by Marcia Clark
Her eyes softened. “No, Mom stood by me. She knew I didn’t lie. But for some reason, she couldn’t kick Benjamin out. I have no idea what she sees in that piece of shit. Anyway, that’s why she let me move in with Jesus.”
At least her mother had believed her. That was a lot better than I’d gotten from Celeste. But the fact that Shelly couldn’t bring herself to dump that loser Benjamin was unfathomable to me. There was nowhere else to go with Tiffany’s story, but it was a perfect segue into our real reason for being there. “Do you think Ronnie went after Tracy, too?”
Tiffany’s expression was sad. “I can’t say for sure. She never told me. But I do know they fought like crazy, and she’d always leave the room when he came in, so . . . let me put it this way: it wouldn’t surprise me.”
I wanted to probe further, but it wasn’t as though we could do anything about it now, and I doubted Tiffany knew any more than that. I moved on. “Are you in touch with Tracy?”
Tiffany slipped the baby off her breast and held it to her shoulder as she patted the baby’s back. “I haven’t heard from her in at least a year. She’s never been real good about keeping in touch.” She paused. “Not that I blame her. Tracy had it tougher than any of us.”
I noticed my fists were still clenched. I forced my hands to relax. “Why do you say that?”
Tiffany pointed to a red LeSportsac knockoff on the floor near my end of the couch. “Could you hand me that?”
I gave it to her, and she removed a red wallet, took out a small photograph, and passed it to me. I saw three girls who looked to be between the ages of eight and twelve. The eldest appeared to be Tiffany. The youngest had her same black hair and high cheekbones. I pointed to the blonde girl in the middle. “Tracy?” Tiffany nodded. I said, “She had a different father?”
Her voice was bitter. “You could say that. Tracy’s father was my uncle. Good old Uncle Pete raped my mother.”
The revelation hit me like a sledgehammer. For a moment, we all sat in silence. It was so quiet, I could hear the baby breathing. That explained so much about Shelly’s attitude toward Tracy. And yet . . . it wasn’t Tracy’s fault that she was the product of a rape. I handed the photo back to her. “What did your father do about it?”
Tiffany put the photo back into her wallet and dropped it into her purse. “He didn’t call the cops, if that’s what you’re asking. In fact, he talked Mom out of it.” Her features twisted with disgust. “Of course. But he never spoke to his brother again.”
“And he and your mom eventually got divorced?”
Tiffany looked down at the baby in her arms. Her voice was sad. “No, Dad died. Drunk driving accident.” After a moment, she added in a sarcastic tone, “But I’m sure his brother’s still around.”
I couldn’t help myself. Though it had nothing to do with our mission, I asked, “How do you know? Are you in touch with him?”
She gave me an incredulous look. “You nuts? Of course not. But isn’t that the way life works?”
I nodded. “Kind of.” But it didn’t always have to. “Can you give us some information on him?”
Dale raised an eyebrow. But he wrote it all down.
THIRTY-THREE
We left shortly thereafter, and as we got into the car, I asked, “What are you going to do about that scumbag Uncle Pete Gopeck? And that asshole Ronnie?”
Dale’s expression was grim. “I’m going to run Gopeck through the system and see what kind of sheet he’s got—and where he lives. If he’s in LA, I might be able to do something. Especially if he’s on parole.”
Because an asshole like that was probably in violation of one condition or another every single day. “What about Ronnie? Do you have any connects in Riverside?”
Dale shook his head. “No. That one’s tougher.” He stole a sidelong glance at me. “Sam.” He waited for me to turn toward him. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing . . . don’t. At least, not till you run it by me.”
As if. I didn’t want my options limited to legal measures—like getting him on some wimpy probation violation. Because I had no doubt he was on probation for something. But I had no intention of giving Dale a reason to check up on me. “Sure.”
He set his jaw, but he wisely let it go. “I guess you’re going to have to hope your gambit works on the prosecutor.”
Just the thought of it gave me a sinking feeling. “Yeah, I’ll go see him tomorrow.”
