by Dave Stanton
“Sounds like she just couldn’t get enough of your romantic charms.”
“Yeah, right. So she starts taking her clothes off, like she’s ready for a romp in the hay, and there I am, staring at her down the barrel of my .357.”
“Let me guess, the gun turned her on.”
“Who knows with her? She’s a head case, sneaking into my house like that. So I tell her she’s got to split, and she starts ranting and raving about how we were good together. And I’m telling her, wait a minute, lady, you basically told me to go have sex with myself on our last date. Then she starts going off on tangents, making no sense at all. I finally had to call nine-one-one.”
“You always seem to attract the psychos,” I said.
“Yeah, it must be a special skill I have. Anyway, I thought it would be perfect timing to blow Dodge for a while. What you got planned this afternoon?”
“Where are you?”
“Placerville. I just stopped at Jimboys for some tacos. I figured I’d drive up, and we’d strategize on the Addison case. Can you believe he hired both of us?”
I left my garage and walked out to the picnic bench. It was a warm, quiet day, and the air was fragrant with pine and the sweet scent of wildflowers growing in the meadow. “Ryan Addison said he saw my résumé,” I said. “My FBI file, actually.”
“Yeah, that’s his shtick. He said the same thing to me.”
“It sounds like he’d like to see Duante Tucker dead.”
“I’d probably feel the same if my daughter was raped.”
“Yeah, but would you hire someone to kill the rapist?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Addison offered me a hundred grand if Tucker ends up dead. He put the cash on his desk.”
“No shit, huh? He didn’t say anything like that to me.”
“Probably didn’t want to do it on the phone,” I said. “You haven’t met him, have you?”
“No.”
“I think he considers us good candidates to kill Tucker. I told him to forget it.”
“He’s a Hollywood celebrity, Dirt. He probably thinks money can buy anything. I’ll see you in a couple hours, all right?”
• • •
After we hung up, I spent another couple hours going through the files Addison provided. When I was done, I not only understood the events of the trial and the reported crime, but also why an outraged group of Lindsey’s friends and family had rioted outside the courthouse.
Two months ago, Lindsey Addison had flown to Reno from Los Angeles with two girlfriends. It was mid-April, and the ski resorts were still open after an abundant snow season. Lindsey and her friends rented a car and drove from Reno to South Lake Tahoe, where they checked into expensive rooms on the top floor of Pistol Pete’s Casino Hotel. They snowboarded for two days at the ski resort in town, and on the evening of the second day, they went to a popular dance club across the street from Pistol Pete’s. Around eleven, Lindsey’s friends decided to leave with two men they had met. At eleven thirty, Lindsey exited the dance club alone, with the intention of returning to her hotel room. But she never made it out of the dark parking lot. She claimed she was struck on the head from behind and wrestled into a vehicle.
Witness number one was a man named Leo Rosen. He was an aspiring screenwriter, and it was revealed that he not only knew Lindsey Addison, but was in fact smitten with her. Rosen conceded that he traveled to South Lake Tahoe on his own after learning Lindsey would be there. He hoped this might lead to a romantic situation. Instead, Rosen was still working up the gumption to approach Lindsey when he followed her out of the nightclub and witnessed the kidnapping.
Rosen was able to get the license plate of the vehicle, a dark-colored, late-model GMC Yukon SUV. He also provided a brief description of the assailant: a black male, six feet three inches. Rosen called the police and reported the incident. South Lake Tahoe PD put out an APB on the vehicle, and also for the owner, a thirty-four-year-old San Jose resident named Lennox Suggs.
Hands tied behind her back and woozy from the blow to the head, Lindsey was driven to a building near the lake that served as a storage facility for a company that rented assorted recreational gear to tourists. There, she was beaten and forced onto a rubber blow-up mattress, where she was raped repeatedly over a two-hour period. She claimed there was only one assailant; it was not a gang rape.
When the rapist was done, he tied Lindsey’s hands to a metal shelving unit and left her, naked and bleeding, in the cold room. She was found at dawn the next morning, shivering and incoherent, by an employee of the rental company.
