Snap Judgment (Samantha Brinkman Book 3)

by Marcia Clark

  I was about to end the call, when she stopped me and said, “Hold on. What about that party you were going to throw for Phil and the gang? Do you still think you’ll be up for it?”

  I’d forgotten about that. “Yeah, I should be back in commission in time to party with those animals on Friday.” I asked her to have enough pizza and beer for fifteen delivered to Phil’s house. “Alex and I can pick up the tacos on the way.”

  She sighed. “Are you sure Graham will foot the bill for this? More to the point, why the hell are you doing it?”

  I decided it’d be best to give her plausible deniability and not fill in the details of what Alex and I planned to do. “Just compensating them for being so cooperative.” I added with a little laugh, “I know you’re dying to come.”

  Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Sure. Cheap food and booze, clouds of pot, kids puking in the flower bed and screwing in the bathroom. Count me in.”

  I had those same fond memories of college. “I’ll put you down for the pizza and pot.”

  When we ended the call, I crawled into bed. I couldn’t stop hearing Tracy’s screams, seeing her terrified face. Filled with anxiety but helpless to do anything about it, I lay in bed and imagined the worst until sheer exhaustion won out. By ten o’clock, I was fast asleep.

  I spent most of Thursday alternately icing and heating my bruises—that fall from the Range Rover had done more damage than I’d thought—and worrying myself sick about Tracy.

  I devoted every waking moment to surfing the news on television and the Internet for any mention of her, knowing that if there were any mention at all, it’d likely be bad.

  As of Friday morning, I’d heard nothing. I chose to take that as a good sign.

  Michy peered at me when I walked into the office. “How’re you feeling?”

  The trick to lying is to keep it simple. “I’m better. Just tired now. I think it was a twenty-four-hour bug.”

  She sighed. “What a drag. Needless to say, Mr. Hyper-Prepared over there”—she tilted her head toward Alex’s office—“will have whatever drug, tincture, or other remedy you might need if you start to go downhill.”

  I smiled. “His OCD does come in handy sometimes.”

  Michy rolled her eyes. “Yes, we’re fully covered in case of a zombie apocalypse. What time do you want to head over to Phil’s?”

  I hadn’t thought to ask him. “I guess around six-ish. Maybe six thirty.”

  She tapped a key on her computer. “Then I’ll have the booze and pizza delivered at seven.”

  I said that sounded great, then headed into my office. I had plenty to keep me busy: a motion to admit defense expert testimony and a trial brief on an upcoming murder case that I still hoped might settle.

  Alex came in around lunchtime to firm up our plans for the evening, but other than that, I worked undisturbed the entire day—other than my constant surfing for news of Tracy. Still nothing.

  The next time I looked up, the little patch of sky I could see through my window was dark, and Michy was standing in my doorway. She tapped her watch. “It’s after six o’clock. You should probably get going.”

  Right. Phil’s party was set to start at seven. “Thanks, Michy.”

  She sighed. “I still don’t get why you think you have to do this, but I’ll go get Alex.”

  I grabbed my coat and scarf and found Alex standing near Michy’s desk. I told Michy, “You can bag it for the night.” And as I said that, I realized I no longer had to worry about Cabazon’s beasts showing up at the office. I supposed it was an upside to the Tracy debacle, but the knowledge only filled me with pain.

  Michy picked up her coat and purse. “May as well. I’ve got to get home anyway.”

  We rode down to the parking garage together, and I asked Michy why she needed to get home.

  “Because I’m meeting Brad for dinner. Just the two of us for a change, no mind-numbingly boring associates or partners.”

  “Sounds good—but not as good as picking up munchies for a bunch of stoner kids. I know you wish you could be me right now.”

  Michy got into her car. “Almost as much as I wish I could grow a third nipple.”

  Alex drove, and we decided to go to a Taco Bell that was close to USC so the food would still be hot when we got there. I stayed glued to my cell phone and searched for news of Tracy all the way to Phil’s house. Still nothing. I tried—and failed—to stop seeing images of what might’ve happened to her.

