by Dave Stanton
“I need to swing by Addison’s place and have him sign my contract,” he said. “He’s expecting me.”
“Okay.”
“I want to interview Lindsey, if she’s there. Is that Tourette’s thing for real?”
“I guess. I don’t know why she’d fake it. I think we should track down the two witnesses. Seems they were both discouraged from testifying.”
“What are their names again?”
“Amber Meline was one of the women with Lindsey. Leo Rosen is the guy who had a thing for Lindsey and came up to Tahoe by himself, hoping to hit on her.”
“That didn’t pan out too well for him,” Cody said.
“No, it didn’t. They’re both from Southern Cal. But Rosen went off the air during the trial, and no one could find him.”
Cody flicked his cigarette out onto the hard dirt. “Let’s go visit Addison.”
We walked around the side of the building to my truck. The traffic on Highway 50 was thickening as tourists began heading out for dinner. The congestion got worse as we made our way to where the casinos rose at the state line. Once we crossed into Nevada, I turned east toward the mountain range and found the winding road that led to the fancy home where the Addisons were staying. We drove up the grade, past houses with balconies looking over the sloping mountainside, until we reached the end of the street.
“About what I’d expect,” Cody said, eyeballing Addison’s place as we parked and walked down the path to the front porch. He rang the chimes, and after a minute, the young woman who was Ryan Addison’s assistant opened the door. She wasn’t wearing glasses like when we’d met earlier, and she’d let her dark hair down. Instead of her prior conservative skirt, she wore shorts, which revealed thin but quite shapely legs.
“Hello, there,” Cody said.
“Hi, I’m Cassie. You must be Cody Gibbons.” She smiled and looked up at him. “Please come in. I’ll let Mr. Addison know you’re here.”
“Thank you, Cassie,” Cody said. She stared at him with bright eyes and continued to smile. After a moment she stood aside so we could enter the house.
“Afternoon, Cassie,” I said.
She shifted her gaze to me for an instant. “Yes, hello,” she said, her tone flat as yesterday’s pancakes. Apparently, Cody had made a favorable first impression on her, and I had not. For what reason, I didn’t know, and I didn’t bother to speculate.
She asked us to wait in the foyer, where we stood beneath a chandelier hanging from the twenty-foot ceiling. She reappeared quickly and led us through the house and outside to a massive redwood deck overlooking a swimming pool a level below.
Ryan Addison sat under an umbrella in a chaise lounge near the deck railing. A stack of magazines and a cocktail glass rested on a table beside him. He’d changed into a turquoise shirt and cream-colored shorts, and his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.
“Hi, Dan. Cody Gibbons, I assume?” he said.
“That’s me,” Cody said. “I’ve got my paperwork for you to sign here, Mr. Addison.”
Addison swung his legs off the cushion and planted his bare feet on the ground.
“Call me Ryan. Christ, you could fill a doorway.” The scent of pot smoke wafted from him. “You played ball, right?”
“College,” Cody replied.
“I played myself, back in the day. Strictly a scrub. Third string running back.”
When neither Cody nor I responded, Addison took a hit off his drink. “Those were good times, back then. All about team work. Speaking of which, have you two got started yet?” He removed his sunglasses and stood.
“We met with South Lake PD,” I said. “They’re investigating the disappearance of the DNA.”
“That’s reassuring, given that they were incompetent enough to lose it in the first place.” Addison took the papers from Cody’s hand and shuffled the pages.
“We want to talk to the two witnesses who wouldn’t support the prosecution,” I said. “We’d like to talk to Lindsey about them first.”
Addison’s eyes snapped onto mine. “She’s having a good afternoon. Her first in a long time. I’d really hate to interrupt that.”
“We just want to ask about her relationship with the witnesses,” Cody said. “Very routine. Nothing about the crime itself.”
Addison sighed and walked over to the railing. On the far side of the pool, a few people I’d not noticed before sat partially obscured under a cabana. It looked like they were playing a board game.
“All right, come with me.” Addison led us down a set of redwood stairs to the pool. We waited while he went to the cabana, and after a minute he returned with his daughter.
Lindsey Addison looked much different than the distraught woman I’d seen in the morning. She wore capri pants, low heels, and a sleeveless V-neck shirt. Much of her makeup had been removed, and her hair was nicely styled to frame her face. Unlike earlier, her countenance was not angry or combative. Instead, she looked reserved and calm and maybe just a little sad.
“Lindsey, this is Dan and Cody. They’d like to ask you a few brief questions about Amber and Leo Rosen.”
“Okay,” Lindsey said. We stood in a circle by the side of the pool.
“Thanks for taking a few minutes, Lindsey,” I said. “Did you speak with Amber or Leo during the trial?”
“I talked to Amber. She said she thought she recognized Duante Tucker, but when she saw him in the courtroom, she wasn’t sure anymore.”
“Did she mention if anyone tried to discourage her from recognizing him?” Cody said.
“She didn’t say anything like that.”
“How about Leo Rosen?” I said. “Have you spoken with him since the attack?”
