by Marcia Clark
I remembered. It was a heartrending case that even the shooters were ashamed of. “From what I remember, your expert clinched the case for first-degree murder, didn’t he?”
Graden nodded. “The defense couldn’t touch him. He’s top-of-the-line. I slipped him the autopsy and crime scene reports on Jake and Kit, and asked him to tell me what he thought of the FBI’s murder-suicide theory.”
“And?” I asked, afraid to breathe.
“He said the angle of entry and the wound track in Jake’s head are off. No way Jake’s death was a suicide.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding in a big whoosh as relief washed through me. “And if Jake was shot by someone else, it’s much less likely that Jake killed Kit. Which means it’s much less likely he was being blackmailed by Kit.” I paused to consider the significance of what Graden had just told me. “Your man would testify to that?”
Graden nodded. “He’s solid on this one.”
I sat down heavily, yet I’d never felt lighter. “Thank you.” I looked at him gratefully. “Seriously.”
“No, I should be the one to thank you. If you hadn’t pushed for a deeper look, I might not have gotten into it. And who knows what the Feds would’ve done? So thank you for saving us all from making a big mistake,” Graden said.
“As much as I hate to say it, Kit could still have been blackmailing Jake. It might just mean that there’s a third party involved in the mess,” I said.
“We can’t rule that out. But nixing the murder-suicide theory isn’t a bad start.”
That much was certainly true.
“I think I’m ready for some more of that weird candy now,” I said.
Graden poured some into my palm, took a little for himself, and closed the M&M’s in his hand. He held that hand out to me, and we bumped candy-filled fists.
“To a pretty good day,” he said.
“To that.” I popped the candy into my mouth and thought it didn’t taste so bad after all.
41
Graden dropped me back at the Biltmore. Hoping I was on a good-news roll, I hurried to my room, eager to get to my computer and see if I’d heard from Clive Zorn. I logged on. Nothing. I could feel our suspect slip farther out of reach by the minute. Impatient, I looked at my watch. It was a little after 9:00, not too late to call Bailey.
“Got anything on our AB guy?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she replied.
I was silent as I considered our next move. “The jerk may not show up in the database, and I don’t like losing all this time. Why don’t we push his picture around and see if anyone recognizes him? Hit all of Densmore’s health centers? If we’re right about his involvement in the rape, I want to figure out how he wound up targeting Susan.”
“I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning,” Bailey said. “Seven thirty a.m. sharp. Be on time.”
I hung up and took a hot shower to calm my nerves. That didn’t work, so I opened a bottle of pinot noir. That worked a little better. I took an insomnia-curing murder-mystery novel to bed with my glass of wine. Before I knew it, I’d dropped off to sleep.
The next morning, I woke up feeling claustrophobic. I panicked for a second, then realized the book was spread open on my face. I tossed it onto the bed and went to take another long, steamy shower. After a quick blow-dry and makeup job, I dressed comfortably in wool slacks and a turtleneck. It was going to be a long day in the field.
“You’ve got the addresses of all Densmore’s clinics—excuse me, I mean ‘health centers’?” I asked Bailey as I buckled myself into the passenger seat. I handed her one of the coffees I’d purchased in the café downstairs.
“No.”
“Oh good. Then we’re just going to drive around and hope one happens to appear?” I asked. Morning is not my specialty. Bailey knows this and loves to take advantage of my weakened condition.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Knight. No one would do that,” she deadpanned.
See?
Refusing to be baited any further, I folded my arms and waited for the answer as we crawled through morning rush-hour traffic toward the freeway entrance.
“We’re going to the main office in Beverly Hills. The administrator’s going to be there, and she’ll give us the list.”
“I don’t suppose you could’ve told me that to begin with,” I said. The answer was obvious, so Bailey didn’t bother. We drove on in silence.
The Beverly Hills Children’s Health Center was located on a leafy drive unimaginatively called Elm Street, in the area known as the “flats.” The homes were charming and extremely well tended, but they weren’t the palatial manses to the north that the city was famous for.
