by Marcia Clark
I was about to tuck the photo back into the zippered pocket inside my purse when I stopped to study it again. Kit didn’t appear to be posing—in fact, the shot seemed to have caught him in an unguarded moment. In spite of all the cool-guy tatts and piercings, Kit had the hollow-eyed look of a lost child. I felt my heart twist at the sight. I’d seen that look on the faces of too many kids in juvenile court. The ones who’d been brought into the world by accident and left to grow like weeds. The closest they ever got to finding a parental figure who cared enough to lay down some rules was the judge and their probation officer. I turned my attention back to the picture and studied the background area behind Kit, looking for clues as to where it had been taken. There wasn’t much to go on. No tables, no chairs, no furniture. But I did notice that there was a vertical black line in the background. I held the photo closer. What was that? Was it on the wall behind Kit, or just some artifact caused by a flaw in the camera? I couldn’t tell. I made a mental note to check it out with a magnifying glass and went to shower.
I’d just finished toweling off when my phone rang.
“Dress casual,” Bailey said, the sounds of traffic behind her telling me she was in the car.
I put my jeans back on and topped them off with a long-sleeved T-shirt and heavy cable-knit black sweater. I did a quick, perfunctory job on my makeup and hair, then checked my e-mail. Clive had written to say that he’d gotten the photograph and that he’d let me know what he found out. Feeling efficient and for once loving our computer age, I closed my laptop, stuffed it into the carrying case, grabbed my purse, and had one foot out the door when I realized I’d forgotten my nemesis. Even though I’d be with Bailey, if we were going casual, that meant we’d be outside. I tromped back into the room, dragged the bulletproof vest out of the closet, and grumpily took off my heavy sweater. After I’d strapped myself into the vest and gotten redressed, I stomped out, feeling like a child who’d been forced to wear saddle shoes instead of sneakers.
“I can’t believe I have to wear this thing the whole damn day,” I said when I got into Bailey’s car.
She just looked at me. “Deal, Knight.”
I tried to cross my arms in front of me indignantly, but the vest made the reach too wide and they slid apart. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bailey smirk.
We turned onto Fairfax and headed south. As we crossed Beverly Boulevard, the famed hangout known as the Oki-Dog came into view. It was only 10:30, too early for the outdoor tables to have filled up, so we’d have the place to ourselves for a little while. As Bailey parked in a public lot across the street, I marveled at the popularity of this dumpy little hut. With its barred windows and fading paper signs announcing the various forms of its artery cloggers du jour, it couldn’t by any stretch be called inviting. But for some reason it attracted a wide array of devoted customers. And if baby gangster Hector Amaya had been telling the truth, one of them had set him up for the burglary in Susan’s neighborhood. Once we figured out who that guy was, we could work on why he’d done it. It might not be related to the rape, but if it was, we’d be a big step ahead.
Since there was literally no one there, Bailey and I decided to stop into Canter’s and grab a quick nosh. The deli had had its ups and downs in popularity, but it still managed to serve up some great-tasting food. I threw caution to the wind and ordered a bagel and lox with cream cheese and capers, and Bailey got whitefish on a kaiser roll.
“We get the results back on Revelo yet?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “Soon, but we know they’re gonna exclude him.”
I nodded. “I told Graden we’d pretty much eliminated him. I’m going to really love telling Densmore he was wrong.”
Bailey sprouted a satisfied smile. “Sweet.” She paused and asked, “What’d you tell Graden about how we managed to get Revelo tested?”
“Same way we’re going to tell Densmore—and Vanderhorn. By keeping it vague. Just said we’d caught up with him and he’d agreed to give samples.”
Bailey nodded approvingly.
By the time we got back to the Oki-Dog, it had started to fill up. Bailey and I found seats strategically located at the periphery of the action, where we could scan the crowd and look for our target, the Aryan Brotherhood guy. Although neither of us was hungry, the smell of fried food drove us to distraction. I got a large Diet Coke to keep myself occupied and sipped it slowly to avoid needing a bathroom run. After three hours, two refills, and a bursting bladder, and with no sighting of our man, I turned to Bailey.
