REASON TO DOUBT

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  CHAPTER 13

  Sunday morning I went for a run. Overnight it had rained and the direction of the Santa Ana Winds had changed. For the first time in forty-eight hours, the valley was clear of smoke, and the air had been cleansed by the rain and the cooler temperatures. I did a two-and-a-half-mile loop along the L.A. River bed, running from Whitsett to Laurel Canyon, and was starting to feel like myself again, when a van made an illegal left turn onto Ventura Boulevard, and nearly hit me. Damn California drivers, they never look where they’re going.

  I stopped short. With my hand on my chest, I let the van pass. “Hey! Slow down!”

  I couldn’t see the driver through the blackout windows. But the white van was unmistakable. Two doors. Oversized tires, a dented front fender, and a headlight held in place with gray masking tape.

  “Xstacy!” I screamed again and watched as the van traveled west on the boulevard. It had to be Xstacy’s, I doubted there could be two exactly like it in the city. Plus, Xstacy had my home number. I’d written it down on the back of my business card when we met and looking me up wouldn’t be a problem. I was listed. But I never expected she would try to find me at home. Not unless she was in trouble.

  Misty was sitting at the kitchen table when I got home. She looked troubled. In front of her was her glass teapot. The one she brought out for her readings.

  “You okay?” I went to the kitchen and got myself a glass of water.

  “There was a young woman here a few minutes ago.” Misty cradled her cup in her hands and stared down at her tea. “I sensed she was frightened and that she was running from something. She said her name was Xstacy.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She didn’t say, but she wanted you to have this.” Misty reached into her robe, took out a small white rabbit’s foot and dropped it on the center of the table.

  “A rabbit’s foot? Why would she–”

  “It’s a lucky charm, Carol, and I got a reading from it.”

  While I respected the fact that Misty had worked with the FBI in the past and helped to find missing persons, when it came to personal readings and belief in clairvoyant powers, I had my doubts.

  “Misty, I–”

  “It’s called psychometry, Carol. The art of reading an object to learn about the person associated with it. And before you tell me you don’t believe in any of this, let me warn you, you may not now, but you will. Very soon.”

  There was no point in arguing with Misty. I needed to know what she had learned from Xstacy, and if that required sitting through a reading, then I was willing to do so.

  I sat down.

  “Alright,” I said. “Suppose you tell me what it is you think you’re getting from this lucky charm.”

  “For one, this rabbit’s foot didn’t belong to Xstacy, Carol. It belonged to someone else.” Misty picked the rabbit’s foot up and held it in her hand. “It was given to her by a friend. Someone she was trying to help. I feel as though they may have shared a troubled past or present.” Misty closed her eyes and shook her head. “The timing of these things isn’t always easy to read, but their relationship, there’s a darkness about it.” Misty put the rabbit’s foot back down on the table. “I’m sorry, perhaps if I’d spoken to Xstacy longer, I might know more.”

  I picked up the rabbit’s foot and held it in my hand. Small. Soft. Brown and white with an unusual clasp with three colored beads. One blue and two red. “Not that I believe you, Misty, but if I did, do you have a name of the person who gave it to her?”

  Misty put her hand on top of mine and folded my fingers over the rabbit’s foot. “No. But whoever Xstacy’s friend was, she’s dead. She died very suddenly. And recently.”

  I felt my chest tighten. “Was her name S-s-sam?” I could barely get the name out. Could something have happened to Sam since Friday night?

  “I don’t have a name, Carol. All I know is Xstacy’s frightened. Her friend’s passing was violent. Unexpected. I believe she was murdered.” Misty’s crooked fingers squeezed my own, and our eyes met. “I don’t know any more than that, but I sense you do. That’s why Xstacy wanted you to have this.”

  Misty let go of my hand, and I put the rabbit’s foot down on the table.

  “I need to call Xstacy,” I said.

  I got up from the table and went to the kitchen counter where I had left my bag the night before. As I searched around for my cell, it started to ring.

  “That’ll be Chase.” Misty got up from the table and shuffled towards the French doors.

  “Is that another psychic prediction?” I rubbed my hand down the side of my leg. Just in case the rabbit’s foot contained any psychic voodoo.

  “Not at all. He called on the house phone while you were out for your run. He tried your cell first. I heard your bag ringing while I was making tea and when the house phone rang, I picked up. I knew it had to be him.” Misty pointed to my bag. “Answer it. He sounded anxious. I’ll take my tea out on the patio so you two can talk.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Bad news.” Those were Chase’s first words. Not hello. Not how are you? Just bad news. Then, “Cate back yet?”

