The Competition (11 page)

Sonny Barney answered
the door this time. She looked even worse than before, hollow-cheeked, deathly pale, her hair like straw—she’d aged ten years in just one day. And her eyes were filled with so much pain it sent a stab of guilt through my heart. Bailey asked if we could take a few minutes of her time. Given the way our last meeting had ended I wasn’t sure how Sonny would react, but she wordlessly stepped back from the door to let us in. We gathered in the living room again. I was glad to see that Tom didn’t appear to be home.

“Tom’s at the rec center,” Sonny said. “I just came home to get us a change of clothes. She drew in a long breath through her nose and let it out. Then, looking from Bailey to me, she asked, “Do you have any…information about Otis?” Her eyes filled with tears as his name left her lips.

“We haven’t found him,” Bailey said. “But we have come across some information about a friend of his, Logan Jarvis.”

Sonny pulled a tissue from a box on the side table, swiped at her eyes, and frowned. “Logan Jarvis?”

“Yes. You don’t know the name?” Bailey asked.

“No.”

Bailey looked Sonny in the eye, and I saw the effort it took to maintain that eye contact as she spoke the next words. “We have reason to believe they may have been fairly close. It’s very important that you try to remember any contact your son may have had with Logan, anything he might have said about him.”

Sonny’s mouth worked silently for a few seconds, like a television that had been left on mute. “Wh-why would that be import—?” Her eyes widened. “You think Logan is one of the…and that he and Otis…” Sonny grabbed her throat. “No! Please, you’ve got to believe me! Otis is a good boy, he’s never been in trouble! We’d have known if he was…having…problems like that!”

I pitied Sonny. I knew what she was in for, this seemingly decent, loving mother. The world would judge her and Tom, and the Jarvises as well. Maybe, eventually, I would too. But right now, all I felt was profound sympathy. Sonny put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. Listen to me. That’s what those parents said, isn’t it? The ones at Columbine.” She looked from my face to Bailey’s. Our silence was answer enough. She bent forward, her arms wrapped around her torso.

Bailey stepped in gently. “We may be wrong, Sonny. Otis may not be involved. But we can’t rule him out unless we get more information.” Bailey waited. When Sonny looked up, Bailey continued. “If he was close to Logan, there should be some communication between them—and it would probably show up on his computer.”

Sonny slowly straightened up, a defiant look on her swollen face. “Yes, that’s right. There should be. Go ahead, check his computer. That’ll prove you’re wrong! Check his whole room again if you want. We’ve got nothing to hide.” She led us to Otis’s room, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a laptop with a red skull sticker on the back. “I can give you the password for his email.”

That was significant. And surprising. But if Otis was sure she’d never snoop on him, he might not worry about what was on his computer. There was no time to call in Dorian or even Herrera to check for prints. If there was information that might lead us to Otis and Logan, we had to get it now. I pulled a pair of latex gloves out of my purse and went over to the laptop. Touching only the edges, I opened it and waited while it booted up. Sonny directed me to Otis’s account and dictated the password. The most recent emails were from commercial websites selling computer gadgets, jeans, and logo T-shirts. About halfway down the list I found a message from a sender named LJ314. I opened it. There was no text, but there was an attachment.

It was a photo. And it had been sent the night before the shooting. A smiling Logan Jarvis posed with an assault rifle. One that looked a lot like the gun he’d dropped just outside the gym.

Behind me, Sonny
screamed. “No! How…? It can’t be!”

“I’m sorry, Sonny,” I said.

She sat down on Otis’s bed and hung her head. “I don’t believe it. No…it’s not right. It can’t be right. I know it.”

I put my hand on her shoulder and spoke to her softly. “We’re going to get a search warrant, Sonny. I’m sorry.”

Sonny grabbed my arm. “You don’t understand. I know my son! I know Otis! That isn’t him! Please, you’ve got to believe me!” She dissolved into tears.

I didn’t have any honest words of comfort. “We’re going to finish checking out Otis’s computer before we bring in a search team. You can stay and watch…”

Sonny struggled to her feet and shook her head. “No, I-I need to go lie down.”

