Guilt by Association (10 page)

I quickly flipped through the physical descriptions of Jake and the boy found with him—Kit Chalmers—and cut to the chase.
No indication of smoke inhalation for either of them. So they were both dead by the time the fire got going. That might mean
someone else had caused it. Jake didn’t smoke, but it was likely that Kit did. So maybe Kit had lit a cigarette and left it
to burn. Or the fire might’ve been caused by faulty electrical wiring. Damn. Too many options. I turned to Scott’s section.
The coroner’s investigator lays out the crime scene, though not usually in as much detail as the police report. But Scott’s
descriptions were always meticulous, and this one was no exception. He’d noted all kinds of disgusting debris, such as used
condoms in the bathroom, old cigarette butts, even a rubber “tie”—what junkies use so they can fix. Lovely. I supposed it
was possible that one of those cigarette butts could’ve caused the fire—if the filter had kept it from being consumed. Seemed
unlikely, but it was a possibility since the fire had been extinguished fairly quickly.

The FBI should be comparing any DNA on those butts to Jake and Kit,
I thought. Though even if it turned out that none of them matched either person, it wouldn’t exactly be a big clue. A place
like that probably got vacuumed twice a year.

I turned to the toxicology report. Traces of THC—marijuana—in Kit’s blood, but Jake was completely clean. No surprise there.
Tarring in Kit’s lungs confirmed he was a smoker. The possibility that the fire had been started by his cigarette had just
gotten stronger. And if it was Kit’s cigarette, my theory that someone else might have
started the fire in order to destroy the evidence would go out the window.

I jumped ahead to the cause of death. As predicted, for both it was a gunshot wound to the head. An unregistered .38 Smith
& Wesson was found near Jake. Gunshot-residue tests showed a couple of particles on his right hand. Not much for a suicide,
but GSR was so inexact anyway. Though it wasn’t Scott’s job to interview witnesses, I flipped ahead to see if any were mentioned.
Nothing. Even in a flophouse, people would’ve heard two gunshots, wouldn’t they? And if they did, wouldn’t they at least try
to look out and see what was going on? If I could get my hands on the police reports, I’d be able to find out. If no one heard
anything, that might indicate that a silencer was used. Since, according to Scott’s report, no silencer was found at the scene,
that could mean a third party
had
been involved.

It was a slim reed, but we all know what they say about beggars. I drove back to the office, marginally cheered. I pulled
into the county employee lot, and Julio, the security guard, let me park close to the building. I again promised myself a
workout when I got home and looked at my watch as I hiked up the stairs. It was a quarter to three already—time flies when
you’re reading stolen coroner’s reports. I quickly trotted inside and ran to catch the elevator.

I was hurrying down the hall to my office when Melia called out to me. “
Mija,
come back.”

I put it in reverse and leaned into Eric’s anteroom. “Yes?”

Melia nodded toward the boss’s office. “The jefe wants to see you.”

Eric was on the phone when I poked my head through his doorway, and he made a circling motion with his finger, indicating
that whoever was on the line was going on and on, then motioned for me to sit down. I mouthed, “No problem,” and he smiled.

I sat and took advantage of the moment to enjoy the 180-degree view. From this perch eighteen floors up, I had a clear bird’s-eye
view
of the people moving on the streets and sidewalks below. To my left, a young black man in jeans and a hoodie walked down Spring
Street in graceful time to the music coming through his headphones.

Eric cut in on his caller, his tone exasperated. “Again, I need to get a little more information before I can give you any
answers. Why don’t I call you back later?” He rolled his eyes at me and shook his head.

I nodded sympathetically, then looked out the window again and saw that the young black man was closer. Now I could see that
the jack on the end of his headphones was swinging freely in the wind, attached to nothing.

Eric ended his call. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“No worries. What’s up?”

Eric sighed, never a good sign, and made a face that told me he didn’t want to have to say what he was about to say. I braced
myself.

“Frank Densmore called.”

“Ahh, yes,” I said, not surprised. “And he’s pissed off because…?”

“He wants this case wrapped up. He knows who did it, he told Jake who did it, then he told you who did it, and he’s tired
of waiting for the police and the DA’s office to catch up with him.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Catch up with him—very nice.”

