by Marcia Clark
It was a slim reed, but we all know what they say about beggars. I drove back to the office, marginally cheered. I pulled into the county employee lot, and Julio, the security guard, let me park close to the building. I again promised myself a workout when I got home and looked at my watch as I hiked up the stairs. It was a quarter to three already—time flies when you’re reading stolen coroner’s reports. I quickly trotted inside and ran to catch the elevator.
I was hurrying down the hall to my office when Melia called out to me. “Mija, come back.”
I put it in reverse and leaned into Eric’s anteroom. “Yes?”
Melia nodded toward the boss’s office. “The jefe wants to see you.”
Eric was on the phone when I poked my head through his doorway, and he made a circling motion with his finger, indicating that whoever was on the line was going on and on, then motioned for me to sit down. I mouthed, “No problem,” and he smiled.
I sat and took advantage of the moment to enjoy the 180-degree view. From this perch eighteen floors up, I had a clear bird’s-eye view of the people moving on the streets and sidewalks below. To my left, a young black man in jeans and a hoodie walked down Spring Street in graceful time to the music coming through his headphones.
Eric cut in on his caller, his tone exasperated. “Again, I need to get a little more information before I can give you any answers. Why don’t I call you back later?” He rolled his eyes at me and shook his head.
I nodded sympathetically, then looked out the window again and saw that the young black man was closer. Now I could see that the jack on the end of his headphones was swinging freely in the wind, attached to nothing.
Eric ended his call. “Sorry about that,” he said.
“No worries. What’s up?”
Eric sighed, never a good sign, and made a face that told me he didn’t want to have to say what he was about to say. I braced myself.
“Frank Densmore called.”
“Ahh, yes,” I said, not surprised. “And he’s pissed off because…?”
“He wants this case wrapped up. He knows who did it, he told Jake who did it, then he told you who did it, and he’s tired of waiting for the police and the DA’s office to catch up with him.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Catch up with him—very nice.”
“We’re going to have to try and keep him happy. He’s got Vanderhorn’s ear—”
“Really?” I interjected. “I was thinking of another part of the DA’s anatomy.”
To Eric’s credit, he looked just as irked as I felt. “He wanted to talk to you this afternoon, and when he couldn’t find you, he found me.”
Uh-oh. I suddenly saw where this was going, and it wasn’t good.
“Rachel, I know you’re not happy with the assumptions being made about Jake and what happened. But it’s not our case, and you’re looking at some serious charges of insubordination if you keep poking around. I’m prepared to be sympathetic… this time. Understood?”
I nodded, forced out an insincere apology, and excused myself before he had a chance to read my insubordinate mind.
I headed back to my office, plopped down in my chair, and mulled over my options. I supposed I could put in a mollifying call to Daddy Densmore, but I’m a lousy ass-kisser, and odds were good I’d just make things worse. Besides, I’m a big believer in behavior modification—if I called him now it would just reward him for bringing Vanderhorn into the picture and ensure that he’d do it again whenever he wanted to yank my chain. Better to give Densmore no response and show him who’s boss.
Vanderhorn was another matter. Him, I couldn’t ignore. I sighed to myself. I guessed I could manage a little bit of ass-kissing for the sake of keeping my job. Unfortunately there was only one way to back Vanderhorn off. Explanations would mean nothing. He’d want proof of progress. Otherwise known as new evidence. A suspect in custody would be nice, for instance. I picked up the phone.
“Hey, it’s Rachel Knight. Is Dorian there?” I waited while the tech who’d answered the phone yelled around the office.
“Not here. Probably on her cell, though,” said a young male whose voice I didn’t recognize. These days crime scene techs moved in and out of the Scientific Investigation Division (SID) as though it were a Motel 6. Old warhorses like Dorian were an increasingly rare commodity.
“I’ve got the number, thanks,” I replied, though he hadn’t offered to give it to me.
I hung up and dialed again. After four rings, she answered. “Yep?”
