Guilt by Association: A Novel

by Marcia Clark

  Just then, Normie waved a hand outside through the Dutch door and pointed to a pickup truck with a light bar on the roof and signs on both sides that said PALISADES SECURITY—24-HOUR PATROL. The truck drove out through the gates and parked next to the guardhouse. Bailey was out of the car and at the door of the pickup before he got a foot out.

  I watched as she badged the guard, then stepped back to let him get out of the truck while she blocked the door to discourage any fancy evasive moves. I got out and moved into position in the backseat of Bailey’s car.

  Pickelman was about five feet ten, lean, and rangy. His white uniform shirt and black pants hung loosely off his frame. He pushed a greasy hank of dirty-blond hair out of his eyes and peered at Bailey nervously as she pointed to her car. I saw him hesitate briefly, then nod reluctantly and accompany Bailey to the vehicle. She showed him to the front passenger seat and stood behind him as he opened the door and got in. She then returned to the driver’s seat. I sat behind our passenger, my hand on the gun in my purse in case he got “creative.”

  Bailey introduced me. “This is Rachel Knight, the prosecutor on the case.”

  Not wanting to either shake his hand or let go of my gun, I just nodded.

  Pickelman looked over his shoulder and nodded back at me briefly, then turned to Bailey. “I didn’t see nothing that night.”

  “You were on duty, though, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah. So? Lotta guys were on duty. Whyn’t you ax them?” A hint of belligerence creeped into his voice.

  “ ‘Ask.’ It’s ‘ask.’ Not ‘ax,’ ” I said, annoyed. Seriously, it’s a three-letter word. What’s so hard?

  Pickelman looked startled but obediently replied, “Ask.”

  “Because we’re asking you, Duane. Can I call you Duane?” I paused half a beat. “So, Duane, did anything unusual happen during your rounds that night?”

  “Nuh-uh…,” he said, groping for an answer.

  The reaction told me he knew he’d missed his checkpoints. What he didn’t know was whether we’d found out about that.

  “That wasn’t a word, Duane. Did anything unusual happen that night?” I tried again.

  “Not… not that I remember right now. I mean, it’s been a while.” He stumbled over this line, which for him was probably quite a speech.

  “But it was a big night—little girls don’t usually get raped in this hood, from what I hear. So try thinking back. You see anyone on the street near Susan’s house? Any unfamiliar cars?” I asked, hoping he’d take the bait.

  Duane Pickelman frowned, making the “thinking” face that probably never even fooled his kindergarten teacher. Then he shifted to his “oh yeah” face.

  “Yeah, yeah, I think I might’ve seen a white Camaro. I know I seen one around that time, and I remember thinking it was kinda, you know, outta place.”

  I could tell he was proud of this effort.

  “What time was that? Roughly?” I asked.

  Duane screwed up his face even harder, looking like a Cabbage Patch doll but not as cute. “Prob’ly late, like toward midnight. I’m not sure…”

  “You remember where you saw it?”

  “Uh… nuh… I’m not sure,” he said, glancing sideways at Bailey.

  “But it was here in the community, right?”

  “Oh yeah. Yeah, it was here, all right,” he said, looking relieved.

  “Interesting how you remember seeing that, Duane,” I said. “Because, according to the records, you missed all your checkpoints after eleven o’clock that night.”

  Duane blanched so quickly I thought he might faint. His mouth opened and closed silently, then he finally used some good judgment and clamped it shut.

  “Want to explain why you missed those checkpoints, Duane? Now’s your chance.”

  “I… uh… I don’t know. I don’t remember missing ’em…” Duane’s verbal engine ran down again.

  “How about I make it easy on you?” I said. “Why don’t you come downtown with us and give us a saliva and blood sample so we can exclude you? Because, frankly, if you’re not involved and you were just goofing off on the job, it’s no skin off my butt. I won’t tell a soul. That way we can rule you out, and no one will ever know you played hooky.”

