The Gods of Guilt mh-5

by Michael Connelly

  “Might as well save the dough,” I told Cisco. “Pull ’em off. They weren’t much in the early-warning department anyway.”

  “You want us to pull the GPS off the car, too?”

  I thought about that for a moment and my plans for the next day. I decided I wanted to taunt Marco, show him I was unbowed by his little visit and unspoken threat.

  “No, leave it. For now.”

  “Okay, Mick. And for what it’s worth, the guys are really sorry.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I gotta go.”

  I disconnected. I had noticed out the windshield that Earl was cutting through Beverly Hills on Little Santa Monica Boulevard on the way to my house. I was starved and knew we were coming up on Papa Jake’s, a hole-in-the-wall lunch counter that made the best steak sandwich west of Philadelphia. I had not been there since the nearby Beverly Hills Superior Court was shuttered in the state budget crisis, and I had lost business that would bring me to the area. But in the meantime I had developed a Legal Siegel — type craving for a Jake steak with grilled onions and pizzaiola sauce.

  “Earl,” I said. “We’re going to make a stop for lunch up here. And if that DEA agent is still following, he’s about to learn the best-kept secret in Beverly Hills.”

  23

  After the late lunch, I was through for the day. My calendar was clear and I had no further appointments. I considered heading back downtown and seeing if I could line up a visit with Andre La Cosse to go over some things related to the upcoming trial. But the occurrences of the past few hours — from Legal Siegel’s lecture to the meet with Sly Jr. and the surprise visit from Marco — led me toward home. I’d had enough for the time being.

  I had Earl drive to the loft so he could get his care where he had left it after coming in for the staff meeting. I then drove home, stopping only long enough to change into clothes more appropriate to hiking through the wilds of Fryman Canyon. It had been a long while since I’d seen my daughter in the goal at practice. I knew from the school’s online newsletter that there were only a few weeks left in the season and the team was getting ready for the state tournament. I decided to go over the hill to watch and maybe escape from thoughts on the La Cosse case for a while.

  But escape was delayed — at least on the ride up Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Jennifer called me back and told me she had received my message and my direction to step back from the search on Marco.

  “I’d asked for some court files on other ICE cases because the stuff on PACER seemed incomplete,” she explained. “I bet one of those counter clerks called him and told him.”

  “Anything’s possible. So just stick with Moya for now.”

  “Got it.”

  “Can you get me whatever you’ve got by the end of the day? I’ve got a long drive up to the prison tomorrow and I could use the reading material.”

  “Will do…”

  There was a hesitancy about the way she said it. As though there was something else she wanted to say.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess I am still wondering if we are going the right way with this. Moya is a better target for us than the DEA.”

  I knew what she meant. Casting suspicion on Moya in the upcoming trial would be a lot easier and possibly more fruitful than throwing the light on a federal agent. Aronson was getting at the fine line between seeking the truth and seeking a verdict in your client’s favor. They weren’t always the same thing.

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “But sometimes you gotta go with your instincts, and mine tell me this is the way to go. If I’m right, the truth shall set Andre free.”

  “I hope so.”

  I could tell she was not convinced or something else was bothering her.

  “You okay with this?” I asked. “If not, I can handle it and you just deal with the other clients.”

  “No, I’m fine. It’s just a little weird, you know? Things are upside down.”

  “What things?”

  “You know, the good guys might be the bad guys. And the bad guy up in prison might be our best hope.”

  “Yeah, weird.”

  I ended the call by reminding her to get the summaries of her research to me before I hit the road to Victorville the next morning. She promised she would and we said good-bye.

  Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the parking lot at the top of Fryman Canyon. I grabbed the binoculars out of the glove box, locked the car, and made my way down the trail. I then left the beaten path to get to my observation spot. Only when I got there, the rock I had positioned had been moved, and it looked like someone had been using the spot, possibly to sleep at night. The tall grass was matted down in a pattern that would fit a sleeping bag. I looked carefully around to make sure I was alone and moved the rock back to the way I’d had it.

  Down below, soccer practice was just getting under way. I put the binoculars to my eyes and started checking out the north net. The goalkeeper had red hair in a ponytail. It wasn’t Hayley. I checked the other net, and there was another goalkeeper but she wasn’t my daughter either. I wondered if she had switched positions and started scanning the field. I checked each player but still didn’t see her. No number 7.

  I let the binoculars hang from my neck and pulled my phone out. I called my ex-wife’s work number at the Van Nuys Division of the District Attorney’s Office. The pool secretary put me on hold and then came back and told me Maggie McPherson was unavailable because she was in court. I knew this was not correct, because Maggie was a filing deputy. She was never in court anymore — one of the many things I was held responsible for in the relationship, if it could still be called a relationship.

  I tried her cell next, even though she had instructed me never to call the cell during work hours unless it was an emergency. She did take this call.

  “Michael?”

  “Where’s Hayley?”

