RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (23 page)

When we
got off the elevator, my palms were sweaty. I put my hands in my pockets, forced a long, slow exhale, and kept my eyes fixed straight ahead on Bailey’s back. We got to her desk without a Graden sighting. Making it look casual, Bailey carefully scanned the room.

She whispered, “I don’t think he’s here.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“He’s a lieutenant with a job. It probably eats into his mooning-over-you time.”

“It’s heartwarming the way you go that extra mile to comfort me.”

I pulled a chair over and sat down while Bailey sifted through her in-box. She pulled out a single piece of paper and a manila envelope fastened with a string on the back flap.

“Well, whaddaya know,” she said. “We got the crime-lab report on Simon’s clothes
and
the photo.”

She quickly scanned the page. “Ha!” she exclaimed as she flicked the paper. “They’ve got a small speck of blood on one of the buttons on Simon’s shirt. Preliminary tests show it doesn’t match his.”

I moved next to her and scanned the report over her shoulder.

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean it came from the stabber,” I said. “Simon was homeless. Who knows where that shirt’s been?”

Looking deflated, Bailey reluctantly agreed. “You’re right. The crime lab won’t even bother to put it through the database. Even if it matched up to someone…”

“It might not mean anything,” I said.

“So it’s a low priority for them,” she replied. “’Course if we get someone in custody who looks good for it—”

“They’ll jump right on it,” I finished. “Perfect. Now all we need is the stabber. Gee, we’re almost there.”

“A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step,” Bailey said.

“Thanks, Lao-tzu. Let’s see the photo.”

She removed two eight-by-ten grayscale photographs and set them on the desk. Together, we pored over the images. The tech had done a nice job of zeroing in on the area of interest. I’d hoped to find an unusual tattoo or some kind of deformity, such as webbed fingers, or a hook. We didn’t get either of those. But we did get something.

“See, that’s what I thought when I saw this view the first time. Look at the watch he’s wearing.” I pointed to the large dial with what seemed like chronographs inside it. “What do you know about men’s watches?”

“Not much,” Bailey admitted. “But I’d say it looks expensive.”

I was no expert, but that seemed right to me.

“This might help ID our stabber in the video if we catch him wearing it. We should get an expert who can testify to the type of watch, how rare it is, yadda, yadda,” I said, thinking out loud.

“I agree,” Bailey said. “Want to keep this, just to have?” She held out one of the photos.

I took it. “You got a spare envelope, so I don’t mess it up?”

Bailey found one in a drawer, and I tucked the picture in. For some reason, looking at the photograph gave me a chill. Reminded me of that creepy sense I’d had that someone was watching me.

“We’d better get going,” Bailey said. “Your buddy Luis has got people to do and places to meet.”

Distracted, I slowly stood and picked up my purse. As we moved toward the elevator, Bailey looked at me. “Stand down, Knight, he’s not here.”

I shook my head. “That’s not it. I’ll tell you in the car.”

When Bailey’d finally navigated us onto the freeway and threaded her way through the tightly woven traffic into the fast lane, I told her about my creepy feeling of being watched.

She frowned. “Without something more concrete, I won’t be able to justify a security detail for you.”

“I’m not asking for one,” I replied. “I’m just sharing.”

“A little out of character for you, isn’t it, Knight?” Bailey smirked. “This ‘sharing’ thing?”

The offhand remark hit home. I stared at the carpet of red lights that spread out before us. My seat belt suddenly felt too tight. I pulled it away from my chest and took a deep breath. I didn’t want to tell her about Romy and the real reason for my breakup with Graden, but I hadn’t anticipated that I’d feel this bad about keeping it all from her.

Soon it’d be Christmas, then New Year’s Eve. A bad time to be dealing with a recent breakup for anyone. For me, that misery landed on top of the agony that always burned tight and furious during the holidays over the loss of Romy, my mother, and my father.

“Bailey…,” I began, and had to stop. My throat was swollen with emotion, and the strangled sound made her turn to look at me with alarm.

