“You really think you’re out in front of them on this case?”
“I do. Have you changed your mind about—”
“What have you gotten?”
I spent the next twenty minutes telling her about Jason Hwang, William Orton, and how my partner on the story, Emily Atwater, had made further strides with a source at UC–Irvine. Rachel asked several questions and offered bits of advice here and there. It was clear that she felt I was onto something that was right in her ten ring. She had once hunted serial killers with the FBI; now she was doing background searches on job candidates. We drank another round of martinis and when the talking ended there was a decision to be made.
“You just leave your car here?” Rachel asked.
“The valets know me here,” I said. “If I’m walking home because I’ve had one too many, they’ll give back my keys. Then I just walk back up in the morning and get my car.”
“Well, I shouldn’t drive either.”
“You can walk with me to my place. We can come back for your car when you’re ready to drive.”
There it was. A half-assed invitation. She gave it a half-smile in return.
“And what if that is not until the morning?” she asked.
“Three martinis... I think it’s going to take at least that long,” I said.
I paid the tab with a platinum American Express card. Rachel saw it.
“You still getting royalties, Jack?”
“Some. Less every year but the books are still in print.”
“I heard that every time they catch a new serial, he has a copy of The Poet somewhere in his possessions. It’s also a popular book in every prison I’ve ever been in.”
“Good to know. Maybe I should’ve had a book signing in Metro last night.”
She laughed loudly and I knew she’d overdone it with the martinis. She was usually too much in control to laugh out loud like that.
“Let’s go before we both pass out,” I said.
We slid off our stools and headed for the door.
The alcohol continued to loosen her tongue as we walked the two blocks.
“I just want you to know that the maid at my place has been on vacation for about a year,” I said.
She laughed again.
“I would expect nothing less,” she said. “I remember some of your places. Heavy on the bachelor.”
“Yeah, well, I guess some things never change,” I said.
“I want in,” she said.
I took a few unsteady steps without responding. I wondered if she was talking about our relationship or my story. She made it clear without my asking.
“I’m making tons of money but I’m not... doing anything,” she said. “I used to... I had a skill, Jack. Now...”
“That’s why I came to see you yesterday,” I said. “I thought you would be—”
“You know what I did today? I presented to a company that makes plastic furniture. They want to make sure they don’t hire any illegals, so they come to me and guess what? I’ll take their money if they want to give it to me.”
“Well, that’s what the business is about. You knew that when—”
“Jack, I want to do something. I want to help. I can help you with your story.”
“Uh... yeah, I thought maybe you’d want to profile this guy — whoever’s doing this. Also, the victims. We need—”
“No, I want more than that. I want to be out there on this. Like with the Scarecrow.”
I nodded. We had worked hand in hand on that.
“Well, this is a little different. You were an agent back then and I already have a partner on—”
“But I can really help you on this. I still have connections in the federal government. I can get things. Find out things you can’t.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know yet. I would have to see but I still know people in all the agencies because I worked with them.”
I nodded. We had gotten to my building. I couldn’t tell how much of what she was saying was the alcohol talking but she seemed to be talking from the heart. I fumbled with the keys to open the gate.
“Let’s go in and sit down,” I said. “We’ll talk more about it.”
“I don’t want to talk anymore tonight, Jack,” she said.
19
I had never been to the courthouse in Santa Ana, nor had I ever driven from the San Fernando Valley down to Orange County on a weekday morning. I left at seven to make sure I got there before nine. That was after I walked up the street twice to Mistral to retrieve my Jeep and then Rachel’s BMW. I parked hers in front of the building, in the same spot Mattson and Sakai had used to arrest me. I then returned her key to the table next to the bed where she slept. I wrote a note asking her to call me when she woke up and left it with two Advils on the bed table.
Rachel might find waking to an empty apartment upsetting, but I wanted to get to Detective Digoberto Ruiz before the trial started.
Best-laid plans. After tie-ups on both the 101 and 5 freeways, I rolled into the parking garage at the Criminal Courts Building in Santa Ana at 9:20. Proceedings in the trial of Isaiah Gamble were already underway. I slipped into the back row of the gallery and watched. I was in luck. It took me only a few minutes to realize that Detective Ruiz was the man on the witness stand giving testimony.
The gallery of the courtroom was empty except for me and a woman in the front row on the prosecution side of the room. The case apparently had drawn no attention from the local populace or media. The prosecutor was a woman who stood at a lectern between the prosecution and defense tables. The jury was to her left: twelve jurors and two alternates, still alert and paying attention in the first hour of the day.
The defendant, Isaiah Gamble, sat at a table next to another woman. I knew that it was part of the sexual-predator playbook to go to trial with a female lawyer. It forces the jury to ask: If this man really did what they say he did, would a woman represent him?
Ruiz looked close to retirement. He had a gray fringe of hair circling a bald dome and permanently sad eyes. He had seen too much on his job. He was recounting just one episode of many.
“I met with the victim at the hospital,” he said. “She was being treated for her injuries and evidence was being collected.”
“And was she able to provide you with other evidence or information?” the prosecutor asked.
“Yes, she had memorized a license plate that was in the trunk of the car with her.”
“It wasn’t on the car?”
“No, it had been removed.”
“Why was it removed?”
“Probably to help the suspect avoid being identified in case someone saw the abduction.”
The defense attorney objected to the detective’s answer, saying it was conjecture. The judge ruled that Ruiz had more than enough experience in rape cases to form the opinion he had voiced and allowed the answer to stand. It also emboldened the prosecutor to take the question further.
“You have seen this before in cases?” she asked. “The removal of the license plate.”
“Yes,” Ruiz said.
“As an experienced detective, what does that indicate to you?”
“Premeditation. That he had a plan and went out hunting.”
“Hunting?”
“Looking for a victim. For prey.”
“So going back to the victim being in the trunk, wasn’t it too dark in the trunk to see the plate?”
“It was dark but every time the kidnapper hit the brakes the taillights lit up part of the trunk and she could see. She memorized the plate that way.”
“And what did you do with that information?”
“I ran the plate on the computer and got the registered owner’s name.”
“Who was it registered to?”