When we pulled up to Dale’s house, he offered to throw something together for dinner, but I was too depressed by all we’d heard today, not to mention mega nervous about gaming the DA. “Thanks, but I’ll pass this time.” I got out and headed toward Beulah.
Dale parked the car at the curb and followed me into the garage. “Sam, I meant what I said. Don’t move on those jerks without telling me. You can’t afford to get caught. Especially now.”
I hit the remote and unlocked the car. “What makes you think I’ll do something illegal?”
He put his hands on his hips and stared at me. “Can we stop playing games?”
I opened the door. “I’m not. Those shitbirds have to be into something they can get busted for. I’ll just bring it to the attention of the proper authorities.”
His tone was sarcastic. “Right, you’re going to call the cops. Sounds just like you.” Dale sighed. “Please let me handle this. Okay?”
I gave him a flat look. “Sure, no problem.” I got into my car.
He had a wary look on his face as I pulled out of the driveway. And as I drove off, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that he was still standing in the driveway, watching me.
Dale didn’t know so much as guessed at some of the things I’d done. He knew I’d set up Ricardo Orozco to get killed in prison. And I’m sure he guessed that I’d used the Orozcos to get rid of a murdering cop—though I’d never openly admitted it.
But there was a lot more he didn’t know and would never know. As I thought about it now, I imagined he suspected that was the case. But suspecting isn’t knowing, and I’m a solo player by nature. Unless I absolutely had to have his help with Ronnie and Uncle Pete, I’d take care of them myself. Maybe not right away—all the stars would have to line up. But I’d keep them in the back of my mind, and when the opportunity came along, I’d be ready.
It was almost ten o’clock when I pulled into the driveway of my building. Since Cabazon’s last visit, I’d made it a habit to stop and scope out my balcony before pulling into my parking space. The lighting wasn’t great, but it looked like I wouldn’t have the pleasure of his company tonight.
I headed up to my apartment, my only thought the size of the drink I was going to pour. I dropped my purse and briefcase in the living room and decided to take a shower. I was feeling the familiar swirling anger in my gut that I used to have all the time when I was a kid. Hearing Tiffany’s stories had kicked the too-thin covers off my past. I needed to calm down. I stood under the hot water until it ran cold, then bundled up in sweats and went out to the kitchen and poured myself a triple shot of Patrón Silver on the rocks.
I’d taken a big, long swig before I saw that I had a message on my landline. It was from Alex. Someone named Greg Engler, who was a student at USC, needed to see me ASAP. He claimed he had some information for me on Roan’s death. Alex said he thought the guy sounded legit, so he’d set up a meeting with Greg at the office tomorrow morning, nine a.m.
Good. I’d be squeezed for time—I had to go downtown and see the prosecutor, Rick Moringlane, tomorrow, too—but I needed to make faster progress on Graham’s case. And besides, the prosecutor wouldn’t be available until the afternoon anyway. I’d already put in a call to his secretary to set up an appointment, and she’d told me he’d be available any time after one thirty. And besides, if I didn’t keep busy, I’d just get more worked up about the meeting.
I opened my laptop to review what I’d found on the Internet about the prosecutor. Rick Moringlane had the look of a true believer, the kind who was sure he was do
ing the Lord’s work. Short brown hair, wide smile, open face, nothing to hide. He wasn’t a baby DA, but I wouldn’t expect a baby DA to be handling a case like this. He’d been a prosecutor for nine years, had a decent win-loss record and no personal dings on him from anyone—at least not on Facebook or Twitter.
I’d say the fact that he didn’t have any negatives on Twitter was meaningful, but he hardly ever posted. I’d made a few calls to try and get some intel on him, but he’d just been transferred from the Long Beach office a couple of months ago, so he hadn’t developed a reputation downtown yet.
True believer could work for me. He didn’t have to be persuaded that there was any foul play by prosecutors or cops to buy my story. I sighed as I closed my laptop. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t waste ten seconds worrying about being able to sell a prosecutor on anything. But the looming threat of death—Tracy’s, mine, Dale’s—changed everything. There was no room for failure. This had to work.
