by Marcia Clark
But when I went into my office and picked up the phone, I hesitated. I told myself to just do it. Just make the call. But I was still standing at my window, staring at the sliver of sky that peeked between the buildings when Michelle buzzed. Her voice was low. “This is so bizarre. Guess who just called? Dale Pearson. Line one.”
“I . . . uh . . .”
“Take the damn call, Samantha.”
I clicked over. Dale Pearson introduced himself and asked me if I knew about his case. I told him of course I did. He got right down to business.
“I’d like to discuss the possibility of you representing me.”
His voice was deep and smooth, like old single-malt scotch. And it had the authoritative timbre of someone who was used to giving orders. But it stopped just short of the macho, condescending tone some cops have. Then again, I reminded myself, he was on his best behavior.
“I’m not sure I can, Dale. I’ve got a pretty heavy caseload.” It was a strategic move, a way to keep the upper hand. If I did take his case, I wanted him to know he was lucky to get me.
“I kind of figured you would. But I thought I’d give it a try before I moved on to the others who’ve lined up, because you came highly recommended by someone I trust.”
Someone recommended me to a cop? Couldn’t be anyone who really knew me. “Who?”
“Rick Saunders.”
Now I got it. I’d had a case with Saunders before. He was an honest cop. If Saunders really was a buddy, Pearson might not be all bad. It’d be easy enough to verify. I checked my calendar. “Why don’t you come by the day after tomorrow?”
“I might already be in custody by then. Can you spare any time today? I can come in as late as you want.”
We agreed on five o’clock. I walked out to tell Alex and Michelle. “He’s coming by at five o’clock. You guys don’t have to wait. I’m sure he won’t feed my body to the shredder.”
Alex tsked. “Your shredder’s way too small.”
Michelle shook her head. “And you’re high if you think we’re going to miss this.”
I figured. “Give me everything you’ve got on Pearson. And Alex, see if you can find out whether he’s tight with this LAPD detective Rick Saunders.”
Michelle tapped a few keys on her computer. “There. Go read.”
It wasn’t much. Dale Pearson, fifty-one years old, had been married and divorced twice. Nothing unusual for a cop. Or a trial lawyer. We’re notoriously bad marriage material. One daughter from the first marriage, Lisa Milstrom, who was seventeen now. He’d graduated cum laude with a BA in political science from UCLA. So he hadn’t always wanted to be a cop. Whatever he’d been planning to do, it took him just one year to figure out it wasn’t happening and sign up with the LAPD.
And he’d done well. He’d made detective within five years, which was pretty fast. He’d done stints in West LA, Rampart, and South Central before winding up in the Hollywood Division.
And then he’d killed two women.
The day moved as slowly as all days do when you’re waiting for them to end. I read up on the latest state and Supreme Court decisions, answered some letters and e-mails, and prayed my mother wouldn’t call.
At ten after five, the buzzer sounded. Michelle spoke into the intercom, our only form of security. Dale Pearson announced himself and Michelle buzzed him in. I’d left the door to my office open so I could listen in while he met Michelle and Alex. It’s always telling how someone treats “the help.” If he was a jackass with Michelle and Alex, he’d be toast.
I’d seen photos of him, so I had some idea of what to expect: reasonably attractive, dark brown hair and eyes, thick eyebrows, and a strong jaw. But he looked better in person.
He was just under six feet and in good shape. He wasn’t Rob Lowe or Colin Farrell gorgeous, but I’d say he was hot enough to snag more than his fair share of attention. Even though Chloe had been more than twenty years younger than he was, I could see the attraction. I guess. I mean, he was a cop, after all.
He shook hands with Alex and Michelle, introduced himself, and thanked them for staying past what he was sure were their normal hours. “I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic was really bad coming over the hill.”
I could well believe that. He lived in the Valley—in Porter Ranch, to be exact, which was one hell of a schlep for him at this time of day. I left my office and went over to him as I held out my hand. “Samantha Brinkman.”
