RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (7 page)

Maxwell Chevorin
was flying in. Sabrina had called the lobbyist to let him know the package was ready. Give him enough time to get the two million in cash. And if he was smart, a hefty bonus to reward them for a home run of a job. Compared to the money Chevorin would make for delivering Congressman Rankin’s swing vote on offshore drilling, even three million was pocket lint.

Sabrina stared out across the L.A. skyline from the balcony of her penthouse suite. The condos on the upper floors in downtown Bunker Hill afforded a view that made Catalina Island look close enough to swim to. But today the clouds hung low over a gray ocean, obscuring the line between sea and sky, and Catalina was only a suggestion in the misty gloom. Sabrina didn’t notice. Her mind was racing to analyze the ramifications of what Chase had just reported. Though she couldn’t yet formulate precisely why, alarm bells were sounding in every cell of her body. She knew that Chase would tell her she was being paranoid and obsessive, but her internal warning system had never failed her. She’d told him countless times over the years that he was too nonchalant. She turned to watch him now, hunched in a corner of the couch, typing furiously on his laptop. Sabrina walked back into the expansive living room, where smooth jazz played softly in the background, a counterpoint to her jangling energy.

“You’re sure that was him?” she asked.

Chase lifted his hands off the keyboard and looked at Sabrina warily. “Yes. And I double-checked with the coroner’s office. But don’t worry, they’ve still got the guy in custody—”

“But they haven’t dropped the case.”

“No. But they will, trust—”

Sabrina stared him into silence. Chase never seemed to understand that threats ignored only came closer—they didn’t go away.

Chase sighed. It was pointless to argue when she got like this. “What do you want me to do?”

Sabrina told him. His expression, as he listened to his marching orders, told her that he thought this was overkill. But she knew he’d do as she asked, just as he’d always done since they’d first met in the fifth grade, in that crappy prison of a boarding school.

When she finished, she glanced at her watch. “You’d better get going.”

“Can I come back later?”

“I’ll call you when we’re done.” Chevorin would be here soon, and she wanted Chase gone before he appeared. She’d never allowed the lobbyist to meet Chase or any of her other employees.

After Chase left, Sabrina moved quickly to her bedroom. The original walls that had divided the dressing room from the sleeping area had been knocked down to create one large space. The uncluttered, somewhat austere modern decor—spare lines, all fabrics in black and white, alleviated by the few splashes of red throw pillows on the bed and divan—made the room seem even larger, if somewhat impersonal. The choices were Sabrina’s alone. She’d always favored that kind of simplicity, even in early childhood. Yet another way in which she’d presented a stark contrast to all the other little girls, who were covered in pinks, sparkles, and ruffles.

Sabrina checked her look in the mirrored wall next to the walk-in closet. The black V-necked sweater sat well above her cleavage. Good. But the black pencil skirt showed too much hip and thigh. She changed into wide-legged trousers and added a pair of four-inch heels to make her more imposing, then assessed her look again. The downstairs buzzer sounded. Sabrina quickly ran her fingers through her hair and, after one last critical glance in the mirror, went to the living room and checked the monitor. The lobbyist had arrived. She pressed the button to the outer door and punched in the code to let him into her private elevator. Then she went to the couch and slipped her hand under the far seat cushion. She felt for the .44 Glock and patted the cushion back down. Then she punched the button on the remote to turn off the music and went to answer the door.

After she’d played the footage of Congressman Rankin for him, Chevorin turned to her with a wide, sharklike grin. “Incredible. I never imagined anything like this.” The lobbyist shook his head and chuckled. “We all knew he was a little loosely wrapped, but this? Pure gold. I’m gonna own this guy for life.” He opened his briefcase. On top of the stacks of money was a bottle of champagne wrapped in a white cloth napkin. He picked it up and looked around the room. “Where do you keep your glasses?”

“I don’t drink,” Sabrina reminded him. Which was true. She didn’t…anymore. Not that it mattered. There was no chance she ever would’ve shared champagne with Chevorin under any circumstances. Sabrina didn’t mix anything in her life, let alone business with pleasure. “But I can get you a glass if you like.”

