Lena turned the chair around. When she felt the legs slip into place, she sat down and gazed out the window. The view into Lily’s bedroom was remarkable-so close and so crisp and clear that she could see the memory box sitting on the night table beside the girl’s bed.
Harry got up and joined her by the window. Kneeling down, he folded his arms on the sill and stared across the drive.
“They used to sit in front of their windows,” he said. “Every night they’d sit and talk to each other on their cell phones. They dug each other. I never understood why no one got that.”
15
Trouble ahead. She could sense it, taste it, feel the dread reaching out for the back of her neck.
As she left Harry behind and walked out of the house, Lena understood that she had been thrust into an exceedingly dark and lonely place. That the number of loose ends, the number of questions rising out of the muck, only matched the speed at which the case was already unraveling.
She started down the cavernous drive between the two houses. Tim Hight’s windows remained shuttered, and she wondered if they were meant to block out the sunlight, or to keep his secrets locked away in a perpetual state of darkness. She kept walking. She adjusted her grip on the evidence bag she was carrying and kept moving. Harry had helped her search his brother’s room and seemed to know where the hiding places were. Among the items Lena had taken was a weekly planner that Jake had been keeping since the trial. They had found the graphic novel he had been working on as well. The same one that the prosecution team had used against him during the trial, but returned following the NOT GUILTY verdict.
She picked up her pace. She needed to see Vaughan. And she needed to see him fast.
As she turned the corner and started up the sidewalk, she realized that she needed to lose the Crown Vic as well.
The press had followed Paladino down to the coroner’s office while William Gant identified his son’s body. But a handful of reporters had already returned and were setting up shop in front of Tim Hight’s house. She didn’t recognize any of the faces. And the overweight man with the three-day beard and gelled hair appeared to be using the hood of her car as his desk. His laptop was open and he was munching on a double cheeseburger and an extra large bag of fries. As she approached the car, she could see open packets of ketchup strewn across the hood and fender.
She hit the clicker. When the car beeped, the big man nearly jumped out of his loose skin.
“Shit, lady. I’m eating lunch here.”
His mouth had been filled with food as he spoke. Ketchup mixed with grease leaked out and dripped off his chin onto his gut. Lena didn’t think she’d order a cheeseburger anytime soon. She tossed the evidence bag onto the front seat, the rest of the group approaching the car. From the way they were dressed, she guessed that they were from out of town.
“Is it a nice lunch?” she said.
The big man gave her a look as he wiped his shirt. “Yeah, sure. It’s like eating at the Ritz with paper napkins. When’s the hero coming out? We want an interview.”
“Which hero is that?”
“Tim Hight. The dad who took care of business for his kid.”
So there it was. The theme laid out in the open for all to see and hear. Tim Hight had been crowned a hero.
Lena gave the big man another look. “I don’t see your press credentials.”
“They’re in my bag. So what? Are you a cop or a lawyer?”
She shrugged. “Neither one. I’m with the tax collector.”
“Yeah, right,” he said, still working on that stain. “You’re a cop.”
Lena climbed into the car and started the engine. As she shifted into reverse, the big man finally understood that he was about to lose his desk. He went for his computer first, then made the mistake of reaching out for his food. Grabbing the burger, he took a swipe at his fries and the supersized drink. But he didn’t make it. He wasn’t fast enough or smart enough. As she hit the gearshift and drove off, she saw the drink splash all over his keyboard. By the time she reached the freeway, the ketchup packets glued to the hood were finally starting to blow off.
She switched on her phone and toggled through her recent calls. When she found Samy Beck’s number, she tapped it with her thumb and heard him pick up.
“I’m out of time,” she said. “I need a new car.”
He laughed at her. It was a wicked laugh-the only way he knew how to do it. Beck owned a shop just east of the airport in Hawthorne. When her Prelude died, Beck had been her first call. He owed her a favor, but hadn’t come up with anything yet.
“Where are you?” he said.
“Heading downtown.”
“When are you back on the Westside?”
“Later this afternoon.”
“Then stop by.”
“You got something?”
“I got it.”
“Is it real?”
“It’s better than real. And for the money we talked about.”
“What is it?”
“What you’ve been looking for, Lena. Today’s your lucky day. I’ll be here all afternoon.”
She could hear him laugh again as he switched off his phone. She dropped her cell onto the seat, watching the last open packet of ketchup slide up the windshield, lose its grip in the wind, and fly away. She needed to get rid of the official car. Anything that Beck came up with would work. Anything that restored her anonymity would do.
The district attorney’s main offices were housed with the county courthouse and the public defender on West Temple Street in downtown Los Angeles. The building had been named after Clara S. Foltz, the first female attorney on the West Coast. But no one would have ever known that by looking at the sign out front. For whatever reason, most of the letters to Foltz’s name had been ripped away from the concrete.
Even though most people referred to the building as the Criminal Justice Center these days, it always bothered Lena that no one seemed to take an interest in repairing the sign. Not so much because of Foltz’s place in history, but more because of what went on here. Matters of life and death were discussed, judgments were rendered, and lives were changed. The fact that the sign had been vandalized a long time ago and no one seemed to care said something about the county and the people who lived here.
Lena found Greg Vaughan waiting for her by the information desk as the elevator opened. When she had called ahead, Vaughan expressed concern that what she wanted to tell him couldn’t be said over a phone. Seeing her here in his office this early in the afternoon didn’t change that.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded and they started down the hall.
“You look like you could use something to eat,” he said. “A meeting was canceled. They brought in food.”
“I’m good,” she said.
“Well, I need something. Maybe you’ll change your mind after you see what’s there.”
She looked him over as they walked. His jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he appeared less weary and more able than he had this morning. As they entered the meeting room, she saw a group of prosecutors standing before a long serving table with plates in their hands. The room was quiet, the tables and chairs set with pads and pens, not place settings. It looked like people were taking advantage of a free lunch, but returning to their offices and eating at their desks.
Vaughan poured a large cup of coffee. In spite of the caterer’s obvious talent, Lena had too much on her mind to eat and too much caffeine already streaming through her body to add another dose to the mix. She turned away. When she looked up, she found Debi Watson staring at her through the crowd. Watson stood by the water glasses with a modest plate of food and tried to smile but was late with it. After an awkward moment, the woman stepped out of the room with her lunch.
Lena found the encounter unsettling. No matter how brief, she had just caught a glimpse of what Watson looked like stripped of her confidence. She had seen it in her eyes-a combination of weariness and pain. A certain recognition that the prosecutor had lost her standing in the office, and things would never return to what they were.