A warm, slightly surprised smile spread across his face as he took my hand. The softness in his eyes gave me a bit of a surprise, too. His grip was strong, but not a “drop you to one knee” bone crusher. “Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Brinkman.”
I didn’t tell him to call me Samantha. I’d see if things got that far. “Come on in.”
SEVEN
I could tell just by the way he’d handled the introductions that Dale Pearson wasn’t your typical barbecue, beer, and broads cop. And he’d dressed to show respect, in a pale-blue button-down collared shirt and black slacks.
He was seemingly relaxed as he sat in the chair across from my desk with his legs crossed guy-style, ankle on top of knee. But his hands were clutched in his lap as though he was afraid that if he let go, they’d start throwing haymakers. I’d given him a thumbnail sketch of my experience, graduated with honors from Loyola Law School, spent seven years in the public defender’s office, handled two hundred homicides, and so on. Dale nodded, but I got the feeling I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know, so I moved on to the meat of the matter.
“Everything you say here is privileged, and the more I know, the better off you’ll be. So I encourage you to be as forthcoming as possible. Okay?”
Dale nodded, but his look was guarded. That was pretty typical. No matter how many times I gave that spiel, I had yet to find a client who really spilled all the beans—then or ever. “I understand the victims’ apartment was burglarized about two months before, and you responded to the call. What was a homicide detective doing on a burglary call?”
“I was doing a favor for Chuck Demeter; he’s on the burglary desk.” He shook his head. “Talk about no good deed.”
“That’s when you met Chloe.” He nodded. “Do you always date your crime victims?” Dale’s face darkened. This wasn’t good. “Look, you might have to take the stand. If you can’t even handle my asking you questions like that, you’ll get shredded when the DA gets in your face. So let’s try that again. If you’ve dated other victims, some of them might come out and say you used your position to push them into it.”
He exhaled, but his expression was pained. “No, I’ve never dated a crime victim before.”
“But since you’ve been working in Homicide for the past ten years, I’d guess victims are off the table. Hopefully. What about witnesses?”
He shook his head. “No. No one.”
“Tell me about that burglary.” From what I’d heard, the burglar had been Suspect Number One. Our first strategy would be to dig up evidence that showed the police should’ve stuck with that theory instead of zeroing in on Dale. “Was there forced entry?”
“No. The girls had a small balcony with a sliding glass door where they kept a few potted plants. They said they liked to leave it open to let in the air, and they forgot to lock it when they went out that night. When they got home, they found it pushed open wide.”
I could relate. I left my windows open all the time. Even in my office. “What’d he take?”
“Just jewelry. But it looked like pretty nice stuff. Chloe had photos. A diamond necklace, two-carat diamond studs, a tennis bracelet. I can’t remember exactly what she said it was worth. Something like ten grand, I think.”
“Did you believe it was worth that much?”
Dale shrugged. “Seemed about right to me, but that’s the insurance company’s problem. I just take the report.”
“Did they have anything else? Like a TV, a laptop, a stereo?”
“Yeah, but they weren’t high-end,
and it would’ve been tough to get anything big over that balcony. It didn’t seem like a planned hit to me. The building’s nothing special. Neither is the neighborhood. You wouldn’t go there thinking you’d find anything worth stealing.”
“So you think this guy happened to spot the open sliding glass door and decided to take a chance?”
“Yeah. That’s why I had the place dusted from top to bottom. The job was strictly amateur hour, so I figured he had to have left prints.”
“But he didn’t.”
“I think he probably did. The print guys just couldn’t find any that were usable.”
“Did that have to do with your print guys or the conditions in the apartment?”
Dale sighed. “Spangler isn’t the best tech in the world. But the wood on the balcony was rough and splintered, and it’d been raining, so everything was damp.” He shrugged. “I think the jerk just got lucky.”
