Guilt by Association (17 page)

I tried not to look at the police seal on Jake’s door as I headed for my office. The bright-yellow tape was like an open wound.
Part of me wished they’d take it down; another part of me was glad, because it meant the case was still open.

With those happy thoughts, I opened my office door to find my intercom buzzing.

I quickly slipped out of my jacket and began unfastening my vest as I answered. It was Melia.

“Mark Baransky on the… uh…” Melia stuttered to a stop, having
forgotten the name of the case he was calling about, although he’d probably just given it to her seconds ago.
Poor thing,
I thought,
it must be hard to remember dumb old case names when you’re concentrating on important stuff like which celebrity is banging
someone else’s wife’s daughter.

“The Duncan case. I’ve got it, Melia,” I said, then switched over to the line with the blinking light and kicked my vest under
the desk. I couldn’t let anyone know I had it, or there’d be questions.

“Hey, Mark, your guy ready to plead?” His client Ramon Duncan had murdered a husband and wife during a home-invasion robbery.
The office had decided to go for the death penalty, but I’d told the lawyer I could probably talk the brass into a sentence
of life without parole if his client would plead to the sheet.

“Yeah, and he’s asking for death. Says he knows how busy you are and doesn’t want you to have to bother with a trial.”

Lawyers are fun. “I’m glad someone finally understands. Tell your client that I’ll put a letter in his file about how grateful
we are for all his tips on the Aryan Brotherhood.” A note like that about the notorious prison gang would get his client killed
within minutes.

“Knight, you’re a riot.” He laughed a little uncertainly.

I didn’t join in the mirth. Let him squirm. “What’s up?”

“I’m going to run a few motions, try to get some evidence thrown out, but I’ve got a trip to Greece planned, so I won’t be
able to do it at the next setting. I’ll need a continuance,” Mark said.

“Let me make sure I’ve got this right: you want me to agree to put the case over so you can have time to take a vacation before
you come back and try to gut my case.”

“That’s about it. But, look, fair’s fair. If you’ve got any trips planned, I promise to go along with a continuance for you.
Deal?”

This only rubbed salt in the wound, because not only did I not have time to go anywhere, but I couldn’t really afford any
trips—especially not to Greece.

“Yeah, I’ll take you up on that offer real soon,” I said sarcastically.
Defense attorneys have to deal with the miseries of representing criminals, but the money they get is a nice consolation prize.
“You are such a putz, Mark. What date do you want?” I said, looking at my calendar.

The morning flew by after that point. There was a lot to catch up on. By the time I finished making and returning calls, it
was noon. After the way my day had started, I’d lost my appetite for a lunch date. I’d just begun to hope that I was being
stood up when Lieutenant Graden Hales called.

“Want to meet me outside the building?” he asked.

My “sure” came out a little frostier than I’d intended. Without much enthusiasm, I made a token effort at a touch-up of lip
gloss and eye shadow, tried and failed to fluff up my hair, and threw on my blazer. I decided I could dispense with the vest
for now—after all, I was going to be with a cop. I grabbed my purse and headed out to the elevator as I devised ways to cut
this lunch as short as possible.

He wasn’t standing
on the sidewalk in front of the building when I got there, so I glanced at my watch to see if I’d made unusually good time
in the elevator. I hadn’t. It was almost a quarter past noon. Maybe he’d given up? Feeling more relieved than disappointed,
I was about to head back into the building when someone in a new black 750Li BMW honked the horn insistently. I looked up
and down the street to see who wasn’t getting the message. A car in front of the BMW pulled away from the curb, and the BMW
pulled forward. When the passenger window slid down, the driver leaned over.

“Sorry, I forgot to tell you I’d be driving,” Graden said apologetically.

Or maybe
what
he’d be driving. What was a cop doing with a hundred-thousand-dollar car? Maybe he was one of those people who lived in lean-tos
so they could drive some fancy wheels. Somehow I hadn’t made him for that kind of guy.

“Not a problem, Lieutenant.” I got in and buckled up, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.

He looked at me and gave a small smile. “Does ‘Graden’ sit okay with you? Or at least Hales?”

“I think I can manage Graden.” I didn’t tell him he could call me Rachel.

