Blood Defense (28 page)

FIFTY-ONE

O
n my way back,
I
thought about what he might want from me. Or want to do to me. I told myself not to be paranoid, that I’d gotten that gangbanging asshole Ricardo a hell of a deal, and that he’d be stupid to shoot me in the office in broad daylight. But his son was a psychopath. There was a distinct possibility the apple hadn’t fallen all that far from the tree. And after the fun time I’d had with Lane Ockman, I decided there was no reason to take any chances.

When I got to the office, I put my .38 Smith & Wesson in the pocket of my blazer. Michelle raised an eyebrow. “I think if you don’t want to take his case, a simple ‘no’ will do.”

At that moment, the outer door buzzer sounded. Michelle cast a critical look at my waist. “It totally shows. Just put it in your desk drawer like you always do.”

Michelle went to get the door. I supposed she was right. I dropped the gun into my drawer. But I left it open.

A few seconds later, Michelle escorted in an older man whom I assumed was Ernesto, and a younger man who looked a lot like Ricardo—tats and all—but he was thicker in the chest and arms. They were taller than Ricardo; I figured they were both about five foot nine or ten. The older man, who had the head of a buffalo and slightly stooped shoulders, extended a leathery brown hand. “I am Ernesto Orozco, and this is my son, Arturo.”

I reached out and shook his hand. It felt like a chunk of asphalt—rough, solid, and heavy. “Pleased to meet you, Ernesto.”

Arturo, who had the same slicked-back hairdo as Ricardo, stretched out a hand that was inked from pinkie to thumb. “Thank you for seeing us.”

As we shook, I noticed the muscles move under his black T-shirt. He’d taken a bath in cologne for the occasion, and the sweet scent mixed with the smell of hair grease made me queasy. It brought back memories of Ricardo. I gestured for them to take the seats in front of my desk. I was glad to have the advantage of my big lawyer’s chair so I could look down on them. The old man’s eyes were black and flat, like a shark’s—just like Ricardo’s. But Arturo’s eyes were hot, and they glittered with malice. The air felt heavy, like the moments before a thunderstorm, and I could feel the weight of it in my chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I clocked the position of the gun in my open drawer. If I had to grab it, I didn’t want to wind up with a handful of paper clips. I made my face relax and did my best to sound confident. “What can I do for you?”

Ernesto’s eyes grew watery. He spoke slowly in a deep, rumbling voice. “We have had a terrible tragedy. My son Ricardo. Someone killed him in prison.”

My heart gave a dull thud. I pulled on a look of concern and surprise. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. How did it happen? Was it a guard?” I kept my gaze steady.

Arturo shook his head with a venomous look and bit off his words as though he were tearing through flesh. “A
pinchi
Southside motherfucker shivved him.”

Ernesto dabbed at a tear that leaked out of the corner of his eye. “They put Ricardo in with the Southside Creepers.”

His rival gang. My palms were sweating. I wiped my left hand on my thigh and let it dangle off the arm of my chair, within closer reach of the gun. Barely breathing now, I looked from Ernesto to Arturo. “How did that happen?”

Ernesto shook his head, his hooded eyes narrowed. “They tell me
it was an accident. Someone made a mistake, put his name on the
wrong list.”

Arturo leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and cracked his knuckles. “We don’t believe it. That was no mistake. I think some Southside
pendejo
got friends in high places.”

I wanted to swallow, but I couldn’t let them see they were getting to me. I moved my left hand a little closer to the open drawer and kept my expression neutral. “So you think a guard who was on Southside’s payroll did it?” They both nodded. “I assume you want to file a lawsuit. But I’m sorry, I don’t do civil cases.”

Ernesto stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “We can find another lawyer to sue. But we want to find out how this happened. Who did this. Who killed my son.”

Arturo’s hands curled into fists. “
And
who put him with those Southside
putas
.”

I must have looked alarmed, because Ernesto patted Arturo’s arm heavily. “Don’t worry about him. He gets a little hotheaded sometimes. We just need to know for our own peace of mind. We don’t mean no harm.”

The hell they didn’t. They wanted revenge, and they wouldn’t be picky about how they got it. They weren’t going to buy that it was just a computer glitch or a typo. They wanted names. And if they didn’t like my answers, they’d take me out, too. Having anything to do with these two animals was a bad—possibly fatally bad—idea. But I had no choice. I had to take the case. “I understand. But you know I’m not an investigator.”

Ernesto slowly nodded. “
Sí
. But you did a good job for Ricardo. And you are famous now. We think maybe the cops will be afraid to lie to you.” He looked at me with his hooded shark eyes. He spoke to Arturo in Spanish.

Arturo translated. “He says he has faith in you.”

Arturo leaned back in his chair and stared down his nose at me—just like Ricardo had. Everything about him, from the curl of his lip to the hands that lay on his thighs, radiated menace. I started to take a deep breath, but it got stuck in my throat. I couldn’t let them see me sweat, so I quickly stood up, my left hand still dangling near the open drawer. “All right. Send me everything they’ve given you. I can’t promise results, but I’ll do what I can.”

