Murder Season

by Robert Ellis

  Harvey stopped and cocked his head as he tried to read Rhodes’s face. “What are you saying?”

  Rhodes traded a hard look with Lena, then turned back to the reporter. “You were found hiding in a detective’s car on the wrong side of a police line. Maybe you don’t get it. Maybe you think homicide investigations are a game. You’re a suspect, Harvey. A person of interest.”

  “You can’t pull that shit. Jesus Christ! You know it’s not me.”

  “I don’t know jack,” Rhodes said. “All I know is where we found you.”

  Lena could see fear crystalizing all over Harvey’s face, dirty little wheels turning inside his dirty little head. As Rhodes continued to pat him down, she glanced at his possessions piling up on the asphalt. She noted the pad and pen, his cell phone, and a small leather case that looked like it held his business cards. After a second glance, the case seemed too big for cards. She picked it up and felt the weight in her hand. As she unzipped it, she noticed Harvey staring at her with those beady eyes of his. He was more than nervous now. Unusually quiet. Utterly still.

  Once she opened the case, she understood why. It was a complete set of lock picks and auto jigglers.

  Most of the auto jigglers Lena had seen on the job were handmade from hacksaw blades. After a few minutes with a Dremel grinder, the flat pieces of scrap metal could be shaped to look a lot like skeleton keys and were capable of opening a car door in less than a minute or two. But Dick Harvey’s set was better than that. These jigglers were made of stainless steel, crafted with precision, and could unlock a car door as well as the owner’s key. Lena knew how well they worked because she owned a set herself. She’d found the manufacturer over the Internet and made the purchase for about twenty dollars, plus shipping and handling.

  She held up the case and noticed a label on the back that read THE ESSENTIAL BURGLAR. Rhodes’s eyes sparkled as he gazed at the tools.

  “You’re better than a dream, Harvey,” he said with delight. “You’re the gift that just keeps on giving.”

  7

  Lena cruised off the Santa Monica Freeway and made a left on Lincoln. She was driving Rhodes’s Audi, the Crown Vic left behind until SID could sweep the car and dust it for Dick Harvey’s greasy fingerprints. Harvey had been left chained to a streetlight in the parking lot under the supervision of two patrol officers. By now, detectives would have arrived and Harvey was probably on his way downtown.

  The thought brought on a smile and she glanced over at Rhodes. His head was back, his eyelids shut but fluttering. Obviously, Harvey wasn’t really a person of interest in the murders tonight. But for ten minutes, Rhodes’s play against the man had provided a short break from the pressure. Depending on the charges, Harvey would spend anywhere from a few hours to a night or two in jail. He would be confined to a cell for however long they could stretch things out. Lena had to admit that the image of the gossip reporter being hosed down with disinfectant and issued a jumpsuit before he got that jail cell felt pretty good, too.

  She blew through the red light and started up the hill on Ocean Park. The streets were dead, the trip from Hollywood to the beach made in record time. As she turned onto Sixteenth Street, she tried to think through what she would say to the father of a young man who murdered his sixteen-year-old neighbor, got away with it, then got himself killed. She had mixed feelings about it because what Jacob Gant did to Lily Hight was essentially irrelevant for the next half hour or so. Gant’s father would feel the same pain any parent would feel upon hearing that they had lost a child. No matter what the circumstances of his son’s life, Lena would be delivering bad news.

  She made the final turn, following the road around the rim of the hill. To the right, she could see Main Street and the blackness of the ocean cutting into Venice Beach. To the left, the hill flattened out and homes with sidewalks and oak trees began to appear one after the next. She checked the address Barrera had given her. When she spotted the house, she killed the headlights and pulled over.

  Gant’s father was already awake. Every window in the entire house glowed with bright incandescent light. Two windows on the first floor of the house next door were lit up as well. When she turned to wake up Rhodes, she found him staring through the windshield completely alert.

  “Who lives where?” he said.

  “Tim Hight’s is the one here on the left with the picket fence. Gant’s father lives on the other side of the drive.”