  We found a Taco Bell just six blocks away and bought a mountain of tacos, burritos, and enchiladas. As we headed into Phil’s neighborhood, I could tell the party was already in full swing because I could hear Drake’s “Hotline Bling” blasting from a block away. And when we walked in with our bags of food, we found a house full of very high—and very hungry—partiers. For some reason the pizza hadn’t arrived yet, but the alcohol—and, of course, the weed—had. The partiers were all pretty blasted and very hungry. They cheered when they saw us walk in with the Taco Bell offerings.

  I scanned the room and saw that the gang was all there. Perfect. I waved to Davey and Nomie, and Gayle came over to give us a hug. Diana and Phil helped clear a space on the coffee table for the food.

  Phil thanked us. “This is really cool, guys.” He gestured to the booze at the other end of the room. “Help yourself. Time to kick it.”

  I told him I was sorry, but we had to beg off. “We’ve got an emergency meeting with another client.”

  Alex said, “Rain check, okay?”

  Phil nodded. “You got it.”

  Phil bro-hugged Alex and real-hugged me—a little longer than necessary—and we left.

  Alex drove us to our next destination as fast as he dared. We didn’t know how much time we had before Davey came home.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Luckily, we’d made some friends in the building during our interviews, and Wendy—one of the girls we’d spoken to—buzzed us in.

  We headed up to Davey’s apartment. I’d had Alex check his schedule to make sure he’d be available to party tonight, and I knew midterms were over, so the odds that he’d be in the mood to cut loose were with us. We knew there was a risk that he’d pass on the party and decide to just stay home, and if he did, we’d have to regroup. But fortunately, Davey behaved true to type. I figured we had at least an hour.

  Alex worked on the locks while I stood guard. Twice, he had to stop and pretend to be chatting me up as I leaned against the wall and smiled and flirted. But finally, we got inside and hurried to the bedroom.

  Alex went straight to the desktop computer and got to work to try and hack into Davey’s e-mail accounts and see what he could find on Davey’s movements or information on his interactions with Roan or Alicia.

  I looked around at the room. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it. Framed photos hung on the wall: Davey with his mother, Davey with his high school football teammates, Davey with older friends, presumably from Loyola and USC—and a poster for a concert featuring the latest U2 tour. I spotted a textbook from his marketing class on the nightstand and his black backpack that’d been left on the floor near his bed. I went over and searched it. Nothing. Just notebooks and an econ textbook. I looked under the bed. Nothing but dust bunnies. I looked in his dresser drawers. Nothing but clothes. My heart was sinking. My last hope was fading fast.

  My eyes fell on the closet door. Something about it seemed odd, but I wasn’t sure what. I walked over and looked at it more closely. The doorknob was . . . wrong. What was it? I stared at it for a second, and then it hit me. There was a keyhole in the doorknob. It had a lock. No closet I’d ever seen had a lock on it. Someone had installed it. Davey? Or some previous tenant?

  I reached out and gave the doorknob a twist. It was open. I pushed the door back, expecting to find the usual tiny space, but I saw that it was long and deep. The light switch was inside the closet, on the wall to my left. I flipped it on.

  The sight that came into view stopped me in my trac
ks. I stood transfixed and stared. It was a shrine. To Alicia. The clothing racks on the right and left side of the closet were empty. The walls were covered with her photos, and there were dozens of them. The ones closest to me seemed to have been taken surreptitiously. They showed her walking to class, getting into her car, heading home—her expression showed she was completely oblivious to the camera.

  He’d been stalking her—judging by the sheer number of photos—for quite some time. I stepped inside, and saw that farther back, there were photos of Alicia pole dancing. And I recognized the background—it was The Pink Palace. We definitely had our stalker.

  Then I noticed that the back wall of the closet—which at a glance seemed to have been painted black—was actually covered with a black velvet cloth. I walked to the back and saw that it was thumbtacked to the wall. I grabbed the top corner of the cloth and pulled. As it came loose, I realized that what I’d just seen was only the tip of the iceberg.

