Proof (Caroline Auden Book 2)

by C. E. Tobisman

  Uncle Hitch looked down.

  “I’m glad Jake’s here,” he said quietly.

  Taking in her uncle’s bedraggled appearance and unsteady posture, Caroline understood: Jake was her uncle’s fail-safe. Hitch knew he was a mess, and he was still sentient enough, still caring enough to be worried about what that would mean to his niece’s survival. Jake was the proof that Hitch expected his own failure.

  “What did you find out?” She extended the question like an olive branch. “Did you reach your friend?”

  Hitch’s muddy eyes came up to meet hers. He weighed her expression. Finding no further criticism, he nodded to himself. “Yeah, I talked to my buddy. He’s going to try to reach this guy I know in the US Attorney’s Office and ask him to meet you in Pershing Square at 7:30 tomorrow morning.”

  “An assistant US attorney?”

  “Yes. His name’s Albert Khaing. I knew him back . . . before. Anyway, we got to know each other during an investigation I was working on with the feds. He was new at the US Attorney’s Office and pretty wet behind the ears. I helped him out. Steered him away from some shady evidence in a case. Fruit of the poisonous tree and all that.”

  Caroline knew the fruit-of-the-poisonous-tree doctrine. A prosecutor could not present evidence at trial that stemmed from an illegal search. Doing so would result in the exclusion of the evidence and, probably, the career-damaging embarrassment of the young prosecutor who’d tried to introduce it.

  “Tell me more about him,” Caroline said. “Anything you know.” She needed her uncle to be clear about the specifics. Without a computer, she was depending on her uncle’s relationships, as old and shaky as they were, to lead her to evidence and to safety.

  Hitch rubbed his eyes, as if trying to focus despite the alcohol still buzzing in his veins.

  “He’s about five feet six inches tall. One hundred forty pounds. Slight build. Short hair. Balding. Brown eyes.” Hitch rattled off the description like a cop describing a witness.

  “No, I mean what do you know about his character? His history?” Caroline realized she was looking for reassurance.

  “He’s from Burma,” Hitch began slowly. “He told me about it once. His parents were involved in the 88 Generation Students Group—that’s the prodemocracy movement that got hammered by the military government in 1988. His parents fled. They got asylum here when Albert was only five years old.”

  Caroline nodded encouragingly. She knew her uncle had a good memory for people. It had made him an effective cop . . . before he’d fallen apart.

  “I remember being impressed that he’d made his own way,” Hitch continued, fighting to enunciate his words. “He had to teach himself English. He became a Christopher Scholar in high school. The best of the best get that scholarship.”

  Caroline warmed at her uncle’s description. Albert Khaing sounded good. Maybe too good. She’d heard people describe federal prosecutors as arrogant. While she had little choice in the matter, she hoped this one wasn’t.

  “Anyway, he always struck me as a stand-up kid,” Hitch finished.

  Caroline hoped the feeling was mutual. She reminded herself that her uncle had once been a good detective and a good man. Maybe someone else saw him that way, too.

  If Albert Khaing did, he’d meet her on a park bench in Pershing Square at 7:30.

  CHAPTER 17

  “You’re in major trouble,” said Albert Khaing over his shoulder, where he sat on the back-to-back bench in Pershing Square.

  “What’s wrong?” Caroline wished she could turn around and see the prosecutor’s face. When she’d arrived, he’d already been sitting on the park bench in navy-blue suit pants and a collared shirt with a tie. His face had been an inscrutable mask of professionalism when he’d asked her to take the spot behind him.

  Caroline, for her part, had tried to ignore the dust that covered her after another night sleeping in the rough. Even in the tent, the Santa Ana winds had pushed the dirt and the grime up into her nose and over the surface of her skin.

  A hand passed Caroline an iPhone low and around the edge of the bench.

  Taking the phone, Caroline read what had caused Albert’s grim assessment. On the screen, the lead story in the local section of the Los Angeles Times website was accompanied by a photograph of a car, the front of which was buried in the doorway of the paletería. Chunks of wood and a spray of glass from the store lay shattered all around the accident site.

