RK02 - Guilt By Degrees

by Marcia Clark

  “You still think it might’ve been one of those fun friends who jumped you?” Bailey asked.

  “No,” I replied with certainty.

  I’d given this a lot of thought since we left the compound.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because I just remembered one very salient point,” I said. “That guy didn’t just take my wallet. He also took the photo—the one of the stabber.”

  “Shit,” Bailey said softly.

  My sentiments exactly.

  60

  Lilah gestured to Maxwell Chevorin to have a seat on the couch. “I’m having green tea. Can I get you anything?”

  “That sounds good,” the lobbyist replied. He watched her move to the kitchenette, enjoying the view. It was a nice perk.

  Maxwell once again congratulated himself on his luck, and his instinct. His luck, because it’d given him state senator William Sharder for a buddy. His instinct, because when Sharder confided that Lilah’d blackmailed him into getting her a junior associate position with his law firm, it’d told him that she was cut out for this line of work. So when she was acquitted of her husband’s murder, he’d recognized the golden opportunity and immediately made her an offer. Personally, he’d never believed she was guilty, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had been. If anything, that would only have made her more attractive to him. Someone smart enough to get away with murder was someone he could use. The lobbyist had never feared for his own safety. He understood Lilah. She needed him as much as he needed her. She was, in some respects, his female counterpart: ruthless, brilliant, and obsessive.

  Lilah set down two big-handled mugs and sat in a chair across the coffee table from him.

  “The CEO job is largely completed,” she said. “I just want to take a few more days to make sure we’ve bled every source dry.” Which was why she hadn’t wanted to take this meeting today. But Chevorin had been insistent. Not that she blamed him—she probably would’ve felt the same in his position. Since they only communicated about cases in person, he had no other way of knowing whether they’d made any progress.

  “Here’s where we stand right now.” Lilah described what they’d found on the CEO but didn’t tell him about the bonus dirt they’d dug up on the CEO’s “fixer.” She intended to keep the fixer for herself. He was worth much more than the lobbyist would ever pay.

  At the other end of the spectrum, she’d also caught a minnow in her net. The bookkeeper of the company, a devoted family man with two daughters, was apparently engaged in a very lusty affair. Along with dozens of steamy love letters, Chase had found a photograph of the man’s paramour: a well-endowed twentysomething young man dressed only in a bolo tie and cowboy boots, signed, “All my love, Bryce.” Lilah had taken all the letters and the photograph and personally shredded every single item, then fired off an anonymous letter to the bookkeeper, warning him to cover his tracks better in the future. She had no use for him, so why bother to ruin him?

  “Amazing,” Chevorin said with undisguised admiration. “Can you deliver the final package by next week?”

  “I’ll call you.” Lilah stood, indicating the meeting was at an end.

  After the lobbyist was gone, she summoned Chase and told him to get there immediately. She needed an update of her own and was hoping it’d be as good as the one she’d just given the lobbyist. It wasn’t.

  “Why the hell didn’t you take care of it yourself?” she asked when he finished describing what had happened at the hotel.

  “I couldn’t take the chance,” he replied, taken aback by her display of temper. “My face might already be on that surveillance footage.”

  “So you sent a moron? It was a very simple order: find out what they have. How does that translate to ‘put a DA in the hospital’? That idiot just made the case priority number one.”

  Her anger stung—in no small part because she was right. He should’ve known better than to give the job to a new hire.

  “He grabbed her wallet too,” he said. “Maybe they’ll just think—”

  Lilah froze him with a look.

  “You’re right,” he said. “You’re right.”

  Her voice now quiet and much more ominous, Lilah outlined what she wanted him to do.

  When he left, she took a deep breath and went over to the window. Her head had begun to throb and the sunlight pierced her eyes. As she pushed the button to close the shades, she noticed that her hands were shaking. The attack on that prosecutor was exactly the kind of bush-league mistake that could ruin her. She was getting that familiar, hated vulnerable feeling—the sense that events were spinning out of her control. That feeling always brought on the towering rage that had fueled so many of her murderous nightmares.

