Guilt by Association (30 page)

When I logged on, I was surprised to find that I had a message from Clive waiting for me in my in-box. “Per your request,
I’ve
attached photos that look like the kind that were taken of your victim. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

I sent the AB guy’s photo to Clive with a request to find out if the suspect showed up anywhere. Then I opened the attachment
from Clive’s e-mail. There were seven photos of young boys, all around the same age as Kit. As I looked closely, I saw that
they all had the same background as Kit’s photo—the lighting, the dimensions of the seemingly unfurnished room, and something
else: a black vertical line. I started to focus in on that detail, then got a sudden jolt when one of the faces sprang out
at me: it was Dante.

I felt the adrenaline rush I always got when the pieces of a puzzle started to fit. If Dante saw this picture, it might trigger
the memory of who took it and where. I called him, nervously pacing as I willed him to pick up. Instead I got his voice mail.
Frustrated, I left a message telling him to call me immediately. Then I returned to the photos to study the background detail
again. I went from photo to photo. There it was, in every single one. I pulled up Kit’s photo, just to make sure—I was right;
it was there too.

I took out my magnifying glass to get a closer look and pored over every millimeter of the line in the background of each
photograph. One by one, over and over. But there wasn’t enough detail to tell what it was—the photographs were surprisingly
grainy and unprofessional-looking.

Whatever it was, it had to have been part of the room, not just a random shadow or developing artifact. This was proof positive
that all of the photos had been taken in the same place. With a little luck, Dante could tell me where that was.

I wished I’d kept the original photo of Kit, but I hadn’t wanted to risk getting Graden in trouble, so I’d sent it back to
him through Bailey. As I paced, my cell phone—now off vibrator mode—played the refrain from “Love Street” by the Doors. I’d
downloaded the tune in a fit of boredom during one of our stakeouts at the Oki-Dog, though I had to admit it was a little
on the nose.

It was Dante. Eager for answers, I got right to the point.

“I found a photo of you on the Net. I’m going to send it to you right now. I need you to tell me what you remember about it,”
I said.

Dante blew out a long breath, and there was silence on the line for a few beats. Finally he said, “Send it.”

I told Dante he’d have the photo in five seconds, then hung up and sent it. My phone rang twenty seconds later.

“That photo of me, I don’t remember it at all. And it’s kinda weird-looking, not like the usual stuff we do,” Dante said,
his voice puzzled.

I’d hoped for more, though I wasn’t surprised. He’d warned me before that he washed out memories of his photo shoots. But
the fact that the photograph was out of the norm was an important little nugget. It didn’t do much for me now, but it might
at some point. I told him I’d stay in touch, and we hung up. I remembered an earlier text message from T’Chia, Kit’s girlfriend.
She’d decided to come clean, and told me Kit had bragged to her not long before he died about being into some big-money deal.
She’d figured it had to do with dope, which she didn’t want to hear about, so she hadn’t asked for any details.

It wasn’t such a big revelation. With Kit’s nude photo in Jake’s pocket, blackmail had been in the center ring right from
the start. The question was, who was Kit blackmailing?

I started to pace again and stepped out onto the balcony. The sun was nearly gone, but remnants of the light lingered like
a shimmering cloak trailing behind a departing king. The sky above the horizon had begun its infusion of purples and indigos
that would seep down into the glow and envelop the last rays of sunlight.

All in all, it hadn’t been such a bad day, productivity-wise. We’d lost the AB guy at the gas station, and I couldn’t yet
say whether he was the rapist, but I had to be right that he was the one who’d vandalized my car and taken shots at Bailey
and me. And now that he’d
seen us go after him, he had to know we were on to him. This was as safe as I was going to get until we locked him up.

My cell phone played “Love Street” again. I enjoyed the song for a moment, then answered.

“I never realized how packed this place is,” Graden said without preamble.

“What place?”

“The evidence room. Next time some defense attorney whines about all the shit we forgot to do, I’ll show him around this joint,”
he remarked dryly. “Anyway, you still in the mood to check out what we’ve got?”

I’d barely hung up before I was out the door and on the street, headed toward the Police Administration Building. I moved
briskly, wondering if it would be pushing my luck to ask Graden to check out the photo of the AB guy and see what he could
find.