He pulled out into traffic, and I glanced at him sideways. I noticed that he had a slight tan—in winter. What was that all
about? And he was wearing an expensive-looking gray sports jacket and white dress shirt, open at the neck. A tasteful patch
of chest hair peeked out just at the top of the V. And no gold chains. Thank God. I settled back into the cushy leather seat
as he navigated. The streets were packed with aggressive drivers and pedestrians who’d been crowded off the sidewalks and
were weaving their way through the gridlock. When he’d managed to squeeze out the other side of the snarl and headed toward
Beaudry, I asked, “Where are we going?”

“PDC. I’m in the mood for a Bloody Mary. Sound good?”

It sounded more than good. The Pacific Dining Car was an actual old railroad dining car that had been converted into an intimate,
Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin–style restaurant with great lobster, steak, and one of the best bars in town. It was a favorite
of mine, and it was known for making great Bloody Marys too. But it was pricey, so the PDC was strictly a special-occasion
place for me. Graden pulled into the driveway and handed the keys to the valet.

The host, Fred Astaire in slacks and a navy-blue blazer, greeted Graden by name and led us to a quiet booth in the bar area.
Behind the bar was a full wall of liquors from just about everywhere in the world. The pin-dot lighting made the bottles glow
like jewels in the cool darkness, and the bartender, in his shirtsleeves and apron, was backlit, making him look like a painting
from the ’50s come to life. As we slid into the booth, the host flipped open the linen napkin that had been folded on the
table and set it expertly in my lap, then did the same for Graden. He handed each of us a menu, and the lieutenant ordered
a Bloody Mary, as threatened. Although I didn’t usually drink at lunch, I decided, since I didn’t have any court appearances
and my heavy work was done, to splurge and ordered one too.

I was lousy at making small talk and didn’t want to pretend otherwise. But that left me with shoptalk—I’d be good with it,
but
experience had taught me that not everyone shared my appetite for all work, all the time. I’d planned to use this lunch to
find out what was happening on Jake’s case, but given Graden’s past tight-lipped attitude, it seemed smarter to hold off and
wait for the right moment.

He solved the problem for me. “I hear you and Bailey have a pretty hot lead on the Densmore rape case.”

The knot that I hadn’t even known was in my stomach began to unravel. I brought him up to speed, ending with our efforts to
chase down our prime suspect, Luis Revelo.

“Have they run the rape kit through to see if it matches anyone in the database?” he asked.

“Yep. No hit. But that doesn’t mean Revelo’s not our guy. For some reason, he managed to dodge the DNA-testing bullet.”

“Low-level rap sheet?”

I nodded. “Chicken-shit stuff, mostly a year or two ago. Seems to have cleaned up his act, or—”

“Gotten much better at it,” he said. “Some of these shot-callers are smart. They keep their hands clean and let the little
guys do the dirty work.”

“They’re getting more like politicians every day,” I agreed.

Graden chuckled, and the white-coated waiter brought our Bloody Marys and took our orders. We both stirred and then sipped
appreciatively.

“Perfect,” I said. Just enough Tabasco and spice to give it a kick, not so much that you couldn’t taste anything else.

We chatted on about our other cases, and the conversation flowed effortlessly over common ground. There was an easiness between
us that went beyond our careers, though I couldn’t really pinpoint why. All I knew was that this was one of the most fun,
stress-free, unawkward first dates I’d ever had. My quest to squeeze information out of Graden about Jake’s case lurked in
the back of my mind, but I didn’t
want to force the issue and possibly spoil not only our lunch but my chances of ever getting him to talk to me about it. I
decided to wait and see if our conversation took us there naturally. I can be patient when it matters. After the waiter brought
our orders—Graden opted for steak; I chose the grilled trout—I mentioned the lawyer who’d called to get a continuance so he
could go to Greece.

“Great time of year to go,” Graden mused with a faraway look. “I spent ten days in Crete last year. Love that place.” He went
back to his drink, so he didn’t see my look of disbelief. First the late-model BMW, then the PDC for lunch, now Crete.
What the hell?

Finally he glanced up and saw my expression. “I sell dope on the side,” he said with a grin.

“Oh good. I was worried you might be doing something sleazy. Like movie-set security.”

