Guilt by Association (8 page)

“So Graden’s riding point on Jake’s case,” I said, bringing us back around to the more immediate issue.

Bailey nodded. “The working theory right now is that the kid they found with Jake was blackmailing him. Kid’s nude picture
was in Jake’s shirt pocket. Jake couldn’t pay—he cracked and decided to check out and take the kid with him.”

“Is that so?” I said, suddenly incensed by the cavalier judgment. “Did anyone ever stop to consider that nothing about this
fits the person Jake actually was? Not a fucking thing!”

Bailey raised an eyebrow. “The person Jake actually was? Something you want to tell me about you and—”

“Of course not,” I said heatedly. “It’s just not right. He was a good guy, and he deserves better than to have everyone believe…
this crap.”

Bailey nodded as Drew reappeared. While she ordered dinner (in the most sultry voice I’d heard outside of a James Bond movie),
I forced myself to power down. It wasn’t Bailey’s fault that everyone was taking this crime at face value. When Drew turned
to me, I was tempted to again throw dietary caution to the wind and get the shrimp scampi Bailey had ordered, but I took pity
on my waistband and got the salad niçoise instead. Drew made a face that said “Again?” but I ignored him. He probably hadn’t
gained a pound he didn’t want since he was born.

As Drew left to turn in our orders, I said, “Sorry, Bailey. I’m just wondering why no one’s digging below the first inch.
I knew Jake pretty well, and I—”

She put up a hand to stop me. “You’re preaching to the choir. But I want you to prepare yourself. How well did you really
know Jake? Did you go to his crib? Did he come here? Did you meet his family? His girlfriend? You ever do anything together
except work in an office?”

I just shook my head. And as far as I knew there was no girlfriend. An unbidden tendril of doubt snaked its way into my thoughts.
At Jake’s age, and with his looks and charm, there should have been a woman, a man—
someone
in his life, past or present, who should have come up in conversation at least once. Closemouthed as I was, I’d certainly
mentioned Daniel’s name a time or two. I didn’t like the way this was making me feel. “Look, I’m not saying you don’t have
a point, okay? I just want to make sure they don’t close the case before they’ve explored all the options.”

“Why don’t you talk to Hales?”

“I have. He basically said the same thing you did. And he’s being really closemouthed about it for some reason,” I groused.

“He’s probably under pressure not to leak.”

I took another sip of my drink and pondered what I could do on my own. Being a prosecutor, I was not, as they say, without
resources.

Bailey looked at me appraisingly. “What’re you going to do?”

“Not sure yet.”

Drew brought my salad and Bailey’s scampi. My stomach growled as I inhaled the rich aromas floating up from her plate.

Bailey smiled. “Want a bite?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” I said, picking up my fork.

“And… Rache?”

“Yep?” I said as I concentrated on getting my fork under a good, healthy chunk of Bailey’s shrimp. It melted in my mouth,
and I savored the mix of flavors for a moment, then realized that Bailey was waiting to get my attention. I looked up at her.

“I’ll help.”

I stopped midchew. Going out on a limb for a friend is one thing; stepping off a cliff is another. If she got caught reaching
into this cookie jar, she’d get in big trouble for digging into a case that wasn’t hers. I didn’t know what to say. The better
part of me wanted to stop her, but the part of me that wanted to solve this case told me to shut up and accept her offer.
I left the better part of me muzzled and hog-tied in the corner. The only thing I could say for myself was that I’d try to
minimize Bailey’s exposure and ask for her help as little as possible. I couldn’t find words big enough to stretch around
the gratitude I felt, so I just nodded and let my look of thanks and the beat of silence say it for me.

Bailey took another sip of her drink. The taste of her scampi had left my mouth watering for more. Unable to resist, I lifted
my fork and took aim at another piece of shrimp. Proving there were limits even to a friendship as close as ours, Bailey pulled
her plate away protectively.

I reluctantly withdrew my fork and turned my attention to my salad. Eyeballed a slice of hard-boiled egg. Pretended it looked
delicious.

