Guilt by Association: A Novel

by Marcia Clark

  I nodded even as I thought his logic made no sense. I knew something about video-gaming money—it was huge, especially for a success like Code Three. Yet that wasn’t enough security for him, so he stayed in a job that was frequently life-threatening. It was an unusual paradox—one I’d bet had stemmed from an unstable childhood. These kinds of complications made people so interesting.

  Graden chewed his steak for a moment, then grinned. “Besides, you’ve seen me in my uniform. I’d do me in that uniform.”

  I laughed almost as hard as he did.

  “I have a confession,” he said.

  “Listening,” I said, intrigued and only mildly alarmed.

  “You live at the Biltmore Hotel.”

  He knew where I lived? First my cell phone number, now this.

  Graden picked up on my reaction. He looked at me, his expression mildly puzzled. “I took you home, remember?”

  Right. On the night of Jake’s murder. “Of course.” I smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  And now that I thought about it, why was I all het up about Graden finding out where I lived when gangbangers had already done the same?

  “My confession is that I can’t figure out how an underpaid civil servant can afford a luxury hotel.”

  “I could let you dwell in the mystery.”

  “But that would be cruel and, I’m guessing, very unlike you.”

  “How would you know?” I said.

  Graden gave me a measured look. “Fair enough,” he said mildly. “And?”

  For a moment, I toyed with the idea of thwarting him, but since I really didn’t mind telling the story, I relented. “You remember the Biltmore CEO’s wife who got killed last year?” I began.

  Graden squinted, searching his memory. “Sheriff’s case, right?”

  I nodded. “There was some big muckety-muck meeting, and the CEO decided to bring his family to the hotel, combine business with pleasure. He got stuck in a late dinner meeting, so his wife went to the concert at the Disney Hall alone—”

  “And she got robbed and murdered in the underground parking lot by a meth freak,” Graden interjected. “I didn’t know that was your case.”

  “Yeah, I’d been staying at the hotel for about a week when I caught the case. Just a weird coincidence.” I sensed that the question about why I was staying there in the first place was on the tip of his tongue. The truth was, when my mother was diagnosed with melanoma two years ago, I’d moved into her house to take care of her. When she passed away six months later, I couldn’t bear to move out at first. It’d been a comfort to see my mother’s furniture, the pictures on the mantel, her dishes—it felt as though she were still there. But after my breakup with Daniel, everything changed. Suddenly the house became a symbol of loss, and what had been my cocoon was now a dark place from which I’d had to escape. Not wanting to talk about any of this, I moved on quickly. “Anyway the CEO let me stay at the hotel for free while the trial was going on so I wouldn’t be distracted with having to move. When I got the asshole defendant sent up for life without parole, the CEO gave me such a good deal on the suite, I couldn’t afford to leave.”

  “For how long?” Graden asked.

  “I keep offering to leave, but he always tells me not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I’m following orders,” I said.

  “Which for you is certainly a first,” he remarked.

  It didn’t take a detective to know that much about me. The thought brought me back to the Densmore case. “You happen to know anything about the Sylmar Sevens?” I thought he might remember something from his patrol days.

  He frowned, thinking, then said, “Valley gang—specializes in burglary and dope.”

  I nodded.

  “You a meat eater?” Graden asked.

  “Is that some kind of guy code for something else?”

  “Yeah, it’s code for ‘Do you eat meat?’ ”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “You’ve got to taste this.” He speared a piece of his steak on his fork and held it out to me.

  I hesitated for just a fraction of a second at the intimacy of the gesture, but I took the fork from him. The steak was so tender it practically melted in my mouth, the rich, full flavor of it unfettered by unnecessary sauces or marinades.

  “Fantastic, thank you. Is that the rib eye?” I asked, handing the fork back to him.

  He nodded. “It’s always good here, but this time it’s spectacular. What about the Sylmar Sevens?”

  “I was wondering whether they’d merged with another gang, gotten bigger lately.”