  “The one that’s all lit up.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “He lives there with his son.”

  She saw Rhodes check the clock on the dash and look back at Gant’s house.

  “Their lights wouldn’t be on unless they knew, Lena. Someone called.”

  “The way things happened—the number of people involved—it would’ve been a hard secret to keep.”

  “If it’s already filtered down to trash like Harvey, it’s no secret. He probably knew before we did. But now it’s gonna be even harder to knock on that door.”

  Lena shut off the engine and they climbed out. She listened to the silence, the rest of the neighborhood still in a deep, seemingly untroubled sleep. Just the hum of air conditioners getting an early start on the year. In spite of the heat, she could feel a chill between her shoulder blades as she gazed at the two houses standing side by side. It seemed so odd that these people still lived next door to each other. After all that had happened, it didn’t make sense that one or the other hadn’t sold their house and moved on. Although the ocean views were better ten houses back, both homes were built on prime real estate. Eclectic versions of California bungalows that had been stretched into two stories with front porches and sunrooms. Both lots were big enough to include driveways and garages. From what Lena could see from the curb, each home even had a small backyard. She couldn’t believe that either place would have been hard to sell.

  “We should have brought Tito,” Rhodes said.

  “Why?”

  “Look.”

  She followed his eyes across Gant’s driveway to Tim Hight’s house on the left. She could see someone through the living room window. Stepping up to the picket fence, she realized that it was Hight—still dressed and pouring a drink at the kitchen counter. Even from this distance she recognized the bottle by its blue color. Hight was pouring vodka into a very tall glass.

  “It’s five,” she said. “Nothing like a cocktail after a hard day’s work.”

  Rhodes took a step closer. “Kill’n and chill’n, Lena. The man likes a big glass.”

  “You have those cigarettes?”

  “No. I left them on the bar, but it looks like he’s got one.”

  She watched as Hight lit a cigarette and grabbed his drink. Exiting the kitchen, he hit the wall switch and the house went dark. After a few seconds, they picked up the bead of light from the head of his cigarette. The light was passing through the living room and moving into the sunroom on the side of the house. Lena could see his silhouette in the window and guessed that the LEDs from a radio or cable box were filling the room with a muted light. When he sat down before the windows overlooking his neighbor’s house, the glow from his cigarette brightened, then faded some. The man was smoking and drinking and probably playing back the last three hours in his head. More than likely, he was replaying everything that went down over the past year, all those images that he would be forced to carry with him for the rest of his days.

  His love for his daughter cut against finding her dead body lying on her bedroom floor. Passing the blindfolded statue of Lady Justice on his way to the courtroom two or three times a day, cut against a trial that fell apart and washed away. Holding on for as long as he could, then buckling under the strain and blowing out Jacob Gant’s eyes.

  Blind justice.

  Lena heard a ticking sound and spotted Hight’s car in the drive beneath an oak tree. A black Mercedes still cooling down after a hard drive on a hot night. She turned back to Rhodes and kept her voice down.

  “I think I should go
talk to the Gants on my own,” she said. “You should stay out here and keep an eye on this guy.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded, her eyes returning to Hight’s eerie silhouette in the window. “Maybe he’s done for the night,” she said. “Or maybe he’s just getting tuned up for more. Either way, I’ve got a feeling about the guy.”

  “Me, too,” Rhodes said.

  * * *

  The front door opened tentatively. On the other side of the threshold stood an eighteen-year-old boy Lena recognized from the trial as Jacob Gant’s brother, Harry. He didn’t look at the badge she was holding in her hand. Instead, he kept his eyes on her face and called out to his father.

  “They’re here, Dad.”

  His father didn’t respond. The kid pointed to the left and she followed him through the dining room into the kitchen. William Gant was sitting at the table in his bathrobe with a cup of coffee. As she crossed the room, the man held up his hand as if to say, Stop, you’re close enough.

