by Rob Thomas
It was Cliff who answered. “I remember that. It was in the blotter. That was the week before Hayley Dewalt went missing, so the story probably got lost in the circus.” He leaned back into the sofa and looked up at Veronica. “I remember there being some question whether the cases were linked. The victim was the same age as Hayley and Aurora, but the cops ruled out any connection pretty fast. And then I didn’t hear anything else about it.”
“Well, the case is still open apparently,” Veronica said. “They never figured out what happened. Or maybe they didn’t try very hard. The version I got might have been…biased.”
“Was that guy her lawyer?” Mac asked. “Are we going after the rapist?”
Veronica hesitated, and in that single beat of silence Keith saw her blush very slightly.
“He was an insurance adjustor. But he does want to find out who did it.” Her eyes flickered toward Keith and away as quickly. “We’re not being asked to determine liability, just help the hotel’s legal staff do it. But, you know, there’s a chance that finding the rapist could be a by-product of this noble mission.”
“Well, that’s—depressing,” Mac said finally, her chin sinking heavily on her hand. “ ‘Hey! Sorry the actual criminal justice system couldn’t get the job done, but maybe if you threaten someone’s bank account we’ll be able to help you.’ ”
Weevil just smirked. “Congratulations, you live in Neptune.”
Veronica grabbed the neck of one of the few remaining Scotch bottles with a couple of swigs left in it. “Excuse me for troubling your Capraesque lives with this first-ever note of moral unclarity.” She poured a dram into her glass and set the bottle back down with a loud clunk.
Keith laughed. “Fair enough.” There was always plenty of Monday-morning quarterbacking in their field, and he’d certainly had his share of successes, noble failures, and outright fiascos. He drained the final mouthful of booze from his glass, put his feet up on an ottoman, and drifted back into his own thoughts.
Then, out of left field:
“ ‘But maybe if you threaten someone’s bank account…’ ”
“Say what?” Cliff said.
“Oh, just what Mac said a minute ago. It touched off something in my mind.”
“About what Veronica’s doing?” Cliff said, still scrambling.
“No, about us. And Lamb. Innovative cat-skinning solutions for a changing world.”
Cliff’s face lit up as understanding hit. “For a busted old mule, you’re pretty fucking smart. What can I do to help?”
“Well, for starters, who do you know in civil?” Keith leaned forward to the edge of the couch, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Horowitz is good but he’s got a full caseload these days.” Cliff was pulling file folders and stacks of paperwork out of his briefcase. “Jarvis and Associates have a good team. Choi’s an up-and-comer—I’m pretty sure she’d take it just for the publicity.”
“What are you guys talking about?” asked Veronica. She held her glass halfway to her lips, glancing back and forth between them.
Instead of answering, Keith and Cliff both turned to face Weevil.
“Eli,” said Keith. “What do you think about bringing a lawsuit against the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department?”
Weevil gave a little start, blinking rapidly.
“I don’t know if you realize, but I just got out of a lawsuit with them. I’m kind of happy it’s over, you know?”
“This would be different,” Cliff said. “We’d be on the offense this time. We’d be looking to prove that the deputy who arrived on the scene planted that gun on you.”
Veronica drew in a breath. “You could use all the evidence the judge threw out. All those other people who claim evidence was planted? You could publicly rake Lamb over the coals. If we do this right, the worst-case scenario is that his career is over.”
“And what’s the best case?” Weevil asked, smiling as he anticipated her reply.
“The civil case leads to a criminal one, and Dan Lamb goes to prison for five, maybe up to ten years.”
The energy in the room surged. Keith let himself imagine the look on Lamb’s face as he sat on the stand, proof of his own corruption on public display.
“This would help recoup at least some of what you’ve lost, Eli,” Cliff said. “At risk of sounding like a daytime-TV commercial, you could claim medical costs, lost income, pain and suffering. And I wouldn’t be shocked if it opened the door for other individual lawsuits. Your kid could grow up in a very different Neptune than you did.”