  Duane Pickelman’s face settled into a grim expression that told me he’d shut down. He shook his head slowly. “Nuh-uh, not doing it. No.”

  “See, that makes me think you did the rape, Duane. You didn’t do the rape, did you?”

  “I din’t do no rape, no, ma’am. But I’m not taking any tests,” he said, his face set stubbornly, like a toddler determined not to do naptime.

  I couldn’t have scripted it better. I hadn’t expected him to agree, and I couldn’t force anyone to give a DNA sample without a court order. I didn’t know if we could get one either. It was tough to get a judge to sign off on an order to take DNA samples without consent if the donor wasn’t in custody. That pesky Fourth Amendment. But maybe, with Duane’s refusal in pocket, in addition to the fact that he couldn’t explain why he’d missed his checkpoints, a judge might give us the order.

  “Okay, no problem. Then listen up, Duane: better stick around in case we need to talk to you again. Because if we come back and find you’ve beat feet out of here, it’s going to make you look very guilty, and I know you wouldn’t want to look guilty. Right? Duane?”

  Duane continued to peer straight ahead, but I saw his eyes stray to the corners as he gave me a sidelong glance, his nostrils pinched and flaring as two bright-red circles flamed on his cheeks. “I got no reason to run. You can’t prove nothing.”

  I nodded and gave him a cool smile, then pointed to the door. “That’s the spirit. Thanks for your time. Have a nice day.”

  Duane didn’t wait for me to change my mind. He opened the door and vaulted out, then headed into the guardhouse. I wondered what he’d say to Normie.

  I grabbed a spare napkin out of Bailey’s glove compartment and wiped off the seat before getting in, then Bailey drove out.

  “Maybe it’s time for you to break down and get a ‘carry,’ ” she said with a pointed glance at my purse, where my .357 nestled peacefully. “Put your rebel youth behind you,” she said dryly.

  “This is the thanks I get for being your loyal backup? You make me get a permit?”

  “You shoot somebody, I’ve got to do double the paperwork.” Bailey gave me a warning look.

  Paperwork, the scourge of all cops. I had to admit, it would be embarrassing if Bailey had to write me up for illegal weapon possession. And the possibility had grown considerably since I’d become someone’s favorite target. Besides, now that I could count on support from both Bailey and Graden, there was no way I’d get turned down.

  “Fine. Set it up. I’ll get the friggin’ permit,” I said, grouchy with the knowledge that this would mean paperwork for me.

  “You know, a normal person would be glad to do it,” Bailey said. Realizing that meant nothing to me, she shifted gears. “Think Pickelman’s our guy?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he knows who is. Or maybe he’s guilty of something else.”

  “Glad you could narrow it down,” Bailey replied.

  “Always here for ya.”

  33

  We were about two blocks from the Biltmore when my cell phone hummed in my purse. I fished it out absently. “Yep.”

  “Rachel?”

  I recognized Graden’s voice.

  “It is.”

  “I called because I’m in the neighborhood, wanted to say hey…”

  His purposely neutral tone made my ears perk up. Beyond that, neither of us ever said hey, and there was nothing special about him being in the neighborhood, since we both worked in the area. I deduced he was letting me know he wasn’t in a safe place to talk. Likely because the FBI clones Ted and Fred were standing at his shoulder.

  “Can you meet me at the bar?” he asked quietly.

  I would’ve liked to have had a few minutes to pull myself together.
My hair was still a mess, and I was dying to wash the county jail off me. But I knew why he’d called, and I didn’t want to put this off just to spruce up. I’d have to suck it up and let him see the real me.

  “See you in five,” I replied, and hung up.

  I snapped my phone shut and gathered my briefcase and purse. If I ran, I could make it to my room in time to spray on some cologne and run a comb through my hair. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. I was calculating how long it would take to run for the elevator and get up to my room when Bailey broke in.

  She must have heard it was Graden on the phone, because as she pulled to the curb, she turned and gave me the once-over. “I’d get to a mirror if I were you.”