“It’s Rachel. Any news on the hair and fiber?”
Dorian snorted. “Sure, I’ve only got about five thousand dolls here. Just give me a sec while I finish the last four thousand.”
I hadn’t really expected any results yet—we’d seized more than thirty dolls from Susan’s bedroom, so even a rush job would take quite some time. But perfectionist Dorian didn’t do rush jobs, so I knew this was going to be a while. I’d put in the call so I’d have something to bring to Vanderhorn as a peace offering. Dorian read the brief pause in the air like a large-print book.
“Tell your boss he can have it fast or he can have it right, but he can’t have both,” she barked.
“From what I’ve heard, fast is his thing… if you know what I mean,” I replied acidly, annoyed not only at having to appease Vanderhorn but at Dorian’s busting me for it.
“Creatures in space know what you mean, Knight. Tell him you’ll have results soon enough, and if he doesn’t like it he can kiss my ass,” Dorian growled, then hung up.
Next I called Vanderhorn.
He wasn’t in; probably checking the part in his hair or bleaching his teeth—smoothing his path to reelection. Glad to avoid talking to him, I cheerfully left word that hair and fiber results were on the way. Then I sat back to consider what else I could do on the Densmore case. We’d reprocessed the crime scene, and Bailey was already having Luis Revelo’s rap sheet run. Uniforms were checking out everyone else we could think of with access, such as the house painters, the security-patrol guys, and all the neighbors and their worker bees. In just a few days, we’d covered a lot of ground. There was nothing more to be done at this point but wait for some leads to pop up so we could follow them. At a dead end on my most pressing official case, at least for the time being, I turned my thoughts to my unofficial one and considered my next move.
The way I saw it, I had to pursue the case on two fronts: the off-duty part of Jake’s life, and the background and associates of the kid they found with him, Kit Chalmers. I could do at least the initial legwork on Jake’s life myself. I called a buddy in the Planning and Training Division, where all new DAs started and where the background information on us was stored, and steered the conversation around to Jake and his next of kin. It wasn’t hard—the whole office was obsessed with the subject. After getting what I could, I hung up, then dialed again.
11
Five minutes later I was weaving my way through the crowd in the downstairs lobby on my way to the Police Administration Building, affectionately known as PAB. The sidewalks were crowded, which surprised me, so I checked my watch. It was 4:30 already. Ass-covering is very time-consuming. The late-afternoon hour explained the mass of bodies and cars in front of the building: the exodus out of downtown had begun. This was a lucky break for me, because it would decrease the chance I’d get caught at what I was about to do. If I wanted to keep my job, and I did, I’d have to get smarter about when and where I made my moves and be sure to have cover stories in place. Going to see Bailey was safe enough, since we were working the Densmore case together, but I didn’t want to use Bailey any more than I had to.
I tried to imagine what they’d do to me if I got caught digging into Jake’s case again. Transfer me out to East Jesus to try sprinkler-use violations for the rest of my career? Very likely. Suspension… and then a transfer to the aforementioned outpost? Also likely. Termination for insubordination? This was an uncomfortably distinct possibility. The thought set my stomach roil
ing. And if they did fire me, what would I do? Go into private practice and defend the scumbags? I shook my head—been there, done that, straight out of law school. I couldn’t go back. So what did that leave—exotic dancing? Not enough chest, too much smart-mouth. In fact, my smart mouth was going to be a problem in all employment endeavors this side of Fox News. Bus driver, cocktail waitress—you name it.
Ruminations on all the ways my pursuit of Jake’s case could lead to my demise kept me occupied right up until I got off the elevator at the third floor in PAB. At that precise moment, I remembered that Hales was Bailey’s lieutenant, which meant that he worked there too. The fact that he was standing at the elevator also helped jog my memory.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he replied. “How’re you doing?” His voice conveyed something unexpected. I think it’s called kindness.
