Web of Justice

by J J Miller

  “Hell, there’s no shortage of keyboard warriors out there. Take a look around Washington.”

  “Yeah but Washington DC is for grown-ups—these guys have a direct line to the minds of kids.”

  “And you’re saying someone doesn’t like that?”

  “Someone took deep moral offense to some of the depraved stuff these guys were doing.”

  “And they’ve decided to kill them.”

  “They’re cleaning house.”

  “You’re going to have to join the dots for me.”

  “No, that’s my point. You want to get your kid off, you’re going to have to join the dots.”

  Cassinelli scanned the room, then reached to his side and pulled out of his briefcase a beige folder fat with documents.

  “This is for you. Don’t read it here.”

  I put a hand on the folder and slid it closer to me.

  “So this will give me an idea of where to start, assuming I buy into your theory?”

  “I can tell you where to start right now.”

  “Where?”

  “Mexico or Florida. Puerto Escondido or Miami, to be precise. Take your pick.”

  12

  For my first day with Bella under the new rules, I wanted to keep it fun and simple. I suggested we ride our bikes up to Santa Monica for ice cream.

  When I arrived at Claire’s house, she and Caitlin were in the studio, still busy on the collection launch. It was good to see Claire doing so well. She had little time for anything else, and had just broken it off with a guy she’d been dating for about a year.

  Since our divorce, she’d been determined to follow her head, place her heart into her business and be the champion of her own independence. She said she feared nothing from pursuing such a life, even though I’m sure some women her age, and men, would openly fret about whether loneliness and miserable old age lay ahead.

  Claire had always been an exceptional woman, and her success only elevated her—she was in total command of her life. And despite my misgivings about Bella’s social media activity, I thought she was a wonderful mother. Admittedly, it did seem like her assistant was spending a lot of time as a stand-in carer. Still, with work based at home, Claire was never too far away.

  Soon after I greeted Claire and Caitlin, I heard the happy sound of footsteps coming down the wooden steps. Bella rounded the bottom and ran into my arms.

  “Daddy!”

  It was a relief that she had no hesitation approaching me. We’d spoken on the phone a few times over the past few weeks, and Claire had assured me there were no lingering problems. Bella had not wanted to leave the house for a few days after the shooting, and Claire took every opportunity to talk about the experience with her. And, to her credit, Claire had eventually conceded there was some noble logic to my actions that day, but that didn’t mean she’d accepted those actions were right. Still, it was a nice reminder that Claire would stick to her word that she’d never try to turn Bella away from me.

  “We should get a move on. Where’s your bike?” I said to Bella.

  “In the garage.”

  “We’ll go out that way,” I said to Claire.

  “Where are you headed?” she asked.

  “Just going to ride the Strand up to Santa Monica, grab an ice-cream and head back.”

  Bella did a little pogo dance of joy before racing ahead into the garage.

  Claire had closed in behind us. I felt her hand on my shoulder.

  “Just play daddy. That’s hero enough, trust me.”

  She said this so warmly I couldn’t object. Sometimes there was a lot of wisdom in a wife’s words. Even an ex-wife’s words.

  I smiled.

  “We’ll be back about three.”

  “Okay. Have fun.”

  It was a perfect day for a ride, and because it was winter, the Strand was not crowded. It had been too long since we’d been riding. It seemed like it was yesterday that I’d helped Bella get off her training wheels. She didn’t want me to take them off, but I did. I held her seat, running behind her as she got up to speed. Then, within three yards of riding all by herself, she called out, “I don’t need training wheels!” and off she went. My heart swelled to see her go. Now, four years later, she was onto her first proper mountain bike and keen to hit some trails. I’d promised her in recent weeks that we’d find one without too many hills.

  Bella led, and I hung off her tail as we rode north. A few times she dropped the gears and stood up in the saddle to drive the pedals down hard and fast, shooting ahead of me with a laugh. I was impressed with how athletic she was. Bella was so much like her mother. Tall, slim and elegant, she had a beauty to her that had prompted more than a few of our friends to declare she’d be a model. I didn’t kid myself—it was not just her style that was catching so many eyes on her Instagram account. She was a striking young girl growing up too fast for my liking.

