Murder Season (10 page)
“He wouldn’t tell me anything. He said it wasn’t safe.”
“What about Paladino?”
“Jake didn’t tell anyone about it. Just Johnny Bosco. He knew what it would look like.”
“What it would look like?”
Harry dropped back on the bed, raising his arms over his head and closing his eyes. “He said that no one would believe him because of the DNA. He said that if anyone found out what he was doing, it would only make him look even more guilty because that’s what they all do. The freaks you see on TV. They kill their wife, then act like they’re looking for the guy who really did it. It’s fake, but the people on TV are so stupid, they buy it. They’re fakes, too.”
A moment passed. There was no stillness in it. No peace.
“Your brother had bruises on his neck and arms,” she said. “His knuckles were scraped like he’d been in a fight.”
Harry opened his eyes and looked at her. “He was in lots of fights.”
“With who?”
The teenager shrugged. “Mr. Paladino may have gotten him out of jail, but he didn’t change anybody’s mind who wasn’t on the jury. Jake couldn’t go anywhere without people shouting at him or trying to beat him up. He wanted to find out who murdered Lily, but it was way more than that. Jake
needed
to find him. He said that if things worked out last night, he was going to Mr. Paladino’s office and show him everything. That if they got the real guy, all the crap would stop and we’d be safe.”
“What about Lily’s father? You said they argued. Did it ever get physical?”
Harry rolled over on his side to face her. “I don’t think so. But I always thought he was the one who murdered Lily. He’s a head case. He’s got issues. I always thought it was him.”
Lena took it in, but her eyes were on the carpet by the window—the impressions left by a reading chair that had been moved just as Lily Hight’s reading chair had been moved. Jacob Gant’s chair was placed beside his desk.
Lena got up and pushed it across the carpet. Now the chair faced the bed with a soft, perfect light from the windows spilling in from behind. But when she checked the carpet, the footprint of the chair didn’t match the impressions.
“Jake moved it,” Harry said. “After Lily died. It goes the other way.”
Lena turned the chair around. When she felt the legs slip into place, she sat down and gazed out the window. The view into Lily’s bedroom was remarkable—so close and so crisp and clear that she could see the memory box sitting on the night table beside the girl’s bed.
Harry got up and joined her by the window. Kneeling down, he folded his arms on the sill and stared across the drive.
“They used to sit in front of their windows,” he said. “Every night they’d sit and talk to each other on their cell phones. They dug each other. I never understood why no one got that.”
Trouble ahead. She could sense it,
taste it, feel the dread reaching out for the back of her neck.
As she left Harry behind and walked out of the house, Lena understood that she had been thrust into an exceedingly dark and lonely place. That the number of loose ends, the number of questions rising out of the muck, only matched the speed at which the case was already unraveling.
She started down the cavernous drive between the two houses. Tim Hight’s windows remained shuttered, and she wondered if they were meant to block out the sunlight, or to keep his secrets locked away in a perpetual state of darkness. She kept walking. She adjusted her grip on the evidence bag she was carrying and kept moving. Harry had helped her search his brother’s room and seemed to know where the hiding places were. Among the items Lena had taken was a weekly planner that Jake had been keeping since the trial. They had found the graphic novel he had been working on as well. The same one that the prosecution team had used against him during the trial, but returned following the
NOT GUILTY
verdict.
She picked up her pace. She needed to see Vaughan. And she needed to see him fast.
As she turned the corner and started up the sidewalk, she realized that she needed to lose the Crown Vic as well.
The press had followed Paladino down to the coroner’s office while William Gant identified his son’s body. But a handful of reporters had already returned and were setting up shop in front of Tim Hight’s house. She didn’t recognize any of the faces. And the overweight man with the three-day beard and gelled hair appeared to be using the hood of her car as his desk. His laptop was open and he was munching on a double cheeseburger and an extra large bag of fries. As she approached the car, she could see open packets of ketchup strewn across the hood and fender.
