by Marcia Clark
That was Bailey. A real blabbermouth.
5
We’d gotten lucky— traffic was moving on the 101 Freeway, and it took us only an hour to make the half-hour trip to Sunset Boulevard, heading west. The rain had stopped abruptly, and blue spaces peeked between gaps in the clouds, allowing random rays of sunshine to beam down on cars that flew alongside us. We were set to meet the Densmores at 5:00 p.m., and it was only a quarter till, so Bailey took the climb up through Pacific Palisades slowly, giving us a chance to get the lay of the land.
Usually the outskirts of a community are devoted to low-rent living options, small tract homes, drab apartment buildings—they always remind me of the Baltic and Mediterranean Avenue squares on a Monopoly board. But this being “the Palisades,” one of the toniest neighborhoods in L.A., no such reminders of real life were allowed. Here, the homes at the edge of the community were at least four thousand square feet, and none sold for less than seven figures.
Water fell over fake rocks and shot up in spouts in the man-made pools that heralded the entry to the gates that encircled the Cliffs. Carefully manicured lawns and colorful flowers covered the grounds in front of, and the hills behind, the large wrought iron gates. Huge, well-tended weeping willows hung over the drive that led up to the guarded entry. The “shack” that housed the security personnel was styled like a country cottage, with mullioned windows and wooden doors with decorative iron hinges. A uniformed guard was standing outside the door, and when Bailey held out her badge, he took it and inspected it, then waved us through. “Yes, Dr. Densmore is expecting you.”
La-di-da, I thought. As we headed up the hill toward Susan Densmore’s home, the lawns grew progressively bigger and greener, and the houses more palatial. Some were the one-story ranch style, albeit many thousand square feet thereof—not the kind of split-level, vinyl-sided ranches I grew up around, naturally—but there were also Tudor styles with dormers and brick fronts, and Mediterranean Modern styles painted in pale yellows with white columns and tiled roofs. Though architecturally eclectic, the neighborhood uniformly screamed money—big money. Predictably, the only people on the immaculate tree-lined streets were gardeners and nannies, tending dutifully to their employers’ impeccable pets, pools, plants, and children.
We pulled into the semicircular driveway of a two-story Tudor-style home that had wings extending to the right and left, and headed up the brick paved walk between banks of perfectly tended white rosebushes. A Porsche Cayenne with a bike rack was parked in front of the four-car garage.
“Ten thousand square feet, would you say?” I asked.
“Not counting the guesthouse we’ll definitely find out back.”
As usual, Bailey was dressed perfectly—a camel-colored trench coat and off-white turtleneck sweater that complemented her fair skin and short blond hair. And at a slender five feet nine, Bailey pulled off the tight cigarette-leg slacks better than I, at five feet six, ever could. I comforted myself once again with the knowledge that I could get away with wearing higher heels. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. We reached the massive oak double doors. Bailey ignored the heavy brass knocker and punched the doorbell. Even the chimes sounded rich. A matronly Hispanic woman answered so quickly I thought she had to have been waiting by the door.
“You are the detectives?” she asked.
Her English was careful, her expression skeptical. Why do people still think detectives have to look like Joe Friday?
“Right,” Bailey said, keeping it short. We’d explain exactly who was what to someone who cared.
The housekeeper nodded and motioned us inside.
Ordinarily you’d call it a foyer, but this? This was a lobby. The ceiling was easily thirty feet high, and the floor was a wide, circular expanse of cream-colored marble dotted with terra-cotta-colored diamonds. A gleaming teak elephant stood to the right of the door, its mouth open and waiting for umbrellas. A circular staircase on my left led to the second floor, where an open hallway branched off to the north and south, no doubt leading to the separate wings I’d noticed outside. On my right was a thickly carpeted and heavily draped drawing room. Just beyond that was an open, formal living room with French doors and windows that offered a view of the park the Densmores called the backyard. As the housekeeper led us toward the living room, I could see an outdoor kitchen; plush, brick-colored patio furniture; a huge swimming pool with a waterfall; and rolling grounds punctuated by jacaranda trees, bronze statuary, and hundreds of bushes that were obediently flowering in multicolored hues, although it was the dead of winter.
