Guilt by Association (21 page)

“Right.”

“I’m going to need a copy of Kit’s photograph—the one that was in Jake’s pocket.”

I exhaled sharply. I’d been afraid of this. “Can you do any kind of search based on a description?” I asked. Getting a copy
of the picture might be impossible, but I thought I could find a way to sneak a look at the photograph.

“I can try, of course. But your definition of a short nose could differ from mine. What you call dark-brown hair might be
medium brown to me. So even if your victim’s picture is on the Internet, I might not recognize it.” I could tell Clive was
just beginning to wind up for one of his lengthy, precise, and detailed explanations. This was the downside of Clive Zorn.
It made him an amazing engineering professor, but it could also make me want to jump out of the window.

He continued in his maddening, nothing-will-rush-me pace. “So you see, Rachel, even if I were to assist you in performing
the search after you had described the picture to me, even
you
might not remember the details well enough to recognize his photograph on the Internet, especially if there’s distortion
of any kind. And, of course,
my
chances of finding a match based only on your description are slimmer still.”

He was right. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll work on it.”

He wished me luck, we said our good-byes, and I hung up. I knew what I had to do, and as much as I hated it, I did it.

He answered on the first ring.

“Graden Hales.”

“I know,” I said, deadpan. “I dialed the number.”

“Just one question,” he replied, not missing a beat. “How many times did you get kicked out of class?”

“None. All of my teachers loved me.” I managed to say it with a straight face.

“And if they tell me something different?”

“Of course, they’ll be lying.” Fibbing wasn’t my strong suit, so I got to the point. “How about a quick bite at The Cover?”
It was a speakeasy-style bistro hidden behind an unmarked door at the back of a historic diner that had been built in the
1930s. Dark, quiet, and fairly new, it hadn’t yet been discovered by the Criminal Courts crowd. The Cover would give us plenty
of privacy.

“Sounds great,” he said. “When?”

When I didn’t respond right away, he managed not to sputter.

“You mean right now?”

“I know it’s short notice. But, honestly, I need a favor. You may not like it, but even if the answer’s no, we’ve still got
to eat, right?”

Graden paused just long enough to make me wonder if he’d hung up on me. “Okay, I’m in. I’m intrigued—and hungry. Meet me downstairs
in ten. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

The soft light emanating
from the small glass lamps that hung from the ceiling created a chic but intimate feeling. And it was comforting to see that
there wasn’t one recognizable face in the crowd. We both ordered salads, but Graden followed his up with beef bourguignonne,
while I boringly stuck to roast chicken. Not that it wasn’t good, but Graden’s dinner looked better. I strained to keep my
eyes off his plate.

I didn’t really want to ask him for Kit’s photo, so I let openings slip by as the internal ethics battle waged inside me.
Finally, when the waiter came to clear our dishes, I knew it was do-or-die time. I was just about to take the plunge when
Graden put his napkin on the table and leaned forward.

“Okay, Knight. You’ve been fighting with yourself for the past half hour. Out with it.”

I didn’t know whether I was impressed or annoyed that he’d read me so easily. “I need that photo they found on Jake. The one
of Kit Chalmers.”

Graden lifted an eyebrow and looked somewhat taken aback. I’d known it was a lot to ask. Now I realized it was probably too
much, and I felt embarrassed and awkward.

Finally Graden spoke. “What for?” he asked.

I explained about my contact in the vigilante group. “If he can find this photograph on the Internet, or others that look
similar, I might be able to figure out who took the picture and dig into other possibilities.”

“Such as?”

“Everyone’s been assuming that Kit was blackmailing Jake. I’ve been thinking—half of that isn’t such a bad hypothesis. But
maybe the person Kit was blackmailing wasn’t Jake.” I knew the theory had holes, and Graden immediately went for the biggest
one.

“Then why was Jake the person in the room with him? And why was the photo hidden on Jake’s body? And why would Kit bring the
photograph if what he wanted was Jake’s protection?”

“Obviously I don’t have all the answers yet,” I said glumly.

“Or any,” he said.

I nodded.

Graden continued. “And I hate to keep shooting you down, but the motel clerk remembered that Jake asked for Kit’s room number
just before the shooting.” He looked at me meaningfully.

