by Marcia Clark
I told Dale I had no problem whatsoever with that. “Hey, by the way, thanks for those reports.” He’d slipped me a copy of the police reports that’d been generated so far on Cassie’s case. It was strictly on the down low.
Dale cleared his throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He ended the call.
I smiled at the phone, then stood up and stretched. If Dale did come up with a name, I’d still have to do my own digging to figure out whether the deputy was sleazy enough to deserve being set up as my fall guy. But at least now I’d put some wheels in motion.
Of course, that still left me with my Deshawn problem.
I sighed. One step at a time.
NINE
I had a couple of appearances to take care of in Van Nuys, and when I got back to the office I found Alex ready and waiting for our excursion to the crime scene—otherwise known as Roberta Avenue in Glendale, California.
Glendale wasn’t far, distance-wise, but it was a world away in feeling. Being there was like traveling back in time to Anytown, USA: wide streets lined with trees grown so big their roots buckled the sidewalks in some places; tidy, postage-stamp-size lawns in front of small but well-kept ranch-style houses; a little mom-and-pop mini grocery in the middle of the block, where I could picture mothers sending their grade school kids to pick up a loaf of bread—or go buy themselves an ice-cream cone on a hot summer day. The vibe felt like Everybody Loves Raymond—or just about any of those average-guy sitcoms, where neighbors still dropped by to borrow a cup of flour. Glendale had its sketchy areas—which was where the skinhead factions were encroaching—but for the most part, it still had that innocent, small-town thing going for it.
At four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, kids were straggling home from school, bent forward by the weight of their backpacks. Some young boys, no more than eleven or twelve, giggled as they shoved and pushed and danced around one another. Groups of little girls with pink and bedazzled backpacks side-eyed the boys and one another as they spoke in low tones. I knew from vast personal experience that those little rapier-like tongues were slicing and dicing everyone and everything they saw.
I pointed to a small house, second from the corner. “That’s it.” Alex parked across the street, and we both stared at it. Other than the shredded remnants of crime-scene tape that still clung to the trees near the sidewalk, the house looked like any other. It had a beige stucco exterior, white-trimmed windows, and a small porch with a potted fern that was already turning brown. The lawn was showing patches of yellow and brown. But given the drought, that was probably not a new development. The mailbox at the curb had one of those metal flags that tell the postman there are letters to be picked up. This one was painted to look like an American flag. Probably the mother’s idea. It seemed like a politician thing to do.
Just an ordinary home in an ordinary suburban neighborhood—that happened to be the site of a massacre. We got out, crossed the street, and stood on the sidewalk. I noticed that the backyards were deep and that the fence between them was barely six feet—easily climbed. “Let’s start next door.”
A middle-aged woman in pale-blue sweats and white Skechers—the rocker kind that promised a better, tighter, firmer butt—answered the door. Her curly brown hair framed a face with a harried look. According to the police reports Dale had slipped me, her name was Malia Trevanian. She looked from me to Alex with a confused, wary expression. “Yes?”
For a change, I could be completely honest about who I was and what I was doing. “I’m Samantha Brinkman, the lawyer who’s helping Cassie Sonnenberg, and this is Alex, my investigator.” We gave her our cards. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions about that night.”
The harried look turned sad. “That poor little girl. And that family. Such good people! They’d do anything for you. Last month, when my husband was away on business, a pipe burst at the side of the house. It was like a geyser, and you know how expensive water is now. I was freaking out, didn’t know what to do. But Stephen came running over. He took care of everything.” She paused to blink away tears and shook her head. “Anyway, I’d be glad to help you, but I already told the police everything I know.”
Which was absolutely nothing. “What about earlier that day? Did you happen to see anyone hanging around the neighborhood who seemed out of place?”
“Out of place?” She shook her head slowly. “No. I mean, I’m sure I saw people on the street. But I don’t remember noticing anyone who stuck out.”
I tried a few more questions, but Malia was a dead end. I thanked her for her time.