His door was open, and he was standing at the conference table to the right of his desk. Strewn across the table were bags
with evidence tags. I knocked on the door frame, and he looked up and motioned for me to come in.

“It’s a lovely evening for sifting through evidence of a homicide, don’t you think?” he said with a grin.

“Is there ever a bad time?” I asked, smiling.

“It’ll be a bad time if anyone sees you in here, so close the door.”

I did as he said and walked over to the table.

“They basically cut out the entire carpet and pulled off every piece of lint, flint, and loose change they could find. And,
of course, every possible surface was examined for DNA, then dusted for prints,” Graden said, scanning the table.

“And?” I asked.

“No dice on the prints or DNA—”

“Damn,” I said, disappointed.

Graden nodded, agreeing. “We door-knocked the motel for witnesses.”

“I’ll bet that was fun,” I said dryly.

“The junkie down the hall from the room thinks he saw a guy walking out of the motel right after the shots were fired, but
he can’t remember size or weight, just said the ‘dude wasn’t big and wasn’t small.’ He didn’t see his hair, so we don’t even
have the hairstyle or color. And he didn’t see what room the guy walked out of, so this mystery man may not even be related
to the case,” Graden said, shaking his head.

“So I guess you’re about ready to make an arrest,” I replied.

“Yeah, we’re on the brink,” he said, shaking his head again. He gestured to several plastic baggies in a box at the corner
of the table. “I’ve gone through it all. That’s what they found on the carpet.”

I looked through them one by one. Loose change, a lighter, some cigarette butts, burnt matches, a single cheap earring. Nothing
exciting. “I’m not seeing much here,” I said, sighing.

“I know,” Graden agreed. He opened his drawer and took out a bag of what looked like M&M’s and offered it to me. “Consolation
prize? And what’s probably going to be your dinner.”

I looked at the bag. “It seems different somehow,” I said as I dumped some candy into my hand.

“It’s their latest development. Not on the shelves yet.”

I looked at Graden. “It’s a free sample, right? They give you this kind of stuff because of your video game.”

“Guilty,” he admitted.

“This is shameless swag,” I said, amused.

“Which doesn’t bother me because I am shameless.” Graden grinned. “But it’s pretty good, no?”

I nodded, thinking that it wasn’t, actually. It was supposed to be coconut-flavored, but it tasted kind of soapy. I handed
the candy back to him, then turned to the table and sifted through a few more evidence bags. “What’s this?” I held up a plastic
baggie with a sparkly round… something.

“I’m thinking it probably fell off a hooker outfit,” he replied.

That fit. “And what about those?” I asked, pointing to the cigarette butts. “No DNA?”

“Not much, and what we did get didn’t match either Jake or Kit or anyone in the database.”

I sighed, feeling defeated. “What about the bathroom? Find anything in there?”

“Nothing you want to hear about,” Graden said. “But I do have something for you.”

I gave him a sidelong glance. “Careful. Remember, I’ve got a permit now.”

“If you shoot, you won’t get to hear this,” he said, returning my mock warning look. “One of the senior ballistics experts
is a buddy of mine from a big gangland murder a couple of years ago. You might’ve heard of it. Some bangers went out for retaliation
and shot up the wrong apartment. Wound up killing a little boy who was asleep in his bouncer.”

I remembered. It was a heartrending case that even the shooters were ashamed of. “From what I remember, your expert clinched
the case for first-degree murder, didn’t he?”

Graden nodded. “The defense couldn’t touch him. He’s top-of-the-line. I slipped him the autopsy and crime scene reports on
Jake and Kit, and asked him to tell me what he thought of the FBI’s murder-suicide theory.”

“And?” I asked, afraid to breathe.

“He said the angle of entry and the wound track in Jake’s head are off. No way Jake’s death was a suicide.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding in a big whoosh as relief washed through me. “And if Jake was shot by someone else,
it’s much less likely that Jake killed Kit. Which means it’s much less likely he was being blackmailed by Kit.” I paused to
consider the significance of what Graden had just told me. “Your man would testify to that?”

