Switchblade: An Original Story (6 page)

“We don’t have a lot of time, so let’s move on. When was the last time you saw Giselle Dallinger in person?”

“Sunday night late—and when I left her she was alive.”

“Where?”

“At her apartment.”

“Why did you go there?”

“I went to get money from her but I didn’t get any.”

“What money and why didn’t you get it?”

“She went out on a job and my arrangement with her is I get paid a percentage of what she makes. I had set her up on a Pretty Woman Special and I wanted my share—these girls, if you don’t get the money right away, it has a tendency to disappear up their noses and other places.”

I wrote down a summary of what he had just said even though I wasn’t sure what most of it meant.

“Are you saying that Giselle was a drug user?”

“I would say so, yes. Not out of control, but it’s part of the job and part of the life.”

“Tell me about the Pretty Woman Special. What does that mean?”

“The client takes a suite at the Beverly Wilshire like in the movie
Pretty Woman.
Giz had the Julia Roberts thing going, you know? Especially after I had her photos airbrushed. I assume you can figure it out from there.”

I had never seen the movie but knew it was a story about a prostitute with a heart of gold meeting the man of her dreams on a paid date at the Beverly Wilshire.

“How much was the fee for that?”

“It was supposed to be twenty-five hundred.”

“And your take?”

“A thousand, but there was no take. She said it was a dead call.”

“What’s that?”

“She gets there and there’s nobody home, or whoever answers the door says he didn’t call for her. I check these things out as best as I can. I check IDs, everything.”

“So you didn’t believe her.”

“Let’s just say I was suspicious. I had talked to the man in that room. I called him through the hotel operator. But she claimed there was nobody there and the room wasn’t even rented.”

“So you argued about it?”

“A little bit.”

“And you hit her.”

“What? No! I have never hit a woman. I’ve never hit a man, either! I didn’t do this. Can’t you be—”

“Look, Andre, I’m just gathering information here. So you didn’t hit her or hurt her. Did you physically touch her anywhere?”

La Cosse hesitated and in that I knew there was a problem.

“Tell me, Andre.”

“Well, I grabbed her. She wouldn’t look at me and so that made me think she was lying. So I grabbed her up around her neck—with one hand only. She got mad and I got mad and that was it. I left.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, nothing. Well, out on the street, when I was going to my car, she threw an ashtray down at me from her balcony. It missed.”

“But how did you leave it when you were up in the apartment?”

“I said I was going to go back to the hotel and knock on the guy’s door myself and get our money. And I left.”

“What room was it and what was the guy’s name?”

“He was in eight thirty-seven. His name was Daniel Price.”

“Did you go to the hotel?”

“No, I just went home. I decided it wasn’t worth it.”

“It seemed worth it when you grabbed her by the throat.”

He nodded at the inconsistency but didn’t offer any further explanation. I moved off the subject—for now.

“Okay, then what happened? When did the police come?”

“They showed up at about five yesterday.”

“Morning or afternoon?”

“Afternoon.”

“Did they say how they came up with you?”

“They knew about her website. That led to me. They said they had questions and I agreed to talk to them.”

Always a mistake, voluntarily talking to the cops.

“Do you remember their names?”

“There was Detective Whitten and he did most of the talking. His partner’s name was something like Weeder. Something like that.”

“Why did you agree to talk to them?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I did nothing wrong and wanted to help? I stupidly thought that they were trying to find out what happened to poor Giselle, not that they came with what they thought happened and just wanted to plug me into it.”

Welcome to my world,
I thought.

“Did you know she was dead before they arrived?”

“No, I had been calling and texting her all day and leaving messages. I was sorry about the whole blowup the night before. But she didn’t call back and I thought she was still mad about the argument. Then they came and said she was dead.”

Obviously, when a prostitute is found dead, one of the first places the investigation goes is to the pimp, even if it is a digital pimp who doesn’t fit the stereotype of sadistic bruiser and who doesn’t keep the women in his stable in line through threat and physical abuse.

“Did they record the conversation with you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did they inform you of your constitutional right to have an attorney present?”

“Yes, but that was later at the station. I didn’t think I needed an attorney. I did nothing wrong. So I said fine, let’s talk.”

