by Marcia Clark
“So when did you move in?” I asked as Daniel drove down Grand Avenue.
“Just a few days ago. We start trial next week, so I wanted to give myself time to get acclimated.”
We talked about places to buy groceries and how to manage a few of the other mundane but necessary life activities downtown, and within two minutes, we were idling in the driveway of the Biltmore.
“Thanks for the ride, Daniel,” I said, my hand on the door.
“Yeah, you owe me large for this major hassle,” he joked. Then his tone turned serious. “Listen, I’d like it if we could have a meal now and then. Is that a possibility?”
“Of course,” I said, my smile bright with the effort to reassure him. The truth was, I didn’t really know how I felt about that. I said good night and stepped out of the car.
Angel tipped his hat. “Evening, Ms. Knight,” he said. He threw a pointed glance at Daniel’s car, which was pulling away, then opened the lobby door for me.
“Just an old friend, Angel. Nothing else,” I said. I loved having people around who cared, but at the moment my Biltmore family was feeling a little intrusive.
Back in my room, I took a long, hot shower, then poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir and settled on the couch with my feet up.
Daniel and I hadn’t broken up because I’d stopped loving him. No one cheated or did anything really shitty. I just hadn’t been able to handle his frequent and sometimes protracted business trips. But I’d no more share that information with him than I’d tell him about Romy. So the relationship had foundered largely because of a “failure to communicate.” Mine, that is.
That admission led me back to Graden. That breakup too was about my past. Or was it, rather, my inability to deal with my past? No—I wasn’t going to put it all on me. Graden had gone behind my back and violated my privacy. My history was mine to tell, not his to ferret out on a whim. I felt myself bristling again, the spring inside me winding up for battle. If I kept this up, I wouldn’t sleep all night.
I took my glass of wine and a magazine that featured an interview with Johnny Depp to bed with me. I’m a big fan of his, but it’d been a long day and a lot of wine. Within minutes, my eyes had closed and the magazine slipped off my lap.
It was only as I turned out the light that I briefly remembered the sense of danger I’d felt standing in front of Checkers. But I was an old hand when it came to dealing with fear, and I knew better than to try and figure it out in the middle of the night. Promising myself to think about it all in the morning, I fell back on the pillow and into a deep but turbulent sleep.
51
On Monday, I was sitting in court, waiting for my last case to be called, when inspiration hit me. We’d gone about as far as we could trying to find Lilah by conventional means. No one she’d known in her previous life had any idea where to find her, and all of Bailey’s efforts had failed to turn up any trace of her under either of her known legitimate names.
But maybe there was another way in. I’d been noodling around with a theory about Zack’s case, and it might just dovetail with our search for Lilah.
“People v. Reynolds,” the judge announced.
Finally my case was called. The defense attorney jumped up, eager to get it done and get on the road to his next appearance. We picked a trial date, and I headed to the snack bar to grab a water.
As I rounded the corner, I spotted Melia. She was standing near the elevators talking to a short man who was obviously trying to alter that perception with hair that was gelled to reach for the sky. I kept moving as I tried to figure out why he looked so familiar. Then it hit me. I nearly stopped dead in my tracks. He was a reporter for one of the syndicated news agencies. Melia, aka Gossip Central, talking to a reporter spelled nothing but trouble in general. But for me in particular, it might mean total disaster. If the press was onto the Simon Bayer case, I was hosed. I quickly ducked into the snack bar and pretended to browse. When he got on an elevator, I started to head over to Melia, but when I saw that she was moving toward the snack bar, I stayed put.
The moment she walked in, I pulled her to the back corner. “What did that reporter want?” I asked.
Melia made a face and eased her elbow out of my grip. “What’s your damage? I didn’t tell him anything.”
“I didn’t ask what you told him,” I said. “I asked what he wanted.”
Melia looked at me sullenly. “Since when am I not allowed to talk to people?”