  The entire back wall was covered with Alicia’s nude photos—the selfies she’d sent to Roan—and they’d been blown up to poster size. How had he managed to get them? Then I remembered how easily Alex had hacked Graham’s phone. And Davey’s. He’d hacked Alicia’s phone.

  Revulsion spread through me. The other photos had shown a creepy obsession, but this crossed way over the line into a truly sick perversion. And in that moment, it all came together: Davey’s lies about when he’d discovered Alicia was his sister, the way he’d tracked her on Facebook long before they’d met—and then transferred to USC when he’d read that’s where she’d enrolled—the way he’d engineered their meeting at USC and ingratiated himself into her crowd. It creeped me out even more to remember that Graham—Alicia’s father—had visited Davey in this very apartment, just feet away from this diorama of depravity. Had the knowledge of that given Davey a secret thrill?

  I took a step back, repelled by what I’d seen, and noticed that the black velvet curtain had also covered a shelf made of a wood plank atop bricks on the floor below.

  Neatly lined up on that shelf were a fringed scarf, a small silver bangle, and a pink Scünci—no doubt all stolen from Alicia. At the end of the shelf was a spiral notebook, the kind I used to have in high school.

  Thinking it was probably another item he’d stolen from her, I bent over and flipped it open with my fingernail, careful not to get my prints on it. But the handwriting didn’t look feminine. It was heavy, masculine. And when I read the title, I saw that this wasn’t Alicia’s notebook. It was Davey’s.

  The title read:

  To Alicia, My Sister, My Lover, Forever.

  I skimmed through random pages. Bile rose in my throat as I saw that page after page was filled with his sexual fantasies—lurid, graphic descriptions of what he planned to do to Alicia when they were “finally together.” So graphic, my seesawing stomach forced me to stop reading.

  I backed away from the notebook as though it might sprout tentacles, and hurried out to tell Alex what I’d found in that closet. “You’ve got to see—”

  Alex interrupted me. “He did it. Davey posted the revenge porn.”

  I hurried over to him. “What? How do you know?”

  He leaned back and pointed to the screen. “Alicia’s selfies.” He moved the cursor and clicked on a folder. “And here’s the link to the porn website where he posted them.” He moved the cursor again and clicked on the Facebook icon. “And here’s the alias he used to become one of Alicia’s ‘friends.’ He did it all—sent her photos to the porn website, to her Facebook page. It wasn’t Roan. It was Davey.”

  I told Alex what I’d found in the closet. He looked confused. “What? I don’t get it. If he was so in love with her, why did he revenge porn her?” He frowned up at me. “Do you think Davey killed Alicia?”

  I was about to answer when I heard the heavy thud of footsteps approaching the bedroom. Alex pushed away from the desk and jumped up just as Davey threw back the door. I screamed as he charged toward us.

  Alex stepped in front of me, and Davey ran straight into him. He grabbed Alex by the throat, and they both fell to the floor, with Alex pinned under Davey.

  I looked around for something to hit him with, but the closest thing to a weapon I could find was a stapler. It looked too flimsy to do much, but it was all I had. I picked it up and raised my arm to smash it into his head, but at that moment, Alex managed to push him off to the side.

  I dropped the stapler and started to grab Davey’s arm to pull his hand off Alex’s neck, but Davey twisted away and threw a leg over Alex’s hips, immobilizing him. Alex’s face was turning red as Davey continued to choke him. I leaped behind Davey and kicked him in the head. He howled but didn’t let go. I stomped on his elbow. This time his grip loosened. Alex broke free and punched him in the face with fast, hard blows as he pushed up from the floor. I heard something crack, then saw blood flowing from Davey’s nose.

  Davey reached for Alex’s throat again, but Alex flipped him on his stomach, lifted his head, and slammed it into the floor, once, twice, three times. Davey’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp.

  I heard sirens in the distance, and as I listened, I could tell they were getting closer. Someone had called the cops. Davey was groaning and starting to come to. I told Alex to flip him over so I could see him. Alex rolled him over but kept a foot poised over his head to stomp him if he tried anything.

