“Who helped you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Who helped you kill him?”
She shook her head.
“All I knew was Lonnie Jones. I didn’t know who he was until I saw the paper.”
“So Yvonne Bennett’s sister just happened to rent a room across the street from the man who was accused of murdering her?”
“Shit happens.”
“Where’d you get the pictures?”
“I don’t know anything. I’m going to call the police.”
Someone had given her the pictures. Someone had told her where to find Lionel Byrd and had put the plan in her head and convinced her she could finally make the man who murdered her sister pay. Someone had used her, and I thought it might be Wilts. If Wilts wanted to set up Byrd to stop the Repko investigation, it had to be Wilts, but I didn’t have proof.
“Was it Wilts?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did Wilts give you the pictures?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her eyes were clear and unafraid, and I knew she wasn’t going to admit to any of it. I called Pike on my cell.
“She’s here. I have her.”
“I’m on my way.”
I put away the phone, then looked through Jonna’s things. I was mostly checking for a gun or knife or something she might kill me with, but I found a copy of Lionel Byrd’s original arrest report and court documents relating to the dismissal of the charges against him.
I held them up to show her.
“This is what we call evidence.”
She raised her middle finger.
“This is what we call the finger. You don’t have shit.”
Her wallet, keys, sunglasses, and two cell phones were on the kitchenette counter. I didn’t pay attention to the phones at first, but one was familiar. It was a clunky, inexpensive knockoff, exactly the same phone pictured on the spec sheet I found in Marx’s file.
When I picked up the phone, Jonna shifted uneasily.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this to me, but I’m going to have you arrested. That’s no bullshit.”
I touched a finger to my lips. “Shh.”
“That isn’t my phone. I found it.”
“Shh.”
The more I examined the phone, the more certain I became. Jonna’s other phone was a nice little Motorola, but the Kyoto was identical to the disposable phone in Marx’s file. Debra Repko had received six calls from a prepaid number assigned to the same model phone. She had called a similar phone on her PDA.
Pike turned into the drive behind the Neon and let himself through the door. He nodded when he entered, but said nothing. Jonna’s eyes widened as if he were a cobra. I showed him the phone.
“Look familiar?”
“The disposable.”
“Uh-huh.”
I turned on the phone and watched the display as the phone found a signal. It took me a minute to figure out how to access the call list, then I scrolled through the outgoing calls. Maybe I smiled. All the outgoing calls had been placed to the same number, and it was a number I recognized.
Pike said, “What?”
“She’s been calling the same number Debra Repko called. All the incoming calls were from the same number, too.”
“Wilts?”
“Let’s find out.”
Jonna pushed up from the chair and tried to run, but Pike wrapped her in his arms. She kicked and whipped her head from side to side, but Pike held her close and covered her mouth. He squeezed just enough to make her stop squirming, then nodded at me.
I dialed the number, then waited through the rings. I didn’t wait long.
A voice said, “Jonna? Jonna, where have you been? I’ve been calling-”
I held my breath, and wondered if he could hear the pulse pounding in my ear.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
He raised his voice.
“Do we have a bad connection?”
I turned off the phone, then took a deep breath. I wanted to push it out and blow away all the terrible feelings, but I couldn’t move.
Pike said, “Was it Wilts?”
I shook my head.
“No. Not Wilts. It was Alan Levy.”
PART FOUR. RECIPROCITY
40
PIKE TIED her wrists with an extension cord. I put her cell phones in a paper grocery bag I found in the kitchen, but we left everything else as we found it. Marx would want the scene as undisturbed as possible for his detectives and criminalists. It was Marx’s play and I should have left it to him, but didn’t.
When Pike brought Jonna out to his Jeep, I called Bastilla. The only number I had was her cell, but she didn’t answer. She was probably still angry, but she might have been working. Either way, I was glad she didn’t answer. I left a message.
“Ivy Casik’s real name is Jonna Hill. She is Yvonne Bennett’s half sister. Call Pike. She’ll be with him.”
I left Pike’s number, then locked Jonna’s house and joined them at the Jeep. I gave him the keys.
“The police will need these. I left word for Bastilla and gave her your number. They’ll be calling.”
Pike was going to hold Jonna and her mother at a safe location until we reached Marx.
Pike said, “You sure you don’t want me along?”
“I’m good. I’ll see you in a bit.”
I watched them drive away, then glanced at Jonna’s house. I studied it for a while, then considered the sky. The canopy overhead was empty of clouds or birds. I wanted something to be there, but the sky was a milky blue desert. I slipped into my car, studied the cell number Alan Levy had given to me, but I didn’t want to speak to him over the phone. I called his office instead.
“Hi, Jacob. Is Alan there?”
“I’m sorry, no. Did he ever get back to you? I gave him your messages.”
“Yeah, we spoke, but I need to find him again. He isn’t in court, is he?”
“Oh, no. He cleared his calendar when all this started about Mr. Byrd. He hasn’t been in for days.”
“Ah, okay.”
“I could page him again.”
“No need. Listen, is he working at home?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Cole. You know Alan. He might be writing a brief or doing research. He’s hard to keep up with when he gets like this.”
I hung up, then called a real estate agent I know who has access to the property tax rolls. Six minutes later I had Alan Levy’s home address and was heading toward Santa Monica. It was afternoon when I arrived. I shouldn’t have gone, but I did. I should have waited for the police, but I didn’t.
The address brought me to a large two-story Cape Cod home three blocks from the beach in a lovely residential area. It was a family neighborhood with curbed sidewalks, kids on skateboards, and a hybrid in every drive, but it was also near the beach in Santa Monica, which meant the families were rich. I parked across the street. Two kids roared past on skateboards and a woman who was probably someone’s housekeeper stood on a nearby corner. Gardeners worked at several of the houses, but the Levy residence was still. A gate across the drive hid the garage, so I couldn’t see if Alan’s car was at home or not. This time of the summer his kids would be out of school, but I couldn’t tell if anyone was home. Maybe they were away at camp, but maybe they were splashing and grab-assing in their pool, and Alan was splashing with them. Or maybe he was crouched inside the house, watching the street through a gap in the shades.
I took my gun from beneath the seat, wedged it under my shirt, then strolled up the sidewalk. My phone vibrated as I reached the curb, but it was Bastilla. I ignored her.
The front door was large and heavy as a coffin lid. I knocked politely, then rang the bell. No one came, so I climbed over the driveway gate into a spacious backyard featuring a beautiful pool with used-brick decking and a lovely rose garden. No kids were splashing. Levy’s family wasn’t enjoying the breathtaking summer day. A single leaf floated in the pool. The water was so clean it might have been floating on air.