The Competition

by Marcia Clark

  After an hour or so with no new discoveries, we bagged up Otis’s laptop and binder and headed back to the station. On the way, Bailey called Nick and told him to meet us at her desk in thirty minutes.

  Even at this hour, traffic was fairly heavy. We moved slowly down the southbound 101 freeway and I stared at the river of red taillights that stretched out before us. “Remember how everyone hammered the parents after Columbine?”

  “Yeah,” Bailey said. “About how they didn’t know what their kids were up to, making pipe bombs and buying guns?”

  “That part never surprised me. A kid can hide things like that even if the parents routinely toss his room—which most don’t.”

  “Wait, I thought Harris and Klebold left all their weapons out in plain sight—”

  “Only on the day of the shooting,” I said. “When they left that morning they knew they weren’t coming back, so what did they care? The thing that I always wondered before was how could they not know how crazy their kids were? There had to be about a million signs. But now I think I get it. It’s one thing to know your kid has issues, but it’s a whole different world to think those issues might add up to mass murder.”

  Bailey nodded. “Yeah. I see what you mean. So Sonny and Tom think, okay, maybe our kid got bullied and he vented by listening to hate music. There’re probably millions of kids like that who’d never do anything more than talk shit on a Facebook page.”

  “Keyboard thugs. Exactly.”

  When we got back to the station, Nick was lounging in Bailey’s chair, cowboy hat covering his face and boots crossed at the ankle on her desk. She swatted his legs off, and he jerked up in the chair, startled. “Hey!” Then he saw it was Bailey and took in the bag she was holding. “That it?”

  “Yep, it’s been bagged and tagged. Just remember to write up that I handed it to you.”

  “You get it looked at for prints and such yet?” he asked.

  “No time for that,” Bailey said. “Just glove up and do your best.”

  It was after Nick’s normal hours, so I’d expected him to take it back to his office and let us know what he found tomorrow. But he asked Bailey for a set of gloves and opened the laptop immediately. “You’re looking for mentions of Logan and any gun-related plans. That sort of thing, right?”

  Bailey nodded. “I’m going to get some coffee. Want some?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Nick said.

  “Want anything in it?” she asked.

  Nick looked up and gave her a lazy smile. “Why don’t you just dip your little ol’ finger in it? That oughta sweeten it up for me, darlin’.”

  It was a cheesy line, but Nick sold it. Maybe it was the accent, which sounded for real, but I had a feeling it was just Nick’s gift. And the proof was right there on Bailey’s face. She smiled and rolled her eyes. If any other guy had said that, she would’ve drilled him with a stare so cold his eyebrows would freeze.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Bailey and I hovered as Nick worked on Otis’s laptop. Finally, he looked up and rubbed his face. “Other than that nasty photo of Logan, I’m not seeing anything suspicious. And I doubt he wiped anything. The kid didn’t even clear his search history. That’d be the least he’d do if he had anything to hide. I’ll take it deeper to make sure, but from what I’ve seen, if he wrote down any of his plans for the shooting, he didn’t do it here.”

  “Isn’t that kind of strange? I mean, wouldn’t you expect him to have something on his computer?” I asked.

  “Back when not many folks knew how easy it was to find old emails and search trails I’d have agreed with you. But nowadays, everyone’s a lot smarter about that. Kids especially know there’s a good chance that anything they type can be found. Deleting don’t mean squat. So the long answer to your short question, ma’am, is no, I don’t think it’s strange. Not necessarily.”

  I winced. “Nick, do you have to call me ‘ma’am’?”

  “No ma’—uh, no.” He smiled. “But why does that worry a pretty young thing like yourself?”

  I tried not to smile back, I really did. But I could feel the grin spread across my face. And, of course, Graden chose that moment to walk out of his office, which was just ten feet from Bailey’s desk. There was no way he could’ve missed Nick’s flirty look, and I didn’t want to imagine what he could see in mine. “Hi!” I said, as I dialed up the wattage on my smile. “Nick’s checking out Otis’s laptop.”