“He left me a couple messages when I was in the hospital. I called him back when I got out. I left him a voice mail, but he never called again.”
“How well did you know him?” Cody asked.
“Just barely. I’d see him at parties occasionally. He once tried to talk to me about a role in a script he was writing. I really didn’t pay him much attention.”
“Do you have any idea where he is now?”
“No,” she replied. “The attorney, Tim Cook, said he disappeared. But Leo had told me he lives in Santa Monica.”
We were quiet for a moment. “Is that all?” Lindsey said.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said.
“Thank you…for whatever you can do.” She gave us a small, forced smile, and walked back toward the cabana.
“Why don’t you guys have a seat for a few minutes,” Addison said, pointing to a couple chairs under the deck. “I’ll look over these papers and sign them.” We nodded and he turned and went up the stairs.
“Let’s go back to Zeke’s after this and get some Texas brisket,” Cody said. “Then I want to spend tonight reading the DA’s transcripts.”
“Okay.”
Cody started to say something, but stopped when we saw a woman with long blond hair and high heels strut toward us. When she got closer I recognized her as the lady I’d spoken to briefly during the fracas at the courthouse. The one who suggested I do something anatomically improbable with my business card.
“So you’re the badasses Ryan hired.” She stood with one hand on her hip and the other pointed at us accusingly.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s us,” I said.
“Cody Gibbons, at your service.” Cody stood before I did and took her hand while gazing at her breasts, which were large and barely encumbered by a skimpy bikini top.
“Keep your eyes to yourself,” she sneered. “I’m not flattered by lechery.” I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a chuckle. Her pink hot pants were skintight and so sheer that the folds of her labia were visible. She looked like she’d wandered off the set of a porno movie, maybe one where middle-aged women serviced horny teenagers.
“That poor girl,” she said, pointing at the cabana, “was traumatized beyond anything you’ll ever know. Do you understand that?”
We nodded,
but she smirked.
“Ryan said you two are the best. From the looks of you, I’d say he’s mistaken. I doubt young, dumb, and full of cum has what it takes to get the job done.”
Cody and I exchanged curious glances. She gave us a final, withering stare, then turned and pranced off, just as we heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Ah, I see you met Ramona, my girlfriend,” Addison said. He held his hand out as if to fend off our compliments. “Yes, I know, I’m a lucky man.”
“Indeed,” Cody said.
“I’ve signed your contract. It looks fine.”
“Good.”
“I’d invite you to stay for a drink, but I know you have work to do.”
“Yup,” I said, and began for the stairs before Cody could say otherwise.
“Cassie will show you out, then,” Addison said. When we reached the deck, I saw her waiting by the sliding door. She led us through the house, but when we went out the front door, she stopped Cody on the porch. I took a few steps down the path leading to the driveway, then stopped to look back. Cassie had her hand on Cody’s wrist. She shot me a dismissive glance.
“Run along, this is private,” she said.
“Run along?” I shook my head, walked to my truck, and waited in the driver’s seat for a couple minutes until Cody climbed into the cab.
“What the hell was that about?” I asked.
“She has an idea for a movie and said I’d be perfect for a part,” he replied.
“No kidding, huh? And I thought she was just a meager assistant.”
“Everyone’s got to start somewhere.”
“She’s got some attitude,” I said. “What’d you say to her?”
“She wants to have dinner tomorrow night and talk about it. I said okay.”
“Hell, maybe she’s your type.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. Except I’ve never met a bigger bunch of head cases. Everyone in that house seems to have a few screws loose. Like Lindsey. What was your impression of her?”
“Composed. Dealing with her situation pretty well, it seemed.”
“Right. But this morning she was seriously losing it, I mean coming apart at the seams. A few hours later, she’s mature and polite. And then Addison’s broad, Ramona, shows up looking like a streetwalker and starts teeing off on us.”
“That was the flimsiest bra I’d ever seen. Her knockers were one false move from falling out.”
“And she rips into you for staring. And then she goes off on that young, dumb, and full of cum bullshit. What was that about?”
“You got me,” he said.
“And let’s not forget the patriarch of the loony bin, Addison, and his hundred-grand offer.”
“He reeked like he just strolled out of an Amsterdam hash bar,” Cody said. “But what’s wrong with Cassie?”
“Nothing, except she’s treated me like a walking case of gonorrhea.”
“Come on, you’re overreacting. She’s kind of cute, don’t you think?”
“The place is a freaking nut house, is what I think.” I started my truck and turned down the driveway. “Sigmund Freud would have had a field day with these people.”
3
When I got out of bed the next morning, Cody was still asleep in my guest room, snoring like a freight train. We’d spent the night drinking coffee and reading through the trial folder, trying to absorb the entirety of the contents. The cooler full of beer and tequila that Cody referred to as a king’s ransom remained untouched. I’d retired at midnight, but when I woke briefly at two in the morning, Cody was still sitting under a lamp in my living room with a yellow highlighter, the papers splayed about the couch and coffee table.
At 8:30 I called Tim Cook, the assistant district attorney, and left him a message letting him know I’d been hired by Ryan Addison. I suspected Cook would view that dimly, but I was betting it would motivate him to talk to me.
