Killer Ambition

by Marcia Clark

  I sighed and shook my head. “I agree with you, Tone. This machine is missing some parts for sure. I just don’t know what they are.”

  “Bet your buddy Stuart does.”

  “If we ever find him.”

  My cell phone played the opening bars of “Killer Joe,” an old jazz standard that was Bailey’s ringtone.

  “Dorian’s finished with Hayley’s cell phone,” Bailey said without preamble.

  “Pick me up.” I told her where we were.

  We dropped Toni at the courthouse and promised to give her updates. Dorian was in her office typing a report. We stood in the doorway and waited for her to look up.

  She peered at us over her reading glasses. “Sit.”

  We obediently sat, and I waited to see if she’d add, “Stay.” She didn’t. When she finished typing, she passed the phone, now encased in a paper bag, to us.

  “I’ve got prints, some of which I’m sure will come back to Hayley, since the settings indicate it was her phone.”

  At last, something had broken our way. Bailey pulled on gloves, opened the bag carefully, then removed the phone and turned it on. After a few seconds she said, “I don’t see any voice mails at the time of the kidnapping or later.” She touched a few other places on the phone. “But I do see text messages. A lot of them.”

  I leaned in anxiously and tried to read the screen.

  “Here,” Bailey said. She placed the phone on Dorian’s desk where we could all see it.

  The first text was from BRIAM—we’d verify, but it was most likely our Brian, the M at the end for his last name, Maher: still waiting for drop. stay in car.

  The next message was from Hayley to Brian, and it was sent three minutes later: what’s going on?

  It was eerie, reading Hayley’s last texts. Like hearing a voice from the grave. And it was painful, seeing that little pink phone—small and vulnerable, like Hayley.

  Brian didn’t answer. Two minutes later, Hayley texted him again: u should be done by now! Where r u?

  Still no answer from Brian. Hayley texted again, this time three minutes later: what’s going on???

  With each text, I could feel her rising panic.

  Again, no answer from Brian. Four minutes later, Hayley texted him: r u ok?

  No response. Five minutes later, Hayley tried again: where r u??? what’s happening??

  Then, finally, four minutes later, Brian texted Hayley: I’m ok. All clear. Meet me on trail.

  “That was the last message,” Bailey said.

  “Do you remember when Brian’s phone was used for the last time?” I asked Bailey.

  “I have to check his cell phone records again…I think there was a call around the time of that last message. But I’m not sure. I know there wasn’t much activity after the ransom demand.”

  “We never did find Brian’s phone, did we?” I asked.

  “No,” Bailey replied.

  The picture forming in my mind was chilling, but it made the most sense. “We’ll have to get the cell sites to make sure, but I’m betting these texts were all sent on that mountain.”

  Bailey picked up the phone and stared at the messages again. “A twenty-one-minute lapse between Brian’s first message—”

  “Telling Hayley not to leave the car,” I said. “And his last message. In between, Hayley texted him five times. But she got no response—”

  “Until that last text, telling her to come out to the trail. But Brian never made it back to that trail.”

  “That last message doesn’t fit.”

  We fell silent for a long beat.

  Bailey said, “Then that last message…”

  “Was sent by our killer. He murdered Brian, then lured Hayley out.”

  31

  “I’ll get hold of my contact and find out what cell sites got pinged.” Bailey put the phone back into the bag. “Thank you, Dorian.”

  “It is my job, you know. And now I’ve got a shocker for you: yours isn’t my only case.” She waved her hand toward the door. Bailey and I picked up on the subtle cue and left.

  The sun beat down from a cloudless sky and I could feel the heat of the asphalt through my sandals as we crossed the parking lot. I told her about Toni’s reaction.

  “I agree,” Bailey said. “There is something off about all this.”

  “I’m sure the kidnapping was initially just Brian and Hayley—”

  “That part feels right.”

  “And that means we have to be right about someone else jumping into the mix after the first note was sent,” I said.