She hit the clicker. When the car beeped, the big man nearly jumped out of his loose skin.
“Shit, lady. I’m eating lunch here.”
His mouth had been filled with food as he spoke. Ketchup mixed with grease leaked out and dripped off his chin onto his gut. Lena didn’t think she’d order a cheeseburger anytime soon. She tossed the evidence bag onto the front seat, the rest of the group approaching the car. From the way they were dressed, she guessed that they were from out of town.
“Is it a nice lunch?” she said.
The big man gave her a look as he wiped his shirt. “Yeah, sure. It’s like eating at the Ritz with paper napkins. When’s the hero coming out? We want an interview.”
“Which hero is that?”
“Tim Hight. The dad who took care of business for his kid.”
So there it was. The theme laid out in the open for all to see and hear. Tim Hight had been crowned a hero.
Lena gave the big man another look. “I don’t see your press credentials.”
“They’re in my bag. So what? Are you a cop or a lawyer?”
She shrugged. “Neither one. I’m with the tax collector.”
“Yeah, right,” he said, still working on that stain. “You’re a cop.”
Lena climbed into the car and started the engine. As she shifted into reverse, the big man finally understood that he was about to lose his desk. He went for his computer first, then made the mistake of reaching out for his food. Grabbing the burger, he took a swipe at his fries and the supersized drink. But he didn’t make it. He wasn’t fast enough or smart enough. As she hit the gearshift and drove off, she saw the drink splash all over his keyboard. By the time she reached the freeway, the ketchup packets glued to the hood were finally starting to blow off.
She switched on her phone and toggled through her recent calls. When she found Samy Beck’s number, she tapped it with her thumb and heard him pick up.
“I’m out of time,” she said. “I need a new car.”
He laughed at her. It was a wicked laugh—the only way he knew how to do it. Beck owned a shop just east of the airport in Hawthorne. When her Prelude died, Beck had been her first call. He owed her a favor, but hadn’t come up with anything yet.
“Where are you?” he said.
“Heading downtown.”
“When are you back on the Westside?”
“Later this afternoon.”
“Then stop by.”
“You got something?”
“I got it.”
“Is it real?”
“It’s better than real. And for the money we talked about.”
“What is it?”
“What you’ve been looking for, Lena. Today’s your lucky day. I’ll be here all afternoon.”
She could hear him laugh again as he switched off his phone. She dropped her cell onto the seat, watching the last open packet of ketchup slide up the windshield, lose its grip in the wind, and fly away. She needed to get rid of the official car. Anything that Beck came up with would work. Anything that restored her anonymity would do.
* * *
The district attorney’s main offices were housed with the county courthouse and the public defender on West Temple Street in downtown Los Angeles. The building had been named after Clara S. Foltz, the first female attorney on the West Coast. But no one would have ever known that by looking at the sign out front. For whatever reason, most of the letters to Foltz’s name had been ripped away from the concrete.
Even though most people referred to the building as the Criminal Justice Center these days, it always bothered Lena that no one seemed to take an interest in repairing the sign. Not so much because of Foltz’s place in history, but more because of what went on here. Matters of life and death were discussed, judgments were rendered, and lives were changed. The fact that the sign had been vandalized a long time ago and no one seemed to care said something about the county and the people who lived here.
Lena found Greg Vaughan waiting for her by the information desk as the elevator opened. When she had called ahead, Vaughan expressed concern that what she wanted to tell him couldn’t be said over a phone. Seeing her here in his office this early in the afternoon didn’t change that.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded and they started down the hall.
“You look like you could use something to eat,” he said. “A meeting was canceled. They brought in food.”
“I’m good,” she said.
“Well, I need something. Maybe you’ll change your mind after you see what’s there.”
She looked him over as they walked. His jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he appeared less weary and more able than he had this morning. As they entered the meeting room, she saw a group of prosecutors standing before a long serving table with plates in their hands. The room was quiet, the tables and chairs set with pads and pens, not place settings. It looked like people were taking advantage of a free lunch, but returning to their offices and eating at their desks.
