Guilt by Association (3 page)

Now I was pissed off. Since when does a DA get tossed out of a crime scene? Special case or no, this was bullshit.

I stepped down from the van. I was just about to open my mouth and get myself in trouble when the coroner’s assistants came
out single file, rolling two gurneys carrying body bags. Suddenly Scott came running out of the motel and yelled to one of
the assistants, “Get his glasses! Give me the glasses!”

The team rolling the first gurney came to an abrupt halt. They had been moving at a rapid pace, and when the assistant at
the head of the line came to a sudden stop, the gurney kept moving and banged into his hip, causing him to yelp and curse.
The other assistant, who’d been at the side of the gurney, quickly reached out and tugged down the zipper of the body bag.

Illuminated by the harsh streetlight, the face glowed a ghastly bluish white as the assistant lifted the wire-rim glasses
from behind the ears and handed them to Scott. I’d been around more than my share of dead bodies, but the searing shock of
what met my eyes made me reel and stumble backward into the side of the van. Then a firm hand gripped my arm, steadied me,
and led me away from the scene. I looked up and saw that the hand belonged to Lieutenant Hales. I dimly realized that he was
saying something, but I couldn’t make the sounds turn into words. I shook my head slowly, as if trying to wake up from a nightmare.
This couldn’t be real, I thought,
feeling as though I were watching a movie in slow motion with the sound turned too low. The coroner’s assistants loaded the
gurney into the cargo area, and I stopped, transfixed, still unable to believe what I’d seen. The lieutenant pulled me by
the elbow with one hand and pushed me on the back with the other, leaving me no choice. I moved in stiff, jerky steps, like
a windup toy whose key was on its last few turns. He steered me toward his unmarked car, and I numbly let him stuff me into
the passenger seat and buckle the seat belt.

I must’ve told him where I lived, but I don’t actually remember saying anything. I just remember staring blankly as the streets
rolled by, telling myself it couldn’t be, that I had to be wrong.

Jake Pahlmeyer, my office soul mate—dead. In a rat hole like this. I closed my eyes and told myself I’d been wrong. Irrationally,
I refused to ask the lieutenant. If no one confirmed it, it wouldn’t be true.

Lieutenant Hales pulled up
to the Biltmore, guided me out of the car, and walked me to the front entrance. Through the fog of denial and disbelief,
the shocked features of Angel, the doorman, floated before me.

“Rachel, what’s wrong?” he asked as he opened the door and took the elbow Hales wasn’t holding.

“She’s had a tough night,” Hales said tersely.

“I’ll take it from here,” Angel said proprietarily, with an accusatory glance at the lieutenant.

I didn’t have the energy or the sentience to explain that it was nothing the lieutenant had done. I remained mute as Angel
led me inside and steered me toward the elevator.

He managed to get me to my room, and I meant to thank him, though I’m not sure the words made it out of my mouth. All I know
is that the moment the door closed behind him, I pulled out the bottle of Russian Standard Platinum vodka someone had given
me a while ago and poured myself a triple shot.

I looked at the television. Was the story being aired yet? I decided I didn’t want to know. And I couldn’t bring myself to
call Toni. Talking about it would make it real. Right now, all I wanted was oblivion. I tossed down my drink, then poured
myself another and didn’t stop pouring until I passed out cold.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Less so now, the morning after. I had a jittery, buzzy kind of hangover that told
me this was going to be a really special day. I groaned as I got out of bed and crept into the shower. Somewhat revived, I
called room service and ordered my usual pot of coffee and 2 percent milk, but this time I decided to treat myself to some
real food—scrambled eggs and a bagel—instead of my usual egg whites and stewed tomatoes. Screw the diet; I needed some comfort
food.

I ate as I stared at the blank television screen, daring myself to turn it on. Finally curiosity won out over denial, and
I reached for the remote, dreading what I was about to see. But when I scrolled through the channels, I saw nothing. I tried
again. Still nothing. I frowned—that was odd, very odd. I clicked off the television and enjoyed the quiet that settled over
the room. In my current condition, the less noise, the better.