Weevil leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He was starting to look excited. “You really think we’d have a shot?”
Keith grinned. “I’ve already done most of the dirty work. We’ve got almost thirty witnesses who claim the Sheriff’s Department has planted evidence. Some of them might even get their records expunged if Lamb gets enough of a black eye on this.”
“And the media is already hammering Lamb with questions about that disappearing Glock,” Cliff added. “We just have to make sure they don’t let it drop.”
Eli looked down at his feet, motionless for a few long seconds. When he finally looked up, it was with a crooked grin.
“All right,” he said. “I’m in.”
CHAPTER SIX
Veronica, Keith, Weevil, Cliff, and Mac polished off the Scotch, discussing strategy for hours. It was agreed that Keith would take point on any further legwork, since, as he put it, “the resident big-shot has her own case to deal with.” Veronica noted the wink with which her father delivered this jab. She smiled wanly, but she was grateful.
It was after ten when they finally dispersed. Keith and Cliff went off in search of greasy, gluten-rich food—they’d invited Veronica but she declined—and Mac was meeting with some old Sun Microsystems colleagues at a bar. Veronica was ready to go home. She’d spent the last week in knots of anxiety. Now, with Weevil exonerated, she just wanted to sleep.
The silver RAV4 she’d purchased after the Hayley Dewalt case was parked on the street below the office. She’d opted for the little crossover to help with surveillance. Dearly as she missed streaking up the coastal highway in Logan Echolls’s BMW convertible, the SUV made it easier to see over and around traffic. She pulled away from the curb, still chewing over the details of the new case, and headed south.
Most of Neptune’s sparkling shoreline belonged to the city’s elite. Movie stars and captains of industry had mansions looking out over the Pacific. Yacht clubs, private beaches, and five-star resorts took up the rest. But Dog Beach, a four-mile stretch of golden sand and crashing surf, had always belonged to the hoi polloi. It had long been home to the oddball assortment that gravitate to any public beach: surf bums, earth mothers, buskers, carnies, bikers, burnouts, and street artists, along with the rest of Neptune’s trust-fund-impaired. And now it was home to Veronica. Once the doctors had finally given Keith a clean bill of health, she’d moved out of his little bungalow and into an apartment just a quarter-mile walk from the shoreline, in a fading beauty of a building with a Spanish tile roof and deep casement windows.
She parked her car and started up the open stairs. Moths batted stupidly at the porch lights as she passed. Behind one door she heard the low murmur of a TV. Faintly, she caught the sharp salt smell of the ocean from a few blocks away.
The air in her third-floor apartment was close and heavy as she opened the door. The little window-unit AC just blew dust through the rooms, so she usually didn’t bother with it. When she was home she left the windows open wide for the Pacific coast breeze to move through. Now she turned on the ceiling fan and a lamp, stepping gratefully out of her heels and onto the hardwood floor.
The unit was small but cozy, decorated with a combination of secondhand finds and one or two things she’d pilfered from her dad’s house. A gray-and-white striped sofa sat across from a low walnut bookcase, flanked by floor lamps with vintage-store shades. The walls were lined with reprints of W
PA travel posters, advertising Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, and Crater Lake in bright blocky colors. Half-melted candles sat on an end table, between a phrenological head and a framed photo of her half brother, Hunter.
When she’d been living in her father’s house, it had been inevitable that she’d feel in some vague way like a teenager again, as if she’d been tugged backward in time toward everything she’d tried to walk away from. But here was the evidence that she’d chosen this town, this lifestyle, this career. It didn’t hurt that the apartment was better than anything she could have afforded in New York. The entire Brooklyn studio she’d had through law school would have fit in the bedroom here.
The kitchen, tiled in white and cherry red, was visible on the other side of a high counter lined with stools. She opened the fridge and grabbed last night’s take-out. She didn’t even bother heating it. Grabbing a fork, she took it back to the bedroom. A single light shone under the door.
“You’re still awake?” she said softly, pushing the door open.
