Guilt by Association (11 page)

“Did we file a petition on that last case?” I asked. Since juvenile cases weren’t considered criminal and were supposed to
be “for the benefit of the minor”—yeah, right—they had their own terminology. So instead of filing charges in a complaint,
you filed allegations in a petition. Instead of being convicted of charges, a juvenile had his petition “sustained.”

Bailey tapped a few keys on her computer to bring up what she’d found. “In Eastlake.”

Eastlake Juvenile Court was just south of downtown, and its proximity to gangland territories meant that it was heavily trafficked
by the most heinous offenders. I’d heard they filed more murder cases there than we did in the Criminal Courts Building, which
explained why the parking lot for court personnel was surrounded by a cement wall that was topped with barbed wire.

“Does it show the disposition?” I asked, meaning what kind of sentence he got.

I had a hunch about this, and I hoped it was wrong.

Bailey frowned at the screen.

“Move over. I know where to look,” I said as I nudged her out of her seat and planted myself in front of her computer.

I’d just started to scroll down when a deep voice that sounded way too close said, “I’m sure it’s just an alarming coincidence
that you’re looking into Kit Chalmers’s last case.”

I barely managed to keep from jumping out of the chair. As soon as I could breathe, I half turned around to see who it was.
Standing side by side were two clean-cut, solid-looking men dressed in blazers and slacks. Typical FBI-issue.

“Yeah, funny, isn’t it?” I said, forcing a light, offhand tone. I knew very well that if they reported me for sticking my
nose into the
case after the warning I’d already gotten, I’d be toast. But men in authority are like horses—show fear, and they’ll knock
you around; act blasé, and they’ll leave you alone. I wasn’t about to let them know that I could barely hear them over my
thudding heartbeat.

The blonder of the two replied, “I’d hate to get a DA fired for insubordination because she didn’t have the smarts to know
that ‘recused’ means ‘hands-off.’ ” His tone told me he wouldn’t hate it all that much.

“Well, this DA does know what ‘recused’ means,” I said brightly. “Now it’s your turn: do you know what ‘mind your own fucking
business’ means?” I leaned back and smiled winningly.

They didn’t look “won.” Ted and Fred each gave me what was supposed to be a meaningful look—their version of the last word—and
walked off.

Bailey folded her arms and tracked the goons’ progress through the squad room with a steely glare. I knew she’d wanted to
get into it with them, but that would only have made it a bigger deal. I turned back to the screen and drew long, deep breaths
through my nose to slow down my pulse as I scrolled through the court docket. At first the letters wouldn’t settle into recognizable
patterns, but after a few seconds the effort to concentrate calmed me down and I was able to make sense of the entries.

By the time of his last arrest, Kit Chalmers had racked up five “sustained petitions.” For a sixth bust as relatively serious
as prostitution, I figured he should’ve gotten a camp commitment. Camp is the middle ground between short-term detention hall
and the prison facility euphemistically called CYA—California Youth Authority.

But he didn’t get a camp commitment. In fact, he didn’t even get detention-hall time. He got HOP: Home on Probation. A bullshit
sentence that was no sentence at all. It basically meant he went home and just had to stay out of trouble—he didn’t even have
to report to a probation officer. By all accounts, this was one sweetheart of a
deal. Bailey echoed the sentiment when I pointed to the screen to show her what it said under “Disposition.”

She spoke in an incredulous whisper. “And nothing since then?”

I shook my head. I didn’t like what I was seeing, but I continued to scroll down through the page, hoping for some explanation
that would take the bad taste out of my mouth.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” Bailey said as I got to the bottom of the page without finding any more information.

“Not quite,” I said softly as I moved the cursor back up the page, looking for one last entry.

And there it was, the answer I’d dreaded: Jake’s last assignment before joining the Special Trials Unit two years ago had
been deputy in charge of Eastlake Juvenile. The sweetheart deal on Kit’s prostitution bust was given by none other than Jake
Pahlmeyer.

