Murder Season

by Robert Ellis

  Vaughan sat back in the chair, stunned. “They’re watching. They can see what I’m doing.”

  “The signal’s probably not strong enough to reach the street.”

  “It wouldn’t need to,” he said quietly. “Bennett’s office is right upstairs.”

  He let out a deep breath and seemed to be letting the worry get to him.

  “Show me the clip,” she said.

  He nodded, then snapped out of it and loaded the DVD into the computer. When a menu rendered on the screen, he scrolled through a long list of files, found the clip and hit PLAY.

  The clip began with a shot of Jacob Gant sitting beside Buddy Paladino in the courtroom. Lena moved closer for a better view. There was something about seeing Gant alive again. Something about seeing him at that table knowing what she knew about him now. Something about the determination showing on Paladino’s face. Something about knowing Gant was about to run out of luck and time, and about to be kissed by fate.

  “This isn’t it,” Vaughan said. “Another half minute.”

  Lena became aware of the audio track. It was Debi Watson’s voice. She was asking someone—

  “Here it is,” Vaughan said. “This is it.”

  The video made a hard cut to Cobb sitting on the witness stand. He was holding one of Lily’s boots, which was found behind her body by the bed. And as Watson threw him one question after the next, he seemed confident and perfectly at ease. He was dressed in a gray suit that looked so well tailored, Lena guessed that it had been purchased for this court appearance. Had she been sitting in the jury box, she would have been impressed with who he was and how he spoke.

  “Detective Cobb, how many homicides have you investigated?” Watson was asking.

  “I’m not sure I could give you an exact number. I’ve been working homicides for twenty-five years.”

  “Would you say that the number of cases you’ve investigated is over one hundred?”

  “Yes,” Cobb said.

  “Over two hundred?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “So you would call yourself an experienced detective,” Watson was saying. “A veteran detective. Someone extremely familiar with any or all crime scenes in a homicide investigation. You know what they look like. You know how they operate. Crime scenes have been your place of work for the last twenty-five years.”

  Cobb glanced in the jury’s direction and said “Yes” with a polite smile.

  “So let’s get back to this crime scene. A few minutes ago you said that you could tell by looking at Lily’s body that she had been sexually assaulted before her murder. Specifically, what did you see?”

  “Her underwear had been hiked up around her waist,” he said with authority. “I could see blood on her thighs. And it wasn’t coming from the chest wound. It was coming from between her legs.”

  Watson let Cobb’s last line settle in for the jury. She took the boot that Cobb had been holding and pretended to examine it. After a short time, she handed the boot back to him.

  “Her jeans had been stripped away from her body,” she said finally. “Her boots and socks—everything tossed into a pile. Where did you find them in relation to Lily’s body?”

  The video had cut to Watson, who expected a quick answer—but it never came. When she turned back to Cobb, she seemed annoyed. The size of the image on the computer monitor was small. Still, Lena thought it looked like Cobb had lost his composure and broken out into a heavy sweat.

  Watson repeated the question, but Cobb remained silent and began fidgeting in his seat.

  “Detective?” she asked finally. “Is there something wrong, Detective?”

  Cobb stammered. “Excuse me,” he said. “But may I have a glass of water?”

  The monitor went blank, the video clip over. Vaughan turned back to Lena.

  “After he drinks the glass of water, he’s fine. It cuts back to a wide shot, but you can tell he’s okay.”

  Lena sat down beside the desk. “So what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know,” Vaughan said. “Something happened, and I don’t think he was having a heart attack.”

  “You think he was stalling when he asked for the water.”

  Vaughan shrugged. “Maybe, but why? Watson’s got a nice rhythm going. Paladino is giving her a pass and not objecting. Cobb’s talking about his experience and looks as cool and relaxed as any detective I’ve ever seen. And then in a single instant, it’s like his mind needs a reboot. He can’t speak. He’s just been asked a routine question, and he can’t answer it. He can’t find the words. Once he has a minute to pull himself together, he’s fine for the rest of the day.”

  “Maybe they didn’t spend a lot of time coaching him.”

  “In a case this big—are you crazy?”

  “Maybe he didn’t rehearse,” she said.

  “Impossible. And for the same reason, Lena. Too big a case.”

  “Maybe the whole thing was scripted. Maybe he lost his place.”

  “But every trial is scripted. If he’d lost his place, or even forgotten where the clothing had been found, he could have glossed over everything until Watson repeated the question and he was okay again.”

  Lena’s cell phone chirped. When she checked the touch screen, she realized that Martin Orth from SID had tried to reach her five minutes ago. Her phone was searching for a signal that kept drifting in and out.

  “I’ve gotta make a call,” she said. “How do I dial out?”

  Vaughan pushed the desk phone closer. “Nine,” he said. “Who?”

  She met his eyes. “Orth.”

  Lena entered the number on the desk phone. When Orth picked up, she could tell by the sound of his voice that something had gone wrong.

  “It’s the blood on Hight’s shoe,” she said.

  “Not the shoe, Lena. We’re not there yet. Maybe later today or tomorrow.”