His smile faded. “No thanks.” He put the bottle aside and began to stack the money on the brushed-steel coffee table. “You want to count this?”

“I trust you.”

They shared a grim smile at the obvious lie.

When the lobbyist had finished unpacking the money, he put the bottle back in his briefcase and snapped it shut.

“I have another job for you,” he said. “This one’s a CEO who’s fighting a merger with a client. We need something to twist him with. I’ve tried to get dirt on this guy in the past, but I always came up empty. So this job might not be doable. But it’s worth a lot to me, so I figured we may as well give it one more shot with you.”

Sabrina gave him a cool and subtly contemptuous smile, seeing through the attempted manipulation. Telling her about his failure to get the dirt on this CEO was an obvious effort to amp up her motivation by adding the prospect of proving she could outdo him. What Chevorin didn’t understand was that Sabrina had no desire to prove anything to him. She
was
better. In fact she was the best, and she knew it. If she didn’t find anything on this target, it would be because there was nothing to find. But the past two years had taught her one thing above all: no one was completely clean. No one. There was always dirt somewhere. You just had to know where to look. “Give me what you’ve got on him. I’ll see what I can do.”

He handed her a file, and they negotiated the price. It was a brief negotiation that ended with an even higher seven-figure payout than the last job. The lobbyist left, and Sabrina kicked off her shoes, lay back on the couch, and opened the file. It didn’t take her long to get through it all. The lobbyist was right: he hadn’t made much headway.

When she’d finished, she locked the file away and reached for her cell, eager to get started. This one would be fun. She always loved taking down the Bible-thumpers.

“The bank?”
Bailey asked as we walked out into a thin, gray afternoon that offered little contrast to the grim pallor we’d just left in the county jail.

I agreed and we got into her car. The postlunch wad of traffic forced us to inch along Broadway at a pace so slow it was maddening.

“Would’ve been faster to walk,” I groused.

“Fine with me. I can park it right there.” Bailey nodded to a steelworking yard that was dominated by a tower spewing out a river of smoke.

It wasn’t the kind of place you’d leave your own car, but we were in a county car that hadn’t seen better days in quite a while—it wouldn’t be a tragedy if it did get stripped or stolen. But I looked down at my feet and shook my head. I’d worn a pair of new,
très
chic, black suede ankle boots I’d scored at a half-off clearance sale. I’d treated myself to them today as consolation for having to go to the jail. They were comfortable enough, but if they got messed up, I’d lose it.

“Never mind,” I said.

But Bailey was fed up with the traffic too. She looked in her rearview mirror, then swung around to the right, passing the line of cars stopped at the light. She got to the limit line just as it turned green and flew through the intersection in a burst of speed. A man in an orange nylon jacket and work boots who’d been about to cross against the light jumped back onto the curb and grabbed the pole of the street sign as she roared past.

“But I’d still like to get there alive,” I remarked. “If that’s all right with you.”

We’d just passed Temple Street when Bailey’s cell phone rang. She fished it out of her jacket pocket, announced herself, and listened for a moment. “Okay, when’s Newman going to have the blood?”

A few seconds later, she hung up. Her tight-lipped expression told me this hadn’t been good news.

“Still nothing on our vic,” she finally said. “He’s never been printed for any job, and if he’s ever been busted, it’s not showing up in any database.”

“Unbelievable. No ID on him and no prints on file. What are the friggin’ odds?”

Not being able to identify a victim is a serious stumbling block in any case, but it was a particularly gnarly obstacle in this one, where there was no obvious motive and the suspect in custody was looking less suspicious by the minute.

“What’s the coroner say about his physical condition?” I asked.

“Still waiting for him to return my call,” Bailey answered in a voice that told me she was equally aggravated. “But we should be hearing about the blood on Yamaguchi’s sleeve pretty quick.”

Half good news anyway. I mulled over the situation.

“You don’t have the autopsy report yet?” I asked.

