“Yeah, I remember. Not all the details, but some. It was a bogus confession. He recanted.”
Crimmens shifted.
“Wasn’t bogus.”
I took my seat and hooked a foot on the edge of the desk.
“Whatever. The video showed he was here in Hollywood when Bennett was murdered. She was killed in Silver Lake.”
Behind them, Pike touched his watch. We were going to be late.
I lowered my foot and leaned forward.
“You guys should have called. My partner and I have an appointment.”
Bastilla took out a notepad to show me they weren’t going to leave.
“Have you seen much of Mr. Byrd since you got him off?”
“I never met the man.”
Crimmens said, “Bullshit. He was your client. You don’t meet your clients?”
“Levy was my client. Barshop, Barshop paid the tab. That’s what lawyers do.”
Bastilla said, “So it was Levy who hired you?”
“Yes. Most of my clients are lawyers.”
Attorneys can’t and don’t rely on the word of their clients. Often, their clients don’t know the whole and impartial truth, and sometimes their clients lie. Since lawyers are busy lawyering, they employ investigators to uncover the facts.
Bastilla twisted around to see Pike.
“What about you? Did you work on Byrd’s behalf?”
“Not my kind of job.”
She twisted farther to get a better look.
“How about you take off the shades while we talk?”
“No.”
Crimmens said, “You hiding something back there, Pike? How ’bout we look?”
Pike’s head swiveled toward Crimmens. Nothing else moved; just his head.
“If I showed you, I’d have to kill you.”
I stepped in before it got out of hand.
“Joe didn’t help on this one. This thing was Detective Work 101. I must pull thirty cases like this a year.”
Crimmens said, “That’s sweet. You must take pride in that, helping shitbirds get away with murder.”
Crimmens was pissing me off again.
“What are we talking about this for, Bastilla? This thing was settled three years ago.”
Bastilla opened her pad and studied the page.
“So you are telling us you have never met Lionel Byrd?”
“I have never met him.”
“Are you acquainted with a man named Lonnie Jones?”
“No. Is he your new suspect?”
“During your investigation into the matter of Yvonne Bennett, did you discover evidence linking Mr. Byrd to any other crimes or criminal activities?”
“What kind of question is that? Have you re-arrested him?”
Bastilla scribbled a note. When she looked up, her eyes were ringed with purple cutting down to her mouth. She looked as tired as a person can look without being dead.
“No, Mr. Cole, we can’t arrest him. Eight days ago, he was found during the evacuation up in Laurel Canyon. Head shot up through the bottom of his chin. He had been dead about five days.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
Crimmens laughed.
“Wouldn’t that be funny, Con? Wouldn’t that be too perfect? Man, I would love that.”
Bastilla smiled, but not because she thought it was funny.
“He committed suicide. He was living under the name Lonnie Jones. Know why he was using an alias?”
“No idea. Maybe because he didn’t like being accused of murders he didn’t commit.”
Bastilla leaned toward me and crossed her arms on a knee.
“The man’s dead now, Cole. Reason we’re here, we’d like to examine the reports and work product you have from the Bennett case. Your notes. The people you questioned. Everything in your file.”
She waited without blinking, studying me as if she knew what I would say, but was hoping I might not say it. I shook my head.
“I was working on behalf of defense counsel. That material belongs to Alan Levy.”
“Levy is being contacted.”
Crimmens said, “The fucker’s dead, Cole. You got him off. What’s it matter now?”
“If Levy says fine, then fine, but I worked for him, Crimmens, not you. There’s that little thing about ‘expectation of confidentiality.’”
I looked back at Bastilla.
“If the man’s dead and you don’t think I killed him, why do you care what’s in my files about Yvonne Bennett?”
Bastilla sighed, then straightened.
“Because this isn’t only about Bennett. Lionel Byrd murdered seven women. We believe he murdered one woman every year for the past seven years. Yvonne Bennett was his fifth victim.”
She said it as matter-of-factly as a bank teller cashing a check, but with a softness in her voice that spread seeds of ice in my belly.
“He didn’t kill Yvonne Bennett. I proved it.”
Bastilla put away her pad. She got up, then hooked her bag on her shoulder, finally ready to go.
“Material linking him to the murder was found in his home. He murdered a sixth woman the summer after his release. His most recent victim was murdered thirty-six days ago, and now he’s murdered himself.”
Crimmens licked his lips as if he wanted to eat me alive.
“How do you feel now, Mr. Thirty-a-Year?”
I shook my head at Bastilla.
“What does that mean, you found material?”
“Something in your files might help us figure out how he got away with it, Cole. Talk to Levy. If we have to subpoena, we will, but it’ll be faster if you guys come across.”
I stood with her.
“Waitaminute-what does that mean, you found something? What did you find?”
“A press conference is scheduled for this evening. In the meantime, talk to Levy. The sooner the better.”
Bastilla left without waiting, but Crimmens made no move to follow. He stayed on the file cabinet, watching me.
I said, “What?”
“ Escondido and Repko.”
“Why are you still here, Crimmens?”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Should I?”
“Think about it. You must’ve read my reports.”
Then I realized why he was familiar.
“You were the arresting officer.”
Crimmens finally pushed off the cabinet.
“That’s right. I’m the guy who arrested Byrd. I’m the guy who tried to stop a killer. You’re the shitbird who set him free.”
Crimmens glanced at Pike, then went to the door.
“Lupe Escondido and Debra Repko are the women he killed after you got him off. You should send the families a card.”
Crimmens closed the door when he left.
2
ON A moonless night three years before Bastilla and Crimmens came to my office, someone shattered Yvonne Bennett’s skull in a Silver Lake parking lot, one block north of Sunset Boulevard. The night was warm, though not hot, with the scent of spider lilies kissing the air. The weapon of choice was a tire iron.
Yvonne Bennett was twenty-eight years old when she died, though everyone I interviewed-including two former roommates and three former boyfriends-believed she was nineteen. As it was for many in Los Angeles, her life was a masquerade. She lied about her age, her past, her work history, and her profession. Of the twenty-three people I interviewed when I tracked her movements on the night of her death, three believed she was a student at UCLA, two believed she was a student at USC, one believed she was a graduate student working toward a doctorate in psychology, and one or more of the rest believed she was a production assistant, a makeup artist, a florist, a clothing designer, a graphic artist, a bartender, a waitress, a sales clerk at Barney’s on Wilshire Boulevard, or a sous chef who worked for Wolfgang Puck. Though she had been arrested for prostitution twice, she was not and never had been a streetwalker. She was a bar girl. She picked up men in bars and brokered the cash before leaving the premises. Even with the arrests, she denied being a prostitute, once telling a former roommate that, though she dated men for money, she never took money for sex. This, too, was a lie.