  But as I watched her scoot away from me, she was just my little girl, a piece of wonderment I’d always be proud of and slightly in awe of. My dad once said to me a long time ago that his children were his greatest teachers. I didn’t really understand that until I’d become a father, when I was compelled to re-evaluate myself for the better and act differently. That was how I’d become an adult, to a large degree. Well, that and the Marines.

  When we reached Santa Monica, we stopped at a beachside cafe and found an outside table. It was time to air what was foremost in my mind.

  “So, how are feeling? You know, about the shooting. That day and all.”

  I was an attorney who relied on speaking confidently before a crowded courtroom, but I was fumbling over a chat with my daughter.

  “I’m good. Really I am, daddy. You needn’t worry about me.”

  “I do worry about you, sweetheart. Mom said...”

  “I was fine after a couple of days. It was a shock, that’s all. I mean, I still think about it, but it’s not a problem.”

  “Well, good.”

  “Mom says you’re defending the man with the gun.” It was clear she wanted help to understand.

  “That’s right, Bella. Someone’s got to make sure he is not treated unfairly, and second, as it happens, he’s the son of a very good friend of mine.”

  “So your friend asked you to do it?”

  “No sweetheart. My friend died a few years ago. But he was a very good man. Someone I admired very much. I just had to make sure for his sake that there would be no miscarriage of justice.”

  “Well, I guess that makes sense. But what he did was horrible.”

  “It’s not crystal clear what happened yet, darling. That’s what I’m working hard at to try and figure out. But it was a terrible thing, you’re right.”

  “But something good came out of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Check this out.”

  Bella pulled her phone from the small handbag she had slung over her shoulder, then she tapped and flipped her way to the thing she wanted to show me. She turned the phone to face me. It was her Instagram account.

  “Nice. You look lovely,” I said, not really knowing what to say.

  “No, look here. See? Check out who commented.” She was abuzz with glee.

  I looked closer and saw “@cicilypines” and a comment from her: “Loving your style, Bella! You’re amazing!”

  “Can you believe it? Cicily Pines. She’s following me. And she DMd me.”

  “I take it that’s a good thing.”

  “Direct messaged me. She’s so cool. She said she would definitely get me a VIP pass for her next all ages gig in a couple of weeks.”

  She stopped and looked up at me.

  “I can go, can’t I, Daddy?”

  “Of course. If it’s okay with your mom. She and I’ll talk, but I can’t see why it would be a problem. Now what are you having?”

  She told me her order, and I went inside the cafe to get the ice creams. A few minutes later I returned to find a man in his early thirties wearing
just shorts and runners standing next to Bella and talking to her. Immediately, I was on edge. He was a good-looking guy who was clearly aerobically fit. The sheen on his tanned body suggesting he’d halted his run to talk to Bella. His dog was nuzzling her, and she was petting him. I saw Bella reach for her phone, but then she saw me and withdrew her hand.

  The guy looked at me with a big smile on his face. I was inclined to wipe it off. Something just felt off.

  Since when is it okay for a grown man to stop and shoot the breeze with a seven-year-old girl?

  Was I overreacting?

  “Hello, are you Bella’s dad?” he asked like it was the best compliment he could pay me. The parting words of Claire echoed in my brain but sometimes as a father it seemed justified to shoot first and ask questions later. I didn’t though. I told myself to calm down, to rack my shotgun. But that didn’t mean I had to be friendly.

  “That’s right. Who are you?”

  He put out his hand. I was carrying two ice creams and was not about to do anything but see him off.

  “My name’s Steve. I’m a fan of your daughter’s. She is just about the coolest thing on the internet.”

  I looked at Bella, handed her her ice cream, and then sat down. “We’re kind of having a father-daughter moment here, Steve.”