“I could talk to some uniforms who work the area. Ask them to keep an eye out,” she suggested.
We both knew the odds were very long that the unis would find him. They had their own work to do, but I didn’t have any better ideas. I reached down to get my purse when I noticed someone who looked familiar. He was a tall, slender black kid with an Afro, and he was standing with a group of teens to the left of the door. I looked at Bailey and nodded toward him, and she glanced over, then nodded back. We stood quietly, walked around the back of the hut, and came up behind him.
“Hey, Dante,” I said practically into his ear. “What’s up?”
35
The kid literally jumped at the sound of my voice. Just in case he thought he had a shot at running, Bailey stepped around in front of him. “Hey, Dante,” she said. Then she turned to the others. “Would you guys mind if we borrowed him for a sec?”
Dante, who wanted to make it clear to his associates that he wasn’t a snitch, said, “This about Kit again?”
“It is. We just want to let you know what we think so far, get your opinion,” I replied, giving him a face-saving exit.
He had no choice, but he wisely nodded to make it look like he did and accompanied us back to our table.
As we sat down, I noticed that he looked mighty skinny. It could’ve been drugs, but it didn’t feel that way. “Dante, you want some lunch? I’m buying.”
He looked at me for a second, but only one, and said, “Yeah, sure. I’ll have two Oki-Dogs, a cheeseburger, and some fries.”
“Drink?”
“Uh, Dr Pepper’s great, thanks.”
I talked to him while Bailey went to get the food. “You heard anything on the street about Kit? Maybe what he was into just before he died?”
“Nah,” Dante said, rubbing his hands on his jeans and looking impatiently toward the hut.
“Where’s your home, Dante? Where do your folks live?” I knew that was a safe question because, wherever that was, this kid obviously didn’t live there.
“Dad”—he shrugged—“don’t know. Never knew. Mom lives up in Jordan Downs with my grandma.”
Mom lived in the heart of the ghetto in Watts, a very tough, very poor neighborhood. I looked at his neat but threadbare jeans, multiply washed shirt, and clean but worn-down sneakers. He’d been taking care of himself on very little money for a very long time. If I thought about this too long my heart would break right in front of him. I looked around at the Oki-Dog customers. It was the usual motley crew: Emos with their black-painted fingernails and hair and white faces, and some preppy types who’d wandered over from the Rossmore mansions to mingle with the rougher crowd—looking “cool” in their Lacoste T-shirts and neatly pressed khakis.
Bailey came back, her arms laden with food, a Dr Pepper sticking out of her pocket. It looked as if she’d doubled Dante’s order, but then I realized that was how big the portions were. No wonder the place was such a hit with the kids—big servings, low prices, and, judging by the smell, tasty food. Dante tucked into his feast, and we sat back to let him eat in peace. When he was done, he politely wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Thank you, guys. Really,” he said.
“It was our pleasure, Dante,” I said. “Mind if I just ask some general questions about Kit?”
Dante looked at me, his expression perplexed. “I don’t mind, but I thought they said that DA guy, Jake, did it. So isn’t that it? I mean, what’re we gonna talk about?”
It was a fair question, and it deserved an honest answer. “I think it might not have been Jake who did it.”
Dante considered this for a moment. “For real? Don’t get me wrong, if I was you, I wouldn’t want my homie to get accused of nuthin’ that nasty either, but sometimes you got to face facts, you know?”
The wisdom of the gods, from the mouth of a sixteen-year-old. I nodded. “I do. And if it turns out I’m wrong and Jake did it, then that’ll be that. But if I’m right, then the guy who did it is still out there.” I paused to let that sink in. “And I’m guessing you wouldn’t mind helping me get him. Am I right?”
Dante looked away, and I saw him swallow hard. Kit’s death had hit him where it hurts—in his own vulnerability. “If you’re right, I want you to fry his ass,” he said quietly.