  “No. She’s staying with her dad tonight. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Tyson’s lawyer. That’s what’s wrong. He was waiting for us when we returned from Catalina last night. He’s threatened a lawsuit. Says the Catalina police had no right to arrest him. That LAPD’s harassing him.”

  Chase explained that according to Tyson’s attorney, Tyson hadn’t violated his parole, and he wasn’t living on the boat as the police had claimed. Instead, he had gone sailing and had no intention of dropping anchor in Catalina’s harbor. He had no idea there was a children’s playground close by. His excuse for being there at all was because the weather had changed, and he didn’t feel it was safe to sail. In short, Tyson hadn’t violated his parole, and neither LAPD nor the Catalina Sheriff’s Department has any right to hold him.

  “So they kicked him loose?” I asked.

  “They don’t have anything linking him to the model murders. Not yet anyway, and his lawyer advised him not to say anything.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and exhaled. This wasn’t the news Cate was hoping for. “Cate thought he might be able to clear Pete.”

  “That’s not the only reason I called. You sitting down?”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “The DA’s dropping the charges against Pete. At least for right now. They’ve scheduled a hearing for ten a.m. with a press conference following. After that, he’ll be free to go.”

  “What happened?”

  “Pete’s attorney got a judge to rule the evidence the cops took from Pete’s van is inadmissible. The search warrant the cops had didn’t cover Pete’s van, and nothing inside of it—the ropes, the ice chest, the knife—can be used in the case against him. Add to that whatever Cate told the DA about Pete, and the District Attorney started to doubt he had enough evidence to sway a jury. In a case like this, with all the publicity it’s getting, the DA wants to make certain he can win before he goes to court.”

  “This is good news then. They’ll have to start over. Build a new case.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean maybe?”

  “I ran into someone who knows you last night. He was at the police station when we came in with Tyson. He said you two were old friends. If I’m not wrong, he’s the same handsome dude you were talking to at the police station Friday.” Chase paused as though he was waiting for some kind of verification.

  “Eric?” I said.

  “Tall. Good looking FBI agent. Had a lot of nice things to say about you.”

  “How did he know you knew me?”

  “He’s FBI, Carol. How do those guys know anything? The thing is, he wanted me to relay a message to you.”

  Chase paused.

 
“Go on.”

  “He thought it might be better coming from me since he’s working with the DA and didn’t want things to look inappropriate.”

  Of course Eric would be working on the case. Why hadn’t it occurred to me? The FBI always got involved in serial murders.

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted you to know investigators think you’re a little too close to the case to be impartial.”

  “They’re not the only ones who think that.”

  “And he’s concerned about Cate hanging around a suspected serial killer. He suggested you might want to have her spend more time with her dad, at least until things settle down.”

  Was it me or did the world seem like it was getting smaller and making my job more difficult without running into my exes and their opinions?

  “Her dad, huh?” I felt like I was about to snap. The stress of the case, the uncomfortable growing distance between my daughter and me and the inexplicable feelings I had for Eric were all coming to a head, and not in a good way.

  “Well, if you run into Eric again, be sure to thank him. And tell him he’s right. It is inappropriate for him to comment on a case he’s investigating or one I’m reporting on for that matter. And as far as my daughter goes, tell him, thank you very much, that Cate’s just fine with me, and I don’t need him to stick his nose in it.”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. You ask me, I think you’re doing just fine.”

  I thanked Chase for the vote of confidence, hung up the phone, and called Xstacy. There was no answer, and instead of the call going to voicemail, I got an automatic response.

  The person you are trying reach has a voicemail box that is full and is not accepting calls at this time.

  Next, I tried Sam. She didn’t answer either.

  CHAPTER 15

  Monday morning, I was back in the very same courtroom where Pete had been formally charged. Just like before, I was sitting shoulder to shoulder with reporters, who like myself had received an early morning communique from the court announcing Pete Pompidou was to be called back before Judge Petrossian at ten a.m. While those on either side of me may have expected the reasoning behind this was to announce additional charges were about to be added to those already against Pete, I knew better.

  I sat silently while the prosecutors, the city’s best–or the A-Team as I planned to call them in my report–Alverez, Adorno, and Adamson–filed into the courtroom. All identically dressed in dark suits with bold ties, carrying thick briefcases, while the sounds of their wing-tipped shoes echoed on the marble floor. Across from them, Pete’s attorney Melinda Croft, stood alone, facing the front of the courtroom. She was dressed in a tight-fitting black skirt and a jacket a size too small for her round frame. She looked nervously around the courtroom, never making eye contact with the prosecution, and held her hands in front of her, rubbing them together while she waited for her client to appear from lockup.