  It took Caroline several seconds to register what she was seeing. A Mustang GT. Hers. Although the front of the car was crumpled, she recognized familiar body damage to the side panels. The familiar rims her father had put on the tires twenty years earlier.

  “I didn’t do this,” Caroline said, realizing that Albert might think he was talking to a hit-and-run criminal. A fugitive from justice.

  When Albert didn’t respond, Caroline’s eyes flew down the article.

  The crime had occurred the previous night. Neighbors reported hearing a crash shortly after 10:00 p.m. The owner of the paletería happened to have been in the shop despite the late hour. Now she was in the intensive care unit in a coma. She had a fractured skull. Brain swelling. Her family asked the community to please pray for her survival.

  The driver of the car had disappeared, but the car had reeked of alcohol, and an empty bottle of vodka had been found under the seat. There were no security tapes. But there’d been a witness. An anonymous tip.

  “Someone reported seeing a woman matching your description fleeing the scene,” Albert said.

  “This wasn’t me. I swear. I left my keys in my apartment when I ran away from that guy with the gun. He must’ve done this. My uncle can vouch for where I’ve been for the last forty-eight hours. So can Jake—”

  She trailed off. Her alibi depended on the credibility of her alcoholic uncle and his homeless friend. The tenuous nature of her position struck her with a shudder that reached the core of her soul. She was one false accusation away from destruction. Forget about Amy. Forget about elders like her grandma. Forget about everyone. She couldn’t even protect herself.

  A wave of nausea climbed up Caroline’s throat.

  “I believe you,” Albert said.

  With those three words, Caroline’s world began to right itself. Slightly.

  “I know your uncle,” Albert continued. “He’s got his issues, but he’s an honorable man.”

  An honorable man. The words echoed in Caroline’s mind. Whatever else Hitch had done when he’d been a police detective, he’d kept his honor—at least in the eyes of this one federal prosecutor. Thank God.

  “The police are looking for you,” Albert said over his shoulder.

  The information didn’t surprise Caroline. Of course the police were looking for her. Scrunching her head down, she wished she could disappear in the too-large flannel coat she’d borrowed from her uncle.

  The Santa Ana winds still swirled through the park, warming the pavement and baking the dried leaves clustered at the struts of the bench. The sounds and movement around her only added to the dizzying sense of the world falling apart around her. How was she going to get out of this one?

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened,” Albert invited, his voice gentle.

  Taking a breath, Caroline told Albert everything that had led her to be sitting back-to-back with him on a park bench: the many-tentacled Oasis with its soup kitchen volunteers and promise of free services, its scab construction projects and its nursing home scam. She told him about Oasis’s hit man service agent who’d put Amy in the hospital for her prying. The same hit man who’d chased Caroline out onto the streets, presumably because Oasis had even more to hide. And she told Albert about the watch on Simon Reed’s wrist.

  Albert listened without comment, but she felt his attention on her story.

  “The police will be contacting your friends and family,” he said when she finished.

  Caroline’s stomach churned as she considered the humiliations ahead.

/>   She reconciled herself to them. The spreadsheet she’d handed to Albert when she’d arrived in Pershing Square contained proof that Oasis was harvesting money from elderly people on a massive scale. She had no choice but to see the investigation through from the safety of protective custody. As a suspect in a hit-and-run crime, she couldn’t take refuge with friends or family—she couldn’t put someone she loved in the position of being implicated in a crime or accused of hiding a fugitive.

  “I think you should stay out here,” Albert said.

  “What?” Caroline wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

  “If you come in, you’re going to end up in police custody. You’ll end up in the system.”

  The knot in Caroline’s gut pulled a little tighter. She’d seen the system at work. Sometimes it yielded justice, but often, it didn’t. If she ended up in police custody, she’d put herself at risk of incarceration for a crime she did not commit. Even worse, she’d lose the ability to fight back. To investigate Oasis. She’d be left trying to exonerate herself with little evidence, up against a powerful foe that likely had agents in law enforcement.