Vaughan poured a large cup of coffee. In spite of the caterer’s obvious talent, Lena had too much on her mind to eat and too much caffeine already streaming through her body to add another dose to the mix. She turned away. When she looked up, she found Debi Watson staring at her through the crowd. Watson stood by the water glasses with a modest plate of food and tried to smile but was late with it. After an awkward moment, the woman stepped out of the room with her lunch.
Lena found the encounter unsettling. No matter how brief, she had just caught a glimpse of what Watson looked like stripped of her confidence. She had seen it in her eyes—a combination of weariness and pain. A certain recognition that the prosecutor had lost her standing in the office, and things would never return to what they were.
Lena turned back, following Vaughan over to a table by the windows.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You searched Hight’s place and didn’t find the gun.”
“He got rid of it. We found the receipt, but not the gun.”
Vaughan tested his coffee with a short first sip. “And he has no intention of working with us. He’s not gonna make it easy.”
“It sounds like he’s got more than one attorney,” she said.
“He thinks he can win, Lena. And you know what? He’s probably right.”
Lena started to say something, but stopped when she saw Steven Bennett enter the room. He nodded at them, then turned away and picked up a plate. Although his purpose appeared innocent enough, the way he walked into the room carried the same lack of authenticity as Watson’s delayed smile. It didn’t feel true. He didn’t enter the room looking for the serving table. Instead, his emerald green eyes had swept through the space searching out faces. It seemed obvious that Watson had told him that they were here. For some reason, he needed to see it for himself.
Vaughan took another sip of coffee, then spoke in a lower voice. “Why couldn’t you say any of this over the phone? What else did you find?”
“Cash that may have come from Bosco,” she said. “Fifteen to twenty grams of cocaine that may have been taken from that pile at the club.”
“How long will it take SID to process everything?”
“We’re at the top of the list.”
Lena was still eyeing Bennett. The deputy DA was spending too much time staring at the catering trays with his back to them. He was close enough to hear them. Lena had no doubt that he was listening.
Vaughan tapped her wrist. “Is something wrong?”
“We need to go to your office,” she said. “We can’t talk here.”
Her eyes were still on Bennett. Vaughan followed her gaze.
“I see what you mean,” he said.
Bennett didn’t turn or move as they walked out. When they reached Vaughan’s office on the other side of the building one floor below, he closed the door and apologized for his housekeeping. Stacks of file folders two and three feet high lined nearly every square foot of the room. They were piled on his credenza, on the couch and chair, and formed a semicircle to the right of his desk chair. As he cleared off a seat for Lena, she looked out the window and saw an abandoned building just this side of the Hollywood Freeway.
“At least the DA gave you an office with a window,” she said.
“Yeah. Higgins gave me a window.”
She saw a picture on the sill of Vaughan playing with a young boy and girl, about three and four years old.
“I didn’t know you had kids,” she said. “I didn’t even know you were married. You’re not wearing a ring.”
“Divorced,” he said. “Irreconcilable differences, meaning that I work too much. We’ve stayed friends, and she’s met someone who works nine to five and seems like a good guy. The kids love him. I told her I could change, but her attorney came by one day and got a look at my office.”
He grinned at her, then settled into his desk chair and watched her sit down. A moment passed with Vaughan gently probing her face with his eyes.
“You didn’t come here to tell me you couldn’t find Hight’s gun,” he said finally. “I don’t know you very well, Lena. But you don’t strike me as someone who would waste that kind of time.”
She leaned forward, thinking it through as she spoke. “What if Bennett and Watson screwed up?” she said.
Vaughan shrugged. “They lost a slam-dunk case. Of course they screwed up.”
“But what if it wasn’t a slam-dunk case? What if it only looked like one? What if Bennett and Watson
really
fucked up?”
“They’re corporate types,” he said. “All they see is the finish line and what they’re gonna get out of it.”