There was more bad news
in this than just the dumping of a prostitution case; a kid like Kit was unlikely to have kept his nose clean for the past
two years. Of course, there were innocent explanations, and I’d fight for every one of them. But a low hum of suspicion had
begun to thrum in the back of my brain at the fact that there was nothing at all in Kit’s juvenile file since that prostitution
bust. And although I may have been the first to connect those dots, I definitely wouldn’t be the last.

Bailey and I sat staring at the screen as we silently absorbed the impact of all this. Then, aware that Feebies Ted and Fred,
or God knew who else, could look over our shoulders again at any moment, I pushed back from the desk and let Bailey shut down
the program and erase our trail. She worked quickly as I packed up my briefcase. We left the building without saying a word.

It was 5:30 now and the streets were almost empty. When we got to the corner of First and Main, I glanced around to make sure
Ted and Fred weren’t hiding behind a lamppost.

Bailey pressed her lips together. “Looks bad, Knight.”

“I still don’t believe it,” I said. But even as the words left my mouth, I knew that rivulets of doubt had begun to seep into
my image of Jake.

I stared down the street and watched a battered taxi rattle by, headed for the freeway entrance on Broadway. Above, the black
velvet fingers of night were reaching out across the sky, engulfing the last rays of sun, deepening the chill in the air.
I shivered under my wool-lined coat and picked up the pace in an effort to get warm, then looked back at Bailey.

“I’m not giving up,” I said, “but I’ll understand completely if you—”

She raised her hand abruptly, cutting me off. “I’m in it as long as you are.”

“I’m serious, Bailey. This could get really ugly.”

She stopped walking and looked at me squarely. “I’m guessing it
is
going to get really ugly, and fast. But you’re right: it’s not all the way there yet, and we both know anything can happen
from here. I’m in.”

Her show of support was a much-needed balm on a wounded memory. I couldn’t express what I was feeling in words, so I did the
next best thing. “Feel like El Chavo?”

The cozy little dive served up some of the best Mexican food and margaritas this side of Baja.

“Perfect.”

As we headed for Bailey’s car, “The Crystal Ship” by the Doors—one of my favorites among the rock classics—began playing on
my cell phone.

“That’s Toni,” I said as I pulled out the phone.

“Tell her to join us,” Bailey said. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the tiny parking lot and wove around to the old adobe building adorned with strings of
multicolored Christmas lights that stayed up year-round. We walked into the claustrophobic vestibule, where we were greeted
by Blanca, the owner’s wife, who looked more like the owner’s daughter.

“Your friend is already here,” she said with a smile as she gathered
up two plastic-coated menus and gestured for us to follow her down the narrow stairs. Our eyes adjusted to the dim light and
we found Toni already seated at one of the long picnic-style tables. Looking around the room, I marveled again at how something
as simple as tiny multicolored lights could give a place such a warm, rosy glow. It felt like an endless party.

We ordered a pitcher of margaritas and filled Toni in on what we’d learned. She remained steadfast. “It’s gonna take more
than this to make me believe Jake was a homicidal-suicidal pedophile.”

The simple, defiant statement stiffened my spine, and I could feel Bailey’s spirits lift too. In unison, we raised our glasses
in a silent toast and took a long, delicious sip.

“So now what?” Toni asked.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” I began, then paused to look around the room, catching Bailey’s expression as I finished my scan.
Her look confirmed what I was feeling. “Later,” I said as I looked steadily at Toni, sending a message. She nodded.

We weren’t the only ones in the business who liked to hang out at El Chavo, and I’d already been busted twice for butting
into Jake’s case. I didn’t need to go for strike three.

I considered telling them about Graden Hales’s elevator invitation but decided against it. Nothing had happened yet, and maybe
nothing would ever come of it. And there was also the possibility that since I’d been officially warned off the case, and
Bailey was risking her neck to help me, she’d be less than pleased to find out that the cop who was heading the operation—her
boss—was getting flirty with me. Now that I thought about it, she might be right. It
was
a little too close for comfort.
Speaking of which…,
I thought as I turned to Bailey.

“What’s up with you and Drew?” I asked her.

“Details—now,” Toni demanded.