Bailey shook her head. “Stoner told me the cause of death was ‘sharp force injury,’ known in English as a stabbing, but we don’t have any details about what kind of knife was used or the nature of the wounds.”

“Let me try Scott,” I said. Scott Ferrier, the coroner’s investigator, was a friend of mine who’d risked his neck to get me information in the past. My end of the bargain required that I reward his bravery with free meals at Engine Co. No. 28, his favorite restaurant. And since I loved the restaurant too, it was a win-win. I pulled out my cell and dialed, glad to have something to do besides fume over the gridlocked traffic. I got his voice mail and left a message.

“You know,” Bailey said, “the bank will have a record of the time and date of Yamaguchi’s deposit.”

“And Yamaguchi might have a receipt with that information too,” I said. “Corroborating that part of the story shouldn’t be a problem. And if the bank has cameras outside—”

“Which I’d bet they do—”

“Then we might get another angle on the stabbing,” I finished.

It was nearly three p.m. by the time Bailey pulled up in front of the bank, and downtown workers were already beginning to fill the streets, heading for home in cars, buses, and subways. By six o’clock, I knew the streets would be largely deserted, the crowded sidewalks of that afternoon a distant memory. Only the action in the bars and restaurants would show that this was a living, breathing city. The temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees since the interview with Yamaguchi, and the cool air had a serious bite to it. I pulled up the collar on my peacoat and followed Bailey into the bank.

It never ceases to impress me just how damn useful a badge can be. Within three minutes, we were seated in front of the manager’s desk.

“How can I help you, Detectives?” asked Andy Kim, one of the hippest-looking bank managers I’d ever seen, dressed in a smart, dark-green cashmere suit and paisley tie.

I figured I’d get more respect if he thought I was a detective, so I didn’t bother to correct him. Bailey explained what we wanted.

“We certainly have footage, both inside and out. As you can imagine, in this neighborhood, it’s a necessity.” He gave us a little just-between-us smile. “It’ll take them a few days to get you the footage, but I’ll have the time of Ronald Yamaguchi’s transaction brought in to you right now.” He picked up the phone and made the request.

About ten seconds later, there was a knock on the door, and a young woman who looked pleased to be there came in and handed him a piece of paper.

Andy took it from her and scanned it. “Thank you, Ms. Daley,” he said with a warm smile. He handed the paper to me.

“That’s the hard copy. It seems Ronald Yamaguchi did indeed make a deposit at twelve fifty-seven p.m. on the day in question.”

We thanked Andy, who promised to get us the surveillance-camera footage right away, and left.

“Well, part of Yamaguchi’s story checks out,” Bailey said as we headed for her car.

I got my cell and quickly checked in with Melia to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. She said I hadn’t, but that didn’t mean much. If Melia had a new piece of pulp to read, the building could be seized by terrorists without her knowing it. We got into the car, and I checked my watch. It was four p.m. already. Amazing how time flies when you’re having no luck at all solving a case.

“What’re you doing tonight?” Bailey asked as she steered the car toward the Biltmore.

“Graden’s taking me out,” I replied. Then, because I knew she’d ask, I added, “To Yamashiro’s.”

Bailey whistled softly. “Someone’s gonna get lucky tonight,” she said with a lascivious smile.

I gave her a sideways grin. “Well, if it’s only one of us, it’s gonna be a bad night.”

Graden was
going to pick me up at six thirty, which meant at this point I had about fifteen minutes to pull it together. I whipped through my closet, looking for an outfit that would go with my beloved new boots. Black, stretchy slacks would work, and they were nice and long. I have a “thing” about short pants. I’d rather trip on the hems than wear “floods.”

The black lacy top was sexy, but there was a chill in the air, and turning blue with cold would probably undermine the whole
sexy
thing. I settled on the cobalt-blue cashmere sweater with the roll-neck. Not exactly
wowee,
but better boring than freezing. A little eyeliner and blush later, I shrugged into my coat and patted my pocket to make sure I still had my .22 Beretta. But I was going to be with a cop and his .44. Did I really need the firepower? Then again, it couldn’t hurt. I left it in my pocket and ran for the elevator.

