RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (5 page)

“If this
case gets any thinner it’ll fly away,” I remarked. “I’d like to get ahold of the arresting officer. Find out how the defendant reacted when they popped him.”

A defendant’s reaction to the news of his arrest could tell you a lot. I’d had a case where a drug dealer had tied up his four rivals, put pillowcases over their heads, and then stabbed them all repeatedly. When the cops went to arrest him, he’d earnestly stated, “It was self-defense.” Granted, it doesn’t usually get that good, but inspirational tales like those keep the fires of hope burning.

I’d checked the paperwork before I left the office. “Arresting cop is Hank Aronofsky.”

Bailey pulled out her phone.

“He’s on patrol,” she said as she ended the call. “He’ll meet us at the Wells Fargo building at
Second
and Grand.”

“You want to get your car?” I asked hopefully. It was an uphill hike for some long blocks, and I was wearing three-inch heels.

“No,” Bailey said. “I don’t want the hassle of parking.”

“Since when did you start worrying about parking?” Cops do not have the cares and woes the rest of us mere mortals do when it comes to tickets and towing.

Bailey glanced at my shoes and sighed. “Fine, let’s go.”

We threaded our way through the briskly moving horde of office workers who were heading for their cars and trains, and finally arrived at the Police Administration Building, where we picked up Bailey’s car. Minutes later, we pulled up behind a patrol car that was parked in front of the Wells Fargo building. Officer Aronofsky, whose uniform hung loosely on his wiry frame, met us on the sidewalk, and we all shook hands. I got down to business quickly.

“What’d you say when you first approached him?” I asked.

“Just that I wanted to talk to him about what he might’ve seen,” the officer replied.

Smart move. Aronofsky hadn’t given the suspect any hints. He’d just given him rope.

“You already knew the vic had a box cutter?” Bailey asked.

“Yeah. So I figured he might claim self-defense or defense of someone else. And if he did…” The officer shrugged.

Bailey and I nodded. The case would have ended with a manslaughter—at most.

“But he never said a word about the box cutter,” Aronofsky continued. “Just said he saw the vic grab that lady’s arm, so he pushed the vic off her and walked away—”

“Which didn’t jibe with what your eyewit said,” I remarked.

“Correct. So I told him he needed to come clean about what happened. But he just kept saying he’d told me the truth, he never stabbed anyone, yadda yadda. That’s when I noticed the blood on his sleeve.”

“And you busted him?” I asked.

“Told him he was under arrest for murder,” the officer said, “and he went apeshit. Started yelling and screaming. That’s when he got into a rant about how the homeless were ruining the city, destroying everything, they were a menace, and on and on. Looked to me like the guy was wrapped a little tight about the homeless, so when he saw this homeless vic grab the lady, he snapped. So I hooked him up and put him in the car and ran him. He’s got a prior for ADW.”

Assault with a deadly weapon.
Interesting.
“Was the assault victim a homeless person?” I asked.

“Don’t think so,” Aronofsky said, shaking his head. “Victim was listed as Robert Yamaguchi. So I’d guess it was—”

“A cousin or something?”

Aronofsky nodded.

Not as significant as if it had been a homeless person, but it was better than nothing.

“He ever change his tune, make any admissions?” Bailey asked.

“Not to me,” the officer replied. “You talk to the eyewit?”

“Yeah,” Bailey replied. “Very dicey.”

“And the uni who took his statement?” Aronofsky asked. “You talk to him?”

“Not yet,” Bailey said.

He sighed and leaned back against his patrol car. None of us wanted to say out loud what each was beginning to think: this was already looking like an unsolved. We thanked the officer and went back to Bailey’s car. She slowly pulled away from the curb, watching her side mirror for speeding commuters.

We’d done about all we could do today, and I figured now might be a good time to remind her of how winning and winsome I could be. “Got time for a drink?” I asked. “I’m buying.”

Without a word, Bailey immediately made a U-turn and steered us toward the Biltmore.

“I’m thinking I should set up a meeting with the defendant,” I said.

Bailey snorted and gave a short laugh. “Great idea,” she said sarcastically. “Man, I’ll bet he can’t wait to have a heart-to-heart with the DA who wouldn’t let his case get thrown out.”

We stopped at the light, and I watched a pair of tatted and pierced boys in skinny jeans lope across the intersection. Their inky black hair was so stiff with goo that even in the gusty wind, not a strand moved. I turned to Bailey.

