Guilt by Association: A Novel

by Marcia Clark

  I was about to prompt Susan to continue but thought better of it. There was no need. I knew her rape kit had not yielded any semen, but that wasn’t surprising—her vaginal swab had revealed lubricant of the type generally found on condoms. So he was a careful rapist, but he hadn’t been careful enough. They’d found DNA on the nightgown that didn’t match Susan or anyone else in the house. That was the good news. The bad news was that it didn’t match anyone in the state database either. Whoever had done it didn’t have a criminal record, or had one in another state, or hadn’t been asked to submit bodily fluids. I’d already made a note to myself to check and see if the so-called gangbanger Susan had been tutoring was in the DNA database. Ordinarily I’d have been fairly certain that the first detective would have taken care of something this routine, but with Useless Hughes Lambkin, you had no such assurance.

  Based on the photographs and doctors’ reports I’d seen, there was a thinning to the hymen, which indicated there’d been sexual penetration, and there was some degree of vaginal tearing. It was better than nothing in terms of ruling out consensual sex, but it wasn’t a slam dunk. The fact that a condom had been used didn’t help much either. Still, from what I’d seen so far, Susan would make a compelling witness. Providing I could find someone to arrest.

  “Did you see any part of him—his face, maybe in profile? Or his back? Do you remember any particular smell?” I asked.

  Susan shook her head thoughtfully. “I’ve tried to remember, but I was afraid to pull off the pillow until he was gone. In case he might come back and…” She stopped and frowned to herself.

  “I don’t blame you. I would’ve been afraid too, Susan,” I reassured her.

  She nodded, took another breath, and continued. “I think he left through the balcony, because the French doors were still open, and I would’ve heard if he’d left through my bedroom door.”

  I nodded. The French doors opened onto a semicircular balcony. Those doors now sported a not-so-decorative bolt-style lock. I scanned the room. Probably the crime scene tech had gotten all there was to get, but again, with Lambkin in charge, I had reason to doubt. Bailey noticed my look and nodded.

  “Susan, would you mind if we had another crime scene technician take a look around?” Bailey asked. “We’ll be neat.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t sleep here anymore,” Susan admitted. “I took the maid’s old room. I don’t even get dressed here.”

  I couldn’t blame her. I got up to go, but Susan reached out and touched my arm, stopping me.

  I turned to her.

  She darted a furtive look at the doorway, then whispered with urgency, “Don’t listen to my dad. It wasn’t Luis. I know it wasn’t!”

  Luis, the gangbanger, I knew from the file.

  Struck by the vehemence in her tone, I asked, “What makes you say that?”

  Susan shook her head sadly. “I know you must think I’m some little sheltered rich girl, and I am. But I’m not stupid. And I know Luis. He worked hard. He was looking to get out of his… situation. He might be a lot of things; he probably is. But he’s not a rapist. And he’d never hurt me.”

  “Are you…?” I began.

  She shook her head rapidly. “He’s just a friend.”

  “Any idea where we might be able to find him?”

  Susan dipped her head and looked at the floor. “No. I never knew where he lived. And I haven’t seen him since…”

  We knew he’d been in the wind ever since the rape, which did not help his cause any—Susan knew it too. It wasn’t proof beyond a reasonable doubt, but I couldn’t blame Frank Densmore for thinking otherwise. I always kept an open mind to all possibilities in the beginning of a case, but I had to admit that finding Luis was at the top of our to-do list.

  I looked at Susan. Rich and sheltered, she certainly was, but she was a tough little thing for all that. And her willingness to stand up to her father for this Luis guy was impressive, even though it might be ill-advised. I had a feeling Daddy was always right, even when he wasn’t. Densmore didn’t seem like an easy person to stand up to.

  We headed downstairs, and all of us were relieved to find that Daddy Dearest was gone.

  “He had to go back to the office,” Janet explained. “He’s running six pediatric health centers,” she said apologetically. “All the kids in the neighborhood go to him. And then he’s got his charity work,” she said, a tinge of pride creeping into the apology. She sighed. “He’s spread awfully thin.”

