Killer Ambition

by Marcia Clark

  “I understand.”

  Numan cleared his throat again. “The plant debris and soil composition found on the vehicle associated with Hayley Antonovich’s body—”

  “The Toyota, correct?” I was careful not to say it was Brian’s car on a cell phone.

  “Correct. The levels of sand, silt, and clay revealed particulates most commonly found in the northwestern portion of the Santa Monica Mountain Range—”

  “As in Boney Mountain?” Where Brian’s body had been found, and where I’d just been.

  “Yes. Trails on Boney Mountain such as the Mishe Mokwa, for example.”

  “Did you also examine soil samples taken from Fryman Canyon?” Fryman Canyon, where Russell had left the ransom money, was forty to fifty miles away, depending on what route you took. I needed to know whether the soil in Fryman Canyon was different from that on Boney Mountain.

  “I did. And to answer the question I believe you intend to ask, no, the particulates I identified on the Toyota could not have come from Fryman Canyon.”

  “And what about the soil and plant debris on Hayley’s body?”

  “The same. The likely source was Boney Mountain.”

  “How much could your findings change when you complete your examination?”

  “Well…” He gave a formal chuckle, heh-heh-heh. “One never knows what one may find, but I wouldn’t expect my final conclusion to be radically different.”

  I thanked Numan and ended the call.

  “So the soil on the Toyota and on Hayley’s body comes back to Boney Mountain?” Bailey asked.

  “Yep. And he excluded Fryman Canyon as a possible source.”

  “Which means Brian and Hayley must’ve driven up here.”

  “The question is, why?” I asked. “If the ransom drop was in Fryman Canyon, what were they doing forty miles away on Boney Mountain?”

  Bailey frowned and shook her head. We rode back downtown in silence.

  “I feel like I spent the night in a ditch.”

  “I could use a shower myself,” Bailey said. “It’s almost six o’clock. I can justify knocking off for the day. How about you?”

  “I don’t have any better ideas.”

  We got to my room and headed for the showers. I changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a lightweight blue jersey tank top. We met in the living room and flopped on the couch.

  “I’m wiped,” Bailey said. She’d changed into cutoffs and a T-shirt.

  “Yeah. I guess it’s the heat.” And the constant gallop we’d been doing since we caught the case. This was the first time we’d knocked off before nightfall that I could remember.

  “Room service?”

  Bailey’s favorite thing. I’d just picked up the phone to place our orders when Bailey’s cell phone rang.

  “Keller.”

  I gave our orders to room service while Bailey took her call. Seconds later, she put down her phone.

  “We got a ping from Hayley’s iPad,” she said.

  Another effort to mislead us into thinking Brian was still alive? It’s what we’d been hoping for.

  “An e-mail?”

  “No. Just the signal that the iPad had been activated.”

  “Where?”

  “New York,” Bailey said. “NYPD’s running it down.”

  I would’ve loved to fly out there and chase down the asshole myself, but it would waste hours in flight time, and we couldn’t afford an extra minute. We’d gotten lucky with that signal from Hayley’s iPad. Now we just had to hope we’d gotten that signal soon enough.

  29

  Abe Furtoni, the NYPD officer who’d given Bailey the news, had promised to call in with updates the moment anything broke. Waiting for a call like that is nerve-racking, so just to give us a little diversion, I turned on the television and found a mindless reality show about rich housewives.

  “You think they really live like that? Just doing lunch and backstabbing each other?” Bailey asked incredulously.

  “No. Sometimes they go to parties and backstab each other.”

  Bailey’s phone rang and we exchanged a look as she picked it up. “Keller.”

  After a few “okays” she ended the call.

  “They’ve traced the signal to a deserted building near the Staten Island ferry station. NYPD’s on their way to Rosebank right now. Furtoni’ll call back when he’s got more.”

  My pulse kicked up several notches, all traces of fatigue gone. Unable to sit still, I began to pace. Bailey, a sphinx in these situations, loves my pacing.