  I glanced back at Chase who stood next to the door. Our eyes met. He nodded to me and then to another door near the front of the courtroom where two U.S. Marshals appeared with Pete, who today was dressed in jeans and a chambray shirt. His hands no longer bound by cuffs. The two marshals escorted him to Miss Croft’s table, where she greeted him with a hug and told him to sit down.

  Moments later, the bailiff came in and asked us all to stand and announced the court was now in session. “The honorable Judge Petrossian presiding.”

  The judge approached the bench and asked us all to sit. He greeted both the defense and prosecution team warmly, then paused, and looked directly at Pete.

  “Mr. Pompidou would you stand, please.” I leaned forward in my seat, my pen and pad poised at the ready. “I assume your attorney has told you why I’ve called you back into court this morning?”

  Pete answered. “Yes, Your Honor. She has.”

  “For the purpose of those here today, let me say this. Mr. Pompidou, it has come to my attention that the District Attorney does not feel there is enough evidence to proceed to trial. In light of this, I am obligated to dismiss the charges filed against you without prejudice. This does not mean, however, these charges and others cannot be brought up again at a later date.” The Judge banged his gavel. “Mr. Pompidou, you are free to go.”

  There was an audible gasp throughout the courtroom. The Judge banged his gavel again and demanded we all remain seated. Croft took Pete by the hand and crossed in front of the A-team who sat stoically behind the prosecution table, the look on their faces like they smelled rotten meat.

  I jammed my notepad back into my bag and pushed my way through the crowd toward the elevator. I wanted to be upfront for the press conference. Somewhere I could record sound, ask questions and get answers without being drowned out by the crowd.

  Outside on the courthouse steps, the media was ready. News reporters from every news outlet in town huddled together and waited in front of a makeshift podium of microphones that resembled a small forest of trees. While some smoked and others checked their cell phones for messages, I jockeyed for the best position close-up to the mic field and called Tyler and told him to standby.

  Finally, the first of the A-Team appeared from behind the courthouse’s big double brass doors. Cameramen, with their equipment on their shoulders, began shooting, and I pulled my mic from my bag and plugged it into my cell phone. I could have used the mic on my cell phone, but any chance to get the station’s logoed mic flag on camera would earn me extra points with Tyler when the video aired on the evening news. What I needed was a sound bite, something I could edit and include in my report when the press conference ended. I turned on my mic and what I got was gold.

  The A-Team approached the mic field. Alvarez, the shortest of the three and their spokesman, began with a statement about how disappointed they were with the judge’s action.

  “However,” Alvarez said, “while we are unable to proceed to trial at this time, I would like to take this opportunity to remind the public that Mr. Pompidou remains a person of interest. The District Attorney’s office will continue to investigate the circumstances surrounding the murders of these three young women until justice has been served. Thank you.”

  Without any further statement, the A-Team turned and walked back toward the courthouse and paused as Croft and Pete appeared from behind the same double brass doors the prosecution had passed through earlier. Making no attempt to acknowledge them, Croft pushed past the three men and led the way to the mic field with Pete behind her.

  Standing next to Croft, Pete looked refreshed. He pushed his surfer-blond hair from his eyes and smiled that same slightly crooked grin he had given my daughter the day he had taken our picture at the beach. I followed his gaze.

  Standing to my right, at the far end of a line of reporters, was a young woman wearing a baseball hat and large dark glasses. The type celebrities wear when they don’t want the public to know who they are. But this wasn’t a famous star, hiding from the paparazzi. This was my own flesh and blood.

  Cate?

  I clicked off my mic and pushed through the line of reporters until I was standing next to my daughter. It was obvious to me Cate had camouflaged her appearance. Her strawberry-blonde hair was tucked under her hat, and she was wearing a long cotton skirt and T-shirt to hide her trim figure.

  “Cate, what are you doing here? You can’t be here. Not now. Not like this.”

  “Well, I am.” Cate crossed her arms and looked straight ahead. “I need to be. Pete’s got no one, Mom.”

  I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her farther away from the crowd. “How did you know he was going to be released? Did Chase tell you?”

  “No. Pete called me this morning. His attorney told him late last night. She said this morning’s proceeding was just a formality, and that he’d be released. He asked if I could bring him some clothes, and I promised I’d drive him home.”

&
nbsp; “Drive him home?” I could feel my blood pressure start to rise. “Where? His place? You’re certainly not planning to take him back to our house.”

  Before Cate could answer, Croft started to speak, and with one warning finger, I pointed in Cate’s direction. We’re not done here.

  I stepped back in line with the reporters and held my mic out so that I might get a recording of what Croft was about to say.