Snap Judgment (Samantha Brinkman Book 3)

by Marcia Clark

  Alex gave her an admiring look. “Then you turned to him for professional advice?” She nodded. “Did you ever spend time socializing? I mean as a friend?”

  Her smile hinted that it was more than just friendly, but she said, “We’d have lunches—and an occasional dinner now and then. But that was all.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you think Graham was hoping it might go further?”

  She gave Alex a sly look, then, with a careless shrug, said, “I don’t know, maybe.” Her smile said, Definitely.

  The problem was, I couldn’t tell if this was just ego or a fair assessment of Graham’s intentions. Alex asked her if she still kept in touch with Graham, but she said she hadn’t spoken with him “in years.” He tried a few other angles, but either she was stonewalling us or there really was nothing more.

  When we got back to the car, I said, “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be invisible?”

  He chuckled. “You’re not invisible. Just much less . . . interesting.”

  I punched him on the arm. “Drive. I can’t wait for this day to be over.” The truth? I thought Alex’s success with the ladies was great—and kind of funny. And I was glad to be hearing such glowing reports on Graham.

  Alex headed for our last stop: Heather Jorgenson. She lived just a short hop away on North Palm Drive. It was one of those extra-wide streets south of Sunset Boulevard that was lined with trees and perfectly manicured lawns. Here, almost all the houses looked like Sarah’s—two-story Spanish-style homes. But there were no fences around any of the properties on Heather’s block.

  We walked right up to the front door, and I noticed a white BMW 750Li in the driveway. Nice. When I knocked, a woman in her fifties who had to be Heather Jorgenson answered the door. I introduced myself and Alex, and she confirmed that she was indeed Heather. Unlike Sarah, our hostess was pretty in a tasteful way. Her shiny brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and she had the kind of high cheekbones and dark—almost black—eyes that gave her features a Native American cast.

  After we all shook hands, she stood back and said, “Come on in.”

  If the outside of the house was similar in design to Sarah’s, the inside was a study in contrasts. Heather led us into a living room that was furnished with impeccable taste. Persian rugs gave the room warmth and color, and the deep blue and burgundy chenille couch and matching wing chairs coordinated to make the high-ceilinged space feel cozy. The room faced the street, and a large picture window covered with a gauzy layer of curtains filtered the sunshine to let in a soft light.

  Heather offered us something to drink, and this time I had to accept. I was thirsty as hell. “Water would be great.”

  Alex agreed, and Heather went to get it. I looked around the room and saw photos of a man I assumed was her husband. He was handsome in a leathery way, with a wide smile and dark-blue eyes.

  Heather came back carrying a tray with two ice-filled glasses and two bottles of water. I filled my glass immediately and drank. Heather hadn’t been as glued to Alex as the other two—though her smile definitely got a little wider when she looked at him—but he was on a roll, and I was happy to let him take the lead.

  The questioning—and the answers—took a similar path to the others, except that Graham hadn’t been Heather’s—or her husband’s—lawyer. One of the managing partners was representing her. And it was her business, not her husband’s, that the partner worked on. Heather had owned two hotels, one in Aspen and another in Deer Valley. She seemed like the sporty type who skied and snowboarded; she had that lean, fit look.

  Heather said she’d run into Graham when she first signed on with the firm. “And I believe we had lunch a few times. Sometimes I’d visit him just to chat. He was a great listener and a lot of fun.”

  “Did you ever do dinners or have him to the house?” Alex asked.

  Heather stared out the window for a moment. “I believe we may have had a dinner or two. But no, I never entertained him here.”

  And no, she wasn’t still in touch with him.

  Alex asked, “Then if anyone asked what you thought of Graham . . . ?”

  Heather smiled. “I’d say he was a great guy. And if you’re wondering whether I heard about that sexual harassment claim, the answer is yes.” She shook her head, her expression unfazed. “He never behaved that way when I knew him. Not that I doubt the truth of the claim, but that was a long time ago. He probably was thoughtless and dumb—like they all can be at that age.”