“We’re going to have to try and keep him happy. He’s got Vanderhorn’s ear—”

“Really?” I interjected. “I was thinking of another part of the DA’s anatomy.”

To Eric’s credit, he looked just as irked as I felt. “He wanted to talk to you this afternoon, and when he couldn’t find you,
he found me.”

Uh-oh.
I suddenly saw where this was going, and it wasn’t good.

“Rachel, I know you’re not happy with the assumptions being made about Jake and what happened. But it’s not our case, and
you’re looking at some serious charges of insubordination if you
keep poking around. I’m prepared to be sympathetic… this time. Understood?”

I nodded, forced out an insincere apology, and excused myself before he had a chance to read my insubordinate mind.

I headed back to my office, plopped down in my chair, and mulled over my options. I supposed I could put in a mollifying call
to Daddy Densmore, but I’m a lousy ass-kisser, and odds were good I’d just make things worse. Besides, I’m a big believer
in behavior modification—if I called him now it would just reward him for bringing Vanderhorn into the picture and ensure
that he’d do it again whenever he wanted to yank my chain. Better to give Densmore no response and show him who’s boss.

Vanderhorn was another matter. Him, I couldn’t ignore. I sighed to myself. I guessed I could manage a little bit of ass-kissing
for the sake of keeping my job. Unfortunately there was only one way to back Vanderhorn off. Explanations would mean nothing.
He’d want proof of progress. Otherwise known as new evidence. A suspect in custody would be nice, for instance. I picked up
the phone.

“Hey, it’s Rachel Knight. Is Dorian there?” I waited while the tech who’d answered the phone yelled around the office.

“Not here. Probably on her cell, though,” said a young male whose voice I didn’t recognize. These days crime scene techs moved
in and out of the Scientific Investigation Division (SID) as though it were a Motel 6. Old warhorses like Dorian were an increasingly
rare commodity.

“I’ve got the number, thanks,” I replied, though he hadn’t offered to give it to me.

I hung up and dialed again. After four rings, she answered. “Yep?”

“It’s Rachel. Any news on the hair and fiber?”

Dorian snorted. “Sure, I’ve only got about five thousand dolls here. Just give me a sec while I finish the last four thousand.”

I hadn’t really expected any results yet—we’d seized more than thirty dolls from Susan’s bedroom, so even a rush job would
take quite some time. But perfectionist Dorian didn’t do rush jobs, so I knew this was going to be a while. I’d put in the
call so I’d have something to bring to Vanderhorn as a peace offering. Dorian read the brief pause in the air like a large-print
book.

“Tell your boss he can have it fast or he can have it right, but he can’t have both,” she barked.

“From what I’ve heard, fast is his thing… if you know what I mean,” I replied acidly, annoyed not only at having to appease
Vanderhorn but at Dorian’s busting me for it.

“Creatures in space know what you mean, Knight. Tell him you’ll have results soon enough, and if he doesn’t like it he can
kiss my ass,” Dorian growled, then hung up.

Next I called Vanderhorn.

He wasn’t in; probably checking the part in his hair or bleaching his teeth—smoothing his path to reelection. Glad to avoid
talking to him, I cheerfully left word that hair and fiber results were on the way. Then I sat back to consider what else
I could do on the Densmore case. We’d reprocessed the crime scene, and Bailey was already having Luis Revelo’s rap sheet run.
Uniforms were checking out everyone else we could think of with access, such as the house painters, the security-patrol guys,
and all the neighbors and their worker bees. In just a few days, we’d covered a lot of ground. There was nothing more to be
done at this point but wait for some leads to pop up so we could follow them. At a dead end on my most pressing official case,
at least for the time being, I turned my thoughts to my unofficial one and considered my next move.

The way I saw it, I had to pursue the case on two fronts: the off-duty part of Jake’s life, and the background and associates
of the kid they found with him, Kit Chalmers. I could do at least the initial legwork on Jake’s life myself. I called a buddy
in the Planning and
Training Division, where all new DAs started and where the background information on us was stored, and steered the conversation
around to Jake and his next of kin. It wasn’t hard—the whole office was obsessed with the subject. After getting what I could,
I hung up, then dialed again.