  I jumped out of the car, saying, “I’ll call you later.”

  I ran for the door as Bailey peeled out. Some big meeting had just concluded, and a group of office workers crowded the entrance. I mentally groaned with frustration as I slowly wove my way through them. I trotted across the lobby and hurriedly pushed the elevator button, facing its brass doors to shield myself from the public eye. Unfortunately the polished doors gave me a full-on view of my reflection. My mascara had run into circles under my eyes, my hair hung in limp, scraggly clumps, and I’d managed to smudge the collar of my blouse with… who knows what. It couldn’t have been food—my hollow stomach told me that much. The sign above the elevator told me it had just stopped on the second floor. And then, of course, the inevitable happened.

  “Rachel, hey,” Graden said as he came up beside me and touched my arm.

  I fought down the wild urge to run and made myself turn to him and smile coolly. “Hey.”

  He looked at me, and a smile tugged at his lips. “You’ve had quite a day.”

  “What makes you say that?” When in doubt, brazen it out.

  He chuckled. “I’m betting you wanted to clean up before I got here.”

  Busted, I felt no need to state the obvious. I sighed in defeat.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll order the drinks.”

  I made my way up to my room, repaired what I could quickly, and slid into the booth across from him just ten minutes later. Two icy martinis sat invitingly in the middle of the table. I saw that Graden’s was still untouched.

  He nodded toward the drinks. “Nice timing. They just got here. I knew you cleaned up well, but I didn’t know you did it that fast,” he said with an appreciative glance at my combed hair and change of blouse.

  Before he could ask about my day and force me into a lie I didn’t have prepared, I quickly changed the subject. “You’ve still got the Feds breathing down your neck?”

  “Oh yeah. They want to get the credit for solving this one, so they’re here to stay until the case gets cleared.”

  “You still working on it with them, or have they shut you out?”

  “They’re not ready to dump me just yet. If they get rid of me and then get stuck, they’ll look bad. So we’re doing a little dance where they try to hoard all the toys and squeeze me for ideas,” Graden said, shaking his head.

  “Does that mean you can’t…?”

  Graden cracked the smallest of smiles. “No, it means you should be impressed at how I overcame these obstacles to slay your dragon.”

  I felt something tickle my right knee under the table and looked down to see that it was a small manila envelope. He’d managed to get the photograph of Kit Chalmers that had been found on Jake. I took it and gingerly slid it into my purse.

  “Don’t worry, it’s already been processed for prints and all,” Graden assured me.

  I looked at him with gratitude. “I am impressed. I can’t thank you enough, Graden. I know this was risky.”

  “It was. But it was worth it. I can’t say what the Feds are doing, but I can say this much: the more I see the way they’re pursuing this, the more I think it’s a good thing that you’re looking into it yourself.”

  I took in this sobering information. Whatever hope I’d had that the FBI would look beyond the obvious and possibly find an innocent explanation for Jake’s presence in that motel room evaporated in that moment. It was all on me now. Me and Bailey.

  “I’ll do whatever I can, Rachel. But you’ve got to be careful. You get caught, and you’ll be lucky if all you lose is your job.”

  Disbarment, possible arrest for obstruction… those were the least of my worries, after having my car savaged and getting shot at and kidnapped. But I decided this probably wasn’t the best time to tell him that. Instead, I proposed a toast.

  “To my new career in ostrich farming.”

  We clinked glasses carefully and sipped our martinis. I filled Graden in on the fact that we’d been able to eliminate Luis Revelo as the rapist—though of course I didn’t tell him about our visit to Bauchet Street. And I told him about our contact with Duane Pickelman, who was starting to look good for the rape.

  “You’ve got tabs on him, right?” Graden asked when I’d finished telling him about Duane’s refusal to come in for DNA tests.

  “As much as we can. Bailey’s getting the court order as we speak.”