When we entered the one-story building, there were only a few children waiting. Two of them were sitting on their mommies’ laps, and one was lying on the floor, coloring a Little Mermaid book. None of them looked particularly sick to me, but kids are pretty tough.
Bailey and I walked over to the small reception area, and a youngish woman with a blond ponytail and pink lips looked up. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Bailey pulled out her badge. “We’re here to see the office administrator, Evelyn Durrell.”
The girl’s eyes widened momentarily when she saw the badge. “I’ll just go tell her you’re here,” she said. She got up and quickly disappeared into the clinic. Badges can be helpful.
Seconds later, the ponytailed girl emerged. In her wake was a woman of medium build, about Bailey’s height, with short brown hair and glasses pushed on top of her head, sporting a nubby cardigan and slacks. She came out to the reception desk and motioned us in as she buzzed the door. When we entered, she held out her hand.
“Evelyn Durrell.”
Her tone was curt, her movements direct, economical, and graceless.
“Bailey Keller,” Bailey said as they shook hands.
“Rachel Knight,” I said. We shook briefly. Her grip was firm, her hand cold. On closer inspection, I saw that the hair pushed behind her ears was gray at the roots. Her makeup was spare but tasteful: it emphasized hazel eyes—her best feature—and minimized thin, pinched-looking lips. In short, she looked like the office administrator she was—and one who’d probably begun her career as a nurse.
Evelyn got right down to business.
“You wanted a list of Dr. Densmore’s clinics, correct?” she asked.
Bailey and I nodded. Evelyn lowered her glasses and held out a piece of paper, then pointed to the first entry with a pencil.
“He’s got six, including this one: the Palisades, Brentwood, Sherman Oaks, Calabasas, and Hollywood—but he hasn’t been to the Hollywood clinic in quite a while.” She handed us the list. “What else can I do for you?”
“You can tell us where Dr. Densmore will be today,” Bailey said.
“I believe he’ll be in the Palisades center.” Evelyn looked at us over her glasses. “Is that it?”
“Just one more thing,” Bailey said. “Have you seen this man around any of the clinics?”
She held out the picture of the AB guy. Evelyn took it and studied it a moment, then handed it back.
“No, I can’t say that I have,” she said slowly. “Why? You think he’s the one who raped Susan?” she asked, her tone alarmed.
“We don’t know yet. This is just one of several avenues we’re checking into,” I replied.
“Mind if I ask your receptionist?” Bailey said.
“Go right ahead,” Evelyn answered. “But… you’re not going to show that picture to the patients’ parents, are you?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Bailey reassured her.
I thanked Evelyn for her help while Bailey went over to the receptionist. When I joined them, the girl’s eyes got even wider. She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before,” she said.
Or anyone like him, I was sure. We said good-bye and drove to the Brentwood health center, where we met with similar results.
“Be easy to head out to the Palisades
from here,” Bailey said.
“It would,” I agreed.
She turned onto Sunset, taking the scenic route, and I watched as we rolled past pretty people, nice cars, and palm trees.
We found the Palisades health center. It was just where Evelyn said it would be. And we found Densmore there—just where she’d said he would be. That Evelyn was one organized administrator.
Bailey showed the AB guy’s photograph around, but no one recognized him. Densmore was in a meeting and wouldn’t be out for another couple of hours, so we said we’d be back later and headed for his gated community instead. Now that we had a photograph, maybe one of the guards would remember seeing him.
Luckily cop-groupie Norman Chernow was on duty.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” he said cheerily, smiling and nodding at Bailey.
What was I, chopped liver? I had a badge too. Maybe I should’ve shown it to him. Maybe I should’ve shown him my gun too.
“Have you seen this guy around here?” Bailey said. She handed him the photograph.
Norman held it close to his face and squinted. “No, doesn’t look familiar to me. Want me to ask the other guards?”
