Murder Season

by Robert Ellis

  Lena nodded, eyeing the bookshelves. Hight’s library of films looked to be as extensive as the music collection she had inherited from her brother. Several thousand titles filled the shelves from floor to ceiling. Skimming through the collection in the dim light, it took a moment to grasp that they were sorted by the director’s name, not the title of the film. Because this information wasn’t printed on the spine, Hight had to possess a certain knowledge of each film’s history. All the same, some of Lena’s favorites were here. Films by Truffaut and Bresson, Buñuel and Bertolucci. Works by Hitchcock, and Huston, Kubrick, Kurosawa, and Herzog.

  It all registered even though she was thinking more about Jacob Gant’s murder and the memories that had surfaced while she examined the gunshot wounds to his head. She was looking for John Ford. When she found Hight’s copy of The Searchers, she pulled it from the shelf.

  The cover was a reproduction of the original poster: John Wayne and Jeffrey Hunter on horseback with their rifles set on their saddles. Across the image the words, He had to find her … were repeated twice. Still, nothing registered.

  “Hey, Fred,” she said. “Are you into movies?”

  “Since I was a kid.”

  “You ever see this one?”

  She turned and held out the cover. When he read the title, he smiled.

  “One of my favorites,” he said. “Along with Stagecoach, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and My Darling Clementine.”

  “Someone shoots someone in the eyes. This is the movie, right? Without eyes, you can’t enter the spirit world.”

  Wireman thought about it for a moment, started to nod, then stopped as he put it together. “That’s the one,” he said. “Of course, it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “I’m not saying it does. All it means is that he owns the film and probably watched it once or twice.”

  “More than once or twice would be my guess, Lena. Before Hight’s career tanked and he moved to reality TV, he directed Prairie Winds. The poster’s over here on the wall.”

  Wireman swung the closet door shut, revealing the framed poster. Lena crossed the room. She had seen the film more than once and liked it. Once with her brother, and once with Rhodes.

  “You look surprised,” he said.

  “I didn’t realize it was him. What went wrong? Why’d he stop making movies?”

  Wireman shrugged and got back to work. “Shit happens, I guess. Seems like he got more than his share.”

  13

  Lena noticed a second door in the hallway. Because it was slightly more narrow than the door leading to the attic, she assumed that it opened to a closet. But when she gave the handle a push, bright sunlight flooded the entire landing and swirled around her feet.

  It turned out to be another bedroom. Lily Hight’s bedroom.

  And there was a feeling inside—something undefined and difficult to absorb.

  The girl’s room was almost the size of her father’s office across the hall. On the left, Lena could see a walk-in closet—a chest of drawers and a bathroom. On the right, a small desk stood beside a pair of bookcases and two sets of windows facing the Gants’ house on the other side of the drive. Curiously, a window was cracked open, a slight breeze filtering warm air into the air-conditioned room.

  Lena walked in, letting the door drift shut behind her. As she stepped into the middle of the room, she looked at the double bed pushed against the far wall, noted an armchair, the computer, and various keepsakes the sixteen-year-old had collected before her death. But what struck her most was the condition of the room itself. That feeling she got when she first opened the door.

  One year ago this bedroom had been a crime scene. After the investigation, the space would have been released and the Hights given the names of several companies specializing in bio waste and crime scene cleanup. It seemed as if their work had been thorough. Even the white carpet looked spotless. But it was more than that. What struck Lena about the room was that the Hights didn’t appear to have sealed it off. Unlike most families who have suffered a devastating loss, the room had the odd feeling of openness that comes from continued use.

  She moved over to the bed. Pillows were propped up against the headboard with several books stacked by the lamp on the night table. An impression left by a body was visible on the mattress. On the carpet by the window Lena noticed marks from the chair and was surprised that the carpet fibers hadn’t filled in after the cleanup. The chair must have been placed in front of the window for a long time before someone moved it closer to the bed.

  She turned back to the chest, found it filled with the girl’s clothing, and started searching through the drawers. She tried not to think too much about what she was seeing, the sadness and heartbreak that came with such a loss. Still, Lily Hight’s clothing was clean and neatly folded. And Lena couldn’t help but smell the girl’s body lingering here and there throughout the room. The fragrance of her hair and skin. She knew from experience that no matter how well you cleaned a room, no matter how much you scrubbed everything down, the scent of a human being lasted until the walls were repainted and the furniture was removed.

  She tried to push her thoughts away. Tried to work at a steady pace and quiet her mind. When she finished with the last drawer, she heard something outside and checked the window.

  Through the tree branches she could see a crowd beginning to form in front of the Gants’ house. Members of the press corps were unpacking cases and setting up their cameras. When she spotted the Acura RL parked at the curb, she knew who it belonged to and understood what was about to happen.

  Buddy Paladino was inside conferring with Jacob Gant’s father. There was a buzz in the air—anticipation—the media’s nervous chatter easily reaching the open window. The defense attorney with the million-dollar smile was preparing to make his statement.