“Yeah? What? You okay?”

Suddenly the air around me felt like deep space; I was floating alone and untethered through a dark, endless sky. Desperate to escape the icy purgatory, without having made a conscious decision, I began to talk.

“There’s something I have to tell you. I had an older sister, Romy…”

The clot of humanity that filled the freeway ensured that I had plenty of time to tell the whole story, including the fight with Graden.

I stared straight ahead as I spoke, eyes fixed on the sea of cars ahead, aware in the back of my mind that I’d have hell to pay for keeping this secret after so many years of friendship. Bailey let me talk without interruption.

“Bailey, I’m sorry,” I said when I’d come to the end. Finally I turned to face her. “I know I should’ve—”

What I saw brought me to a full stop. Bailey’s cheeks were wet with tears. I couldn’t remember ever having seen her cry. After a moment, she spoke.

“Telling me this when I’m driving, you’re lucky you didn’t get us killed.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“So that’s why I broke up with Graden.”

“I get it.” Then, proving she knew me all too well, she continued, “And, no, I don’t think you’re nuts. I wouldn’t like the idea of someone tromping around in my past trying to find out shit about me either.”

The relief was almost dizzying. Bailey wasn’t angry. Not only that, she understood. Until this very moment, I hadn’t realized how much it’d cost me to keep this secret from her.

Bailey nodded to herself. “So I get it. But all he did was google you,” she said quietly. “He didn’t do a deep background check.” She paused. “You don’t think you overreacted…just a little?”

I folded my arms around myself and stared out the window. The moon was just a ghostly apparition in a sky still infused with the last stubborn rays of sunlight. Exhausted by the emotional strain of the past half hour, I let myself get mesmerized by the sight for a moment. But when I tried to rationally consider Bailey’s question, I couldn’t come up with an answer. I didn’t know how to measure my reaction objectively.

“Obviously, googling me isn’t the same as running a background check. But you didn’t do it, and neither did Toni…did you?”

“No, I didn’t. And neither did Toni. But we’re not Graden—”

“Exactly my point,” I said emphatically. “That’s the problem. This was about his need for control, not his concern for me.”

“Can’t it be both?” Bailey continued. “Graden’s need to know everything and your…issue with boundaries is a challenge. But it doesn’t have to mean the end. Unless you say it does.”

“Or he says so,” I added.

“He doesn’t,” Bailey replied.

I turned to look at her.

“I didn’t talk to him,” Bailey said. “I didn’t have to. I’ve seen him. That’s enough.”

Bailey never lies, so I believed her when she said she hadn’t spoken to Graden. But whether she was right about him not wanting to break up…that was another matter.

Not that I cared.

We were
fifteen minutes late getting to Les Sisters, which meant we were still way ahead of Luis. The New Orleans–style restaurant in Chatsworth, at the northern tip of the San Fernando Valley, had been around for twenty-five years. Famous among those in the know for serving up some of the best Southern-style cooking this side of the Mason-Dixon Line, it would fit the bill for us in more ways than one. Aside from the killer food, the prices were reasonable, the people were great, and it was way off the beaten path, so we wouldn’t risk being seen together, which would’ve been bad for the shot-caller of a gang and not so great for a prosecutor either.

We took a table against the window in the tiny café and picked up the menu. Fried chicken, chicken creole, crawfish jambalaya, baby back ribs…I wanted to eat it all. Watching the waitstaff bring out steaming-hot plates heaped with all of the above didn’t help. We ordered the “hush pups” and Cajun popcorn for appetizers, and I told myself I’d order only a green salad for dinner. I tell myself things like that a lot.

I was on my fourth hush pup when Luis swaggered in and shuffled over to our table with a lazy grin. Dressed in a black leather coat, baggy jeans, and skull-stud earrings, he appeared more debonair than usual. Which wasn’t to say he didn’t look like a gangbanger—just one who was slightly more upscale.