  “Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

  Orth hesitated for a moment, his voice weak. “It’s the girl’s jeans,” he said finally. “You were right. They were removed with force. Enough skin cells to leave a DNA trail.”

  Lena glanced at Vaughan. Flipping the handset up, he leaned in close enough to listen.

  “You’ve got the results?” she said.

  “I’ve got them, but I think you should sit down.”

  Lena traded looks with Vaughan, ready to burst. “I’m with Greg,” she said. “Tell us, Marty. Who was it? Jacob Gant or Tim Hight?”

  “That’s the thing, Lena. That’s why I told you to sit down.”

  “Who murdered Lily?” she said. “Who did it?”

  Orth took another moment to compose himself. When he was ready, he said, “That’s the thing, Lena. It’s not Gant and it’s not Hight. It’s a third man.”

  39

  A third man.

  It had been there all along. Right in front of her eyes. A crime scene photo stuffed inside Cobb’s murder book. The photographer from SID had snapped pictures of the entire house on the night of Lily’s murder, including the sunroom where Tim Hight sat every night. But just as Pete London had told them, Hight’s slide to the bottom of the hill didn’t occur until after he had lost his daughter.

  Lena sat at a table on the terrace over at the Blackbird. The heat was so oppressive, the air so foul, that she had the space to herself. Hot coffee wasn’t much of a help, nor was the cigarette she’d just finished. Still, she struck a match and lit another as she stared at the photograph.

  Hight’s chair wasn’t in the sunroom. Nor did she see a police scanner, an ashtray or an oversized glass of vodka set on the sill. Instead, Lena saw a Pilates machine, a floor mat, and a room filled with house plants.

  She closed her eyes and lowered her head.

  Hight wasn’t who she’d thought he was. Hight was the man Pete London had stepped up to defend.

  A loving father who measured his daughter’s height on her birthday every year and marked her progress on the pantry door. A father who encour
aged his daughter’s talent with a camera and took her to work with him as often as he could. A father who had been worried that his daughter was growing up too fast.

  A loving father who had been ruined by his loss.

  Lena had misread everything.

  Everything.

  While Hight may still have been responsible for the murders of Bosco and Gant, she doubted it. The killings were about what Gant had found. What he had seen. What he’d brought to show Bosco. The killings were about Lily’s murder and the third man.

  But it got worse. Much worse.

  Martin Orth had given them more news.

  After reexamining Lily’s jeans, a small amount of semen was found inside the clothing just below the zipper that had been missed during the original investigation. DNA analysis revealed that the semen belonged to Jacob Gant and proved that he had been telling the truth all along. He’d had sex with Lily early in the evening. When they’d finished, Lily got back into her jeans and they went downstairs to the kitchen.

  The polygraph had proven a lack of deception on Gant’s part and should have been enough to end it. But finding his semen inside Lily’s jeans proved that her rape and murder had been an entirely separate event. Had the semen been found the first time around, it would have prevented every domino since the night Lily was murdered from falling down. Lives would have been spared.

  There was no gray to it. No question marks. No blank spaces. Everything was in black and white now.

  A sixteen-year-old girl was dead—a teenager growing up too fast with a voracious appetite for sex. Johnny Bosco wanted to help. Johnny Bosco wanted to—

  She leafed through her notes looking for the Death Investigation Report. Dante Escabar’s contact information would be listed in the second box down because he’d reported the murders, discovered the bodies, and identified Johnny Bosco’s corpse. She found his cell number and punched it into her phone. Escabar picked up on the first ring, his voice no longer littered with sarcasm.

  “I know why Johnny wanted to help Jacob Gant,” he said.

  “I think I do, too,” she said quickly. “You might not be safe.”

  He laughed at her. She remembered the gun he kept.

  Lena cleared her throat. “When was Lily at the club?”

  “The cameras picked her up twice,” he said. “Both were Friday nights. One and two weeks before her death. She’s sitting at the bar.”

  Lena was thinking about the man Gant had said he’d seen struggling with Lily on the Friday night one week before the murder. Paladino had told her that Gant couldn’t be sure of anything because it was too dark and too far away to see clearly. When he’d gone over to the house to check on Lily, the car was gone and no one answered the door.

  “Was she with anybody, Dante?”

  “She came with a girlfriend the first time,” he said. “They didn’t stay very long. But one week before the murder she came alone. She was talking to a guy. Touchy-feely stuff. They left together.”

  “Can you see his face?”

  “He’s standing beside her, not sitting. His face didn’t make the shot. I’m burning you a copy right now.”

  “Keep the doors locked,” she said. “I’m on my way over.”

  He laughed again. “They’re always locked, Detective Gamble. See you when you get here.”

  40

  Something about the way Escabar laughed hit her in the gut. The tone. The edge. The grim feeling followed her as she hurried across the street into the garage. She found Vaughan’s cell number on her recent call list, and felt some degree of relief when he picked up.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Downstairs,” he said. “They’re delivering my ex-wife’s car.”

  She gave him a three-sentence update that ended with the words, “Lily Hight left Club 3 AM with a guy.”

  “I’ve got wheels,” he said. “I’ll meet you there. I’ll only be five minutes behind you.”