  From what I could tell, there was nothing to worry about with any of these women. At least as far as what they might say publicly. And that was good enough for me.

  We wrapped up the interview and took off.

  It was time to find out who, if anyone, had been lying.

  FORTY-SIX

  We headed back to the office. “Who’s your pick?” I asked Alex.

  He’d put spyware on Graham’s phone to see if any of the women we’d interviewed called him after we left. If one of them did, it wouldn’t necessarily mean she’d been lying. It might be totally innocent—just an old friend letting him know that she was on his side and that she’d told us how wonderful he was. But it might also mean he still had something going on with one of them. If so, I needed to know now, before anyone else found out.

  Alex headed east on Sunset Boulevard. “Sarah’s the most obvious choice.”

  I gave a little laugh as I pictured her boozy smile. “She really is.” But then I thought about how Olivia had blushed when Alex hinted at a closer connection with Graham, whereas Heather had merely nixed it with an amused smile. Both reactions could shield a lie. “I can’t choose.” I glanced at Alex. “So the suspense builds.”

  He laughed. “I’m on pins and needles. But we’ll have to wait until we get back to the office.”

  That was probably for the best anyway. We needed to give them time to call Graham. Thanks to crosstown traffic, it took half an hour. But the minute we got in, Alex pulled out his phone.

  I gave Michy the update on our interviews and told her what Alex was doing. She looked incredulous. “I thought you didn’t want to do that. You said you couldn’t risk getting caught.”

  I had. “That was when we were talking about a long-term operation, so I could monitor what Graham was doing and stop him from screwing things up. That was too risky. This is only a temporary thing. We’ll delete the spyware tomorrow.”

  Alex had been scrolling and tapping on his phone. Now he looked up. “I can’t believe it. It worked. We actually got one.”

  I couldn’t believe it, either. Or maybe I just didn’t want to. I tried to reassure myself as I said, “It’s probably totally innocent, Alex. Don’t get excited.”

  He met my gaze. “Okay, I won’t. Sure you don’t want to guess?”

  I shook my head. “Let’s hear it.”

  He took another beat, just to torture me, then said, “It’s Heather.”

  Michy looked from Alex to me. “Meaning, she called Graham after you left?” I nodded. “How long after you left?”

  Alex looked at his phone. “Had to be within a minute. Want me to take down the spyware now?”

  I mulled over our next move. “No. Leave it on until tomorrow, as planned. Let’s see how much activity we get.”

  Alex held up his thumb. A single phone call to Graham to pay respects, to say, “How are you doing?” was one thing. A flurry of calls between them was another. It was worth the risk of leaving the spyware intact for another half day to find out.

  I started to head into my office, then stopped. “Oh, and Alex, let’s find out more about Heather, like—”

  Alex cut me off. “Already on it.”

  I gave him a high five from across the room—the only kind of high five I don’t mind giving—and went into my office. I really hoped Heather’s call was just an innocent “heads up” to let Graham know he had her support.

  I figured I’d find out soon enough. And then I remembered that I still hadn’t gotten A
licia’s autopsy report. I knew it could take as much as a month to get the official report, but I didn’t want to wait that long. I wanted to see if there were any unanswered questions I could use to my advantage.

  There was only one person who could help me with this. Dale. I sat down on my couch, put my feet up on the coffee table, and called him—from my landline, of course. Mr. Paranoia wouldn’t even let me call him about dinner plans on his cell anymore.

  His voice was wary as he answered. “What’s up?”

  We both got keyed up when one of us called. The Cabazon Effect. “Nothing new. Just wondered if you’d heard when Alicia’s autopsy report is coming out.”

  He exhaled loudly, and I could hear the relief in his voice. “Alicia’s report has been delayed. Something about the murder weapon being reexamined.”

  I sat up. The knife had been found under her body, but since it’d been in water for some time, I’d doubted they’d find anything useful on it. But maybe I was wrong. “Do you know if they’ve found prints?”