  Lena’s pulse quickened slightly as she played through the possibilities in her head. Paladino wasn’t going to be talking to the press from his office or even the courthouse. He was here because he knew that they were here—the truck from SID, the marked patrol units and detective cars parked in front of Tim Hight’s house. Paladino was a genius at seeing the single flaw in a prosecutor’s case and working a jury until they saw it, too. But he was even better at playing the press. He had won freedom for Jacob Gant, and now Jacob Gant was dead. He needed someone to blame for his client’s death, someone with deep pockets, and his finger would be pointed directly at the police. He’d stick the blade in as deep as he could and twist it. He’d deliver his message, smear the department, and use their marked vehicles as a visual backdrop only an art director from one of the studios could match.

  It was the reason Buddy Paladino was Buddy Paladino, she thought. The reason she found him so fascinating, even dangerous at times.

  She stepped away from the window and moved back to the bed. When she noticed the memory box on the night table, she picked it up and sat down. The box appeared to be handmade from cherry wood, the lid inlaid with silver leaves around a glass picture frame. Behind the glass was a snapshot of a wet dog, an English cocker spaniel, sitting on the beach, panting and looking up as if he were waiting to continue a game of fetch. Lena recognized the Santa Monica pier in the background but couldn’t tell when the photograph had been taken.

  She opened the lid and removed the pad of notepaper on top. Underneath she found pieces of jewelry and sorted through them with her finger. Mixed in with the jewelry was an old silver dollar, a stamp commemorating Babe Ruth, and finally, an ID tag Lena guessed had been worn by the spaniel in the snapshot. Lily Hight’s dog had been named Mr. Wilson.

  She looked away.

  There was a sustained sadness here, a presence even the sunlight couldn’t bleach out. The feeling dissipated when Barrera called out her name from the landing and she called back to him. As the door opened and he popped his head inside, she set down the box.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  Barrera closed the door and crossed the room f
or a look out the window.

  “We’re fucked, Lena. And the DA’s full of shit. This isn’t going away. Not with Paladino reminding everybody that we fucked up. It doesn’t matter what people thought of Jacob Gant. It doesn’t matter that they’re glad he’s dead. Paladino’s smart enough to know that. Watch him rip us apart and milk the cash cow dry.”

  His words came out in a jittery spin that ran out of gas and died. Sitting on the arm of the reading chair, he took in the room and seemed as uncomfortable by the setting as she was.

  “You find anything?” he said.

  “Not yet.”

  “Same with everybody else. Let’s face it, the gun’s not here. It’s not anywhere. When you finish in here we’re done.”

  He gave her a look. Something flared up in his eyes.

  “You’ve got something,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Cash and coke. Street found it in Hight’s dresser drawer.”

  “How much?”

  “Two grand in hundred-dollar bills. That’s what Bosco carried. Hundred-dollar bills.”

  It wasn’t the gun, Lena thought, but it remained a small piece of luck because most people counted their money. Especially when they carried hundred-dollar bills. If the cash found in Hight’s drawer belonged to Bosco, there was a chance that both had left their fingerprints.

  “What about the coke?” she said. “How was it packaged?”

  Barrera raised his eyes. “A number ten envelope, like Hight found it in Bosco’s desk and scooped the shit in. About fifteen grams worth. Maybe twenty. Enough for a lot of good rides.”

  “His eyes,” she said. “He looked strung out.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  Lena got up and walked over to the window. Paladino was still inside, the number of reporters gathering in the street, too big to count.

  “The cameras, Frank. How do you want to handle this? We can’t walk Hight out the front door.”

  Barrera had been holding what was left of his cigar between his fingers. As he thought things over, he jammed the cigar into his mouth and started chewing and puffing. It didn’t seem to matter that it had burned out.

  “Hight’s not going anywhere,” he said finally. “Even if the cameras weren’t here, we’d have to give him a pass. Charging the guy with possession … it can’t look like we’re badgering him. It would only make things worse.”

  “Where’s that coming from?”

  Barrera gave her a look and shrugged. “It’s got to be solid, Lena. Rock solid like the case was made by God. Every piece has to fit. Every road drawn on the map. Then everything changes. Then we walk the guy out the door no matter who’s outside.” He got to his feet and gave the room another look. “It’s weird in here. I’ve gotta get out. I need more air.”

  “What’s Hight’s status?”

  “Mifune’s got what he needs. Everybody’s packing up. Until Paladino’s finished and the cameras go away, we’re here.”

  “You mean we’re trapped.”

  Barrera opened the door, flashing a slight smile. “I just got off the phone with the coroner’s office. Paladino’s taking Gant’s father down to ID his son. It’s scheduled to take place in about an hour and can’t be changed because of the autopsy.”

  “I thought the autopsy was set for tonight.”

  “It is, but they’re backed up. If he wants to see his son, it has to happen now and Paladino will have to keep his press conference short.”

  “As long as we’ve got time, I want to dust this room for prints.”

  “Why?”

  “You said it yourself—it’s weird in here. As long as we’ve got time, why not?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll send somebody up.”

  She watched him close the door and listened to his footsteps move down the hall. When she noticed the press corps raising their voices, she looked back through the window.