The medical exam included pictures of Lindsey’s battered face. Both eyes were swollen shut, and her upper lip was split. In one photo, her lip was pulled back to reveal a missing tooth and bloody gums. The rape kit mentioned extensive trauma to her vagina and rectum, including a laceration in her colon that was likely caused by a foreign object. The medical report said it might necessitate a colostomy while it healed.
San Jose PD immediately arrested Lennox Suggs, a paroled felon, but released him after confirming he’d been in Southern California during the attack. Suggs claimed he had not lent his vehicle to anyone, but when detectives questioned Suggs’s roommate, Duante Tucker, he became the primary suspect. He was arrested when witness number two, Lindsey’s friend Amber Meline, identified Tucker as a man she’d seen outside the nightclub.
Before Tucker’s attorney could intervene, Tucker’s DNA was appropriated from a water glass and found to be a match for hair and fluid samples on Lindsey’s body. With this DNA evidence, the case should have been a slam dunk. Tucker was transported to South Lake Tahoe, where he was held without bail.
Tim Cook, the prosecuting DA from Tahoe, went to trial with all the good cards in his hand. Representing Tucker, to everyone’s surprise, was Darrian Bannon, an attorney with a national reputation as an advocate for underprivileged black clients. Bannon had done some widely respected work in the south on cases with heavy racial overtones.
The case began smoothly for the prosecution but began unraveling the second day, when Amber Meline would not identify Duante Tucker while on the stand. This in itself was minor, but when Tim Cook called his second witness, Leo Rosen was nowhere to be found. Without Rosen’s testimony, the vehicle used to abduct Lindsey could not be put at the scene.
But the real bomb dropped on day three, when the all the DNA evidence, including samples taken from the Yukon SUV, vanished from the evidence locker. The lack of witness testimony could have been overcome. But without the DNA evidence, the judge had no choice but to dismiss the charges.
• • •
By the time I heard Cody pull up half an hour later, I’d filled two pages with scrawled notes and questions. But they all seemed subordinate to the central issue, which was, how did the DNA disappear, and who was behind it?
Cody parked his red, diesel-powered Dodge pickup in my driveway and climbed out of the cab. He wore faded blue jeans and a brand of running shoe he claimed was easiest to find in size fourteen. His untucked shirt was short-sleeved and had Western-cut pockets and snaps instead of buttons. He had trimmed his unruly beard back for the summer, but his hairstyle hadn’t changed; the thatch-like, straw-colored disarray covering his head looked impervious to comb or brush.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, from the corner of the deck near the driveway.
“Beer?” Cody walked behind his rig and opened the tailgate.
“I’m fresh out,” I said. If I hadn’t been so deep into the trial transcripts, I might have done the hospitable thing and picked up a case or two of Budweiser. Cody could make six-packs disappear in minutes.
“I figured as much. Come grab this for me, would you?”
I went around and saw a large plastic cooler in the truck bed. I grabbed it by the handles and lugged it up onto the deck. It had to be close to eighty pounds.
“What’s in here, bricks?”
“More like a king’s ransom.” Cody opened the cooler,
and it was packed with ice and beer, and in the corner was a bottle of tequila and margarita mix. He grabbed a beer and lobbed it my way. I caught the wet can and tossed it back to him.
“No alcohol for me until happy hour.”
“Mr. Discipline,” he said with a wistful frown. He dropped the beer in the cooler and closed it. “Have you read through the case file yet? Addison told me he gave it to you.”
“Yeah, I went through it.”
“Fill me in, then.”
We sat at the picnic bench, looking out over the yard. My lawn had been infiltrated by native grasses and cloverleaf, and a series of gopher mounds had erupted near the fence line. Cody lit a cigarette and squinted out at the mountains while I recounted what I’d learned from the transcripts.
“We need to find out who had access to that evidence locker,” he said when I’d finished.
“Right.”
“How’s your amigo, Marcus Grier, doing?”