She nodded with worried eyes. “I sure hope they find the guy who did this. I know they think it’s some white supremacist guy who was angry with Paula. But what if it wasn’t? What if it’s some maniac just randomly targeting families?”
I thought that was highly unlikely, but there was no point arguing. Besides, who knew? Anything was possible. “I understand. It really is scary. But I do know the police are working on this night and day. I’m sure they’ll catch him soon.”
Malia did not look the least bit reassured. I didn’t blame her, but in my case, it had more to do with my dim view of the cops than it did with the fear of a random, uncatchable psycho with a bloodlust for suburban families. We headed to the next house.
Alex paused at the edge of the walkway leading up to the front door. “If Malia’s any indication of the level of paranoia, I’d guess these neighbors were pretty cooperative with the police.”
“Agreed. But I never thought they were deliberately holding out. It’s not that kind of ’hood.” My only worry was that the cops hadn’t asked the right questions. Like “did you see anyone hanging around earlier that day who didn’t belong here?” I hadn’t seen even one statement in the reports that showed a response to that question. But especially if the killer were a Nazi Low Rider, he might want to get the lay of the land before launching a mass murder—if only to plan an escape route.
An older man and his wife at the next house, who wore matching pale-yellow cardigan sweaters over white turtlenecks and beige slacks, were also big fans of the Sonnenbergs. “Paula is such a dear,” the woman said. “When Robert went in for his knee replacement, she brought over a tuna casserole because she knew it was our favorite. And Stephen came over to mow the lawn every week until Robert recovered.” She cast a fond glance at her husband. “Bless him, he still likes to do it himself.”
But they hadn’t seen or heard anything that night. We hit six more houses on both sides of the Sonnenbergs’ house and nada. Everyone loved the Sonnenbergs, had little stories to tell about their neighborly generosity, but no one had seen or heard anything. It wasn’t until we’d knocked on four more doors across the street that we got a glimmer of a possible break.
Phillip Bryer was a retired Loomis guard who lived directly across the street from the Sonnenbergs. “I keep my eyes open by training. Can’t seem to stop old habits.” He sighed and shook his head. For a moment, he frowned, then he stared over my shoulder at the sidewalk. “You know, I do remember a young man I’d never seen before. He was standing in front of my house that afternoon.”
I pushed down the shock at finally getting something that resembled a lead. “What was he doing?”
His brow knitted. “Nothing. Just stood there. Seemed to be looking at the Sonnenbergs’ house, but I can’t be sure. His back was to me.”
Maybe a Nazi Low Rider? But I didn’t want to steer him. I made my question open-ended. “Can you describe him?”
Phillip thought for a moment. “Clean-cut young guy. Jeans, T-shirt. Nothing that special about him except he had longish black hair. Wore it in a ponytail. But that’s no big deal these days. I only noticed him because he was right in front of my house, and he stood there for a little while.”
Didn’t sound like a Nazi Low Rider. “How long? Five minutes? Ten?”
“I’d say somewhere in there, between five and ten.”
“Did you ever see him go and knock on
a door?” That might show he had legitimate business in the area. Phil shook his head. “Do you remember what color T-shirt he was wearing?”
Phillip frowned. “White? Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was white. Didn’t see the front, though.”
Nothing about this guy sounded like an Aryan Brotherhood gangbanger. I let Alex chime in with a few questions, but we’d gotten all we were going to get from Phillip. It was a lot more than we’d gotten from the other folks here in Mayberry.
When we reconnoitered on the sidewalk, Alex looked back at Phillip’s house. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s interesting, but I’m not sure what it means. It doesn’t jibe with a Nazi Low Rider or any of the other AB gangs.”
Alex nodded. “Want to keep going?”
“Not really.” But then two houses away, I saw a teenage girl come out to check the mailbox. Even from where we were standing, I could tell she was the high school hottie. Long, sandy-blonde hair that fell over one eye, a cropped sweatshirt that said I WOKE UP LIKE THIS, and skinny jeans—the kind that only models and anorexics who lie about it can rock. I’d bet the boys loved her and the girls hated/envied her—but hung out with her anyway because she was where the boys were.
