Murder Season (7 page)

Bennett and Watson turned toward her so quickly that she caught the foul sneers on their faces a split second before they switched to glowing smiles. Lena had pegged them right but ignored it, glancing at Vaughan, who seemed grateful for the interruption, then back at Bennett as he spoke.

“We were just talking to Greg,” he said in a smooth voice. “If there’s anything we can do to help, we’re here for you. That probably means keeping our mouths shut and staying out of your way. But whatever you need, both Debi and I are willing to do it.”

Bennett was good, she thought. Just not good enough to win.

Watson stepped forward, extending her hand. “Think of us as silent partners, Detective. If you ever need background on the trial, I’d be more than happy to walk you through our case.”

There wasn’t time for their particular brand of bullshit, but Lena thanked them anyway, making a conscious effort to avoid looking at Watson’s breasts. She couldn’t tell if they were real or not, and she didn’t care.

And then the two of them gave Vaughan one last nod and took off. They moved through the doorway quickly—a series of short, choppy steps. As they vanished around the corner, it seemed to Lena that their backs shivered and they broke into a run.

Lena closed the door. “Nice people,” she said.

Vaughan gave her a look. They didn’t know each other. When he figured out what she meant, he tried to smile but only made it halfway.

“Two of the very best,” he said. “Especially now that they think they’ve found a way to squirm out of their own mess.”

“The way out of their mess is you,” she said.

“We’re in the same boat, aren’t we?”

“Yes and no.”

He thought it over as he moved to the window and looked out at the city.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “They just told me that they won’t be attending the press conference. Higgins can’t make it, either.”

“At least they’re predictable.”

Vaughan shrugged. “When I heard that Gant had been murdered, I pretty much knew the way things would go.”

He was dressed in a light brown suit, a crisp white shirt, and a red tie with thin gold stripes. He wore the clothing better than most, but still appeared wiped out by the bind he was in. Lena joined him at the window and followed his eyes up the block to the new building that would serve as LAPD headquarters. Although construction had been completed and the move would occur next month, the building didn’t have a name because members of the city council were still arguing about it.

“I heard a story,” he said in an easier voice. “Not about your new building, but the one that went up in the Valley last year. The contractors blew the installation, reversing the one-way glass in the interrogation rooms. If we’d put some guy in the box, he could see us, but we couldn’t see him. Is that true or what?”

Lena caught Vaughan’s grin and smiled. “They fixed it before they opened.”

“How ’bout in your new place?” he asked.

“The builder got it right this time. I checked.”

She watched him turn away from the window and lean against the sill. He was gazing at the conference table as if he might be replaying the meeting in his head—as if he’d finally realized his fate and knew that it was time to start putting things back together again. His anger was dissipating. A certain spark was returning to his eyes.

“How do you want to work this?” she said.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Let’s see what happens at Hight’s place.”

Vaughan nodded. “He’s had some time to think things over. Maybe he’ll feel the need to get it off his chest.”

“Or maybe we’ll find the gun.”

Vaughan popped open his briefcase. “I’ll be in my office,” he said. “It’ll take me a day to go through my cases and clear my schedule. We should talk when you get back.”

They traded business cards. Then the door opened and Barrera entered, waving a sheaf of papers in the air.

“We’ve got the warrants,” he said. “Let’s roll.”

10

The front door opened.
Tim Hight’s eyes hit the bright daylight but remained dilated. They were hollow, almost colorless—a faint, even decayed blue. They swept across the group of detectives and criminalists assembling on the porch, moved to the tow truck inching toward his Mercedes in the drive, then slid back to Lena.

“Tim Hight?” she said.

“You already know who I am.”

“We have warrants. We’re coming in.”

“I didn’t do it,” he said.

Barrera held out the warrants. “We’re still coming in.”

Hight moved away from the door. As the team pushed past his slight figure and split up, Lena remained with Hight and Barrera in the foyer. She noted Hight’s rumpled clothing, didn’t see any signs of blood, and wondered if he had changed. It didn’t look like he’d showered or shaved, and he seemed groggy and burned out. She checked the kitchen and saw the bottle of vodka still on the counter, then took a quick look at the living room. The fine carpets. The art on the walls. The shutters blocking out the light. The house had a definite feel about it. Dark and empty.