Logan sat up against the headboard, bare chested, the blankets pulled up across his lap. The TV on the top of the dresser was tuned to The Daily Show. The sight of his military-grade biceps sent a flutter through her sternum.
Okay, what first? Binge-eat sesame chicken, change into pajamas, or jump straight into bed with the half-naked boyfriend? She compromised by taking a bite and then setting down the container to undress while she chewed. The half-naked boyfriend, after all, would be a lot more enjoyable if she took the time to get out of her suit.
“You’re home late,” Logan said, and she could feel his eyes on her as she wiggled out of her skirt and hung it carefully back on its hanger. “But I should have guessed. Your family throws the best after-acquittal parties.”
“We still had some leftover balloons from yours, so we just reused them. Weevil didn’t seem to mind.” She turned around, still in her camisole and underwear. His eyes tracked her closely, but she picked up the take-out container and took another bite, standing just out of reach and feigning obliviousness to his gaze. “What’d you get up to tonight?”
“Not much. I got home late myself.”
“Another homoerotic-beach-volleyball emergency?” She put a hand on her hip. He smirked.
“Whatever it takes to keep Am’urca safe,” he said, saluting smartly.
“I thank you for your service.”
The novelty of seeing him there in her bed still gave her a little thrill, even though he’d been more or less living with her since he’d returned from his naval tour in the Persian Gulf two months earlier. Before that, they’d been apart for six months. And that was nothing to the nine years they’d been apart before that. It was no wonder she was constantly startled by the simple, shocking pleasure of waking up to find him within arm’s reach, of coming home to find him there. The domestic bliss was…well, blissful. Neither of them had been prepared for that, lifelong adrenaline junkies that they were.
Logan had been reassigned to San Diego for his shore rotation, where he flew F/A-18 Hornets for the Fleet Readiness Center, helping them run diagnostics. “Basically, I try to help them find out what’s busted before it’s too late to fix it,” he’d told her. Veronica didn’t love that job description, but it was definitely better than picturing him running missions over enemy territory. Definitely better than trying to grab snippets of conversation with him long distance, never knowing if the connection would be good enough, or if he’d be called away and unable to meet her online.
For a moment she almost blurted out the details of the new case—leaving them sketchy to keep the girl’s privacy, of course, but filling him in on the basics. Instead, she set down the take-out box and went to the adjoining bathroom to brush her teeth. They had a no-cases-in-the-bedroom policy. Too often her jobs involved other peoples’ infidelities—not the best pillow talk. But it became especially necessary in cases like these, when she was looking into something truly ugly. She already had a habit of carrying her work around with her, lodged in her mind. She wanted at least this boundary.
After she washed up, she went back into the bedroom. Logan had turned off the TV. He leaned back against the pillows, hands behind his head, watching as she crossed the room. She slid under the covers next to him.
“You could have joined us,” she said.
“Sure. That wouldn’t have been awkward at all.” Logan slid his arm around Veronica and pulled her toward him. She caught a whiff of the cedar and sandalwood of his aftershave as she rested her head against his shoulder.
“Come on. They wouldn’t have minded.”
“Oh, yeah? Is Mac still calling me ‘Not-Piz’?”
“That was just a joke. Besides, you and Weevil are cool, right? I thought you guys had some kind of edgy-outlaw-mutual-respect thing going on after all was said and done.”
“Right…” Logan said. “That was his verbatim comment when I friended him on Facebook.”
“I’ll bet you favorite all his Tweets too,” Veronica replied, propping herself up on her elbow and looking at him.
“Favorite? I retweet every word that man posts.”
Their tone was light, but the conversation wasn’t a new one. Veronica had no doubts about Logan’s place in her life, but there was still so much awkwardness between him and the other people she cared about. He’d spent half his high school career as a cynical, entitled jackass, which hadn’t endeared him to her father or her friends. Since she’d moved back to Neptune and gotten back together with Logan, everyone had made a sincere effort at acceptance. Logan and Veronica went to Keith’s once a week for dinner, and Logan had taken them both to a Padres’ game for Father’s Day. Among her friends, there’d been some cordially awkward get-togethers. Everyone got an A for effort, but she still sometimes found herself wondering if it’d always be this hard—if Logan could ever sync smoothly with her other relationships.