Not seeing the story mentioned on the news even fleetingly had left me feeling weirdly isolated, the whole experience of last
night surreal. Now eager to talk to Toni, I quickly downed enough coffee to be semifunctioning and went out onto the balcony
to check the weather. I pulled my fluffy robe around me and shivered at the cold bite in the air. The darkened skies told
me that the clouds that’d rolled in last night were going to show us why. I threw on gray wool gabardine slacks, a black turtleneck
sweater, and black low-heeled boots. I decided to pack my .357 Smith & Wesson revolver instead of the more compact Beretta.
After what I’d seen last night, I was willing to trade a lighter load for more firepower. I picked up my briefcase and the
black cashmere muffler that had been a Valentine’s Day present—for some reason it was the only souvenir I’d kept from my last
ill-fated relationship—wound it around my neck, and walked out to the elevator. I punched the down button and tried not to
wince at the sound of the bell when the doors slid open.

The brisk six-block walk to the courthouse marginally helped to
calm some of my jittery buzz, but as I approached the metal detectors, I noticed that I was holding the .357 in my pocket
in a death grip. I flashed my badge, and the deputy waved me through. Seeing an open elevator, I ran for it and quickly jumped
inside, then endured what felt like a million stops on the way to the eighteenth floor. I punched in the security code on
the main office door and realized that I was going to be right next to Jake’s office. I wondered whether they’d put up crime
scene tape to seal off his space and reflexively looked down the hall to see if it was there. Not yet. But the glimpse of
his closed door undid me, and my eyes filled with tears. I blinked them back, then took deep breaths as I turned and walked
up the hall, away from my office.

“Knock, knock,” I whispered hoarsely, unable to bear the sound of my knuckles on the frame of Toni’s open door.

Toni, who’d been working on her computer, turned to look at me. “My oh my, but you look like shit. So was it a very bad night
or a very good one?”

I sank into the county-issue metal-framed chair that faced her desk. The sky had grown even darker in the few minutes it had
taken me to ride up in the elevator. Right on cue, the first big, bloated drops of rain began to splat against the window.
I took another deep breath, swallowed, and tried to make myself say the words I still didn’t want to believe. “Tone,” I began,
then had to stop. A lump swelled in my throat as the enormity of it all hit me afresh.

Toni regarded me with alarm.

“Honey, what is it? You okay?” she asked.

“It’s Jake. He’s dead.”

Toni reflexively looked in the direction of his office. “What?” She shook her head, her face closed in denial.

I nodded, struggling to stop a fresh wave of tears. Her face frozen in shock, Toni automatically handed me the box of Kleenex
we all kept at our desks for victims and their families.

As I pulled a tissue out of the box, it occurred to me that this was the first time I could remember either one of us using
it.

“How? He’s, what, thirty-five?” Toni said as she focused on a point on the wall to the left of my head, trying to grasp the
reality. “Was it a car accident?”

I shook my head and swallowed. “Somebody killed him, Tone.”

“No,” Toni said, shaking her head again. “That can’t be,” she said softly, almost to herself.

I told her what I’d seen the night before.

As I spoke, Toni folded her arms around her body and leaned forward.

“Our Jake—in that sleazebag motel. I can’t believe it. He was like my…” Toni broke off.

“… little brother,” I said, finishing the thought.

She nodded as her eyes welled up with tears. She bit her lip, then put a hand over her mouth, trying in vain to rein in her
emotions. “It’s so wrong for someone so… young and so sweet to be… dead,” Toni said.

At her words, the last photo taken of my sister, Romy, with her sixth-grade gap-toothed smile, filled my mind, and my throat
tightened with pain. I nodded, overcome, unable to speak. As always, I pushed the thought of Romy away. It did no good to
revisit the memories that always ended in the same abyss of guilt and self-loathing.

I sat unmoving, trying not to think. Toni blinked rapidly and put a hand to her chest, as though to ease the ache in her heart.
“Do you know if he has any family in L.A.? Or a girlfriend?” she asked.

In all the time we’d spent together, he’d never once mentioned his parents. But since we’d never really talked about anything
personal, I’d never given it any thought until now. I scoured my memory for any personal snippet. “He never mentioned a girlfriend,
but he did mention a sister.”

“What in the hell was he doing in that hole anyway?” Toni asked,
her features twisted in confusion. “And who on earth would want to kill him?”

I’d been asking myself the same things for the past several hours. I shook my head, and we sat in silence for a moment. I
again tried to make sense of it. And again I failed.