Ernesto slowly stood. “That’s all I ask.”

I nodded. “Michelle will work out the payment schedule with you.”

Arturo held out his hand. When I took it, his eyes bored into mine. “And I’ll be doing some digging of my own. One way or another, I’m going to find out who’s responsible for my brother’s death. No matter what it takes.” He held on to my hand for an uncomfortable moment longer as he continued to hold my gaze.

Scared as I was, I refused to let him intimidate me. I stared back at him. “I understand.” I pulled my hand away and walked them out to Michelle’s desk.

When I went back to my office, I closed the door, sank into my chair, and took big gulps of air. I was in business with a pair of maniacs who were out for revenge. There was no way this was going to end well. I just had to figure out how to make it end worse for them than for me.

A few minutes later, Michelle came in. “Since it’s not a trial or a case per se, I took a five-thousand-dollar retainer. Sound about right?” I nodded. “So what’s the story?”

“Ricardo has shuffled off this mortal coil. Got stuck in the wrong tank with a rival gang. They want me to find out how that happened and who killed him.”

“Alex is going to love this one.”

I shook my head. “I won’t need him.” I had to handle this one myself.

Michelle raised an eyebrow. “Well, when you find out who did it, let me know. I’d like to buy the man a drink.” She gave a little chuckle. “When they had to give Orozco that deal, I was so pissed. I mean, where’s the justice?” She smiled and shook her head. “But I guess you never know.”

I returned her smile. “Justice moves in mysterious ways.”

Michelle blinked, then returned my smile. “Funny, that’s what you said when the guy who mugged me got killed in a hit-and-run.”

I was still distracted, so it took me a moment to answer. “Is it? I can’t remember that far back. But anyway, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“In ways both good and bad.” She looked at me closely. “What’s going on? You don’t seem like yourself.”

I frowned and pushed some papers around on my desk. “What do you mean?”

“You seem kind of . . . shook up. I admit, that Orozco clan’s pretty gnarly. But you’ve had scarier clients. What’s the deal?”

I gave a casual shrug. “No deal. I’m okay, just got way too much going on.” I smiled. “I’m fine.”

Michelle had a skeptical look. She gazed into my eyes. “Whatever it is, you know you can tell me, Sam.”

I made myself hold her gaze. “Seriously, there’s nothing to tell.”

The phone rang and Michelle went to get it. Two minutes later, she rushed back into my office. “Finally, some good news: Scott came through. Chas Gorman has the phone.”

FIFTY-TWO

I
was glad we were about
to get the phone, but I wasn’t jumping for joy. It’d cost way too much. “Yeah, great.”

She folded her arms. “Samantha. I’m still pissed off, too. But this is what Alex put himself on the line for.”

I gave her a sullen look. “Exactly.” Getting the phone didn’t make up for what he’d been through. “I’ve got a two-thirty meeting with Detective Rick Saunders. Tell Chas I’ll get there around five.”

I was hoping Rick Saunders might be able to give me more information on Ignacio, the alibi witness for the Jenny Knox murder.

But at noon, I got the call I’d least expected.

Michelle buzzed me. “We must be on some kind of a roll. I’ve got Storm Cooper on the line.”

The stuntman who’d been Paige’s boyfriend once upon a time. We’d been leaving him messages for the past three weeks. I clicked over. “Samantha Brinkman here. Thanks for returning my call.”

His voice was cold, hostile. “I wasn’t going to call you back, except I heard you said Paige was the real target.”

“You’ve been watching the trial?”

“No. A friend told me. I just got back from a shoot in Helen’s Bay yesterday.”

Where the heck was Helen’s Bay? “Then you never spoke to the police?”

“Of course I did. I called ’em the minute I heard about Paige’s murder on the news.”

But I hadn’t seen his statement in any police report. “Can you spare me a few minutes to talk? You can come to my office. Or I’ll meet wherever you want.”

“Meet me at Mel’s Drive-In on Sunset.”

That was about thirty minutes away. “How about twelve thirty?”

“That’ll work.”

Mel’s is a retro-style drive-in diner on the Sunset Strip. The wall-to-wall windows that face the street give customers a view of the boulevard—and give the whole world a perfect view of everything and everyone inside the place. I would’ve preferred something more private, but I didn’t want to risk bartering over the location. Storm was curious, but I could tell he’d blow me off in a hot second if the meeting was too much of a hassle.

I told Michelle to wish me luck and took off, hoping I could score a booth away from the window. But when I got there, I saw that all the back tables were filled. I was stuck with the row of booths against the window. I took a seat at the end and ordered coffee. Twelve thirty came and went. At a quarter to one I took to checking my phone every five minutes. When he hadn’t shown up at five to one, I figured I’d been stood up. But since I didn’t have to meet Rick Saunders until two thirty, I decided to give it another few minutes.

At one o’clock, Storm Cooper finally appeared. He clomped in on worn-out motorcycle boots, a black helmet with flames on the sides tucked under his arm.