  “Mr. Gant?” she said. “I’m—”

  He cut her off with another raised hand. “You know what, Detective? I really don’t care who you are. If you’re here to tell us that Jake’s dead, you’re more than an hour and a half late. If you’re here to say you’re sorry, save yourself the trouble. I don’t want to hear it. And I don’t think Jake’s brother wants to hear it, either. Nothing you say or do could make a difference now.”

  Harry had moved around the table to stand behind his father. The weight of their eyes on her felt corrosive and heavy. She knew that she could handle their anger. She expected it and understood it. But what charged the moment with electricity had nothing to do with them or even why she was here. It was the view out the slider behind their backs. It was that bead of light from Tim Hight’s cigarette. She could see it in the sunroom window. The man was watching them, and he was close. Just on the other side of the driveway.

  Lena tried to ignore it. Tried to keep in mind that Rhodes was somewhere outside, watching the watcher.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “I know that you don’t want to hear it from me, but I mean it.”

  William Gant didn’t say anything. His eyes drifted away from her to something he was holding in his hand. A small photograph. When he set it down on the table, Lena was close enough to get a decent look. It was a family snapshot of William Gant with his two sons. They were aboard a ship and dressed for cold weather. A whale was swimming just off the bow. All three were caught up in the moment and flashing wide smiles.

  Gant saw her looking at the photograph and covered it with his hand. “I think we’re done here,” he said. “I think that you should get back in your car and drive away.”

  “We need to arrange a time when you can come down to the coroner’s office and identify your son.”

  “It’s already been arranged,” he said.

  “By whom?”

  “My son’s attorney, Buddy Paladino.”

  It hung there. Paladino had told Gant that his son was dead an hour and a half ago. Rhodes had been right. The leak had become a flood before she even got the case.

  “What about the circumstances of your son’s death?” she asked.

  Gant shook his head, chewing through the words as if they were toxic. “The circumstances of my son’s death,” he said. “That’s a good one.”

  “Do you know why he was at Club 3 AM?”

  Neither one of them responded. Lena looked at them staring back at her just the way Escabar had—despair spiked with poison. She checked the slider and saw Hight’s silhouette in the window, that bead of light from his cigarette still piercing the darkness.

  “What about Johnny Bosco?” she said. “Why was Jacob with him?”

  The father pushed his coffee aside. “I have no idea.”

  She sensed something in Harry’s face and turned to him. “Did you know Johnny Bosco?” she asked. “Do you know why your brother was with him, Harry? Did he use cocaine?”

  The kid remained quiet and appeared nervous at being singled out. When she repeated the question, his face hardened.

  “My brother didn’t do drugs,” he said finally. “And you’re just another stupid cop. Why don’t you leave us the fuck alone?”

  He pushed past his father and rushed out of the room. After a few moments, a door slammed on the second floor. Then Gant pocketed the snapshot and got up from the table. Curiously, he turned his back on her and looked out through the slider. The man seemed to know that Hight had been watching them all along.

  “You need to leave,” he said, still gazing across the driveway. “You’ve fulfilled our every expectation, Detective, and I don’t want my asshole neighbor to see me get angry. That’s what he wants. That’s why he’s watching. Why don’t you knock on his door tonight and ask him if he feels any better now. I can already see the stories on the news. The man who murdered my boy will get a parade. A street named after his sorry soul. I’ll bet you cops are actually happy about the way things worked out. Not short-term happy because you look like the stupid jerks that you truly are. But long-term happy because you’re finally off the hook.”

  “No one’s off the hook, Mr. Gant.”

  He turned from the window and stared at her for a long time. His weary body was trembling slightly and it looked as if he’d aged ten years in the past few minutes. Like something deep inside him had given way. As he pushed the chair into the table, he seemed a lot like his neighbor. He seemed like a man being forced to carry a monkey on his back for the rest of time—a bag overflowing with memories and nightmares he couldn’t shake out or get rid of.

  He stepped around the table and pointed at the door, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “This is over,” he said. “Get out.”