  He didn’t seem the saintly type, but there was no benefit in arguing the point with Mrs. Densmore. I figured nearly all of his clinics were in high-dollar neighborhoods. More businessman than doctor nowadays, Densmore rarely saw patients. “Not a problem,” I said.

  “By the way, I noticed the bike rack,” Bailey said, nodding toward the Cayenne in the driveway. “Who’s the cyclist in the family?”

  “Both of us,” Janet replied. “But Frank’s the real enthusiast. He does those marathon rides for charity. I tried it once, but…” She shook her head and gave Bailey a measuring look. “I bet you can do them.”

  Bailey nodded. “On a good day.”

  That, I knew, was bullshit. Bailey was a monster on two wheels.

  Janet looked at me questioningly, but I shook my head. “Not me. Those crazy rides are a bridge too far.” This pulled a little smile out of Janet. I got her permission for a “do over” for the crime scene techs in Susan’s bedroom, and we said our good-byes for the time being.

  As I got into Bailey’s car, I noticed a twenty-four-hour neighborhood patrol vehicle roll by. It said PALISADES SECURITY—24-HOUR PATROL on the driver’s-side door.

  “We should check out the security patrol for this joint. They might have some ideas about who had access to the house,” I said.

  Bailey nodded. “They might be on that list themselves.”

  “Might be,” I agreed. It wouldn’t be the first time the security was actually the culprit, though I expected the background checks for a company that worked in neighborhoods like this were pretty thorough—if only to avoid the inevitable lawsuit if a baddie slipped through the cracks. “Did Useless door-knock the neighborhood?”

  “Report says he did, but he doesn’t list any leads. My bet is he kissed off whatever the uniforms got as a dead end so he wouldn’t have to do the follow-ups. I’m starting over with my own team,” Bailey said, her voice grim and shaded with disgust. “We’ll run rap sheets on everyone, check ties to the Densmores, alibis—the whole shootin’ match. Start with neighbors tomorrow.”

  “Make sure someone’s working on finding our gangbanger Luis Revelo while you’re at it—”

  “Got it,” Bailey interjected.

  She hated when I stuck in my two cents—especially on the obvious stuff. This never stopped me.

  “Lot of workers in a place like this too,” I continued. “Pool men, gardeners, personal trainers—”

  “Contractors, architects, carpenters, decorators—yeah.” Bailey’s tone told me I was pushing it now.

  “Decorators?”

  She shrugged. “Can’t get stuck on stereotypes.”

  The decorators I’d met wouldn’t even walk around a ladder, let alone climb one to break into a young girl’s bedroom, but Bailey was right about stereotypes. “Have at ’em.”

  We headed east on Sunset, now at a crawl through the thick commuter traffic.

  “What do you think?” Bailey asked.

  I watched as the neighborhood gave way to meaner streets and tiny storefronts bearing signs in foreign languages—moving backward on the game board, going from St. Charles to Oriental to Baltic and Mediterranean, heading toward “Go.”

  “This guy Luis dropping out of sight like that? Seems awfully obvious, don’t you think?” I asked rhetorically.

  “Does.”

  I nodded. “I hate that.” But I also knew better than to fight it. Just because it was obvious didn’t mean Luis wasn’t our rapist. I’d long since learned that criminals g
enerally aren’t the brightest bulbs in the chandelier—if they were, we’d never catch them. And, as my old mentor used to say, “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”

  “Did Useless run the guy?” I asked.

  “Not likely. I’ll take care of it,” Bailey replied, making a note in her new cell phone.

  “What happened to your BlackBerry?” I asked. Bailey was a gadget freak—the first to get the best in techie hot stuff.

  She offered her iPhone to me. “Old news. This thing makes the BlackBerry look like a typewriter.”

  I shook my head and refused to take the phone. “You should know better by now. I’ll break it before I can even pick a ringtone.”

  “True,” Bailey said, and abruptly pulled her gadget back and dropped it into her pocket.

  I watched a young girl in skintight jeans and Converse sneakers bobbing along to a tune on her iPod as she walked a ratlike dog. The dog, stopping suddenly to pee on a bus bench, pulled her backward and caused her earpieces to fall out. She looked completely befuddled for a moment, as though this were her first experience being out in the world without piped-in music. Maybe it was.