“That’s okay, Norm. I’ll do it,” Bailey said diplomatically.
It was as important to watch the guards’ reactions as it was to hear what they had to say. If someone flinched, then claimed to know nothing, we’d need to dig further. We parked and went into the guardhouse to query the other two guards. Unfortunately they didn’t so much as bat an eyelash when they said they hadn’t seen him. Damn.
“Mind if we go on up and ask around the neighborhood?” Bailey said.
“Sure, absolutely, Detective,” Norman said. He leaned in toward Bailey conspiratorially. “Tell you the truth, these guys aren’t like us,” he said, tilting his head toward the guardhouse. “They don’t work too hard, if you know what I mean.”
Norman hadn’t left much to decipher in that statement. Bailey assured him she did know what he meant, and Norman opened the gates. We drove through and headed up the hill.
“Now what, Detective?” I asked sarcastically. “We going to door-knock everyone in the hood?”
“Do I hear a note of jealousy?” Bailey asked with a superior smirk.
“No,” I lied. “But when he sees that my badge is bigger than yours, he’ll say, ‘Detective who?’ ” I replied smugly.
We pulled up to the Densmores’ house. “Seriously, we can’t knock on every door,” I said as we got out of the car. “What’s your plan?”
“Let’s hit Mom and Susan. They should both be home by now,” Bailey said. “By the time we’re done with them, I’ll have a plan.”
42
Bailey rang the bell at the Densmore manse, and this time Janet herself answered the door. Must be the maid’s day off. We exchanged the requisite pleasantries, and Janet ushered us in.
We told her why we were there and showed her the photograph. She took it and frowned. “I’ve never seen this man, and I’m sure I’d remember if I had.” She handed the photograph back to Bailey, her expression puzzled. “What on earth could he be doing in this neighborhood?” she asked. Then she heard her own words and looked down. If we were showing her his picture, it was pretty obvious what he might’ve been doing in this neighborhood. “Let me call Susan.” Janet pulled a cell phone out of the pocket of her khaki pants and punched in a number.
Seeing her make the call, I thought maybe Susan wasn’t home after all. Then I reminded myself that in a house this big, you couldn’t just yell and expect anyone to hear you.
Seconds later, Susan appeared in faded and torn jeans and a gray T-shirt with a zippered pocket on the chest. I estimated that worn-down-looking ensemble cost more than three hundred dollars. But Susan looked like a million bucks. Though I’d heard the elation in her voice when I’d told her Luis was in the clear, seeing her now gave me visible proof of just how much that news had meant to her. I felt fairly certain that the relaxed demeanor and easy smile I saw today wasn’t just a return to the “old” Susan; it was the emergence of a new, more confident Susan. One who’d proven not only that she was right but that Daddy could be wrong. Maybe something good had come of this tragedy after all.
“Hey, Susan,” I said. “How’re you doing?”
“Okay,” she said in a tone more buoyant than I’d ever heard before.
I asked her about school and we chatted for a moment, then I got to the point.
“We’re working on another lead. Would you mind looking at a photograph and telling us whether you’ve ever seen this man before?”
Susan paused at first, but then she lifted her chin. “I don’t mind,” she said. Her brave expression made me feel proud and sad at the same time.
Bailey handed the photograph to her, and I watched her take a deep breath before looking at it. She peered down, then blinked twice as her brow furrowed. “I don’t recognize him at all,” she said. She looked at the photograph again, then shook her head and handed it back to Bailey. “I’ve never seen that guy.”
Bailey and I glanced briefly at each other. No dissembling here—they really didn’t know the guy. I couldn’t say I was surprised.
We said we’d let them know what developed and headed back to the car.
“Now what?” I asked Bailey.
She shrugged. “We look around, I guess.”
“That’s it? That’s your plan?”
“You got a better one?”
I thought for a moment and looked up and down the street. Bailey stood on the driver’s side of the car, key in hand. I spoke to her over the hood.
