by Marcia Clark
As we wound our way back down the mountain, I tried to dredge up names for any of Brian’s friends. No luck. I remembered that even his aunt hadn’t known of any. “The only places I can think to check are his jobs. He didn’t go to school here—”
“No,” Bailey said. “And I’ve been trying to figure out where he might’ve gotten the idea to stage the kidnapping—”
“You mean other than from himself—”
“Yeah, I don’t make him as the mastermind somehow. If you ask me, this was Hayley’s idea.”
It did have that teenagey melodramatic touch. But something about the whole kidnapping scheme bothered me. “If what Brian wanted was to avenge his father, then why only ask for a million dollars? Why not go for it and ask for half the profits on that film?”
“How would he know what that was? He was just a kid. He did what was easy. Hayley told him Russell kept a million in the house. He asked for that.”
I stared at Bailey. “Since when did you get to be such a softie?” Bailey was usually the one who landed on the most sinister motives for every move—whether that move was made by a child molester or a ninety-year-old who cheated at Bingo.
Bailey shrugged. After a few moments she said, “It’s just a feeling. Okay?”
“You’re entitled to ’em,” I said. “And I don’t disagree with you.”
Bailey dropped me off at the Biltmore with a warning that she’d be back to pick me up at eight o’clock tomorrow. I nodded wearily, got out and patted the roof, and Bailey sped off.
One hot shower later, I was in bed. Five minutes after that, I’d fallen asleep with all the lights on.
22
I’d set the alarm early enough to have breakfast and read the paper, but I accidentally hit the snooze button twice. The next time my eyes opened, it was seven thirty. I jerked myself out of bed and ran to the shower, hitting the TV remote on my way so I could check the morning news. I needed to find out whether word of Brian’s death had leaked. I cranked up the volume and scrubbed up quickly, listening as I braced for disaster. The hot water felt good on my shoulders and I’d just begun to relax when a familiar voice made me spin around and push open the shower door. I leaned out just in time to see Vanderhorn’s face behind a microphone. I grabbed a towel and ran over to the television.
Preening in the limelight, as usual, he affected his “I perform a somber duty” face. “We are continuing to develop leads and are working closely with officers who, I assure you, are going around the clock—”
A reporter interrupted him with a shouted question asking for new information. I held my breath. Vanderputz shouldn’t know about Brian, but…
“Ah…”
I could see he was aching to say something that’d get him more airtime. I squeezed the towel between my hands, wishing it was his neck. He continued.
“There is nothing more I can tell you at this time. But I believe in the public’s right to know, and the moment we have any new development…”
They let him finish the sentence, barely, before cutting away to tease sports and weather. I hurried back to the shower, light-headed with relief. Crisis averted. This one, anyway. I still needed to check the Internet.
I dressed and did my hair and makeup in record time, but just as I opened my laptop, Bailey called to say she was downstairs. Damn. I grabbed a cold bottle of water, wrapped half of my toasted bagel in a napkin, and sprinted for the elevator.
“You checked the Web for leaks?” I asked as I got into the car.
Bailey nodded. “So far, so good.”
We went back to Brian’s past jobs and asked more questions. All of his bosses and co-workers said the same thing: he was a good worker, a nice guy, but he didn’t hang out with anyone on a social basis and they didn’t know of any friends. The only person he’d ever mentioned was his aunt, Janice.
As we walked back to the car after the last stop, we passed an outdoor newsstand set under an awning against the wall of a building. I glanced at the newspapers displayed on the middle shelf. Every single paper had some mention of Hayley’s murder on the front page. Most featured a color reproduction of a particularly winsome pose above the fold. Not just one but three different tabloids carried a full story. Though I shuddered to think what was in those stories, I bought them all. I had to know what kind of misinformation was already being spread. We’d asked our respective offices to keep a tight lid on the details of how and where Hayley’d been found, but we knew that wouldn’t stop the lower-echelon workers at either the police station or the DA’s office from leaking stories—true or false—to reporters for fun, attention, and profit. I didn’t know whether we’d ever have a suspect to take to trial, but if we did, I would need a jury that hadn’t been tainted with lies and spin.
We got into the car and Bailey pulled out. I opened one of the papers to start reading, then realized it’d probably make me nauseated—and I don’t just mean from motion sickness. I folded it back up. It could wait till I got back to my office or the station.
“You have the guts to go hit SID and see if Dorian has anything?” I asked.
“Sure, I’m in the mood for a good ass-kicking.”
“Maybe if we bring her some lunch…”
“Dorian doesn’t eat,” Bailey said.
But I did, and I was hungry. Two tacos and a quesadilla later, we were rolling into the parking lot of SID. We found Dorian staring into a microscope at her bench. When we got within ten feet, she looked up and grimaced.
“What?” she said.
Ordinarily, I’d start with a “Hey, how ya doin’?” but not with Dorian. I’d bet Dorian’s mother doesn’t do that with Dorian.
“Anything on anything?” I asked.
