Lily managed a weak smile. “Why do you think I still have the damn thing? If you have a suggestion, I’m more than willing to listen.”
Richard shook his head. “I don’t want you to handle this,” he insisted. “While you’re in Ventura, I’ll find a wrecking yard, then drive the car over.”
“No good,” she said, a breeze whipping her hair off her face. “The police will want to impound the car if they’ve decided to reopen the case. How could I ask you to dispose of evidence for me?”
“You didn’t ask, remember?” Richard smiled. “I offered.”
“No,” she protested, explaining why she had ruled out the wrecking yard as an option. “Maybe it would be safer for me to keep it. If they ask about the car, I’ll just tell them I don’t have it.”
“Lily,” he said, holding onto her arm, “listen.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, jerking away, “I’m listening.”
“This is what I’m going to do,” Richard told her, his agitation gone now that he had formulated a plan. “After you leave for Ventura, I’ll go to a hardware store and buy some tools. Then I’ll come back here and remove all the VIN numbers on the car, both on the engine and the frame, leaving only the license plate. That way I won’t get stopped by the police. As soon as it gets dark, I’ll drive it up in the mountains behind the ranch, find an isolated spot, then push the car over the cliff. When I go out to the hardware store, I’ll make a preliminary run up there to check out the area. If I pick the right spot, they may never find the car. Even if they do, they won’t be able to identify it or manage to trace it back to you.”
This was Richard Fowler the prosecutor, Lily thought, calling to mind the chalkboard he had kept in his office in Ventura—how he used to map out each and every detail, assembling the events of the crime piece by piece until he finally came up with a picture he was certain would convince a jury to deliver a guilty verdict.
“How are you going to get back here?”
“I have two feet,” Richard said. He patted the small roll around his midsection. “And a little exercise won’t kill me. All I have to do is walk down the hill, then I’ll stop by the Plow & Angel, have a few drinks, and catch a cab back here to your place.”
Lily started to protest, then stopped herself. He wanted to do this; she could read it on his face. This was his way of reassuring her that whatever happened in the future, he was in too deep to walk away.
RICHARD HAD loaned Lily his cell phone, and on the forty-five-minute drive to Ventura, her thoughts turned to Bruce Cunningham. She called and asked the operator for the number to the company the police had told her he worked for—Jineco Equipment Corporation. She had located the company’s Web page several months back and had thought of sending the former detective an e-mail, wanting to tell him that she was okay and had taken another job as a prosecutor. “They have a toll-free number,” the operator said. “Do you want me to give it to you?”
“Yes,” she answered, repeating it several times so she wouldn’t forget, then quickly punched the numbers into the dial pad. As soon as a female voice came on the line, she gave her name and asked to speak to Bruce Cunningham.
“I was wondering when you were going to get around to calling me,” Cunningham said, his deep voice resounding in her ear.
Lily smiled, feeling as if she had reconnected with a powerful force. “How is your family? You know, the wife and kids.”
“Fine,” he said. “The youngest went off to college this year.”
“Your job?”
“Great,” he said, pausing for several moments. “What’s going on? You didn’t call me just to shoot the breeze, did you? A fellow claiming to be a detective called here a few days back, asking questions about the Hernandez homicide. Said his name was Fred Jameson. Do you know him?”
The phone slid out of Lily’s hands. Richard had tried to warn her that Jameson might be involved, but knowing that he had already gone to the trouble to track Bruce Cunningham meant the police were not merely mulling over reopening the Hernandez case, as she had hoped.
She parked along the side of the freeway, bending down to pick up the phone off the floorboard, assuming Cunningham had been disconnected. About to hit the redial button, she glanced at the LCD display, then brought the phone back to her ear.
“I’ve been waiting for them to outlaw driving with those damn phones,” Cunningham said before Lily began speaking. “How many people do you think have been killed because some bozo was driving down the road talking on his phone, not paying attention? At the very least, they should make it mandatory that people wear a headset, or that they have one of those speaker phones installed in their cars. What do you think, Forrester?”