  8

  The ride back to Parker Center was quiet—the eastern sky just beginning to catch some light from the sun still waking up below the horizon. With “rush hour” underway—an event that ran continuously from 5:30 a.m. until 2:00 a.m. every day of the week in Los Angeles—Lena assumed that she would be late for the strategy meeting at seven and had called ahead to let Barrera know.

  It couldn’t be helped. Tim Hight and William Gant were way too wound up to be left alone. The air was too hot, the tinder too dry, and too many nerves were exposed.

  Murder season was in full bloom, and Lena couldn’t walk away.

  Her first thought was to request a surveillance team from the Special Investigation Section. SIS was their primary surveillance unit and could easily handle the job. But this was a unique situation. After talking it over with Rhodes, they decided that everyone would be better off if the surveillance units were out in the open for all to see. Two or three black and white cruisers parked right at the curb to underline their presence, and with any luck, cool things down.

  Lena swung around the block and pulled up to the building. As she climbed out and Rhodes moved in behind the wheel, she could see what three nights without sleep had done to him. She watched him wave and pull away from the curb, trying not to worry about his drive home. Losing sight of her friend in traffic, she headed for the lobby on her own.

  The meeting was being held in Captain Dillworth’s office on the third floor directly behind the Homicide Special Section. Her captain was in New Orleans, so the room was available and always left unlocked. Her desk stood just on the other side of the wall at one of four homicide tables. Her early morning arrival, more than routine. But Lena could sense something was different about today from the moment she passed through the lobby doors. The lunch stand across from the front desk. The guys working the turnstiles and X-ray machine. The three or four groups of people she passed in the hall.

  The usual morning banter had been replaced with muffled voices and dull eyes pinned to the ground. The read she picked up was disappointment. But she thought that she could see fear and uncertainty, too.

  The mood followed her into the captain’s office, only it was more pervasive here. As she slipped into an open
seat and listened, Deputy Chief Ramsey was standing at the head of the table, laying it out for anyone who might have missed it. His audience was a select group that included the two prosecutors from the district attorney’s office who had failed, Steven Bennett and Debi Watson, another deputy DA Lena recognized but had never worked with, Greg Vaughan, along with their boss, District Attorney Jimmy J. Higgins. Aside from Ramsey, the only other LAPD official was her supervisor, Lieutenant Frank Barrera. That could only mean that Lena really was on her own.

  She pushed the thought away and tried to concentrate on what the deputy chief was saying. Most of it was a repeat of her conversations with Rhodes and Escabar. But Ramsey had found his voice—gravel rinsed in an ashtray—and spiced things up with new details.

  “We’re making news again,” he said. “Department of Justice attorneys will be meeting with the judge in two hours. Every reform we’ve made under Chief Logan—the progress we’ve achieved, the performance records we’ve broken—everything we’ve stood for over the past few years burned up with this case. This trial. And now, two men murdered in Hollywood. Termination of the consent decree has been tossed to the side of the road. Another monitor will be selected to look over our shoulders and report to the judge. The department is under the microscope again. You are, too, Higgins. We’re in this mess together. And right now, we’re roadkill. We’re fucked.”

  The deputy chief’s words settled into the room sharp as broken glass. When Higgins didn’t react, Lena looked around the table and wondered what she’d missed over the past forty-five minutes. Bennett and Watson were sitting with the district attorney directly across from her. Barrera was on her left, but seemed to be focused on Greg Vaughan who was in a chair by himself at the far end of the table.

  Something was going on. The more she thought it over, the more convinced she became that Vaughan’s presence was out of place. And from the grim expression on his face, it seemed obvious enough that he didn’t want to be here, either. Of all the prosecutors in the DA’s office, Greg Vaughan was the total package and could have worked for any law firm in the city. Lena had only met him in passing, but was well aware of his reputation. He was an exceedingly bright and gentle man, and looked to be about forty. His hair was more brown than blond. His frame, lean and athletic. When she had seen him in the past, he walked with an easy confidence. But it had been his eyes that set him apart. The glint and energy in those light brown eyes.