She jerked her head in the direction of her office and started walking. We followed. Her small, spartan office was decorated in early modern anal-retentive. Her desk was spotless, the in-box placed at precisely one inch from the edge on both sides, and of course empty. Dorian unlocked her computer and tapped a few keys. “Brian’s apartment: no evidence of struggle, hair consistent with Hayley’s was found in the bathroom and the bedroom, and prints that matched his and Hayley’s were found in all rooms. Couple of toothbrushes found in the bathroom. Preliminary tests indicate they were used by Brian and Hayley. I’ll have a final answer when we get back DNA. No clothing in the closets, and other than a used tube of toothpaste—which I haven’t printed yet—there were no other items in the bathroom or the medicine cabinet—”
“So Hayley stayed there with Brian.”
Dorian ignored me, tapped more keys, and squinted at the screen. “Next, Brian’s car. This is just the first look, so we’ll have more when I get time to finish. I found Brian’s hair and prints in the car, of course. Hayley’s hair and prints too. Possibly some fibers from the blouse she was found in as well. It was a lightweight knit that shed a fair amount, which is helpful. Now here’s the part I know you’re waiting for: I found a small smear of blood on the outside of the trunk. Seems to be a mix of Hayley’s and someone else’s.”
“Not Brian?” I asked.
“Not based on the profile I’ve got so far. When I get back the DNA, I’ll be able to tell you for sure, but at this moment, it looks like a third party’s blood.”
Bailey and I exchanged a long glance.
“Do you have a plan for the soil samples?” Bailey asked.
“I don’t ‘plan.’ I already sent ’em out to a guy who’s the guru on particulates.” Dorian looked up from her computer. “And I can tell you, he isn’t as accommodating as I am about your ‘need it now’ jazz.”
Less “accommodating” than Dorian? I couldn’t begin to guess what that might mean.
“Given your findings on the car trunk, do you think we should go back out to the mountain?” I asked.
“I would. It’s dry now, and I’d like to take another look, in the light.” She turned to Bailey. “You putting in the request?”
“As of now.”
I was buo
yed by the possibility that we might have the DNA of the killer. Then I considered who our killer might be from a logical standpoint. I didn’t like where my train of thought was taking me, but maybe Bailey would find a way to knock it down.
“We’re pretty sure at this point that Brian and Hayley engineered this kidnapping scheme,” I said. “But obviously someone else got into the mix. Brian didn’t have any friends, so if someone was in on it from the start, that person didn’t come from his end—”
“And we know it couldn’t be anyone in Hayley’s circle.”
“But here’s the question: Why would Brian and Hayley have even wanted to bring in a third party?”
“No reason I can see,” Bailey said. “She knew how to reach her dad, how much money he had, all the important stuff. It didn’t take much to set up the drop in Fryman Canyon—”
“They didn’t need any help. So I’m betting our killer was an uninvited guest at their party. That means he had to have found out about the kidnapping while it was in progress.”
“You two want to blab, take it outside,” Dorian said. “Some of us work for a living.”
We started to apologize, but Dorian had already turned back to her computer. When we got to the elevator, Bailey started to speak but stopped when some others joined us. After we got out of the building, she said, “What about Legs? He ‘sniffed’ the ransom note before it was sent.”
“True. But I have a hard time believing that the guy who called us with the tip—”
“Yeah. Hard to believe, but you never know.” Bailey shrugged.
“He just doesn’t fit the bill.” The skinny, pierced, and tatted soon-to-be doctor of neuroscience was a tough sell as a killer. “But you’re right. I guess we should at least check his alibi.”
“I’ll put Harrellson on it,” Bailey said. “Assuming it doesn’t turn out to be Legs, who else could’ve found out about the plan in time to jump in?”
“Other ‘cyber-sniffers,’ I guess—”
“Jeez, I don’t know. Legs Roscoe was enough of a coincidence. How many others could have jumped in at just the right time?”
“But it wouldn’t hurt to try and run down everyone who was in that cybercafé,” I said.
“I’ll add it to the list.”
I moved on to consider other possibilities. Only one came to mind. “Assuming it wasn’t some random person at the café, all we’re left with is someone who was close enough to Russell to find out on his end…like someone who was in the house when the kidnapping message came in.”
Bailey pulled out of the parking lot and didn’t answer for a few moments. “That fits. And God knows Russell’s place always seems to have a boatload of people running around in it.”
“Good thing we decided to keep Brian’s death under wraps.”
But life is all about balance, as Toni’s boyfriend, Judge J. D. Morgan, always says. That good thing was balanced by a nasty bad thing: since no one knew about Brian, I’d have to get Vanderhorn’s permission to interrogate Mr. Moviemaker’s inner circle. It’d be like slamming my hand in the door, only not as much fun. Then it occurred to me that there was a better option—at least for me. My boss, Eric.
23
I asked Bailey to stop by the courthouse so I could make my pitch to Eric in person. He was thrilled to talk to Vanderhorn for me, though his display of joy was subtle.
“Don’t you think you’re in a better position to explain why you need to dig into Russell’s entourage?” he asked.
“No. I think you are. Even an idiot like Vanderhorn will get it if you talk slow. And you know he likes you more—”
“He likes acid reflux more than he likes you, but that’s not the point. He’ll listen because he’ll hear the name ‘Antonovich.’ And he’ll want a complete explanation for why a potential major campaign contributor has to strap on a poly and answer questions about his daughter’s murder. I’m bound to run out of answers.”