I took a deep breath to keep from choking her. “He’s not ‘people,’ Melia. He’s a reporter. And that can be a problem—for all of us.” I looked at her pointedly, but her expression told me I’d have to spell it out for her. “You included.”
Melia gave an exasperated sigh. “He was asking about you guys—”
“Us guys?”
She rolled her eyes. “Special Trials deputies. What hours you worked, how many cases you carried. Like that, okay?”
“And what’d you tell him?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I told him to ask Eric.”
The subject was just boring enough to make me believe her. “He ask about anything else?”
“Like what?” she said, finally interested.
Like I’d tell her. I shrugged. “No idea. I was just asking.” I was pretty sure I knew what the reporter was after, and it wasn’t good. But the fact that it wasn’t the Bayer case and, even better, that Melia didn’t know the case was gossipworthy was excellent news. Relief made me magnanimous. “I’m getting water. Can I get you something?”
Back in my office, I called Bailey on my cell phone so she’d see it was me and pick up. On any given day, this might or might not be a winning strategy. On this day it was—either that, or she hadn’t looked at the number.
“Yeah?” she said.
“I’ve got two good reasons why we should celebrate over lunch. We just dodged a big bullet, and I have a hot new plan for finding Lilah.”
“The bullet-dodging, maybe. The hot idea…we’ll see,” she said dryly. “Where?”
“How about Engine Company Number Twenty-eight?”
“Meet you downstairs in fifteen,” Bailey said. “Toni coming?”
“I’m waiting to see. But if she’s not here by then, we’ll let her know what she missed.”
Ten minutes later, I heard the kee-koo of Toni’s stiletto heels hitting the linoleum down the hall. I jumped out to intercept her and told her about our lunch plan.
“Fantastic,” she said, pushing her bangs off her forehead. “I can’t wait to get out of here. Just let me drop this junk.” She gestured to a thick file in her arms.
I waited in the hallway, and we trotted out to the elevator together.
“What was that?” I said, referring to the file she’d been hauling.
“Old arson case. Judge kept jurisdiction to impose restitution, and it took a while to get all the paperwork in to prove up the losses.”
“Which I’m sure the defendant’s going to pay, making all that dough on license plates,” I said sarcastically.
Toni nodded, her expression fatalistic. “It’s the principle, you know?”
I did. As we stepped out of the elevator, I whispered, “I had dinner with Daniel on Friday.”
Toni stopped and stared at me, her eyes huge. “You what?”
I pulled her by the arm through the crowd, knowing Bailey was probably already waiting outside.
“I’ll explain in the car,” I said.
“You bet you will, honey,” she replied.
Our timing was perfect. Bailey pulled to the curb just as we got to the top of the stairs, and we jumped in.
“Did you know this girl had dinner with Daniel?” Toni said the moment we’d closed our doors.
“You what?” Bailey said, echoing Toni’s response.
I explained how it’d all happened, but I admitted that I’d had a good time.
Toni shook her head.
“What? Daniel and I can’t be friends?”
&n
bsp; “You certainly can,” she said. “But you’re still pissed off at Graden, which makes it a dicey time to strike up a friendship with an old boyfriend. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I couldn’t, so I said nothing. Engine Co. No. 28 appeared on our right. Bailey deliberately picked a parking space in the loading zone to the left of the entrance.
We got a good booth toward the back of the restaurant, and when we were settled, I told them about my Melia-with-reporter sighting. “My guess is he’s running with Phil Hemet’s vendetta against Special Trials,” I said.
“Not good,” Toni replied, frowning.
“But not as bad as it could’ve been,” Bailey said. But I could see that the close call had made her as nervous as it’d made me. She leaned forward, her arms folded on the table, expression intense. “Let’s hear your genius idea.”
“I never said it was genius,” I replied. “I just said it was…new.”
“I believe the term you used to bribe me was hot,” Bailey said.