I nodded. “Kit was hooking, wasn’t he?”
Dante took a deep breath, and I saw him mentally turn the corner. He looked down at the table and nodded.
“He have any regulars?” I asked.
Dante shook his head. “Not that he ever told me about.”
“You know any of his johns?”
He shook his head again.
“He ever pose for porn?”
Dante shrugged. “We all did whatever we could. Posing was the easiest money.”
“Can you remember who he posed for?”
“I never knew. Me and him, we’d, like, hang sometimes. You know, similar circumstances and all, but we weren’t that close. ’Sides, I barely remember who I posed for. It’s not the kind of thing you want to think about a lot, and I never did it as a regular thing for anyone, so…”
I nodded. In his place, I wouldn’t have wanted to give it all that much thought myself. “Would you recognize someone you’d posed for if I found his picture or gave you a description?”
Dante shrugged again. “Maybe. Hard to say until you do.”
I didn’t have anyone yet, but I hoped that Clive would come up with some leads. In the meantime, I had an idea.
“I may have some pictures or descriptions for you pretty soon, but I need to ask one favor. Can I take your picture?”
He looked at me, wary. “What for?”
“It might help me track down who was taking pictures of Kit. This will not come down on you in any way, so don’t worry, Dante.”
He frowned, tilted his head to look down his nose at me, and thought for a moment. Eventually he said a reluctant “Okay.” I pulled out my cell phone and took his picture. Then, just to be sure, I scrolled through my contacts and hit the send button. Dante’s phone rang.
I smiled at him. “Just checking.”
He looked away, then turned back, his expression serious. “I don’t have nothing against gay, you know? Everybody gets to be… whatever. But I want you to know, I’m not gay, I just need the money.”
“I get it, Dante,” I said quietly, meaning it. “What about Kit? You think he was gay?”
Dante paused. “He hung out with Eddie a lot, but that don’t mean nothing. So I guess my answer is, I don’t know.” He tilted his head. “Why?”
“Might help with motive and possible suspects,” I replied. “You thought it mattered to me personally?”
Dante nodded.
I shook my head. “Couldn’t care less.”
36
“If the unis don’t find our guy, we’re going to have to go back ourselves,” Bailey remarked as she drove on Fairfax, heading for the freeway that would take us back downtown.
I nodded. We passed Fairfax High School. Looking at the drab exterior, you’d never guess that it’d spawned geniuses such as James Ellroy and Larry Gelbart… and Slash.
“Hello? Earth to Knight,” Bailey said, interrupting my effort to imagine what it would be like to be in the same classroom with guys like that.
“What? I’m here.”
“I want to remind you that the more we float around out in the world, whoever’s been after us—” Bailey stopped midsentence to swerve around a car that was crawling at a snail’s pace. “We’re giving them a plenty big target.”
True. A plan was forming in my mind, but I needed another minute to make sure I liked it. In the meantime, I asked, “Did the cops find any ammo at our shooting scene?”
“Report said two bullets, no casings.”
“So probably a revolver,” I remarked. “Caliber?”
“Firearms Unit said it looked like a thirty-eight. Six left.”
Six lands and grooves with a left-hand twist. That would narrow down the make of the gun that’d been used. “That a Colt?”
“Think so.”
“What’s going on with the court order for Pickelman’s precious bodily fluids?” I asked.
“No dice so far.” Bailey sighed. “Be easy if we just arrested his ass, but that’s…” Bailey trailed off.
I finished the sentence in my head: a risky move if he wasn’t the right guy. I pondered the two most immediate problems on our plate. We drove in silence as I mulled over a way to handle them both. “I’m thinking about planting a story that we’ve got the rapist in custody—no description. That way Pickelman won’t be inclined to run while we try to get the court order. And if that’s who’s been dogging us, it might calm him down, get him off our backs. Only problem with that is—”
“It might make him feel safe enough to do it again.”
I nodded.
