RK02 - Guilt By Degrees

by Marcia Clark

  “If Simon could do it, so can we.”

  Bailey looked at me, then turned back and stared at the road.

  “You mean, we lure her out,” she said.

  I nodded. “We already know I’m being followed by either the stabber or someone who works for him, right?”

  “Yep. And now we’ve got even more reason to believe that Lilah’s tied in with the stabber—”

  “And last but not least, Lilah seems to know a thing or two about me,” I said. My skin again crawled at the thought of her run-in with Graden. “Somebody’s giving her information.”

  “You ask me, she seems like the one who’d be giving the orders. She’s the one who’s having us followed.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “Now we make it work for us. If we’re right, and she went after Simon because he had the evidence—”

  “Then we go looking for the evidence, Lilah follows us—”

  “And we have a shot at grabbing her,” I said. “Or whoever’s working for her.”

  “If they don’t kill us first,” Bailey pointed out.

  There was that, of course. If Lilah had killed Tran Lee and dumped his body, then mutilated her cop husband, then had his brother killed, she wouldn’t mind hastening us to shuffle off this mortal coil.

  “But we’re not Simon,” I said. “We should be able to make it a little harder for her.”

  “Then we want to make sure Lilah knows we’re looking for the evidence,” Bailey said. “How did Simon let her know he had it?”

  How could he have communicated with her?

  I gazed out the window at a small inlet of water on the land side of Pacific Coast Highway. A family of ducks was gliding across the water, the mother—or whichever parent—in the lead. I pictured their little webbed feet paddling away. And then it came to me. Here was my chance to make my move, one that’d ensure we got a message to Lilah.

  “Easy,” I said. “Her parents.”

  74

  It was just an average house on an average street in Beverlywood, a neighborhood just south of Beverly Hills that, once upon a time, had been an upper-middle-class suburban enclave. But as the population grew, one neighborhood spilled into another, and the streets were no longer a place where young children played in the front yard or rode bikes to one another’s houses. That’s not to say it was a ghetto by any means, but it was frayed at the edges now, and the dangers of city life hovered more closely.

  Guy and Pamela Rossmoyne looked like a matched pair. Of similar height, lean build, fair-skinned, and blue-eyed. Looking at Pam, I could see that at one time, she too had the mane of shining blue-black hair I’d noticed in Lilah’s photographs. Now it was dulled by age and unnaturally reddened by too many efforts at chemical enhancement. Her pinched features spoke of a lifetime of disappointment and bitter regret.

  Though they’d been married for decades, to watch their behavior, you’d think they were two strangers waiting for a train. They didn’t touch or acknowledge each other in any way. Seated in separate matching wing chairs facing the sofa, they didn’t so much as look in each other’s direction.

  Guy cleared his throat and leaned forward, speaking with a quiet intensity. “I only agreed to this meeting because I wanted you to know that Simon Bayer has harassed Lilah mercilessly over the past two years.”

  Interesting how he repeatedly said “I,” not “we.” And I could already see why. While Guy seemed plenty exercised about it all, the way Pam was looking down at her hands said she was more concerned with her cuticles than the fact that her daughter was being harassed. Just minutes into the interview, I’d already learned a great deal about Lilah.

  I couldn’t tell Guy that Simon was dead yet, so I couldn’t tell him he wouldn’t have to worry about the harassment anymore. But since his daughter likely had a hand in Simon’s murder, this didn’t weigh heavily on my conscience. “I didn’t know that,” I said. Though I believed and understood it.

  Guy nodded. “For the first six months after the trial, he came by here every day.”

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “He’d just sit outside, waiting for Lilah. Sometimes he’d leave letters for her.”

  “And what would happen when he saw her?” I asked, making a mental note to get those letters when we finished the interview.

  “He never did,” Pam replied. “She was never here. The minute she got out of custody, she left.”