  The sight of the young girl brought me back to Susan’s father. “Old Frank’s a piece of work, though, isn’t he?”

  “A real dick,” Bailey agreed. “He’s the type who yells his own name when he comes.”

  I shot her a look. “Must you? Now I’ve got that picture in my head.” I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the image of Frank Densmore in the throes. Yech.

  Bailey shrugged.

  She had an inborn gift for the gross-out, but growing up with three older brothers—not to mention working with cops—had raised her game to Olympic levels.

  I deliberately turned off the image of Densmore and considered what bugged me about him. It wasn’t just that he was a control-freak know-it-all; it was that no matter what was going on, it was all about him—even his daughter’s rape. But, to be fair, I had seen some genuine concern for her. And if he’d bought his way into Vanderhorn’s inner circle just to get special attention for his daughter’s case, that was some evidence of real devotion—albeit in a sickening, influence-peddling sort of way. And, as it turned out, the sort of way that worked.

  “You ever notice how rich people’s clinics are called ‘health centers’?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Bailey replied with a smirk.

  After a moment, her expression darkened. “Tell you what, Knight. If Luis isn’t our guy, we’d better find something to work with in Susan’s bedroom, because otherwise this case is looking like a dead body in a locked room.” Bailey’s tone was sullen as she continued. “By the way, have I thanked you yet for getting me into this?”

  “No, you haven’t. But you’ve always been the ungrateful type,” I replied.

  Bailey gave me a sideways look.

  “Still, we do know one thing,” I said. “The rapist definitely knew the Densmores. There’s no way anyone who hadn’t been in that castle would know how to dodge the security patrol and find her bedroom.”

  “And do it in the middle of the night,” Bailey added.

  7

  It was nearly 8:00 when Bailey pulled up to the Biltmore. I was tired, hungry, and ready for a drink to smooth out the last frayed edges of my hangover.

  “Feel like a short dog?” I asked.

  “Maybe several,” she said as she parked in a loading-only zone.

  We got out, and I deliberately avoided Rafi’s eyes as we approached the door. The valet was already not a big fan of mine, since I almost never drove my car. This wasn’t going to make my stock rise any higher with him. Angel, the doorman, saw me skulking past the valet stand and smirked knowingly as he let us in.

  As always the sheer beauty of the hotel lobby struck me afresh: the stained glass set into the soaring dome ceiling, the ornately cut Lalique chandelier, the plushness of the huge Oriental rugs spread over dark henna-colored marble floors. In the far corner next to the bar, the soft rain of a waterfall fountain spilling over an Italian-tiled wall lent a soothing grace note to the opulent ambience. Walking into the lobby always felt like I’d been enfolded in the embrace of a Rubenesque duchess.

  To my right stood a group of very blond middle-aged couples beside a mound of luggage bearing Lufthansa stickers. Adorned in clunky sandals, black socks, and Bermuda shorts—deliberately snubbing both L.A. winter and fashion—they waited as their leader tried to claim their room reservations in a thick accent that the clerk was struggling mightily to decipher. I nodded to Tommy, the night manager, who gave me a brief smile and a wave. As he moved toward the clerk, I heard the group leader’s voice grow louder. Though it never works, everyone tries to scale the language barrier with volume.

  I pulled open the heavy, darkly tinted glass door of the bar and felt the familiar hush created by thick carpets, soft lights, and rich upholstery. The door closed slowly behind us as we stepped into the cool, quiet darkness. Frank Sinatra sang “Witchcraft” over the muted tinkle of glasses, and I took in the scene as we moved toward the bar.

  A group of four older men in conservative dark suits huddled in one of the forest-green leather booths to the right of the fireplace. In the middle of the room sat two young bare-legged women in tight, expensive suits, sipping cosmopolitans on one of the overstuffed sofas—either lawyers or hookers trying to look like lawyers.

  My buddy and favorite bartender, Drew Rayford, was drying a manhattan glass as Bailey and I climbed onto the leather stools at the end of the long, brass-trimmed mahogany bar. We sat beneath a photograph of a famous jockey, the horse’s bridle in one hand and a winner’s cup in the other.