  “Sure, I’ll leave you be. Oh, just quickly.”

  Quick as a flash the guy bent down, put his head next to Bella’s, and took a selfie. I saw Bella react in an instant, pulling a mock surprise face before taking a lick of her ice cream. The natural fluency of it struck me.

  “Come on, Rufi,” said Steve, tugging lightly on the leash. The little hound scooted after him as he jogged away. I couldn’t tell if he was straight or queer, but either way he irked me. How could any of this be okay for a seven-year-old girl?

  Bella saw me mulling over things.

  “Daddy, don’t worry. He’s harmless.”

  She said it with such reassurance that she reminded me of Claire. My God, sometimes she struck me as being seven going on seventeen.

  “Mmm, salted caramel. Deeee-liciousness. Thanks Daddy.”

  Yet every bit a seven-year-old girl, pure and simple.

  13

  “Dino Cassinelli? You can’t be serious.” The file Cassinelli gave me was sitting on my desk. And across my desk sat an unimpressed Jack Briggs. “The guy’s a complete washout. What the hell are you talking to him for?”

  “There’s some interesting stuff here,” I said, tapping the file.

  “I bet there is. I bet it’s a real pot-boiler. So who does he think is behind these killings? The Illuminati?”

  “He didn’t sound unhinged at all. And he was a damn good cop, Jack. Highly respected. Highly decorated. Remember the DJ Darius murder? Sat as an open investigation for fifteen years until 2009, when Cassinelli revealed that two LAPD officers were paid off to bury evidence. That kind of work, to out cops who’ve been in on a cover-up, takes balls and brains. Before it all went south he was regarded as something of a cold case expert. But even since then, they found Darren Stockdale’s killer on the back of Cassinelli’s work.”

  “Darren Stockdale?”

  “You know—little kid that disappeared from his front yard out in Cheviot Hills six years ago?”

  “Right. But as true as that may be, that was the old Dino Cassinelli. The new Dino Cassinelli would give anything to reclaim a scrap of the dignity and respect he blew to hell. Word is he’s holding onto that desk job of his by a fingernail. The guy’s shot, Brad. He’s like some drunk leaning over the crime scene tape offering his two cents worth on every major case Homicide has going. But it’s all babble.”

  “It doesn’t sound like babble to me.”

  “So what’s his two cents on this case?”

  “That it’s the work of a serial killer.”

  Jack scoffed loudly. “Sorry, please. Continue.”

  “Reckons someone’s trying to cleanse social media of its most vile stars.”

  “Well, they’ve got a hell of job on their hands. How many have been killed so far?”

  “Cassinelli says two others besides Jameson in the past six months. And there could be more.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Let me lay it out. Last August, a kid name Kyle Chambers in Puerto Escondido. Owned a house down there and went there solo to bunker down after some controversy surrounding a phone recording in which he viciously maligned various female gamers. And a heap of his misogynistic 4chan posts were exposed along with the call.”

  “So he was a tool. Again, they’re a dime a dozen on YouTube. Why should anyone care what this idiot said or did?”

  “Because he had fifteen million subscribers. In TV ratings numbers, that’s bigger than America’s Got Talent.”

  “Why was he so popular?”

  “In the beginning it was all about online gaming. He’d post videos of himself playing Minecraft and narrate as he played. But he reveled in being a douche bag towards his opponents, especially girls. Nothing too explicit because he didn’t want to be pulled off YouTube, but elsewhere he unleashed some pretty vile hate speak.”

  “Sexist gamer. Again he’s not Robinson Crusoe there. That pimply little world is thick with propeller heads who love hating on girls. I’m not excusing it. But it’s a wider problem than one individual.”

  “But this guy encourages it. He sets an example for other little sociopaths to follow. And there are also suggestions he’s solicited naked photos from young girls who were fans of his channel.”

  “Jesus. And you know this how?”

  “The file. Cassinelli printed it all out. It’s right here.”

  “How did this—what’s his name?—Kyle Chambers die?”

