by Marcia Clark
Scott’s gaze drifted over my left shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was pained. “Roan . . . It was weird. I didn’t get it. He was the best-looking of all of us, but he could be really needy and insecure around girls.” He quickly added, “But he never hurt anyone, never hit a girl or anything.”
That we knew of. I wondered if girls would eventually come forward to say otherwise. But this was a good segue for my last question. “He did hurt himself, though, didn’t he? Did he ever talk to you about having suicidal thoughts?”
Scott’s lips quivered, but he clenched his jaw. “No, he never did. But I was always so damn busy. Maybe if I’d been around more . . .” He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “He must’ve been in a lot of pain to—to do something like that.”
What struck me was the fact that Scott didn’t reject the notion of Roan committing suicide the way his mother had. It clearly didn’t seem that unbelievable to him. “Your mother doesn’t believe it. She’s saying someone had to have killed him.”
Scott nodded, his expression weary. “Yeah, I heard she blames the girl’s father. Mom is . . . Mom. She’s got her issues, and I’m sure she doesn’t want to believe she screwed up that badly.”
I chose not to tell him that I was representing the girl’s father. “Then you think she won’t accept Roan’s suicide because she feels guilty?”
Scott shrugged. “It’s just a guess. She’s got a lot to feel guilty about.”
I treaded lightly with my next question. “Because she was an alcoholic?”
Scott sighed, but his tone was agitated. “Yeah.” He turned to look behind him for a brief moment, then asked, “Anything else? I’ve got to get back to work.”
I could’ve thought of a few more questions, but I suspected we’d gotten all we were going to get out of him. “Not a problem. Thanks for your time, Scott.”
He turned and walked back into his studio without a word. Zandra, who’d taken it all in, slipped inside and closed the door.
I stared at the door. “Don’t trouble yourselves. We’ll just see ourselves out, thanks.”
Alex shook his head. “Some people’s children.”
I followed him out, and we headed back to Beulah. As I drove us out of that stink pit, we compared notes. I led off. “I thought you said he was a music producer. I didn’t hear any music.”
Alex shrugged. “Me, either. What a weird place.” He pointed to the intersection just ahead. “If you turn left, we’ll be on Ocean Boulevard.”
Where we could get another eyeful of that gorgeous view. The wind was still blowing, and the palm trees that lined the boulevard were bending and swaying to and fro, reminding me of willowy dancers in Carmen Miranda–style hats. I rolled down my window a little to get the full blast of the sea air—and wipe the stench of Scott’s place out of my nose. “I didn’t expect him to say he thought Roan killed her. But he seemed to believe it was very possible that Roan committed suicide.”
Alex had rolled down his window, too, and he was leaning out with his head tilted back to get the full blast of clean air. “Yeah, that was good. And he confirms Roan’s bizarre attitude toward women. Not that we needed it.”
We definitely didn’t. Everyone and his dog seemed to know that Roan was an obsessive, controlling freak. I doubted we’d get much more from his father or other brother. “We can revisit if we get desperate, but for now, I think we let the rest of the family go.”
The interview hadn’t taken long, so we got back to the office by five thirty. Michy was just ending a call when we walked in. “Good timing. That was Dale.”
My heart froze. Had Cabazon made contact with him? I tried to keep my tone light as I asked, “What did he say?”
“Just that you should call him on his cell. Is something wrong?”
Damn Michelle. I can never keep anything from her. “No, not at all. Just kind of tired.”
I went into my office and closed the door. I had no doubt Michy and Alex were exchanging what’s going on with her? looks. I punched in Dale’s number. The moment he answered I asked, “Are you all right?”
He gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Yeah. I may have a lead on our, ah . . . JC matter. But that’s not what I’m calling about.”
JC. Javier Cabazon. Nice touch. “Then what are you calling about?” The tension of worry made the words come out a little sharper than I’d intended.
Dale’s tone was sarcastic. “Pardon me. I thought you might like to hear some inside news on Graham’s case. But no sweat if you don’t. I can get back to—”
I stopped him. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’ve been a little on edge. I’m sure you can figure out why. What’ve you got?”