  Bailey eyed me as I made my first two laps. “Why don’t you go to the gym? Work off some of that nervous energy.”

  “I don’t want to miss the call.” Just saying it out loud made me pace faster. After three more laps, Bailey’d had it.

  “You’ll miss the call if I lock you in the closet too.”

  I went to the window and looked down at Pershing Square. At eight o’clock the sun had finally begun to surrender and the last few rays of light were sinking under the weight of darkness. I walked out onto the balcony to enjoy the first cooler breezes of night air. Desiree, a flamboyant cross-dresser who seemed to spend his time parading between Temple Street and Grand Avenue, strolled by in five-inch leopard-print platform shoes, black spandex short shorts, and a bright yellow tube top. I thought the yellow and brown feathers woven into his near-waist-length black ponytail were a nice touch. I would never have had the patience. This was one of his most restrained outfits. I waved and he favored me with a nod and a little smile.

  Bailey’s phone rang again. While she took the call, room service brought our dinners: steak and salad for Bailey, a Caesar salad and grilled shrimp for me. Too nervous to eat, I watched Bailey’s face, trying to read her expression. This was a lost cause if ever there was one, because Bailey has the classic poker face. The call went on long enough that I was ready to jump off the balcony by the time Bailey finished.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” she began. “Three kids, late teens, had the iPad. The youngest one coughed up the story first. They were hanging with friends in Manhattan and decided to keep partying all night, so they got a room at the DoubleTree Inn in Times Square. They saw the maid’s cart parked in front of a room with the door open, but no one was around. The iPad was lying out on the desk, so they stole it along with a watch and some other junk.”

  “And that room was registered to?”

  “We’ll find out pretty soon. They’re on their way there right now.”

  “We need to know when that person checked in too.”

  Bailey looked at me. “Gee, really?”

  “Sorry, just thinking out loud.”

  “No, it’s cool,” Bailey said. “I’m a little uptight myself.”

  I looked at her. “A little?”

  “Shut up.”

  An hour—and many frayed nerves—later, she got the next call. This time it was brief. When she ended the call, she scrolled on her cell phone for a few moments, hit a key, and then looked up.

  “The room was registered under the name Stuart Connor,” Bailey said. “Check-in date was the day after the ransom note was sent—”

  “What time exactly?”

  “Early in the morning. Around seven thirty.”

  “So he picked up the ransom money, killed Brian and Hayley, and hopped a red-eye?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I’m not a hundred percent clear on how one guy, even a big one, could overpower both Brian and Hayley on that mountain. But more than that, this Stuart guy—whoever he is—couldn’t have been at Russell’s house when the kidnapping note came in. Everyone who was there at the time hung around too late to have gotten out to Boney Mountain.”

  Russell’s house in Bel Air was over forty miles away from Boney Mountain. “And everyone who’d been in the house that evening was also around the next day. No one was missing in action.” Stuart Connor had been out of town for days by now. That meant only one thing. “He had to have someone on the inside tell him Hayley’d be
en kidnapped…” That reminded me. “Did Harrellson run down our buddy Legs Roscoe?”

  “Oh, yeah. He was heading up a study group that night. Has about a dozen alibi witnesses.”

  So much for that. And regardless of whether this Stuart guy did the murders alone or not, he definitely was our number one “person of interest.” At least for now. “How long after he checked into that hotel was that ticket to Paris purchased on Hayley’s iPad?”

  “A day, maybe? I’ll get more specifics when I hear from Abe,” Bailey said.

  “Is Stuart Connor still there?”

  “No. He checked out the same day those kids snatched his stuff. They’re checking surveillance cameras at the hotel, see if they can catch an image of him.”

  I thought about that a moment. “If this Stuart character was using Brian’s credit card, he might be using his ID. There was no wallet on Brian’s body, was there?”

  Bailey squinted. “There was…some stuff. Papers or something, but no. No wallet.”

  “Then we should send Brian’s photo out to NYPD. See if anyone on the surveillance footage bears a resemblance. It’s easier to get away with using Brian’s ID if he looks at least somewhat similar.”