“
Hola,
Ms. Prosecutor, Ms.
Policía,
” he greeted us, folding himself into the padded metal chair and stretching out his legs.

Luis always managed to look like he was kickin’ it in his living room. Even when he was cuffed in the back of a squad car.

The waitress’s smile told me it hadn’t been long since Luis was last here. So did his order. Without even looking at the menu, he ordered the rib combo with corn muffins, black-eyed peas with rice, and another plate of hush pups.

Bailey got the fried chicken and creamy slaw, and I ordered a green salad…and the fried chicken. Screw it, I was under stress.

“You still working on your GED?” I asked.

“Finished it.” Luis sniffed with pride. “Got into Los Angeles Community College. Startin’ in January.”

“That’s fantastic, Luis,” I said, truly impressed. I’d known he intended to earn his high school diploma and get into college, but sometimes intentions and reality don’t mix.

“Din’t think I could do it, huh?” he asked, his head tilted back, looking down his nose at me.

“Oh, I knew you
could
do it,” I replied. “I just didn’t know if you
would.
”

I smiled at him and raised my glass of water. He and Bailey lifted theirs, and we all clinked. “Congratulations,” I said. Luis looked pleased with himself as he nodded, then took a sip of water.

“So does this mean you’re not in the life anymore?” I asked.

Luis looked away, then back again. “Don’ you think it’s a bad idea for me to be talkin’ to you about that?” he said, an eyebrow raised.

“Usually,” I admitted. “Though if I was going to make something of it, I wouldn’t do it in this place, would I?”

“Hard to say what you might do.” Luis looked at me out of half-closed eyes.

I couldn’t tell whether his pose was meant to be seductive, threatening, or wary. I decided it didn’t matter.

“You have any connects with PEN1?” I asked.

This time both eyebrows shot up, and Luis pulled his head down into his jacket and leaned forward. “Why you wanna talk to them”—he sighed with exasperation and corrected himself—“I mean
those
…
pendejos
for?”

“We’re trying to find someone who might’ve hired them to do a hit,” I replied. “This person might still be using them.”

Luis snorted. “Usin’ ’em as what? A piñata?”

“As protection,” I said.

“Huh,” Luis said derisively. “Mus’ be
un gilazo,
usin’ a skinhead for somethin’ important like that.” He shook his head in disgust.

I looked at him impatiently. “Anyway…”

“I don’ know nobody in PEN1, but I got a connect with the Low Riders. Guess I could hook you up.” Luis turned back to me. “You sure you wanna meet with that
pinche
fool?”

A Nazi Low Rider could still work. He might be able to give us the leads to get to someone higher up in PEN1. And it wouldn’t take long. They all swim in the same cesspool.

“I don’t want to marry the dude, Luis,” I said. “I just need some information.”

“Whatever…,” he replied.

The waitress brought our food, and we all dug in. Between wolfing bites of ribs, Luis gave us the name and description of the “
pinche
fool.”

We’d finished dinner and walked out to Bailey’s car when Luis asked, “How’s your ride?” His grin was wide.

My car had been severely vandalized during the case that’d caused our paths to cross. Not only had Luis put my car back together, but he’d spiffed it up with a midnight-blue-sparkle paint job, new rims, and, among other amenities, a slamming sound system.

“It’s still way out of my league,” I said, smiling. “But I’m loving it.”

“You lemme know if you have any pra’lems, right?” he said earnestly.

“I absolutely will,” I said. “And thanks for the hookup, Luis.”

He muttered something that included
pinche cabrón
as he rounded his freshly polished green Chevy. He paused to wipe the chrome on the side-view mirror with his sleeve, then got in, fired up the engine, honked, waved, and slowly pulled away.

I waved back and couldn’t help smiling.

“He is one of a kind,” Bailey said, a little smile on her face too.

“Which is a good thing,” I replied. “One of him is plenty.”

