“You don’t, Knight.”
“Glad I asked. Okay, good talk. Later-”
“Hold on. I’m just trying to be realistic here. We can’t ask the store owners not to share the footage-”
“Especially if someone shows up with money,” I said. “And even if we got a warrant and seized everyone’s footage, they’ve probably all got backups.”
I stood behind my desk, holding the phone in a death grip as I mentally played out the options. None was foolproof.
“I could hold off on amending the complaint,” I said. “There’s no suspect in custody, so the correct name of the victim isn’t critical just yet.” But I couldn’t legally use that gambit for long. I’d have to get my witnesses in hand fast. Especially Lilah Bayer. “And in the meantime, we’re going to have to work under the radar. The press can’t get wind of what we’re doing.”
Bailey gave a short bark of a laugh. “Good luck with that. The press lives on our doorsteps, and you know both our offices are sieves. Our only hope is to move fast, before the yakking has the chance to hit the wrong ears.”
When you’re skating on thin ice, your safety’s in your speed. Bailey was right. Too many people already knew about this case: Chief Deputy Summers; Phil Hemet; my boss, Eric, who was certainly trustworthy, but also by extension Melia, the town crier, who certainly wasn’t. And I hadn’t even factored in the people on Bailey’s side. I took a deep breath to loosen the band that had just tightened around my chest. I wrapped my arms around my torso and paced, still gripping the phone as I quickly calculated our first move. With time being of the essence, I’d have to prioritize carefully.
“Since Lilah was unquestionably on the scene, I’d say she’s priority number one,” I said. “And we hit the people who worked Zack’s case for contact information on her.”
“I’ll reach out to the investigating officer and see if he has a line on her right now,” Bailey said.
“I’ll get ahold of the prosecutor and set up a meeting.”
“They’ll both be able to say for sure whether the woman in the footage is Lilah,” Bailey said. “And I’ll have to notify Simon’s parents.”
We fell silent. Death notifications were a miserable part of police work. And this family had lost two sons to murder. What a nightmare. I didn’t envy Bailey. We hung up, and I started to chase down the prosecutor.
A few phone calls later, I learned that the prosecutor, Larry Gladstein, had transferred out to the Antelope Valley branch court-about as far away as you could get and still be in Los Angeles County. I vaguely remembered the area as the desert you crossed on the way to Arizona. I got Larry’s voice mail and left a message.
Unable to make any other moves for now, I decided to get work done on my other cases so I could at least clear the decks. But in stray moments between phone calls and motions, I found myself thinking about Zack’s murder. An ax killing in itself is rare-but an ax killing by a woman is rarer than a Republican at an NPR fund-raiser. I wondered what kind of evidence had persuaded Gladstein to file.
By six thirty p.m. Toni and I were more than ready to go. Although a brisk wind was blowing, we decided a little exercise would justify a lot of indulgence and hiked the several blocks to the restaurant. As we hurried in, the soft strains of a jazz trumpet greeted us, and I recognized it as Clifford Brown playing “Stolen Moments.” The anxiety that had curled up and made a nest in my stomach began to unwind. By the time we reached our table, the rich smells wafting out of the kitchen had me ready to eat the air. The waiter brought black napkins so as not to-heaven forfend-leave white threads on our dark slacks, and took our drink order: Ketel One martinis, cold, dry, straight up with a twist. When our drinks came, we toasted to finally getting a night out together and took a sip.
“So how’s it going with J.D.?” I asked.
Toni’s eyes darted away before she answered. “Uh, okay.”
“Gee, someone in space might actually believe that,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Really, nothing,” she said with a sigh. “At least, nothing new. We’ve been getting along really great, but I can feel him starting to get nervous.”
Graden had given me the skinny about this during our dinner at Yamashiro, but I’d been sworn to secrecy. For a moment, I was torn between my promise to Graden and my loyalty to Toni. But the moment passed and, as always, loyalty won out. It’s a girlfriend thing.
I looked at Toni with a raised eyebrow. “That’s funny, because J.D. said the very same thing about you.”
“What?” she asked.
“You can never, ever admit you know this. Okay?”
Toni looked at me, curious.
“J.D. told Graden that you were the one always backing out and that he was the one always getting dumped.”
Toni sat back, her expression stunned. “Huh.” She looked away and frowned, trying to reconcile this new information with what she’d thought she knew. “I’m the one always backing out.”
I spread my hands. “That’s the skinny.”
Toni looked perplexed but thoughtful. “I just find it hard to believe that I could’ve misread him so completely.”
“Maybe it’s not so complete,” I observed. “Maybe it’s just a matter of interpretation. He saw something in your behavior that made him think you were about to jump ship, so he got nervous. You saw him getting nervous and thought he was ready to bail.”
Toni nodded slowly.
“Most of us are insecure in relationships, so when in doubt, we latch on to the most negative explanation,” I added.
Toni gave me a lopsided smile. “Well, look at you, Sigmund Freud.” She did that little head bob only she could pull off. “All jiggy with your analytical thing.”
“Anna Freud, please,” I said. “Sigmund had issues.”
Toni rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said. “You sure Graden didn’t misinterpret something, get a little creative?”
“Men’s imaginations aren’t that good.”
Toni had an impish grin. “At least not when it comes to that stuff.”
We both laughed, and I raised my glass.
“To the other stuff,” I said.
We clinked and drank.
27
With no avenue to pursue until I sat down with the prosecutor or the IO on Zack’s murder, I had a lot of anxious time to fill. On Saturday, I saw Graden for a casual dinner at our favorite haunt, the Pacific Dining Car-a real railroad dining car near downtown that was converted into an elegant restaurant with fantastic food and one of the best bars in town. We’d had our first date there, and now we thought of it as “our place.” On Sunday, my nerves propelled me to do something, anything, that felt like progress on the case, so I worked on my to-do list. After a few hours, feeling frustrated and stuck, I decided to schlep my sorry ass to the gym. It was sorry because I hadn’t been in a while, and now it was dragging.
By Monday morning, I was ready to jump out of my skin. For all I knew, footage of Lilah was wending its way onto YouTube at that very moment. I’d just poured myself an unneeded third cup of coffee when my cell phone rang. The number on the screen was unfamiliar.
“This is Larry Gladstein returning Rachel Knight’s call.” The voice was gruff, the tone irritated and defensive.
A foul-tempered DA, first thing in the morning. Who says that’s not fun?
“Hi, Larry, thanks for returning the call-”
“Look, let me save you some time here,” he interrupted. “I’ve got nothing more to say about the case. Check with Media Relations if you want information. And maybe the IO.”
Checking with the head of Media Relations, Sandi Runyon, wasn’t a bad idea. She was as sharp as they come and she’d probably have some valuable insights as to why the case went belly-up. And Bailey and I fully planned to talk to the investigating officer, Rick Meyer. But neither of them could give me the lawyer’s point of view, and that’s what I needed right now.