Final Judgment

by Marcia Clark

I shook my head. “He won’t talk about anything on the phone, remember?”

  Alex slid down in his seat. “Right. My bad. I forgot about Mr. Paranoia. I just really want this thing to get resolved.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “I know you don’t care much.”

  I gripped the steering wheel. I knew he was being sarcastic, but there was a part of me that really didn’t want to resolve it. It was a small part. One that was doomed to be overridden at every bend and turn. But still. It was there. I handed Alex my cell phone. “Text him and see if he can get together tomorrow.”

  Alex began to type. “I’m being you, right?” I nodded. He typed some more. A few minutes later, he said, “Dale wanted to talk to you anyway. He’ll come by the office in the morning.”

  “Perfect. Tell him yes and find out what time.” But Alex hesitated. “What?”

  “I set us up to talk to Angelina’s chef and his team tomorrow,” he said.

  I didn’t want to wait to find out about that Denali any longer than I had to. And besides, I was losing hope on the Eliza front anyway. I was close to deciding that was one mystery I’d never be able to solve. Sadly. “We don’t need to do all the interviews together. You can start without me. Take the servers first. I’ll catch up with you after I talk to Dale.”

  Dale texted that he’d be at the office no later than eight thirty a.m. Which meant he’d most likely show up around eight a.m. He was always early. In this case, the acorn fell about ten miles away from the tree. I was always late. But as I dropped Alex at home, I promised that this time, I’d try to be prompt. “And I’m sure whatever Dale has on his mind, it won’t take long.”

  Alex picked up his iPad. “He does get right to the point. You have the chef’s address?”

  I checked the calendar on my cell phone. “On Melrose Boulevard, close to La Brea?”

  He nodded. “And you should keep those tools we bought in your trunk. Especially the flashlights.”

  I gave him a look of disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? As if I’d ever be able to pick a lock. Take them. I’ll keep the flashlights. I’m pretty sure I can work those.”

  I popped the trunk to give him access. Alex sighed and got out of the car. He took the set of picklocks and bolt cutters and slammed the trunk. As I pulled away from the curb, I could feel my energy start to ebb, and my eyes burned from hours of staring at the road. I drove home; took a long, hot shower; and, for the first time in a while, got into my bed. I didn’t want to believe Niko was guilty. But the feeling that I was finally closing in on the truth gave me some relief. I hadn’t been sure whether it’d be better to know if it meant he was guilty. But now I did. And it was. I needed resolution. Questions don’t sit well with me—even if I don’t like the answers.

  I set my alarm for seven a.m., made sure it said “a.m.” and not “p.m.”—a mistake I’d made in the past—and fell asleep within seconds.

  I woke up relatively refreshed given the fact that I’d only had six hours of sleep. Forty-five minutes later, showered, dressed, made up, and caffeinated, I headed for the office. When I pulled into the parking garage, it was five minutes to eight. I rode the elevator up to my floor feeling victorious. I was sure I’d gotten here before anyone else.

  And I had. No one else was there—except Dale, who was waiting outside the door. I fished my key out of my purse. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  He gave me a little smile. “Thanks for trying to beat me here.”

  I opened the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Why did he always have to bust me?

  We went to my office and sat on the couch. I said, “I’ve got a favor to ask. But you go first.”

  Ordinarily, he’d have made a crack about my always asking him for favors. This time, he didn’t. “First of all, I confirmed that it was O’Malley who gave the order for the cops to go bang on Ivan’s door. I hear Kingsford wasn’t happy about it. For all the reasons you’d think. I had a friend set Ivan straight about that. So I don’t think you’ll be hearing from him again.”

  I knew Dale had been in the gang unit back in the day and still had some street, i.e., gangbanger, connections. After the ass kicking Niko had given him, I doubted Ivan would darken my doorway anyway. But threats from another—and equally lethal—source couldn’t hurt. “Thanks.” I studied his expression. It was grim. “I have a feeling that was the good news.”

  His gaze was direct. “The white-collar unit checked out Tanner’s accounts. There’s a fair amount of money still there. From the looks of things, none of them were cleared out.”