“The hairs found on the shirt Roan was wearing when he died came from Alicia. It’s a microscopic match and a DNA match.”
Hairs could cling to clothing for months, so this was no game ender. But it was another piece of the puzzle. “So it’s looking a little more solid that Roan killed her.”
“Definitely getting there.”
I ended the call thinking this was not such great news for me. The clearer it became that Roan killed Alicia, the more people would believe that Graham had killed Roan. It just fit.
A little too well.
NINETEEN
For no particular reason, I decided we deserved to knock off early and go have dinner. I went out to Michelle’s desk and saw that Alex’s door was open. “How about The Hudson, guys? My treat.” It was a casual place on Crescent Heights Boulevard, and I loved the huge tree in the middle—also the great comfort food: outrageous mac and cheese, crispy chicken sliders, and great short-rib tacos.
Michy, who’d been yawning—no doubt because she was working on our quarterly tax forms—immediately perked up. “I’m so in, I’m almost out.”
But Alex didn’t answer. I went to his doorway. He was staring intently at his computer. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear that.”
He jerked up and blinked. “Hear what?” I repeated my generous offer. Alex shifted his gaze back to the computer screen as he said, “No, thanks. I’m in the middle of something.”
I hate it when people act cryptic. “Of what?”
Alex spoke without looking up. “I don’t want to jinx myself. I should know by tomorrow whether this works.”
Being weirdly superstitious myself, I couldn’t knock him for not telling me. “Okay, good luck. But do me a favor and throw the dead bolt when we split.” Alex frowned at me. “I’ve seen some weird characters in the ’hood lately.” He raised an eyebrow. “Just humor me, okay?” I couldn’t tell him about the Cabazon duo. Not that I really thought they’d be back so soon. Senor Cabazon wouldn’t send his minions back out until he had a reason to think I wasn’t going to deliver. But a little extra precaution couldn’t hurt. Besides, I really had seen some weird characters around here lately.
He sighed. “Fine.”
As Michy and I left, I heard him typing. I called him from the car just to make sure he’d set the dead bolt.
Michy and I caught up over mac and cheese and chicken sandwiches. Michy’s on-again, off-again romance with Brad, a hard charger who was slaving away at a white-shoe law firm downtown, was off-again at the moment.
She speared another forkful of mac and cheese. “He’s great, and he’s sweet, and he really treats me well.”
I took a swig of my Corona. “What an asshole. You should dump him immediately.”
She shot me a mock glare. “But he’s so boring. His cases are all—”
I filled in. “About how many zeroes you can add after the three. I know.” Corporate law truly was deadly. “Working with me spoiled you.”
Michelle raised an eyebrow. “If by spoiling me you mean working me fifty hours a week for a paycheck that may or may not appear, I guess you’re right.”
“Exactly. It’s the thrill of the unknown. Keeps the blood flowing—really fast.” I took a bite of the mac and cheese. “Doesn’t he have anything else going on in his life?”
Michy rolled her eyes. “When would he have time? He works fifteen hours a day.” She took a sip of her beer. “What’s up with you and Niko?”
I shrugged. “Nothing at the moment. He’s in New York teaching a master class. But that’s a good thing. I don’t have time for him.”
Michy lifted her bottle of Corona. “I’ll drink to that. What did Dale have to say?”
I told her what he’d said about finding Alicia’s hairs on Roan’s shirt. “I know it’s kind of a foregone conclusion that he killed her. But the more that kind of stuff comes out . . .”
Michy nodded. “I know.” She took another sip of her beer, then traced the label with her finger as she spoke. “I just keep thinking about those websites. What it must be like to be . . . violated that way. It’s got to be so humiliating. I’d be devastated.”
I’d been thinking about that, too. Alicia’s and Laurie’s photos were still posted on those hideous websites. Just the thought of it made me queasy. I pushed my plate away.