  “Why?”

  I’d been giving the whole situation a lot of thought. Something about it didn’t hit me right. “It just seems like a big, dumb move to do a rape in the Palisades, where they know the cops will go nuts—especially since our suspect was being tutored by the victim.”

  “Someone else in the gang did it to show off?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe someone did it knowing we’d suspect Revelo, and they wanted to get him out of the way so they could take over as the new shot-caller.” I didn’t share the additional thought that maybe Revelo’s loyals were fighting back by warning me off.

  “And if the new gang is big enough, it’d be worth a risky move like that to take over as leader,” Graden said, thinking aloud. “I can check it out for you.”

  “Revelo’s still in the wind, so it’d be nice to have all the background before he’s in pocket.”

  Graden’s phone rang, and as he checked the number, I looked at my own cell. Two thirty. I couldn’t believe it. Where had the time gone?

  When he looked up, I said, “I’ve got to get back. I—”

  He waved off my apology. “No problem. Me too.”

  When the waiter came with the check, I reached into my purse, but Graden stopped me.

  “I’ve got this,” he said.

  I’m not sure why, but I didn’t want him to pick up the tab. “At least let’s split it,” I countered.

  Graden paused and took in my determined expression, then replied, “How about you pay next time?”

  He really knew how to end an argument.

  22

  “Thanks for lunch,” I said as Graden pulled up in front of the building.

  “I’ll call you,” he said.

  I nodded and opened the passenger door.

  “Soon,” he added with that lazy smile.

  I gave him what I hoped was a nonchalant smile of my own and trotted into the building. It was fun to feel pursued again—it’d been a while. But I wished I’d found a good opening to ask him about Jake. I promised myself I’d make it happen the next time, no matter what.

  On my way up to the eighteenth floor, while holding my breath among the masses, I tried to figure out what I was feeling. I’d had a much better time with Graden than I’d expected. But for some reason I was also a little unsettled. I might’ve given the question more thought, but when I reached my office I found Toni sitting in my chair, her feet up on my desk.

  “Where’d you go? I was looking to go out for some sushi,” Toni said.

  “And you thought you’d find some in my desk?”

  She looked sheepish. “I got comfortable. This chair’s amazing. And then I found your pretzels.” Toni looked around my office. “Man, you’ve got a lot of cases.”

  “You ate all my pretzels?” I said, hand-on-hip indignant.

  “Please, like I’d eat that junk,” Toni said with disdain. “But, seriously, where’ve you been?”

  “I had lunch with Graden.”

  Toni sat up and let her feet fall to the ground with a thunk. “Graden,” she said. “Lieutenant Graden Hales? No kidding?”

  “Nope.”

  Toni had a surprised smile on her face. “How’d it go? Does Bailey know?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll tell her as soon as I can, so don’t worry about having to keep a secret,” I reassured her.

  “And Graden?” Toni prompted.

  I thought about it for a m
oment, sorting through my feelings. “I guess it went pretty well.”

  “Pretty well?” Toni remarked with a wry smile. “Compared to all the others, that’s a home run.” She looked pleased. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said as she stood.

  “It was just a lunch, Tone.”

  Toni waved her hand as she walked to the door. “I know, I know. But it’s progress, isn’t it? One meal at a time.”

  I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t answer.

  “Oh, will you stop,” Toni said, giving me an exasperated look. “Fine. It’s better than nothing. How’s that?”

  I nodded, grinning. “About right.”

  “I hate it when you get all gushy like this,” Toni said. She started out of my office, then stopped. “Oh, and I owe you a bag of pretzels.” She took two more steps, then stopped again and said over her shoulder, “And a roll of mints.” Then she turned and wiggled her fingers behind her head as she left. “Later,” she sang out.