  I was right. It wasn’t good news. If Tanner were on the run, he would’ve taken all the money. But given what I already knew, it didn’t come as a shock. It was just another piece of the puzzle that’d fallen into place. “Got it. My turn?” He nodded. “I need you to find out what cars are registered to Niko and run a VIN for me.”

  Dale raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  This was going to be the hard part. “I can’t tell you . . . yet.”

  He studied me intently. “I don’t like doing favors in the blind. And it’s annoying that you still think you need to hide things from me.”

  I didn’t blame him. But I’d decided to give the long-shot possibility—that Niko was hiding the car for the real killer—this one chance. But as soon as I closed this loop, I knew I’d have to tell Dale. “It’s not like I’m asking for that much. Running a VIN and checking Niko’s registrations isn’t that big a deal.” I met his gaze. “I promise I’ll tell you everything. I just need to see the whole picture first.” I paused. “Can you please, just this once?”

  “You say that as though it’s the first time you’ve asked me to do something for you without telling me why. We both know it isn’t.” He shifted his gaze to the framed photo of Niko on my desk. “I’m going to cut you some slack because it’s your boyfriend.”

  I interjected. “Ex-boyfriend.”

  He sighed. “Whatever. But I’m warning you right now. This will be the last time.”

  “Fine by me,” I said. I wasn’t planning on getting into bed with any other murder suspects.

  Though I guess, as they say, never say never.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  My mood was bleak as I headed out to join Alex, who was interviewing Chef Moseyev’s servers. What little doubt I had left about Tanner’s death and Niko’s role in it was rapidly fading. But as I navigated through the traffic toward Beverly Boulevard, I found myself getting angrier and angrier at the way Niko had played me—the way he’d acted as though I had no right to suspect him. Yes, I’d taken it further than that. I’d actively investigated him on the down low. But I never would’ve had to do that if he’d been honest with me to begin with.

  By the time I parked under the low-slung building that housed Chef Boris Moseyev’s business operations, I was fuming. If I didn’t calm down, I’d scare off the servers and blow any shot we had at getting information. I took a few deep breaths and envisioned myself on a sun-drenched beach . . . which only led to thoughts of my fantasy vacation with Niko. I gave up. I’d just have to try and keep it together.

  The office was as plain wrap as the building—except for the framed reviews for Chef Boris Moseyev, all of them raves. Among other things, he was touted as “God’s gift to the culinary arts” and “one of the most creative, versatile chefs in the business.” Those food critics could really gush. I walked up to the receptionist—a young millennial with stretcher ear piercings—and gave him my name.

  He snapped his fingers. “Oh right. You’re the lawyer.” He tilted his head toward the hallway behind him. “Second door on the left.” The phone rang, and as he picked it up, I thanked him and moved down the hall.

  I knocked softly. “Alex, it’s me.” I hoped I wasn’t interrupting something important.

  Alex opened the door. Behind him sat a twentysomething woman in torn jeans and an off-the-shoulder oversize black T-shirt. His expression was one of suppressed frustration, but he kept his voice light.
“Hey, Sam. Violet and I were just wrapping up.”

  The young woman stood up. “Then we’re done?”

  Alex summoned a tight smile. “We are. Thanks. You can send in the next person.”

  When the door closed behind her, I said in a low voice, “What’s wrong? Are they stonewalling you?”

  He blew out a breath. “No. They just don’t know anything. All they do is keep the buffet trays filled, freshen the drinks, and mop up the messes. They don’t talk to the guests. At all.”

  That seemed strange. “Why not?”

  Alex shrugged. “Beats me. Whatever the reason, no one remembers seeing who left when. One of them saw Eliza leave. He guessed it was around ten o’clock.”

  Not much, but it helped corroborate the approximate time of the rape. “Did he see her come back?”

  “No,” Alex said. “And neither did anyone else. They all said they were too busy. Chef apparently is one tough taskmaster.”

  I pondered that for a moment. There was a knock on the door. Our next server was reporting for duty. “Skip the servers. Let’s go straight to the top.”