  We got into the car and Bailey cranked up the AC.

  “All we can do is keep working the Stuart Connor angle. He’s the only hot lead we’ve got right now,” Bailey said. “I’ve got everyone trying to run him down from our end while NYPD works theirs.”

  “Problem is, I don’t remember seeing the name Stuart Connor anywhere around Russell’s entourage so far—”

  “It wasn’t. Which means we hit the next group just outside Russell’s inner circle and keep moving out from there.”

  Bailey pulled out of the lot. “I suggest we hit the studio first.”

  “That’ll probably give us the most bang for our buck. But we’re going to have to move fast—”

  Bailey nodded, her expression grim. “Yeah, it’s over three days since Rostoni found him. Brian’s death won’t keep for much longer. And once it gets out, Stuart Connor’s going to know his cover’s blown and take a powder.”

  “If he hasn’t already.”

  “Right.”

  Bailey floored it and neither of us said another word until she pulled up to the security guard shack at Russell’s studio. The guard, whose nametag told us he was Franklin Yarberger, was a shrunken, hawk-nosed man with weathered-looking skin who studied our badges, photos, and faces as though he were playing a game of Count the Differences. Finally he nodded. “I’ll call Russell’s office, let ’em know you’re here.”

  But Bailey held up a hand and signaled for him to get closer. He leaned down and squinted at her. Bailey kept her tone low and confidential. “You know we’re the ones working Hayley’s murder, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. You seem to match up.”

  “Well, we need to keep this low-key. Don’t want to alarm or…tip anybody. Know what I mean?”

  No one, I repeat, no one, plays the “just between us cops” card better than Bailey. It worked best with the wannabe’s, but I’d seen it work with retired officers too. I made Franklin as the latter. It’s the suspicious eyes. Always a dead giveaway.

  As Franklin looked at Bailey I could see his wheels turning, considering whether to go along with it. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Used to be on the force myself.”

  Like I said, the eyes give them away every time. That and the framed eight-by-ten photograph on Franklin’s desk showing him in full LAPD uniform. He told Bailey how to get to the security office and pushed the button that lifted the security bar. “Park in any spot marked ‘visitor.’”

  We had to drive a while before we found one that wasn’t occupied, and the lot was teeming with activity—people running, riding bicycles, driving golf carts. I really love those little carts. Bailey saw me look longingly as one passed us by and shook her head.

  The security office was at the farthest edge of the lot. I made the mistake of yawning as I got out of the car, and hot air burned through my mouth and down my throat. Thankfully, the security office was cool. A secretary’s desk faced the door, but it was vacant. Bailey called down the hall to the left of the desk and identified herself. A hefty man in baggy shorts and a grungy Raiders tank appeared at the door, his outsized belly leading the way. He was dripping with sweat; even his neat little mustache looked soaked. He wiped his face and neck with a hand towel that had been draped over his shoulder as he said, “Sorry, I was just working out. Promised the wife and doctor I’d drop fifty pounds before the holidays.”

  Bailey introduced us, and we showed him our badges.
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  “Pete Toker,” he said, extending a still sweaty hand. I let Bailey shake it first, then took my turn. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’d like to see your personnel records if we could,” Bailey said. “You keep employee photos?”

  “Sure. Everyone has to wear security badges with photos. We keep copies in their files.”

  “We’re looking for people with criminal records. No offense, I know you wouldn’t hire them knowingly—” she said.

  “None taken. You never can tell what might slip through the cracks. ’Sides, if we have someone on the lot with a rap sheet, I’d like to know about it. Follow me.”

  The truth was, it was photos we were after. Abe Furtoni, our contact in the NYPD, had been able to isolate the video footage of our man Stuart Connor at the check-in counter of the hotel, and per our request, he’d pulled off a still shot and scanned it to us. We weren’t looking for a rap sheet per se. All we really wanted to do was see if we had a match to our surveillance photo. We just didn’t want Pete to start wondering who we had in our sights until we absolutely had to. By saying we were looking for criminal types, it’d look like a general, wide-angle search.