By the time I got to the lobby, I found Graden standing next to the open passenger door of his darkly gleaming, freshly washed black BMW 750Li. He was talking to Angel, the doorman, who was looking at the car like it was Scarlett Johansson.

I hated to break up this lovefest, but nothing lasts forever.

“Hey, guys,” I said.

Graden gave me an appreciative smile.

“Hey, Rache,” he said, and gestured to the passenger seat.

I patted Angel on the arm as I got into the car. “How’s it going?”

“Good, good, Rachel,” he said. He tipped his hat to Graden and closed my door with a loving care that I knew had nothing to do with me.

Graden slid in and pulled the car around the circular driveway to the street. As he paused for oncoming traffic, he turned to me and said, “You look lovely, as always.”

I smiled and squeezed out a thank-you with as much grace as I could muster. Compliments always make me uncomfortable.

“You too,” I said, and meant it.

With his dark navy blazer and French cuffs, I knew that women’s heads would be swiveling from the moment he entered the restaurant.

He’d been busy with what he’d briefly dismissed as “administrative matters” for the past few days, and I’d been pretty swamped myself, so we hadn’t had a chance to talk.

“You want to tell me what’s been on your plate at work this week?” I asked.

He sighed. “Maybe later. Right now I’d just like to forget about it for a while, if that’s all right.”

Having been in that head space myself, I didn’t question him further. He’d tell me, if he wanted to, in his own time. We chatted about mutual friends, including Toni and J.D., but I broke off to enjoy the view when Graden turned up the narrow drive above Franklin Avenue and headed into the hills that would take us to Yamashiro. At the top of the hill, we entered the parking lot that wound around behind the famous restaurant and ended in front of the huge pagoda-style building that had one of the best views in town.

Yamashiro was an atmospheric landmark and a paean to old Hollywood. The dining room to the left of the entrance was formal yet lush and cushy, with white-tableclothed circular banquettes that gave views overlooking the city. The bar on the opposite side was romantically situated at the front of the restaurant and took advantage of the panoramic view with wall-to-wall windows that looked down on all of Los Angeles. Between the bar and the dining area there was a huge, high-ceilinged room decorated with waterfalls, gardens, and quaint red-painted bridges that spanned ponds of roaming brightly colored koi. Kitschy but
charming
.

The hostess took us to a table next to the window. I sat down and looked out at the glittering lights, neon signs, and vibrantly lit skyscrapers that outlined downtown L.A. From here, even the traffic looked beautiful, a moving river of red-and-white glowing beams. I exhaled with pleasure and saw that Graden too was entranced by the view.

“May I interest you in a cocktail?” asked the waitress, who appeared at our table within seconds.

Graden and I were both a little slow on the uptake, but the mention of drinks brought us back to earth. He looked at me.

“I’ll have a Ketel One martini, very cold, very dry, straight up with a twist,” I said. It didn’t matter what the weather was like; there was only one way to have a martini, and that was icy cold.

“I’ll have a Ketel One and soda with lime,” Graden said.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said when the waitress left. “I’ll have the vodka soda and drive tonight. It’s only fair.”

Graden waved me off. “I’m being impressively gallant,” he said with a grin. “Now tell me what’s going on with you.”

I started to tell him about the John Doe case. But I’d gotten only a few words out when the waitress returned with our drinks. We gave her our dinner order: salads for starters, and a shared steak served on a heated salt plate. It’s an Asian restaurant, but their steak is amazing. Then we toasted to ourselves and an amazingly clear night.

Now that we’d relaxed into the evening, I told him the story of my John Doe case.

Graden sighed. “I guess there’s no such thing as an escape,” he said.

I looked at him quizzically.

“That DA, Brandon Averill, beefed Stoner to the skies,” Graden explained. “The whole chain of command is on the alert.”

I shook my head and pressed my lips together in an effort to keep myself from saying what I thought. This wasn’t the place to get loud and profane.

