by Marcia Clark
Toni looked at me skeptically, then at Bailey.
“What do you say?” Toni asked her.
Bailey looked torn.
“It may not be related.” She paused. “You think they’ll take her off the case if we report?”
“It’s possible,” Toni admitted.
“She can hear you,” I said, annoyed enough to momentarily forget how lousy I felt.
Neither of them seemed fazed. I closed my eyes but could clearly imagine the expressions on their faces: Toni eyeing me skeptically, Bailey frowning her disapproval.
After a few moments, Bailey sighed. “Hold off for a day or so, until we sort it out.”
I opened my eyes, relieved. Toni started to object, but Bailey looked at her pointedly. Toni nodded and said nothing.
“Did you get a look at him?” Bailey asked.
I shook my head, which hurt, so I stopped. “No.” I closed my eyes to try and visualize the attack. “But I did see a hand. It was in a glove, but I could tell it was a man’s hand.”
That little speech ended my limited energy reserve. My eyes stayed shut and didn’t open again until morning. By that time, the doctor said I was in good enough shape to go home. I called Toni and Bailey, who were in the hospital cafeteria, and told them I was released.
“You are not going back there by yourself,” Bailey said. “I’m staying with you. You’ve got the space. And besides, I could use some room service.”
“And if she gets busy with Drew, I’ll be there,” Toni said.
“Fine,” I said.
Though I wouldn’t admit it, I liked the idea of having them there. Bailey drove us all back to the Biltmore. When we got to the room, they tucked me in and shook out my prescribed happy pills.
“I’m not taking these,” I said, putting the pills on the nightstand. “They’ll knock me out and I’ll be out of it all day tomorrow. We don’t have that kind of time to lose.”
Bailey and Toni exchanged a look.
“What?” I said. “It was a bump on the head, not a brain tumor.”
“Take one pill so you can sleep tonight—which means I’ll get to sleep tonight—and we’ll hit it tomorrow. Okay?”
I took one pill and within minutes drifted off.
When I woke up the next morning, I was hurting all over. I looked at my alarm clock. Only 7:30 a.m. I had a whole day ahead of me if I got my ass in gear. Gingerly, I moved out of bed one limb at a time. One leg, then the other, then an arm—pretty soon, I was sitting up with my feet on the floor. I stood up slowly, one hand on the bed for balance, then let go. I was standing. I looked in the mirror. The right side of my torso was covered in dark bruises, and my right cheek and shoulder were both bruised and badly scraped. My eyes were swollen and there was a big, ugly lump on my forehead. It’d hurt, but I’d have to do a serious makeup job if I didn’t want to scare small children.
I slowly inched my way out to the living room. I looked into the spare room and saw that Bailey was still in bed. She wouldn’t be for long. I called room service and ordered us breakfast and two large pots of coffee, then painfully shuffled to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower, stretching carefully under the warm spray to try and loosen up.
“How’re you doing?” Bailey greeted me when I came back out to the living room, dressed and ready for the day. “You look good for someone who got clocked like that.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “A little wobbly, but not bad.”
Room service had come and set up our breakfasts. Bailey gestured for me to sit down and poured us both coffee.
She took the silver cover off her plate and inhaled the rich sweetness of her French toast. “Room service,” Bailey said with a look of supreme satisfaction. “So good to be here.” She took a sip of coffee, then added, “And, you know, to be here for you too.”
I was going to take issue with her priorities but figured that coming in second to room service was probably a step up. I savored my first bite of my ham-and-cheese omelet splurge and tried to replay the attack in my mind.
“Did he take my purse?” I asked. The paramedics had found my gun in my coat pocket. A lot of good it’d done me.
“Good news and bad news,” Bailey said, digging into her hash browns.
“Bad news,” I said.
“He took your wallet.”
“Good news?”
“He left your purse; we called and canceled all your credit cards already, and from what I remember, you didn’t have much cash on you.”