  Graden nodded, though he didn’t look all that hopeful. He wasn’t wrong—getting a judge to authorize forcible testing on someone who hadn’t been arrested yet was no easy thing. But I didn’t want to make that arrest until I was damn sure I had the right guy. The defense always loves to tell the jury about all the people we arrested and had to release before we finally landed on his client. It doesn’t look great, to put it mildly.

  From there, we segued into judges we did and didn’t like, which of course took us to Toni and J.D. and how much we admired them, singly and as a couple.

  “He was a great guy on the force too,” Graden remarked. “I wish I knew what his problem was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With Toni. I know he’s really into her, but he never manages to pull the trigger.” Graden shook his head, confused.

  “I figured it was a commitment-phobia thing on both sides.”

  “Uh, I think maybe on just one side.”

  I looked at Graden quizzically.

  “I think she’s commitment-phobic. He’s afraid to get turned down.”

  “Seriously? Are you sure about that?”

  Graden shrugged. “In my experience, women tend to think men are commitment-challenged when the truth is, we’re a lot more willing to settle down than most women are.”

  This conversation had taken an unexpectedly serious—and uncomfortable—turn. My own uneasiness with the topic forced me to consider the possibility that he was right. I had to admit that the moment any man wanted me to say I wouldn’t see anyone else, I felt the walls closing in. That moment had led to the death of more than one relationship. At least it had until Daniel. I caught myself midrumination and realized that Graden was waiting for a reaction.

  “They do say that single women are a lot happier than single men,” I joked, tossing back my drink.

  He acknowledged my deft evasion with a small smile. “Another one?”

  I looked into my glass. “This one does seem to be empty.”

  We moved on to lighter topics, including my intention to get a gun permit, and we chatted and laughed companionably as customers came and went. Graden walked me to the elevator.

  “By the way, I’ll approve your permit,” he said.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I am confident… that you’ll carry anyway,” Graden replied, chuckling.

  I laughed my acknowledgment, and he joined me. I didn’t feel a pressing need to tell him I’d been carrying all along.

  The elevator dinged its arrival, and when the door opened, I put out my hand to hold it there.

  “Thank you,” I said on a more serious note. “For everything.”

  He looked into my eyes for a moment. “Any time,” he replied softly.

  Back in the room, unsure whether I was buzzed from that look or the two martinis, I watched some television th
en showered and fell into bed early. The possibility of a serious relationship with Graden floated luminously in the distance. Whether it would materialize—whether I even wanted it to—was unclear. Too tired to ponder the question further, I closed my eyes and was asleep within minutes.

  34

  When I awoke the next morning, I uncharacteristically popped straight up, jangling with a sense of urgency. There was something I had to do right away. What was it? I got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face.

  Then I remembered. I quickly threw on some jeans and a sweater, grabbed my laptop and purse, and ran out to the elevator. I got off at the second floor and went straight to the corporate office of the hotel.

  “Zoey, do you mind if I use your scanner for a quick minute?” I said.

  Zoey was not exactly who you’d expect to see in the corporate office of a huge hotelier. She’d been born in the ’60s, so hippies were an artifact by the time she was old enough to become one. Undaunted, Zoey wore colored granny glasses and dressed in wide, colorful skirts, sandals, and beads. Incense always seemed to circle the air around her long hair. Zoey never walked; she flowed like a babbling brook—everything about her was mellow. Yet she managed to run the office like a Swiss clock. It was an act of legerdemain: she moved at warp speed while appearing to stand still.

  Zoey looked over the top of her granny glasses. “Sure, man, help yourself. Want me to show you?”

  “No, that’s cool. I know how.”

  I went over to the scanner and prepared all the settings, then slipped the photograph of Kit onto the platen, closed the cover, and hooked up my computer. Within seconds, I’d captured the image, stuck the photograph back into my purse, and disconnected.

  Zoey was on the telephone, so I mouthed my thanks. She waved, and I headed back to my room. I quickly opened my laptop; drafted an e-mail to Clive, my vigilante buddy; and attached Kit’s picture.