by Marcia Clark
He coughed. “Excuse me. This cold weather. No, no one seemed to know what he could be talking about.”
I wondered about his apparent interest in this. “Was this the first time you’ve spoken to them?”
Graham cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Why?”
I honestly couldn’t say. It just bugged me. “No reason.”
The elevator dinged again. “I’d better get going. If you change your mind, the reservation’s under my name.”
Not even for a free—and very pricey—meal would I dream of it. I thanked him and let him go.
I couldn’t reach Phil or Diana or Gayle, but I did manage to find Davey. He was on campus. His cell phone kept dropping the call, so I told him I’d meet him at a nearby restaurant, The Lab Gastropub on Figueroa.
“The Lab” was a casual, science-themed place with large computer screens mounted on the walls, group-style seating, and a bar with chrome bar stools. Davey was sitting in one of the leather chairs in the lounge area and scrolling on his cell phone when I got there. Since I wasn’t interested in funding yet another free lunch, I took the seat next to him and said I just needed a minute of his time. “Did Graham talk to you recently?”
He put down his phone. “Yeah. Yesterday. He called around an hour or so after your investigator called me. He asked about the same thing your investigator did: whether I’d heard about some big secret Roan knew about Alicia.”
I knew Davey had told Alex that he hadn’t known anything about that secret, either. “Was that the only time you spoke to Graham?”
He frowned. “I’m pretty sure. Yeah.”
At that moment, my phone rang. It was Phil, returning my call. I let it go to voice mail. “Did Graham ever visit you at your place?”
Davey looked surprised by the question. “No. Why?”
Wait. What? I’d expected him to admit it—maybe say they’d just talked a little more about Roan’s secret, or Davey’s memories of Alicia, or . . . whatever. But his denial caught me off guard. I needed to regroup. Something was wrong here. “No reason.”
Davey said he had to get to class, and I left the restaurant, more confused than ever.
FORTY-TWO
Before I called Phil back, I needed to figure out what was going on. Either Davey was lying or Graham was visiting someone else in that building. I didn’t know why Davey would lie about that. Especially since he’d admitted talking to Graham about Roan’s so-called “secret.”
So the question was, if Graham wasn’t visiting Davey, who was he visiting? My knee-jerk answer was that it was a woman. And in that neighborhood, it was probably a young and pretty one. This wasn’t necessarily a judgment of Graham per se. It was more about the fact that he was a hotshot litigator. They tended to be very . . . active.
But talk about a bizarre coincidence: a mistress in the same building as one of his daughter’s friends. What were the odds?
I called Phil back and found out he was home. I decided to go see him in person, since I was just a few blocks away.
Phil was his usual hazy self, though the house didn’t reek of pot quite as much as it had on previous visits. And this time, he didn’t light up after he dropped down on the beanbag chair. I couldn’t help but ask. “Why so straight today?”
Phil wore a mournful look. “I’m tapped out.” His face brightened. “Unless you’re in pocket.”
He obviously didn’t remember that I’d told him I didn’t smoke—or that I’d refused to join him every time he’d offered. I guessed it was true what they said about pot being bad for your memory. Or maybe Phil just didn’t want to give up hope. I told him I was sorry to disappoint him. “By any chance, has Graham called or come by to see you?”
Phil laced his hands together on his stomach. “He didn’t come over, but he called.”
“When was that?”
He looked at the ceiling. “Yesterday? Yeah, last night. I’m pretty sure it was.”
And just as he had in his calls to Davey and Nomie, Graham had asked Phil if he knew anything about a secret Roan supposedly knew that involved Alicia. Phil thought the whole thing was “bullshit” and typical of Roan’s mind games.
I’d thought so, too. But I had to admit I was starting to wonder. “Was that the only time Graham spoke to you?”
He stretched out his legs. “Yeah. But I know he talked to Davey before all this business came up about Roan’s horseshit secret.”
I frowned at Phil. “How do you know that?”
He yawned. “Because I saw him coming out of Davey’s building.”