“You got a better idea?” I asked, knowing even as I said it that this was a bad question to pose right now.

“Yeah, but you don’t want to hear it.” Bailey pulled up to her favorite parking space, right next to a fire hydrant in front of the Biltmore. “But I’ll tell you what: let’s make it interesting. He talks to you, I’ll buy the first round.”

“Okay, but not here,” I said warningly.

Bailey never paid for drinks at the Biltmore bar because Drew, the gorgeous bartender extraordinaire, was her boyfriend. The fact that they’d stayed together for the past year had surprised everyone who knew him. And her. Drew was one of those men who’d always been catnip to women, and since I’d been living there, I’d seen a parade of hotties camp out at the end of the bar. But Bailey came along at just the time in his life when Drew was starting to think long-term—about everything. Now, he wanted to stick with one woman, and that woman was Bailey. Their only real challenge was finding time for each other. Bailey’s hours were, and always would be, crazy, and Drew had gotten serious about fulfilling his dream of opening his own upscale bar.

“I’ll tell Drew I’m paying,” she said. “Will that do?”

“No.”

“Fine, you name the place.”

“I’ll get back to you,” I said.

“But before you start looking for the most expensive bar in town, remember: if you lose, you’re buying.”

That threat should’ve cooled my jets, but it didn’t. It just made me even more determined to win.

I got the lawyer Walter Schoenfeld’s number from Melia and punched it in. I got lucky; Walter was in. I briefly explained what I wanted and ended by admitting, “I’ll be honest, it’s a skinny case. If your guy hadn’t popped off the way he did, I don’t know that he’d still be jacked up.”

Walter exhaled loudly and was silent for a moment. “You know, I can’t even remember the last time I let a client talk to you guys.”

“Well, sure,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “But this is me and Bailey. We’re different—”

“No argument there,” Walter interjected dryly.

“—as in, fair-minded,” I said. “And you’ve got to admit, this is an unusual situation—”

“Yeah,” he agreed somewhat hesitantly.

“Besides, how much worse off can he get if you’re sitting right next to him?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Rachel.”

I ramped up my pitch. “Look, Walter. I can tell you really believe in your guy. If he impresses us as much, he’s out of there. That’s a pretty big upside.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “But I’m not so sure he needs to impress you. I don’t think your buddy Charlie Fern’s gonna go to bat for you, and I don’t think you’ve got much else.”

Time for my trump card. I did my best to play it with a little flourish. “No, not much else,” I said. “Except the blood on his sleeve.”

Walter fell silent. I held my breath.

He inhaled sharply. “Okay, listen. When I say it’s over, everyone stops. Understood? No pushing.”

I tried to keep the triumphant note out of my voice. “You’ve got my word, Walter. I’ll be so civilized, you won’t even believe it’s me.”

Walter sighed. “I hope I’m not making the biggest mistake of my career.”

I reassured him he wasn’t. And I wasn’t lying. How should I know what mistakes he’d made in the past? There might’ve been some real whoppers. Surely this wouldn’t be the
biggest.

“And, Rachel, for what it’s worth?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“I really think this guy is innocent.”

“Yeah, yeah, Walter,” I replied lightly. “That’s what they all say.”

“So cynical, so young,” he clucked.

We agreed to meet at Bauchet Street—the Men’s Central Jail—at noon the following day. I ended the call, then turned a gloating face to Bailey.

She shook her head. “Damn. I cannot believe you pulled that off.”

“Better work some overtime, Keller,” I said, grinning. “This round’s gonna hurt.”

Bailey shook her head again and we got out of the car. I called Melia and told her I wouldn’t be coming back tonight.

“Oh…yeah. You’re out in the field, right?” she asked.

“I love how you put it all together, Melia. Especially since I told you I was going out to a crime scene before I left.”

“Oh, right.”

Fantastic. It was comforting to know that if I got nailed checking out a crime scene, no one would even know I’d left the office till some hiker found my body. There were wonderful secretaries in the DA’s office. I wondered for the millionth time why we couldn’t have gotten one of them.

Angel, the
doorman, greeted us as he opened the heavy glass-and-iron door. “Evening, ladies.”

“Hey, Angel,” I replied. “Keeping warm?”

“Had to break out my thermals.”

