RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (12 page)

“And that’s not all,” Larry said. He reached out and flipped through the pages of the murder book in front of me to a single photograph.

Lilah’s face stared up at me. Fair-skinned, with a shining cap of black hair and large, azure eyes, she wasn’t just a looker; she was a stunner. I compared that photo to the woman shown in the surveillance video. The differences were subtle and, I had a hunch, deliberate: the woman in the footage had much longer hair, and she seemed to be a little thinner. But if you looked closely, you could see that the shape of the face and head was unquestionably the same. A jury had spent weeks looking at that face and trying to match it up with a decapitation ax murder. The skinheads gave the jury just the excuse they needed to resolve the contradiction.

“She take the stand?” I asked.

“Oh, you bet,” Larry said bitterly.

“And she did well.”

“Well enough.” He looked out the window, and I saw his jaw muscles clench.

His grudging tone told me I should look elsewhere if I wanted to get an accurate read on her performance.

“Any idea where we might find her now?” Bailey asked.

Larry shook his head and stood, signaling the end of our conversation. “None. After she got acquitted, she pulled up stakes and took off. Hasn’t even been a sighting.” He laughed, a mirthless bark. “Until now anyway.”

He escorted us out of the office and through the reception area, then stopped at the door to shake hands. “Hey, you want to hear the kicker?” Larry asked.

I stopped and met his gaze.

“Lilah clerked for about six months when she was in law school,” he said.

“Why’s that a kicker?” I asked.

“Because it was in the DA’s office.”

Bailey and
I walked out to her car in silence. When we’d first arrived, I’d found the stark landscape soothing. Now it just felt desolate. We drove past the open fields of Joshua trees, heading for the freeway.

“A former intern. This is a proud moment for the DA’s office,” I said sarcastically. “So she actually had some experience in criminal law.”

“Enough to know when to shut her mouth,” Bailey agreed.

“I’ll see what we’ve got on her,” I said. “But interns don’t do anything heavy or sensitive, so we don’t spend a lot of time on their background checks.”

Bailey nodded, but neither of us was in a talkative mood.

I could well understand Larry’s reaction to the news of Simon’s murder. Though no victim is ever just a chalk outline to me, the colors unique to each one fill in slowly, over time, painted layer by layer with the memories and feelings of their loved ones, until ultimately a picture with depth and nuance emerges. More than his words, the emotion in Larry’s voice had shown me that Simon was a kind and gentle soul who’d been mortally wounded—long before his physical death—by his brother’s brutal demise and the injustice of the verdict. The image of the vase he’d left with Johnnie, its simple beauty and innocence of vision, made my eyes burn.

The freeway again wound through the low mountain passes, but now that the sun had sunk below the horizon, the valleys were shrouded in darkness and had taken on an ominous, forbidding look. When Bailey finally spoke, I could tell her thoughts had been running in a similar vein.

“We’re going to have to talk to the Bayers soon, you know.”

I sighed my agreement. “Do you know if they had any other kids?”

“They didn’t,” she replied tersely.

So they’d lost their only children to murder within the last two years. I had some idea of what they’d gone through.

It was twenty-seven years ago. I’d been just seven years old when my older sister, Romy, who was eleven, had vanished. It felt as though my soul had been wrenched from my body. Not only had I lost my best friend, but I believed it’d been my fault. I’ve heard some families grow closer after such a tragedy, but mine didn’t. We orbited farther and farther away from one another as we disappeared into our individual universes of agony. My father spiraled down into a bottle, and ultimately the oblivion he likely craved, when his car skidded off an icy bridge. My mother remained, but at first only in the most basic physical sense. For years after my father’s death, her mind wandered off as the world fell out of focus for her. I can still feel the panic at seeing her vague gaze and constant state of confusion. Those were dark years. I felt so isolated that I used to dream I was treading water, exhausted and alone in the middle of the ocean and about to go under.

Losing both children, and to murder, had to be an unendurable and unimaginable agony. I wished we didn’t have to ask the questions that would make the parents relive painful memories. But the story of Simon’s downward spiral could provide information critical to solving the case, and his parents were likely to be the best source.

As we rode on in silence through the darkening hills, I mentally replayed the meeting with Larry.

“Larry never said anything about motive,” I remarked.

“I noticed that too,” Bailey agreed. “Any possibility it involved money?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” I said, frowning. “She was the moneymaker. She probably wasn’t making a ton as a new associate, but if she hung in there, she stood to make a hell of a lot more than he did.”

“In which case, she would’ve had to pay alimony,” Bailey pointed out. “With Zack dead, she wouldn’t have to worry about that. Plus, if there was an insurance policy, she’d get it all.”

“I suppose,” I said, unconvinced. “But if that’s the way Larry went, you can see why it didn’t work. If the criminal doesn’t fit the crime, you’ve got to stick the landing when it comes to motive. He had a defendant who looked like a porcelain doll and a crime that looked like it was committed by Beelzebub on crack. So Larry had some serious explaining to do, and from the looks of things, he didn’t get there. I’m starting to understand why the jury acquitted.”