A perfectly groomed, rigorously fit-looking man stood up and extended his hand. A little taller than six feet, he had sharp features, precisely combed hair, and a piercing dark gaze.
“Dr. Frank Densmore,” he said.
There was a slight challenge to the way he said it. I was in just the mood to meet that challenge.
“Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight,” I replied, giving his hand an extra-firm shake. “I’m the DA who’s been assigned to the case.” He gave my hand one and a half pumps, then dropped it. Done with me.
I gestured to Bailey. “This is Detective Bailey Keller. She’s going to be the investigating officer on the case.”
Bailey got the same requisite one and a half pumps.
He turned back to me. “I heard about Jake Pahlmeyer. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t sound all that sorry. “Yes, it’s a tragedy,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. I wondered what he knew of Jake’s death. Judging by his tone of voice, I guessed it wasn’t much. This told me that Densmore wasn’t a longtime member of Vanderhorn’s inner circle. Though, come to think of it, I’d bet Vanderhorn wasn’t talking to anyone about what the police suspected. Still, I made a mental note to find out exactly when Densmore had jumped on the Reelect Vanderhorn bandwagon—before or after his daughter’s rape. It wouldn’t matter to the case; I just wanted to know who I was dealing with.
Densmore turned abruptly to Bailey. “What happened to Detective Lambkin?” Jake’s death meant nothing more to him than a change in personnel, and his tone implied that someone should have run that change by him first. Not that I expected him to rip his clothes and douse himself with ashes over Jake’s passing, but I’d seen chimpanzees with more empathy.
Bailey didn’t miss a beat. “He’s been called out to handle a cold case that’s going to require some travel,” she said. “Your case needs full-time attention, so they put me on it.”
Damn, she was good. I could already tell that Daddy Densmore was the type who always thought he deserved more than what anyone else got, and I was right. I could see by his satisfied expression that Bailey’s words had had the desired effect—there’d be no more questions about why she’d taken over for Useless. And now the mystery of how Bailey had gotten rid of Lambkin was solved: she’d drummed up a no-pressure case that would give him “travel bennies.” How she’d managed to do that was something I didn’t want to know.
“Good. Hopefully you’ll be able to move this along now,” Densmore replied, looking across the room.
I followed his gaze to the woman and young girl seated on the giant gold-and-beige-striped couch. A family portrait that hung in the traditional spot over the mantel showed them sitting in an almost identical position: Father Frank standing behind them with a proprietary air—his girls. Susan Densmore had Alice in Wonderland long, golden hair and delicate features that came from the maternal end of the gene pool. Her mother wore her hair in a low ponytail, while Susan’s hung pale and straight, down to the middle of her back. Both were slender and sat primly, ankles crossed, hands folded in their laps like Lladró figurines. I bet it was some kind of fun to live in this house.
“Janet, my wife, and, of course, Susan,” said Frank Densmore, motioning toward them.
As though she’d been waiting for her cue, Janet unfolded, and I reached out to take her hand as she stood.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Densmore,” I said,
and noticed her grip was surprisingly strong—quite a contrast to the demure pose.
“Please call me Janet,” she said as she glanced over at her daughter.
Susan took her cue and stood gracefully but was unable to meet my eyes as she reluctantly reached for my hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said politely, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m glad to meet you too, Susan,” I said. An air of sadness and shock floated around her like the broken tendrils of a spiderweb. The sight pulled at my heart. I knew that emotionally broken feeling very well—the world-shattering discovery that the safety net of security she’d always taken for granted was just a fairy tale. Whatever had happened here, Susan would never be the same. It’d been a while since I’d handled a case with a live rape victim, but my past experience had taught me that rape victims often don’t know who they hate more—the cops and prosecutors who make them relive the nightmare over and over, or the animals who put them in the position of having to do it. It would take some winning over to let Susan know I understood that.
