Bailey and I watched him. “Fellini wasn’t really stretching much, was he?” I said.
Bailey’s mouth twisted in a half smile. I knew it was all she could manage. “Want to head over to the coroner’s?” she asked.
“Sure. And we need a specialist to look at that plant debris.”
“Dorian’s probably already got someone.” Bailey got back on the freeway and headed for North Mission Road. “I’ve been wondering whether the aunt…”
“Janice.”
“Right. Whether she was lying? Now that we know Brian’s in New York, since he used Hayley’s iPad there…”
I’d been thinking about that too. “She sure didn’t sound like she had anything to hide. But then again, you never know.”
Bailey nodded. “Just wondering.”
“Did you ever find out what name that ticket to Paris was purchased under?”
Bailey smacked the steering wheel. “Damn. I’ll check into it when we get back.”
The coroner’s office was a bust. The pathologist who was assigned to our case, Dr. Vendi, wasn’t available, and Scott was out in the field, so I couldn’t bribe him into giving us a look at any preliminary notes. Bailey left instructions to bag and tag the plant debris for analysis, just to be on the safe side, and we drove back to the Police Administration Building.
“Graden said he’d tell the brass about Hayley,” I said.
“I’m sure there’ll be a presser of some kind pretty soon, then. You better get ready.”
The murder of a superstar director’s daughter was big news, and that meant both Bailey’s shop and mine would be under siege. “I’ll make the call when we get upstairs.” It really wasn’t a DA’s bailiwick to talk to the press before there was a suspect in custody, but Vanderhorn would want in on it anyway. Thanks to yours truly, he could legitimately claim that the DA’s office was working closely with the LAPD. Just as Bailey was pulling into the parking lot, the clouds opened up and big fat drops began to splatter the windshield.
She looked up at the sky. “I got a feeling this one’s going to be the real deal.”
As if to prove her right, a deafening clap of thunder boomed and a jagged streak of lightning cut across the sky.
“Damn, it’s the apocalypse,” I said.
“And not a bit too soon.”
As we headed for Bailey’s desk, I was, for a change, presentable and ready to run into Graden. Of course that meant there was no way I was going to see him.
Bailey picked up a manila envelope that was on top of her in-box stack. “Looks like we got Brian’s birth records.” She handed the envelope to me and picked up the phone.
I pulled out the records and saw the little tiny footprint. No one could have predicted that innocent little foot would turn out to be the foot of a vicious killer.
“He bought the Paris ticket under ‘Shandling,’” Bailey said.
I put down the birth record. He’d purchased the tickets to New York under his real name. “Why would he use the alias?”
“Maybe because it doesn’t matter anymore, because he’s outta here.”
“I suppose. Or maybe it’s a deliberate mislead? Like, in case we hadn’t caught on to his true name yet, he used his alias again to make us believe he’s going to Paris?”
“But if he’s trying to distract us, why not buy two tickets and make it seem as though Hayley’s still with him?” Bailey asked.
“Not worth the expense?” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Too many possibilities,” Bailey said. “Not enough answers.”
“Have we made any progress on trying to nail down where the e-mail ransom note came from?”
“I’ll check. But it doesn’t matter. We already know Brian sent it. The most we’ll get is his IP address.”
“I’m just hoping for something to back up Legs Roscoe-”
“What? He’s rock solid. A little weird maybe, but solid.”
“Some corroboration wouldn’t hurt. Anyway, what about the calls on Russell’s cell-the ones after the kidnapping? Any progress on those?”
“Not yet. We’re working on it.”
Damn. I could feel Brian slipping farther away by the minute. Another boom of thunder exploded outside and now the rain fell in torrential sheets. The downpour was so heavy, I could hear it pounding the pavement below. Workers who were just five steps from their offices got drenched before they could reach the door.
I looked up at the heavy gray sky. I usually prefer bright, sunny days, no matter how hot. Not today.
19
Hayley’s murder was the lead story on the evening news. Hairsprayed news anchors on every channel salivated as they blasted the headlines across the country. I knew it was a harbinger of things to come if the case ever went to trial. But I didn’t get time to worry about it.
Forty-eight miles northwest of downtown, the canyons and hills above Malibu, still only thinly covered by shallow-rooted grasses and young shrubs after the rampant wildfires of last summer, shed layers of earth under the pounding rain. Mudslides sent filthy rivers pouring across all four lanes of Pacific Coast Highway. At the end of the highway closest to Santa Monica, the ebbing ground dislodged rocks and heavy boulders, one of which hurtled off the California Incline with meteoric force and landed on the roof of a car, crushing the driver’s skull. The car spun sideways, forming a blockade, and four vehicles behind it piled into each other like dominoes.
Farther north, high up in the mountains above Mulholland Highway, where the rain fell as though the clouds had torn apart from the weight, the water found a barren stretch of an old sunbaked trail. Pounding down the newly formed channel with a mighty force, it tore through a small, incongruous mound of freshly turned soil. And exposed an outstretched hand.
The shallow grave was discovered by a biker, and the first responding officer, having heard about Hayley, had the good sense to call Bailey-a phone call that sent us screaming down the freeway and winding up the Santa Monica Mountains within the hour. Those steep, narrow roads would’ve made me nervous on a clear day, but on a day that was still dark with the threat of another downpour, and asphalt that was slick with rain and oil-not to mention the occasional patches of thick mud-my heart jackhammered so hard I had to remind myself to breathe. Each hairpin turn gave me a view of the thousands of feet I’d be falling to my death if Bailey made one wrong move. By the time she pulled in behind the patrol cars parked against the side of the mountain, my stomach was in my throat and I had to get out and take several deep breaths to keep from puking.
“Where the hell are we?” I asked when I felt like I could pass for normal.
A tall, dark-haired uni with a runner’s body who’d come out to escort us answered, “God’s Seat, on Boney Mountain.” He leaned down and peered at me. “You okay?”
Apparently I was wrong about passing for normal. “I’m fine.”
“It’s a tough ride. Especially for the passenger.”
And especially when the driver ignores the brake. I appreciated his kindness. And as we followed him down the trail, I also appreciated the fact that I’d been at home when Bailey called, which gave me the chance to change into jeans and hiking boots. We were easily two thousand feet up, and the torrential rain had left the path slippery as ice.
We paused at a split in the mountain that afforded a view stretching from the ocean to the valley. It was almost eight p.m., but there was still some daylight left and it was peeking through the heavy cloud bank. I could see why they called it God’s Seat. Even under dark, cloudy skies it was breathtakingly beautiful. After a few moments, our guide moved on and we eventually came to a small clearing encircled by crime scene tape. In the center of the taped-off area was a partially washed-out mound of dirt; the rain was still trickling across the path it had forged. Protruding from the earth was a waxy forehead and nose and an outstretched arm. But I couldn’t see enough to make out a face.