“Show me the clip,” she said.
He nodded, then snapped out of it and loaded the DVD into the computer. When a menu rendered on the screen, he scrolled through a long list of files, found the clip and hit PLAY.
The clip began with a shot of Jacob Gant sitting beside Buddy Paladino in the courtroom. Lena moved closer for a better view. There was something about seeing Gant alive again. Something about seeing him at that table knowing what she knew about him now. Something about the determination showing on Paladino’s face. Something about knowing Gant was about to run out of luck and time, and about to be kissed by fate.
“This isn’t it,” Vaughan said. “Another half minute.”
Lena became aware of the audio track. It was Debi Watson’s voice. She was asking someone-
“Here it is,” Vaughan said. “This is it.”
The video made a hard cut to Cobb sitting on the witness stand. He was holding one of Lily’s boots, which was found behind her body by the bed. And as Watson threw him one question after the next, he seemed confident and perfectly at ease. He was dressed in a gray suit that looked so well tailored, Lena guessed that it had been purchased for this court appearance. Had she been sitting in the jury box, she would have been impressed with who he was and how he spoke.
“Detective Cobb, how many homicides have you investigated?” Watson was asking.
“I’m not sure I could give you an exact number. I’ve been working homicides for twenty-five years.”
“Would you say that the number of cases you’ve investigated is over one hundred?”
“Yes,” Cobb said.
“Over two hundred?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“So you would call yourself an experienced detective,” Watson was saying. “A veteran detective. Someone extremely familiar with any or all crime scenes in a homicide investigation. You know what they look like. You know how they operate. Crime scenes have been your place of work for the last twenty-five years.”
Cobb glanced in the jury’s direction and said “Yes” with a polite smile.
“So let’s get back to this crime scene. A few minutes ago you said that you could tell by looking at Lily’s body that she had been sexually assaulted before her murder. Specifically, what did you see?”
“Her underwear had been hiked up around her waist,” he said with authority. “I could see blood on her thighs. And it wasn’t coming from the chest wound. It was coming from between her legs.”
Watson let Cobb’s last line settle in for the jury. She took the boot that Cobb had been holding and pretended to examine it. After a short time, she handed the boot back to him.
“Her jeans had been stripped away from her body,” she said finally. “Her boots and socks-everything tossed into a pile. Where did you find them in relation to Lily’s body?”
The video had cut to Watson, who expected a quick answer-but it never came. When she turned back to Cobb, she seemed annoyed. The size of the image on the computer monitor was small. Still, Lena thought it looked like Cobb had lost his composure and broken out into a heavy sweat.
Watson repeated the question, but Cobb remained silent and began fidgeting in his seat.
“Detective?” she asked finally. “Is there something wrong, Detective?”
Cobb stammered. “Excuse me,” he said. “But may I have a glass of water?”
The monitor went blank, the video clip over. Vaughan turned back to Lena.
“After he drinks the glass of water, he’s fine. It cuts back to a wide shot, but you can tell he’s okay.”
Lena sat down beside the desk. “So what are you saying?”
“I don’t know,” Vaughan said. “Something happened, and I don’t think he was having a heart attack.”
“You think he was stalling when he asked for the water.”
Vaughan shrugged. “Maybe, but why? Watson’s got a nice rhythm going. Paladino is giving her a pass and not objecting. Cobb’s talking about his experience and looks as cool and relaxed as any detective I’ve ever seen. And then in a single instant, it’s like his mind needs a reboot. He can’t speak. He’s just been asked a routine question, and he can’t answer it. He can’t find the words. Once he has a minute to pull himself together, he’s fine for the rest of the day.”
“Maybe they didn’t spend a lot of time coaching him.”
“In a case this big-are you crazy?”
“Maybe he didn’t rehearse,” she said.
“Impossible. And for the same reason, Lena. Too big a case.”
“Maybe the whole thing was scripted. Maybe he lost his place.”
“But every trial is scripted. If he’d lost his place, or even forgotten where the clothing had been found, he could have glossed over everything until Watson repeated the question and he was okay again.”
Lena’s cell phone chirped. When she checked the touch screen, she realized that Martin Orth from SID had tried to reach her five minutes ago. Her phone was searching for a signal that kept drifting in and out.
“I’ve gotta make a call,” she said. “How do I dial out?”
Vaughan pushed the desk phone closer. “Nine,” he said. “Who?”
She met his eyes. “Orth.”
Lena entered the number on the desk phone. When Orth picked up, she could tell by the sound of his voice that something had gone wrong.
“It’s the blood on Hight’s shoe,” she said.
“Not the shoe, Lena. We’re not there yet. Maybe later today or tomorrow.”
“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”
Orth hesitated for a moment, his voice weak. “It’s the girl’s jeans,” he said finally. “You were right. They were removed with force. Enough skin cells to leave a DNA trail.”
Lena glanced at Vaughan. Flipping the handset up, he leaned in close enough to listen.
“You’ve got the results?” she said.
“I’ve got them, but I think you should sit down.”
Lena traded looks with Vaughan, ready to burst. “I’m with Greg,” she said. “Tell us, Marty. Who was it? Jacob Gant or Tim Hight?”
“That’s the thing, Lena. That’s why I told you to sit down.”
“Who murdered Lily?” she said. “Who did it?”
Orth took another moment to compose himself. When he was ready, he said, “That’s the thing, Lena. It’s not Gant and it’s not Hight. It’s a third man.”
39
A third man.
It had been there all along. Right in front of her eyes. A crime scene photo stuffed inside Cobb’s murder book. The photographer from SID had snapped pictures of the entire house on the night of Lily’s murder, including the sunroom where Tim Hight sat every night. But just as Pete London had told them, Hight’s slide to the bottom of the hill didn’t occur until after he had lost his daughter.
Lena sat at a table on the terrace over at the Blackbird. The heat was so oppressive, the air so foul, that she had the space to herself. Hot coffee wasn’t much of a help, nor was the cigarette she’d just finished. Still, she struck a match and lit another as she stared at the photograph.
Hight’s chair wasn’t in the sunroom. Nor did she see a police scanner, an ashtray or an oversized glass of vodka set on the sill. Instead, Lena saw a Pilates machine, a floor mat, and a room filled with house plants.
She closed her eyes and lowered her head.
Hight wasn’t who she’d thought he was. Hight was the man Pete London had stepped up to defend.
A loving father who measured his daughter’s height on her birthday every year and marked her progress on the pantry door. A father who encouraged his daughter’s talent with a camera and took her to work with him as often as he could. A father who had been worried that his daughter was growing up too fast.
A loving father who had been ruined by his loss.
Lena had misread everything.
Everything.
While Hight may still have been responsible for the murders of Bosco and Gant, she doubted it. The killings were about what Gant had found. What he had seen. What he’d brought to show Bosco. The killings were about Lily’s murder and the third man.