Michy looked at me with sympathy. She didn’t know the details of my childhood, but she knew enough of the broad outlines to understand how a loss of control of this kind hit close to home for me. She gave me a reassuring smile. “Well, just to focus on the bright side for a moment, if you do wind up going to trial on Graham’s case, you know who you’ll want on your jury.”
My smile was grim. “Women. All women. But preferably young ones.” Who wouldn’t judge Alicia for taking the nude selfies to please her boyfriend. And who’d be outraged at Roan just for posting those photos, let alone killing her.
We didn’t order dessert. I think the talk about revenge porn killed both our appetites. But we’d taken an Uber, so we did indulge in another beer.
It’d been a long week, so we called it a night by nine thirty, and when I got home, I tried to call Dale, but it went straight to voice mail. I called Alex. That went to voice mail, too. I was thinking about going back to the office to make sure he was okay, but two seconds later, he texted me: Leave me alone.
So he was okay. Annoyed at me, but okay. Annoying Alex was a satisfying way to end the day, so I put myself to bed by eleven o’clock. And woke up choking on my own screams at four thirty. Thankfully, I was able to put myself back to sleep until seven. For me, that counted as a good night.
I was dressed, coffeed, and nearly out the door when Dale called.
He spoke hurriedly and in a low voice. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
Tomorrow was Saturday. He must have a lead. “Hanging with you, I guess. What’s up?”
“Tell you when we meet up. Be ready to go by seven a.m.”
“Can we make it—” I would’ve asked him to make it eight o’clock, but he’d already ended the call.
Between Alex and Dale, I wasn’t getting a lot of respect.
I headed for the office and stopped on the way to pick up bagels and coffee. And when I got in, I was glad I had. I found Alex sitting on a cot in his office, bleary-eyed, with his shirt twisted. But when he saw me in the doorway, he smiled. “I smell coffee. And are those bagels?” He glanced at the bag in my hand.
I held it up. “And cream cheese. Come eat. Then tell me what on earth you’re up to—and when you snagged that cot.” This was the first time I’d seen it.
Alex went to the men’s room to “freshen up,” and I set out our morning fix.
Michy came in and made a beeline for the coffee. “Just what I needed. I overslept. And man, it’s cold out there.” Southern California cold. But still. I told her Alex had spent the night in the office. She shivered as she held the cup of coffee close to her chest. “What the hell is up with him?”
Alex walked in at that moment. He took half a bagel and spread it with cream cheese as he said, “Ask me nicely and I’ll tell you.”
I handed him a cup of coffee. “This is me asking you nicely. What the hell is up with you?”
He took a leisurely bite of the bagel, washed it down with a long sip of coffee. Then he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
I put a hand on my hip. “If you don’t start talking in the next ten seconds, I will take a hit out on you, I swear.”
Alex grinned. “I found him.”
It took me a second to process that. Then it hit me. “The guy who owns the website where Alicia’s photos were posted?”
He nodded. “Yep. Name and address.”
Michy set down her coffee and took half an onion bagel. “What are you going to do?” She had a worried look on her face.
Alex finished another sip of coffee. “I’m going to ask him to take down that whole damn website. I’m going to be nice until he shows me it’s time not to be nice. And if he argues, I’ll ask him again. A little less nicely.” He looked at us. “Get it? That was my version of Patrick Swayze—in Road House. ‘Be nice until it’s time to not be nice.’”
I had no idea what he was talking about. I turned to Michy, but she shook her head. We had nothing.
This wasn’t the most detailed plan I’d ever heard. “Do you know how big this guy is? Whether he has guns? Or friends who live with him?” Alex definitely hadn’t thought this through. Alex looked down at his coffee and frowned. “I could ask my uncle for backup.”
His uncle, Tomas Medrano, was a bail bondsman, and as most bail bondsman are, he was one tough dude. And so were his employees. They’d backed us up before, when I was representing Dale. “I’d say to get Tomas at the very least. But before you do that, why don’t we see where he lives, check him out, get some idea of what we’re up against? I assume he’s somewhere fairly close.” Or Alex wouldn’t have said he intended to go see him.