I gazed down at the table. It wasn’t big news, but it didn’t help matters either. I wanted to argue that if Jake was up to
no good, he wouldn’t have spoken so openly to the clerk. But obviously if he’d planned to be dead, that wouldn’t have mattered
to him.

“There’s more.”

Graden’s tone of voice told me that this time “more” wasn’t going to be better.

“We checked Jake’s cell phone records. He got a call from Kit earlier that day.” Graden paused. “And that wasn’t the only
one. We found calls between Jake and Kit going back for the past two years.”

“How many?”

“Not a lot, not a little. Seemed like every couple of months one or the other would call.”

I inhaled slowly, absorbing the news. It wasn’t exactly a signed
confession, but it didn’t help any. I sat gloomily as the weight of it all settled over me.

“Sorry, Rachel,” Graden said.

“No, no.” I shook my head. “I have to know. If it’s true about Jake, then I’m going to have to deal with it.” I considered
everything again. “But I’m not there yet.”

Graden nodded grimly. “I agree. I just want you to be prepared.”

I appreciated the thought, if not the implied prediction, and we sat in silence for a moment.

He looked around the room, then turned back to me. “If I do this, you’ll have to be extremely careful. That photograph is
going to have to stay way under wraps.”

The tightness in my chest relaxed, and my shoulders, previously hunched around my ears, dropped down as a sudden wave of relief
washed over me.

“And you can trust this vigilante guy not to flash it around or talk about how he got it?” Graden asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said with certainty. I’d have to make Clive understand the photograph had to be kept under lock and key without
letting him know that his possession of it was illegal. It was a fine line to walk with a big drop on the wrong side of it.

Graden watched me closely. “For both our sakes, I hope you’re right,” he said finally.

I nodded with as much confidence as I could muster and signaled to the waiter, who’d been standing near the bar with nothing
to do. He came quickly, carrying dessert menus. The early diners had left, and the restaurant was quiet. I knew it was just
a momentary lull in the action before the real dinner crowd showed up, but for now Graden and I were at one of only three
occupied tables.

I turned to him. “Dessert? I hear the crème brûlée is to die for.”

“Let’s share,” he said. “I’m pretty full.”

I handed the menu back to the waiter. “One crème brûlée, two spoons, coming up,” he said, and left.

“I’m going to ask a favor from you too,” Graden said.

“Yes?”

“Next time, don’t suffer. I get the feeling you don’t like to ask for much. But I don’t get bent about being asked for help,
especially when it’s for a worthy cause. So from now on, you want something, just tell me. I’ll do what I can.”

The waiter brought the crème brûlée and set out two spoons.

We clinked silverware, broke into the perfectly browned, crispy top layer, and savored the first mouthful. The firm yet creamy
pudding was just sweet enough without tipping over into sugary. We didn’t talk again until we were both scraping the bowl.

“You’ll have to give me some time to get my hands on it when no one’s looking. It’ll probably be a few days. Where’s a safe
place to get it to you?” Graden asked as I paid the bill.

“My place. We can meet in the bar. No one we have to worry about ever goes there.”

“A girl who’s got a bar in her home,” Graden remarked with a smile. “You know, there’s only one thing that could top that.”

“Let me guess. Room service?”

He grinned, getting up from the table. “Are we all that easy to read?”

“Just the ones who’re breathing.”

The next day,
I came into the office determined to bury myself in work and stay distracted. I didn’t want to think about the increasing
likelihood that things were exactly as they seemed with Jake and Kit. Lunch was a turkey wrap at my desk as I worked nonstop,
making my way through one case after another. After a few hours, I took a short breather to stretch and look out the window.
I noticed that the guard in the parking lot behind the building was asleep in his kiosk. It made me glad I wasn’t driving
my car to work. Break time over, I turned back to my desk and pushed through the stack of defense motions, sorting out the
ones I’d need to answer in writing. I’d had my head down, nose to the grindstone for an unknown amount of time, when I heard
Toni’s heels come clicking down the hallway. I thought it was early for her to be out of court already, but when I looked
up at the clock tower, I saw that it was already a quarter to five. Time flies when you’re in avoidance mode.

I called out, “Hey, Toni. How’d it go?”

