Blood Defense (32 page)

FIFTY-NINE

W
e were just about to head
into Santa Monica when Alex’s cell phone gave a loud
ping
. He handed the phone to me. “I’ve got a Google alert tagged to Dale’s name.”

The alert was a link to a news banner that read: “Tragic Accident on Mountain Road. Death Linked to Pearson Murder Case.” My heart gave an agonizing thump as I read it aloud.

Michelle, her voice sounding as bad as mine, echoed my thoughts. “Oh God, no.
Now
what?” I wished I didn’t have to find out. I hit the link and held the phone so Michelle could watch with me. A blonde anchor wearing a plunging neckline announced in dire tones, “A tragic accident has claimed the life of a witness who recently surfaced in the Dale Pearson case. Experts are saying it’s bound to be a serious blow to the defense. Jim Martinelli has the latest. Jim?”

The blonde anchor threw to a reporter standing on the shoulder of a road.

Behind him, the sun had faded to a dim glow, and the mountains loomed dark and ominous. “Laura, I’m standing just forty feet away from the spot where stuntman Storm Cooper’s motorcycle went off the road here on Mulholland Highway. There were no witnesses, but police believe he lost control and drove off the embankment, then plunged to his death three hundred feet below. Authorities were alerted to look for the body when a hiker familiar with the area noticed new tire marks that seemed to skid off the asphalt, continue across the dirt shoulder, and go straight off the cliff. This road is very popular among bikers. Friends of the stuntman say it was one of his favorite rides. Now, it seems this was his last ride. Back to you, Laura.”

I closed the link.

“An accident,” Michelle said. “I can’t believe it.”

I stared at the screen. “I
don’t
believe it.” Not after the fire. And the burglary of my apartment.

Michelle looked at me, stricken. “But he didn’t really tell you all that much.”

“No. Either he knew more than he told me, or someone thought he did.”

Alex glanced at me, his expression worried. “Samantha, if you’re right, we can’t put this off anymore. We’ve got to call the police.”

Michelle sat forward, her arms wrapped around her torso. “He’s right. Someone just killed a friggin’ witness, for God’s sake. And almost got
us
.”

I nodded. I was plenty scared. And a little in shock. The thought that someone had killed Storm—in part because of me—was horrifying. But the likelihood of it was undeniable given everything that had happened, and the timing of it all. “Okay, we’ll call the police.” I looked at Alex’s phone. It was only six o’clock. I couldn’t believe it. It felt like midnight. “Let’s just hold off until we see what’s on that camera.” I gave Alex a pointed look. “Since it almost got us killed.”

When we got back to his apartment, he examined it and explained. “It’s a motion-activated camera with a built-in DVR that records onto an SD card. Pretty simple device. I should be able to hook it up to a television and play whatever it captured.”

Michelle had poured herself a glass of wine to stop her hands from shaking. “How’d you know that thing was a camera? It looks like a garden-variety smoke alarm to me.”

“Because my uncle has one just like it in his office. He uses it for security . . . and to spy on his employees.”

Michelle took a sip of her wine. “Maybe they put it in as a security thing, too, since they’re gone for . . . what did that mechanic say? A year?”

Alex nodded. “That’s possible. But then I’d expect to see other surveillance gear outside the house, and maybe in other rooms, too. When we walked around the outside of the house, I didn’t see any cameras.”

Alex went to a cupboard in the kitchen and pulled out a plastic tub filled with all kinds of power and electrical cords. He chose one, took the alarm over to the television in the living room, and plugged it into the television. “Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Alex changed the input on the television and started the camera. An image flickered on. A paunchy, dark-haired man in his forties was looking up at the camera. He waved his arms, then got up on the bed. Then the screen went dark. I pointed to the television. “That’s the guy in the photos. The ones I saw on the dresser.” I pulled up the photos I’d taken in the bedroom and showed them to Alex and Michelle.

Alex nodded. “Mr. Larsen, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah,” Michelle said. “What was he doing? Was he testing the thing?”

Alex nodded. “Looks like it.”

The camera continued to play. The next image showed a handsome blond man in a silk robe moving around the bed. There was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the nightstand. A woman lay on the bed behind him. “How come there’s no sound?”