  She blew through a red light—that grim feeling sitting beside her in the passenger seat. Once she’d pulled onto the 101 Freeway, she slid into the far left lane and decided to call for backup. The Hollywood Station was just a few blocks south of the club. The dispatch operator took the information down, then repeated it to her.

  Probably nothing, but would you please send a first response unit to the club.

  Probably nothing, but would you hurry.

  It took Lena twenty-five minutes of hard driving to reach Hollywood. As she approached Club 3 AM, she didn’t see the guard in his booth and the gate was open. She turned into the drive and pulled around to the back of the building. And then her heart sank. The Toyota pickup was here, and so was Escabar’s Ferrari, but no one else. She could hear sirens in the distance, but it sounded like they were moving in the opposite direction.

  She gave the building a hard look, then hurried up the steps to the main entrance—that grim feeling still as close as a shadow. She tried the front door, wrapped her hand around the handle, and gave it a slow pull hoping that the place was locked up.

  But when the door opened, she took the shock and knew.…

  She stepped inside the foyer—everything dark and quiet. Digging into her pocket for her phone, she found Escabar’s cell number and pressed CALL. Two or three seconds later, she heard his phone begin ringing from somewhere upstairs. She could hear the haunting sound travel through the dark building. She could hear the eerie silence when his voice mail cut in and the ringing finally stopped.

  She tried to compose herself.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see a body on the floor. It wasn’t very far away. She noticed a light switch on the wall and flipped it on. The switch only handled a row of dim floor lights leading to the staircase, but provided enough illumination for Lena to pick up detail.

  She moved toward the body slowly and knelt down. A green trash bag had been pulled over the man’s head and tied around his neck. From the shoes and slacks he wore, Lena knew that she was looking at the security guard. She started to check his pulse, her response on automatic, but looked at his face pressing through the plastic bag and stopped.

  Few people die pretty.…

  She turned away, trying to catch her breath. She heard something behind her—the door opening, the foyer flooding with light. It was Vaughan, and he looked frightened and nervous. As he moved in beside her, he couldn’t seem to stop staring at the dead body.

  “I called for backup,” she said quietly.

  “There’s a bank robbery on Sunset,” he whispered. “I heard it on the radio.”

  Lena spotted the pistol on the guard’s belt. “We can’t wait,” she said. “Do you know how to use a gun?”

  Vaughan shook his head and seemed jittery. “I’m a lawyer,” he said.

  Lena pursed her lips. They were in a tough spot, yet she couldn’t help acknowledging to herself that there was something about Vaughan that got to her. Something she liked a lot. She shook it off, grabbing the guard’s pistol and lifting it out of the holster. Even in the dim light, the Beretta .40 glistened as if brand new. The hammer was half-cocked with the safety engaged. Readying the weapon, she passed it over and met Vaughan’s eyes.

  “Whoever did this is probably long gone,” she whispered. “Can you handle this?”

  He nodded at her with determination. “I’m ready.”

  Lena drew her weapon, then pulled out her cell and hit the REDIAL key on the touch screen.

  Vaughan shot her a wild look. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling a dead man,” she said.

  After several moments, Escabar’s cell phone started ringing again and Vaughan understood. They moved quickly through the darkness, rushing up the stairs and following that ghostly sound down the hall until it stopped. Lena pressed the REDIAL key again and they continued pushing toward the sound. When they reached the corner, she realized that Escabar’s phone was ringing from Bosco’s office and broke into a run.

  She found him on t
he floor beside the desk—one round through his forehead, and two more through the center of his chest. His mouth was open, his teeth jutting out. But even more striking, she could see what looked like fear permanently frozen on his face. His gun was on the floor beside his right hand. She turned to check the wall and spotted a bullet hole in the plaster by the door. Escabar had managed to get a shot off, but aimed too high and missed.

  “Something’s happening with the computer,” Vaughan said.

  Lena stepped around Escabar’s corpse, her eyes dancing between the computer monitor on the desk and the television mounted over the fireplace. The screens were connected, the images identical.

  “Files are being deleted, Lena. Look at the size of them.”

  She checked the screen, searching for a CANCEL option. When she found the button, she clicked it and sat down at the desk.

  “Media files,” she said. “The security cameras.”

  “Are we too late?”

  “Not necessarily,” she said.

  “Escabar told you that he made a copy?”

  She nodded, her wheels turning, “He was burning it when I called.”

  There was a stack of blank DVDs on the desk, but nothing else. The drive in the computer was empty. Lena searched through the desk drawers but found nothing there as well. After giving Escabar’s corpse a quick check, she turned back to the monitor and tried to think it through.

  There were a number of programs that Escabar had opened. Each one had been minimized and parked at the bottom of the screen. As she read the icons, she realized that Escabar had burned a copy for her without closing the program. Clicking the icon, the software opened and a graphic box popped up.

  Would you like to make another copy?

  The program had recorded a mirror image of the project and saved it. She glanced at Vaughan unable to speak, then loaded a blank disk into the computer and clicked YES. The next five minutes idled by in the key of slow—the anxiety was overwhelming. But after the drive stopped churning, Lena highlighted the disk and a video image began rolling on both the monitor and the television mounted over the fireplace.