Bailey laughed, and we all leaned in as she regaled us with the
tale of her amazing date with Drew at the Rooftop Bar at the Standard. Two margarita pitchers later, Bailey called in and
got a patrol car to give us a ride home. The officer turned out to be a hottie. A proud example of the LAPD’s finest. Toni
rode up front with him. I think she might’ve kissed him good night. He bore up with selfless dedication: “To Protect and Serve.”
The motto was still alive and well in L.A.

I woke early the next morning,
only slightly the worse for wear after last night’s dining experience. I had a meeting set up with Jake’s sister, Jennifer,
whose number I’d cadged from my buddy in the Planning and Training Division. I didn’t know what she could offer, but anything
was more than I had now. As I got dressed, it struck me as tragic that a person could work with someone so closely for so
long and yet know so little about him. We are, in essence, a lonely species. I hiked up to the parking lot behind the courthouse,
where I’d left my car. Its dusty exterior was wet with morning dew—muddy dew. Lovely.

Jennifer lived in a duplex apartment on a quiet tree-lined street in Glendale, a bedroom community just ten minutes north
and west of downtown L.A. There were old-fashioned planters lining the front windows, and blue hydrangeas were in full, luscious
bloom. Everything grew like crazy here. Back in the ’40s or ’50s, the whole town had been slated for orchards, so they’d trucked
in the best-quality soil. The orchards had given way when the real estate became too valuable to waste on fruit, but the soil
kept on giving. If you spit out a pumpkin seed, by next week you’d have a pumpkin patch. I pressed the buzzer at the side
of the screen door and stepped back so as not to crowd the entry. Through the door, I could hear the television
playing a morning news show. I had time to hear that it wasn’t the usual lame jousting between airheaded anchors, so it couldn’t
have been a network program. Probably CNN. A serious person, this Jennifer.

She answered the door breathlessly; I’d obviously caught her in the middle of getting ready to go to work. Although I knew
from Jake’s bio in Planning and Training that she was twenty-nine, just five and a half years younger than Jake, she could’ve
passed for a high school junior. Petite, no makeup, soft wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders—Jennifer was the female
version of Jake. The resemblance made me feel close to her, even as it caused a lump in my throat. But whereas Jake visibly
burned with an intense energy that powered his rapid speech and passion for work, Jennifer gave off a soft blue, lower-wattage
reserve. The sun and the moon. And I could tell from the way she barely held my fingers when we shook hands that this was
not a people person.

“Hi, Jennifer, I’m Rachel Knight. Thank you for seeing me. I know this is a hard time for you.”

She opened the screen door and stepped back to let me in. “No, actually, I was glad when you called,” she said as she pushed
a strand of hair behind her ear. “I never met any of Jake’s friends…. In fact, you’re the only one he ever mentioned by name,”
she said in a soft, sad voice.

Did this mean I was his only friend? Or was I the only person he could tell her about? I immediately choked off the unwanted
thought, but I could feel the threads of a memory being woven together in my subconscious.

“Did someone from the office call you?” I asked.

“Oh yes. Yes, they did. But, um… it’s just… not the same, you know…?” She trailed off, and her eyes darted away. She directed
me to the living room, and as I took a seat on the sofa, I tried not to dwell on how horrible it must have been to lose a
sibling under such
circumstances, and on top of that not to have anyone close to him to share memories with. I’d suffered many agonies with the
loss of Romy, but none had involved ugly speculation about who she’d really been. I couldn’t imagine how much worse that would
be. Assuming, of course, that the speculation about Jake was untrue. I looked around the room as she settled on the couch.
A house can tell you a lot about a person.

Jennifer had cleverly chosen to furnish the small space sparsely—just a sofa, a coffee table, and a mini entertainment center
against the opposite wall. It was a room uniquely devoid of personality—just one framed photo of her and Jake on the fireplace
mantel, and judging by the clothes they wore in the picture, I could tell it was at least five years old. No plants, no pets,
no artwork. This place could have belonged to anyone.

“Oh, can I get you coffee or… anything?” she offered as she started to get up.

“No, thanks,” I said, gesturing for her to sit back down. “I want you to know that I wasn’t Jake’s only friend. Everyone in
the office loved him.”