  “His hacienda was burnt down. The police declared it arson.”

  “Anyone get nabbed?”

  “Yes, a local wino is doing fifteen years for it.”

  “Okay that’s one dead YouTuber. Next?”

  “Aaron Rybka. September last year. Miami. He was shot dead in a rented flat, and a drug dealer is doing time.”

  “And if this wasn’t a drug deal gone bad, how does Cassinelli explain it as a hit?”

  “Again, Rybka was a big success on YouTube and a loud mouth punk. A kind of shock jock YouTuber. Vented all kinds of bigoted, hateful, offensive garbage. He also did whacked out stunts that earned him plenty of cash. Then he’d post videos showing himself living it up like a young Onassis. One day he’s getting a Rolls Royce customized, next he’s buying a luxury power boat, next he’s giving a tour of the house he’s building in Nassau.”

  “Again, that hardly makes him stand out. There are countless channels devoted to projecting their own version of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

  “But away from YouTube, Rybka also lets it be known loud and clear that he is anti-Christian. Not just an atheist or Muslim or Buddhist. And he’s a cheerleader for America’s recent wars because, and I quote, ‘the Middle East is where good Christians go to die’.”

  “How old were these two?”

  “Chambers was 19, Rybka 18.”

  “Man, whatever happened to good clean fun, eh?”

  “That’s Cassinelli’s point, though. He reckons it’s a matter of morality. Someone’s deeply offended by how these wicked idiots are influencing millions of impressionable young minds, and whoever that is has decided to start taking out the trash.”

  “A serial killer crusade?”

  “Something like that.”

  Jack sat back and shook his head. After about a minute’s rumination, he raised a finger like he’d had an epiphany.

  “You know what this sounds like, my friend?”

  “No. What?”

  “Sounds to me like you are being thrown a bone. But I’d suggest it’s one that you do not want to go chasing.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re messing with you.”

  “Who?”

  “The cops. They want you wasting your time on unproduc
tive leads, so they send Cassinelli over and have him pull this X-Files bullshit on you. It’s a distraction. A ruse. I mean, come on. Serial killer? Burns one victim in Mexico. Shoots one in Florida. Somehow sets up two stooges to take the fall. And then comes to LA to shoot two dudes in a day.

  “It’s just too ridiculous for words, Brad. But they know it’s something you can’t resist. They know how much you want to clear that kid’s name. Do you think they don’t know about your connection to his dad? Of course, they know. They’re watching you like a hawk. And they’re scared of what you might find. So they give you a sniff of a bone that, if you chase it, is going to lead you so far off the trail you won’t know what you’re looking for.”

  I had to admit Jack had a point. Jessica had told me straight up that there was a lot of heat to get this murder dealt with promptly and emphatically. It would not be the first time authorities had resorted to sneaky or diversionary tactics to throw a defense team off the scent. I was not at all convinced that that was the case. But I’d be naive or desperate to start believing I could get Demarco off by proving someone else had pulled the trigger, and that person was a serial killer.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Think about it. What would we have to do to investigate this thoroughly? We’d be trying to catch a serial killer. You know how much work that would involve? It’s a multiple murder case, and it would just be us. I dare say that’s what the cops, the DA’s office, I bet even the fricking Governor, would love for us to be doing right now. I mean, I’m up for a trip to Puerto Escondido or Miami any time, but shouldn’t we focus on what we have in front of us? We need to keep our minds on the main job.”

  Jack was right. The best thing I could do for Demarco was devote all my effort to building the strongest possible case I could. First, we needed to prove he was reforming and see if we could find any corroborating evidence for the deal he made with Toby Connors. Next, I had to investigate the Christian vlogger Evan Harrington as a suspect. Who knew what other leads those investigations would unearth? Then I had to target Jessica’s case—find weaknesses in her witnesses and holes in her logic. Throwing our efforts into proving what may well be a conspiracy theory risked losing all hope of keeping Demarco out of prison.