“And about Bosco’s reputation with drugs,” Ramsey said.
“He worked on you, and he tried the same thing with the medical examiner during the autopsy.”
“What’s Higgins doing at an autopsy?”
“That’s what I mean,” she said. “It’s unusual.”
Ramsey flashed a wicked smile. “He’s using,” he said. “And Bosco recorded it. He wanted something on Higgins just in case he ever needed to force the issue.”
“It’s possible,” she said. “Escabar told me that Higgins shows up just short of once a week.”
“He’s a casual user. And Bosco was his provider. Bosco would’ve given him the shit for free to get that kind of an insurance policy.” Ramsey crushed the head of his smoke inside the trash can. “What about Tim Hight? How close are you to putting him in the murder room at the club?”
“SID found blood on his shoe. Enough to work with. We should have the results soon.”
“But you’ve got nothing on him for killing his daughter.”
“Not yet.”
“Other than the fact that the sky’s falling and you’re the one holding the bag, you got any other issues, Gamble? Anything I should know about?”
“Dan Cobb,” she said. “He’s in this thing with Bennett. They’ve got a history. They go way back.”
“Vaughan told us about it before you got here. I know Cobb. I remember when he used to work here.”
Ramsey pulled another cigarette from Lena’s pack and lit up. When he noticed the light on the phone, he stared at it for a long time, then switched it off. Several moments passed in silence. As he joined her by the window, she could see him taking in the breadth of the city and thinking it all over. More time passed before he finally spoke, his voice low and raspy and shot for the night.
“There comes a point in every decent cop’s life when they’ve gotta do what they’ve gotta do,” he said. “That point started for you tonight. It started in Malibu when you stood up to an asshole like Higgins. I only wish I’d been there to fucking see it. I hope I dream about it tonight. I hope I see it in color. You get my drift, Gamble?”
“I think so,” she said quietly.
“I want you and Vaughan to keep going. I want you to take it as far as it goes.”
She met his eyes. Her head was spinning.
“Let the chips fall?” she said.
Ramsey nodded. “Let ’em fall, Gamble. We don’t need to advertise what we’re doing. The arrests will speak for themselves.”
“How’s Higgins gonna take the news that I’m still around?”
Ramsey glanced over his shoulder at the roll of hundred dollar bills on his desk. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “He didn’t mention the five grand, and you did. I’ll make sure he knows that I sent the bills over to SID for prints. If Bosco’s turn up on the money, Jimmy J. Higgins is dead.”
36
Green lights work both ways, she thought. They open the road ahead. At the same time, they force you to move forward-perhaps entering territory that you’re unfamiliar with, territory that comes with a price and no guarantee that you’ll make it back.
She found Vaughan waiting for her in the lobby. As they exited the building together and she walked him to his car in the visitor lot, he seemed jazzed that Ramsey had cut the strings and that they were finally free to work the case wherever the evidence took them.
“I need you in the morning,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Tim Hight’s producer is a guy named Pete London. He’s agreed to talk to us. They’ve worked together on and off for the last twenty years.”
“How did you get him to agree?”
“He called me this afternoon. It sounds like he wants to get something off his chest. He’s producing a reality TV show for one of the music channels. Hight directed the show for about a year, then stopped sometime after his daughter’s murder.”
“Did he fire Hight?”
“He wouldn’t talk about it over the phone. All he said was that they were shooting at a house in Venice. He gave me the address and he’s expecting us to show up tomorrow morning by eight.”
Vaughan hit his clicker, unlocking the car and opening the door. As he turned back to her, their eyes met and he took a step closer.
“I can’t believe what you did tonight,” he said in a quiet voice. “Taking Higgins on like that. You know if it ever got out that you caught Higgins with his pants down, your picture would be on every deputy DA’s desk in the building.”
She smiled, and Vaughan laughed and gave her a hug. Then he climbed into his car and lowered the window.
“You’re okay, right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Where do you want to meet up in the morning?”
“I live in Rustic Canyon. It’s a five-minute drive to Venice. If you come by early enough, you can meet the kids.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “See you at seven-thirty.”
“I’ll text you the address.”
Then he laughed again and drove off.
She couldn’t put her finger on it. His eyes, his face, his body, or his person. All she knew was that something had happened. When he hugged her, something changed and she became very aware of his physical presence.
She was driving on the Hollywood Freeway, heading home. The wind was up-a bone-dry wind spewing clouds of dust from the desert into the city. The clouds were so thick and dirty that Lena could hear the particles beating against the side of her car.
She lit a cigarette. She was trying to concentrate on the road, but she kept thinking about Vaughan. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that she might have rubbed her breasts against his chest. If she did, it wasn’t something deliberate and it didn’t last very long. If she did, it just happened and he might not have even noticed.
She took another drag on the cigarette and tried to put the thought out of her mind. At the moment, her life had enough drama. And the idea of becoming the next Bennett and Watson, in any way or any version or any variation thereof, was something she would never let happen.
So why did the churning in her stomach suddenly feel so good?
The Beachwood Drive exit was a hundred yards up. Moving into the right lane, she glided onto the ramp and continued until she reached Gower Street. Then she made a right turn, hit a green light, and started the climb into the hills. To her amazement, the dust cloud had a ceiling, and she pierced it as she reached the crest. Passing through a series of turns, she spotted her driveway on the right, but kept moving when she caught a glimpse of a car that had pulled off the road behind the bluff.
It was a white car. A white Lincoln.
As the image of the car hidden in the darkness rendered in her mind, she realized that she had used up all her fear and anxiety over the past six hours. The only thing left was irritation and curiosity.
She continued up the road to the next house and pulled into the drive. The house was empty due to a bank foreclosure, and like the next house up, had been that way for more than a year. Lena cut through the yard on foot, following the coyote paths through the trees and around the bluff at the edge of the hill. When she stepped out of the brush, she found herself by the pool facing the back of her house and ducked behind a bush.
Cobb was just making his exit.
She could see him trying to squeeze through a window onto the roof above the porch. His movements appeared awkward and she could hear him straining. When he finally made it out, he slipped on the shingles and slid down the roof before catching himself just above the edge.
He took a moment, pulling himself together and looking back at that open window. Lena could tell what was going through his mind and watched as he crawled back up the roof and managed to get the window closed. The process took time and seemed like a painful ordeal. And when he had finally completed the task, he lost his footing again and slid back down to the edge. He took a few minutes to rest, this time staring at the concrete and flagstone below. Once he was ready, he dangled his legs over the edge, searched for the rail with his feet, and climbed down. Then he stepped off the porch and headed up the driveway, huffing and puffing, and wiping his sweaty brow with what looked more like a rag than a handkerchief.