I felt a little electric jolt in my gut. I resolutely ignored it. “Okay, I guess,” I said with a nonchalant shrug. Look at me, playing it too cool for school.
The elevator doors began to close, but he stuck his hand inside and held them open. Macho, but not too. Or maybe just polite. My judgment’s not great.
He looked at me for a long beat. “We’re still on your friend’s case, Rachel. I want you to know that I won’t let the Feds shut it down until we’ve got it right.”
I nodded to show my appreciation. I decided he didn’t need to know that I was here to make sure of exactly that.
The elevator began buzzing in protest, and Graden stepped inside. I waved and turned to go, but he pulled out the stop button to silence it, then called out to me.
“You ever eat lunch?” he asked with one of those lazy, lopsided smiles that probably worked well for him. The fact that I was aware of this meant it was working for him now too.
“Sometimes,” I said.
His smile got bigger as he released the stop button and replied, “I’ll call you.”
I turned to go, then stopped. “I’m not going to be in the office much,” I said, wanting to let him know that I’d be hard to find. But the door closed before my protestation could register.
I tried to put that signature smile out of my mind as I headed for Bailey’s desk.
She was hunched miserably in front of her computer. She loved gadgets but hated computers. Probably because the latter were associated with paperwork. I have yet to meet a cop who loves paperwork. So not only was I jeopardizing her career, but I was torturing her in the process. The very definition of an all-purpose friend.
I rolled a chair up next to her. “What’d you get?”
Bailey snuck a look around her desk to make sure no one was watching, then replied, “The boy, Kit Chalmers, has a record.”
Since Kit was a young kid whose life had ended in a downtown motel that charged by the hour, this was about as surprising as finding an ex-con in a car wash.
“What’s he got?” I asked.
“All misdemeanor crap. Starting at about age nine, he’s got petty theft, possession of marijuana, giving false information to a cop. But the most recent one is the kicker.” Bailey paused for a beat. “Prostitution.”
Exactly what I didn’t want to hear.
“How long ago was it?” I asked.
“Two years ago.”
“So Kit was…”
“Fifteen,” Bailey replied.
“Anything after that prostitution bust?”
“Nada.”
Bailey and I exchanged a look, thinking the same thing. By the time he’d been busted for prostitution, Kit had likely been criming for more than six years—just because he’d been caught at age nine didn’t mean it was his first venture. So it was very hard to believe that he’d suddenly gone clean at the age of fifteen; he’d been busted far too often for too long. Everything about this was weird. And not in a good way.
“Did we file a petition on that last case?” I asked. Since juvenile cases weren’t considered criminal and were supposed to be “for the benefit of the minor”—yeah, right—they had their own terminology. So instead of filing charges in a complaint, you filed allegations in a petition. Instead of being convicted of charges, a juvenile had his petition “sustained.”
Bailey tapped a few keys on her computer to bring up what she’d found. “In Eastlake.”
Eastlake Juvenile Court was just south of downtown, and its proximity to gangland territories meant that it was heavily trafficked by the most heinous offenders. I’d heard they filed more murder cases there than we did in the Criminal Courts Building, which explained why the parking lot for court personnel was surrounded by a cement wall that was topped with barbed wire.
“Does it show the disposition?” I asked, meaning what kind of sentence he got.
I had a hunch about this, and I hoped it was wrong.
Bailey frowned at the screen.
“Move over. I know where to look,” I said as I nudged her out of her seat and planted myself in front of her computer.
I’d just started to scroll down when a deep voice that sounded way too close said, “I’m sure it’s just an alarming coincidence that you’re looking into Kit Chalmers’s last case.”
I barely managed to keep from jumping out of the chair. As soon as I could breathe, I half turned around to see who it was. Standing side by side were two clean-cut, solid-looking men dressed in blazers and slacks. Typical FBI-issue.