  Caroline’s hands began to shake on the iPhone.

  She was trapped.

  Someone had engineered the paletería accident to flush her out. The plan was elegant and ruthless.

  “That bust down in Commerce showed there are some dirty cops,” Albert continued, as if reading the arc of her thoughts.

  Caroline remembered the City of Commerce scandal. The industrial area south of Los Angeles had become a hotbed of gambling activities. Free from zoning restrictions, organized crime had thrived there. The police officers who’d abetted their activities had been suspended, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other corrupt cops.

  “I’m not sure there’s much I can do to help you right now,” Albert said.

  “Yeah, I get it, you can’t risk it,” Caroline said, not bothering to hide her disdain. Physically, Albert was the opposite of Boyd. Where the assistant DA was tall and Nordic, Albert was short. His face was all angles and planes. In a capitulation to early male-pattern baldness, he’d cropped his hair short, leaving only a shadow of black hair curving across the top of his tanned head. But under flesh and bone, Albert was just another Boyd—afraid to take a stand. Gutless. Useless.

  “That’s not it,” Albert said. “Those bank records suggest there’s something going on here. I just can’t use official channels to help you—especially in the current political climate.”

  Suddenly, Caroline understood. The new DA had promised a return to community-based policing and an emphasis on prosecuting crimes against marginalized communities. Too long neglected by law enforcement, the minority communities had celebrated DA Donita Johnson’s election. A drunk white girl crashing her car into a family-owned paletería and gravely injuring the Hispanic proprietress would be slaughtered in the court of public opinion, regardless of the merits. Meanwhile, the DA would feather her political nest with a conviction.

  “If I can pull together enough evidence, I’ll get this done,” Albert promised. “But if you want to remain free, you’ve got to stay out of sight. Trust me on this.”

  Caroline nodded to herself. Albert’s parents had been political dissidents. He knew something about staying out of sight to continue fighting against corrupt, oppressive authority.

  Exhaling, Caroline considered the days ahead of her. She’d have no federal protection. No warm shower. No roof over her head.

  “I’ll find out what I can, too,” Caroline said. Even if she didn’t have an apartment, a phone, a laptop, or anything else, she’d find a way to fight.

  “How are you going to do that from the streets?” Albert laughed.

  “I’ll figure it out,” Caroline shot back. “Just tell me what you need.”

  “Links in the chain,” Albert said, his voice growing serious. “Money trails. Documents. Who’s pulling the strings? Where’s the money going? It can’t just be to buy some land near the LA River. We need to know how the scam works and who’s benefiting.”

  “What about the information on my spreadsheet?” Caroline asked.

  “It’s a start. But proving that Oasis coerced people into giving it gifts is going to be a challenge. The elderly residents are dead. Plus, Oasis is a favorite of city government. Everyone loves public-private partnerships these days. Everyone loves Duncan Reed. We’re going to need a lot on Oasis if we’re going to nail it.”

  “We’ll nail it,” Caroline said. If she was right, Oasis was a soft monster slowly digesting society’s most vulnerable fringe, then funneling resources to . . . to somewhere. Without knowing who Oasis’s shareholders were, she couldn’t know who profited from the closely held private corporation. But one thing seemed likely: it was enriching the Reed family. What they needed was someone who’d be willing to talk about Oasis’s secrets.

  “See if you can track down Jessie Tuttle,” Caroline said, recalling Hector’s notes from his investigation into Oasis’s construction enterprises. “Tuttle got injured during the restoration of the County Law Library. I’m assuming he came out of the Oasis training program. He might be willing to talk—he could have some information on how Oasis operates and how it keeps its workers in line. I believe he was planning to sue Oasis. He could be friendly to us.”

  “I’ll see what I can find,” Albert said.

  “I’m going to do my own looking, too,” Caroline said.

  This time Albert didn’t laugh.

