by Marcia Clark
Michy’s mouth turned down and she looked like she was holding back tears. “Yeah. He was a real dick, but he didn’t post Alicia’s selfies, and he didn’t kill her. At least he’s cleared now.”
I was sure that’d be cold comfort to his friends and family, but I supposed it was something.
The following day, I called Dale and invited him over for dinner. I was feeling in a more celebratory mood. “My place. How’s seven thirty? Can you get off work in time for that?”
He said he could. “How about if we order in? Or I can bring something in. Your choice, whatever you want, burgers, chicken, you name it.”
My culinary skills being what they were, I didn’t blame him. But I told him even I couldn’t screw up steak and salad. “I won’t put the steaks on until you’re here. You can supervise.”
He relented. “In that case, okay. I’ll bring the wine.”
I spent all of Friday pulling the rest of my caseload up to speed. The last few days I’d neglected everything but Graham’s case.
I left the office a little early so I could clean up my apartment. I’d neglected that, too. Ordinarily, I’d leave it messy just to irritate Dale, but it was so bad even I couldn’t stand it.
I decided to set up our dinner in the living room, where we could enjoy the view of the city. It was a clear night, and you could see the city lights below and the stars above against a velvety black sky, all the way from Century City to downtown.
I’d just finished putting the salad together when Dale arrived, a bottle of Ancien Pinot Noir—a mutual favorite—in hand. I asked if he wanted a cocktail before dinner. “I’m having a shot of Patrón Silver on the rocks.”
He said he’d have the same. “Give me the corkscrew; I’ll open the bottle, let it breathe.”
When we settled in the living room with our drinks, I brought him up to speed on Graham’s case, then told him I’d received an interesting e-mail. “Want to see it?”
He gave me a wary look. “I don’t know. Do I?”
I pulled my laptop off the side table. “I think so.” I opened the computer and found the e-mail. It had come from a library. There were no words, just a link. I turned it around so Dale could see, then clicked on the link.
It revealed a photo that gave a panoramic view of a beautiful coastline, white sand, a sparkling blue ocean, and lush green hills that stretched out into the distance under a warm orange sun. It was titled, “Los Suenos, Costa Rica.”
As Dale took it in, a slow smile spread across his face. He looked at me. “Then that wasn’t her body. They made it after all.”
I nodded. Cabazon had promised me that if it all went down the way it should, he’d send Tracy and Jorge out of the country. I’d told Jorge—in code—about that promise during our last visit and asked him to send me a signal to let me know that Cabazon had made good on it. Jorge had replied, “I hear Los Suenos is beautiful this time of year.” When I’d found the e-mail with the link in my inbox, I’d taken the first deep, guilt-free breath since the day she was kidnapped.
Dale sat back in his chair and exhaled. “Such great news.” He frowned. “But did you know Cabazon was going to set up that body to fake her death?”
I shook my head. “Hell no. That’s why I was so freaked out when they found it.” I could only hope he’d picked someone who was already dead—or at least someone who’d deserved it. Given Cabazon’s crowd, the probability of both was very high.
But I had to admit, the identification of that body as Tracy’s had certainly sped things up. The FBI had been forced to throw in the towel on Jorge’s case almost immediately. He’d been released just two days later. And now, he and Tracy were sunning in Los Suenos.
I held up my drink. “I guess all’s well that ends well.”
Dale held up his drink, and we clinked. “Sort of.”
I nodded and took a long sip. We hadn’t seen the last of Cabazon, and I knew that as long as he was alive, we never would. To me, the solution to our Cabazon problem was clear—if incredibly difficult to pull off. But I wasn’t sure I could lay all my cards on the table with Dale. As far as I knew, his sole foray into homicide had been killing that hooker after she’d threatened the life of his other daughter, Lisa. But that’d actually been an accident—an impulsive reaction to a direct threat. An accidental killing in the heat of the moment was a far cry from the premeditated assassination of a crime lord. At least for now, I’d have to go solo.
I closed my laptop and put it back on the side table. “Look on the bright side. Cabazon’s in a dangerous business. Someone’s bound to get the jump on him sooner or later.”
Dale didn’t seem cheered. “I guess.”
I stood. “Shall I throw the steaks on?”
“Sure.” He looked up at me. “Just one more thing. I got another call from Tiffany.”
I sat back down. “Oh?”
I knew it wasn’t about Tracy’s “kidnapping.” Tiffany never knew about that, because the FBI had withheld her name from the press in the hope it’d discourage Cabazon from killing her and buy them time to find her. But now I’d be able to tell Tiffany that although she might never see her sister again, Tracy had finally gotten the chance to live happily ever after.
Dale peered at me. “Yeah. Remember she got pissed because I didn’t get back to her about Tammy fast enough?”