  Pete led us down the hall to a room that had a small table and chair in the far-right corner, shelves that covered one wall, and filing cabinets that filled the other two walls. “We were supposed to go digital with everything a while ago, but you know, on a studio lot we’re the poor stepchildren. You’ll find all the current employees on the shelves and all the ex-employees in those two cabinets on the right.”

  “And the rest of the cabinets?” I asked.

  “Just scripts and stuff from what I’ve seen. They were here when I got hired and I never had cause to get into ’em. You can if you want.” Pete turned to go, then stopped. “By the way, thanks for not making the obvious joke about my name.”

  I didn’t tell him it was too easy, though it was. Pete left us to our own devices and we got down to business.

  32

  Bailey pulled the still photo of Stuart Connor out of her jacket and put it on the table. I studied it again. It was lousy quality, a grainy black and white, typical of the cheaper variety of surveillance cameras. The guy seemed to be slender, medium tall like Brian, and had a similarly shaped head. But his hair was covered with a baseball cap that also obscured his features, so I couldn’t really see much. We’d tried to match the photo to the DMV and criminal databases, but it just didn’t have enough detail. I didn’t expect to find a great match in these records either, but I hoped we might spot someone who was worth at least a second look.

  “I’ll start on the bottom shelf,” I said. “You can take the next one up.”

  We worked methodically, looking at the photos in each file for someone who might match the guy in the video. Three hours later we had a stack of twelve “possibles.” Bailey asked Pete to come in. This time he was freshly showered and dressed in the beige studio uniform.

  “Can you tell us whether any of these guys called in sick or took days off in the past week?” Bailey asked.

  “Let’s take those to my office and I’ll check. I keep the daily logs on my computer.”

  Pete was able to eliminate nine of them right off the bat. “Those guys have all checked in every day for the past five days. The other three…not sure. If they have off-site work to do, they might not come in, but that doesn’t mean they left town or anything.”

  “No, but you’ve narrowed it down pretty well. Thanks, Pete. I’ll run the other three,” Bailey said.

  Pete said he had rounds to make and left us, saying we could stay in his office as long as we liked. Bailey called in the information on the three remaining “persons of interest” and I thought about what we had so far.

  When she got done, I shared my thoughts. “We’ve been thinking this was too much for one person to manage, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But we don’t know how someone got wind of the kidnapping. And we don’t know why the kids wound up on Boney Mountain.”

  “Still with ya.”

  “How’d the killer get them up there?”

  Bailey shook her head. “Unless that’s where they’d planned to do the money drop all along.”

  “In which case, the ransom drop in Fryman Canyon was what, a decoy?”

  “Well…at least a way to separate the kids from the money,” I said.

  “But how would the bad guy keep Russell from getting the real ransom note? The one that theoretically said, ‘Drop the money at God’s Seat’?”

  The ring of Bailey’s cell phone saved me from having to answer. She made notes on the little pad she keeps in her jacket pocket as she listened.

  “We’ve got two hits,” she said when she hung up. “One is for Nima Faluja.” She tapped his file. “He’s got a prior for shoplifting. Record was expunged a few years ago. The other is for Jack Averly. He’s a dope dealer. Got two convictions. Completed probation on his second case last year.”

  I looked at both files again. “Really, it could be either of them.”

  “I might’ve agreed, except Nima has a pretty good alibi.”

  I looked at Bailey. “In jail?”

  Bailey smiled.

  I picked up Jack’s file. He was a production assistant. Those are usually aspiring writers, directors, actors, you name it, who get their asses thrashed for more hours and less money than they could make as waiters or waitresses. But I supposed it could also be someone who just wanted to work around the “industry”—or who wanted to deal to the “industry.” That’d be a fairly lucrative gig with all the highly paid, neurotic types floating around. And being a PA would be great cover for a dope dealer. “We’ve got an address for him, but—”

  “If he’s our guy, I can’t see him coming back here. At least not yet.”