“I guess the Feds will handle the case?” Toni asked.

“Yeah, it’s a conflict of interest for us, so it’ll go to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”

Toni’s intercom buzzed, and we both stared at it as though it were a UFO. It had to buzz a second time before she finally
reached out and picked up the phone.

“Yes?” Toni answered. She listened for a moment, then said, “Yeah, she’s here. Send him down.”

I looked at her quizzically. Before she could reply, a cop appeared in the doorway. It took me a second to recognize him as
the brass from the crime scene. He had a gritty, stubbly look that told me he hadn’t been to bed yet, but his uniform still
seemed remarkably crisp.

He nodded to Toni, then to me. “Lieutenant Hales, from last night,” he said. “I drove you—”

“I remember, of course.” My tone was frosty at best. Shooting the messenger.

“I was in the office for a meeting with your boss—”

“Eric?” I asked.

“No, Bill Vanderhorn.”

I nodded to myself. Of course. With a case this politically sensitive, he wouldn’t meet with the head of Special Trials—he’d
go straight to the DA.

“The case going to the Feds?” I asked.

“Probably,” he said noncommittally. His attitude made it clear he didn’t want to discuss it, which annoyed me even more. If
he didn’t want to talk about the case, then what the hell did he want?

He seemed to sense my irritation. “I just wanted to make sure you were, you know, okay.”

The warmth in his voice startled me. I looked up and saw that he was watching me intently, his expression one of concern.
The personal interest flustered me and made me uncomfortable, which only served to increase my irritation. I knew that, as
Carla would say, I was just displacing my grief with anger. Carla had been my childhood shrink in the aftermath of Romy’s
disappearance. Twenty-six years later, with five hundred miles separating us, she was still a major force in my life. But
I didn’t care what Carla would say. I’d burned right through the denial stage of grief and was eager to get to the fury. Anger
was good. I was comfortable with anger. And action. I needed to do something about this. I wanted to get the son of a bitch
who’d killed Jake.

“How about telling us what you’ve got? There’s no point keeping a lid on it. The news’ll be all over the place within the
next hour, and we both know the DA’s office won’t be handling the case.”

Hales frowned and fell silent for a moment.

“She has a point, Lieutenant,” Toni said, using the velvety voice that usually made men blubber and stammer.

Hales did neither. If anything, his expression seemed to get more strained. He stared out the window, and I followed his gaze.
The rain was beating steadily now, and traffic had snarled to a stop on First Street. A cab that’d been barreling down Temple
Street came to a brake-squealing halt inches behind the bumper of a brand-new Mercedes that was ambling slowly through the
intersection. I saw the cabbie lean out and shake his fist and then lift a middle finger at the driver of the Benz, who continued
to amble at his own pace, slowly and implacably. I shared a moment of empathy with the cabbie.

“Please, my name’s Graden.” He paused a moment. “How well did you know Jake?”

I could tell him a lot about Jake professionally—the good-luck “believe me” suit he always wore at closing argument, his favorite
judges and least favorite defense attorneys, but I knew that wasn’t what Graden was after. When it came to the personal things,
I had nothing—I couldn’t even have said whether Jake liked Chinese food. I frowned as I realized how bad that would look.
But I knew Hales would find out for himself soon enough, and since he wasn’t answering my questions, I didn’t feel any obligation
to answer his. I kept it short and sweet. “Pretty well. He’s one of the best lawyers in the office and one of the hardest
workers. Everyone in the unit liked him.”

That actually said a lot, though I doubted Hales would know that. Special Trials was a small unit, just seven deputies, and
the major-league egos assigned to the unit were always on the prowl for the big case, which occasionally led to some nasty
politicking. Personally, I never got into that politicking—not because I didn’t want the big case but because I was superstitious.
I firmly believed that if you chased a case, it would come back to bite you.

But Jake never chased a case because he never cared about being a star—he just wanted to be in trial, so he’d take whatever
came his way. This led to him getting more than his fair share of dogs, but it also meant that he was beloved by the piranhas
in the unit. And the fact that he wound up being a star anyway said everything about how talented he really was.
Was
. My throat closed up again. I held my breath and willed the tears back as I looked out the window to give myself a moment.