“Yeah, funny, isn’t it?” I said, forcing a light, offhand tone. I knew very well that if they reported me for sticking my nose into the case after the warning I’d already gotten, I’d be toast. But men in authority are like horses—show fear, and they’ll knock you around; act blasé, and they’ll leave you alone. I wasn’t about to let them know that I could barely hear them over my thudding heartbeat.
The blonder of the two replied, “I’d hate to get a DA fired for insubordination because she didn’t have the smarts to know that ‘recused’ means ‘hands-off.’ ” His tone told me he wouldn’t hate it all that much.
“Well, this DA does know what ‘recused’ means,” I said brightly. “Now it’s your turn: do you know what ‘mind your own fucking business’ means?” I leaned back and smiled winningly.
They didn’t look “won.” Ted and Fred each gave me what was supposed to be a meaningful look—their version of the last word—and walked off.
Bailey folded her arms and tracked the goons’ progress through the squad room with a steely glare. I knew she’d wanted to get into it with them, but that would only have made it a bigger deal. I turned back to the screen and drew long, deep breaths through my nose to slow down my pulse as I scrolled through the court docket. At first the letters wouldn’t settle into recognizable patterns, but after a few seconds the effort to concentrate calmed me down and I was able to make sense of the entries.
By the time of his last arrest, Kit Chalmers had racked up five “sustained petitions.” For a sixth bust as relatively serious as prostitution, I figured he should’ve gotten a camp commitment. Camp is the middle ground between short-term detention hall and the prison facility euphemistically called CYA—California Youth Authority.
But he didn’t get a camp commitment. In fact, he didn’t even get detention-hall time. He got HOP: Home on Probation. A bullshit sentence that was no sentence at all. It basically meant he went home and just had to stay out of trouble—he didn’t even have to report to a probation officer. By all accounts, this was one sweetheart of a deal. Bailey echoed the sentiment when I pointed to the screen to show her what it said under “Disposition.”
She spoke in an incredulous whisper. “And nothing since then?”
I shook my head. I didn’t like what I was seeing, but I continued to scroll down through the page, hoping for some explanation that would take the bad taste out of my mouth.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” Bailey said as I got to the bottom of the page without finding any more information.
“Not quite,” I said softly as I moved the cursor back up the page, look
ing for one last entry.
And there it was, the answer I’d dreaded: Jake’s last assignment before joining the Special Trials Unit two years ago had been deputy in charge of Eastlake Juvenile. The sweetheart deal on Kit’s prostitution bust was given by none other than Jake Pahlmeyer.
12
There was more bad news in this than just the dumping of a prostitution case; a kid like Kit was unlikely to have kept his nose clean for the past two years. Of course, there were innocent explanations, and I’d fight for every one of them. But a low hum of suspicion had begun to thrum in the back of my brain at the fact that there was nothing at all in Kit’s juvenile file since that prostitution bust. And although I may have been the first to connect those dots, I definitely wouldn’t be the last.
Bailey and I sat staring at the screen as we silently absorbed the impact of all this. Then, aware that Feebies Ted and Fred, or God knew who else, could look over our shoulders again at any moment, I pushed back from the desk and let Bailey shut down the program and erase our trail. She worked quickly as I packed up my briefcase. We left the building without saying a word.
It was 5:30 now and the streets were almost empty. When we got to the corner of First and Main, I glanced around to make sure Ted and Fred weren’t hiding behind a lamppost.
Bailey pressed her lips together. “Looks bad, Knight.”
“I still don’t believe it,” I said. But even as the words left my mouth, I knew that rivulets of doubt had begun to seep into my image of Jake.
I stared down the street and watched a battered taxi rattle by, headed for the freeway entrance on Broadway. Above, the black velvet fingers of night were reaching out across the sky, engulfing the last rays of sun, deepening the chill in the air. I shivered under my wool-lined coat and picked up the pace in an effort to get warm, then looked back at Bailey.
“I’m not giving up,” I said, “but I’ll understand completely if you—”