  I heard someone call out to Dale. He spoke hurriedly. “I don’t know. I didn’t hear why they were looking at it. All I know is there’s a holdup. Gotta go.”

  As I ended the call, I hoped they’d found prints on the knife that didn’t match Roan. That might give me a new straw man for Roan’s murder. But there was no point obsessing over a possibility that might never materialize. I wouldn’t know anything until I got the print expert’s report. I put it out of my mind for the moment and got busy on the rest of my caseload. By six thirty, I was so tired I was seeing double.

  I’d just decided to call it a night when Michy came into my office. She snatched my coat off the couch, came over, and draped it across my shoulders. “Time to go. You’re done for the day.”

  I was getting a dose of my own medicine, but I didn’t mind. I stood up. “See how I cooperate and don’t fight like a four-year-old who won’t go to bed?”

  Michy shot me a dagger look. “I was in the middle of . . . Never mind. Let’s go get Alex.”

  But Alex, eyes fixed on his monitor, wouldn’t budge. I stood in the doorway, my arms folded. “Enough already. The Internet won’t disappear between now and tomorrow.”

  He didn’t even look up. He just made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go, and let a man do some work around here.”

  “Okay, Archie Bunker,” I said sarcastically. “On the serious side, any more activity between Graham and Heather?”

  “Not so far.” He finally looked up. “Do I still pull off the spyware at nine a.m.?”

  I gave it another thought. Graham sometimes went into the office late. “Give it until ten a.m. Oh, and can you check his recent calls to see if any of the girls in Davey’s building called Graham after we talked to them?” I was pretty sure those girls had been telling the truth when they denied knowing him, but it couldn’t hurt to make sure. And if they were telling the truth, then I’d have to conclude that Graham had been visiting Davey. What to make of that—and why they’d both lied about it—would be my next question.

  Alex gave me a thumbs-up. “’Kay, bye.” He dropped his gaze back to the screen.

  I looked at Michy. “I believe we’ve been dismissed.”

  As we headed down to our cars, we talked about planning a shopping trip for the coming weekend.

  I was still thinking about the gaps in my wardrobe when I pulled into the carport at my apartment. But as I headed for the stairway, I noticed an SUV roll up the driveway.

  My brain barely had a chance to make the association when two very muscled and tattooed men jumped out and ran over to me. Each one grabbed an arm and practically lifted me off the ground as they hustled me, my toes dragging along the pavement, toward what I now saw was a black Range Rover. I started to scream, but the one on my left stuffed a filthy rag into my mouth. I twisted back and forth as I struggled to break free, but they held me with a grip as strong—and almost as painful—as a bear trap.

  When we reached the car, one opened the back door, and the other shoved me inside, then slammed the door. I fell onto the seat—and nearly into the lap of another beast in a black do-rag, who held a nine millimeter that was pointed at my head. I barely had time to sit up before the driver threw the car into reverse. It jumped backward with a screech of tires, and I slammed into the front seat. Before I could catch my breath—or my balance—he threw the car into drive and stomped on the gas. I got thrown backward, and my head banged against the backseat.

  Dizzy, disoriented, and terrified, I started to reach for my seat belt, then thought better of it. If I got the chance to jump out of the car, I didn’t want to blow it by fiddling with the buckle. I held onto the headrest of the front seat and braced my other hand against the door. The part of my brain that wasn’t occupied with staying alive realized that I was about to see Cabazon. The question was whether I’d ever see anything else after that.

  As we hurtled westbound on Sunset, I wondered whether he knew I’d already found Tracy. He couldn’t have found out . . . could he? If so, we were all dead. The thought started a buzzing in my brain. I gripped the headrest as my heart pounded like a trip-hammer. Don’t go there, I told myself.

  I’d assumed they were taking me to his house, but as we flew past Stone Canyon, I realized that this time, we were going somewhere else. I wanted to ask where, but my mouth had gone too dry, and I was having trouble breathing. Besides, I knew these animals wouldn’t tell me jack shit.