That’s right. I’d offered to leave a tip for the waitress at Marie Callender’s and didn’t have enough. And I was going to have to get another driver’s license. Worse, I’d have to get another driver’s license photograph.
“I’ve never had any problems here before, and I haven’t heard of anyone else having a problem like this either,” I said.
“I know,” Bailey agreed. “And even though there’s no such thing as ‘can’t happen here,’ this has got me thinking.”
I’d been thinking about it too. In fact, from the moment I woke up in the hospital.
There was nothing near that fire escape but my room. “He was waiting for me.”
59
We sat in thick silence, contemplating who the attacker could’ve been.
“We just got done talking to two skinheads from warring factions,” I said. “And we squeezed Lonnie pretty hard to get to his boss.”
Bailey nodded. “So PEN1 issued a warning?”
“That’s the last rock we looked under.”
Bailey shook her head. “For all we know, one side might be using you to set up the other side.”
That made a kind of twisted sense, given who we were dealing with.
“Then I can’t think of a better time to have a chat with their Grand Wizard, what’s-his-name…Dominic,” I said. “If it was one of his minions, he had to have given the order.” Hitting a prosecutor was too big a move to make without getting executive approval.
“Grand Wizard’s the Klan,” Bailey corrected.
“Thank you,” I deadpanned. “I appreciate you saving me from the mortifying experience of referring to some douche-nozzle skinhead by the wrong title.”
Bailey dropped her napkin on the table, then put on her shoulder holster and checked the magazine of her Glock. Taking her cue, I went to the dresser where I kept my firepower and pulled out the biggest gun I had—the .44-caliber H & K. My recent assault had given me a whole new perspective on self-defense. I would’ve taken a bazooka if I’d had one.
“I’d go easy on the douche-nozzle too,” Bailey said, picking up her overcoat. “At least until we’re off the compound.”
Compound?
“Dominic Rostoni lives on a compound in Calabasas,” Bailey said. “He’s a skinhead and an entrepreneur.”
“Great,” I said. I popped the magazine into my .44, checked to make sure the safety was on, and put it into my purse.
“We’re going to have to leave these in the car,” Bailey said, gesturing to our guns. “There’s no way they’re letting us in if we’re strapped.”
We shared a long look. If our chat with Dominic didn’t pan out the way we hoped, safety was going to be an issue for both of us.
I did what I could with makeup and concealer and presented myself to Bailey.
“What do you think?” I asked.
She looked at my face and shrugged. “It’s as good as you’re going to get.”
With those encouraging words, we headed out to Bailey’s car. I had to move slowly at first, which frustrated me. I didn’t want to hobble into this meeting like a ninety-year-old—especially if it was one of his minions who’d attacked me. I pulled myself up straight and forced myself to walk as normally as I could. It was pretty slow going, and I’d have to remember not to wince, but I thought I pulled off a pretty good semblance of normal.
While Bailey drove, I surreptitiously tried to stretch and work out the kinks. I wanted to keep my little rehab efforts on the down lo
w, because if Bailey saw, she might cancel the meeting and hustle me back to bed. I could not let that happen. The possibility that this cretin Dominic was behind my attack had me good and mad, and I was spoiling to confront this son of a bitch.
We’d picked a good time to travel. At 10:30 a.m., the northbound traffic on the 101 Freeway was light. We flew up through Hollywood, Studio City, Tarzana, and Woodland Hills. As we headed toward Calabasas, stores and strip malls gave way to rolling green hills and the Santa Monica Mountains. Calabasas itself was once a bucolic one-horse town with open fields and a hitching post in front of the post office. But in recent years, developers had seen the possibilities of catering to the newly moneyed families who wanted a quiet place to raise their children. Now it was an upscale suburban enclave filled with gated communities, McMansions, and plush estates. But there were still rural pockets where the roads were barely paved and the animal population outnumbered the humans.
Dominic’s compound was nestled in one of them.