He chuckled and I waited for the explanation. He gave it.

“I loved video games as a kid. Actually, ‘addicted’ is more the word for it. I got into making up my own games after a while.
It was just a hobby. I never considered doing it full-time,” he said.

“I’m guessing you didn’t play Grand Theft Auto,” I remarked. The cops were always getting shafted by the crooks in that game.

“No, that was a little after my time,” he said. “Probably a good thing. I would’ve lived a life of crime and wound up getting
prosecuted by you.” He smiled.

“I might’ve cut you a deal, you never know,” I replied.

Graden smiled even wider, then continued. “My brother, Devon, is a computer whiz, works at Hewlett-Packard. Growing up, he
was one of those kids who always knew what they wanted to do. It took me a little longer. While I knocked around doing odd
jobs, trying to figure out who I wanted to be, I’d dream up video games. After I got into the police academy, I came up with
Code Three.”

I nodded.

“You’ve heard of it.”

“I have,” I replied. Code Three—cop lingo for “in pursuit”—was a megahit.

Graden smiled very briefly in acknowledgment. “Frankly, it wasn’t my favorite. But Devon was dead sure it would sell, so on
his days off he worked on the program. In the meantime, I graduated, got on the force, and lost interest in video games. I
told Devon to let it go, but he kept plugging away. Five years later, he’d finished the program and found a buyer—”

“And the rest is history.”

Graden shrugged noncommittally. “Pretty much.”

I took another sip of my Bloody Mary and tucked into my trout.

“Can I get you another one?” Graden asked, gesturing at my nearly empty drink.

I considered it for a moment, tempted, but declined. “Thanks, I might need my brain for a little longer.”

Graden followed suit.

I was struck by his dismissive attitude toward his success. “I’d imagine that game made you rich enough to quit work.”

Graden half nodded. “Probably.”

“So why don’t you?”

He put down his fork and took a sip of water before answering. “It was kind of a fluke, you know? I don’t trust it. At some
point, maybe even tomorrow, the kids will decide it’s not cool anymore. You’d be surprised how fast money runs out when you’re
just spending and not earning.” Graden picked up his knife and fork and cut another piece of steak. “I don’t take risks when
it comes to paying the rent.”

“And yet you’re a cop,” I remarked. “Hardly a risk-free proposition.”

“But it’s a steady paycheck,” he pointed out.

I nodded even as I thought his logic made no sense. I knew something about video-gaming money—it was huge, especially for
a success like Code Three. Yet that wasn’t enough security for him, so
he stayed in a job that was frequently life-threatening. It was an unusual paradox—one I’d bet had stemmed from an unstable
childhood. These kinds of complications made people so interesting.

Graden chewed his steak for a moment, then grinned. “Besides, you’ve seen me in my uniform.
I’d
do me in that uniform.”

I laughed almost as hard as he did.

“I have a confession,” he said.

“Listening,” I said, intrigued and only mildly alarmed.

“You live at the Biltmore Hotel.”

He knew where I lived? First my cell phone number, now this.

Graden picked up on my reaction. He looked at me, his expression mildly puzzled. “I took you home, remember?”

Right. On the night of Jake’s murder. “Of course.” I smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

And now that I thought about it, why was I all het up about Graden finding out where I lived when gangbangers had already
done the same?

“My confession is that I can’t figure out how an underpaid civil servant can afford a luxury hotel.”

“I could let you dwell in the mystery.”

“But that would be cruel and, I’m guessing, very unlike you.”

“How would you know?” I said.

Graden gave me a measured look. “Fair enough,” he said mildly. “And?”

For a moment, I toyed with the idea of thwarting him, but since I really didn’t mind telling the story, I relented. “You remember
the Biltmore CEO’s wife who got killed last year?” I began.

Graden squinted, searching his memory. “Sheriff’s case, right?”

I nodded. “There was some big muckety-muck meeting, and the CEO decided to bring his family to the hotel, combine business
with pleasure. He got stuck in a late dinner meeting, so his wife went to the concert at the Disney Hall alone—”

“And she got robbed and murdered in the underground parking lot by a meth freak,” Graden interjected. “I didn’t know that
was your case.”