I waved to her, and she studied us with a curious expression as we approached. When we reached her, I held out my card and introduced us. She glanced at the card and looked up at me briefly before her eyes slid away to land on Alex. And stayed there. Alex, wonderful slut that he is, went to work.
He held out his card with a warm, sexy smile. “Nice to meet you . . .”
She took the card and returned his smile. “Heather Ruskin. Nice to meet you, too.” She held up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “You guys here about the murders?”
Alex nodded. “Did you happen to see or hear anything unusual that night?” Heather shook her head. “What about earlier that day? Did you notice anybody hanging around on this street who didn’t belong here?”
Heather paused, then shook her head. “I went to a friend’s house after school that day, and I didn’t get back until dinner. So I really didn’t have the chance to see anyone.” She blinked rapidly, then dropped her head and looked away. I saw a few tears glisten in the air as they fell to the ground. “I never hung out with Abel, but we’d bump into each other every once in a while. He was so nice. I just can’t believe . . . what happened.”
I kicked myself for not bringing Kleenex. I usually do. For some reason, it makes people feel like they owe me. “Where did you usually see him?”
“In school. Sometimes around here, back when I took the bus.”
And he was nice to her. But that was no surprise. I’d get a more accurate reading on Abel from someone who didn’t look like Heidi Klum and Chris Hemsworth’s love child. “Did you know Cassie?”
Heather swiped a finger across her cheek. “Not really. I’m a senior, and she’s just a sophomore.”
“What about Cassie’s parents?”
She shook her head. “I’d see Paula around, but I didn’t really talk to her. Just ‘hi’ and ‘bye.’”
“And Stephen?”
Heather hesitated, and a weird expression crossed her face. She was about to speak when her mother opened the front door, looking agitated. “Heather, why haven’t you left yet? I told you I need the chicken right away. If dinner’s late, your father will have a fit.”
Heather turned around and called out to her. “I’m going right now.” She began to back away from us. “Sorry. Um, good luck. I hope they get the guy.” Heather turned and trotted to the older-model Jetta in the driveway.
As Heather drove off, the mother came out and gave us a suspicious look. “Excuse me, but who are you?” I moved up the walk and told her who we were and why we were talking to Heather. She sighed and nodded. “Well, I’ve already told the police I didn’t see or hear anything that night.”
“Did you happen to notice anyone who seemed out of place hanging around on this street earlier in the day?”
She looked irritated, but she gave it a second of thought before shaking her head. “No. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get dinner ready.”
She was a busy mom. She didn’t have time to be checking out the goings-on in the neighborhood. “Not a problem. I understand. Have a nice evening.”
Alex and I headed back to his car. As he pulled away, he glanced up at his rearview mirror. “Do you think that retired Loomis guard really gave us something?”
I’d been wondering the same thing. “Maybe. And I was kind of wondering what was on Heather’s mind, too.”
“You mean when you asked about the dad?”
I nodded. I didn’t know whether it meant anything, but if the case wasn’t solved soon, I’d try to get back to Heather and find out.
TEN
Next stop: Abel’s buddies. Alex had lined up the interviews for that evening, since we were going to be in the area.
They’d agreed to meet us at Tommy Dearfield’s house. Based on Alex’s Facebook and Instagram research, Tommy was Abel’s closest friend. He lived a little more than a mile away, at the west end of Glendale. Alex parked in front of a two-story house with a dormer window on the second floor that faced the street. A huge, old jacaranda tree dominated the front yard, but the house had a newer feel, with a fresh coat of pale-yellow paint and window fittings that looked like they’d recently been redone.
Tommy himself answered the door. He had thick, wavy brown hair that fell across his forehead and a semicute freckled face, but it currently wore a cold expression. When I introduced us and offered a card, he ignored it. “Yeah, come in. Everybody’s in the living room.”
