RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (27 page)

“Records show
they were married for two years, and according to witness interviews, they dated for about six months before that,” Bailey said.

“Then let’s go back a year before the marriage to be on the safe side,” I said. “Where was Zack working back then?”

“I’ll check,” Bailey replied, pulling out her cell.

“Well, I’ll leave y’all to it,” Toni said, giving her makeup a final check in the mirror next to the entry. When I’d first moved into this suite, I’d thought that was a weird place for a mirror. Toni showed me the error of my ways.

She looked outside and set aside her coat. “Got an extra scarf?” she asked. “Preferably gray,” she said, gesturing to her pale blush-colored blouse.

“Oh yes, ma’am,” I replied jokingly. My neck is my weak spot when it comes to cold, so I’ve got a pretty impressive array of scarves, pashminas, and mufflers. Toni, of course, knows this. I went to my closet and dug out a charcoal-gray wool-fringed number for her approval.

“Perfect,” Toni said. With one deft movement, she had it wound around her neck and looking better than I’d ever managed.

“You going to be around this weekend?” I asked.

“I am,” Toni said. “J.D.’s got a conference to go to. Want to do something?”

“Definitely,” I replied. I looked at Bailey.

“Drew and I are going up to Ojai on Sunday.”

“You’re dead to me,” I said.

It was actually for the best. I’d been looking for a chance to tell Toni about Romy anyway.

“Call me,” Toni said, and glided out the door.

Bailey had already pulled out her phone to find out where Zack had been assigned before his marriage to Lilah.

I went to finish my makeup and hair, and finally admitted that I was preparing myself in case I ran into Graden. Telling Bailey everything had had a calming effect. Seething done in private can keep anger burning, but like a pot of boiling water, once you take the lid off, the heat dissipates and the boil turns to a simmer. I was still angry with Graden, but there was a small part of me that was beginning to consider the possibility that I’d overreacted. Just possibly.

“Hollywood,” Bailey said, snapping her cell phone shut.

It was Bailey’s old stomping ground before she’d been assigned to Robbery-Homicide, so she got a hero’s welcome.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said the Hollywood station desk sergeant, a rotund, apple-cheeked man with thinning brown hair and big, dark eyes.

“Gomez, how come they haven’t fired you yet?” Bailey asked, grinning.

He shrugged. “Guess they keep forgetting,” he replied. “Come on back, we’ll get you set up.”

Five minutes later, we were parked in front of a computer and scrolling through all the crime reports signed by Zack Bayer.

“Could be any kind of crime,” Bailey said.

“As long as there’s a female involved somehow,” I said. “Either as a suspect, witness, or victim. Anyone who might be Lilah, using an alias.”

“That narrows it right down,” she said sarcastically. But it wasn’t a completely useless filter. We weeded out a bunch of drug busts that involved no females right off the bat.

“Hmmm, domestic-violence call,” Bailey said, pointing to the screen.

She read aloud, “Victim: Latasha McKenzie, five feet one, one hundred ten pounds, African-
American
—”

“Okay, probably not the victim,” I said. “Suspect?”

“Boyfriend, Lamar Washington, six feet, two hundred pounds—”

“Any witnesses?”

“None,” Bailey said. “We move on.”

I watched as she scrolled. “Hey, what about that one?” I said, pointing to a robbery.

Bailey clicked and read. “Victim: Oren Abnarian, male…whatever. Suspect: Abner Clarence, male…whatever. Witnesses: Starla Moreno, no description, but she’s female for sure, and two males. Checking on Starla.”

“Interesting name,” I replied.

Bailey clicked for the full report. “Yeah,” she said, continuing to read. “Even more interesting than you thought. Starla’s aka is Stanley. Description is six feet one and two hundred pounds with a skull-necklace tattoo.”

“She sounds lovely.”

Bailey sighed. “This is going to be a long night. And I’m spending it with you.”