  Caroline looked down at the iPhone still cradled in her hands. Flipping it over, she noted the colorful case adorned with a peacock with the number 88 woven into its tail feathers. The emblem of the 88 Generation Students, Caroline surmised. The Burmese dissident group Albert’s parents had belonged to—and perhaps still did.

  “Things have gotten better in Burma—Myanmar—haven’t they?” she asked.

  “Only on the surface. But the repressive mind-set’s still there. The fight goes on,” Albert said. “There’s still a need for the 88 Generation.”

  With her eyes still on the phone case, Caroline nodded to herself. Albert came from a family where freedom and justice mattered. She hoped those values were in his DNA, too.

  She knew it was time to give Albert back his phone, but still she clung to it. An irrational part of her wanted to take the phone and run. A more rational part wanted to call her parents. To preempt the questions the police would be asking. At least her mother was still on a cruise. But what would her dad think when he got the call from the cops? Even worse, what would her stepmother, Lily, think?

  Caroline hands tingled with sudden apprehension.

  She had to reach her dad and stepmom before the police did.

  She lifted her finger to dial.

  But then she stopped. If she was the target of an active investigation, her parents’ numbers could not be found on Albert’s phone. She couldn’t get him in trouble.

  She slowly handed the phone back over her shoulder.

  As it left her grip, something in her soul withered.

  Behind her, she heard the click of Albert taking pictures of the spreadsheet and the first page of the title report for the Parrino Court property that Oasis owned.

  Then Albert handed the pages back to her.

  “I’ve got some contacts in the banking sector that might be able to feed me some information in a form I can use at trial—or at least to get subpoenas.” Albert’s voice held a kind of earnestness Caroline had rarely heard in a fellow lawyer. She wanted to believe his words. She wanted to believe in him. But nothing in her past suggested anyone could help her.

  There was a rustle of movement behind Caroline. Then Albert’s hand passed something back to her over his shoulder.

  A business card and some cash. A five and two ones.

  “It’s all I’ve got on me,” Albert said. His tone was apologetic.

  Caroline looked at the crumpled bills. She wished she were in a position to refuse.

  “You’ve got
my card,” he said. “I’m going to be in trial and then in meetings with my trial team, but I should be able to talk by 8:30 p.m. every day this week. You’ll have to call me.”

  “I will,” Caroline said. She considered asking Albert to make arrangements to bring her more money or a burner phone or clean underwear, but she stayed silent. She didn’t know him well enough to push. For whatever reason, Albert believed in her, in her theories about Oasis. She couldn’t jeopardize his good opinion.

  And yet, there was one favor she had to ask.

  “I’m handling a guardianship case for a boy named Mateo Hidalgo,” she began. She quickly told Albert about the status of the proceedings. “I can’t let Mateo end up in a bad spot because I’m in one. If you could make sure that Shaina Parker in the gangs unit at the DA’s office is looking into the Hidalgo case, I’d be grateful.”

  “I’m on it,” Albert said. “I’ll put in an informal inquiry about the Hidalgo case as soon as I get into the office. I’m also going to check on your friend in the hospital. If she was the target of a hit, we’ve got to keep a close eye on her. I’ll set something up.”

  “Thank you,” Caroline said, and she meant it. It was horrible enough that Amy was in a hospital and that Hector was dead. That something could still happen to Amy and that she couldn’t do anything to prevent it hung over her like a cloud of inevitable doom.

  “No problem,” Albert said over his shoulder as he pretended to tie his shoe and leave.

  Just as they’d planned, Caroline remained on the bench.

  Watching the day unfold at Pershing Square, she wondered how three street people could bring down a powerful entity whose motto taunted her.

  Helping you help yourself.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jake, Caroline, and Hitch huddled together in the trees on the edge of Pershing Square.

  “We’re going to need to work fast,” Caroline said, thinking about the paletería accident. “It’s only a matter of time before someone sees me.” She ran a hand over her head, wishing for a shower to clear her mind. She paced the small clearing instead.