“You haven’t changed, Bruce,” she said, swallowing hard before continuing. “What did you tell Jameson when he called?”
“About you or about the case in general?”
“All of the above,” Lily said, seeing the sign for the Victoria Boulevard exit only a short distance away.
“I didn’t tell him anything that would incriminate you,” the former detective said, carefully measuring his words. “All I said was Hernandez was a rotten apple, and I didn’t think the man merited a waste of the taxpayers’ money to put his killer behind bars.”
“A detective named O’Malley called and insisted that I come down today,” Lily told him, the muscles in her neck and back tightening. “I’m about to pull into the parking lot of the police department right now.”
“When you think about it,” Cunningham said wisely, “you might be better getting this out in the open rather than spending the rest of your life waiting for it to jump out and bite you.”
With the stress she was under, Lily wondered if Cunningham was suggesting that she clear her conscience and confess. By accepting whatever punishment the state imposed, would she finally free not only herself but the individuals she’d held captive by involving them in her crime? She had already confessed to Cunningham six years before. He had taken it upon himself to withhold the information she had given him. She had not pleaded with him, or coerced him in any way. Unlike the impulsive act Lily had committed, Cunningham had carefully weighed the circumstances and arrived at his decision that sending Lily to prison would not constitute an act of justice.
Bruce Cunningham had sacrificed both his moral and professional integrity in order that a daughter would not lose her mother at the time when she needed her the most; the state would not forfeit a brilliant and dedicated attorney; and the death of a man who had killed brutally and without provocation on two separate occasions would not be avenged.
After parking the car, Lily began walking toward the front entrance of the police station, the heat of the midday sun and the intensity of emotion causing her to feel as if her feet were made of cement. If the Ventura D.A.’s office accepted the case for prosecution, Cunningham would be subpoenaed to testify, in addition to the two people who were the closest to her heart—her daughter and Richard Fowler. How would she feel if Shana, Richard, and Cunningham were forced to stand in the witness box with their hands on the Bible, listening to the bailiff pose the age-old question echoing inside her head? “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
29
At one-fifteen Saturday afternoon Lily was ushered into an interview room at the Ventura Police Department by Detective Keith O’Malley. A tall, good-looking man in his late thirties, he had blond hair and a ruddy complexion. Fred Jameson was already seated at the table.
“Did you have a pleasant drive?” Jameson asked, smirking. “I love that stretch of freeway, the way it runs parallel to the ocean. I used to fantasize about owning a beach house one day. There’s this one area. What’s it called? You know what I’m talking about, Lily. Lots of trees, sort of juts out into the ocean.”
So this is how he wanted to play it, Lily thought, slowly lowering herself into the chair.” There’s several areas like the one you describ
ed,” she said, setting her purse down on the table. “Did you call me down here to talk about real estate?”
O’Malley was standing behind Lily. He made the time-out sign with his hand, wanting to remind Jameson that Captain Nelson had placed him in charge of the investigation.
Jameson ignored him. “This place, well,” he continued, “it reminds me of a cheaper version of that fancy section in Malibu where all the movie stars have their homes. Of course, on a detective’s salary, the only kind of oceanfront real estate I’ll ever be able to afford would be next to that sewage plant in Channel Islands. Now, if someone hadn’t falsely accused—”
“Knock it off, Fred,” O’Malley barked. He set a tape recorder in the center of the table. He then proceeded to read Lily her Miranda rights. Once he was finished, he pulled out a chair and took a seat at the head of the table.
“The area in Malibu is called the Colony,” Lily said, fixing him with a steely gaze. “When people used to mention it when I was a kid, I thought they were referring to an ant colony. Maybe you should check it out, Fred. You might fit in perfectly.”