“Try this on,” I began. “It’s fair to assume that Zack told Lilah about the skinhead attacks on the police station?”
Bailey nodded. “I’d say so.”
“Then that’s where Lilah got the idea to finger the skinheads as Zack’s killers.”
“Or maybe even hired one to do it?”
“It’d be risky,” I admitted. “These guys aren’t choirboys. She’d have to know that the minute a guy like that got busted, he’d start yapping about who hired him—”
“But who’re the cops going to believe?” Toni pointed out. “Some skinhead asshole or a lawyer who was married to a cop? Especially the way this murder went down—”
“Exactly,” I said.
“But if she did hire a skinhead to do the murder, how did she get to him?” Toni asked.
“I have an educated guess,” I said. “Remember Larry said she’d interned in the DA’s office? We had a hiring freeze. She wound up working in Orange County—”
“Lots of skinhead activity down south,” Bailey interjected.
“Right. So even if she didn’t work on skinhead cases herself, she had access to all kinds of information.”
“Names, addresses, phone numbers, and who the heavy hitters were,” she said. “It’s a definite possibility.”
“So I’m thinking that we run down Public Enemy Number One,” I said. “I’m not saying she hired one of them to do the hit on Zack, but it’s worth looking into the possibility that she’s got some kind of connection to them. Who knows? She might be using one of them as a bodyguard—”
“To protect her from Simon,” Bailey finished. “She had to be worried that he’d come after her, the way he went off in court. And it was in the news that he was trying to get the Feds to file on her.”
“Right,” I said. “And don’t forget, there was a whole police department that thought she did it and took the verdict very friggin’ personally.”
“So if your theory plays out, Simon’s killer might be a skinhead,” Bailey observed.
I shrugged.
“But if not, at the very least one of those clowns might know where to find her,” she finished.
“And if we find her, we might be able to convince her to give up the stabber—”
“Because if she doesn’t, she looks good as an aider and abettor to the murder,” Bailey said. “I buy the logic. I’m just not sure about the ‘how’ of it. As in, how we’re gonna get a skinhead to talk to us. We’ll need to have some serious leverage on whoever we grab.”
“Come on,” I said. “How many of these guys don’t have a tail of some sort?”
The odds were good that most of the gang members would be on probation or parole for something. And finding a violation to bust them for wouldn’t challenge a kindergartner.
Bailey nodded. “The trickier part will be figuring out who we can talk to without earning ourselves a toe tag. So how do you propose to find a way in with these jokers?”
I gave a self-satisfied smile. “This is where you thank me for my interpersonal skills.” Bailey just looked at me.
“My buddy Luis Revelo,” I said. “The shot-caller of the Sylmar Sevens.”
52
Bailey and I met Luis Revelo during our last case, when he was a rape suspect and was thought to be targeting yours truly. When I proved he wasn’t guilty of either crime, he became a helpful, if somewhat unorthodox, ally.
Toni looked from me to Bailey. “Uh, hello? Luis is Hispanic. Last time I checked, these skinhead guys don’t do swirl.”
Back in the day, before the Aryan Brotherhood—the granddaddy of white-supremacist prison gangs—got locked down on a 24-7 basis, Toni would’ve been right. No dealings, business or otherwise, were tolerated with anyone but whites. But the Feds had moved in with a vengeance to shut them down, bringing a series of criminal charges against dozens of the major players and instituting the most draconian lockdown conditions in prison history. As a result, the AB lost significant mobility, which should’ve meant operations—at least the ones guided from behind bars—were at an end. But being the resourceful, enterprising group they were, the AB followed the lead of many large corporations: they outsourced and recruited more junior groups whose movements in prison weren’t so restricted. Groups like Public Enemy Number One, whose younger members hadn’t had the chance to rack up lengthy rap sheets and still had the “yard privileges” that let them move freely about the cabin.
“Ever since the AB brought in the youngsters, there’s been a bit of an attitude shift about dealing with the mud people,” I said.