“If our boy was in this neighborhood, doesn’t it stand to reason that someone who’s out on the street a lot would’ve been the most likely to see him?” I asked.
“Yeah. But that doesn’t mean squat to the two geniuses we found in the guardhouse,” she said acidly.
“They’re just two guys who roam all over the hood. I say we look near the Densmores’ house and see who’s floating around.”
“And just hope to get lucky?” Bailey said derisively.
“You got a better idea?”
She shook her head.
We moved down the street and found three gardeners who deciphered enough of my broken Spanish to understand that they should tell us if they recognized the man in the photograph. They shook their heads. No luck. Two nannies strolling their babies together. “No, no. Don’t see him here.” Three more nannies walking dogs. The nannies were happy for the chance to take a break, the dogs less so. But again, nothing.
Then I spotted a lithe young woman in spandex pants and a matching midriff-baring spandex top. She was running backward in front of a stringy older man, whom she was exhorting to “keep up the pace” and “pump those arms.” She had a perfect tan and the kind of body bikinis were made for. I wanted to stick my foot out and trip her. I looked at Bailey, who nodded at me, and we headed in her direction. The woman’s sun visor and glasses blocked a view of her face and eyes, so I couldn’t tell if she saw us approach. But if she did, it didn’t faze her. She kept barking orders as though she and the old man were the only two people on earth.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Bailey said, using her cop voice. That got the woman’s attention. She paused and looked at us, an annoyed expression on her face.
Then Bailey pulled out her badge. “LAPD. We’re investigating a crime. Could we have a few moments of your time?”
The woman’s expression changed from annoyed to perplexed, but she stopped and the older man looked at us gratefully. He leaned forward, hands on thighs, and took the chance to catch his breath.
“Can you tell us whether you’ve seen this person in the neighborhood?” Bailey handed the photograph to the man first.
He looked at it while he continued to wheeze. His mouth turned down, and he shook his head. “Nope.” He handed the photograph back to Bailey. “This about that little girl who got raped?”
Bailey ignored him and gave the picture
to the trainer.
She took it and lifted her sunglasses to get a closer look. She frowned at first, then nodded. “Yeah, he looks familiar. I’ve seen him around, though I don’t know who he was visiting. I remember thinking he looked… wrong, you know?”
We sure did. Bailey took the trainer’s information. Her name was Miley Barone, and she was also a life coach. Of course she was.
“How many times did you see him?” I asked.
“Not a whole bunch. Three? Maybe four?” Miley guessed. “He mighta been here more than that, though, and I just didn’t see. I’m up here a lot, but I work all over the neighborhood.”
“Do you remember when you last saw him here?” I asked.
“Maybe two or three weeks ago. I think I was working with Sookie Tuckman.”
Two or three weeks ago. Likely just before the rape.
“Where does Ms. Tuckman live?” I asked.
“On Briar Court, about two blocks from here.” She pointed in the direction of the address.
Bailey and I exchanged looks. That was just one block away from where the Densmores lived.
Bailey got Miley to list the names of her clients in the neighborhood and promised not to let them know that Miley had been the source. The trainer didn’t seem to realize that the older man might be her bigger problem, but I decided not to point this out. We thanked Miley and her client for their time and left. As Miley barked out, “Let’s go!” the man looked back at us wistfully, then slowly cranked himself up to a slow trot, his expression grim.
We waited until we were in the car to high-five.
“Let’s see, whose idea was it to walk the hood?” I crowed, rubbing it in.
“Mine,” Bailey replied. She drove out through the gates, and I looked over at her.
“I swear, I will push you down,” I threatened.
“Try it, Knight. We’ll see what happens.” Bailey grinned. She had at least three inches and some considerable muscle on me.
“But I will have the element of surprise on my side, grasshopper.”
We laughed, and within a few minutes we were back at the Palisades Health Center for Children. This time, Densmore was waiting for us. Impatiently.