  Action typically made her feel better, but it was too dangerous to make a move now, without a plan. She pressed her hands together to stop them from shaking and went to the kitchenette. She found the bottle of Xanax and popped three milligrams, then threw ice into a towel, held it to her forehead, and lay down on the couch, willing the fury to abate. A fury that, if ever unleashed, would make those murderous nightmares a reality.

  61

  “If he took the photo, then whoever attacked you—,” Bailey began.

  “—is involved somehow in Simon’s murder,” I finished. “Whether it was the stabber himself or a cohort, it’s clear now: somebody’s tracking us. Has been tracking us.”

  Which explained that creepy “being watched” feeling I’d been having. Though it was a relief to know that I hadn’t been hallucinating, the knowledge that someone, likely a murderer, was following me was less than wonderful. A lot less.

  “He could’ve killed you—but he didn’t.”

  “Killing me makes it a bigger deal. I’d bet his first choice was to break into my room, but those doors are built like a vault’s.”

  “Still, the attack on you shows he’ll go as far as he has to—regardless of what his first choice is,” Bailey said, looking worried. She pulled up in front of the courthouse. “Call me when you’re ready to leave, and I’ll come pick you up,” she said. “Got it?”

  I sighed. “Fine,” I said. “But I’m leaving early.” I looked at her challengingly.

  “See you in a couple of hours,” she said.

  I got out and swam upstream against the wave of lunch-bound hordes. When I got back to my office, I saw that I had a message to contact Eric. Melia was at her desk, but her eyes were glued to the tabloid rag in her lap. It was a pleasure to interrupt her.

  “I’m here to see Eric,” I said.

  Her head popped up, mouth open. “Huh? Oh, uh, yeah.” She buzzed him and told him I was there. “He says you can go on in,” she said, then immediately dropped her attention back to her lap.

  Eric stood up when I walked into his office.

  “I just heard about what happened,” he said.

  “Who told you?” I asked.

  “Hotel security,” he replied. “They wanted to coordinate your protection. Naturally, I said we’d be glad to work with them.” Eric gave me a pointed look.

  Uh-oh.

  “But first, are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said, lowering myself slowly into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Yeah, you look great,” Eric said dryly, watching my descent. “Any idea who did it?”

  I shook my head. “Someone connected to Simon Bayer’s murder. Could’ve been the murderer himself.”

  I told him about the missing photograph.

  He looked down at his desk, pensive. “This worries me a great deal—”

  I cut him off. “Don’t even think about reassigning the case.” I tried to collect myself and speak in a rational tone. “It won’t be any less dangerous for any other deputy. And I’ve been in on it from the start—”

  Eric held up a hand and looked at me for a long moment. He slowly nodded. “You’re right.” He sighed and frowned. “But I’m assigning you security. We’re putting DA inves
tigators on your tail and in your hotel. Starting now.” He gave me a stern look. “And you’ll be fully cooperative with them.”

  “Got it,” I said, knowing it was no use to protest even if I’d minded. Which, at the moment, I had to admit, I didn’t.

  “And now, I have to give you a heads-up,” Eric said. “I hate to give you anything else to worry about, but Phil Hemet’s been in the chief deputy’s ear, claiming you’ve been out playing around when you say you’re in the field. He came to tell me personally that someone saw you and Bailey partying it up at Guido’s—”

  I protested hotly. “This is complete bullshit, Eric!” I’d known Hemet was up to something, but this was just an out-and-out lie. I told him about Melia’s encounter with the reporter.

  Eric nodded. “It figures. Hemet’s got someone in the newsroom who’s all fired up to do an article on how special unit—and especially Special Trials—deputies screw around on company time. Apparently he’s got quite a few buddies in the news business.” Eric’s voice was low, but the underlying anger was palpable. “And I know what he said is horseshit, Rachel. But Hemet’s out for blood, and I don’t think he cares what’s true anymore.”