Keith O’Malley placed his large hands on the table. “We’re here to discuss the homicide of Bobby Hernandez.” He stated the date and time and, as a safeguard, asked Lily once more if she was waiving her right to have an attorney present during questioning.
“I am an attorney,” Lily told him, one corner of her mouth curling into a smile.
“That’s not the question,” O’Malley said, pulling his collar away from his neck.
“Yes,” she said, leaning forward. “I waive my right to an attorney.”
The detective pulled out a piece of paper, questions he and Jameson had prepared over the past two days. “Did you know Bobby Hernandez?”
“No.”
“You do know who I am referring to?”
“Not necessarily,” Lily answered, crossing her arms over her chest. “Bobby Hernandez is a common name.”
“Cut the crap,” Jameson interjected. “You know the guy we’re talking about, damn it. This isn’t a courtroom. It’s not like you’re on the witness stand.”
“Didn’t you read me my rights?” Lily asked, pointing at the tape recorder. “You’re recording this conversation. And you just informed me that whatever I say can be used against me in a court of law.”
“May I handle this, Fred?” O’Malley said, beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead.
“Handle your partner, O’Malley,” Lily said, her temper surfacing. “He’s already wasted enough of my time today. I agreed to speak to you without an attorney. Return the courtesy by conducting yourself in a professional manner.”
Jameson left the room to cool down. Not only did he have a personal agenda when it came to Lily, he’d never gone head to head with a district attorney, and certainly not one as cunning and strong-willed as Lily Forrester.
O’Malley waited until he heard the door close behind the other man, then turned back to Lily. “Bobby Hernandez was identified as one of the five gang members who killed Carmen Lopez and Peter McDonald. Since you prosecuted that case, Ms. Forrester, I’m certain you recall Mr. Hernandez.”
“Now that you’ve clarified yourself,” Lily told him, “the answer to your question is yes.”
“Fine,” he said. “How did it come to light that Hernandez had participated in the McDonald-Lopez killings?”
“Aren’t we going over old ground here, detective?”
“To some degree,” O’Malley said, pausing to look over his notes. They had a serious problem on their hands. The records on the McDonald-Lopez case were complete, the majority accessible by means of the department’s computer system. The Patricia Barnes and Bobby Hernandez murders, however, had been investigated by the now defunct Oxnard police department. The two detectives didn’t want to tip their hand and let Lily know that they weren’t as yet certain what percentage of the evidence and records relating to these interlocking crimes had been lost or accidentally destroyed during the consolidation of the two police departments. They needed information and they needed it fast. A conference was scheduled the following week at the district attorney’s office. Ironically, Lily was one of the three individuals who could fill in the missing blanks. The challenge was to tap into her memory without revealing that they were using her as a source for information.
Richard Fowler had been involved in the combined investigations, but Jameson had been dead set against approaching him. Fowler was a highly respected defense attorney, and according to Jameson, his friendship with Lily had extended beyond the office. When Lily had shown up alone for their one o’clock meeting, the two detectives had released a collective sigh of relief. They were both expecting Fowler to have already signed on as her attorney. From the attorney’s statements regarding Marco Curazon, even if Lily brought in another attorney to represent her, Richard Fowler was firmly entrenched in her corner.
Overall, Bruce Cunningham held the greatest wealth of information. The former Oxnard detective had investigated both the Hernandez and Barnes homicides. His reluctance to cooperate might be frustrating, but O’Malley didn’t consider it spiteful. Cunningham had relocated to Nebraska and was no longer involved in law enforcement. His analysis was simple—the man didn’t want to be bothered.
“The Barnes homicide wasn’t handled by our department,” O’Malley continued, clearing his throat. “Can you explain how Mr. Hernandez came to be identified as her killer?”
Lily stared at him for a long time. “Why are you asking me this question? Are you implying I had anything to do with the death of Patricia Barnes?”
“Of course not,” O’Malley said, shaking his head. “We’re just attempting to put together the overall picture. Mr. Hernandez was never arrested in the McDonald-Lopez case, correct?”