“So we
pay a visit to Butch Adler, aka Glass Man,” I said, trying to picture the guy Luis had described. “I’m sure that means he replaces windows,” I added dryly.
Glass
was common slang for
methamphetamine.

“Undoubtedly did some home-renovation projects for Luis,” Bailey agreed.

“You think he still works at the Pep Boys in Simi Valley?”

“With the economy the way it is, and jobs the way they are, I’d bet he’s still in pocket,” she said. “Want to hit him tomorrow?”

“Definitely.” It’d be a good starting point. We needed to get to the heart of PEN1, and that probably meant its head, to see if they had any connection to Lilah. But you don’t hit the target first—you hit the outer periphery and gather information as you work your way in and, hopefully, up. That way, by the time you’re talking to someone in power, you sound like you know what you’re talking about; and with a little luck, you’ve found something to threaten them with. So I didn’t mind the fact that Luis’s connection was at a lower rung of a different skinhead group.

It was eight o’clock by the time Bailey dropped me off at the hotel, which gave me plenty of time to get to the gym and work off those hush pups. I did some serious ab work, pushed myself for half an hour on the treadmill, and wrapped it all up with a combination of machines and free weights to work my upper body. By the time I dragged myself up to my room, I was drenched with sweat and virtuously tired.

One hot shower and a glass of Pinot Noir later, I was tucked in bed with a new, and hopefully better, murder mystery than the one I’d been slogging through. Five minutes later, I was asleep.

I hit the snooze button four times the next morning—one more than usual—which meant I had no time for breakfast. More important, no time for coffee, and on a day like this—cold, glittering, and with air so fresh it cut through me like a razor—I badly needed my hot caffeine fix. At least the wardrobe choices would be easy. I could go casual today, since I doubted the Glass Man, aka Butch Adler, or the Pep Boys where he worked enforced a dress code. Jeans, boots, and a forest-green pullover sweater would do the trick. And I decided to take along the manila envelope containing the photograph of the stabber’s wrist. Bailey and I could look it over again if we had any downtime waiting for our soon-to-be new buddy Butch. I stuffed my .38 Smith & Wesson into the pocket of my peacoat, threw on a black muffler, and headed out.

“There’s a Coffee Bean on the corner,” I said as I got into Bailey’s car.

She gave me a look but knew better than to argue. She pulled over. The line was long and slow. Ten annoying minutes later, I trotted back to the car.

“Here,” I said, handing Bailey a cup. “And I brought us provisions for the long trek ahead.” I held up a bag with bagels and cream cheese.

“It’s Simi Valley, not Idaho,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” Simi was a very white enclave.

“Well, maybe a little bit,” Bailey said as she enjoyed a long sip from her cup.

“What do we have on Glass Man?” I asked, spreading cream cheese on a piece of bagel with the tiny plastic knife.

“Probation for drunk driving. He got one year suspended—”

“That’s not much,” I said, worried.

Most of these guys could do a year standing on their heads.

“We work with what we’ve got,” Bailey replied philosophically.

“I hate to waste the time if he’s just going to tell us to pound sand,” I said sourly.

“Got a better idea?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then suck it up and think positive,” Bailey said.

We made it to Simi Valley in relatively good time. It was a study in contrasts, as we had just left the funky, multiethnic mix that’s downtown L.A. Wide, flat streets with neatly trimmed trees lined the sidewalks, and everything was suburban clean. Even the bus-stop bench, adorned with a real estate ad that bore the grin of a cheesy-looking blonde who wanted to sell YOUR home, looked safe enough to sleep on. But unlike downtown, I’d bet no one ever did.

Bailey navigated us to the Pep Boys in the middle of a vanilla strip mall. Two muscular-looking young guys in crew cuts and long-sleeved waffle shirts under short-sleeved uniforms conferred beneath the hood of a red Ford pickup truck that was in a front parking space. As we passed them on our way into the store, I steeled myself for the usual macho review.

Except there wasn’t any. The guys just kept talking about the alternator, whatever that is. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or depressed.