He led us down a short hallway, then turned right into a medium-size living room with French windows that gave a view of the street. Ethan Allen furniture in gray and rose hues gave the room a traditional but still homey feel. The pink plastic flowers in a wicker basket on the coffee table ruined it.
Two other boys in jeans and faded Affliction T-shirts slouched on the pale-gray linen sofa. The one with the shoulder-length black hair said his name was Foster Trumble. The one with the crew cut who was built like a football player was Eric Asner. Neither of them seemed happy to see us.
I thanked them for making time to talk to us, then explained that I was just looking into this as Cassie’s support person. This did not help our cause. They grunted and gave us sullen looks. I decided I may as well jump right in. “Did Abel have any enemies? I mean someone who was really pissed at him?”
Eric seemed stunned by the question. “Pissed enough to do all that? No way.”
Foster was a little more collected. “There’re probably some guys out there who don’t like him. But I never knew of anyone who had that big an issue with him.”
Tommy had been glaring at us since he opened the door, and he still was. When he spoke, his tone was defensive, hostile. “I don’t know of anybody who didn’t like Abel. He was a great guy. There’s no way this is about him. No way.”
All righty then. Alex lobbed a few more questions their way about Abel’s extracurricular activities. He was mainly into video games. He’d wanted to make the basketball team, but he wasn’t tall enough. And he’d tried out for the baseball team, but he didn’t make the cut because, according to Tommy, the coach was a jerk. Eric hinted that Abel just wasn’t good enough. But a hard look from Tommy cut off any more comments. All in all, based on what they said as well as what they didn’t say, I got the impression that Abel was a wannabe, a guy on the fringes of the “in crowd.” Closer to the hip kids than any of these guys were, but never really a part of their group.
I was about to wrap up when a woman with wavy brown hair similar to Tommy’s came in. “Mrs. Dearfield?” I asked.
She had a dish towel in her hands, but she looked like she’d just come home from the office. She wore tasteful makeup, a long bob that was neatly styled, and she was dressed in business-appropriate slacks and blouse. “It’s Ms. Tucker now. I’m divorced. I just wanted
to say a quick hello. Didn’t I see you on TV? You were representing that man who turned out to be your father, right?”
This still made me wince. I tried to turn it into a smile. “Yes, that’s me.”
“You did a great job. Cassie’s very lucky to have you.”
I thanked her, and she left, saying I should take as long as I needed.
I told her I appreciated that and turned back to the boys, who now had the air of hostages. I decided to try another tack. “Look, we’re just trying to help Cassie. She’s obviously having a very hard time right now—”
Tommy cut me off. “Cassie’s a drama-queen bitch. Abel was always having to deal with ‘poor Cassie this’ and ‘poor Cassie that.’” He gave a look of disgust. “She was a pain in the ass. She lied about pretty much everything, just to get attention.”
I kept my voice neutral, though I wanted to smack him in the mouth. Really hard. “What did she do, exactly?”
Tommy shrugged. “She always had some big problem. Her teachers weren’t fair, the other kids were mean to her, her parents wouldn’t buy her the right clothes, blah, blah, blah.” He tossed his hair again. “And everything that happened to her was, like, the worst thing ever. No one could ever have a problem like hers.”
Sounded to me like typical teen angst, if a little exaggerated, which figured given Cassie’s background. But it had clearly gotten under Abel’s skin. I hated to say it, but that sounded pretty typical, too. The bird with the broken wing often does suck up all the attention. But it sure didn’t sound like Paula was the monster Cassie had described. “So she and Abel didn’t get along?”
Tommy snorted and made a face. “Nobody could get along with that whiney little bitch.”
I asked Eric and Foster for their assessments of Cassie. Their memories were similar to Tommy’s but hazier. They hadn’t hung out with Abel at his house as much as Tommy had, so they didn’t know as much as he did.
Alex was primed to ask the follow-up on Cassie’s information. We decided it’d go over better if a guy asked it. “Did any of you hear about a problem Abel had at a party with a girl named Janessa?”