“Correct,” Lily answered.
“He was never arrested because by the time his involvement came to light,” O’Malley continued, “he was already dead. Is this true?”
“Yes.”
“Then Mr. Hernandez killed Patricia Barnes after he killed Peter McDonald and Carmen Lopez, right?”
“Yes.”
“How was it determined that Hernandez killed Barnes?”
“You have the files,” Lily snapped. “Why are you asking me something you already know?”
“Rather than talking in circles,” O’Malley told her, speaking softly, “why don’t I explain where we stand. Your former husband claims you murdered Bobby Hernandez because you mistook him for the man who raped you and your daughter. There’s also evidence—”
“You’re aware John’s been arraigned on vehicular-manslaughter charges in Los Angeles?” Lily told him. “I don’t think a jury would view him as a credible witness.”
“I’m aware of the circumstances,” O’Malley said. “The truth of the matter is, his statement correlates with the evidence or you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“Exactly what evidence are you referring to, detective?”
“You know I can’t discuss that with you.”
Lily rubbed the side of her nose. “I thought we were going to put our cards on the table.”
“May I continue, please?” O’Malley said, attempting to maintain control of the conversation. “Bobby Hernandez might not have been charged with the murder of Peter McDonald and Carmen Lopez, but he was arrested for the kidnapping and rape of Patricia Barnes. You were supervisor over the sex crimes unit at that time. Why was Hernandez released?”
“We had no choice,” Lily told him, rubbing her sweaty palms on her slacks. “Barnes was a prostitute. It isn’t uncommon for a prostitute to claim they were raped when a customer fails to pay. We had to dump the case against Hernandez because Barnes failed to show up in court. We continued the case three times. Finally I had no choice but to dismiss and release him.”
Jameson stepped back into the room carrying a tray with a pitcher of ice water, several glasses, and his oversized coffee mug. He could tell that O’Malley had ma
de progress during his absence when Lily immediately reached for a glass and filled it with water. When she brought the glass to her mouth, he detected a light tremor in her hand. He quietly took his seat, not wanting to interrupt his partner’s momentum.
“Patricia Barnes didn’t appear in court because she’d been murdered,” O’Malley continued. “Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Lily told him, her eyes focused on a spot over his head. “Hernandez murdered her after she reported the rape. Her status as a prostitute caused the Oxnard P.D. to drag their heels, so an arrest warrant wasn’t issued for quite some time. As soon as the case landed on my desk, I insisted that we move forward with it. Hernandez must have picked Barnes up off the street after she went to the police with the original rape complaint, killed her, then buried her in a remote area on the outskirts of town.” She stopped and took another drink of water. “The Oxnard P.D. found the victim’s purse near the grave. The crime lab positively identified Hernandez’s fingerprints from the plastic surface of the purse. This is the point where the two cases began to converge.”
“You mean McDonald-Lopez and the Barnes homicide, correct?”
“Yes,” Lily said, sucking in a deep breath.
O’Malley waited a few moments and then continued: “We know Bobby Hernandez and Marco Curazon resembled one another. We also know you left the office the night you and your daughter were raped with Mr. Hernandez’s file in your possession, as we’ve already confirmed this information with Clinton Silverstein.”
Lily jerked her head back as if she’d been slapped. Whatever was done was done, she told herself, looking down at her hands. She couldn’t resent Clinton for telling the truth. For all she knew, the attorney hadn’t been aware at the time that his statements would be used to incriminate her.
O’Malley stood, deciding to turn up the heat now that Lily was unnerved. “You had a mug shot of Bobby Hernandez at your house,” he said forcefully. “You had his address. You were certain that this was the man who had just brutalized you and your daughter. Your ex-husband told us that you insisted that he take the girl back to his house, telling him that you would drive over soon as you collected some of your things.”
Buried Evidence Page 28