And I’d just seen him going in last night. “When?”
Phil squinted at the floor. “I’m pretty sure it was a few days after Alicia died.”
Alicia? That couldn’t be right. “You mean after Roan died, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “No, man. It was before that. Roan was still alive, I’m positive. I remember because at the time, everyone was talking about how the cops should arrest him for Alicia’s murder.”
I thought my head was about to explode. “How did you know it was Graham?”
He answered without hesitation. “I’d seen his picture in Alicia’s apartment a bunch of times.” He sighed. “And, of course, I saw him on the news after she died.”
That identification seemed pretty solid. I took aim on the other side. “Are you sure it was Davey he’d been visiting?”
Phil frowned. “I didn’t chase him down and ask him, but who else would he be seeing there?”
My knee-jerk hunch about a mistress was turning out to be better than I’d thought. I checked my phone and saw that it was almost two o’clock. If I didn’t get on the road soon, I’d be stuck in traffic for an hour. I told Phil I’d be back in touch and headed to my car.
I might’ve been a little more skeptical about how accurate Phil’s memory was of seeing Graham exit Davey’s building. But (a) this time he’d been sober as a stopwatch at a swim meet, (b) he knew what Graham looked like, (c) he had no reason to expect to see Graham there, so he wasn’t just assuming the person he saw was Graham, and (d) his memory of the timing was tied to conversations that had to have taken place before Roan was dead—because cops don’t usually bother to arrest a dead guy.
I mulled over all this, and my theory that Graham had a mistress in Davey’s building all the way back to the office. When I got in, I convened the troops and brought them up to speed. “The thing I’ve been wondering is whether this was the secret Roan was talking about? That Graham was seeing a girl in Davey’s building.”
Michy was on the fence. “That probably would rock Alicia’s world if it was like, a student or something.” She made a face. “In a really gross way. But don’t you think it’s a pretty huge coincidence that Davey and this girl live in the same building?”
Alex leaned back in the secretary’s chair. “It does, but then again, it’s a student neighborhood. Graham and Sandy probably helped Alicia move in, and I’m sure a lot of students must’ve been moving in around the same time. He might’ve met her then.”
That was true. “And she may not be a student.” Nonstudents lived in those buildings, too—not many but some. “We’d better check this out. If Graham is having an affair with a student, and this case goes to trial, reporters are going to be sniffing around.” This would be a very bad surprise to get hit with. “Alex, see if you can get a list of the tenants in Davey’s building. Then dig into Graham and Sandy and go deep.” I thought for a second. “And while you’re at it, see what you can come up with on Davey, too.”
I went into my office and had just taken off my coat when my cell phone rang. Distracted, I answered without looking to see who it was.
I recognized Dale’s voice from the first syllable. “I get to bust out of here a little early today. Want to meet me at Barney’s?”
The words were casual, but the tone wasn’t. I’d gotten so wrapped up in Graham’s case, I hadn’t had time to chase Dale down. He was probably going to give me the report on Lia
m and Noah, the FBI agents. And, of course, Tracy. Barney’s Beanery was only a few miles away. “Sure. Text me when you’re close.”
My stomach in knots, I paced in circles as I tried to figure out what Dale was going to tell me. Were the FBI agents willing to let us see Tracy? Had Tracy been willing to help? I wouldn’t blame her if she wasn’t, if she’d decided to cut all ties with a family that didn’t seem to give a damn about her. With zero information to go on, there was nothing I could do but angst and worry.
And this new wrinkle with Graham wasn’t doing my stomach lining any favors, either. Why so many male trial lawyers can’t keep their dicks in their pants is a mystery to me. And seriously? With all that was going on, he was still seeing her now? After the coroner had just concluded that Roan’s death might be a homicide? Was this girl so irresistible he couldn’t put their grand amour on hold—at least until the case was resolved?
Too many problems and not enough solutions. It was making me crazy. By the time I left for Barney’s Beanery I was in a truly cranky mood.
I told Michy I had some errands to run. “But I’ll be on my cell if you need me.”