  I checked my messages. The usual defense whining for deals and continuances. I shuffled through them quickly until I got to one from Olive Horner, Kit Chalmers’s last foster mother. I was surprised to hear from her. I’d been leaving her messages for the past couple of days, ever since Kevin had given me her name, but I’d given up hope when my calls went unreturned. I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. On the fourth ring, a tired-sounding woman answered. I heard kids screaming over a daytime soap opera in the background and cringed at the mental image conjured by the sounds.

  “Ms. Horner, this is Rachel Knight… from the DA’s office.”

  “You gonna help me get my county payments? They owe me for three months on the baby.”

  Mystery solved. She’d returned my call for the promise of cash. “Sorry, ma’am, I don’t work in that department. I’m a prosecutor. I only handle criminal cases. I called to talk to you about Kit.”

  “Oh.” She paused a moment to absorb the unexpected shift, then said, “Well, Feds already talked to me.”

  The FBI had managed to find someone after all. I had to tread lightly, or Olive would start wondering what was up.

  “We just have a few more questions. Some areas they probably didn’t cover. We’ll be happy to come whenever it’s easy for you, and we won’t take more than a few minutes of your time,” I replied, trying to sound official and undesperate.

  Olive paused long enough for me to hear a male voice in the background promise that a fascinating career as a dental hygienist could be mine. I pictured a job leaning over open mouths all day. I decided to stick with prosecuting.

  “Well, okay. But I don’t know what I can tell you. I mean…”

  She trailed off. I could imagine what she was thinking. It wasn’t just that she’d spoken to the FBI; it was that he was dead, and there was nothing more to do about him. It wasn’t cold so much as it was pragmatic. In a life overfilled with obligations and not enough means to meet them, grief was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  “I won’t take much of your time. Really.”

  Olive fell silent, and I listened to the drone of the television and the shrill screams of children. After a moment, she sighed. “Come on over. But make it before six o’clock. I’ve got dinner to get to. You know where I live?”

  I confirmed the address and directions and then punched Bailey’s number. We were on the road by 4:00, which is rush hour wherever you are in this city. Olive and her brood lived just outside Silver Lake, about ten minutes from downtown as the car was supposed to fly but double that in this traffic. We crawled along Temple, taking the surface streets to avoid the impossible gridlock of homebound freeway travel on the northbound 101.

  The night sky was already encroaching in purples and grays, but the final rays of sun slanting low across the hoods of the cars flashed a blinding light that made the visibility near zero. It was almost as bad as the whiteout of driving in a thick fog. I always marveled at how L.A. drivers managed to avoid major road carnage at times like this.

  The house was on Madera, just a few blocks outside the gentrification efforts that had promised to turn Silver Lake into a hot spot. Now, some ten years since that promise, the effort showed only in a small pocket of the neighborhood. The areas outside that enclave might as well have been in any lower-income ghetto. The quaint shops, chic restaurants, and sophisticated home renovations stopped abruptly at an invisible boundary. Across it, there was nothing but run-down, tiny adobe-style homes with postage-stamp yards largely gone to seed, and apartment buildings that hadn’t been maintained since they went up in the ’60s. Crowded between the homes and apartments were down-at-the-heels grocery shops, windowless bars, strip joints with garishly painted walls and faded signs, and liquor stores that sold no booze that cost more than ten dollars a bottle.

  I slumped down in the passenger seat and imagined what it would be like to live here. I ruminated on the unfairness of a world where the Frank Densmores lived like royalty, and the Olive Horners lived like paupers. By the time we pulled up in front of the faded-yellow ranch-style house and its dying front lawn, littered with broken trikes and discarded dolls, I was in one heavy funk of a mood.

  As I followed Bailey through the little front gate, I saw that she was feeling it too. I let her do the door-knock and told myself we’d get out of there as fast as we could.

  I heard the faint din of a television and the plastic voice of a talking action figure. A woman’s voice called out, “Just a minute.” Eventually a bored teenage girl appeared with a baby casually slung on her hip. With the opening of the door, the faint din turned to a roar, and the smell of cheap food cooked in lots of grease was thick in the air. The baby played with the girl’s long, mousy brown hair. The girl didn’t seem to notice.