I’d never met Cook in person, but based on what I’d heard, he was not a balls-to-the-wall prosecutor. Rather, he’d spent most of his career trying small-time crimes. On the occasion something more significant was at stake, the head DA from El Dorado County usually got involved. But Cook had handled Lindsey Addison’s case on his own. I assumed this was because the DNA evidence made a guilty verdict almost a foregone conclusion.
Cook called me back at nine sharp. “Dan Reno, Tim Cook here,” he said.
“Hi, Tim.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised Addison hired you,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“He’s pretty unhappy with the outcome of the trial.”
“I think that’s an understatement. Do you have time this morning, Tim? I’d like to come by.”
“Here? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Where, then?”
“Hold, please.” I heard muffled voices, then he came back on with a sigh. “Tell you what. Meet me in twenty minutes in the parking lot behind Carrows.”
I threw on a button-down shirt and a sports coat. Cook was a suit and tie guy, and I thought the meeting would go better if I dressed smartly. A little mirroring sometimes helps.
As I drove down 50, I considered the history of corrupt cops on both sides of the border. A bad sheriff from Placerville, the seat of El Dorado County, had died a few years back, the victim of a mob hit. His cronies had been prosecuted or resigned and fled the area. Then last winter, a chief detective from Silverado County in Nevada was stabbed to death by his estranged son. The detective had been taking dirty money from a variety of sources.
Did the demise of a handful of crooked law officers suggest the local police agencies were now free of corruption? Obviously not. Drug rings and escort services still flourished around Lake Tahoe, mostly unimpeded by the police. The pool of payoff money from these enterprises is like rainwater coming down off a mountain. The water flows in streams large and small, taking the path of least resistance. Whether a trickle or a torrent, the water finds its way.
On the California side of the border, South Lake Tahoe’s economy is intrinsically attached to the casinos across the state line. Much of South Lake’s tourism is directly attributable to the Nevada gaming houses, where gamblers cram the aisles and feed their paychecks to the slot machines. Those who win typically pour their money back into the local economy, at restaurants, gift shops, or maybe on a call girl or a bindle of cocaine. After all, people come here to party.
But while threads of vice and graft are no doubt woven into the region’s fabric, the acquittal of Duante Tucker was something of a different magnitude. The rape was egregious and horrifying. And the heinous nature of the crime had been revealed to the public. I thought, or at least hoped, that someone within the police department would come forth and identify who stole the DNA. Especially if the person had been at the trial, or had seen the pictures from the court files.
Maybe the case will resolve itself sooner rather than later, I thought, as I pulled into the diner where Tim Cook had said to meet him. Then I could collect my pay for time spent and be done with Ryan Addison and his circle of nut cases.
I spotted Cook standing beside a Chevy Blazer parked along a split-rail fence separating the back parking lot from a large field of vacant grassland. The Blazer’s paint was a faded white and showed signs of rust along the running boards. Next to it, Cook, in a blue business suit, presented an incongruous image. The suit fit tightly on his slim frame. His face was equally narrow, the nose caved in on the sides. A dark, neatly trimmed mustache looked painted above his upper lip. The mustache was the type that had gone out of style a long time ago, probably before he was born.
We shook hands when I stepped out of my truck. Cook’s grip was bony, and dandruff coated the shoulders of his pinstriped suit coat, which had a polyester sheen to it. Regardless of the material, it was in dire need of a cleaning. A crusty ketchup stain overlapped a smear of mustard on one lapel.
“I’m glad you called ins
tead of snooping around behind my back,” he said. “But I’ve only got a couple minutes, so let’s get to it.”
“Right. I’ve just got a few questions. I understand your witnesses bailed, and the DNA vanished. Any idea what happened?”
“You got this from the case file I sent Addison?”
“That’s right.”
Cook put one hand in a pocket and sucked his cheeks in. “Duante Tucker is nothing but a ghetto thug, as far as I know. I don’t know who would be motivated to see him go free. We’re putting every member of South Lake PD on a polygraph. Someone stole that evidence, and we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“What about his attorney, Darrian Bannon?”
“What about him?”
“He’s got a national reputation. What’s he doing defending Duante Tucker?”
“He claimed he took the case pro bono. Said Tucker was just another example of a poor, disadvantaged black man being persecuted by white society.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” I said. “The DNA evidence should have been irrefutable, right? How did Bannon think he could win? And even if he did, how could he paint Tucker as a victim? It doesn’t match Bannon’s style.”
“He said he would prove Tucker’s rights were violated, both during the arrest and during the collection of the evidence. But it was all by the book. We conferred with San Jose PD. Everything they did and everything we did was spot on. No holes.”
“Do you think Bannon might have some ulterior motivation?” I asked.
“It’s not something we consider a primary line of inquiry,” he replied.
“What do you consider primary?”
“Our internal security. We’ll find out who took the DNA.”
“What about investigating Duante Tucker?”
“He lives in San Jose. We’ll leave that to SJPD.”
“I see.”
“Is there anything else?” he asked.