“Did you sign a waiver form of any kind?”

“Yes, I signed something—I didn’t really read it.”

I held my displeasure in check. Most people who enter the criminal justice system end up being their own worst enemies. They literally talk their way into the handcuffs.

“Tell me how this went. You talked to them at first in your home and then they took you to West Bureau?”

“Yes, first we were in my place for about fifteen minutes and then they took me to the station. They said they wanted me to look at some photos of suspects but that was just a lie. They never showed me any photos. They put me in a little interview room and kept asking questions. Then they told me I was under arrest.”

I knew that for them to make the arrest they had to have physical or eyewitness evidence linking La Cosse to the murder in some way. In addition, something he told them must not have squared with the facts. Once he lied, or they thought he lied, he was arrested.

“Okay, and you told them about going to the victim’s apartment on Sunday night?”

“Yes, and I told them she was alive when I left.”

“Did you tell them about grabbing her by the neck?”

“Yes.”

“Was that before or after they read you your rights and had you sign the waiver?”

“Uh, I can’t remember. I think before.”

“It’s okay. I’ll find out. Did they talk about any other evidence, confront you with anything else they had?”

“No.”

I checked my watch again. I was running out of time. I decided to end the case questions there. Most of the information I would get in discovery if I took on the case. Besides that, it’s a good idea to limit the information you get directly from a client. I would be stuck with whatever La Cosse told me and it might color the moves I made later in the case or at trial. For example, if La Cosse told me he had indeed killed Giselle, then I would not be able to put him on the stand to deny it. That would make me guilty of suborning perjury.

“Okay, enough on that for now. If I take this case, how are you going to pay me?”

“In gold.”

“I was told that, but I mean how? Where does this gold come from?”

“I have it in a safe place. All my money is in gold. If you take the case, I will have it delivered to you before the end of the day. Your manager said you needed twenty-five thousand dollars to start. We’ll use the New York Mercantile Exchange quote on valuation and it will simply be delivered. I haven’t really been able to check the market in here but I’m guessing a one-pound bar will cover it.”

“You realize that will only cover my start-up costs, right? If this case goes forward to preliminary hearing and trial, then you’re going to need more gold. You can get cheaper than me but you’re not going to get better.”

“Yes, I understand. I will have to pay to prove my innocence. I have the gold.”

“All right, then, have your delivery person bring the gold to my case manager. I’m going to need it in hand before your first appearance in court tomorrow. Then I’ll know you’re serious about this.”

I knew time was fleeting but I silently studied La Cosse for a long moment, trying to get a read on him. His story of innocence sounded plausible but I didn’t know what the police knew. I only had Andre’s tale and I suspected that as the evidence in the case was revealed, I would learn that he wasn’t as innocent as he claimed to be. It’s always that way.

“Okay, last thing, Andre. You told my case manager that I came recommended to you by Giselle herself, is that right?”

“Yes, she said you were the best lawyer in town.”

“How did she know that?”

La Cosse looked surprised, as if the whole conversation so far had been based on a given—that I knew Giselle Dallinger.

“She said she knew you, that you’d handled cases for her. She said you got her a really good deal once.”

“And you’re sure it was me she was talking about.”

“Yes, it was you. She said you hit a home run for her. She called you Mickey Mantle.”

That stopped my breath short. I’d had a client once—a prostitute, too—who would call me that. But I had not seen her in a long time. Not since I put her on a plane with enough money to start over and never come back.

“Giselle Dallinger was not her real name, was it?”

“I don’t know. It’s all I knew her by.”

There was a hard rap on the steel door behind me. My time was up. Some other lawyer needed the room to talk to some other client. I looked across the table at La Cosse. I was no longer second-guessing whether to take him on as my client.

Without a doubt, I was taking the case.

About the Author

Michael Connelly is the author of twenty-five previous novels including the #1
New York Times
bestsellers
The Black Box, The Drop, The Fifth Witness, The Reversal,
The Scarecrow, The Brass Verdict,
and
The Lincoln Lawyer,
as well as the bestselling Harry Bosch series of novels. He is a former newspaper reporter who has won numerous awards for his journalism and his novels. He spends his time in California and Florida.

michaelconnelly.com

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