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t do it,” Bailey replied.

“No,” I said.

The mountains were behind us now, and the freeway forded a sea of ranch-style tract houses. The San Fernando Valley spread out around us, a vast expanse of low-rise suburban life. On my right, the sight of the familiar golden arches made my stomach rumble, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten in a while.

“You in the mood for dinner?” I asked.

“I’m ready to eat my own hand,” Bailey replied.

“How about the Tar Pit?”

“Perfect,” she said with a smile. “We haven’t been there in a while. It’ll be a nice change of pace.”

The cozy,
art deco–style restaurant and bar on La Brea had great food and amazing drinks. Though I was kind of a purist when it came to booze, anyone who was even slightly more adventurous raved about their cocktails, like the Fashionista and the Warsaw Mule.

The waiter showed up the moment we were seated and asked what we’d have to drink.

“You go ahead,” Bailey offered. “I’ll be the designated driver tonight.”

Still, friends don’t let friends watch them get hammered all alone. I ordered a glass of the house Pinot Noir and chicken à la king, and made a mental note to use this sacrifice as leverage with Bailey at some later point. Bailey ordered an iced tea and the wild boar mushrooms.

“Chicken à la king?” she asked, incredulous. “Since when do you eat like a real person?”

The rich sauce was one hell of a splurge for me. “It’s been a rough few days. I seem to be needing lots of comfort food.”

“No need to sell me. I’m totally fine with it. For the first time in months, I might actually get to have my meal to myself. Hell, I might even take a bite off
your
plate for a change.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” I warned, aiming my fork threateningly.

The waiter brought our drinks, and I tasted my wine. Nice and dry. I nodded at her glass. “Your iced tea all you hoped for?” I asked with a smirk.

“You think this is a good time to poke the bear?”

It was almost
always
a good time to mess with Bailey, as far as I was concerned, but I moved on to the second-most pressing issue of the evening.

“I was thinking about where to look for Lilah—,” I began.

“I started the hunt this morning,” Bailey replied.

I paused and looked at her with disbelief.

“You already knew she’d been an intern in our office and didn’t tell me?”

Bailey smirked. “I wanted to drop that bomb on you myself,” she said, taking a sip of her iced tea. “Damn Larry beat me to it. It was on her résumé that she’d clerked with the DA’s office, but it didn’t say where exactly. I figured that’d be an easy one for you—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Anyway,” Bailey continued, “the law firm dumped her right after she got arrested.”

“And didn’t hire her back after the acquittal, I take it?”

“Not from what I could tell,” she replied. “Big surprise.”

It wasn’t. A high-dollar corporate law firm couldn’t afford even a whiff of scandal, let alone an associate who’d been on trial for murder—acquittal or no.

“Where’d she wind up after that?” I asked.

“That’s the thing,” Bailey said. “The trail dies there.”

How could that be? A lawyer has to provide current contact information to the State Bar. “You check the State Bar website?”

“She let her bar card lapse—”

“Damn,” I said, frowning. “Can’t anything in this case be easy?”

“No,” Bailey answered. “And she’s not in any other database either—not under her married name or her maiden name.” She sighed.

“It seems pretty obvious this woman doesn’t want to be found,” I observed.

Bailey nodded.

After the epic hassle we’d gone through to learn Simon’s identity, this was the last thing we needed.

“Want to talk about our stabber?” Bailey asked.

“Please.” I was glad for the change of subject. “I’d like to take another look at the video to make sure it’s a man,” I said. “But assuming it is, the guy could’ve been a Good Samaritan—”

“Who just happened to be armed and ready,” Bailey interjected dryly.

“And didn’t stick around to tell the police he’d been defending a damsel in distress. It is a little ridiculous,” I agreed. “But it is possible he was just protecting her and didn’t call the police because he had his own problems.”

“Why take the risk if he can get away clean?” Bailey thought for a moment. “It’s possible. Not likely, but possible.”

“And if that’s true, then it’s also possible Lilah had nothing to do with the killing,” I replied. “In which case it’s iffy that she’d even be able to ID the guy…assuming we find her in our lifetimes.”

Bailey frowned. “But from what I remember of the video, it seems to me the killer couldn’t have known that Simon had a box cutter. Simon grabbed Lilah with one hand, the other hand was in his pocket.”

“Right. In which case, the killer definitely targeted Simon—”

“Which means he and Lilah are in cahoots,” Bailey said, finishing the thought.

“Cahoots?”
I said with a pained expression.

Bailey started to defend herself, but at that moment the waiter brought our dinners, and the mouthwatering aromas wafting up from our plates brought an end to all rational thought. Silence reigned for the next several minutes as we ate, until finally I came up for air and took a sip of my wine.