“When it comes to money, the new kids go a little color-blind,” Bailey said. “They’ll deal to blacks—”
“Or date Latina girls,” I added.
“Sex and money,” Toni concluded. “The great integrators. See? We can all just get along.”
The waiter took our orders.
“I’m going to call Luis,” I said, getting out of the booth. “Well, realistically, leave him a message and get the ball rolling.”
I had to move outside to find a space quiet enough to use the phone.
As predicted, I got his voice mail.
“’S Luis, leave a message, I’ll get ya back.”
I did. But as I hung up, I felt it again: a presence, hidden and menacing, watching me. I tried to look over my left shoulder without turning my head, hoping to catch someone off guard. Running valets and brisk walkers, a woman with bright-orange shoulder-length hair the consistency of steel wool deep in conversation with a young, sullen-looking—is there any other kind?—teenage girl. No one who gave a damn about me. Unsettled, I went back inside the restaurant, my appetite gone.
We were heading up Broadway when my cell played “FM” by Steely Dan.
I opened my phone. “Knight.”
“Nah, ’s daytime. You sittin’ in a box or something?” Luis said, then laughed, cracking himself up.
“Luis,” I replied, a smile in my voice. “How’ve you been?”
“I ain’t complainin’—I mean, I’m not complaining.” He corrected himself with a sigh. “Whassup with you?”
“Can you spare us a half hour or so?” I asked. “We need some information.”
“You still hangin’ with that hot blonde?”
“Detective Keller, yes. And I’ll tell her you—”
“Aw, come on,” he interrupted. “You know I was jes’ jokin’, Miz Knight. You ain’t—damn, aren’t—going to tell her I said that, are you? Jeez.”
Luis sounded truly aggrieved.
“No, I won’t,” I said. “What’s a good time?”
Luis gave a protracted yawn. I turned to look at the clock on the Times Building. Nearly three o’clock, and he was just now joining the world.
“How about five?” he eventually answered. I heard him whisper to someone nearby, “No. No más ahora.”
Not wanting to know what he didn’t want más of, I quickly agreed. “Five, it is—”
“You’re buyin’, righ
t? ’Cuz I’m gonna need to eat about that time…”
Of course he would. Luis knew how to work it with the best of them.
“How about Les Sisters?” I suggested.
“Les Sisters, yeah,” Luis said with a satisfied sigh. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”
I told Bailey the plan as she turned onto Temple Street and pulled to the curb to drop Toni off.
Luis got busy—with what, neither of us wanted to know—later in the evening. He was, as they say, a mixed bag. Well on his way to earning a GED and aiming for college and an MBA, he fully intended to leave the gang life behind. And, no question, he’d provided invaluable help on our last case. But there was no sense denying that he still had a foot planted on the less-than-savory side of the street.
“I sent in our latest video footage to get a still blowup of our stabber’s hand,” Bailey said to me now. “It’s supposed to be in. Why don’t you come back to the station with me and we can check it out?”
I was dying to see that photo. A blowup might show some identifying detail on the stabber’s hand. But that could also mean a possible run-in with Graden.
Bailey looked at me. “You can’t avoid it forever.”
Toni added, her voice warm, sympathetic, “And believe me, we’d both be feeling the same if we were in your shoes.”
She opened the door and stepped out onto the curb, then leaned down and pointedly looked at my feet as she spoke through my window. “Though I’d have better shoes.”
She would’ve too.
53
When we got off the elevator, my palms were sweaty. I put my hands in my pockets, forced a long, slow exhale, and kept my eyes fixed straight ahead on Bailey’s back. We got to her desk without a Graden sighting. Making it look casual, Bailey carefully scanned the room.
She whispered, “I don’t think he’s here.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“He’s a lieutenant with a job. It probably eats into his mooning-over-you time.”
“It’s heartwarming the way you go that extra mile to comfort me.”