  Graden’s raised eyebrow said that wasn’t all Nick was checking out. “Anything?” he asked Nick.

  Nick, smooth as glass, answered, “Not yet. Which means if there’s anything here, it’s buried pretty good.” He shook his head. “I’ll take this back to my office and keep working on it.”

  Graden moved toward me and leaned in close. “How’ve you been?”

  I shook my head. “Probably the same as you. And everybody else. Stressed. Angry. Frustrated. Sick.”

  “You and Bailey going back to the Biltmore?” I nodded. “How about if I meet you there?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Nick threw a glance at Graden and me as he finished packing up the laptop. It occurred to me that this was the first time Graden had acted like my boyfriend when we were at the station. I wondered if he was sending Nick a message. But Graden wouldn’t do that.

  Would he?

  23

  It was close to midnight by the time we got to the Biltmore. Way too late for dinner, even at the bar. We’d have to fill up on appetizers and snacks. On the way there, I got a text from Toni saying she was on her way home from a date with J.D. and was wondering if we were still alive. When I told her we were—just barely—and that we were headed for the bar, she said she’d meet us there; we probably needed a little sane company.

  “What’s up with that crack about ‘sane’ company?”

  “Can’t imagine,” Bailey said. “She must not know I’m here.”

  Toni had the bar to herself, and she’d already ordered our drinks—Ketel One martinis for herself, Bailey, and me, and a Dalwhinnie scotch on the rocks for Graden—and a double order of the standard assorted nuts and crunchy bar snacks.

  We hugged and I slid into the booth across from her. “Hey, how’d you beat us here?”

  “J.D. and I had dinner in the neighborhood. I had a feeling you guys would wind up here tonight.” Toni looked at us, sympathy in her eyes. “How’re y’all doing?”

  She kept her voice low, though there was no one else around. I shook my head. “It can’t even be described, Tone. To say it’s the worst I’ve ever seen doesn’t begin to get there.”

  Toni nodded. “I can’t—well, frankly I don’t even want to—imagine.”

  Graden appeared. He gave Toni a hug and sat next to me.

  I leaned in. “Has Vanderputz grabbed his face time with the press yet?”

  Toni rolled her eyes. “Of course—”

  “But he doesn’t know anything,” Graden said. He looked at me. “Unless you’ve been filling him in.”

  “Yeah, ’cause I run to him every chance I get.”

  “As if he needs to know something to justify a presser,” Toni said. “What’s wrong with you two? He didn’t say anything. Just said how his heart ached for the victims and their families and that he’d see to it the case was brought to a ‘swift and just conclusion.’”

  That sounded about right. I dipped an olive into my drink. “Did the chief do a press conference?”

  Graden nodded. “Just said the killers were at large and named Logan Jarvis as a ‘person of interest.’” Graden raised an eyebrow. “But it’s very reassuring to hear that Vanderhorn’s promising a ‘swift and just conclusion.’ With him hot on the trail it’ll be wrapped up in no time.”

  Toni and I sighed. The deputy DAs in Special Trials work closely with the detectives, but the detectives lead the investigation—not us. But Vanderputz never let accuracy get in the way of a good sound bite. “He couldn’t be a bigger jackass if he put on the back end of a donkey c
ostume,” I said.

  Graden chuckled. “Anyway, as predicted, the tip line blew up. We’ve got sightings of Logan Jarvis from Indio to Cape Town.”

  I put down my drink. “Cape Town? As in South Africa?”

  “I blame the interweb,” Bailey said. “It let the crazies go global. So nothing for real yet?”

  Graden shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “That’s the problem in a city this big,” Toni said. “It’s easy to hide. And if he has the brains to cut or dye his hair or wear a wig, he’ll slide right by.”

  “The only thing that’ll make it a little harder for him is his height,” I said. “But even that…”

  Bailey nodded. “And we’ve checked cell phone records for Otis and Logan, Logan’s license plate, his gas card, everything we can think of. Nothing. No sightings on Logan’s car and there’s been no activity—not on their cell phones, not on the gas card. They’re off the grid.”

  “What about their bank accounts?” Graden said.