By ten p.m., the morning-watch crew—who worked ten p.m. to six a.m.—was heading out for duty. I stood up and stretched. “I hate to have caffeine after breakfast, but if I don’t, I’ll do a face-plant. Want some?”

“Yeah. And make it black,” Bailey said.

As I walked out to the vending machine, I saw that our investigators had already tanked up. The table was littered with paper cups and sugar packets. I came back bearing our doses of caffeine, and we rolled on.

“Prostitution bust, suspect name, Brandy.”

“Isn’t it time to retire that name?” I asked.

“It’s a classic,” Bailey said. “Seems the right age.” She continued to read. “Hispanic—”

“Could be faked.”

“She’s five feet ten,” Bailey said.

“Next.”

We sorted through a dozen more without finding anything worth exploring further.

I was leaning on the desk, head propped up on one hand, rubbing my temple with the other to keep myself awake. I was trying to think of a faster way to do this when Bailey elbowed me, pointed to the screen, and read aloud.

“Res burg—owner/victim’s a white female, no witnesses, no suspects.”

Residential burglary and a promising-looking victim. “Apartment building or house?” I asked.

It was unlikely that someone as young as Lilah was at that time could’ve afforded a house. The residence needed to be an apartment to make the case a real possibility.

“Apartment,” Bailey replied. “Victim: Nina Klavens, no DOB.”

“That’s a keeper.”

By four a.m., we’d gone through the entire year of crime reports and come up with two other distinct possibilities: a car theft in Los Feliz, and a purse snatch on Sunset Boulevard.

We called it a night and dragged ourselves back to the Biltmore. I fell into bed. My last thought before I dropped off was that Phil Hemet didn’t put in this many hours in a month. How come there was no reporter tailing me now?

I woke
up energized and hopeful about the leads we’d found last night. We were finishing breakfast and I was looking through my to-do list. I poured another cup of coffee for myself, but Bailey waved me off.

“I’m good,” she said. “I’m going to see if I can find out where our burglary victim is now.”

“If she’s still at the same location, she’s probably not our girl,” I replied.

Bailey nodded and opened her cell. She gave the victim’s name and address, and while she waited for a response, I slinked my fork over to her plate of hash browns and speared a mouthful. Bailey shot me a look.

“What?” I whispered. “You were done.”

She pulled her plate closer and returned to her call. “Yes,” she said, taking out her notebook and pen. She scribbled the information. “Thanks. Can I run a couple of other reports by you?”

Bailey gave the information we had on the purse snatch and car theft. While she waited for an answer, I went back to my bedroom to finish getting dressed. When I returned, Bailey was standing and finishing her coffee.

“And?” I asked.

“Our burglary victim has moved.”

“So far, so good,” I said.

She nodded. “The purse snatch is a bust. Victim was a tourist who got groped and robbed on Sunset Boulevard by R2-D2—”

“Funny, you ask me, I would’ve picked C-3PO to be that guy,” I said.

Costumed impersonators of famous figures, both fictional and real, had become a thriving business on Sunset Boulevard. On any given day, Darth Vader, Spider-Man, or the Hulk could be found strolling back and forth in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Unfortunately some of them were tweakers—speed freaks—who targeted unsuspecting out-of-towners.

“Our victim was an Aussie, and she went back to the Land Down Under,” Bailey said. “She declined to return to prosecute, and we’ve got no information on her current whereabouts. Suspect was a male.”

“Doesn’t sound like Lilah anyway, so no loss.”

“No,” Bailey replied. She checked the magazine on her .44 Glock and slipped it back into her shoulder holster, then put on her coat. “Let’s go see if Nina Klavens is our girl.”

Nina was now living in Studio City. According to her DMV record, she had a small house on Valley Vista Boulevard.

“That’s a pretty nice neighborhood, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Nice enough,” Bailey replied. “But remember, Lilah used to be a corporate lawyer, so she’s got skills. She could make enough money for a nice little place.”