Standing in my doorway, she looked all amped up.
Here we go again,
I thought,
the Toni and J.D. Show.
It’d be nice if they could manage to hang in there.

“You win every motion, or did he throw the defense a bone or two?” I joked. There was no way Judge Morgan would ever let his
relationship with Toni affect his rulings, but I saw no reason why that should stop me from teasing her about it.

Toni rolled her eyes in answer. “He won’t let me get in the ADW priors, but I don’t really need them. Otherwise my case is
looking pretty good… knock on wood,” she said, rapping on the door frame.

“That’s metal, and I agree, you don’t need any assault priors to nail these guys. Your case is solid,” I said.

But we both knew that trials were unpredictable things—with just a few of the wrong words from the wrong witness at the right
time, a sure winner could turn into a dog—so trial lawyers were notoriously superstitious. That’s how I knew that tomorrow
Toni would wear her lucky navy “believe me” suit when she started jury selection.

“How you doing?” she asked.

“Had dinner with Graden.”

Toni stepped in, closed the door, dropped her briefcase, and sat down. “Talk about burying your lead, girl.” She let her shoes
drop to the floor and put her feet up on the other chair. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

I filled her in.

She looked at me shrewdly. “So now he knows you’re a pit bull, and now you know he’s got a heart.”

I nodded. “I just hope this favor doesn’t ruin us both.”

“Dangerous business, messing around with evidence on an FBI case,” Toni agreed. She paused and checked her watch. “Damn. I’ve
got to run,” she said as she hurriedly slipped on her shoes and stood up.

“Where to?” I asked. Toni couldn’t date the judge during trial, and I knew she wasn’t seeing anyone else.

“I started a water-aerobics class at my gym last week. I’ve got five minutes to get there,” she said, picking up her briefcase
and opening the door. “Call me later,” she said. “Unless you’re in handcuffs.” Her laugh echoed down the hall as she walked
away.

I assessed the pile of motions on my desk. I’d whittled it down to one motion to suppress a defendant’s confession. I could
prove the case without it, and generally speaking I wasn’t big on using confessions anyway. They were almost always a Trojan
horse, a mixture of admission and avoidance, filled with “yes… but”s. If a defendant wants to bullshit the jury, let him do
it on the witness stand, where I have something to say about it. I wouldn’t cry if the judge threw out the confession, so
I decided to file a canned response and use the extra time for a workout.

Outside, the late-afternoon sun had waned, but it was still light out. The days were already lengthening, stretching out to
reach for spring. I pulled on the hated vest, threw my jacket over it, and felt the reassuring weight of the .357 as I slung
my purse over my shoulder. I paused at the door as I remembered I was supposed to call Bailey to come and get me. But it was
early, and there were plenty of people in the streets. I decided I could let her have the night off. As I trotted down the
hallway, I made a mental note to ask Toni what she thought of her water-aerobics class. It’d be a nice change from my no-frills
metal-and-mirrors gym routine.

The last stragglers hurried down the sidewalks toward bus stops and parking lots, their figures casting long shadows on the
concrete—a parallel universe of narrow giants that marched smoothly through lampposts and sparsely planted trees. I kept my
pace brisk, realizing that night was falling more rapidly than I’d expected.

I’d just cut through Pershing Square when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an old Lincoln stop in the middle of the
street just ahead of me. I’d barely had a second to register how strange that was when two dark figures leaped out of the
backseat, reached me in a couple of long, fast strides, and took me by the arms. I reflexively pulled back and away and started
to lift my foot to stomp on an instep when one of them threw a blanket over my head.

They quickly grabbed me by the head and feet, hoisted me up, and ran for the car. I kicked and bucked and tried to scream,
but the blanket muffled the sound. I felt myself tossed onto the floor of the backseat, and the hump in the middle hit me
in the stomach, winding me. I tried to catch my breath, but between the blanket and the sudden blow to my solar plexus, I
couldn’t seem to get any air. I began to panic, and my breath came in short, raspy spurts. I felt the two men jump into the
backseat, one at each end of me. I heard the car doors slam and then the engine gunning. The car peeled out, slamming my face
into the front seat. I gasped in pain and struggled for air that would not come. I felt my head swim and tried to fight what
I sensed was coming, but it was too late. My last thought was that no one would find me until I was beyond caring. Then everything
went black.