“We’re not going to poly him…yet. And if you get in a bind, just call me. I’ll fill you in.”
“‘Yet’? I was just kidding. Knight, what the hell are you up to?”
“Nothing. I was just kidding too.” I crossed my fingers. I don’t know why I still do this when I lie. But at least I don’t throw salt over my shoulder…anymore. Waste of good salt if you ask me. “Come on, Eric. I don’t have time to fiddle around with Mr. Potato Head and I really need to get this ball rolling. Whoever murdered these two children is going to be in the wind if we don’t move fast.”
“Fine. But do me a favor. Start on the periphery and go easy until I give you the all clear.”
“Okay, but don’t let the idiot tell his new best friend, Russell, that we’re looking his way. We need spontaneous answers.”
Eric sighed. “Keep your cell phone close. I’ll be in touch.”
When I got back to the car, I filled Bailey in. “So we’ll start with the bottom rung,” I finished.
“We’d start on the fringe of the circle anyway.”
“Housekeepers, runners, security—”
“Then personal assistants, manager, personal friends, and—”
“I’d do the personal assistants last, just before Russell, Raynie, and Dani,” I said. “They know more than anyone else.”
Back when I was a baby DA in the Beverly Hills branch court, I caught a burglary case in which the victim was a lead actor in a primetime detective series. Burglary was the most common felony in Beverly Hills. The burglar turned out to be the piano teacher for one of the actor’s children. That case had been an eye-opening primer on how “the other half”—really more like the other one percent—lived. Everyone had a personal assistant. Some of the assistants even had assistants. And all of them were treated like furniture. The residents were so used to having assistants around all the time, they became invisible. So the most intimate of conversations about sex, deals, money, and custody battles took place in full earshot of the assistant. Luckily, most assistants were pretty loyal and damn scrupulous about not leaking what they heard. Or maybe they were just scared. But one thing was for sure: assistants were a fount of information and we’d learn a lot if we could get any of them to talk.
Bailey announced us on the intercom and the gates swung open smoothly. A young man in faded jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the title of Russell’s last film, Princess Warrior, met us in front of the house.
“Mr. Antonovich will be back in about an hour, but he said you could wait inside. We’ve got a lot of people in and out all the time, so it’d be better if I took care of your car.”
Bailey wasn’t wild about the idea, but she tossed the keys to the kid. “I need easy in and out,” she ordered.
The door was answered by a guy in a crew cut and an FBI-style suit. I say FBI-style because I didn’t see the standard earpiece and I knew the FBI hadn’t been called in on the case. He put out his hand and gave his name in a serious voice. “Kenneth Krup. You’d be Detective Keller and DDA Rachel Knight?”
I barely resisted the urge to say “affirmative.” I didn’t remember seeing any security types like this on our last visit. It seemed a little late for Russell to bring in the troops now. Bailey confirmed our identities. “This way,” he said.
Back to the great room, which still truly was. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll send Sophie in to get whatever you need.” He turned on his heel—which must’ve been rubber, because it squeaked on the highly polished wooden floor—and left us. A mixture of light green and floral smells gave the room a garden-like atmosphere. I didn’t have to look far for the source: there was a gigantic arrangement of white dahlias and lotus flowers on a low table in the far-right corner of the room, and Chinese vases filled with hydrangeas, roses, and calla lilies on glass shelves, coffee tables, and side tables. Maybe it was the size of the room, maybe it was my state of distraction, but I hadn’t noticed the floral display the last time we were here.
I leaned toward Bailey. “Think Sophie would bring us a couple of dr
y martinis?”
“I think Sophie would bring us a couple of male strippers if we asked her to.”
I considered the idea. “We should probably get some interviews done first.”
Bailey shrugged.
One second later, a slight young woman, no more than five feet one, dressed in a black cotton dress and white apron and looking like she was in her late teens, entered the room. I made the deductive leap that this was Sophie. Sophie asked what she could get us. We said water would be nice. She inquired whether we wanted tap or sparkling; we opted for tap. When she returned with two glasses, I asked in what I hoped was an offhand manner how long she’d been working there.
“Three years.”
“Pretty long time.” Especially for someone who looked no older than twenty. “What are your days?”
“Tuesday through Saturday,” she said.
“So you get Sundays off. That must be nice.”
Sophie shrugged. “Sure.”
I was trying to make this sound conversational so she wouldn’t get scared off, but Sophie was edging away from us. I’d have to get to the point.
“Do you ever work on Mondays?”
“Around the holidays and awards season, or if Frankie calls in sick, or if there’s a party and they need extra help. But then they pay me extra.”
“As they should. Glad to hear it.” And I really was. “Then Frankie usually works Mondays?”
Sophie nodded.
“So you weren’t here last Monday?”
“No. And thank goodness because the twins were home sick and I didn’t have anyone to stay with them.”
That meant she hadn’t been here on the day of the “kidnapping.” Also, she probably wasn’t eighteen. “You have twins?”