Just because it was obvious didn’t mean Luis wasn’t our
rapist. I’d long since learned that criminals generally aren’t the brightest bulbs in the chandelier—if they were, we’d never
catch them. And, as my old mentor used to say, “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”

“Did Useless run the guy?” I asked.

“Not likely. I’ll take care of it,” Bailey replied, making a note in her new cell phone.

“What happened to your BlackBerry?” I asked. Bailey was a gadget freak—the first to get the best in techie hot stuff.

She offered her iPhone to me. “Old news. This thing makes the BlackBerry look like a typewriter.”

I shook my head and refused to take the phone. “You should know better by now. I’ll break it before I can even pick a ringtone.”

“True,” Bailey said, and abruptly pulled her gadget back and dropped it into her pocket.

I watched a young girl in skintight jeans and Converse sneakers bobbing along to a tune on her iPod as she walked a ratlike
dog. The dog, stopping suddenly to pee on a bus bench, pulled her backward and caused her earpieces to fall out. She looked
completely befuddled for a moment, as though this were her first experience being out in the world without piped-in music.
Maybe it was.