“I hope you realize we already know who did this,” Frank Densmore said impatiently as he lifted his pant legs slightly and sat down in the leather wingback chair, careful to keep the crease straight.
I noticed that Susan suddenly stiffened, and Janet glanced warily between father and daughter.
I always loved it when witnesses let me know they had it all figured out. But this time I was prepared, because Jake had put a note in the file to that effect. The tension in the room after Densmore made his remark told me there was dissension among the ranks. I wanted to see how this played out. So I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The father steepled his hands and peered over them at me. “Susan’s been tutoring a boy from Sylmar—part of an ill-advised program at her school to bring young people from diverse backgrounds together. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was a gangbanger. I told Janet to get Susan out of the program, that he was bad news, but she wouldn’t listen.” He flashed a look of irritation first at Janet, then at Susan, who’d obviously colluded to defy him.
“Assuming he is a gang member, what makes you think he did it?” I asked, deliberately keeping my tone neutral.
“Isn’t it obvious? He saw all this,” Frank said, gesturing at the vaulted ceiling and everything it sheltered, “and got jealous and angry.”
That explanation seemed to fit a burglary a lot better than a rape, but I had no desire to get into a debate with him. Opinions didn’t matter; evidence did. “We’ll be looking into all possibilities, Dr. Densmore,” I said calmly, knowing my refusal to jump on his bandwagon would piss him off.
“Do your job,” he said dismissively, then continued, “but please don’t waste a lot of time looking around. It’s very clear who did it, and I don’t like having it dragged out.”
“I’d imagine it’s pretty hard on Susan too,” I said dryly. My sarcasm was lost on good old Frank, so I turned to the daughter. “Would you mind showing me where it happened?”
“They’ve already processed the area for evidence,” Densmore said, his expression broadcasting how much he’d loved having crime scene techs roaming around his house. “Of course I won’t object if you want to make sure nothing was missed, but I would think there isn’t much left to do.”
I didn’t think this was the time to share the joke about “Useless” Hughes Lambkin, so I just nodded. Densmore stood up, intending to lead the way.
I stopped him. “No need to join us. Susan can show me around for now. I just want to get a sense of how it happened—it helps if I can visualize the scene.” Taking a page out of Bailey’s book, I added, “I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary.”
Kiss-ass behavior generally goes against my grain, but I could suck it up and brownnose with the best of them when I wanted something. Right now, I wanted to talk to Susan alone, without Dr. Blowhard in the way.
Densmore frowned, and I saw him glance protectively at Susan. That, I understood and appreciated.
“We won’t be long, Dr. Densmore,” I said, attempting to reassure him with my look and tone of voice that we weren’t going to put his daughter through a grilling session.
He looked at me for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be here,” he said, a hint of warning in his voice.
“Will do,” I said.
Susan led Bailey and me up the wide spiral staircase with slow, leaden steps, gripping the polished mahogany railing like an arthritic ninety-year-old. We turned left at the top of the stairs and followed her to the door at the end of the hallway, which sported a framed poster of Albert Einstein. Not what I’d expected to see on this girl’s bedroom door. I noticed that the glass covering of the poster was sparkling clean—it had likely been dusted for fingerprints and in need of a thorough scrubbing after the crime scene techs had finished with it. The fact that it had been returned told me nothing useful had been found.
Susan took a deep breath and opened the door, then stepped in and stopped to the right of it, unwilling to go any farther than she had to. Bailey and I filed past her into a bedroom that was larger than most houses. It had a sitting room lined with closets and a huge bathroom with a steam sauna shower. The south wall was almost fully occupied by a set of glass French doors that led onto a balcony overlooking the back grounds. Her king-size bed—covered with a custom duvet colored in soft rose and blue flowers—was to the left of the window, just five feet away.