“How could Chloe afford that jewelry? From what I read, she was pretty close to homeless just a few months earlier. I would’ve thought she’d have pawned that stuff long ago.”
“Me, too.” Dale’s expression was sad. “But they might’ve had sentimental value, gifts from friends back when she was still big-time—”
“Did she tell you who gave it to her?”
“She said a bunch of different people. Her manager, a boyfriend . . . she didn’t give me any names. But she didn’t flinch when I told her I’d have to run the photos to see if they turned up in any pawnshops.”
So however she’d acquired that jewelry, it was legit. “What can you tell me about those neighbors who say they heard you and Chloe fighting that night?”
Dale stared down at his hands for a long moment. When he looked up, there was real pain in his eyes. “That they’re telling the truth. We did have a fight. A big one. Chloe was high. She’d started using again in the past few weeks, and we’d gotten into it a few times. But that night it really got ugly. She slapped me, started scratching and clawing at me. I tried to hold her off, but she just kept coming. I—I hit her.” He rubbed his face, and his hand covered his mouth briefly, as though he wanted to stop the next words from coming out. “Harder than I meant to—”
“Where? In the head? The stomach?”
“I think . . . the side of her head. It’s all kind of a blur now. We’d both been drinking.” Dale swallowed hard. “I started to leave, but she came at me again. She took a couple of swings. I think I shoved her, but I might’ve hit her again . . . I don’t know. I just know she fell down.”
“Did anyone take photos of you?”
Dale nodded. “When I got arrested. But it’d been more than a week by then. I don’t know if the photos will show much.” He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “You’ve got to believe me—when I left her apartment, she was alive. I know she was.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Yeah, when I said I was sorry, she told me to go fuck myself.”
“Where was she? On the floor? On the bed? What was she doing?” The more detail he could give about how she’d looked when he left her, the more credible he’d sound.
Dale paused and let his gaze drift over my shoulder. “She was on the floor. And she was starting to push herself up.”
“Do you think she was high that night? And when you say she was using, I assume you mean something serious, like meth or heroin?”
“Heroin, yeah. I don’t know for sure that she’d been using that night. But she seemed high. It should be in the tox report.”
We wouldn’t get the toxicology and autopsy reports for a while. It’d be good if the tox report backed up his story, but it wasn’t of critical importance right now. There was no question about cause of death. Chloe hadn’t overdosed; she’d been stabbed to death. “And where was Paige during all this?”
“Out. On a date with a guy they called Mr. Perfect. I saw her when I came to pick up Chloe that evening. Chloe said she probably wouldn’t be back till morning.”
“Who’s Mr. Perfect?”
“I don’t know. They never used his name. But I figured he was married because I remember hearing Chloe drop a comment about Paige not really needing to get all fixed up for their dates, since they never went out anywhere.”
So he lived in LA. “When you and Chloe got back to the apartment, Paige was gone?” Dale nodded. “And you never saw Paige again.” Dale shook his head. “So you’re saying someone else must’ve come in after you left and stabbed them both?”
Dale’s expression was bleak. “I know how it sounds, but that’s what had to have happened.”
He was right; it did sound impossible. But it was the only story that would get him off the hook. As much as it sucked, I knew I’d have to run with some version of it.
“Did Chloe ever mention anyone she was having problems with? Anyone who threatened her or—”
“No.”
“What about her dealer? Maybe she owed him money or pissed him off because she wouldn’t buy from him anymore . . . ?”
“It’s possible. And I’d bet whoever she’s been buying from lately is working on the show, because a couple of times when I picked her up at the studio, she seemed loaded.”
I’d have to check that out. And I’d have to get every detail he could remember about Chloe and what she did every day, especially in the last week or so. The more I knew about her, the better my chances of finding someone else I could pin this on. “What about Paige? Did she have any enemies that you knew of?”
“No. But I do know she was no druggie.”
“What about jealous boyfriends? Or Mr. Perfect’s wife?”