She was glued to the computer, working on our quarterly tax returns. She waved a hand at me without looking up. I called out to Alex to let me know if he found anything interesting. He called out, “Will do.”
I tried to calm myself and take deep breaths on the way over. It didn’t help. When I walked in, my heart was beating so hard it blurred my vision. Dale had grabbed a table by the window and was nursing a Coke. I saw that he’d tortured the straw wrapper, which was folded over a million times. My chest was tight as I sat down. I couldn’t even force a little smile. “What’s the story?”
Dale was every bit as tense as I was. “The agents are on board. And Tracy’s willing to listen. But they said she didn’t seem thrilled. I thought she might need to see Tiffany and verify it all in person, but Liam said she only wants to see you.”
How odd. “Did they say why?”
Dale tilted his head. “Not exactly. But I got the impression she doesn’t trust the family much. So my guess is, she wants you to tell her if you think it’s for real.”
Actually, that made sense. She’d want some assurance that Tammy really was being abused, that this wasn’t just a guess on someone’s part. And she didn’t want to stick her neck out if Tammy was going to back down—or if her mother was going to shut Tammy down. Either way, it’d be a trip down Horrible Memory Lane for no good reason. “When do you want to do this?”
Dale looked at his watch. “In about half an hour. I was right; they are keeping her local.”
“What?” I’d been picturing our meeting in my mind, trying to figure out what I’d say if and when the time came. But I’d expected to have more notice. I still wasn’t sure how to approach her, how to win her over. “I don’t know what to say. You have any ideas?”
Dale’s expression was bleak. “Sorry, I don’t. I’ve tried to think of some surefire thing to say that’d make her trust you. But I just wound up thinking that there’s no magic bullet. My only advice is to listen to your gut and hope for the best.”
Listening to my gut was usually a strength. But I didn’t know if I could rely on it this time. Tracy had no real reason to trust me. I’d have to tell her I was there to save her from Cabazon. But why should she believe that I was there to save her—and not just setting her up to get killed? “Great. She’ll probably slam the door in my face.”
He said, “Actually, it wouldn’t be her. The agents are manning the door, so . . .”
I stared at him, my tone sarcastic. “That’s very helpful. Thanks.”
He spread his hands. “Look, at the end of the day, she’ll either believe we’re trying to protect her or she won’t.”
He picked a hell of a time to go all fatalistic on me. “‘Won’t is probably what’s going to happen. So any idea what we do after she tells me to go screw myself?”
Dale shook his head. To be fair, he didn’t look any happier than I was. “Like I said, just take your best shot.”
I slumped back in my chair. What I needed to do was get her to trust me, to believe that I wanted to save her even though Cabazon—the one who wanted her dead—was the one who’d “hired” me. I had no idea how I’d manage that in just an hour or so of conversation. Until now, it hadn’t hit me how much of a ridiculous long shot it was to expect her to trust someone who drops in out of the blue—and with a very unwelcome message. But I had to take it. “Where is she?”
He looked at his phone. “They’re keeping her in a safe house in Beverlywood.”
I’d been there a few times. It was just south of Beverly Hills. A nice ’hood but definitely not the dreamland of the rich and famous. “We should probably get going, then.” It’d take us at least a half hour to get there.
Dale followed me back to my place so I could leave Beulah at home and we could ride together in his car. On the way, we talked about what to tell Tracy—assuming she trusted me to rescue her. For the hundredth time, I wished I could just tell her to recant and say she was mistaken when she’d identified Maldonado as the shooter. But even if she did, the prosecutor could just impeach her with her earlier statement. And no one would believe her if she said she’d been mistaken. According to the police report, she’d been standing right there, just a few feet away. That had bugged me from the start. “What was she doing there?”
Dale shrugged. “She was probably with one of them. Since she fingered Maldonado, I’d guess she was with the victim.”
In which case she’d want to see Jorge Maldonado fry. I gave Dale a sidelong glance. “You know, even if there was no big love between Tracy and the victim, she’s got to be pissed about being locked up with FBI agents—and all because of Maldonado.”