Five minutes later I
was weaving my way through the crowd in the downstairs lobby on my way to the Police Administration Building, affectionately
known as PAB. The sidewalks were crowded, which surprised me, so I checked my watch. It was 4:30 already. Ass-covering is
very time-consuming. The late-afternoon hour explained the mass of bodies and cars in front of the building: the exodus out
of downtown had begun. This was a lucky break for me, because it would decrease the chance I’d get caught at what I was about
to do. If I wanted to keep my job, and I did, I’d have to get smarter about when and where I made my moves and be sure to
have cover stories in place. Going to see Bailey was safe enough, since we were working the Densmore case together, but I
didn’t want to use Bailey any more than I had to.

I tried to imagine what they’d do to me if I got caught digging into Jake’s case again. Transfer me out to East Jesus to try
sprinkler-use violations for the rest of my career? Very likely. Suspension… and then a transfer to the aforementioned outpost?
Also likely. Termination for insubordination? This was an uncomfortably distinct possibility. The thought set my stomach roiling.
And if they did fire me, what would I do? Go into private practice and defend the scumbags? I shook my head—been there, done
that, straight out of law
school. I couldn’t go back. So what did that leave—exotic dancing? Not enough chest, too much smart-mouth. In fact, my smart
mouth was going to be a problem in all employment endeavors this side of Fox News. Bus driver, cocktail waitress—you name
it.

Ruminations on all the ways my pursuit of Jake’s case could lead to my demise kept me occupied right up until I got off the
elevator at the third floor in PAB. At that precise moment, I remembered that Hales was Bailey’s lieutenant, which meant that
he worked there too. The fact that he was standing at the elevator also helped jog my memory.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he replied. “How’re you doing?” His voice conveyed something unexpected. I think it’s called kindness.

I felt a little electric jolt in my gut. I resolutely ignored it. “Okay, I guess,” I said with a nonchalant shrug.
Look at me, playing it too cool for school.

The elevator doors began to close, but he stuck his hand inside and held them open. Macho, but not too. Or maybe just polite.
My judgment’s not great.

He looked at me for a long beat. “We’re still on your friend’s case, Rachel. I want you to know that I won’t let the Feds
shut it down until we’ve got it right.”

I nodded to show my appreciation. I decided he didn’t need to know that I was here to make sure of exactly that.

The elevator began buzzing in protest, and Graden stepped inside. I waved and turned to go, but he pulled out the stop button
to silence it, then called out to me.

“You ever eat lunch?” he asked with one of those lazy, lopsided smiles that probably worked well for him. The fact that I
was aware of this meant it was working for him now too.

“Sometimes,” I said.

His smile got bigger as he released the stop button and replied, “I’ll call you.”

I turned to go, then stopped. “I’m not going to be in the office much,” I said, wanting to let him know that I’d be hard to
find. But the door closed before my protestation could register.

I tried to put that signature smile out of my mind as I headed for Bailey’s desk.

She was hunched miserably in front of her computer. She loved gadgets but hated computers. Probably because the latter were
associated with paperwork. I have yet to meet a cop who loves paperwork. So not only was I jeopardizing her career, but I
was torturing her in the process. The very definition of an all-purpose friend.

I rolled a chair up next to her. “What’d you get?”

Bailey snuck a look around her desk to make sure no one was watching, then replied, “The boy, Kit Chalmers, has a record.”

Since Kit was a young kid whose life had ended in a downtown motel that charged by the hour, this was about as surprising
as finding an ex-con in a car wash.

“What’s he got?” I asked.

“All misdemeanor crap. Starting at about age nine, he’s got petty theft, possession of marijuana, giving false information
to a cop. But the most recent one is the kicker.” Bailey paused for a beat. “Prostitution.”

Exactly what I didn’t want to hear.

“How long ago was it?” I asked.

“Two years ago.”

“So Kit was…”

“Fifteen,” Bailey replied.

“Anything after that prostitution bust?”

“Nada.”

Bailey and I exchanged a look, thinking the same thing. By the time he’d been busted for prostitution, Kit had likely been
criming for more than six years—just because he’d been caught at age nine didn’t mean it was his first venture. So it was
very hard to believe
that he’d suddenly gone clean at the age of fifteen; he’d been busted far too often for too long. Everything about this was
weird. And not in a good way.