Vaughan listened to Bennett’s assistant for several moments, then thanked her and hung up.
“What happened?” Lena asked.
“He’s not in his office,” he said. “He went to lunch.”
“Where?”
“Tracy said he’s with Watson.”
“Do you have his cell number? Where are they?”
Vaughan shot her another look, then lowered his voice. “She thinks they’re at the Bonaventure.”
44
The security director at the Bonaventure didn’t look like he wanted to play ball. Lena had asked him to use his pass key to open a tower suite on the twenty-fifth floor. It was clear to Lena that he knew the suite was leased by the district attorney’s office. It was just as clear to her that he had a good idea of what was going on inside. The only tangible card she held was that Roy Romero had spent twenty years carrying a badge and had been a good cop.
“I’ll get fired,” he said. “And I like this job. I like it a lot.”
“Whose to say anyone’s in there?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. Romero had more than a good idea. He knew.
“No offense, Detective. But are you really sure that you want to go in there? Seems like it could get you into some trouble, too.”
“No one has to know who pushed the card key into the door, Romero. Now are you gonna cooperate and work with the department? Or are you gonna prevent a detective from carrying out police business?”
“Police business?” he said sarcastically.
She liked the guy, but didn’t let on. After a few moments, he nodded in futility and motioned her over to the elevators.
“I’ve always hated Higgins,” he whispered under his breath. “The DA to the stars. The guy’s a piece of shit. And these two blew that trial like a couple of fricking ingrates shooting blanks.”
An elevator ride at the Bonaventure offered a view of Los Angeles like no other. If Lena hadn’t been thinking about the road she’d traveled over the past few days, she might have seen it. Instead, her mind was filled with a long series of stark images. She could see the bodies piling up; the lives of the victim’s families and friends ruined and left behind. By the time the elevator opened on the twenty-fifth floor, all she could see was Steven Bennett’s bullshit face.
Romero led her down the hall. When they reached the suite, he gave her a last-chance look, then pushed his card key into the door. The light on the lock turned green and the bolt clicked.
“You’re in,” he whispered. “And I’m fucking out of here.”
Lena watched him hurry back toward the elevators as she entered and closed the door. She paused a moment, listening to them in the bedroom. The thrashing of sheets, Watson moaning, Bennett panting like a dog. As she crossed the living room, she spotted Watson’s bra and pantyhose on the couch, Bennett’s boxer shorts on the floor.
She reached the bedroom and looked past the door. Bennett was on top, grinding it out with his mean little head buried between Watson’s breasts. In the past, Lena had always made a conscious effort to avoid looking at her breasts. She had heard the rumors-she couldn’t tell if they were real or not … and she didn’t care. But as she stood just outside the room, she couldn’t help but notice their unnatural shape and size and tendency to defy the planet’s gravitational pull. They looked like a pair of balloons filled with helium ready to fly off and pop.
The image dissipated quickly, and she walked over to the bed as if she were entering Bennett’s office and everything was copasetic.
For Lena, the moment was unfolding in slow motion. She could hear Watson gasp and shriek. She could see Bennett in panic mode-frantically pushing himself off Watson’s body, kicking his legs, and fighting to cover himself with the sheets. When Bennett started screaming, she opened her jacket and rested her hand on her gun.
“Are you fucking out of your mind?” he said.
“Probably.”
“Get your hand away from that gun.”
Lena shook her head. “No.”
Those green eyes of his were big and glassy. And the hair on his body was as thick as fur. She could see fear pulsating through his entire being. He didn’t know if he was safe. Lena knew that she had picked the right moment. The least likely moment.
“I’m just trying to understand something, Bennett. I needed to see you.”
“Fuck you, you stupid bitch. Make an appointment.”
Watson slapped him. “Stop it,” she said. “And get this over with.”
Lena took a step closer. “I’m trying to understand why the two of you destroyed evidence in the Jacob Gant trial. Why you deleted it, rewrote it, manufactured it, and corrupted it.”
Bennett’s demeanor changed. His eyes hardened. He was speechless.
“That’s right,” she said. “I know what you did. And that’s why I needed to see you. That’s why it couldn’t wait. I don’t understand why you went to trial when both of you knew for six weeks that Gant should have been cut loose. I’m trying to understand why anything that pointed to a more probable killer was ignored or suppressed or altered to look like it wasn’t even there. I’m trying to predict what’s gonna happen to everyone involved when the story gets out. All stories get out, Bennett. No matter how many people go down.”
It hung there. All of it out in the open.
Bennett traded a long look with Watson, then turned back.
“That little prick was guilty,” he said.
“Is that what you keep telling yourself, Bennett? Is that your mantra? Does it help you sleep at night?”
“Gant murdered Lily Hight, you bitch. He deserved what he got. He deserved to die by her father’s hand.”
It’s what she expected to hear. What she wanted to hear. The corporate line. It had two necessary components. First, Gant murders Lily. Second, Hight murders Gant in an act of revenge. It was clean and neat. It had a beginning and an end. Something that everybody could live with.
Except that it didn’t work anymore. On any level. Not after Escabar was murdered.
But she needed to hear Bennett say it. She needed to be sure. She gave them a last look, hiding beneath the sheets. Then she closed her jacket and walked out, feeling dizzy. Sometimes the truth did that.
45
Sitting for a moment in her car, she still felt light-headed. She had broken into Cobb’s apartment, walked in on Bennett and Watson’s lunchtime love fest and shown her hand, spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening at her desk bringing her own murder book up to date.
She needed to eat something and get some rest.
She checked her rearview mirror as she drove through the hills on her way home. No one was following her. She’d kept an eye out for Dick Harvey, but hadn’t seen him all day. She hoped that the gossip reporter had moved on to another story.
The radio was still tuned to 88.1 FM out of Long Beach. They were playing Robert Glasper’s “Of Dreams to Come”-and she found the piano music more than soothing. As she pulled into her drive and parked, she listened until the jazz piece ended.
She walked into the house, dumping her briefcase on the couch and heading for the kitchen. But as she stepped around the counter, she noticed the light blinking on her telephone. She checked the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number. When she listened to the message and heard Debi Watson’s voice, she pulled over a stool and sat down.
Her risk had paid off. Watson wanted to talk.
But even better, the deputy DA sounded anxious and had left her home phone number. There was the chance that she had something real to say.
Lena checked the time and entered the number into the handset. After four rings, Watson’s service picked up so she left a message that included her cell number. Returning the phone to its cradle, curiosity began to work on her and she hoped that Watson would call back tonight. She glanced at her briefcase, her energy returning. But as she climbed off the stool, time seemed to shoot forward and break in half before her eyes.