“Where’s your wife?” she said.

“Visiting her sister in Bakersfield.”

“When did she leave?”

“About three a.m. this morning.”

“Seems like an odd time to go on a trip.”

Hight gave her a look that mirrored the feel of the house. “I knew you’d come,” he said. “I didn’t want her to see this.”

Barrera cleared his throat. “How did you know we’d come? How could you at three a.m.?”

“I heard what happened on my scanner.”

Hight pointed to the sunroom on the other side of the French doors. Gazing through the glass, Lena cataloged the items she saw and cut them against what she remembered from last night. An armchair was pointed toward the windows facing the Gants’ house. Hight’s drink sat on the sill more than half empty. On a shelf within reach of the chair, she spotted the scanner and an ashtray overflowing with spent butts. The LEDs on the scanner were blinking, the unit still on.

“It’s the only room I’m allowed to smoke in,” Hight said.

Lena knew that victims’ identities weren’t broadcast over the air, but let it go for now.

“We’ll need the keys to your car,” she said.

“I didn’t do it.”

“Everybody says that, Mr. Hight. We’ll need your keys.”

Hight grimaced, digging his hand into his front pocket and fishing them out. As he fumbled with the key ring—his fingers trembling—Lena tried to keep her mind focused on the job.

It wasn’t easy.

No matter what she thought of him, no matter what he’d done, the fact that he had lost his daughter was impossible to ignore. Barrera was standing just off the foyer in the living room. She could see him struggling with it, too. It didn’t help that an array of framed photographs of the man’s daughter were arranged on the baby grand. Lily Hight’s gentle face and bright eyes were more than striking, her intoxication with life set against her horrific fate more than palpable. It almost seemed as if the girl was watching them build the case against her father—keeping an eye on them from somewhere on the other side.

Lena turned away. Tosh Mifune, a criminalist from SID, was standing in the kitchen doorway.

“We’ll do it in here,” he said. “The light’s good.”

She ushered Hight into the room, Mifune pulling a chair away from the breakfast table. Hight started to protest, but finally sat down, perhaps due to Mifune’s patient and well-seasoned manner. As the middle-aged criminalist unpacked his evidence kit and laid the items on the table with great care, Lena could see the concern growing on Tim Hight’s face. Mifune’s tools appeared better suited for a doctor’s office than a crime lab.

Hight began fidgeting in his seat. He glanced at Barrera leaning against the stove, then turned back to Lena. “Aren’t you gonna read me my rights?”

“You’re not under arrest,” she said. “But yes, I’d be happy to.”

She hoped that she didn’t sound too confrontational. Hoped that she could light a fire beneath the man and the flame wouldn’t burn out. But when she finished, Hight started to get out of the chair.

“So I’m allowed to call my attorney,” he said.

“You can do anything you want, as long as you do it from that chair.”

“You mean you’re holding me here? I can’t leave?”

“We’ve got a body warrant, Mr. Hight. We’re gonna take a sample of your hair, swab your mouth, and get a set of your fingerprints.”

“You already have my fingerprints. You took them when Lily died.”

“We’re doing it again. Were you wearing these clothes last night?”

He nodded.

“Then we’ll need to take them as well,” she said. “There’s nothing your attorney can do to stop it.”

Hight fell back into the chair, shaking his head as he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. Unfortunately for him, the pack was empty. Lena watched him crumple it up in disappointment, then traded a quiet nod with Barrera on the other side of the room. They had talked it over before their arrival. Barrera had more experience than any detective he supervised. He had a way of seeing things, and wanted to keep his distance.

She turned back to Hight, acknowledging the man’s distress. “You could make things a lot easier on yourself,” she said. “A lot easier on everyone.”

“How?”

“Tell us what you did with the gun.”

“What gun? I didn’t shoot Jacob Gant.”

“Would you be willing to take a polygraph?”