“Yeah, right.” When Dale had failed to move on Tammy’s situation immediately, Tiffany had taken matters into her own hands and talked to Tammy herself. And, predictably, learned that Ronnie had indeed been molesting Tammy. Unfortunately, and also predictably, Tammy had refused to report it to the police—for all the usual reasons: no one would believe her; Shelly, her mother, wouldn’t back her; her bastard of a stepfather would take it out on her. I knew where Dale was headed—and that it was going to be bad news for me. I tried to act like I was just bummed for Tammy—not worried for any personal reasons of my own. “So I guess there’s nothing you can do. What a drag.”
Dale polished off his drink. “It really is—or rather was. But Tiffany called me yesterday to thank me. I had no idea what she was talking about, so I asked her what she was thanking me for. Seems Ronnie has a prior conviction for child molesting. And he’s on the sex-offender registry. Someone in the neighborhood called the cops and asked why he was being allowed to live in the same house with a girl who was a minor. Family Services made him pack up and move out that day. Tiffany thought I’d told the neighbor to call it in. I told her I’d love to take the credit, but I never knew he had a prior conviction—or that he was on the registry. Did you?”
I put on a confused expression. “No, I had no idea.”
He gazed directly into my eyes. “Funny thing is, Ronnie swears he was never convicted. Says it’s totally bogus. To tell you the truth, I thought it was kind of weird that no one had ever noticed it before.”
I gave a nonchalant shrug. “People don’t check those registries as much as they should. It’s a good thing someone finally did.” I stood up again. “How about I get those steaks going? I’m starving.”
I headed for the kitchen. Really, it was all Dale’s fault for telling me that story about how some dudes with no particular skills had made money by hacking into a police database.
I hadn’t needed to tell Alex the whole story about Tracy. I’d only needed to tell him I had solid evidence that a young girl was being victimized and was afraid to tell the police. I suggested that Ronnie’s prior conviction for molestation should be “found,” and then entered on the sexual-offender registry. I was sure “someone” would notice it and bring it to the attention of the proper authorities.
Afterward, Alex had laughed at how easy it’d been to hack into the databases.
I knew that if Ronnie fought it, they’d eventually discover that the molestation conviction was bogus. But by then, I’d have had time to figure out a more permanent solution to Tammy’s problem. And Alex knew how to cover his tracks. I wasn’t the least bit worried that we’d get cau
ght for inputting that fake conviction.
Dale, however, was another matter. He knew me, he knew Alex, and he could probably get a computer expert to track it all back to us. I purposely didn’t look at Dale as I seasoned the steaks. But my hands were shaking.
Dale followed me into the kitchen. “Anyway . . .”
I turned to put the steaks into the broiler as I wondered how many years we could get for hacking the database and inputting that fake conviction.
I closed the oven door and faced him. This was it. I held my breath and tried to keep the apprehension out of my voice. “Yes?”
He set his empty glass down on the counter. “I just wanted to say that it’s great the way karma works sometimes.”
I exhaled and smiled. “It really is.” I pointed to his glass. “Freshener?”
He handed it to me. “Love one.” As I poured him another shot of tequila, Dale added, “Oh, and more good news. Turns out the rapist Uncle Pete lives in LA—and close by, in Echo Park.”
He raised his glass, and as we clinked, my thoughts returned to Cabazon.
Maybe I wouldn’t have to go solo after all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, my infinite gratitude goes to Catherine LePard. Without her support, I would never have had the courage to reach for the childhood dream of writing crime novels.
Thank you, Dan Conaway, agent extraordinaire, the best there is. I’m lucky to have you.
Charlotte Herscher, it’s no exaggeration to say that you are by far the best editor in the world—and quite possibly the universe. It’s a delight to work with you!
And I want to give a special shout-out to former Los Angeles Deputy District Attorney Melissa Cheslock and Dr. Stephany Powell, who are champions in the fight to save the young victims of human trafficking. Though Tracy Gopeck is fictional, her plight is tragically emblematic of too many girls whose life situations make them easy targets for exploitation. Thanks to programs like Journey Out—headed by Dr. Powell, and to the Los Angeles District Attorney’s diversion program, which Melissa Cheslock helped run—as well as new legislation that punishes human trafficking more severely and prohibits minors from being prosecuted for prostitution, these young girls now have a better chance of escaping a hopeless life of imprisonment on the streets.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Coral von Zumwalt
California native Marcia Clark is the author of Blood Defense and Moral Defense, the first two books in the Samantha Brinkman series, as well as Guilt by Association, Guilt by Degrees, Killer Ambition, and The Competition, all entries in the Rachel Knight series. A practicing criminal lawyer since 1979, she joined the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office in 1981, where she served as prosecutor for the trials of Robert Bardo—convicted of killing actress Rebecca Schaeffer—and, most notably, O. J. Simpson. The bestselling Without a Doubt, which she cowrote, chronicles her work on the Simpson trial. Clark has been a frequent commentator on a variety of shows and networks, including Today, Good Morning America, The Oprah Winfrey Show, CNN, and MSNBC, as well as a legal correspondent for Entertainment Tonight.