  Paladino had just exited the house next door with William Gant. As they reached the attorney’s car, they stepped around the hood and stopped as if cued by that art director from the studios. Lena didn’t need to look through a lens to verify her guess about the background. And even if a reporter somehow missed the marked truck and patrol cars, no one did after Buddy Paladino turned and pointed them out.

  The scene was difficult to watch. The fact that she had a history with Paladino didn’t make it any easier right now.

  Her eyes moved up the drive and found the Gants’ house through the tree branches. She could see Jacob Gant’s brother Harry watching his father from a window facing the street on the second floor. And Paladino’s voice was clearer now—the attorney all warmed up in the hot sun and working the crowd as if selling snake oil.

  This is what revenge looks like. This is what’s left when people take matters into their own hands and commit acts of violence. This is what’s left when the L - A - P - D falls asleep at the wheel.

  Lena stopped listening. Paladino had delivered his sound bite like the master that he was. There would be no need for a second take.

  She turned away from the window and noticed that she’d left the memory box on the bed. Returning it to the night table, that photo of the dog caught her eye again. It was an old black-and-white shot—dark and grainy with rain clouds in the sky. She was still curious about the date and wondered if it had been printed on the back. Lifting the wooden lid, she pulled off the back cover and removed the cardboard filler. When the snapshot fell away from the glass, she turned it over.

  The paper hadn’t been date stamped, but she realized that a second picture had become stuck to the first. She lowered the box to the table and pried the two pictures apart. Then she flipped over the second shot and gazed at it. She sat down on the bed and stared at it for a long time. The photo Lily Hight had kept hidden. The one in her memory box by her bed.

  It was a snapshot of her killer. It was a picture of Jacob Gant.

  14

  Harry Gant wasn’t answering the door. Lena walked down the drive between the two houses and found him in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. The slider was cracked open, and she didn’t wait to be invited in. As she slid the screen shut behind her, shock waves rippled across the kid’s face.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “It looked like you had something on your mind,” she said. “Before you ran upstairs last night, you had something to say.”

  He stared back at her, open mouthed. “You want to talk, save it for when my dad gets back.”

  He dug his spoon into the bowl, trying to look bored and probably hoping that if he ignored what just happened, the homicide detective standing in his kitchen might go away. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt, and hiding behind his long hair. But Lena knew that he was faking it. She could see his legs beneath the table, his bare feet tapping the floor like all his batteries were charged up. The kid was in a situation and didn’t know what to do.

  “I realize that you haven’t had much time to think things over,” she said. “But has it occurred to you that we’re on the same side?”

  He took another spoonful of cereal, still feigning boredom. “Which side is that?”

  “I’m trying to find out who killed your brother, Harry.”

  He laughed. She could hear the pain in it. The loss.

  “You just spent three hours in the killer’s house,” he said. “Lily’s dad murdered Jake. It’s like you’re blind.”

  “He says he hasn’t seen your brother since the trial.”

  Harry finally pushed the bowl away. “Then he’s blind, too. He saw Jake every day. He sits in that chair spying on us like a lunatic. The two of them got into an argument yesterday.”

  “Over what?”

  “I wasn’t here. All Jake told me was that they had another shouting match.”

  “Did he say when?”

  “Sometime in the morning. Jake was out by the garage shooting hoops.”

  Lena remembered Hight telling her that he hadn’t seen Jacob Gant
since the trial. She had read it as a lie the moment it came out of his mouth. One among many. But what seemed important right now was Harry. He had stopped hiding. He’d made some sort of turn.

  “Any chance you could show me your brother’s room?” she asked.

  He looked at her for a while, then nodded without saying anything. Walking through the foyer, she followed him upstairs and started down the hall. The layout mirrored the Hights’ house next door. She checked the room on the right and saw an electric guitar laid out on an unmade bed. When she turned back, she found Harry standing before the door directly across the hall.

  A moment passed, like he didn’t want to enter the room. Lena sensed his hesitation. Giving the door a push, she led the way in, then paused a moment herself.

  Jacob Gant’s bedroom faced Lily’s. And they were close, just a driveway apart. She wondered why she hadn’t seen it before, then noticed the large oak tree standing beside the Hights’ house. The tree branches had given Lily’s room a false sense of privacy, obscuring the real view.

  Harry joined her by the window, his voice so soft she could barely hear it. “My dad told me that David Gamble was your brother.” He hesitated again but pushed through it. “And Mr. Paladino says you helped him with a problem last year. He says you’re okay, too.”

  It laid there for a while. Lena turned to him and knew that they understood one another. Her brother had played guitar and was murdered shortly after his band performed at a nightclub on the Strip. Although the murder occurred eight years ago, it worked like a shadow, changing sizes from day to day but never going away.

  “I’m on your side, Harry. I really am.”

  He sat down on the bed. Tears began to well up in his eyes and he covered his face with his hands.

  Lena rolled the desk chair over and sat down. “Tell me why Jake was at Club 3 AM last night. Why was your brother with Johnny Bosco?”

  This time Harry didn’t run out of the room when she asked the question. He wiped his cheeks. She could see him putting the words together in his head.