Graden nodded. “He’s solid on this one.”

I sat down heavily, yet I’d never felt lighter. “Thank you.” I looked at him gratefully. “Seriously.”

“No, I should be the one to thank you. If you hadn’t pushed for a deeper look, I might not have gotten into it. And who knows
what the Feds would’ve done? So thank you for saving us all from making a big mistake,” Graden said.

“As much as I hate to say it, Kit could still have been blackmailing Jake. It might just mean that there’s a third party involved
in the mess,” I said.

“We can’t rule that out. But nixing the murder-suicide theory isn’t a bad start.”

That much was certainly true.

“I think I’m ready for some more of that weird candy now,” I said.

Graden poured some into my palm, took a little for himself, and closed the M&M’s in his hand. He held that hand out to me,
and we bumped candy-filled fists.

“To a pretty good day,” he said.

“To that.” I popped the candy into my mouth and thought it didn’t taste so bad after all.

Graden dropped me back
at the Biltmore. Hoping I was on a good-news roll, I hurried to my room, eager to get to my computer and see if I’d heard
from Clive Zorn. I logged on. Nothing. I could feel our suspect slip farther out of reach by the minute. Impatient, I looked
at my watch. It was a little after 9:00, not too late to call Bailey.

“Got anything on our AB guy?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she replied.

I was silent as I considered our next move. “The jerk may not show up in the database, and I don’t like losing all this time.
Why don’t we push his picture around and see if anyone recognizes him? Hit all of Densmore’s health centers? If we’re right
about his involvement in the rape, I want to figure out how he wound up targeting Susan.”

“I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning,” Bailey said. “Seven thirty a.m. sharp. Be on time.”

I hung up and took a hot shower to calm my nerves. That didn’t work, so I opened a bottle of pinot noir. That worked a little
better. I took an insomnia-curing murder-mystery novel to bed with my glass of wine. Before I knew it, I’d dropped off to
sleep.

The next morning, I woke up feeling claustrophobic. I panicked for a second, then realized the book was spread open on my
face. I
tossed it onto the bed and went to take another long, steamy shower. After a quick blow-dry and makeup job, I dressed comfortably
in wool slacks and a turtleneck. It was going to be a long day in the field.

“You’ve got the addresses of all Densmore’s clinics—excuse me, I mean ‘health centers’?” I asked Bailey as I buckled myself
into the passenger seat. I handed her one of the coffees I’d purchased in the café downstairs.

“No.”

“Oh good. Then we’re just going to drive around and hope one happens to appear?” I asked. Morning is not my specialty. Bailey
knows this and loves to take advantage of my weakened condition.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Knight. No one would do that,” she deadpanned.

See?

Refusing to be baited any further, I folded my arms and waited for the answer as we crawled through morning rush-hour traffic
toward the freeway entrance.

“We’re going to the main office in Beverly Hills. The administrator’s going to be there, and she’ll give us the list.”

“I don’t suppose you could’ve told me that to begin with,” I said. The answer was obvious, so Bailey didn’t bother. We drove
on in silence.

The Beverly Hills Children’s Health Center was located on a leafy drive unimaginatively called Elm Street, in the area known
as the “flats.” The homes were charming and extremely well tended, but they weren’t the palatial manses to the north that
the city was famous for.

When we entered the one-story building, there were only a few children waiting. Two of them were sitting on their mommies’
laps, and one was lying on the floor, coloring a Little Mermaid book. None of them looked particularly sick to me, but kids
are pretty tough.

Bailey and I walked over to the small reception area, and a youngish woman with a blond ponytail and pink lips looked up.
“Can I help you?” she asked.

Bailey pulled out her badge. “We’re here to see the office administrator, Evelyn Durrell.”

The girl’s eyes widened momentarily when she saw the badge. “I’ll just go tell her you’re here,” she said. She got up and
quickly disappeared into the clinic. Badges can be helpful.

Seconds later, the ponytailed girl emerged. In her wake was a woman of medium build, about Bailey’s height, with short brown
hair and glasses pushed on top of her head, sporting a nubby cardigan and slacks. She came out to the reception desk and motioned
us in as she buzzed the door. When we entered, she held out her hand.