  Suddenly, the driver made a hard right onto a very dark, narrow street. He slowed down only marginally as the houses gave way to thick shrubbery and massive trees, and the asphalt gave way to rocks and dirt. We were in total darkness, and there were no signs of life that I could see. It was the perfect body dump.

  Two seconds later, the driver hit the brakes, and I slammed into the front seat again. The gorilla sitting next to me still had his gun pointed at my head. My breath was fast and shallow as I tried to see what the driver was doing. I heard the glove compartment open, then the unmistakable sound of a magazine being shoved into a handgun. My head began to swim as I fought to regain control and breathe. This really was it.

  I pulled on the door handle, but the lock was disabled. At that moment, I heard a car door slam somewhere nearby. As I looked around to see where the sound came from, my door was flung open, and one of the tattooed guys who’d grabbed me in the driveway yanked me out of the Rover. He dug his fingers into my upper arm so hard I gave out a yelp of pain. He stuffed that same dirty rag into my mouth again.

  The other tattooed asshole came over, and each one took an arm again as they dragged me over to a black Maybach and threw me into the backseat. And there, waiting for me, was Cabazon.

  With a gun in his lap.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Cabazon saw me look down at the gun and fixed me with a narrow-eyed glare. “My patience is at an end. Where is she?”

  Relief flooded through me at hearing that question. He didn’t know I’d already found Tracy. Unfortunately, it didn’t resolve my other fear: that he’d kill me anyway because I hadn’t. I’d already planned my answer to this question—assuming I got the chance to give one. “I have reason to believe that your nephew may know where to find her, or at least have a very good lead. Have you spoken to him?” Not that I thought he had, but I needed to make sure.

  His face became a solid mass of cold anger. “He knows better than to contact me. The police are most certainly monitoring every number he calls.”

  I’d been counting on that. “Then you should let me visit him. If I’m right, I can get him to help me find Tracy. And if you have a message for him, I can deliver it.” I paused to let that sink in, then added the final bait. “I can also find out exactly what the police are asking him—and what they’ve offered him.”

  His eyes became glittering slits of black ice. “It seems you already have information. What have they offered him?”

  It took everything I had to keep my voice from shaking. “I don’t already hav
e information. But I’m a criminal lawyer. I know how the cops work. Jorge killed a worthless scumbag. There’s no reason for them to care about the case. But they obviously do, because they’ve buried Tracy so deep, even Dale and I—with all our connections—are having a hard time finding her. That means she has to be in protective custody—a lot of trouble and expense for the murder of a gangbanger with a mile-long rap sheet. Especially since Jorge has almost no criminal history at all.” Cabazon frowned. “So the cops have to be using this case to squeeze him. And the only thing Jorge’s got that they’d want this badly is information that’ll help them nail you.”

  Cabazon did not look fazed by my deduction. “If she is in protective custody, then it should be easy for Dale to find her.”

  I’d known that was coming. “Only if she’s in state custody. But he already ruled that out. That means she’s in federal custody. And Dale has to be careful about accessing official databases. He has no legitimate reason to be looking into a federal case.”

  He spoke in a cold, quiet voice. “Then why is Jorge still in Twin Towers?”

  That remark told me that he’d already tried to get to Jorge—and I knew it wasn’t to send him a Happy Thanksgiving greeting. Jorge might be a beloved nephew, but he was also a threat now, and for Cabazon, there was no such thing as a tolerable threat.

  I answered him honestly. “It might just be a question of convenience. It started out as a state case. Twin Towers has maximum security, and they might be afraid to risk moving him.”

  Cabazon stared at me with hooded eyes for a long beat. “Go see him. But you must not let the police suspect you are working for me.”

  Yeah, no shit. No worries there. “I’d like to find a better way of giving you updates.” I pointedly tilted my head toward the Range Rover where I’d just endured a near-death experience. “A phone number would be nice.” I might be getting a little cocky now that I knew I wasn’t about to die. But I really did need to end these heart-stopping encounters. My life span was probably already a few years shorter just from this last ride alone.