  “But he doesn’t know we’ve got his real name, and unless he’s got a passel of fake IDs, he might have to use it now—”

  “I’m calling NYPD,” Bailey said.

  She gave all the information to Abe Furtoni and then called LAPD and did the same. “On the off chance he comes back here.”

  Bailey made a copy of everything in his file, and just as she was finishing up, Pete came back. His formerly crisp uniform had wilted from the strain of Pete’s once again overheated body. He wiped his forehead when he came in. “Whew. Still hot as blazes out there. So what do you think? Anyone look good to you?” he asked.

  “Can’t tell yet,” Bailey said. “But would you mind keeping this on the down low for now?”

  “Not a bit.”

  We thanked Pete for his help and he wished us luck. “And try to stay cool out there.”

  There was no chance of that.

  Bailey started the engine so we could get the air-conditioner running, and as I adjusted all the vents to face me, she pulled out her cell. “I’m going to see what we can find in this guy’s name. Car, cell phone, residence. See if it matches what we found in his file.”

  “Great, but first…” I pulled out my personal cell phone and entered a number.

  I waited while the phone rang. On the third ring, a voice answered. I put the phone on speaker.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey, Jack,” I said, doing my best “bimbo babe” impression. “I been missing ya.”

  I could hear a loudspeaker announcement in the background but couldn’t make out what it was saying.

  “Who is this?” he asked, irritated and wary.

  “Don’t you remember? We hooked up at the bar, in the hotel?”

  “I don’t remember hooking up with anyone at any hotel, lady. You got the wrong number.”

  The loudspeaker announcement sounded in the background again. Then he hung up. But that was okay, because this time I was able to make out the words. “Welcome to LaGuardia Airport…”

  33

  With the benefit of Jack’s true name and photo in hand, NYPD was able to hit the ground running. They grabbed our boy at the gate, just as he was a
bout to board a flight to Aruba on a ticket he’d purchased in cash. Abe and Bailey had cooked up a charge of possession of stolen property to hold him until we could get there. It was, technically speaking, a legally supportable charge. We did have proof that he’d been in possession of Hayley’s iPad. Of course, that proof hinged on the word of a couple of sketchy kids, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  I called the office to get Eric’s approval to fly out to New York while Bailey did the same on her end. I reminded Eric that since Bailey and I would be out there, the office wouldn’t have to pay for an NYPD officer to bring back the iPad. That helped to grease the wheels. Bailey took me home and waited while I packed. It didn’t take long. The occasion didn’t exactly call for strappy sandals and a cocktail dress. We stopped at Bailey’s place so she could pack, and within fifteen minutes we were back on the road and heading for the airport.

  “You’ve got to admit, that was a pretty good move I made calling Averly’s cell,” I said.

  “Yeah? And what if he’d been gay?”

  “You saw this guy’s security photo. No way he’s gay. He had a cheapo haircut with no product in it, and he was wearing a baggy, washed-out T-shirt—”

  “They’re not all perfect and gorgeous, Knight.”

  “Aren’t we missing the point?”

  “Which is?”

  “It worked.”

  Bailey pulled into the parking structure closest to the terminal. It was expensive, but we didn’t have time to shuttle in from one of the remote lots.

  We both had carry-ons, but since I wasn’t allowed to keep my gun and Bailey was, I put my .38 Smith and Wesson in her suitcase. We had to fly coach, naturally, but we got lucky and had the whole row to ourselves—the virtue of taking a red-eye. I’d hoped to get some sleep on the flight, but I was too keyed up. I kept rolling through all the questions I planned to ask Jack Averly and all the possible answers he might give. I looked around, saw that the few nearby passengers were fast asleep, and whispered to Bailey, “What’s he going to say about how he got Hayley’s iPad? ‘Duh, I didn’t know it was hers’? ‘Some dude gave it to me’? ‘I found it on a picnic table’?”