Bailey got off at Las Virgenes and headed west, toward the Santa Monica Mountains. If we stayed on that road, it’d take us to Malibu in minutes. But our destination was on the Calabasas side of the mountain. Bailey turned left onto Mulholland, then made another left onto a wide country road.
The air was clean and crisp, and the sky was a cloudless cornflower blue. In a fenced pasture on the right, beautifully groomed horses galloped and played, their manes flying, and in a large open stable on the left, equally well-kept horses stomped their hooves and whinnied to one another. Goats and sheep grazed on the hillside above the pasture, and a family of cows huddled on a hill just beyond the stables. Giant oak and maple trees that undoubtedly provided welcome shade in the summer but were now bare-limbed lined both sides of the road. We stopped to let two ranch hands holding the reins of a pair of gorgeous platinum-gray mares cross the street. It was hard to believe that just forty minutes ago, we were surrounded by concrete and skyscrapers.
Bailey turned right, into a driveway that was closed off by ten-foot gates with cameras mounted on the posts. A concrete wall of equal height surrounded the front portion of the property. The back abutted rolling, wooded hills. From what I could see, the residence was a single-story ranch-style home of about seven thousand square feet that sat on at least an acre and a half of land. Bailey pushed a button below a speaker on the right side of the gate and gave our names. There was no response. We waited thirty seconds, but just as she’d reached out to push the button again, the gates slowly swung inward.
The driveway led us onto a road that wove through lush shrubbery and mature trees and ended in a horseshoe driveway. We pulled to a stop at the apex of the arc, where two muscle-bound six-footers in blue do-rags guarded the front door. I’d call them a welcoming committee, but they didn’t look all that welcoming. I decided not to let this hurt my feelings.
“We’re about to get frisked,” Bailey said. “Try not to give anyone your phone number.”
We exchanged a “here goes nothing” look and got out of the car.
The thug on the right spun his finger in a circle, gesturing for us to turn and “assume the position”—i.e., face the car, with our hands on the roof. We complied, and they ran their hands across our arms, down our sides, and all over our legs and ankles. Then they patted our torsos, front and back. It wasn’t rough, but it was thorough, and in my current condition, any touch hurt like hell. I clamped my jaws together to keep from wincing.
I considered making the standard joke about at least buying me a drink but rejected the idea. What if they took me up on the offer?
We followed them into a foyer with dark-wood floors and walls lined with photographs of gleaming motorcycles of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The sign in the background of one of the photographs told me what had built this mansion. Motorcycles—exquisitely customized ones—were big business. Our escorts gave us no time to linger and steered us directly into a room that would ordinarily be called a study, except no one was ever going to study anything in here. Instead of the usual dark leather and mahogany, the room was carpeted in a champagne-colored low-pile topped off with burnt-orange throw rugs. A latticed window gave the sunlight a gentle glow, and the biggest flat screen I’d ever seen presided over a grouping of soft, cushy burnt-orange couches and reclining chairs at the other end of the room. I noticed that our host was already seated on one of the reclining chairs, and we were steered to the couch nearest to him. I lowered myself onto the farthest spot on the end of the sofa slowly, hoping it would make me look cool and defiant rather than stiff and sore.
Dominic Rostoni did not look Italian. With shoulder-length white-blond hair, ruddy, pitted skin from an early siege of acne, and dark-brown eyes, he looked more Nordic than Neapolitan. And although it couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees outside, he was wearing just a wifebeater, jeans, and flip-flops.
“You’re the cop.” He looked at Bailey. “And you’re the DA,” he said to me.
“And you’re PEN1’s CEO,” I replied, just to show I’d prepared too.
“It’s not a crime,” he replied, his voice relaxed, conversational.
This was true. It wasn’t a crime to belong to a gang. It was only a crime to do crimes with a gang.
“You remember the case where the Glendale cop got murdered in his own basement?” I asked.
Dominic frowned a moment and stared out the window.