  “Moseyev?” Alex asked. I nodded. He went to the door and told the server he could leave. “Are you the last one?” He said he was. Alex thanked him for his time, and the server left.

  We went out and asked the receptionist to tell Boris we were ready to talk to him. The receptionist told us to have a seat and gestured to the orange molded plastic chairs that lined the wall. We sat down, and Alex nodded at the chairs as he leaned toward me. “Not all midcentury modern is created equal.”

  I glanced at them. “Chuck E. Cheese must’ve had a fire sale.”

  We had to wait almost twenty-five minutes to get an audience with “God’s gift to the culinary arts.” Chef Boris Moseyev came out in person, and he was an imposing sight. Well over six feet, a solid rectangle of a body, and a thick head of white hair that looked like the end of a broom. He beckoned to us. “Come to my office.”

  We followed him down the hall into a medium-size, bare-bones office. There were a few framed photos of him shaking hands with some celebrities I recognized—Ben Affleck, Charlize Theron, Tim Burton—and some I didn’t. But other than a laptop that sat on a very messy desk and two wire-frame chairs, the office was virtually unadorned. I guess that made sense. His real office was the kitchen. I introduced Alex and myself. He already knew why we were there, so I got straight to the point—and pursued my hunch. “Do you instruct your servers not to talk to the guests?”

  He grunted something that sounded like “yes.” In a heavy Russian accent, he said, “I cook for many famous people. I do not want my servers to bother them.”

  That’s what I’d thought. “But you must do a little mingling. You’re famous, too.” It was true. Also, big egos—because I sensed he had one—always enjoy a little ass kissing.

  He spread his hands and sighed. “They always want to shake hands and take . . . how do you say . . . selfies?”

  I nodded. “Did any of the guests make an impression on you? We’re focusing on a tall man, medium build, dark hair.”

  He gave me a perplexed look. “This is a description for many men. And I must tell you, I did not spend much time with any of the guests at that party. All of them were the same.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  He wrinkled his nose as though he’d smelled a dead rat. “Assholes. All of them. Rich, stupid assholes.”

  I decided I liked Boris Moseyev—chef to the stars. Given his attitude, it seemed very unlikely that we’d get anything useful out of him, but just for fun, I asked, “Were there any assholes in particular who stood out?” I’m a sucker for a great story.

  He frowned, then nodded. “One. He treated me like a servant. Told me to make him special drink. Terrible drink, with Prosecco, vodka, and orange. Idiot.”

  That did sound disgusting. “Do you remember whether he left the party shortly after dinner?”

  He shook his head. “He may have. But I was working. Not watching what assholes do.”

  He was pretty funny. Useless to me. But funny. I was ready to wrap up, but Alex had a question. “Can you describe him?”

  Chef Boris pressed his lips together. After a moment, he said, “Tall. Not as tall as me. Only thing I remember is his ring. On this finger.” He held up his right pinkie finger. “Very expensive. Big square diamond set in white gold, maybe platinum. Looked very old-style.”

  Recognition hit me like a frying pan to the face. I recognized that ring. I asked for a piece of paper and pulled a pen out of my purse. I drew as good a facsimile as I could and showed it to Boris. “Did it look like this?” My heart pounded as he peered at my crude drawing.

  After a long moment, he said, “Yes. Like that.” He looked at me. “You know this man?”

  “No, but I think I’ve seen this ring before. Probably some online consignment store.” My tone was deliberately offhand.

  We chatted for a few more minutes, learned nothing more, and thanked Boris for his time. I’d played it as cool as I could, but I felt sweat begin to trickle down the back of my neck as Alex walked me to my car. But when I fished out my remote, I saw that Alex was staring at me.

  He said, “You do know the man who wore that ring, don’t you?”

  I nodded, unable to trust my voice. “I need you to do something—and I apologize in advance, because it’s risky. I’d ask Dale, but I’ve pushed him to the limit already.”

  “Of course. Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.” He looked concerned. “You okay?”

  I wasn’t, but I said, “Yeah. No worries. I need you to hack into the DMV database.”

  He smiled. “Is that all? Sure, no biggie.”