We both fell silent, searching for other solutions. We flew down the surprisingly open freeway, and the skyscrapers of downtown came into view in the distance. It was nearly 5:00, and the sun was getting lower in the sky. I watched as twilight spread through the air around me.
“Thing is, since we’re pretty sure it’s not Luis, the rapist could go after another victim anyway,” Bailey remarked.
I couldn’t argue with that. “You said we’re getting Luis’s DNA results soon?”
“Could be by the end of the day if our tech is one of the guys who does Saturdays—but for sure by Monday.”
I sighed. “Okay, I’ll get hold of my contact at the Times. Story should come out online by morning, in print the next day. And I’ll have to call Frank Densmore and let him know what we’re doing.”
I didn’t relish the thought of reporting to Herr Densmore. On the other hand, it might be kind of fun if I had information that would slap him down.
“Bailey, on the off chance we might get lucky for a change, would you mind checking with the crime lab now? It’s sort of the end of the day.”
Bailey smiled, understanding. She handed me her cell phone and dictated the number of the tech who was doing the test.
I dialed the number. Sure enough, a high Asian voice answered, “Lab—Fukai here.”
“Hang on a sec. It’s Bailey Keller.” I handed the phone to Bailey.
“You got the results on Revelo’s DNA test?” she asked.
I waited while she listened without comment for a solid, excruciatingly slow minute and a half. I kept looking over at her for a sign, but she was squinting at the road. Her expression told me nothing. Finally she snapped the phone shut and handed it to me. “Well?” I said impatiently.
She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “Revelo’s a no-match.”
“Yes!” I said, punching the air. It would feel good to tell that self-righteous egotist that he’d been wrong about Luis. But first I’d tell the one who most needed to hear this.
I fished out my phone, found the number, and pressed the button. “Susan? Hi, it’s Rachel Knight. Do you have a sec?” I gave her the news.
Susan’s response was what made the long nights and weekends of this job worth every second.
After a brief pause, I heard her blow out her breath. Then she gave an uncharacteristic yelp, her tone triumphant. “I knew it! I just knew it!” she said excitedly. “I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen. And now… wait, you’re sure, right?”
Him. Meaning Densmore. “Yep, there’s no doubt about it,” I assured her. “It’s safe to
celebrate. You were right all along, Susan, and I’m so glad to be able to tell you that.”
This would give her back some sense of control over her life, not to mention a restored faith in her own judgment. That’s important for anyone, but it’s especially critical for a rape victim.
Hearing the newfound jubilation in her voice was like watching the sun come out from behind a dark cloud.
“Are you going to tell my father now?” she asked.
“As soon as we hang up,” I promised.
“Oh, okay,” Susan said quickly, now in a hurry to speed me on my way. “Then you should go. Thank you again! And thank Bailey, okay? Oh, and tell Luis I said hey.”
Eager to get to that call myself, I told her we’d be in touch and ended the conversation. “And now,” I told Bailey, pumped by my talk with Susan, “for an encore, I get to play Slap the Asshole.”
In the end, like so many of life’s highly anticipated moments, it was less fun than I’d hoped. When I told Densmore the DNA tests had excluded Luis Revelo, he’d harrumphed and immediately asked whether we’d moved on the security guard. Not even a breath between the answer I’d given and his next order for action. I closed the phone and tossed it into my purse with a little more vigor than I’d intended, drawing a knowing smile from Bailey.
“Didn’t you have people shaking the trees for suspect neighbors and workers?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Anyone fall out?”
“A pool guy, a gardener, and one kid whose family used to live in the hood until hard times hit. Apparently he and Susan got into it during lunch after he cheated on a friend of hers.”
“And?”
“The pool guy wears a leg brace from ankle to thigh—he couldn’t have climbed a ladder if his life depended on it. The gardener had a solid alibi; the kid, we’re still working on, but I don’t like him for it.”
“You don’t ‘like him for it,’ ” I said dryly, mimicking the cop lingo.
Bailey glared at me sideways. “Nope. And he didn’t even give us an alibi. Said he was sleeping, of all things.”
