He drew back and looked at me like I’d grown a third arm. “Sleep what off? I’m not stoned. I didn’t inhale. That would be totally unprofessional. But you said to go native.”
I laughed. “Nice.” We headed to 207. As we passed number 208, Chloe and Paige’s apartment, I looked at the door. The crime-scene tape was gone, but I could still see black print powder around the doorknob. I had a feeling that apartment wouldn’t be rented anytime soon.
A woman in her twenties answered the door at 207. She didn’t know Chloe or Paige other than to say “Hey” when they passed in the corridor, and she and her boyfriend had been out of town at the time of the murders. No help there. And the old guy in 206 hadn’t heard or seen anything that night. Not surprising, since he could barely hear us from two feet away.
We headed to Alex’s car and I thought about what we’d learned from Chas. “Well, that motorcycle guy obviously wasn’t trying to hide the fact that he was seeing Paige. And it doesn’t sound like he has the money to buy her diamonds.”
Alex nodded. “Besides, I’d have figured Mr. Perfect would be more… perfect.”
“Yeah, the motorcycle guy isn’t him.”
Alex unlocked the car. “Janet’s going to shred us. And Chas thinks someone was at their place before Chloe got home with Dale. That doesn’t help.”
“Janet will absolutely shred us. And timing is the least of our problems with Chas. If he were reliable at all, it’d be great to prove someone came knocking on the door that night-no matter what time he says it happened.”
“Then you want me to serve him a subpoena?”
We got into the car. “Look at you, all knowing the legal lingo. No.”
Alex looked at me, perplexed. “The book says we should always have subpoenas ready in case-”
This book business was going to drive me nuts very soon. “Yeah, Alex. But what do you think the jury’s going to do with a witness like Chas? He’s probably got a conviction or two, and even if he doesn’t, he’s a major stoner and he’s not sure of a friggin’ thing.”
“Then we can’t use him at all?”
“I’m not saying that. We might be able to use him for something. Just not for court.” I already had an idea.
My phone rang. It was the mechanic. Beulah had made a full recovery. Well, as full a recovery as a car that has 157,000 miles can make.
Alex dropped me off at the station, and I sent him back to the office.
I’d have to get downtown to Twin Towers and talk to Dale about… everything. Not the least of which was why he hadn’t bothered to tell me about his breakup with Chloe.
Or as the prosecution would put it: his motive.
TWENTY
I wanted to get to Twin Towers first thing in the morning, but Deshawn’s hearing was at nine a.m., and there was no way Judge Raymond would let me put it over. A former marine and a slavishly devoted cop-lover, Judge Raymond was a prosecutor’s dream come true. And my worst nightmare. He wasn’t exactly a big fan of mine, either. Which is why I got to court a half hour early. I knew he’d jump at the chance to slap me with a fine.
Deshawn rolled in at five minutes to nine. That was early for him, and no doubt thanks only to his mother, Tamika Johnson, who was sitting in the audience, her eyes boring into Deshawn’s back. Deshawn had spiffed up for the occasion in black loafers, dark slacks, and a white shirt and tie-thanks again, I was sure, only to Tamika. He turned to glance at her every few minutes, feeling the wrath of her glare. Deshawn feared no one the way he feared his mother.
Seconds later, Rita Stump, the prosecutor, wearing a dress from Forever 21 (no one told her it was just a name, not a promise) and an irritated expression, marched into the courtroom. The cop, Bruce Ambrose, rolled in behind her. He was one of those red-necked (it’s not a pejorative in this case; his neck was actually red), fleshy cops who looked like a heart attack waiting to happen.
He’d busted Deshawn for a seat-belt violation, then claimed to have seen something “funny” about his glove compartment. The ensuing search turned up a handgun that Deshawn swore wasn’t his.
Ambrose got on the stand, and Rita took him through the fairy tale he’d written in his police report. Then it was my turn.
I started by having him describe what was so “funny” about the glove compartment. He claimed it didn’t seem to “line up right.” I made him get specific about it-which edges didn’t line up, how far off they were.
He stared at me with cold, hard eyes. “It looked to me like there was at least half an inch between the dash and the top of the glove box.”
“And yet the glove compartment was fully closed, wasn’t it?”
“It was closed.”
“Amazing feat of engineering, wouldn’t you say? That it could stay closed-”
“Objection!” Rita jumped to her feet. “Counsel’s sarcasm is inappropriate.”
I held up my hands. “I’m just asking for his opinion. I mean, he’s clearly an expert in glove boxes-”
The judge gave me a menacing look. “Ms. Brinkman, you’ll knock off the personal comments and the sarcasm or we’ll stop this hearing and start contempt proceedings.”
I turned back to my buddy Ambrose. “And of course, you took photos of that glove box so we could all see how ‘funny’ it looked-”
“No. I didn’t.”
I let that sink in for a moment, then moved on. “This wasn’t the first time you met my client, was it? You’ve had a few run-ins in the past.”
“I wouldn’t call them run-ins. I had information that indicated to me he might’ve committed a crime on two previous occasions, and I detained him for further questioning.”
But the descriptions of the suspects in those cases didn’t even remotely fit Deshawn. The first suspect was five foot seven, 150. The second one was even more ridiculous: he was five foot six-and Hispanic. Deshawn was six foot three. I told Deshawn to stand up next to me. “Your Honor, for the record, I’m five foot six.” I stared up at Deshawn. I glanced at the judge and saw that I’d made my point. Time to move in for the kill.
I picked up the gun Ambrose claimed to have found in Deshawn’s glove box and took it to the witness stand. “Officer, would you read the serial number on that gun for us?”
He stared at me for a moment, then slowly read it.
“Thank you. Now I’m going to show you a police report that was prepared about a month before you arrested Deshawn.”
“Objection! Irrelevant!” Rita bounced up again. “What does a police report on a different case have to do with-”
The judge cut her off. “I think we’re about to find out. Overruled.”
I put the report in front of Ambrose and pointed to the bottom of the page. “Please read those last two lines for us.” I watched to see if his lips would move. They didn’t. But when he finished, I saw him swallow hard. “That report was prepared one month ago by another LAPD officer, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And it shows that another officer seized this very gun from a suspect named Julio Ortiz and booked it into evidence one month before you stopped Deshawn Johnson, doesn’t it?”
Ambrose darted a look at Rita, then licked dry lips. “Yeah.”
I pulled out the follow-up report on Julio Ortiz and showed it to Ambrose. “If this gun had been released back to Ortiz, it would say so in this report, wouldn’t it?” Ambrose nodded. “But it doesn’t say that, does it?”
Ambrose stared at the report for a long moment. “No.”
“So can you explain to us how a gun that was booked into evidence a month before you stopped Deshawn Johnson wound up in his glove compartment?”
“I… someone must’ve taken it out of evidence.”
“And that someone had to be a cop, didn’t it? You guys don’t let people like Deshawn or me go check stuff out of the locker, do you?”