And it could. Though, given the way my luck was going, I had no reason to be optimistic. But I had to do my best to stay positive, to have a little hope. This could all go swimmingly. It should go swimmingly. Or so I told myself.
As for my chances of a nightmare-free night, I had zero hope. Hearing about Ronnie and Uncle Pete had ruined any shot I had at getting a decent night’s sleep. And I couldn’t afford to try and drown my demons in tequila. I needed a clear head for tomorrow’s events.
I took a couple of Advil as I got into bed, thinking that might help. It didn’t. I woke up thrashing and sweaty at three a.m. Desperate to get some rest, I got up and made myself a cup of warm milk—kept at the ready for just this purpose. I managed to doze off at five thirty and sleep until the alarm woke me at seven—tired but clearheaded. I got into the shower and practiced what I’d say to Deputy DA Rick Moringlane.
Fear and anxiety made me move faster than usual. I got out the door by a quarter to eight. So I stopped to pick up coffee and some Egg McMuffins for the troops.
Alex was already in his office when I got in. I put the bag of food and tray of coffees on the table behind Michy’s desk and called out to him that breakfast was served. Michy—who was working on our books—kept typing but grinned. “Breakfast of champions.”
“More accurately, I decided we deserved a break today.” I dropped my purse and briefcase on the couch in my office, and when I went back out to get my coffee and Egg McMuffin, Alex was already biting into one.
He looked up. “Thanks for this. I love this junk, though I guess we should try and find some healthier options.”
I sat on the edge of Michy’s desk and unwrapped an Egg McMuffin. “Healthy food is for pussies. So what’ve you got on my good buddy Dr. Mortimer?”
Alex had a grim smile. “You’ll love this. It looks like our good buddy has screwed up on the cause of death before. The victim was a little girl, four years old. Her parents were in the process of getting divorced when she died. The coroner found wounds on the body that indicated a sharp force injury, but she stopped short of calling it a homicide, said they needed to do more testing. The father wanted a better answer, so he hired Mortimer. It took Mortimer less than a week to come out with his finding that the cause of death was multiple stab wounds.”
I swallowed my mega-bite of the sandwich. “I assume the child lived with the mother, and the father blamed her?”
Alex nodded. “Right. He went balls to the wall to get her arrested.”
Michy folded her arms and leaned back. “And did the cops bust her?”
Alex took a sip of his coffee. “They sure did. The mother sat in jail for a few weeks—until the coroner came out with the test results. The child had died of dog bites—not stab wounds. The neighbors in the house behind theirs had been taking care of a relative’s German shepherd. A very big German shepherd.”
This was fantastic. “So the mom got released, case closed, no murder?” Alex nodded. “How come the press didn’t pick up on this?”
He gave me a superior look. “Maybe because they’re nowhere near as good as me?”
I nodded. “That’s a given. But seriously, it must’ve been reported somewhere.”
Alex caved in. “It was. In McCall, Idaho. Population twenty-nine hundred. I’m sure the press would’ve gotten there eventually, but . . .”
There was no big emergency to investigate Mortimer’s past at this point, when the coroner might wind up agreeing with him. “Michy, get this over to—”
But Michy was already typing. “I’m on it. I’m sending to our connect at Associated Press and the LA Times. And then I’ll call it in to Sheri and KNX Newsradio.”
Print, television, and radio. That should do it. I smiled. “Perfect.” I liked the way this day was starting. “Nice job, Alex.” I looked at my watch. Our new witness was due in soon. “Moving on, did you actually talk to this guy Greg Engler?”
Alex pulled over the spare secretary’s chair and sat down. “Yeah. Not for long. He wouldn’t tell me much. He only wanted to talk to you. But I got the feeling he really does know something.”
I’d looked over the police reports while I wasn’t sleeping last night. “I didn’t see his name listed anywhere in the witness statements.”
He nodded. “Correct, he’s not there. Which either means he’s bullshitting us or he ducked the cops. Obviously, I’m betting on the latter.”
Michy had just bitten into her Egg McMuffin when the buzzer sounded at the outer door. She put down her sandwich. “Shit. He’s early.”