“Just peachy.”
“Why don’t you give him a ring-a-ding, tell him we need to talk?”
“I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed.”
Cody laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s life in the big leagues, Dirt.” When I didn’t say anything, he added, “Just use your diplomatic skills.” Then he stood and looked around. “Where’s your old lady?”
“Texas for two weeks, visiting her family.”
“Ho. I booked a room at Pistol Pete’s.”
“Cancel it. You can bunk here.”
He stretched and smiled broadly. “Just like old times.”
While Cody grabbed his bag from his rig, I dialed Marcus Grier’s office. The on-duty receptionist said he wasn’t in his office. I paused for a second, then called Grier’s cell number. He had told me not to use it unless it was urgent.
“What’s up?” Grier said in the distracted tone he liked to use to let me know he was busy.
“Hello, Marcus,” I said. “Can we meet this afternoon?”
“What for, if that’s not too much to ask?”
“Ryan Addison hired me to look into his daughter’s rape.”
Grier was silent for a long moment, then he said, “Really.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and…”
The line went silent, as if Grier was waiting for the other shoe to drop. And who was I to disappoint him? “He also hired Cody Gibbons,” I said.
“You’re kidding, right?” he said, his deep voice rising.
“Nope.”
I heard him breathing. “Well, ain’t that a kick in the pants.”
“Can we meet at five?” I asked.
“Forget it. I’ve got too much going on.”
“Work with us here, Marcus. It will be best for everybody.”
“Is that some kind of threat?”
“No, it’s not a threat. Come on, Marcus.”
“What’s Addison expect you to do?”
“He believes Duante Tucker raped his daughter,” I said. “From what I understand, it would have been an open-and-shut case if the DNA hadn’t disappeared.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Addison wants justice. It’s as simple as that. He’s hired me for that purpose.”
“He expects you to fix our judicial system, huh?”
“Do you believe Duante Tucker was innocent? What if it was your daughter he raped?”
“All right, that’s enough,” Grier said. “I’ll meet you. But don’t push me, understand?”
“Zeke’s at five?”
“Fine,” he said, and hung up.
“How’d it go?” Cody had been in the house and had come out to hear the end of the conversation.
“About like I thought it would.” Marcus Grier had a wife and two daughters, one twelve and the other fourteen. I’d been to his place for dinner, and his wife was a friendly, jovial woman, his daughters well-mannered and talkative. Grier was always in a hurry to get home and hated working late. After meeting his family, I understood why. I felt a twinge of guilt at mentioning rape and Grier’s daughter in the same sentence. But he needed to be reminded that I was on his side, working against the bad guys. Putting a rapist behind bars was something Grier would surely want to see happen. At least I hoped it was that simple.
• • •
Zeke’s Pit sat on a plot of land along Highway 50, about a mile from my house. The Folk Victorian structure was originally built in the late 1800s. It was designed to be a lakefront vacation home, but once the highway evolved into a commercial thoroughfare, the building became host to a variety of businesses. It was a speakeasy during prohibition, then a gambling parlor, and later a bordello. For a brief period in the 1950s, it was headquarters for the local police department. After that, new owners reconfigured the downstairs interior into two large rooms, one a dining area and the other a bar. Since then it had always been a restaurant and saloon.
Zeke’s Pit was run by Zak Pappas, who inherited the business from his father. I invested a chunk of cash in the joint a year ago, after Zak fried his circuits on cocaine and shut the restaurant down. After he came out of rehab he was flat broke, and I was looking for a place to hide some tainted cash from the IRS. I floated the money to Zak based on two conditions: one, he stay sober, and two, he return Zeke’s to its previous status as the best Old West–style BBQ joint in the region.
Cody and I arrived a few minutes before five. I parked my Nissan pickup near the huge, old-growth pine in the center of the parking lot. The tree trunk was scarred by the bumpers of innumerable bar patrons, the bark battered and scraped away. My truck looked at home next to it; the paint on the front quarter panel was badly scratched, and the metal was uneven where I’d pulled a dent by hand.