“So, Susan, what grade are you in now?” I asked conversationally, although I already knew she was fifteen years old.
“I’m a sophomore,” she replied in a small voice that sounded like she was closer to twelve.
The rape-kit exam indicated she’d probably been a virgin too, and judging by her shy demeanor and buttoned-up style, I’d bet that was true. Of course, I couldn’t be sure until I asked her; looks could be deceiving. Not that it mattered from a legal standpoint—rape was rape regardless—but knowing Susan’s specific situation would let me find the right tack in handling our interviews and preparing her for court. To do that, I had to establish some rapport so she’d open up and talk to me—no easy task after what she’d been through. I gazed out the window and wished for the thousandth time that rape were punishable by penis removal… with a rusty knife.
“You go to Pali High?” I asked. Ordinarily I’d have assumed that a girl living in a mansion and neighborhood like this went to a private school. But Palisades Charter High School was no ordinary public school. Due in no small part to the generous donations that were solicited throughout the year, it had all the perks of a private school and then some.
Susan nodded but said nothing more. I continued with nonthreatening get-to-know-you questions. “How is it being a sophomore? A little better than your freshman year?”
“I guess, maybe.” Her gaze slid off to the doorway, where I figured she’d like to be headed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that while I was trying to loosen Susan up, Bailey was looking around the room, gathering some firsthand impressions.
I tried again, hoping to help her let go of what had happened in this room. “What’s your favorite subject this year?”
Susan shrugged, still not looking at me. “I don’t know. English, I guess.”
Aha. A hook. “Really? That was mine too. What are you reading?”
“Animal Farm by George Orwell,” she replied with as much animation as I’d seen since we shook hands.
“I read that too,” I said, smiling. “What’d you think of it?”
“Um, I liked it, actually,” Susan said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “At first, you just think it’s funny, but then it’s, like, about so much more. You know?”
“Yep. That book was so good, even school couldn’t ruin it,” I remarked with a little smile.
I was rewarded with Susan’s conspiratorial grin and brief nod. I hated to spoil the moment, but I knew we’d have to start talking about the cas
e sometime. I intended to ease in and let her tell as much as she wanted to for now, then fill in the parts she couldn’t handle at a later date. I looked around the room for a moment, then back at Susan. This time, she returned my gaze. She was ready.
6
“Were you awake when he came into your room?” I asked.
“No, but I know he came in through there,” she said as she pointed to the French doors that led to the balcony. She looked at the bed as her next words poured out in a torrent. “I was asleep. Then he jumped on my bed. He pushed a pillow over my face, and I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die.” She paused after she said this and took a breath.
I would bet there were times she’d wished she had.
“Susan, we don’t have to get into the details right now.”
“It’s okay… I’d rather just tell you and get it over with, you know?”
I really did. If the questions that force you to relive the nightmare are unavoidable, it’s better to answer them right away and get at least that part of the suffering over with. Postponing the inevitable only added days of dreaded anticipation to the pain. I nodded and squeezed her arm for support, then gestured for us to sit on the upholstered chest at the foot of the bed. As we moved into the room, I scanned the view through the French doors and made a mental note.
Susan took another deep breath. Staring at the floor, she began to speak. “I never saw him. All I know is I woke up with him on top of me. I tried to scream, but I had the pillow in my face, so nothing came out. Then he pulled up my nightgown and…”
She stopped, and I waited for her to recover. I hated putting any rape victim through this, but it was especially awful with Susan. She seemed so young, so vulnerable. Just like Romy. As it had countless times before, my mind replayed my last moments with her: my seven-year-old self saying, “Come on, Romy, you’re not even trying! Hide better!” Romy, shaking her head good-naturedly, walking away. The memory tightened my chest with pain and guilt, and I had to force myself to breathe past the moment.