Bailey assured our security detail of DA investigators that we could go it alone today. We’d be in her car and in decent places when we were out in public. A tail wouldn’t make us any safer. They checked in with their lieutenant, who’d agreed. I felt their despair at having to miss out on more time with us, but I was confident they’d console themselves with a second choice—say, for instance, clogging.

By the time we left, it was almost noon. That should’ve meant smooth sailing down the 101 Freeway, especially since we were heading northbound. But for some reason the traffic was even worse than usual. Getting stuck in traffic on a Saturday afternoon never ceases to confound and irritate me.
What the hell is everyone doing out on the freeway on a Saturday?
For the next half hour, in typical L.A. fashion, we crawled northbound, inch by inch.

We rode in silence until Bailey cleared her throat. “Have you said anything to Toni about…?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Are…ah…are you going to tell Drew?” she asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Because they were going to be alone in a quiet place for a while and she didn’t want to slip and tell him anything I didn’t want him to know. There was so much to appreciate about Bailey.

“I’ll tell Drew pretty soon.”

“And don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll never tell.”

“I know.”

“I’d never waste my time with Drew talking about you.” She grinned.

Bailey exited the freeway and headed west on Ventura. Ten minutes later, we turned onto Valley Vista and drove up the winding road, watching the address numbers. Halfway up the incline, I saw it.

“There.” I pointed, indicating a little brick house with white shutters on the right.

Small yet meticulously maintained, it was on a fairly secluded plot, set at least fifty feet back from the street and partially blocked from view by mature peppertrees. I could definitely see how this place would be a perfect fit for someone who wanted privacy.

Bailey parked and we followed a bricked path to the front door. A tasteful, well-polished brass knocker was placed just above a tiny eyehole. Bailey stood within view of the peephole and banged the knocker twice. At first, I heard nothing. But as I concentrated, I thought I detected Beethoven’s Seventh playing somewhere inside the house.

Bailey looked toward the driveway, and I followed her gaze. A red Prius was parked there. A likely indication that Nina, or hopefully Lilah, was home. Bailey banged the knocker on the brass plate a little harder this time. I leaned in to listen. I thought I heard the low thump of footsteps approaching on a wood floor. Seconds later, the thumping stopped.

“Who’s there?” said a woman’s voice, muffled by the heavy-looking door between us.

Bailey pulled out her badge and held it up to the peephole. “Bailey Keller, detective with the LAPD.”

“You alone?” the woman asked.

“No,” Bailey said, moving to the side.

I stepped in front of the peephole. “Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight. We’re here to talk to you about the burglary,” I said.

The door swung open.

“Well, it’s about damn time,” said the woman.

Nina Klavens, who, it turned out, really was Nina Klavens. And ninety years old if she was a day.

Thirty minutes
later, after getting an earful of the slipshod job the police had done investigating her burglary, we were finally released from Nina Klavens’s clutches.

“Assuming we did find her Hummel collection in some report, how’d we be able to tell it was hers?” I asked. “Don’t all those little kids holding umbrellas and watering cans look the same?”

“Ask me, because I’m a collector,” Bailey replied dryly. “Besides, I wasn’t the one who offered to look for it.”

We got into the car and belted up. “If I hadn’t, we’d still be in there.”

“So we’re down to the auto theft,” she said. “Give me the info.”

I pulled out the report. “Victim, Alicia Morris. No description, no DOB. Address in…Hollywood, on Fountain Avenue, east of Fairfax. Apartment J.”

Bailey turned right and headed toward Mulholland Drive. Eventually we landed on Benedict Canyon, which would take us from the San Fernando Valley to the west side of town. The canyons are older roads where trees and greenery have had plenty of time to mature, creating a canopy that filters what little sunlight penetrates the hills. The homes lining the road range from overbuilt and grandiose to charming and rustic. Though the ride was more picturesque than the freeway, it took just one slow-moving car to back up traffic for miles. Luckily, today we were the ones out in front. We flew all the way down to Sunset, where we headed east, then took La Cienega south and ended up on Fountain Avenue. When we passed Fairfax, Bailey slowed and I watched the numbers, searching for the address, listed as 7300 Fountain Avenue.