“So, best guess, given what we know at this point, is that whoever killed Simon was with Lilah,” I said. “That means he did it either because she told him to or because he knew Simon posed a threat to her.”

“Physical or legal?” Bailey asked.

“Either one,” I replied. “Simon was unhinged. If he’d given up on the legal system, he might’ve been willing to settle for street justice and take her out himself.” I paused and thought a moment before continuing. “Or Simon might’ve uncovered something new on Zack’s murder. Something good enough to get the Feds interested in the case.”

Bailey looked skeptical. “As hard as Rick and Larry worked the case, I doubt Simon could’ve found anything that good.”

“Probably not,” I said. “But Lilah—or her buddy—couldn’t be sure of that. Simon was Zack’s brother. Who knows what he had access to?”

I paused to watch a group of hot-looking men pass behind Bailey on the way to their table. I decided they were too perfectly groomed and well-toned to be straight. I wondered why more straight men didn’t take some of their cues from gay men—and looked back just in time to catch Bailey sneaking a bite of my chicken. I made no protest.

She paused with her forkful in midair. “Aren’t you going to challenge me to a duel or something?”

“Nah,” I said, waving her on. “I owe ya.”

“Like that’s ever mattered,” she said, then put the fork in her mouth and chewed slowly.

I waved the waiter over.

“Can I get you something else?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, tossing Bailey a sadistic smile. “I’ll have another glass of wine.”

The sun
had long since set—now only the pale moonlight glowed through the expansive windows of the loft. Sabrina sat at her desk, heedless of the darkness, her gaze fixed on her computer, her face bathed in the cool gray light of her monitor.

Chase, who’d fallen asleep on the couch, stirred and opened an eye. In one swift movement, he stood up and walked over to her desk, the sound of his steps muted by the thick carpeting. But the moment he drew near, Sabrina minimized the screen. Without turning, she spoke to him over her shoulder.

“You ready to talk about the CEO case?”

“Yeah,” he replied. He moved closer and gestured to her computer. “You find anything on him?” It was a deliberate tweak. He had a feeling he knew what she was working on, and it wasn’t the CEO case. It worried him.

Sabrina turned and fixed him with a stare. An effective
KEEP OUT
sign. Chase knew better than to ignore it. He stepped back, literally and figuratively. “No girlfriends or boyfriends, as far as I can tell at this point,” he said. “No porn and no bad associates—now or back when. No kids out of wedlock and no early busts for anything. I was wondering whether you had any ideas…?”

Chase was a great wingman with great tech skills—though she was no slouch herself, both by training and by instinct. But the creative thinking was largely up to her. Unlike Chase, who loved only the money, Sabrina derived an erotic thrill out of gathering the information that would empower her to shatter a life forever. For her, the money was secondary. Though she admitted it was a close second. She leaned back in her chair and lightly drummed the armrests with her fingers.

“My sense is that our CEO has no sexual Achilles’ heel. He’s not the kind of narcissistic power junkie you get with politicians. But from what I saw, he made a lot of money in a relatively short time. Look into whether he got a little too ‘lucky’ with his investments.”

Chase nodded. Her instinct for the jugular was so unerring that it was almost bizarre. He stood to go.

“You can crash here when you’re ready to pack it in,” she said. Sabrina knew he never slept as well in his own bed as he did in her office.

“You staying?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll probably head home after I’m done, but thanks.” Chase left with a mock salute.

Sabrina turned back to the computer and clicked to reopen the window she’d been scanning earlier, but she’d lost focus. She closed the window and shut down. Neither she nor Chase knew how to sleep. For her part, she realized it’d started in very early childhood, with the fear of what she’d find when she woke up. What would she do wrong today? And what would be the instrument of choice—a broom? a shoe? a wire hanger? The latter was the worst. The wire raised ugly red welts, forcing her to wear long pants during the sweltering summer to hide the shame. And there was no one to appeal to. Her father saw none of it and didn’t want to know. He wanted only a playmate in his little daughter—a refuge away from the wife he’d married but never knew, and whom he now both loathed and feared.

So, in a way, going off to boarding school at the ripe old age of ten had been a relief. Or so she’d told herself at the time. Because it was obvious even to Sabrina that she was heading down a road that could only end in disaster. In the year before she was shipped away, she’d been busted for an ever-escalating series of misdeeds—from fights on the playground to shoplifting, and finally to arson. Her egg donor of a mother had gleefully agreed with the counselors that the change of scenery and enhanced discipline of boarding school would help to straighten her out. And so she’d been thrown away, a broken doll no one wanted to play with. Boarding school hadn’t been all bad, once she’d adjusted to the new order of things. But by the time she moved back home, in her sophomore year of high school, she was a “new girl”—a stranger in her own hometown. Tough as that was, after a few months, things seemed to be falling into place, she’d begun to feel like her life was getting back on track.

Until that one night. That night everything had changed.