Alex frowned. “I don’t know. My uncle’s has sound. It might not have that feature. Or it might be a malfunction.”

I hoped it didn’t matter. “Pause when we get to a better shot of the woman.”

Alex nodded and restarted the camera. The blond man sat down on the bed, picked up a small mirror and a rolled-up bill, and held it to his nose. He snorted a couple of lines, then passed it to the woman behind him. When she took the mirror, he left the room. Now we had an unobscured view of the bed. Alex paused the video. I stood up and walked over to the television. I stared at the woman’s face. “Oh my God. That’s Paige.”

Michelle leaned forward and looked closely at the screen. “You’re right.”

We were all silent for a few moments as we studied the image. But it was too soon to tell whether this would do anything for us. There was no date or time stamped on the video. I stepped back. “Okay. Let ’er rip.”

Alex hit play. The blond man came back, followed by a younger-looking man. I grabbed Alex’s arm. “Can you pause again?”

As I stared at the frame, my heart began to beat hard and fast. I pointed to the younger man. “That’s Marc, isn’t it?”

Michelle looked closer. “It sure is.”

Alex nodded. “Yeah. But who’s the blond guy?”

“No clue. Okay, hit it, Alex.”

The blond man dropped his robe and got on the bed next to Paige. He looked tall, and he was lean but well muscled. Marc, who was a lot thinner and shorter than the blond man by several inches, lay down on the other side of her. Now I noticed that there were three glasses next to the ice bucket. Paige got up and slid off the bed. Based on my memory of the place, it looked like she was heading for the bathroom.

As soon as she left, the blond man rolled Marc over, facedown on the bed, and started to climb onto his back. Marc shoved him off, looking angry. He pushed Marc back down and tried to get on top of him again. This time, Marc bucked him off and swung out his arm, hitting the blond guy in the throat.

They started to grapple. Paige must’ve heard them fighting because she came running back into the bedroom and tried to pull him away from Marc. Marc seized the opportunity and took another swing at him, but he failed to connect. The blond man suddenly twisted away, grabbed the champagne bottle, and raised it over his head. But before he could swing it, Marc tumbled to the floor and scrambled out of view.

The blond man followed, holding the bottle like a club, and also moved out of view. Now Paige was alone; she grabbed a towel off the floor, wrapped it around her, and hurried out after them. The camera flickered for a second, then we saw Paige run back through the bedroom and head for the bathroom. She was sobbing. I asked Alex to pause. “What the hell? Why did it flicker like that? Is it broken?”

Alex shook his head. “No. It’s motion activated. When it doesn’t detect motion, it shuts off. That means when everyone moved out of range, it stopped recording. So there’s a time gap here. We know they all left the bedroom, but we don’t know for how long.”

I nodded. “But from the looks of things, whatever happened outside the bedroom wasn’t pretty.” I remembered the condition of the living room. “Maybe that mess in the living room wasn’t just because of the squatters. That blond guy looked hella pissed—”

Michelle stood up, still staring at the television. “And the other rooms weren’t anywhere near as thrashed.”

Alex restarted the camera. In the next frame, Paige was fully dressed and moving from the bathroom toward the bedroom door. Her makeup ran in black streaks down her face. She picked up her purse off the dresser and ran out.

The camera flickered again, and now we saw someone entering the bedroom through the sliding glass door that opened onto the beach. It was the blond guy, and he was bare-chested, wearing only jeans. And he was soaking wet. He moved slowly and seemed to be breathing hard. He stripped off the wet jeans, went to the dresser, pulled out a pair of pants and a T-shirt, and put them on. Then he walked out of the bedroom. The camera flickered again.

I had a feeling I knew what had just happened as I waited for the next image.

He came back into the bedroom holding his robe in one hand and a cell phone in the other. He dropped the robe on the bed and punched in a number on the phone. He stood listening for a few seconds, then punched the keys again. He raked a hand through his wet hair and paced as he listened. I saw his lips move; then he lowered the phone and paced some more. It looked like he’d gotten someone’s voice mail and left a message. A few seconds later, he punched in another number. He began to pace again as he listened, but this time he didn’t speak. Whoever he was calling wasn’t answering.