  “We’ve got someone checking on that,” I said. “And tomorrow we’ll be talking to everyone who had classes with them in the past year.”

  “After that we’ll hit Logan’s brother,” Bailey said.

  “That might lead you somewhere,” Toni said. “I assume you’ve checked his alibi?”

  “Immediately,” Graden said. “He was nowhere near Fairmont. Not that he fit the profile anyway.”

  “And I’m not that optimistic about what he can tell us,” I said. “According to mom, they had gotten closer in the past couple of years, but they weren’t that tight.”

  Graden took a sip of his drink. “Take it from me, he’ll know something.”

  Graden and his younger brother, Devon, were different as night and day, and they hadn’t been that close as kids. But when they reached their twenties, they discovered each other. Now, they were not only the best of friends but also partners in the video game they’d developed that had become the hottest thing since Grand Theft Auto.

  Before Graden knew what he wanted to be when he grew up, he loved to design video games. It was a hobby, nothing serious. When he got hired by LAPD, he decided it was time to quit. Just before he graduated from the police academy, he created one last game, Code Three. Devon wrote the program for it. Graden had walked away from the project—it was time to put away such childish things—but Devon refused to let it go. Graden gave Devon his blessing to try to sell it, never dreaming it would amount to anything. It took a few years, but Devon found a buyer, and the game took off like a rocket. By the time Graden made detective, both he and Devon were millionaires many times over.

  “Give me a ‘for instance,’” I said. “What do you think the brother would know? Assuming he wasn’t actually in on it, which I seriously doubt.”

  “I do too, though I never like to rule anything out,” Graden said. “It’s possible he got unhinged during his tour of duty.” I raised an eyebrow. “But even if the brother’s not in on it, Logan might’ve been less guarded around him. Maybe he let something slip. You’ve got his info, right?”

  “Yeah,” Bailey said. “He’s got a place up in Oxnard. Works at a garage there.”

  The waiter came by to tell us it was last call, and we all decided we were ready to pack it in.

  Toni looked from me to Bailey. “Listen, I know things are going to get crazy, so both of you, remember to eat and sleep, okay?” She looked at Graden. “You too. You’re no better than they are.”

  Drew, who’d just finished for the night, came out to join us, then seconded the vote. “Yeah, you’re all looking pretty raggedy.”

  Graden smiled, but Bailey gave Drew a sour look. “You really think that’s what I need to hear right now?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He kissed Bailey and helped her on with her coat.

  Bailey rolled her eyes. “I’ll deal with you later—”

  “Looking forward to it,” Drew said. For the first time that day, I saw an actual smile—well, half-smile—on Bailey’s face.

  She buttoned her coat. “Okay, Knight. Get some sleep. I’m picking you up at seven thirty.”

  “Why not eight?” Morning and I are not the best of friends.

  “Because we’re meeting with kids at Taft High School at eight fifteen.”

  “Taft. That’s where they’re housing the Fairmont students?” Bailey nodded. It made sense. Taft was closest to Fairmont High. But that meant we’d have at least a forty-minute drive. “Next time, I set up the interviews.”

  Toni laughed. “You’ve got my sympathy.” She, Bailey, and Drew left.

  Graden walked me up to my room “just to say good night.” When we got inside, I dropped my coat and purse on the wing chair and turned on Kind of Blue by Miles Davis. We sat down on the couch and snuggled in. Neither of us felt the need to talk. As I listened to the steady beat of his heart and inhaled his scent, my chest unwound and I think I even dozed for a few minutes. Then he leaned down, tilted up my chin, and kissed me. “I should probably hit the road,” he said. But then he kissed me again. A warm, lingering kiss that left me a little out of breath.

  I suggested the road could wait until tomorrow.

  He thought I might be right.

  24

  Wednesday morning, October 9

  Morning, as usual, came too early for me. I had to fly through my shower and jump into the first thing I saw in my closet. Not Graden. Graden woke up at the crack of dawn as a matter of habit as well as choice. Probably his only obnoxious trait. When I went out to the living room, I found him reading the paper and drinking coffee.