He was handsome in a rugged, manly man kind of way—dark eyes that crinkled into crow’s-feet; a weathered tan; and long, wavy brown hair. I held up a hand, and he stomped over and slid into the booth across from me.

I’d considered how to approach this. I doubted Paige had told him about “Mr. Perfect.” Storm was an ex, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear about her other lovers. So I decided to take an open-ended approach. “Thanks for meeting me.” He grunted and pushed back his hair. “Where’s Helen’s Bay?”

“Northern Ireland. Been there for the past couple of months.”

The waiter came over, and he ordered a cup of coffee.

“Were you in town when Paige was killed?”

His eyes hardened. “Yeah, I left a few days after. What makes you think Paige was the target?”

The honest answer was wishful thinking. I knew that wouldn’t cut it. But being the defense attorney means you get to play your cards close to the vest. “I can’t really talk about the defense. It’s privileged. But I promise I’ll tell you when it’s all worked out. Deal?”

He gave me a narrow stare. “I’m outta here at one thirty regardless. So fire away; it’s your dime.”

The waiter brought Storm’s coffee, and he dumped five packets of sugar into it.

“I’m going to need you to start at square one, because I never saw any police report with your statement in it.” Storm frowned and gave me a skeptical look. “I have no reason to lie about that. Especially with the time limit you just gave me.”

He took a sip of his coffee as he mulled that over. “Fair enough. I’ve known Paige for four years. Met her when she visited Chloe on the set of
Hard Times
. Chloe had a bit part.”

“So you and Paige dated?”

“Yeah. For two years, off and on. Off and on is about the only way I ever get to date. I’m on the road a lot, on location.”

“Who ended it?”

He slouched down in the booth. “She did. Said she couldn’t take all the coming and going. Can’t say I blamed her, but I’ve got to make a living.” He pushed around some stray sugar granules that’d fallen onto the table.

“But you remained friends?”

Storm nodded. “I kept hanging around. I guess in the back of my mind I was hoping she’d want to get back together. But we wound up seeing less and less of each other. She never seemed to have time for me. This past year I barely saw her at all.”

“Did you know if Paige was dating someone else?”

He set his jaw, a dark look on his face. “Toward the end, yeah. It was maybe a month before she . . . died.” Storm paused and stared down at the table for a moment. He took a deep breath, then continued. “I stopped by her place to see if she wanted to have dinner. She was on her way to some big party, and she was dressed up in heels and diamonds, the whole nine yards.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the photo of the stolen jewelry. “Yeah. Can’t say that’s exactly the same necklace, but it looked like that. I asked where she got it, and she said some rich guy gave it to her.”

“Did she tell you who he was? Or say anything about him?”

He shook his head. “I asked, but she dodged me, said it was none of my business. Which I guess it wasn’t.”

“Did you tell the police all this?” He shook his head. “Why did you call them?”

“Because when I heard the story on the news, I realized I saw her that day.” He folded an empty sugar packet into an accordion. “I thought they’d send someone out to talk to me, but they just took my statement on the phone.”

“You saw Paige the day she died?” Storm nodded. “Where?”

The waiter came by and offered to refill our coffees. I shook my head. I hadn’t touched mine. Storm signaled for more.

“I was driving north on Malibu Canyon and I stopped for a red light at the intersection of Malibu Canyon and Mulholland Highway. I was about to turn right onto Mulholland when I saw her. She was stopped at the light, across the intersection from me. And she was heading toward Malibu.”

Malibu. Where Marc had been found.

I leaned forward. “What time?”

“About six thirty.”

“Then it was almost dark. You’re sure it was her?”

He took a sip of coffee. “Definitely. There’re streetlights at that intersection. Plus, I recognized the car. I waved to her, but I guess she didn’t see me. That’s when I noticed there was a guy in the passenger seat.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. Never saw him before.” Storm’s phone rang. “I gotta take this. Excuse me.” He got up and walked outside.

I quickly pulled up Marc’s Facebook page.

Storm came back. “Look, I gotta jump.”

I held up my phone. “Is this the guy you saw in the car with Paige?”

He took the phone from me and studied it. “Yeah, I think so. Who is he?”

“Marc Palmer. He was a model who worked with Paige. His body washed up on the shore in Malibu about a week after Paige died.”

He frowned as he gave the phone back. “Hell of a coincidence. So that’s why you said Paige was the real target. You think they’re connected.”

I nodded. “Especially after what you just told me.”

“Then it’s important?”

“Very. But do me a favor, don’t tell anyone about this, okay? I’d rather not have your statement get tossed around by the press.” Or the cops—who’d probably wind up proving that it was nothing more than the usual defense red herring.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, the press is all over this case, isn’t it?”

I gave him a weary nod. “It’s nonstop.”

He stood and picked up his helmet. “Later.”

Actually,
I
wasn’t so sure the two deaths were connected. But with Storm’s testimony, I thought the jury might. It was exactly the kind of intriguing sideshow juries loved.

Or, as I’d call it in my closing argument: reasonable doubt.