“Yeah,” Graden said. “And some managerial type named Phil Hemet jumped into the mix too.”

Hemet too? That was more than I could stand.

“Hemet is a talent-free jerkoff who brownnosed his way to the top, and Averill is a sniveling puke who thinks he craps flowers—,” I snapped, unable to help myself.

“So what do you really think?” Graden said, laughing.

I gave him a little smile, though I really was angry. The waitress brought our salads, and I let mine sit for a moment, my appetite gone. But even in the throes of pissitivity, I was able to appreciate the fact that Graden not only understood my upset but felt the same way. It was one of the great things about being on the same side.

“What’s going to happen to Stoner?” I asked.

“You can’t talk about this,” Graden said sternly. “Not even to Bailey.”

“I promise,” I replied. “Have I ever snitched?”

“No,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m going to tell you.”

He took a bite of his salad and another sip of his drink. “I’m pushing to just let him off with some administrative leave. But there’re some in the department who think Stoner’s a hothead who needs a bigger paddling than that.”

“Such as?” My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since…when? I couldn’t remember. I dug into my salad.

“Maybe a transfer out of Homicide Special,” Graden said, his voice stern.

“Seriously? Just for decking that asswipe?”

But I might be facing the same fate if Hemet decided to go after me. I filled Graden in on what Toni had told me about Hemet.

The waitress arrived and gave us steak knives and set the salt plate between us.

Graden started to say something, then stopped himself.

“What?” I asked.

A smile played on his lips. “I was going to say that it’s not the same, and that you have nothing to worry about because Stoner has a way of speaking his mind that ticks off the brass an awful lot,” he said wryly. “But it really is the same, isn’t it? I mean, short of the fistfight.”

I had to smile. “I guess it kind of is.” I’d had more than my share of run-ins with both the office management and the judges. I called it “being direct.” They called it “confrontational and insubordinate.” Tomato, tomahto.

“One of the many things I love about you, baby,” Graden said. He lifted his drink. “Here’s to mouthy women.”

“And hotheaded men,” I said.

We drank, then tucked into our steak. Graden told me about a trainee who’d been caught smoking dope in his squad car after his shift ended. I topped him with a story about a DA who’d been caught shooting heroin in his car. On a lunch break. During trial.

After we finished, we turned to look at the view some more and sank back in our chairs, pleasantly relaxed. We rode to the Biltmore in a comfortable silence. Graden left the car with Angel and walked me to the elevator. I’d joked with Bailey about having sex with Graden, but the truth was, we hadn’t yet slept together. Though we’d kissed enough to know it would be something great when we did take the plunge. We reached my door, and he pulled me in for a long, slow, romantic kiss. If I’d had one more martini, I would’ve opened the door and tackled him. But I managed to restrain myself. Just.

Graden stepped back and touched my cheek. “Call you in the morning?”

“Sounds good.”

I opened the door and paused to watch him move down the hallway. He had a smooth, long stride and a strong, athletic build. I caught myself mentally undressing him and quickly stepped inside before he could turn the corner and catch me staring. I decided a cold shower would slow my revved-up jets, but it took only a few seconds before I was shivering and dreaming of nothing more X-rated than hot water. By the time I got into bed, I’d calmed down enough to feel how tired I was. I stacked the pillows to prop up my aching neck and opened the murder mystery I was forcing myself to wade through. The only thing I could say for it was that it never failed to put me to sleep. For some reason, no matter how much I hate a book, I can never manage to just stop reading—I have to see it through to the bitter end. And the end is inevitably bitter, because I’m always paradoxically irritated at having wasted the time to finish it.

The current offender that had the nerve to call itself a “thriller” lay open on my knees, but my mind wandered. Wasn’t it time to get over my past and let Graden all the way into my life—not to mention my bed?

Maybe, finally, I was ready. If I’d had any energy left, that thought might’ve scared me. But exhaustion made my eyelids heavy, and my head dropped forward. I slid down and pulled up the covers, then turned off the light. As I moved onto my side, I vaguely heard the book fall to the floor. I left it there.