I opened my eyes
the next morning, saw it was only 8:30, and burrowed deeper into the thousand-thread-count Frette sheets. Bailey had arranged
to have the crime scene people meet us at Susan’s house at 10:30 a.m., so I’d told Melia that I’d be “out in the field” on
the Densmore case. Going to crime scenes was a great way to get out of the office and, in this case, a rare chance to sleep
in.

It was a clear but brisk morning, so I dressed warmly in a long stretchy wool skirt and knee-high boots. I felt a lot better
now that I’d run out of hangover, and I swore I’d never do that to myself again. I called Rafi, the valet, and asked him to
pull my car out for me, to make up for the tip he didn’t get when Bailey parked at the curb last night. I hardly ever drove,
so I didn’t worry about setting a financial precedent I couldn’t keep up with. I winced as he pulled my little Accord out
to the curb. It was looking pretty dusty, and I didn’t have time to hit the car wash. Hell of a way to show up in Richie Rich–land.
Oh well. I plugged in my iPod and hit my jazz-mix playlist. I floated along to Stanley Turrentine and Maceo Parker and barely
noticed the traffic.

By the time I got to the Densmores’ manse, Bailey had arrived and was standing in front of an open car trunk, talking to the
crime scene tech. I was glad to see that it was Dorian. Short, square, and
no-nonsense, Dorian, one of the few veteran female criminalists, had processed more crime scenes in her twenty-two years on
the job than most of us had ever heard of. Trust Bailey to make sure we got the best.

“Hey, Dorian, you’re back,” I said. She’d been in the Firearms Identification Unit for the past year.

“Yeah, I liked it for a while, but I missed the field,” she said. That response, for Dorian, was a long, windy story. She
hoisted her crime scene analysis kit out of her trunk. “Shall we do this?”

“I doubt you’ll find any prints,” I said as we began to walk toward the house. “This guy was pretty careful, so I’m thinking
hair or fiber is more likely.”

Dorian nodded. The same housekeeper from before answered the door. She motioned for us to enter. This time, Dorian got the
skeptical eye. Gratified it wasn’t just me, I looked for Dorian’s reaction; if she noticed, she didn’t show it. We tromped
up to Susan’s room, and Dorian set down her kit; pulled on latex gloves, paper bootees, and a hairnet; and went to work.

“I’m guessing you two have already been in here,” Dorian said as she entered the room. We nodded. She gestured for us to stay
at the doorway, shaking her head in mild disgust.

She was right. We should’ve stayed out until she’d processed the scene, though by now everyone and his duck had clomped through
the room; still, extra care at any point couldn’t hurt. I reflected that the world would be a better-run place if Dorian were
in charge.

“I’ll need your hair samples and whatever you were wearing—for elimination. Hers too,” she said, nodding in the direction
of the housekeeper. “And the parents, and anyone else who had access. I’m guessing there’s quite a list.”

Bailey and I nodded obediently, and I again glanced at the French doors of Susan’s bedroom, trying to imagine how the rapist
had gotten in through a second-story window. Even with the balcony access,
it had to be a pretty steep climb. It was no mystery how he’d gotten away—in a house this big, he was probably already on
the freeway by the time anyone heard Susan screaming. I decided to go get the lay of the land outside Susan’s window.

“I’m going to walk around,” I told Bailey.

“Feel free to join her,” Dorian said pointedly, looking at Bailey before returning to her inspection of the window.

I tried to hide my chuckle under a throat-clearing maneuver—and failed. Bailey raised her chin, snorted, and stomped down
the hall. I sauntered behind her, taking in the scenery I hadn’t had time to notice before. Original artwork lined the walls—a
little too modern and abstract for my taste, but I recognized the artists and knew that the paintings cost a small fortune.
No expense was spared: everything, down to the smallest detail—an antique miniature crystal bell that rested on an imported
Italian credenza of inlaid wood, a thick silken rope of subtle golden hues that held back the drape in the drawing room—was
unique and of the highest quality. This was more money than I’d ever been close to. I kept my peasant hands to myself and
moved quickly toward the back of the house, through the predictably enormous kitchen—two dishwashers, two Sub-Zero built-in
refrigerators—and out the servants’ entrance to the backyard.