  I tried to control my voice despite the rage and frustration boiling in my gut. “So what’re we going to do about it? We can’t just let him spread these lies around,” I said.

  “No, but there’s nothing we can do at the moment,” Eric replied. “Just give him as little fodder as possible. I understand you had to be out of the office to get this case rolling. But just be careful from here on out about what you do and when you do it when you’re in public.”

  I tried to console myself with the knowledge that at least Hemet hadn’t tipped the press to the Simon Bayer case, but it didn’t help much. Now that Hemet had promised a mudslinging insider exclusive, the press would be watching. I’d known that someone was bound to figure out what I was working on sooner or later, but now, thanks to that asshat Hemet, it would be sooner. Much sooner. I’d have to move faster—if that was possible. I sifted through my in-box and got the most pressing business on my other cases out of the way. To avoid the fun and hilarity of lowering myself into my chair one inch at a time, I did it standing up. Then I pulled out my Lilah to-do list and did what could be accomplished at a desk, but by four thirty I’d hit a dead end. Again. I was ready to pack it in. But after my chat with Eric, I knew it wouldn’t look good to leave that early.

  The fact that I had to worry about that infuriated me all over again. I put in so much overtime (unpaid, of course) that my hourly wage was about a dollar and a quarter. And I never had a chance to take my comp time. So now, not only was I being stalked by a murderer but I’d been targeted by a dickhead middle manager with a petty grudge. Adding insult to injury, the very same manager who was the number one supporter of that useless sack Brandon Averill—the prosecutor whose slipshod, lousy work got me into this mess to begin with. I eyed the bottom drawer of my desk where I kept the Glenlivet but didn’t want to waste good scotch on bad lawyers. I made myself work until five o’clock, then called Bailey.

  “I’m pulling the plug,” I said.

  “Thought you were leaving early.”

  “I am,” I said testily. “Should I see if Toni’s around?”

  “Sure, why should I get your great mood all to myself?”

  I hung up and dialed Toni’s extension, too tired to walk down the hall. No answer. I tried her cell.

  “I’m still in court, believe it or not,” Toni replied. “Hang on.” I heard her whisper to someone nearby, then she came back on the line. “I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.”

  My security detail, which was comprised of district attorney investigators, was waiting in Eric’s anteroom. DA investigators are basically cops who work exclusively for the DA’s office, and plenty of them used to work for police agencies. They handle specialized investigations and all security details. District Attorney Vanderhorn has investigators assigned to him as security on a full-time basis. That’s no easy job, because the biggest threat to his safety probably comes from those of us who work for him.

  A well-built man with a crew cut and kind eyes stepped forward from the group and put out his hand. “Gary Schrader, senior investigator,” he said. “I’m the team leader.” He gestured to the three other men with him. All were wearing the navy-blue nylon DA investigator Windbreaker. Gary gave me a sympathetic look. “I was sorry to hear about the incident, Ms. Knight. But we plan to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  His manner was old-school, courtly and respectful yet warm. Though I’d grudgingly admitted I didn’t mind having security around, the idea of being followed 24-7 hadn’t exactly thrilled me. But now I felt not only well-protected but honored.

  “Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand. “And please call me Rachel.”

  He nodded. “Gary,” he said.

  He turned to gesture behind him. “This is Stephen.” A stout young man with slicked-back brown hair gave a little wave. “James.” An impressively tall, fair blond with light eyebrows and eyelashes nodded. “And Mario.” A slim but muscular Latino with thick black hair and a sexy smile saluted me.

  I shook hands with each of them. “I rate four investigators?”

  “They’ll usually rotate in teams of two,” Gary said.

  I told them my plans, and we all trooped out to the elevator. My own private retinue of navy-blue nylon Windbreakers and running shoes.