He smiled, tracing the line of her cheek with a fingertip. She went quiet then, all thoughts of the case and her friends and her father, all the vague anxieties she had about making this relationship work, in spite of all the differences between them, banished. How could any of it matter, when he was here, when they were together? She leaned up and kissed him.
His arms tightened gently around her.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Preuss’s evidence had already arrived when Veronica got to the office at nine the next morning. It was crowded around her desk, a dozen cardboard bankers boxes labeled in black Sharpie. The sight made her feel slightly claustrophobic.
“They said a few boxes,” she said incredulously.
Behind her, Mac stood cradling her coffee mug. She smirked knowingly.
“Please. Endless stacks of evidence and unsorted information to sift through? You’re thrilled. This is Veronica Mars catnip.”
“Yeah, better get your spray bottle at the ready in case I start rolling on a pile of carpet-fiber spectrographs,” Veronica said with a mock scowl. “This is why you shouldn’t hire your friends. It’s all nice and professional until the insubordination starts.” She sighed. “Well, you know where I’ll be.”
“I’ll poke some food under the door at lunchtime,” Mac said, giving a jaunty little wave.
Once she’d shut her office door, Veronica just stood for a moment, looking around the cramped office. One box was labeled MEDICAL in a barely legible scrawl; another said CRIME SCENE. Several others were unlabeled. A few seemed to be packed past capacity, bulging ominously.
One of the first lessons Keith Mars had taught his daughter about solving crimes was that their most important tool was organization. That didn’t necessarily mean keeping an immaculate system of files and notes and evidence. Keith’s own notepad was indecipherable and incomplete, his corkboard a fluttering mess of scrap paper. But his mind was a Euclidean engine of perfect order and universal recall. He had his way; she had hers. But both understood that, without some way of sorting and catalogin
g facts, there was no way to see patterns. No way to change scope from forest to trees and back again. Her first job was to get a sense of how the case hung together, piece by awful piece.
She pried the lid off a box and started to unpack.
The first few folders contained schematic maps and photos of the place where the victim had been discovered—a field halfway to Pan Valley, more than twelve miles from the Neptune Grand. It had been raining on the night of the attack, and dark puddles mottled the landscape in the pictures. The rain seemed to have washed any evidence away; the only boot prints they had found belonged to the man who found the victim, an antiques dealer named Frank Kozlowski. The cops had found a tire print fifty yards away, on the road above the empty lot, and had identified it as a Firestone belonging to a midsized car, but there was no way to know if that print was connected to the crime.
Behind that folder, Veronica found another file crammed with photos. At first, she couldn’t quite tell what she was looking at: a bloodied mass of flesh; a shapeless form, black-and-blue and pink. Then the image resolved and she saw that it was a girl lying in a hospital bed.
She’d braced herself for the photos of the victim’s injuries—the insurance adjustor’s circumspect language told her the attack had been brutal—but she still stiffened at what she was seeing. The girl’s skin was a patchwork of contusions. Her nose was swollen, twice its normal size. Her eyes were blackened, lashes sticky with blood. One cheek was split jaggedly open. Her left arm was in a cast; her fingers were in splints. An ovoid pattern of bruises crisscrossed her throat.
Strangled, Veronica thought. She set the photos aside and picked up the medical report.
According to the medical examiner, the victim had suffered over twenty broken bones, including her nose, clavicle, three fingers, and the hyoid bone at the base of her neck. Her left shoulder had been dislocated. The cartilage in her throat had been torn and bruised, leaving her unable to speak for days after the attack. She had a severe concussion. On top of that, the examiner noted symptoms of cerebral hypoxia, meaning her attacker had choked her long enough to cut off her air supply. Semen evidence taken from her body had been entered into the DNA database, but had yielded no matches.