I stood up. “Finish your breakfast. I’ll take him in.” I handed her a napkin and pointed to the corner of her mouth. “You just might want to . . .”
Michy wiped off the crumbs and hit the buzzer. I turned to see a husky young guy with shaggy shoulder-length brown hair and big brown puppy-dog eyes. He wore a gray muffler, navy-blue pullover hoodie, and jeans. I was relieved to see he was wearing sneakers—not sandals. I walked over to him and introduced everyone as I shook his hand. It was clammy and cold. He gave each of us a nervous nod, and I led him into my office.
When Alex followed him in, Greg glanced at me with alarm. I motioned for Alex to close the door, then told Greg, “Don’t worry, he’s my investigator.” I gestured to the chairs in front of my desk. “Have a seat.”
Greg sat on the edge of the chair and fiddled with the fringe on his scarf. “The thing is, this has to be confidential.” He stole a glance at Alex. “Sorry, man. No offense.”
Alex had a little smile. “None taken.”
It was good to start the day with a bit of a laugh—though I was careful to keep it inside. “No, Greg. What I meant was, it’s okay. He’s part of the team, so he has to keep everything you say secret, too.”
His eyebrows lifted as he looked from me to Alex and back. “You sure?”
I couldn’t help but smile now. He was kind of adorable. “Very sure. Tell me why I don’t see your name in the police reports.”
He laced his fingers together in his lap. “Because I told the cops I didn’t know anything.”
I studied him for a moment. “But that wasn’t true, and you want to tell me and not them because . . . Feel free to fill in the blank.”
Greg stole another glance at Alex, then stared at his lap as he answered. “Because I’m a premed student, and I think I might need a lawyer at some point.” He looked at me, his expression anxious. “My dad’s a doctor, and I . . . uh . . . I stole his prescription pad and . . .” He swallowed, and his last words came out in a rush. “I wrote scrips for Oxy.”
My brain made the connection before I was even aware of it. “And you sold it to . . . Alicia?”
Greg shook his head. “No, to Roan.”
Then Roan must’ve been Alicia’s source for the Oxy Nomie had seen in her purse. Why did this not surprise me? “How did you know Roan?”
Greg took a deep breath. “He was a friend of a friend. We didn’t hang out that much. It was mainly business. That’s why I was at his place the night before Alicia died, when th
ey had a huge fight.”
I was confused. “They had a fight . . . in front of you?”
His brow knitted. “Not exactly. I was doing a deal with Roan, and Alicia knocked on the door, so he told me to go wait in the bedroom. They had a huge fight. I heard the whole thing. Alicia was screaming and crying.”
Alex turned to face him. “What was she saying?”
Greg stared straight ahead. “She kept begging him to take down photos.” He looked at Alex. “I didn’t know what she was talking about at the time, but from the news, I figure she must’ve meant the nude selfies, right?”
Alex nodded. “Did you hear what Roan said?”
Greg let out a long breath. “He said he didn’t post them. But . . .”
I took a guess. “You didn’t believe him?”
Greg shrugged. “It’s just that he didn’t try real hard to convince her. He just said it real casually, like he didn’t care. Like maybe he wanted her to know but didn’t want to get in trouble by admitting it. Because Alicia kept saying it had to be him, that he was the only one who had the photos.”
I finished the thought. “So who else could’ve done it?” Greg lifted his hands and shrugged. I agreed with him. It had to be Roan. “What did Roan say to that?”
Greg furrowed his brow again. “That Alicia had the photos, too, and he was sure she’d passed them around. And he called her a bitch and a slut and . . . a bunch of other things.” He rolled his shoulders back and blew out a breath. “It got real ugly, man.”
Slut. The use of that word told me so much. “Did Roan mention any other guy by name?” Greg shook his head. “What did Alicia say?”
He stared at a point on my desk as he spoke. “That at least she hadn’t slept with anyone else, which was a lot more than he could say.”
Whoa. Roan, the possessive, obsessive maniac, cheated on Alicia? I did not see that coming. “So she was accusing him of cheating on her?”
“That’s the way I took it.”