Alex rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not thinking too clearly. I just can’t wait to get my hands around that asshole’s neck.”
Michy and I exchanged a smile. This was one of the many reasons we loved Alex. “Did you get any sleep?” I asked.
He gave a huge yawn. “Couple of hours.” He threw his empty coffee cup in the trash and stretched. “I’ll go back to my crib and crash for a bit. We’re more likely to catch him at home if we go later anyway.”
We made him take an Uber home. He didn’t live far—like Michy and me, he lived in West Hollywood, close to the office—so it wouldn’t cost much, and I didn’t trust him to drive in his condition.
With Alex gone and no client meetings, Michy had the chance to crack the whip and make me finish my time sheets. The hours dragged by as I went through one case after another. I prayed for some distraction—any distraction. And Michy brought in salads, so I didn’t even get to break for lunch. When I finally finished the damn things, it was three thirty. I took them out to Michy. “I’m done. I think this might actually be worse than waterboarding.”
Michy rolled her eyes. “Stop whining. It’s how we get paid.”
I huffed and stomped back into my office.
Ten minutes later, Alex showed up, bright-eyed and raring to go. “He lives in Culver City.”
I groaned. “Traffic’s going to be a bitch.” Crosstown traffic was always bad, but it really sucked at this time of day.
Alex wagged a finger at me. “No woman, no cry. I’ll drive.”
I picked up my coat and purse and gave a despairing look to Michy. “Wish us luck.”
Michy held up crossed fingers. “Luck.”
As we inched southbound on La Cienega Boulevard, Alex used the opportunity to explain to me in excruciating detail how he’d managed to crack through the website owner’s firewall. I understood not one word of it. When he finally pulled up to a nondescript pale-yellow apartment building on Motor Avenue, I said, “Um, that’s amazing. But could you maybe tell me the guy’s name?”
Alex’s lips twitched. “Sorry. I’ve just been working on this for so long. His name’s Devon Shackley. I Googled it and got four photos.”
Alex pulled a sheet of paper out of his file folder and gave it to me. One had short dark hair and a mustache. A second had shoulder-length blond hair and a nose ri
ng. A third was bald. The fourth had short blond hair and a soul patch. “So I guess we wait and see if anyone who matches one of these guys comes out or goes in?”
Alex looked at me like I’d suggested we use a divining rod. “No, we wait until someone opens the door, then follow them in and go up to his apartment.”
That would be easier. And it took only fifteen minutes before a very helpful young woman held the door open for us as we hurried toward it, looking harried and grateful. I smiled at her. “Thanks.”
She smiled back. “No problem.”
As she headed down the hall, I whispered to Alex, “And that’s how us nice women get killed.”
Alex lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “‘Us . . . nice’? I don’t think you and she have that in common.”
I gave him an indignant sniff, which he ignored as he led the way to the elevator. Our quarry lived on the fourth floor in apartment 4F: 4F—unfit for military service. How apt. We’d decided to play it simple and pretend to have accidentally knocked on the wrong door. Not exactly elegant, but it didn’t need to be. We were just trying to get a sense of who we were dealing with.
Alex knocked, and a burly man in his thirties with heavy eyebrows answered the door. He looked like the guy in the fourth photo—but the soul patch was gone now, and his jowls looked heavier. His appearance was almost as hostile as his tone as he said, “What can I do for you?”
Alex put on a charming smile. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Felicia Underwood.”
Devon Shackley gave an irritable grunt. “No one here but me. And I don’t know anyone named Felicia . . . whatever.”
I suddenly had an idea. I quickly raised my phone and took his picture.
He shot me an angry look. “Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I gave him an innocent look. “Nothing! Just checking Felicia’s text.” I turned to Alex, who looked a little startled, and showed him the phone. “She’s in 2C, goofball. Come on.” As I pulled Alex toward the elevator, I smiled and waved to Devon. “Sorry!”