We went through the old doors and across the floorboards to the forty-foot mahogany bar. A handful of patrons sat watching a baseball game on the TV in the corner. Sunlight filtered in through the slatted window shades in front of the room, and motes danced in shafts of light over the cocktail tables.
Cody motioned to the bartender. “What are you drinking?” he asked me.
“Nothing, until we get done with Grier.”
Cody sighed, tapped his fingers on the bar, and turned his disinterested eyes to the ballgame.
“Get a drink if you want,” I said.
“No. I’ll wait.”
I ordered a coffee and sipped it while we sat at the bar. At 5:15, Grier arrived, and we went to one of the larger lounge tables.
“Well, well, Mr. Gibbons,” Grier said.
“Hello there, sheriff.”
“How’s the arm?”
Cody pulled back his shirt sleeve to show a long scar across the meat of his shoulder. He’d been shot during a case we worked last year.
“It looks healed,” Grier said with a shrug. “So, Ryan Addison hired both of you to investigate his daughter’s rape? How does that work?”
“Duante Tucker lives in San Jose,” I said. “So does Cody.”
Grier straightened in his chair and removed his cap. “How convenient.”
“What do you think about the case, Marcus?” I said.
“It’s always disappointing when we can’t get a conviction.”
“Hey, sheriff, you want a beer?” said Cody.
I cut my eyes to Cody, but Grier said, “Yeah, I do.”
Cody immediately went to the bar. Grier leaned forward, and a beam of sunlight fell across his shaved head like a diagonal laser.
“Do you have any ideas on who took the DNA?” I asked.
“Nothing definite,” he said, the slash of silver light bisecting his face. “We’re conducting an internal investigation.”
“Who had a key? Guy Hanson, right?”
“Yeah, Hanson was in charge of the locker.”
“You think someone bought him off?”
Grier eyes me warily. “It’s possible. But Hanson’s worked for the department over twenty years. He’s never been involved in any of the past corruption. It’s hard to imagine
he’d take money for this, especially because he’d be the first suspect we’d look at.”
“Maybe someone has something on him. Like, give me the key and keep your mouth shut, or else.”
“It’s possible. We’re not ruling anything out.”
“Who else would have had access to a key?” I asked.
“Just me. I keep a spare locked in a safe.”
“Hmm. Is that trouble for you?”
“Probably. El Dorado County Internal Affairs is getting involved.”
Cody came back to the table with a pitcher of beer and three mugs.
“So the spotlight’s on you and Hanson,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s not that cut and dried,” Grier replied. “Hanson admitted that he sometimes left his keys in his unlocked drawer. He said he didn’t like to always be carrying a big set of keys on him.”
“So anyone could have made a copy.”
“Pretty much.”
“Any idea on motivation?”
“Nothing more than the obvious—someone was motivated to see Tucker get off.” Grier’s lips were downturned, and deep creases split his jowls.
“Hey, sheriff, have a beer, man. You look like you could use one.” Cody pushed a mug across the table.
“Listen, Dan,” Grier said. “I’ve told you more than I should have. I did that because I trust you. In return, I want you to keep me posted on everything you find out in your investigation.”
I nodded. “Fair enough.”
“And one more thing—don’t go trying to interview any cops. If you interfere in our internal investigation, that’s a big problem.”
“Understood.”
“As for you, Mr. Gibbons,” Grier said after nearly draining his beer in one pull, “leave your hell-raising habits in San Jose. I’ve got enough problems without you flouting the law.”
“Best behavior, scout’s honor,” Cody said, saluting with two fingers.
Grier shook his head and finished his beer. “Goodnight, men. Be in touch.”
• • •
When the pitcher was empty, we went out back to the beer garden. Three empty rows of picnic benches baked under the late afternoon sun. Pennants advertising sports teams and liquor hung overhead from a cord strung between pines just outside the fences. In the corner, a black, split-barrel barbeque rested on a trailer. Cody lit a cigarette and moved out of the sun into a shaded area.