Bailey asked the cashier, a remarkably wholesome-
looking
girl with a single blond braid that hung down her back, where we could find the manager.

She directed us to a man in a dress shirt and black polyester pants wearing a name tag that said
TOMMY.

Tommy was on the phone, so while we waited, I looked around. All manner of gadgets designed to fix or shine up a motor vehicle were stacked neatly on shelves throughout a cavernous store. I was never into cars, but the array of products had me looking around for something to buy. I can shop anywhere. A young dark-haired man with a wispy mustache brought a car cover to the cashier. He took his time counting out his money, giving himself a chance to flirt with her. I heard him ask her whether she liked working around all that car stuff. She gave him a sweet smile, flicked back her braid winningly, and said, “Sure,” in a perky voice.
Liar.

I’d just decided I had to have that attractive set of spark plugs on the shelf to my right when the manager finished his call and looked at us.

“What can I do for you ladies?” he asked.

I hate being called a lady. It makes me think of white gloves and fussy teacups. And women who simper. It’s a patronizing word that shrinks you, makes you inconsequential and easily dismissed. Or it could just be me.

Bailey stepped in closer and held her badge down at her waist where only he could see it. We didn’t want Glass Man to get a glimpse and take a powder. Tommy’s eyes got big, which I found satisfying.
Still want to help the
ladies,
pal?

“What can I do for you…uh…”

“Detective Keller,” Bailey said. “And this is Deputy District Attorney Knight.”

He nodded politely. “Pleased to meet you.”

Respectful. Better.
I supposed this was one of the upsides of Simi Valley. Quite a contrast to the ’tude we usually got downtown.

“We’re looking for Butch Adler,” I said.

“He’s here.” Tommy looked around the store. “Might be helping someone outside. Is he in trouble?”

“No,” Bailey said. “Not at all.”

Not yet anyway.

Tommy looked relieved. “Come with me.”

We followed Tommy to a service bay, where a bald man wearing a Pep Boys uniform shirt and heavy black motorcycle boots was rolling a tire. “Butch,” Tommy called out. “Can you come over here a sec? Got someone who wants to see you.”

Butch narrowed his eyes at Bailey and me. Unlike Tommy, our friend Butch knew how to spot a cop at twenty paces. “Let me just get this out,” he said, gesturing to the tire. He rolled it to an older man standing next to a green Honda Civic, said something to him, and walked over to us, rubbing his hands on a blue kerchief.

Tommy introduced us, but Glass Man didn’t offer to shake. Just kept rubbing the kerchief between his hands and sizing us up.

“Thanks, Tommy,” Bailey said. “We’ll take it from here.”

Tommy gratefully excused himself and went back inside.

“I didn’t test dirty and I haven’t been busted,” Butch said. “So you got nothing on me.”

“You sure about that?” Bailey said, bluffing.

Butch said nothing, showing his street smarts. When in doubt, clam up.

“I’d prefer not to bust you, tell you the truth,” Bailey continued. “Just want to have a little chat.”

Butch’s eyes got narrower. Now that I was up close and personal, I could see that he had a tattoo on his neck of a death’s-head wearing a Nazi helmet.
Très
chic. He folded his arms.

“I don’t talk to cops,” he said. “Guess you better bust me.”

Tough guy. I decided to try another tack.

“Aren’t you a little curious to know what we want to talk about?” I asked. “Maybe we want to ask about your golf handicap, or your pick for
American Idol
this season.”

Butch just looked at me, then turned to Bailey. “You got something, bust me. You don’t, let me get on with my day. I got work to do.”

Out of patience and pissed off at having lost all this time for nothing, I snapped, “We just want to know what you heard about PEN1 hitting that cop Zack Bayer in Glendale.”

Butch’s eyebrows shot up, making his whole scalp move back on his head. “You wanna talk about PEN1? Those pieces of cow shit.” He snorted. “Whyn’t ya say so?”