Dale sighed. “It is what it is, Sam. All we can do is try.”
Dale parked a few houses down, at Liam’s advice. We walked up to a fairly nice-looking pale-yellow Spanish-style home with a red-tiled roof. Dale used the tarnished brass knocker on the heavy wooden door. Two knocks, a pause, and then one more. I was amused. “Really? A secret knock?”
Dale gave me a deadpan look. “Really? Cabazon is moving heaven and earth to find this girl.”
I was about to tell Dale that it wasn’t the most sophisticated security system, but at that moment, a man answered the door. He ushered us in so quickly, I had no chance to see him until he’d closed the door behind us. He was the Hollywood version of an FBI agent. Short blond hair, a trim mustache, and blue eyes; about Dale’s height, six feet tall, with a V-shaped torso that looked like one of those gym posters. Not my type—he was a little too law-and-order for me—but I imagined he blew a lot of other skirts up. He shook my hand and told me his name was Liam, and he assumed I was Samantha Brinkman.
I admitted I was. “How’s she been doing?”
Liam spoke in a low voice. “Pretty well, all things considered. But the sooner they get this case to trial, the better. She’s really nervous. And depressed.”
I looked around the living room. It was sparsely furnished—a couple of wingback chairs, a leather ottoman, a couch, and a coffee table. But it all looked pretty new. I wondered if they’d rented it or if the FBI kept furnishings in a warehouse for just such occasions. “What happens after she testifies?”
He gestured for us to have a seat. “We give her a new identity and relocate her.”
Dale sat on one of the chairs, but I declined. “I think I should talk to her privately. It’s a pretty sensitive topic.” I held out my arms. “Feel free to search me.” I knew he would have with or without my invitation, but I preferred to act like I had a say in the matter.
Liam gave me a very thorough pat-down. He nodded toward my purse. “You can leave that out here.”
I knew they’d search it, but I had nothing to hide. I handed my purse to him. “Let’s go.”
I followed him down a short hallway to a room at the end on the left. I noticed his partner, Noah, was
on the phone in the bedroom across from us. Noah was short, hairy, and intense. Not the hottie Liam was. He looked up as I passed by. I waved, and he gave me a curt nod. All business.
Liam knocked on the door and spoke softly. “Tracy? That lawyer’s here to see you.”
The door opened, and a young woman stared back at me, her eyes narrow and suspicious. Her round face had thinned, and the chin-length shaggy blonde hair was now down to her shoulders, but she was definitely the girl in the photos I’d seen. She was dressed in a black-and-red-striped, shoulder-baring shirt and black skinny jeans. The smoky-look makeup was too heavy for her blue eyes, and the silver studs that crawled up her ears gave her an elfin quality. But she seemed even younger in person than she had in the photographs. I thought she was, at most, maybe nineteen years old.
I held out my hand. “Hi, Tracy. I’m Samantha Brinkman.”
She looked at my hand for a moment then slowly, reluctantly gave me hers for a very brief shake. “Hey.”
I braced myself. This girl did not look inclined to cut Jorge—or me—any slack whatsoever. My heart was beating like a jackhammer. I did my best to make my voice sound calm and warm. “I thought you might like to talk to me about this privately.”
Tracy glanced at Liam, then nodded and stood back.
I walked into the small bedroom that had only the necessities: a bed, a dresser, a desk that was really just a table, and a cheap folding chair. The white venetian blinds that covered the window next to the bed were closed. I suspected they always were.
I turned back and nodded to Liam. “Thanks.” Then I took a deep breath and closed the door.
FORTY-THREE
I’d been trying to figure out a way to frame the situation so she wouldn’t turn on me. But there was no way to romance this. I’d lied to get her to talk to me. The only thing I could do was admit it and hope for the best.
Tracy sat down on the bed, and I pulled the folding chair around to face her. “I’m going to start by telling you I’m sorry. I’m apologizing because I lied to you. They’re not investigating Ronnie for molesting your little sister. At least, not yet.”