  I waited until I saw his eyes focus, then said, “You killed Roan. Admit it.” He turned his head to the side and said nothing. I tried again, but he didn’t answer. I grabbed him by the chin and made him look at me. “You killed him because you were in love with her. So why the hell did you post the revenge porn?”

  The blood from his nose had congealed, and he was having a hard time breathing. His voice was muffled and nasal. “I didn’t.”

  Alex—his neck still bright red from the attack—pointed to the computer. “It’s all there, asshole, so get serious. Why’d you do it?”

  That question seemed to get to him. Though he was bleeding and battered, he was agitated. He finally looked at us. “Roan was . . . no good. I . . . had to . . . make her break up.”

  Alex glared at him. “So you humiliate her? You sick fuck!” He drew back his leg to give Davey a swift kick to the gut, but I stopped him.

  “Don’t do it, Alex.” By now, the sirens were right outside. I put a hand on his arm. “I’m right there with you, but we need to stand down and let the cops handle this.”

  Alex stood over Davey, still breathing hard. “You don’t think he killed Alicia?”

  I stared down at the bloody face of Alicia’s brother—and stalker. “I’m not saying it’s impossible. The cops should definitely check out that angle. But no, I don’t.” It’s not that I didn’t think he was capable of killing her. In fact, if he’d made his move on her and she’d turned him down, I could definitely have seen him doing it.

  But there was no way that could’ve happened. Alicia had been killed just two days after her nude selfies had been posted. No way Davey would’ve moved in on her that fast. Not after having spent years stalking her. He was many things, but impatient wasn’t one of them. The police siren abruptly shut off, and I heard car doors slam.

  I called Graham. “Listen, I want you to be prepared. Davey’s about to be arrested for killing Roan.”

  There was a long beat of silence. “Why? What happened?”

  I decided not to tell him about the shrine I’d found in his closet or the proof that he’d posted the revenge porn. Graham was already on shaky emotional ground. One shock at a time. “There was . . . evidence in his apartment. I’ll explain later. But you can stop worrying. I think you’re off the hook.” I paused. “I’m sorry it turned out to be Davey.” Graham didn’t really know him, but still. Davey was his son.

  Graham’s voice came out in a croak. “Are you sure?”

  As sure as I could be. “I’d say so.”

  At that moment, there was a loud knock on the door. A male voice calle
d out, “Police! Come out with your hands up!”

  Graham said, “The police! They’re arresting him right now?”

  I said they were, then told Graham I’d be in touch with more information later and ended the call.

  The police were young unis, one male and one female, and they crouched with their guns drawn as they entered and took in the scene. With our hands in the air, we told them who we were and what we’d found.

  I told them it was Rusty Templeton’s case. “I can call him for you.”

  Alex, his hands still in the air, said, “We’re not armed.”

  The unis relaxed a little. The male officer told us to keep our hands in the air, and as the female officer kept her gun aimed at us, he patted us down. When he finished, he looked down at Davey, who was staring at them with wide, scared eyes. He turned Davey over and handcuffed him, then stood up and told me, “Okay, run that by me one more time.”

  I went through it all again and ended by repeating my offer to call Rusty Templeton. The female officer, who still had her gun drawn, said, “You’ve got his number?” I nodded. She lowered her weapon. “Go ahead.”

  I called Rusty and filled him in—adding that he might want to take a look at Davey for Alicia’s murder as well, just to be on the safe side—then gave the phone to the female officer. She listened, nodded, said, “Will do,” then handed the phone back to me.

  Rusty told me he’d ordered her to arrest Davey and asked that Alex and I come in and give our statements.

  I asked, “Right now?”

  He spoke sarcastically. “No, take your time. Is next week good for you? Yeah, now. And you’d better hope this guy doesn’t sue you for breaking and entering and who the hell knows what else.”

  I said, “We’ll get there when we get there.”

  He said he’d expect us within thirty minutes or he’d send out a patrol unit and bring us in in handcuffs. Since we could easily get to PAB within thirty minutes—and I knew he’d only love to find an excuse to drag me into the station in handcuffs—I didn’t argue.