  I found Toni already outside at the curb, and one of the investigators went to get his car while the other three waited with us. Toni looked from the investigators to me and nodded.

  “Good,” she said.

  Thirty seconds later, Bailey drove up, and Toni and I piled into her car. The investigator who’d gone to get his vehicle pulled up behind her, and one of the guys got into the passenger seat. The other two saluted and promised to see us tomorrow.

  As we headed down Spring Street, Bailey said, “The Biltmore? Or somewhere else?”

  “Let’s hit my room,” I said.

  “Your room?” Toni echoed, looking puzzled.

  My room was often the place where we eventually crashed, but it wasn’t usually our destination for evening entertainment.

  “I’ll explain when we get there,” I promised. “Besides, I already told my dates”—I jerked my thumb at the investigators behind us—“that’s where I was going, and I’m trying to be cooperative.”

  Toni and Bailey snorted almost simultaneously.

  The DA investigators tailed us into the hotel and went to their posts in the hallway when we entered my room.

  “How’d you wind up with protection?” Bailey asked.

  As we took off our coats and dropped them on a chair, I explained how Eric had found out about the attack. “So you’re off the hook now,” I told her.

  “I’m here for the duration. I don’t care how many of those guys are hanging around.”

  I was too tired and frazzled to argue. I held up a bottle of wine and a chilled bottle of Russian Standard Platinum vodka.

  Bailey picked up a barrel glass. “Vodka.”

  “I think I’m in the mood for wine,” Toni said.

  I opened the bottle and filled glasses for her and myself, and let Bailey do the honors with the vodka. “Want to order room service?”

  “Not yet,” Bailey said. “At least, not for me.”

  Toni shook her head. “I’ll take some snacks, though.”

  I put out the nuts and pretzels, then sat down on the couch and held out my glass for a toast.

  “To a terrific week,” I said sarcastically.

  “It’s almost over,” Toni said. “I’ll drink to that.”

  We all took a long sip.

  “Now, what are we doing in your room?” Bailey asked.

  I told them about Phil Hemet and his latest quest to trash me and all of Special Trials. When I finished, Toni was fuming. She poured herself another glass of wine and hunched over it, tapping one finger on the g
lass.

  “You know what we need?” she asked.

  “An unregistered gun?” I said helpfully.

  Toni stared at me. “No,” she said. “Dirt. On Hemet.”

  “That’s good too,” I said. I ran my hand through my hair and winced as I accidentally touched one of the many sore spots on my head. “But how?”

  “Leave that to me,” Toni replied.

  62

  We never did make it out of my room. In fact, Toni never even made it home. She crashed on the couch.

  The next morning dawned bright and sunny. I got up and felt the window. It seemed warmer today than it had been. Maybe that would help ease the aches and pains. I still felt like I was about ninety years old. I heard Bailey moving around in the other bedroom. Did I smell coffee?

  I quickly showered and inventoried the damage to my face and torso. Better, though not good. But now some yellow was peeking through the purple. Progress. I threw on some jeans and a sweater. Well, not throw exactly. I inched my way into them. When I reached the living room, I saw there was indeed coffee. And pastries. And bagels. With Bailey for a roommate, I was going to wind up wearing bedspreads to court. I poured myself a cup of coffee and pulled off half a bagel.

  Toni sat up, yawning, then sleepwalked to the bathroom. Two seconds later, the shower began to run.

  “How you feeling, sunshine?” Bailey said, looking perfect in her brown pencil slacks and short boots.

  “Better.” I took another sip of coffee. “Thanks for ordering.”

  Bailey smirked, knowing I wasn’t entirely pleased with the selection. “Come on, it won’t kill you, and your security might put up with you longer if you give ’em a bear claw.”

  “On second thought, pass me that Danish.”

  She passed me the plate. “That’s the spirit,” she said.

  I put most of the remaining pastries on a spare dish and stepped out into the hall. Gary was standing closest to the door, and I could see Mario at the end of the hall. I held out the plate to Gary.