  He looked up and smiled. “Morning, sunshine. I don’t think you have time to order breakfast.”

  “No.” I sighed, poured myself a large mug of coffee, and tried to slug down as much of it as possible.

  He looked me over, noticing my outfit. “I take it you won’t need to be in court today.”

  I was wearing black jeans and an ivory turtleneck sweater. “Nope. We’ll be out doing interviews, and I don’t want to freeze.”

  Graden smirked. “Yeah, it could get down to sixty degrees. Better wear your snow boots.”

  I threw my napkin at him, then walked over to the hall closet and pulled out my down puffer coat. Graden walked over and put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen, I need you to be very careful. Those kids are crazy—”

  “No, not crazy. Personality disordered—”

  “Whatever. Which makes them unpredictable. No one knows where or when they’ll surface. And remember, they still have guns.”

  I opened my purse and pulled out my .38 Smith and Wesson. “But I’m a better shot, and I’m a little crazy myself.”

  “A little.” Graden smiled and kissed me.

  When I got downstairs, Bailey was parked at the front entrance and chatting with Angel. “Mind if we stop and get some coffee?” I said. I hadn’t had my two-cup daily dose.

  Bailey pointed to a bag in the front passenger seat. “Got ya covered. Even brought bagels.”

  I grabbed my coffee from the cup holder and took a sip, then rummaged through the bag. Coffee, bagels…even cream cheese? This kind of service I never got. Not from Bailey. “Okay, where’s the catch? What do you want?”

  “Nothing. Friends buy friends breakfast, don’t they?”

  “No.”

  “But now that you mention it, we really should check in with Dorian. Let her know we didn’t preserve Otis’s laptop for her.”

  See? “So let me get this straight. I’m supposed to incur the wrath of Dorian for a measly coffee and bagel?”

  “And cream cheese. And there’s some jam in there too.”

  I put in the call and got lucky: Dorian’s voice mail. I pumped a fist and gave Bailey a triumphant smile. Then I checked my own voice mail. There were fifty-seven messages. I listened to the first one. The producer of channel nine news was asking for comment on the search at the Jarvis residence. The next four were the same. I didn’t bother to listen to the rest, or wonder how the
press got my cell phone number. They’d gotten it during the Antonovich case too. I made a mental note to change my number. Again. Northbound traffic wasn’t bad. By ten to eight, Bailey was pulling into the faculty parking lot at Robert S. Taft High School. Located on Ventura Boulevard—the busiest thoroughfare in the Valley—Taft wasn’t as big or as fancy as Fairmont High. It had that ’60s square-box, plain-wrap look. Also unlike Fairmont, it wasn’t an enclosed building. It was your typical Southern California school, with classrooms accessible from outdoor hallways.

  A secretary directed us to the classroom that had been set aside for our interviews. The door had been propped open, and the room was downright frosty. Even Bailey rubbed her hands together and zipped up her jacket. The other problem was that the only furniture in the room were a few desks. The kind that are attached to chairs. If we sat at those desks, it would put a physical barrier between us and the students. We needed the kids to relax and open up.

  “I guess we could sit on the floor, hippie-style,” I said.

  Bailey shook her head. “A little too casual. We need to maintain some authority.” She pulled a couple of desk-chairs to the front of the room and sat on the desk. I followed suit.

  Seconds later, a teenage boy with shoulder-length blonde hair poked his head in through the open doorway. “Are you the cop—I mean, officers we’re supposed to talk to?”

  Bailey put on her warm interview smile and gestured for him to come in. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.

  He slid into the chair facing us and stretched out his legs. They stuck out past the edge of the desk by about a foot. His name was Kenny Epstein, and he’d known Logan since junior high. I asked if they were good friends.

  Kenny shrugged. “We weren’t super close or anything, but we were friendly. We’d shoot the shit—uh, sorry.”

  I waved him off. Yo, me and Bailey, we were the cool cops.

  Kenny gave a nervous smile and continued. “Logan was always the smartest guy in the room. A real brainiac. But not a nerd or anything. Pretty much everyone liked him—”