He threw the phone down, sat on the bed, put his head in his hands, and rocked back and forth. A few seconds later, he snatched the phone back up. This time someone answered. I saw his lips move as his hand made sharp, emphatic movements. He picked up his wet jeans and his robe as he spoke. Then he walked out of the room. The camera flickered again.

I held my breath, not knowing what I hoped to see. But the next frame showed a ragged-looking man in a battered trench coat carrying a paper bag. He took a swig from the bag, looked around, then flopped down on the bed. We kept watching, but the rest of the images showed only that man and his friends—probably our not-so-friendly squatters.

Alex finally turned off the camera. “I guess that’s all we’ve got.”

I stared at the blank television screen. “Is there any way to retrieve a date and time from that footage?”

“I don’t know,” Alex said. “I could try.” He put down the remote. “But I think I have an idea who that blond man is.”

I did, too. “Mr. Perfect.” He sure fit the bill, with his well-groomed hair and super-toned body. We knew Paige had started seeing him in January, so this footage was definitely taken after that. I mentally reviewed the images we’d just seen. “Looks to me like he might’ve killed Marc and dragged his body out into the ocean. That’s why he was soaking wet when he came back in through the sliding glass door—”

Alex stood up. “And why we didn’t see Marc again—”

Michelle frowned. “But how do we prove that? There’s no time or date stamp on that footage. For all we know, Marc just passed out in the living room—or got knocked out—and Mr. Perfect took off.”

Good question. I paced as I replayed the footage in my head. “Alex, can you give us the first frame with Paige again?”

He started the camera and paused when Paige came into view. I studied the frame. “Is there any footage before that?” He restarted the camera from the very beginning. When it showed the blond man moving toward the nightstand, I told him to stop. I searched for what I thought I’d seen before. And found it. I pointed to a leopard-print skirt and black blouse on the floor near the nightstand. “That’s Paige’s skirt and blouse. Remember? They were in the crime-scene photos at her apartment. The cops found them in the hamper.”

Alex sat back and nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. And those were the only clothes in her hamper. So this must’ve happened the night she died.”

If Paige and Marc died on the same night, it was no coincidence. That meant Chloe really wasn’t the target. Paige was. And Mr. Perfect was looking good as the girls’ real killer. But as I thought about what we had, I shook my head. “The problem is, Marc’s friends weren’t specific about when they last saw him, and the coroner was pretty vague about how long he’d been in the water. So we can’t say for sure whether that footage was taken the night Marc died. We need more.” I started to pace. “But one thing I am sure of: that blond man is Mr. Perfect. Dale said that’s who she was going to see that night.”

Alex frowned. “You think he killed Paige to keep her quiet?”

I shrugged. “Him, or the person he called.” I again replayed the video footage in my mind. “But the pieces fit. We just need to figure out who he is.”

Alex added, “And who he called.”

Michelle gave me a warning look. “But we agreed whoever’s behind all this is out to kill us—and he’s already killed Storm. So we’re going to let the police take over now, right?” She watched me pace, then repeated with a lot more force, “
Right
, Sam?”

I stopped pacing and faced her. “Here’s the thing. As of now, we have some decent theories. But like you said, for all we know, Marc just took off after the fight. In which case, Mr. Perfect had no motive to kill Paige.”

Michelle frowned at me. “But he was soaking wet when he came back into the bedroom, and he looked pretty freaked out—”

“So? He’ll say he went outside to get some air and fell in the water. He was obviously drinking and coking.”

Alex nodded. “And he was freaked out because Marc might talk about their threesome. If we’re right that Mr. Perfect’s married, that’d be very bad news.”

“Exactly,” I said. “But that footage doesn’t pin him down as Marc’s killer. He’ll say Marc left with Paige and that’s all he knows.”

Michelle shook her head. “But when Marc left the bedroom, he was naked.”

I shrugged. “He had clothes in the living room. Or he grabbed a kitchen towel when he ran out. No. We need more before we call in the troops. I don’t want to give them any room to dust this off as defense bullshit.” I paced back and forth in front of the television.

Michelle gave me a sour look. “You have any idea how to do that?”

“For starters, by finding out who Mr. Perfect is.”