  “We told him she wasn’t here,” Guy said. “But he didn’t believe us. We called the police a few times, but they never did anything. Just gave him a ride back to…wherever.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “I have no idea, I never asked,” Pam said breezily.

  I believed her because she seemed happy not to know.

  “She always did whatever she pleased, whenever and wherever she pleased,” Pam continued. “She didn’t want any reminders of that part of her life.”

  It wasn’t just the words but the way she’d said them. It brought to mind what Rick had mentioned about Pam being jealous on many levels. I could hear them all in the line she’d just uttered. I also noticed that Guy looked away whenever Pam spoke. They had decidedly different feelings about Lilah, and probably everything else in their lives too.

  “When was the last time Simon wrote to Lilah?” I asked.

  “It’s been a while,” Guy said. “Maybe a year?”

  Pam gave him a sharp look. It was the first time she’d acknowledged her husband since we’d arrived. Message received.

  “Want to try again?” I asked.

  Guy looked away, then gripped the arms of his chair till his knuckles went white. After a few moments, he answered.

  “A month ago?” he said, peering up at the ceiling.

  I looked at Pam for confirmation.

  She nodded coldly.

  “I assume you kept the letters in case something happened to Lilah,” I said.

  I addressed the latter remark to Guy, because I got the distinct feeling that Pam couldn’t have cared less whether anything happened to Lilah. As long as it didn’t make Pam look bad.

  “I’ll get them,” Guy replied. He left the room, casting a bitter look over his shoulder at his wife.

  Pam turned back to inspecting her cuticles, and we sat in uncomfortable silence while we waited for him to return. Thankfully, a minute later he was back, a sheaf of envelopes in his hand.

  “Here,” he said, giving them to me.

  There was no postage or return address.

  “He put these in your mailbox?” I asked.

  Guy nodded.

  “Did you read them?” Bailey asked.

  “They were all the same. Telling her she’d go to hell for what she’d done. That he knew she was guilty and he’d find a way to prove it.” Guy stopped and shook his head. “She didn’t do it. But he wouldn’t accept that, had to keep haranguing her. Just couldn’t let her be. It wasn’t fair—a jury acquitted her, and they even said they thought she was innocent.” His hands shook and his features were dark with anger.

  His behavior seemed a bit much, but maybe he was just the overprotective type.

  “Which one was the last?” Bailey asked.

  “I don’t have it,” Guy replied.

  “He gave it to Lilah,” Pam added.

  Guy glanced at Pam, and I saw a flash of anger cross his face. So they were still in contact with Lilah. And he hadn’t wanted us to know. “Did she come here, or did you go to her?” I asked.

  Guy looked at the floor. In a barely audible voice, he said, “She came here.”

  “Why did you give her that one in particular?” I asked, though I was fairly sure I knew the answer.

  “Because it was different,” he replied. “Before, he only wrote about Zack’s trial and how he was going to find a way to make her pay for his murder. You’ll see,” he said, gesturing to the letters he’d given me. “But the last one, he said something about having evidence.” Guy paused, squinting with effort. “It was a
lot of gibberish, most of it made no sense at all, so it’s hard to remember exactly. But he was more threatening, more immediate.”

  Now we knew what set the wheels in motion that put Simon at the end of the killer’s knife.

  “Did it say anything about a meeting place? Or how Lilah could contact him?” I asked.

  Guy closed his eyes briefly, picturing the letter. “Not that I can recall,” he said, shaking his head.

  Not that he was willing to recall. It was exactly why we’d waited this long to see these two. I had nothing to hang over his head to force him to tell the truth if he wasn’t so inclined. He didn’t mind sharing Simon’s letters, because they made Lilah out to be a victim. All except for that last one. The incriminating one. I could’ve had their house searched, but I knew it’d be a waste of time. Because I believed he did give Lilah the letter. What I didn’t believe was that he couldn’t remember what it said. But since I couldn’t force that issue, I got down to the bottom line.

  “How did you reach Lilah to tell her about it?” I asked.