  “Hi, I’m Rachel Knight from the DA’s office, here to see Olive Horner. This is Detective Bailey Keller.”

  The girl’s hands were wound around the baby, so I couldn’t do the usual introductory handshake. She invited us in, then yelled over her shoulder, “Mom!” She gestured with her head that we should go into the tiny living room that housed the blaring television. I felt something—a Frito—crunch under my shoe as I walked inside and was transported back in time. I hadn’t thought about Fritos since I was twelve. The living room was predictably crowded with toys, kids’ blankets and pillows. Baby bottles and half-empty juice cups competed on nearly every surface with half-eaten Pop-Tarts, open cheese-and-cracker-combo packages, and other assorted prefab-food delights.

  I looked around for an open space to sit and found none. I’d resigned myself to standing when Olive came in.

  All her colors were faded, as though she’d been run through the wash too many times, and the sag of her features spoke of little sleep and too much worry for too many years. She looked me up and down, then threw a Power Ranger and a stuffed tiger off the couch and waved us over.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she said wearily. “Hard to keep up.”

  “You’ve got a lot on your plate, Ms. Horner. I’m just grateful you could make the time for us,” I said.

  “Call me Olive—I already feel like the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, don’t need to feel any older.” She brushed back her hair, exposing gray roots at the sides.

  “How many kids do you have?” Bailey asked, her tone understanding.

  “Right now, I’ve got five—four are foster care, but the teenager’s mine. They tell me the baby’s probably going to wind up adopted. He’s a cute little thing. Tell you the truth, I’ll miss him.” Olive sighed. “But since the state’s behind on his payments, I’ll be glad to see him get into a decent home where they can give him what he needs.”

  The struggle of her life was a palpable presence in the room. I felt tired just looking at her. The only thing I could think to say was “I’m sorry,” but that was useless, and Olive wasn’t looking for my pity or anyone else’s. The only thing I could do for her was get out of her hair as soon as possible.

  “How long did you have Kit Chalmers?” I aske
d.

  Olive threw a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog onto the cluttered coffee table and sat down on the chenille-covered rocker across from us. The baby on the teenage girl’s hip had either grown bored with the girl’s hair or gotten hungry, and he started to cry.

  “Janzy, give me the baby,” Olive said. The girl looked glad to be rid of her burden as she unloaded him into Olive’s outstretched arms, then sauntered out of the room.

  When Olive had gotten the baby settled in with a bottle, she continued. “He was already fifteen years old and busted for prostitution by the time I got him. CSSD called him a challenge. Still, I couldn’t blame him, coming from where he did.” Olive shook her head sadly at the memory.

  The Child Support Services Department used euphemisms like “challenge” to avoid stigmatizing a kid. I thought that was like closing the barn door after the animals took off. “You know something about his mom?” I asked. If Kit’s mother was still in the picture, she might lead us somewhere.

  “All’s I know from the agency is that she was the usual meth-head loser and that Kit’d been passed around between foster homes since he was a baby.” Olive patted the infant’s bottom comfortingly and looked down at him affectionately as he held his bottle in a death grip. The sight made my heart ache for all the babies who’d never see a mother look at them that way. “Little ones,” she said fondly. “You got to focus, or they get into some serious trouble.” Olive’s expression suddenly hardened as she said, “Only damn thing those meth freaks can focus on is a pipe.”

  “You know whether Kit still had any contact with his mom?” I asked.

  “Not as far as I could tell. And not with his last foster parents either,” Olive said with a grunt of disgust. “What a bunch of useless losers. Let him run the streets and just collected the checks. Like to see them get nailed for it.” She peered at me skeptically. “Don’t suppose you could do anything about that either, right?”

  I thought for a minute. “We might. We’ll definitely look into it.”

  “As far as you know, was Kit still hooking when he died?” Bailey asked.

  “He said he was working at Target, in the stockroom.”