“It does make sense that Averly would deal to him,” I said. “It’s a lot safer to buy dope from a PA on the lot than it is to do business with someone outside.”
“But it seems like too much of a coincidence-Averly, who just happens to be Ian’s dealer-gets caught with Hayley’s iPad, buys that ticket to Paris in Brian’s name…”
“Yeah. But Ian’s only link to the murders is that screenplay. The one Russell supposedly stole from Brian’s father. So what’s Ian’s motive? Fear that Brian had proof that Russell stole Tommy’s screenplay?”
Graden shook his head. “So far, there isn’t any, right?”
“No. But the thing is, even if we assume there was, it makes no sense.” This had bugged me from the very start. “If Brian had proof, then why wouldn’t he just take it to a lawyer? Why mess around with a fake kidnapping?”
“And if he didn’t have real evidence, then why would Ian feel threatened? Especially after all these years?”
“Right.” I sighed.
“And, just to make your life a little more miserable, why would Brian have evidence when his father obviously didn’t?”
I shook my head, frustrated. “This case…the further in we get, the less it makes sense.”
But Graden and I getting back together was making more and more sense. When he brought me back to the room, our good-night kisses were more intense than ever-and it was that, as much as anything, that told me we hadn’t really started over at square one. We were picking up where we’d left off. Not only healed from the fight, but closer than ever. I made myself say good night before I said the opposite, and put myself to bed in a happy daze.
I woke up early, jangling with nervous energy. Every passing hour gave Jack Averly more opportunity to get his hands on a cell phone and warn his partner in crime. That meant, like it or not, we had to push it. I phoned Bailey.
“Graden already did it,” Bailey said. “Called Dorian at home at seven this morning.”
My knight in shining armor. “Did she tell him what they had so far?”
“She told him what kind of idiot he was and that she already knew it was a priority.”
“Then maybe she worked late last night.” I looked at my bedside clock. “It’s eight now. Want me to call, or should we just get over there?”
“Let’s call. It’s easier to take the blast from her on the phone than face-to-face.”
“You’d know.”
“Which is why you’re making the call,” Bailey said.
I reached Dorian on the first ring.
“Why am I not surprised? You know, if you clowns would leave me alone for thirty seconds, I’d move a lot faster.”
“So you don’t have anything yet?”
“I may have. Who’s got red hair?”
I sat up, eyes wide. I started to say the name, then stopped myself. I wanted to be sure before I answered. Quickly, I mentally reviewed the images of everyone we’d met in the past week. I was right. There was only one.
“Ian Powers.”
“Well, obviously I don’t have any exemplars, so I can’t say much more than that the hairs on the passenger seatback in Averly’s car may be consistent with his.”
This was huge. If it was Ian’s hair, and you added that to all the recent phone calls between him and Averly, we’d have the beginnings of a real connection between Ian, Averly, and the murders. I felt my pulse start to quicken. “Anything else?”
“Nothing in the apartment so far. But I found soil and plant debris on the undercarriage of his Mustang that looks a lot like what I found on Brian’s car. I’ve already sent it to Numan. He’ll have an answer for you pretty quick.”
“Did you get any prints inside the car?”
“A couple of partials on the interior passenger door handle. Might be good enough to give us a match if you get someone in handcuffs.”
But how to get Ian in handcuffs? A sample of his hair, if it matched, would do it, but I had no time to get all espionage-y about snatching one of his crimson locks without him knowing it. That meant I’d need to get a search warrant for his place. Did I have enough to justify one? It was a close call, and I knew judges would be nervous about granting a dicey warrant with someone like Powers, but I had no choice. I’d just have to push it and hope for the best.
Dorian had no more surprises for me, so I called Bailey and gave her the update. “I know it’s iffy, but I don’t think we can afford to wait for more results. We’ve got to go for it. If Ian’s our guy, he’ll be dumping evidence the minute Averly gets his hands on a phone.”
Bailey was silent for a few moments. “You’re right. Let’s go to J.D. for the warrant.”
Being a former cop, Judge J. D. Morgan, Toni’s boyfriend, understood situations like this better than most.
“I’ll bang out the affidavit right now,” I said.
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”
She was there in ten, but I’d already made a list of the evidence, so I was waiting downstairs in the lobby, affidavit in hand, by the time Bailey got there. Feeling the pressure with every second that passed, I found myself gulping for air as I jumped into the car.
J.D.’s clerk, Siobhan Flanagan, said he was in a conference with some lawyers in chambers.
“Siobhan, it’s an emergency,” I said. “You know I never cry wolf.”
“Sorry, Rachel. It’s a seven-defendant gang murder and it’s been hell getting all those lawyers in one room. He said no interruptions for any reason. Why don’t you try Lavinia? I know she’s in chambers.”
Lavinia Moss was the youngest and also the first black female judge to be assigned to handle the high-profile cases. That meant at the very least that she was smart. It probably also meant she was politically savvy. The political part was what worried me. Judges who’re focused on getting elevated to the appellate bench don’t take chances on dicey warrants.
I thanked Siobhan and we trotted down the hall toward her courtroom, Department 125. I had a vague memory of hearing something about Judge Moss…where?
“You know her?” Bailey asked.
“I think I remember Toni saying she was tough but sharp.”
The clerk, a young guy I’d never met, got the okay and let us into chambers. Judge Moss hadn’t done much to spruce up the place other than the usual diplomas-Boalt Hall for law school, which meant s-m-a-r-t, and UCLA for undergrad, which meant smart and local. But I didn’t see any glad-handing photo ops with governors. Hoping that was a good omen, I introduced myself and Bailey.
“Welcome to Department 125,” she said. “So what’ve you got for me?”
I gave her a thumbnail sketch of the overall case, then explained the situation with a possible accomplice in custody in New York, the need for urgency, and the evidence we had so far.
“May I see the affidavit?”
I handed it to her and tried not to bounce my knee or bite my nails while she read. When she’d finished, she put the pages down on her desk, leaned back in her chair, and frowned. Little stars of anxiety burst under my skin as I thought about the time and evidence we could lose if we didn’t get this warrant. It wasn’t an option to hit up another judge. If the defense found out, they’d scream about it, and not only would we look like crap, we’d probably lose the suppression motion. Everything we’d seized would be thrown out.
“Now the warrant, please.”
I handed her the search warrant.
“So you want to search his house and vehicles and you want to surreptitiously place a GPS tracker on his cars?”
I nodded.
Judge Moss reviewed the affidavit again, then put down the pages and drummed her fingers on her desk as she stared out her chambers window. “If Ian Powers is your guy, you know he’s going to get himself a heavy hitter,” she said. Bailey and I nodded. “And that lawyer is going to put this search warrant through a meat grinder.” We nodded again.