“I wouldn’t know about boyfriends. And Mr. Perfect never came to the apartment. Plus . . .” Dale trailed off.
“Plus, what? You’d have heard if the wife had found out?”
“No, I probably wouldn’t. But if the wife knew about Paige, knew where she lived, why go to her apartment to get into it with her? Why not wait till Paige was in a place where she didn’t have to worry about a roommate or neighbors?”
Good point. And that probably let out Mr. Perfect, too. But we’d try to find out who he was anyway. A married man could make a great decoy to throw at the jury. “Do you know of anyone else Paige might’ve confided in? Someone who’d know who Mr. Perfect was?”
Dale shook his head. “But I know what I’d do if I were running this case: I’d talk to the people she worked with, check her Facebook page for friends and hangouts, see what’s on her phone or her computer. And, of course, any family you can find.”
I knew this was coming. And I didn’t mind. Matter of fact, I’d have been a little worried if he didn’t try to give me some pointers. He was a detective; it’s what he did. But I had to get him thinking from the other side of things now—he wasn’t a cop anymore; he was a defendant.
“Here’s the thing, Dale. We have to be careful who we talk to and what questions we ask. From what you’re telling me, it’s entirely possible the cops don’t know about Mr. Perfect. So we can’t tip our hand. Because if they find out about him, they’ll do everything they can to prove he’s not a possible suspect. They’ll try to find an alibi for him, or witnesses who’ll say his wife knew about Paige and didn’t care or . . . whatever. We don’t want that. The more straw men we can point to, the better. We’re not looking for the truth or the real killer. We’re looking for reasonable doubt. Got it?”
He stared at me for a moment, his expression stricken. It was a tough adjustment being on the other side of the lawsuit. But after a few seconds, he nodded with a look that was respectful . . . admiring, even. It caught me off guard.
“I just remembered something,” Dale said. “Given what you told me, I don’t know what you want to do with this, but Chloe was on the phone with her sister, Kaitlyn, when I came over. They were pretty close. You might want to check her out.”
“We’ll wait and see what the cops get out of her first. I don’t want her telling them what we asked about. And we’ll check out Pai
ge’s connects on the down low. Alex, the guy you saw when you came in, is a fabulous investigator.”
“You just hire him? Because I didn’t see him on your website.”
“Yeah, he’s new, but he’s a real score.” And when his guilty plea got into the system, he’d also be a real felon. But I saw no reason to overshare. “For now, just for the purpose of giving quotable quotes to the media, I’m going to say we’re looking into the burglar theory.” I didn’t see how that could hurt anything. Since they didn’t get any prints, they’d never catch the burglar.
Dale nodded. “You think the case is going to stay this big?”
I stared at him. You killed a beloved actress and her best friend. Hell yeah, I do. “I think it’s likely, yes.” I mentally reviewed the information he’d given me. We’d covered all but one area. The coroner wouldn’t be able to narrow down the time of death to any less than two hours. But if the time of death was more than two hours after Dale left, we’d have a shot at selling his defense. “So you left immediately after the fight?” Dale nodded. “You know what time that was?”
He shook his head. “Late. After midnight.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I went home.” Dale sighed. “And yes, I live alone.”
It figured. “An apartment or a house?”
“A house.”
Getting worse. “Run into anyone on the way? See any neighbors when you got home?”
“No and no.” He sighed. “I know. It’s a shitty alibi.”
“The kind innocent people usually have. At least that’s what I tell my juries.” I gave him a little smile. His smile was strained. “Have you heard about any of the evidence they found yet?”
“No.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s crazy to be on this side of a case.”
I didn’t say, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He didn’t need any more depressing news right now. “Let’s take tonight to think about this. In the meantime, speak to no one. Not the press, not another cop, not your friends. For now, you have no friends. Not even Rick Saunders.”
He looked upset. No, more than that. He looked wounded. “You’re not going to take my case?”