  Guy pressed his lips together, his expression stony.

  “Mr. Rossmoyne, this is a police investigation,” I said sternly. “If you don’t turn over that number, I’ll file a charge against you for obstruction of justice.”

  He inhaled, and I could see that he wanted to tell me to go file my charges.

  But Pam pointedly cleared her throat, having reached her limit of disgust and exasperation with this whole mess. “Guy, enough.”

  His body momentarily went rigid. But then he slowly reached for the pad and pencil on the side table next to the telephone and wrote down the number. He handed it to me, then left the room without another word.

  We thanked Pam for their time and said we were sorry to have intruded on their day. We told her to contact us immediately if they heard from their daughter. She promised they would. We were all lying.

  The moment we’d driven fifty feet from the house, Bailey checked the number Guy’d given us. She got a busy signal.

  “Daddy called her,” I said.

  Bailey nodded.

  We were in play. This visit was an open declaration of war, and now Lilah would know it.

  “Game on,” Bailey said.

  75

  It was late afternoon when we headed back downtown. The time of day when I always wanted to curl up and nap. And the time of day when I was invariably stuck in the office or in court. With Bailey driving, and the monotony of the sluggish traffic, the pull of sleep dragged on my eyelids and I had to struggle to stay awake. My head had just fallen forward for the third time when Bailey spoke.

  “You know, we’re on the Westside,” she observed. “Didn’t you say you wanted someone to check out the Venice free clinics, see if Tran used one of those doctors for his glasses prescription?”

  I had. I knew that if we did find a stash of evidence that included a pair of glasses, it’d be important to be able to prove that they’d belonged to Tran. I didn’t expect to get lucky enough to find Tran’s fingerprints on the glasses after all they’d been through. But if I could match the strength of the lenses to a prescription in his name, it would be a big help. Now I jerked myself awake and tried not to sound foggy. “You think anyone will still be around?”

  “It’s only four o’clock,” Bailey replied. “They’re usually open until five.”

  “I’ll call and confirm,” I offered.

  It’d give me something to do so I wouldn’t drop off and start drooling on myself. “You have a copy of his ID card on you?” I asked.

  Bailey patted her jacket pocket. “Yep.”

  I typed in “Venice clinics” and hit search. “Venice Family Clinic,” I said. “A few locations. But the one on Rose Avenue helps the homeless—”

  “I’d be willing to bet Tran found himself in that condition a time or two,” Bailey said. “Do they provide eye care?”

  “Yep.”

  Bailey got off the freeway, but at this hour, the surface streets were even worse. It would ordinarily take us ten minutes to cover the distance, but now we crawled along for half an hour before the clinic, a small, white, low-roofed building, came into view. It didn’t look like much, but the people who worked in places like this were about as close to angels as you could get.

  The receptionist, a young Latina with long, shiny brown hair that was held back with a stretchy headband, said, “Do you have an appointment?”

  I knew I didn’t look my best, but I hadn’t thought I looked homeless. I was going to have to take a little more time getting my act together in the morning.

  Bailey introduced us and explained why we were there. The girl motioned to hard-looking plastic seats lining the wall and picked up her phone. Ten minutes later, a nurse beckoned us inside. We followed her to a tiny office that barely allowed room for a desk piled high with files and an aging computer.

  “Vera,” she said, putting out her hand.

  We both took turns shaking with Nurse Vera, then, without further discussion, she sat down behind her desk and began to type. After a few seconds, she asked, “Do you have his name and date of birth?”

  We did. Nurse Vera typed some more.

  “Tran Lee…yes,” she said. “He’s been here.”

  I told myself we deserved to have something be this easy as I crossed my fingers and asked the critical question. “Did he ever have an appointment with the optometrist here?”

  Vera tapped a few more keys, then squinted at the screen. “He did,” she said. “Dr. Scarmoon. But he’s not in today, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s totally fine,” I said. I didn’t need to talk to him today anyway. I needed just one piece of information. “Did he give Tran a prescription for glasses?”