  “I’ll get hold of Brian’s photo—”

  “And when you talk to your contact…”

  “Detective Abe Furtoni.”

  “Right,” I said. “If they find this Stuart Connor on the surveillance footage at the hotel, tell him to make a still photo out of the best frame—”

  “Yeah, so we can show it around.”

  “And they’ve got an alert out for this guy at all the—”

  “—airports, bus terminals, blah, blah, blah. Yes. And I was thinking we should have them check out the iPad. See if there’s any info that’ll help us track this guy. Maybe some e-mails…”

  I looked at Bailey. “It’s our case. If they mess up anything on that iPad, it’ll be our asses. I say we get that thing back here ASAP and do the work ourselves.”

  Bailey nodded. “We should get it in a couple of days if they send it FedEx.”

  “To hell with FedEx,” I said. “If that iPad turns out to be evidence, I’ll be eating dirt through the whole trial about all the ways it could’ve been messed with en route. We need them to have an officer hand-deliver it to us.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Even if I had to knock heads with Vanderhorn.

  “I’ll give Furtoni the heads-up so he can figure out who he’s sending.”

  While Bailey made the call, I pictured the iPad—its lovely touch screen.

  “It’s probably a long shot since those kids stole the iPad and played around with it, but if we get lucky, we might be able to get prints off that iPad,” I said.

  “Prints will be great if he’s in the system. Of course, if he’s not…”

  We’d be screwed—for now. But if we got him, we’d be able to prove he had the iPad. Which would prove he was involved in the murders. It wasn’t a home run, but it was better than nothing. And a damn sight better than anything we’d had so far.

  30

  Bailey went home that night and I put myself to bed early. I’d already left a message for Eric saying I needed approval to pay for an NYPD officer to bring out the iPad. There was nothing more we could do at this point. Nothing but wait, anyway. Sunday I caught up on sleep, then I went to the office and attacked the mile-high stack of motions and messages that had piled up on my desk.

  A step onto the balcony Monday morning told me it was going to be another scorcher of a day. I didn’t have any court appearances, so I could do casual. I opted for a light cotton shift and sandals, and when I stepped outside, I was plenty glad I did. In just two blocks, it felt as though the temperature had already climbed by at least ten degrees. Cup Man, the street resident who loudly proclaimed non sequiturs about world affairs on the corner of First and Main with a Styrofoam cup perched on his head, was shirtless today. Stray cats slept languorously in the shade and even the homeless—usually bundled up in everything they owned—were carrying their coats in shopping carts.

  I hurried up Broadway, eager to get into the air-conditioned courthouse. The elevator did its usual swoop and bump as it bounced to a stop on almost every floor on the way up to my office on the eighteenth.

  I wanted to talk to Eric, but first I’d have to get past his secretary, Melia Espinoza, aka Gossip Central. Legal secretaries are generally very well paid—at least in the private sector—because they know almost as much as, and often more than, the lawyers. But the DA’s office doesn’t pay anywhere near what the private sector does, so the really good ones never bother to apply. Thus, the gift of Melia. I deal with her by asking her to do as little as possible. This arrangement suits her just fine.

  When I stopped in the doorway, she jerked her head up. Once again, I’d interrupted her reading a tabloid rag that lay open in her lap under the desk. Since no one ever mentioned it, and Eric had never busted her, Melia thought no one knew. Every prosecutor in the unit knew. And inconsiderate bunch that they were, they imposed on her tabloid time by expecting her to do secretarial things. Like find a file, or the boss.

  “Oh, Rachel. Hi! How’re you doing?”

  The effusive greeting left me momentarily speechless. She usually barely remembered my name, though we’d been working together for years.

  “I’m fine. Is Eric around? I left him a message.”

  “He’s in a meeting right now, but I’m sure he’ll take your call. Want me to get him?”

  Interrupt him when Vanderhorn might be listening? Hell no. “No, thanks, it can wait.” But what was up with girlfriend? Cheery, helpful. Who was this pod person, and what had she done with Melia?