“Wait, slow down,” I said as we neared Fountain and Martel. I read the sign on the building at 7300 Fountain. “Morman Boling Casting?” A casting agency. Not Alicia Morris’s—or anyone else’s—
residence
.

Bailey and I exchanged a look. “Maybe the numbers go down and then up again,” she suggested.

We continued east, but by the time we’d passed Kat Von D’s High Voltage Tattoo at La Brea, the numbers were still descending.

“Fountain dead-ends just past Gower and picks up again at Van Ness. If the numbers don’t start going up by then, we’ll call it quits,” she said.

We hit the dead end, made the jog, and picked up Fountain at Van Ness. The numbers continued to fall. When they kept falling after we’d passed the La Fuente Sober Living facility, I’d seen enough.

“Give it up, Bailey. It’s a bogus address.”

“How long ago was the report made?” she asked.

I looked at the date. “Four and a half years,” I replied, knowing what she was thinking. “We can confirm this with the permit office, but I didn’t see any building that looked like it’d gone up in the last four years or so.”

“Agreed.” Bailey sighed. “It’s bogus.”

She pulled over and parked. There was a fire hydrant and a tow zone right ahead of us. But she wasn’t even an inch over the line. She was that distracted.

I tossed out another possibility.

“This wouldn’t be the first victim to give a bum address for personal reasons,” I suggested. “Maybe she was growing pot in her closet and didn’t want the cops to show up unannounced.”

“She’d still have given a phone number,” Bailey said. “There wasn’t one.”

I checked the report again. She was right.

“Maybe she wanted the car to stay stolen so she could collect on the insurance,” I offered. I beat Bailey to the punch and looked to see if an insurance company was listed. “No insurance shown here, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

Bailey was silent, her expression intense. “Except it does,” she said. “I checked with the DMV, and there was no insurance on the car. It was kind of a junker. An old Audi.”

“Probably wasn’t worth insuring,” I remarked.

The traffic light just ahead of us turned red, and I watched the line of cars come to a stop. The closest was a red Ford Focus with a bumper sticker that said,
NAMASTE, BITCHES.
A sticker on the rear window added,
I DON’T DO NICE.
I looked inside the car to see the badass who was advertising. It was a soft, round-looking woman in her fifties.

“Are there any cars registered under Lilah’s maiden name?” I asked.

Bailey nodded slowly. “An Audi,” she said, her voice stretched tight. “But the license and registration don’t match.”

A no-match on the license and registration should’ve ended the matter, but Bailey kept staring out the windshield.

“Then what’s the big deal?” I asked. “There must be thousands of old Audis out there.”

“Yeah,” Bailey said. “But I wrote down the license and registration of Lilah’s car.” She pulled her notebook out of her jacket pocket, flipped to the page, and handed it to me. “Check it out.”

I looked at the numbers written in her notebook, then pulled out the report. Then went back to the notebook again.

The license and registration for both cars was just one number off. It could’ve been a coincidence. The hairs on the back of my neck told me it wasn’t.

“What happened to Lilah’s car?” I asked.

“I just got the report back,” Bailey said. “According to the DMV records, a guy named Conrad Bagram reported it stolen—”

“Stolen?” I sat up.

“Yep.”

“So he bought the car from Lilah, and then it was stolen?” I asked.

“He had it on consignment,” Bailey replied. “Bagram owns a gas station and body shop on Sunset Boulevard near Highland and sells cars on the side. The ‘King of Sunset.’”

“When’d the King report it stolen?”

“Two days after Alicia Morris reported her car stolen,” Bailey said.

“So Alicia Morris doesn’t want the cops to know her address or phone number,” I said.

“But she does want them to know her car was stolen,” Bailey replied.

I frowned. “So the car exists, but Alicia Morris doesn’t?” I wondered.