  But it was. “Just because you got away with it once doesn’t mean you won’t get caught this time. And I won’t be able to make any more deals for you.” Which is why I’d sworn I’d never ask him to do it again.

  He gave me a sly look. “Who says it was just once?”

  I stared at him. “When did you . . . Never mind, don’t tell me.” But it was kind of reassuring.

  “Does this have to do with the owner of the white Bentley?” he asked.

  I nodded. I could barely choke out the name. “Sebastian Cromer.”

  Alex’s face froze. “Oh my God.”

  “Yeah.” Sebastian Cromer, the featured player in my nightmares. My tormentor. And the murderer of my childhood.

  It might just be a coincidence. Maybe that ring wasn’t one of a kind. But it was distinctive. And I’d recognized it from Boris’s description because I’d seen it every night for a year, when Sebastian came into my bedroom.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  My guts were churning as I drove back to the office, my head filled with what-ifs. What if Sebastian owned a white Bentley? What if it turned out to be the car where Eliza had been raped? What if we could prove it was in fact Sebastian who’d raped her?

  But those were a lot of ifs to resolve. Even if Sebastian did own a white Bentley, how would we prove it was the white Bentley? Ken Lorimar hadn’t gotten a license plate number. And even if we could prove that was Sebastian’s car, how would we prove the man in question was Sebastian and not some guy who’d either broken into the car or gotten Sebastian’s key somehow? Eliza couldn’t identify anyone.

  And yet, it seemed obvious to me that Sebastian was the one who’d raped Eliza. Everything about it was his style. The cruelty, the aggression, and his choice of victim—a young girl. But I knew him. Angelina didn’t. And I had no intention of telling her how I knew him.

  So the question was, how much proof would Angelina need to activate her hit man? Which brought me to another what-if. What if I got enough proof to satisfy me—I was close to being there right now—but it wasn’t enough for her?

  Then I might just have to kill him myself. Because I wouldn’t be able to stand it.

  I was a tangled mess of frustration. Too many questions swirling and too much anxiety about the possibility that they might
never be answered. By the time I got to the office, I was so stuck in my own world, I didn’t even notice that Michy, the phone cradled between her head and her shoulder, was waving to me until she stood up.

  She looked at me as she spoke into the phone. “Great timing, Dale. She just walked in.”

  I hurried into my office and closed the door. This had to be about Niko’s car registration. I picked up the phone. “Hey, what’s up?”

  His voice was tense. “I need to make this fast. Our friend only has the one car you know about. The other one’s listed as salvage. According to the record, the last owner totaled it in a major collision. There’s no current owner listed.”

  “No way.” I hadn’t noticed any damage to the Denali. “Can someone fake that?”

  Cars honked in the background. “Why not? You could probably pay someone to fake the paperwork on anything.”

  In which case, it had to have been someone else’s car. I couldn’t imagine Niko wanting—or even thinking of getting—fake paperwork to keep his name off a car registration. I couldn’t imagine why he would need to. But Tanner? Most definitely. I could easily see him doing something like that. So maybe the Denali belonged to Tanner after all. But that only begged the question: What was Niko doing with it? “Yeah, true. Okay. Thanks, Dale. I owe you one.”

  There was obvious irritation in his voice as he said, “An explanation, to start with.”

  I knew that was coming. “Just pick a day and time.”

  Voices now mixed with the sounds of traffic. “Tomorrow night, my place.”

  Dale lived out in Porter Ranch. A nice suburban neighborhood, but it’d take me at least an hour to get there. If Alex managed to make some progress, I didn’t want to have to leave the office early enough to make it for dinner. “I’m pretty swamped right now. I’ll get back to you.”

  “You’d better. And soon.” His tone of voice told me I’d better pony up with the whole story or there’d be hell to pay.

  After we ended the call, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. The fact that the Denali was listed as a salvage car with no registered owner—other than the insurance company that’d declared it a total loss—told me it likely had been Tanner’s car. It seemed like the kind of thing he’d do. Keep an unregistered car around, just in case. And that would’ve been a good thing if it were still a possibility that Tanner was on the run. It would explain away the SAA chip and any other trace evidence that showed Tanner had been in the car.