  “Rachel, you know they’re saying a stalker killed Hayley Antonovich. Is it true?”

  The light dawned. I had the big celebrity case. Thanks to me, Melia had the hottest seat in town—right in the middle of the investigation. This made me her favorite DDA. I knew I should find a way to capitalize on this. But I couldn’t think of anything I needed at the moment. I’d have to give it some thought very soon. Melia’s devotion wouldn’t last one second longer than the case did. “We really don’t know, Melia. Could you just tell Eric to call me on my cell?”

  “I will. Good luck!”

  Jeez. I’d have to take the long way around the hallways from now on to avoid my new best friend, Melia. This helpful, enthusiastic version was unsettling. I’d hoped to find Toni in her office when I got in, but her door was closed and she didn’t answer when I knocked. Having exhausted my opportunities for distraction, I retreated to my office and dug into the half of my desk I call an in-box.

  By noon, I’d almost reached the bottom of the stack. Most of the motions didn’t require a written response; they were just CYA (cover your ass) motions the defense attorneys had to make so they wouldn’t be accused of rendering ineffective assistance when the case went up on appeal. I was reading through my second-to-last of these scintillating creations when my cell phone played “The Crystal Ship” by the Doors. The ringtone I’d assigned to Toni.

  “Antoinette! Where the hell are you?”

  “What do you mean, where am I? You’re the one that’s been out God knows where. So where the hell are you?”

  “In my office, pushing the wheels of justice forward.”

  “Don’t talk to me about slaving, white girl. I just got out of court. You ready to do lunch?”

  “I’m starving to death. Meet me in the lobby.”

  Toni had to be back in court by one thirty, so we shared a quick salad in the lobby restaurant at the New Otani Hotel.

  “What’re you doing in court?” I asked.

  Toni made a deprecatory wave. “Nothing fun. Just pretrial motions on my double.”

  Toni’s defendant was a twenty-five-year-old meth freak who’d beaten his twin sisters to death with a rubber mallet.

  “Is the mom still showing up?” The mother had trie
d to help him kick his addiction for years before finally giving up and throwing him out. She blamed herself for the killings and felt it was her duty to attend every hearing.

  “Like clockwork, and it’s killing me to watch her suffer the way she does.” Toni blinked and looked away for a moment. “Enough about my sad stories, what about yours? Fill me in.”

  I caught her up on the case.

  “I think you’re right. There had to be more than one person involved,” she said. “But do you think this Stuart Connor did the killings alone?”

  “I don’t know how one person manages to pick up the ransom money in Fryman Canyon, then get out to Boney Mountain, kill two kids, bury one, drive the other one down to LAX in the trunk of a car, then hop a plane to New York. Do you?”

  “Of course I could manage it, but that’s me.”

  I grinned. Toni probably could. “We’re in a holding pattern until we find this Stuart character. But I still feel like he had a partner in all this. We eliminated everyone who was around at the time, but obviously we’ve missed something—”

  “And Russell and Dani didn’t tell anyone about it?”

  “So they say. But everyone and his brother was running in and out of their house the whole time. And Russell and Dani were a mess. Who knows what they might’ve inadvertently leaked? And who knows where Russell might’ve put down his cell phone?”

  Toni had a skeptical look. “Something about all this doesn’t sit right with me.”

  This is why Toni and I always talk our cases over with each other. It’s not just a friend thing, it’s a practical necessity. Because when we’re running hard on a case, we can get mired in the details and miss the big picture. We’ve helped/saved each other this way too many times to count. Now, Toni’s remark made me stop and take stock. I thought about what we’d seen and heard since we first met with Russell and company. I’d assumed someone in the house had to have gotten wind of what was going on in order to know in advance where the money drop was supposed to be. That wasn’t a bad assumption—in fact, it was pretty logical. But Toni was right. There was something off about the whole scenario, because Brian and Hayley wound up on Boney Mountain—not in Fryman Canyon.