  Vera clicked through a couple of pages. “I can’t tell you exactly what the numbers mean, but I can tell you his prescription was pretty strong.”

  Bingo. “When does Dr. Scarmoon have hours here?” I asked.

  “On Mondays and Wednesdays between one and three,” Vera said. “If you like, I can ask him to call you.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I need to show him something, but I didn’t bring it with me. No need to waste his time until then. Thank you, though. You’ve been so helpful.”

  We took our leave of Vera and the clinic.

  “And that’s how the big boys do it,” Bailey said with a smirk as she pulled out of the parking lot.

  “If the big boys had to work any harder than that, they’d pawn it off on us.”

  My cell phone rang. “The Crystal Ship” by the Doors, one of my favorites, which was why I’d given Toni that ringtone.

  “What?” I answered.

  “I’ll start without you,” she threatened.

  “Biltmore bar in half an hour,” I said. Toni hung up.

  Bailey stopped for a red light, and I looked outside. A teenage boy danced around a pretty girl seated on a bus bench. She tapped his chest playfully, and he pretended to fall off the curb. She laughed, and he grinned with pleasure, a smile of almost unbearable sweetness.

  “Is Drew on tonight?”

  “Should be,” Bailey answered. “Why?”

  “Romy,” I replied. “It’s time to get it over with.”

  Bailey called Drew and told him he needed to come in a little early. When we got there, Toni was already at the bar. I motioned her over to a booth. We’d just slid into our seats when Drew sauntered in, hooked his sunglasses over the neck of his shirt, and joined us. Talk about timing.

  Even though I’d already told Bailey the story, I felt my stomach tighten. I was perilously close to chickening out when Bailey forced my hand.

  “Rachel’s got something she wants to tell us.”

  I made myself take a deep breath. And so I told them about Romy and the fight that’d led to my breakup with Graden. I can’t say I enjoyed it in the doing, but I can say I was glad when it was done.

  Drew looked at me with pain in his eyes. “I can’t even tell you how so
rry I am.” Then he shook his head. “Girl, the trouble you’ve had in your life, I’d have thought you were black,” he said.

  Toni smiled. “Amen, brothah-man.”

  We all laughed. I appreciated their efforts to lighten the moment.

  Toni, who was sitting next to me, rubbed my back. “I’m glad you finally told us, Rachel.”

  Then her brow knitted, and she turned to face me, her expression perplexed.

  “And you didn’t want to tell us because…why, exactly?” she asked.

  “Because when I was a kid, everyone either felt sorry for me or looked at me like I was a freak,” I explained. “And I know what you’re thinking. We work with ‘victims’ all the time. But I didn’t want you to think of me that way.”

  “And what way is that?” Toni asked, eyebrows raised. “Everyone gets a bad break here and there. Some get worse breaks than others. Why’s that anything on them?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, then found I had no answer and closed it.

  Toni continued, somewhat heatedly, “Rachel, there’s a difference between victim and volunteer. I can’t even imagine why I’d look at you any differently because some monster…” She delicately refrained from spelling it out. But then very undelicately continued, “I feel like smacking you upside your goof-assed head really hard. You know that?”

  Drew kissed my hand and pulled himself out of the booth. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  After he left the table, Toni calmed down and smiled. “Your whole thing with Graden makes more sense now,” she said. “It’s about boundaries. If he didn’t respect this one, then what happens next? Right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “He can learn,” Toni said. “You two have issues that’re on a collision course, that’s for sure, but it’s nothing some decent communication won’t fix—”

  “You’re talking?” I interjected.

  “So? I can still spot the problem. When things calm down with this case, you and I are going to talk,” she said, her voice sympathetic but firm.

  I smiled. “It’s a deal.”

  I didn’t tell her that the way this case was going, by the time things calmed down Graden would probably be married and have grandchildren.