Bailey, who’d briskly preceded me, was standing on the patio behind the house, under Susan’s balcony. I joined her and looked
up, judging the height to be about twenty feet, then scanned the area for means of access. It didn’t take long. Leaning up
against a tall peppertree was a painter’s ladder that looked as if it could’ve extended out to forty feet.

“You see any signs of painting going on?” Bailey asked as she looked around the property.

I shook my head. We walked across the rear patio. Sure enough, painters were working on the balustrades of the balcony that
led into what I guessed was the master bedroom.

“If you had any doubt about our perp being someone who knew the family…” Bailey shielded her eyes with her hand and gazed
up at the house.

“I didn’t, but this clinches it. Whoever it was knew where to find Susan and knew that there was a ladder available.”

Which made this a creepier rape than most. While it’s true that a vast majority of rapes are committed by someone known to
the victim, it’s usually a date-rape situation. This MO had the feel of a serial rapist—but serial rapists didn’t pick victims
they knew. Nothing about this fit.

We headed around to the front of the house. “Think Mrs. Doctor is around?” Bailey asked.

As we passed by the living room window, I thought I saw a flash of movement. I motioned for Bailey to join me as I moved up
the front walk and rang the doorbell.

The housekeeper answered again, this time looking even less excited to see us. I asked, “Is Mrs. Densmore in?”

She eyed us skeptically, as though we might just be playing around and really didn’t need to see the lady of the house. I
put on my serious Humphrey Bogart face to show her we meant business, and she sighed and motioned us into the foyer, then
left us there. Two minutes later, Janet Densmore emerged, looking as if she’d stepped out of an ad for the St. John clothing
line.

“Sorry to bother you,” Bailey said in a voice that clearly conveyed the opposite.

“Please—I’m happy to help however I can,” Janet said gracefully and with apparent sincerity.

“I wanted to ask you,” I said, “does Susan go to your husband’s clinics?”

Janet shook her head. “His first clinic was in a bad area of town, so we didn’t want her… exposed. By the time he started
to open clinics in safer areas, Susan was already seven years old and she’d
gotten used to her own doctor. So we didn’t see any real need to switch her.”

“Where does Susan go, then?” I asked.

“Why are you asking?” Janet queried.

“I’m just looking for places where someone might have information on Susan that she’s not aware of. Because whoever did this
knew where she slept and how to get to her,” I replied.

Janet looked stricken. “But a clinic? I wouldn’t have thought…” She sighed to herself and stared off for a moment, suffering
with the thought that Susan might have been stalked.

“We just have to consider everything at this point, Mrs. Densmore—,” I said.

“Janet, please,” she said. “But doesn’t it make sense that it was the boy she was tutoring?”

“It absolutely does,” I replied. “But, like I said, we can’t afford to ignore any possibilities just yet.”

That seemed to comfort her somewhat. “I’ll be glad to give you the address of the health center,” she said. She paused and
smiled to herself. “But I doubt you’ll need to talk to her doctor. He’s about seventy-five years old. I don’t see him climbing
through any windows at this point.”

We shared a brief smile before I continued. “I’ve got the list you gave to Jake of all the places Susan visits regularly and
all the people that come to the house. Is there anyone you want to add?” It was a surprisingly short list. The only thing
missing had been Susan’s clinic. Even Useless had been able to run down—and exclude—just about everybody on it already.

Janet thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“Just two more quick things,” I said. “We’re going to need hair and fiber samples from you and your husband, the housekeeper,
and anyone else who had access to Susan’s room. Unless that’s already been done?” I said, and paused to let her confirm what
I already knew: that Lambkin hadn’t done squat.

She shook her head. “Will someone come here, or do you need us to go in to the station?”

“We’ll have Dorian do it here. And can you tell us when the painters started work on that balcony? The one off the master
bedroom?”

Janet nodded. “He came in through the window. Of course.” She looked down at the floor for a moment. “I believe it was about
a week before the… it happened. But I can go back through our paperwork and pin down the exact date, if you like.”

“I would, thank you. That’s all for now. We’re going to check on Dorian’s progress, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Shall I have Esperanza show you the way?”

“I think we can manage.” We turned to go. “We’ll be out of here as soon as possible.”

“Take your time, and please don’t hesitate to ask for anything. I’m happy to do whatever it takes. I want that monster in
jail.”