“That the one where the wife cut off his head with an ax?” he asked.
Not much I could add to that, so I nodded.
“That’s what you want to talk to me about?”
“The defense said you guys did it,” I said. “Part of the whole war you had going with the Glendale PD.” I stopped and watched his reaction.
“I did hear something like that, now you mention it,” he said with little inflection.
He gave no indication of any concern, and his answer made it clear that he wasn’t going to give up one more word than he had to—the cagey type. Or the type who’d learned from his previous encounters with law enforcement.
“There’re some in your crowd who say it’s true,” I remarked.
Dominic didn’t answer immediately. He looked at me impassively.
“From what I remember, that case was over a while ago,” he said, looking at me through hooded eyes. “So I’m gonna guess that you’re here about something else.”
“We are,” I replied.
“Then shouldn’t you be reading me my rights?”
“You’re not in custody,” I said. “And you can refuse to talk, but we’re not looking at any group…activity you need to be concerned about.”
Though I wasn’t entirely sure PEN1 hadn’t done Zack’s murder, I tended to agree with Larry that a gang hit didn’t fit with the nature of the crime. And there was no reason to believe that Lilah’s protection was a gang priority. So if one of these guys was helping her and had killed Simon in the process, it was likely a private arrangement. But private or no, any PEN1 member would be foolish not to get Dominic’s approval before taking the job. It wouldn’t be good for the guy’s health to look like he was sneaking around, doing private money gigs on the side.
Dominic peered out the window again for a few moments, then turned back to me and stared straight into my eyes.
“Go ahead,” he finally said.
“Did PEN1 do Zack?” I asked.
Dominic shook his head once. “No.”
“You’re sure?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
“No one makes a move that big without my approval,” he replied flatly, as though I’d asked whether the sun always rose in the east. Then, as if reading from a script, he calmly added, “Not that I’d ever approve an act of violence.”
“No, of course not,” I said.
He continued, “Anyways—”
“Anyway,” I corrected. I could feel Bailey mentally rolling her eyes and telling me to shut up, but I couldn’t help it. I never can. Shit like this drives me nuts.
>
Dominic looked at me, perplexed, but obediently repeated, “Anyway…doing a cop in his own home is just plain stupid.”
“Then why’d some of your people seem to think it was PEN1 business?” I asked, bluffing a little.
“’Cause some of our people are dipshits who like to act tough and don’t have the brains God gave a kickstand.”
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
“You or any other PEN1 member ever have any dealings with Lilah Bayer?” I asked.
“That the wife?” he asked, his tone genuinely curious.
“Right.”
He frowned, then gave me a puzzled look. “Why would we?”
“Does that mean no?” I asked.
Dominic sighed. “Lawyers,” he said, shaking his head. “Yeah, that means no.”
I was out of questions. I looked over at Bailey, who shook her head.
“Thanks for your time, Dominic,” I said.
I stood as quickly as I could, subtly using the arm of the sofa to push myself up. At least I’d thought it was subtle.
“What happened to you?” Dominic asked.
Oh well.
“Nothing,” I said, trying not to grimace as I turned my head.
He nodded sagely. “Ice’ll help that nothing,” he said. “Or a cold gel pack.”
“Thanks.”
We were escorted out to the car and followed by our two guards until the gates closed behind us.
We stopped for a red light at the intersection on Mulholland. A biker on a Harley in leather chaps with a baby carrier strapped to his chest rode by, heading for the ocean. A tiny white poodle was snuggled happily into the baby carrier, its ears flying in the wind. Poodle was going to the beach with Biker. At least it wasn’t in someone’s purse, dressed up like a ballerina.
We drove in silence until Bailey got to the freeway on-ramp. The traffic was starting to back up with lunchtime travelers.
“We had to check it out, but I’m just not feeling this whole Lilah-skinhead connection,” she said.
I nodded. “But it was worth it to make all those fun new friends.”