  “What do you mean, she’s at home. I just talked to her.”

  “Why isn’t she at soccer practice?”

  “What?”

  “Soccer practice. She’s not there. Is she hurt or sick?”

  There was a pause, and in it I knew I was about to learn something that as a father I should have already known.

  “She’s fine. She quit soccer more than a month ago.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Well, she was getting more into riding and she couldn’t do both and keep up with her schoolwork. So she quit. I thought I told you. I sent you an e-mail.”

  Thanks to the multitude of legal associations I belonged to and the many incarcerated clients who had my e-mail address, I had more than ten thousand messages sitting in my e-mail file. The messages I had cleared earlier in the day while in the DA’s waiting room represented only the tip of the iceberg. So many were unread that I knew there could have been an e-mail about this, but I usually didn’t miss messages from Maggie or my daughter. Still, I wasn’t on firm enough ground to argue the point, so I moved on.

  “You mean horse riding?”

  “Yes, hunter-jumper. She goes to the L.A. Equestrian Center near Burbank.”

  Now I had to pause. I was embarrassed that I knew so little about what was going on in my daughter’s life. It didn’t matter that it had not been my choice to be shut out. I was the father and it was my fault regardless.

  “Michael, listen, I was going to tell you this at a better time but I might as well tell you now so I know you got the message. I’ve taken another job, and we’re going to move to Ventura County this summer.”

  The second impact on a one-two punch combination is supposed to land harder. And this one did.

  “When did this happen? What job?”

  “I told them here yesterday. I’m giving a month’s notice, then I’ll take a month off to look for a place and get everything ready. Hayley’s going to finish the school year here. Then we’ll move.”

  Ventura was the next county up the coast. Depending on where they moved to, Maggie and my daughter would be
anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half away. There were some distances even within Los Angeles County that could take longer to travel because of traffic. But still, they might as well have been moving to Germany.

  “What job are you taking?”

  “It’s with the Ventura DA’s Office. I’m starting a Digital Crime Unit. And I’ll be back in court again.”

  And of course it all came back on me. My losing the election had dismantled her career at the L.A. County DA’s Office. For an agency charged with the fair and equal enforcement of the laws of the state, the place was one of the most political bureaucracies in the county. Maggie McPherson had backed me in the election. When I lost, she lost, too. As soon as Damon Kennedy took the reins, she was transferred out of a courtroom and into the divisional office, where she filed cases other deputies would take to trial. In a way she got lucky. She could’ve gotten worse. One deputy who introduced me at an election rally when I was the front-runner ended up with a transfer out to the courtroom in the Antelope Valley jail.

  Like Maggie, he quit. And I understood why Maggie would quit. I also understood that she would not be able to cross the aisle to defense work or take a slot in a corporate law firm. She was a dyed-in-the-wool prosecutor and there was no choice about what she would do — it was only where she would do it. In that regard I knew that I should be happy that she was merely moving to a neighboring county and not up to San Francisco or Oakland or down to San Diego.

  “So where are you going to look out there?”

  “Well, the job is in the City of Ventura, so either there or not too far from it. I’d like to look at Ojai but it might be too expensive. I’m thinking Hayley would fit in real well with the riding.”

  Ojai was a crunchy, New Agey village in a mountain valley in the northern county. Years back, before we had our daughter, Maggie and I used to go there on weekends. There was even a chance our daughter was conceived there.

  “So… this riding is not a passing thing?”

  “It could be. You never know. But she’s fully engaged for now. We leased a horse for six months. With an option to buy.”

  I shook my head. This was painful. Never mind my ex-wife, but Hayley had told me none of this.

  “I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “I know this is tough on you. I want you to know that I don’t encourage it. No matter what is going on with us, I think she should have a relationship with her father. I really mean that and that’s what I tell her.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. I stood up off the rock. I wanted to get out of there and go home.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked.

  “What is it?”

  I realized that I was improvising, running with a half-formed idea that had sprung from my grief and desire to somehow win my daughter back.

  “There’s a trial coming up,” I said. “I want her to come.”

  “You’re talking about this pimp you’re representing? Michael, no, I don’t want her to sit through that. Besides, she has school.”

  “He’s innocent.”

  “Really? Are you trying to play me like a jury now?”

  “No, I mean it. Innocent. He didn’t do it, and I’m going to prove it. If Hay could be there, maybe—”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think about it. There’s school, and I don’t want her taking time off. There’s also the move.”

  “Come for the verdict. Both of you.”

  “Look, I have to get going. The cops are stacking up around here.”

  Cops waiting in the office to file their cases.

  “Okay, but think about it.”

  “All right, I will. I’ve got to go now.”

  “Wait — one last thing. Can you e-mail me a picture of Hayley on the horse? I’d just like to see it.”

  “Sure. I will.”

  She disconnected after that and I stared down at the soccer field for a few moments, replaying the conversation and trying to compute all the news about my daughter. I thought about what Legal Siegel had told me about moving on past guilt. I realized that some things were easier said than done, and some things were impossible.