  “Rachel, Bailey,” Drew said, nodding to each of us. I could feel Bailey heat up next to me as she nodded back at Drew. He looked particularly elegant tonight, in dark slacks and a white shirt and black vest that emphasized a disgustingly narrow waist. The white collar provided a sharp yet stunning contrast with his black skin, and the single diamond stud he wore in his left ear glittered as he moved through the soft light emanating from behind the bar. Tall, gorgeous, and smooth as silk, Drew had too many options when it came to women. Unfortunately for them, his priority was opening his own upscale bar one day, and he intended for that day to come sooner than later. Socializing was last on his list. As a result, I had a feeling no woman saw him half as much as I did.

  “Ladies?” he asked.

  “Glenlivet rocks, water back,” Bailey replied.

  “I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” I said.

  “I see,” Drew said with a small smile.

  A Bloody Mary at night meant only one thing—hangover time—and no one knew it better than Drew. It’s the downside of living here. Everyone knows me… and my habits. I rolled my eyes. “And we’re having dinner,” I added.

  “Well, good for us. I’m guessing you’ll be wanting this too,” he said as he scooped up a glass of ice, filled it with water, and put it on the bar in front of me. I waited until he’d moved off to get the menus and our drinks. I slugged down most of the water in one long gulp and pushed the glass over in front of Bailey, not wanting Drew to know that he’d accurately assessed my condition—seriously, couldn’t I have some privacy?

  “I feel used,” Bailey said, giving me a sidelong glance.

  I reached for the silver tray of snack bowls that Drew filled with something different every week. Tonight’s offerings were kalamata olives, endive, and spicy almonds. “You heard anything about Jake Pahlmeyer’s case?” I asked Bailey as I treated myself to an olive.

  Before she could answer, Drew brought our drinks, then gave us the menus and spread large white napkins out on the bar in front of us.

  Bailey looked at him for a beat. “Thanks,” she said with a slow smile.

  Drew looked back at her for what seemed to me an obnoxiously long time. “You’re very welcome,” he said with a little smile of his own before he moved down the bar.

  I almost groaned out loud. “You’ve got to be kid
ding, right?” I whispered. “He’ll boink you once and then bounce you out. You do remember that I live here, and you’ll have to keep meeting me here after it’s over?”

  “What makes you so sure he hasn’t ‘boinked’ me more than once already?” Bailey took a sip of her whiskey. “Besides,” she said matter-of-factly, “nobody bounces me out.”

  If I took this any further, I’d wind up with either too much or too little information. Neither option appealed to me, and besides, I had bigger fish to fry at the moment.

  “Whatever,” I said dryly. “So tell me what’s up with Jake’s case.”

  “The FBI has officially moved in,” Bailey replied.

  I took a drink of my Bloody Mary. The first sip went down like oil in a rusty engine. I inhaled deeply and finally began to relax.

  “So now that the Feds are in, are you guys out?” I asked.

  “Not yet. We’re ‘cooperating’ with them.”

  “Who’s the liaison?” I asked. Usually, when agencies worked together, each one had a point man to make coordinating the work more efficient.

  “Hales. You know him?”

  “We’ve met,” I said noncommittally, taking another pull of my drink.

  Bailey caught my evasive tone. “Tell me you’re not one of them.”

  “One of what?”

  “Don’t give me that ‘one of what’ crap. One of his babes.” She took a long sip of her drink. “He’s got a friggin’ fan club of panting pussies,” she said, her mouth twisted in disgust.

  “That’s lovely, Emily Dickinson.”

  “Call ’em like I see ’em,” she replied. She popped an almond into her mouth.

  Bailey’s “grossitude” notwithstanding, this meant that if Toni was right, Hale’s interest in me was no cause to pop out the Dom—it was just another day that ended in “y.” Never one for crowds, I decided I could take a pass on joining Hales’s Hotties.

  “Please,” I said as I reached for another olive. “Have I ever been anyone’s ‘babe’?”

  I looked at Bailey, who conceded the point. “Not that I’ve ever seen.”