Though L.A. never got the kind of cold you’d find in the Midwest or on the East Coast, it could definitely get nippy enough to seep into your bones after a while. And unlike back East or the Midwest, builders out here never took heating and insulation all that seriously. This meant that the great indoors provided no real relief.

“I could lend you my Spanx,” I replied. “That’ll heat you up.”

“Plus it’ll smooth you out,” Bailey observed.

Angel rolled his eyes and stepped back outside.

We made our way through the magnificently spacious lobby, our footsteps echoing on the henna-colored marble floors, then muted as we stepped onto the thick Oriental rugs. I reached the bar first and grasped the solid-brass handle to pull the door open. The electric fire in the brick hearth glowed warmly, casting an orange light on the forest-green-leather wingback chairs and mahogany
tables
. It was already fairly crowded with financial-district types and corporate lawyers—no cops or prosecutors, now or ever. Bailey and I took seats at the end of the bar. Drew looked, as always, like he’d stepped out of
GQ,
dressed in the usual white shirt and black vest that accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the diamond stud earring flashing brightly against his black skin. He poured from a silver martini shaker into four glasses on a tray, wiped his hands on the bar towel, and came down to greet us.

“The most beautiful women in the world have arrived,” he said, somehow making the statement feel entirely plausible.

“And how are we tonight?” he asked.

“Tired,” Bailey said.

They exchanged an obnoxiously sweet smile.

“And thirsty,” I said pointedly.

“Graden joining us?” he asked me, referring to Lieutenant Graden Hales.

The common wisdom among female deputy DAs is
never fall for a cop.
Sure, they can be smart, handsome, sexy as hell. But they’re almost guaranteed to be dogs who’ll cheat on you with your sister and then tell all their buddies at the station. Lieutenant Graden Hales, whom I’d met when he got assigned to investigate the murder of my dear friend and fellow Special Trials prosecutor Jake Pahlmeyer about a year ago, seemed to be the exception. His hazel eyes; sandy-brown hair; wide, strong cheekbones; and full lips more than delivered on the handsome-and-sexy quotient. But as far as I could tell, there was no dog in him. He seemed to be an honest-to-God decent guy who wanted a relationship with a real woman, not just some arm candy.

And unbelievably, to top it off, he was rich—filthy rich, to be exact. Though I didn’t know much about his early life, I did know his wasn’t family money. Before he figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up, Graden had worked a minimum-wage job for a construction company. As a hobby, just for the fun of it, he dreamed up video games. But once he got hired by the LAPD, he decided he didn’t have the time or the desire for games anymore. So just before he finished the police academy, he put together one last game: Code Three—police jargon for a sirens-on emergency. Had it been up to him, that game never would’ve seen the light of day. But fortunately for Graden, his younger brother, Devon, a computer whizbang, saw the potential in this last creation and decided to write up the software and see if anyone was interested. Five years later, Code Three hit the gaming world like a tsunami, setting Graden and Devon up for life.

Graden and I had been dating for months, but I wasn’t ready to pick out any china patterns. Toni likes to call me
commitment challenged.
I like to tell her that’s the pot calling the kettle African-
American
. Though she hides it well, I know she finds this hilarious every time I say it.

I answered Drew with a shake of my head. “Graden’s ‘bonding’ with his brother tonight.”

Drew nodded, then favored Bailey with a slow, sexy smile. “How was your day, baby?” That voice had surely undressed enough women to populate a small country.

“Okay,” she replied, her voice so silky, she practically purred. Hell, men at the end of the bar started loosening their ties. It was enough to turn your stomach. “And what about you? Did you talk to the bank today?”

Drew had been working on getting a small-
business
loan for his bar.

“I did,” Drew replied. “So far, so good.” He held up crossed fingers. “So, ladies, the usual?”

“Sure,” Bailey replied, managing to give the word two syllables.

They exchanged another sappy smile.

“No,” I replied. “I’ll have a shot of Pepto-Bismol.”

They both laughed.

“I wasn’t kidding,” I said.

They smiled, apparently unconcerned that their “sweet nothings” had caused a bilious “something” to rise in the back of my throat.

I fixed them with a steely glare. “I guess I’ll let you pay off your bet now after all.” I gave Bailey a smug look. “I’ll have a Russian Standard Platinum martini, straight up with a twist.” It was one of the most expensive vodkas in the house.

Bailey’s expression turned dour. I smiled back sweetly.

I take my revenge very dry and very cold.