  24

  At seven p.m. that night I walked down the hill and over to the little market at the base of Laurel Canyon. I called for a cab and waited fifteen minutes, reading the community notices on the corkboard out front. The cab took me over the hill and down into the Valley. I had the driver drop me on Ventura Boulevard by Coldwater Canyon. From there I walked the last five blocks to Flex, arriving at the yoga studio shortly before eight.

  Kendall Roberts was busy with closing duties at the front counter. Her hair was tied up in a knot on top of her head and there was a pencil stuck through it. The students from the last class were filing out, rolled rubber mats under their arms. I stepped in, got her attention, and asked if I could speak with her after she locked up. She hesitated. I had not told her I was coming by.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  “I taught four classes back-to-back. I’m starved.”

  “Have you ever been to Katsuya down the street here? It’s pretty good. It’s sushi, if you like that.”

  “I love sushi, but I haven’t been there.”

  “Why don’t I go down, get a table, and you come when you’re finished here?”

  She hesitated again, as though she was still trying to figure out my motives.

  “It won’t be a late night,” I promised.

  She finally nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll see you there. It might be fifteen minutes. I need to freshen up.”

  “Take your time. You like sake?”

  “Love it.”

  “Hot or cold?”

  “Uh, cold.”

  “See you there.”

  I walked down Ventura and stepped into Katsuya, only to find the place crowded with sushi enthusiasts. There were no tables available, but I secured two stools at the sushi bar. I ordered the sake and some cucumber salad and pulled out my phone as I began the wait for Kendall.

  My ex-wife had come through with an e-mailed photo of my daughter and her horse. The shot showed Hayley with the horse’s face leaning over her shoulder from behind. The animal was black with a white lightning-bolt stripe running down its long nose. Both girl and horse were gorgeous. I was proud, but seeing the photo only added to my hurt at the news about the impending move to Ventura County.

  I switched over to the message app and composed a text to my daughter. She read her e-mails only once or twice a week and I knew that if I wanted to get a message through without delay I needed to text.

  I told her that her mother had sent me the photo of her and her horse and that I was proud of her for pursuing riding the way she was. I also said I had heard about the impending move and that I was sorry she’d be so far away but that I understood. I asked her if I could watch her take a lesson on the horse and left it at that. I sent it off into the air and foolishly thought I might get an answer soon after my phone reported the message delivered. But nothing came back.

  I was about to compose another text, asking if she got the first, when Kendall suddenly appeared at the open stool next to me. I put the phone in my pocket as I stood up to greet her, successfully avoiding the embarrassment that second text would have brought me.

  “Hi,” Kendall said cheerfully.

  She had changed clothes at the studio and was wearing blue jeans and a peasant shirt. Her hair was down and she looked great.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  She kissed me on the cheek as she squeezed by me and onto the stool. It was unexpected but nice. I poured her a cup of sake and we toasted and tasted. I watched her face for a negative reaction to the sake but she accepted my selection.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m good. I had a good day. What about you? Kind of a surprise to see you come in the studio tonight.”

  “Yeah, well, I need to talk to you about something, but
let’s order first.”

  We studied the sushi list together and Kendall checked off three different variations on spicy tuna, while I went with California and cucumber rolls. Before the election I had started taking my daughter to Katsuya as her palate grew sophisticated and Wednesday-night pancakes stopped being an attraction. Of course my food interests were stunted compared to hers, and I could never wrap my mind around the idea of uncooked fish. But there were always plenty of other things to eat for the nonadventurous.

  Sake was another story. Hot or cold I liked it. I was into my third cup by the time one of the sushi chefs finally leaned over and took our order. I think the quick draw on the drink was in part due to my reason for being there and the conversation I felt obligated to have with Kendall.

  “So what’s up?” she said after expertly using a pair of chopsticks to sample the cucumber salad I had previously ordered. “This is like last night — you didn’t have to come all the way out to see me.”

  “No, I wanted to see you,” I said. “But I also need to talk to you more about this case with Moya and Marco, the DEA agent.”

  She frowned.

  “Please don’t tell me I have to go there and talk to that lawyer.”

  “No, nothing like that. There’s no depo and I’ll make sure it stays that way. But something else came up today.”

  I paused as I still had not formulated how I wanted to approach her with this.

  “Well, what is it?” she prompted.

  “The case is kind of dicey because of the people involved. You’ve got Moya up there in prison and then you have Marco, the DEA agent, down here, trying to protect himself and his cases. And in the middle of this, you have what happened to Gloria and then my client, who they charged with her killing but I don’t think did it. So a lot of moving parts in this and then this morning I found out that there’s a tracker on my car.”

  “What do you mean? What’s a tracker?”

  “Like a GPS thing. It means somebody’s tracking me. They know what moves I’m making — at least by car.”