He ran his hands over his head, ignoring the question. His hair was a mix of blond and gray, cropped short enough to stand on end.

“If you didn’t shoot him,” she said, “then why are you afraid to take a polygraph?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged.

Lena took a step closer. “When was the last time you saw Jacob Gant?”

“Not since the trial,” he said. “Not since he walked out of that courtroom a free man.”

“Do you expect anyone to believe that?”

“People believe what they want to. I’m guessing you’re no different. I haven’t seen him.”

“But he lived next door, Mr. Hight.”

“He hasn’t been around. Maybe he got a job. Or maybe I wasn’t looking for him. Maybe I didn’t want to see him.”

She glanced at the nicotine stains on the first and second fingers of his right hand. Hight noticed and buried them underneath the fold of his arm.

“How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?” she asked. “How much time do you spend in the sunroom? How often do you sit in that chair by the window with the lights out?”

Hight didn’t respond, and silence overtook the room. Lena circled the table. As she passed the pantry she noticed pencil marks on the inside of the door. Beside each line was a date. The months and days remained the same—only the year changed—and she realized that the marks on the door were Lily Hight’s measurements, recorded on her birthday each year.

Lena felt the gloom creeping in. A sudden hard pull. Hight’s daughter had been five feet nine inches tall on her sixteenth birthday. Her last birthday.

She turned back to Hight. He had been watching her. Studying her. As Lena measured him in the chair, he appeared broken, but not frightening—like a man who stared into the abyss, lost his footing, and fell in.

“Why are you afraid to take a polygraph?” she said in a softer voice. “Why go through all this? Why not clear your name and move on?”

Hight had turned away, his eyes fixated on the bright sunlight spilling into the room from the window over the sink. The polished brass faucet and white porcelain tub sparkled and glowed, giving his ultra-pale skin the illusion of life.

“Move on?” he whispered, more to himself than anyone in the room.

“That’s right,” Lena said. “Clear your name and move on. Or take responsibility for what you’ve done. Own up to it.”

A moment passed, the man staring at the rays of sunlight dancing on the counter. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be doing this to me. You are the people I trusted. The people I counted on. The people who were supposed to bring me just—” The words stopped coming with Hight thinking things over as if in a trance. “I won’t do it,” he said finally. “I won’t take a polygraph because nothing in this world is guaranteed. I won’t do it because I’m glad that Jacob Gant was murdered last night. I wished for it. I dreamed about it over and over again. Lily’s gone. She’s gone and I wanted him dead. I’m glad he’s dead. I only wish there was something past dead. Something worse than dead.”

His voice shook, then faded into silence. Lena traded looks with Barrera and Mifune, but she was thinking about the way Jacob Gant had been murdered. The two bullets in his eyes. The anger that the killer had been harboring. The bitterness and hatred that had rushed out the barrel of a gun.

Payback.

Hight gazed up at her, his dilated eyes wild with emotion. As he lowered his hands to his lap and tried to pull himself together, Lena noticed a bandage on his left palm. The blood leaking out. Hight had been cut—wounded—and he was trying to hide it.

Someone tapped on the door from the foyer, breaking the moment. When she turned, John Street motioned her into the living room. She could see his partner behind him. Exiting the kitchen, she joined them by the far window beside the baby grand. Carson was holding something: a plastic evidence bag containing a single sheet of yellow paper. Both detectives were big men. Both were experienced and not in the habit of showing much emotion. But everything about today was different.

Carson glanced at Hight through the doorway, then passed the bag over. “It’s a receipt for a gun,” he said quietly. “A nine millimeter Smith, Lena. Check out the gun dealer’s address.”

Carson opened the window shutter. Lena lowered the receipt into the light and started reading. The 9-mm pistol had been purchased in Arizona. The address was nothing more than a Web site, and nothing less. She didn’t see a phone number, but the date of purchase caught her eye.

“He bought the gun six weeks ago,” she said.

Carson nodded, his wide face flushed with color. “The day after the verdict,” he said. “No wait time and no background check. Hight types in his credit card number, and some asshole ships him the piece, no questions asked.”