I put my arm around her and led her down the hall to her bedroom. I gave her a glass of water, covered her with a blanket, and asked her for her husband’s cell phone number.

“No, don’t call him. Please don’t. Let him not know for a little while longer.”

I nodded and went to Otis’s room. I sat down in front of the laptop and typed “LJ314” in the search bar. There were six other emails from that address, but none with photos. And none mentioned any murderous plans. They were all just routine boy stuff about school, girls, and video games. But Otis might have deleted the incriminating messages up until that last night. By then he was probably too busy putting the final touches on their big plans to remember to get rid of the photo of Logan and his AK. I’d have our cowboy Nick look into it. In any case, the photo, and the timing of its receipt, was damning.

Bailey had been looking around the room and now she held up a binder.

“Don’t tell me we’ve got more musings about Amanda.”

“No, it’s poetry,” she said. “Or song lyrics. They all look like they’re about world peace and racial harmony.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said.

“Nope.”

“Is it dated?” If he wrote it back in junior high it wouldn’t mean much.

“No. We’ll be able to take it with the warrant, see if there are any references that can show us when he wrote this. But I’d bet we’ll find more of the ugly stuff like that photo of Logan on the laptop once Nick gets into it.” Bailey sighed. “Let’s do another telephonic. You get the judge. I’ll get the search team.”

I should have felt some sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment. After all, we were pretty sure we’d finally identified both shooters. But all I felt was hollow. None of these parents were monsters. Hard as it was to believe, none of them seemed to have had a clue what was coming. They were shattered by what their children had done. When Tom finally showed up, I could barely bring myself to tell him what we’d found—or that a search team was on its way.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Tom stood white-lipped and silent for several moments. “No.” He shook his head slowly. “I know my son. Drinking? Smoking dope? Probably. Maybe even vandalism. But this? No way. I know he had some issues, but he could never hurt anyone.” He glared into my eyes. “You’re wrong.” And he walked out of the room.

I turned back to the task at hand. The sooner we got the work done, the sooner we could get out of their hair and let them grieve. “We got a criminalist coming?” I asked Bailey. She nodded. “Make sure to have him get DNA swabs from the parents.”

After an hour or so with no new discoveries, we bagged up Otis’s laptop and binder and headed back to the station. On the way, Bailey called Nick and told him to meet us at her desk in thirty minutes.

Even at this hour, traffic was fairly heavy. We moved slowly down the southbound 101 freeway and I stared at the river of red taillights that stretched out before us. “Remember how everyone hammered the parents after Columbine?”

“Yeah,” Bailey said. “About how they didn’t know what their kids were up to, making pipe bombs and buying guns?”

“That part never surprised me. A kid can hide things like that even if the parents routinely toss his room—which most don’t.”

“Wait, I thought Harris and Klebold left all their weapons out in plain sight—”

“Only on the day of the shooting,” I said. “When they left that morning they knew they weren’t coming back, so what did they care? The thing that I always wondered before was how could they not know how crazy their kids were? There had to be about a million signs. But now I think I get it. It’s one thing to know your kid has issues, but it’s a whole different world to think those issues might add up to mass murder.”

Bailey nodded. “Yeah. I see what you mean. So Sonny and Tom think, okay, maybe our kid got bullied and he vented by listening to hate music. There’re probably millions of kids like that who’d never do anything more than talk shit on a Facebook page.”

“Keyboard thugs. Exactly.”

When we got back to the station, Nick was lounging in Bailey’s chair, cowboy hat covering his face and boots crossed at the ankles on her desk. She swatted his legs off, and he jerked up in the chair, startled. “Hey!” Then he saw it was Bailey and took in the bag she was holding. “That it?”

“Yep, it’s been bagged and tagged. Just remember to write up that I handed it to you.”

“You get it looked at for prints and such yet?” he asked.

“No time for that,” Bailey said. “Just glove up and do your best.”

It was after Nick’s normal hours, so I’d expected him to take it back to his office and let us know what he found tomorrow. But he asked Bailey for a set of gloves and opened the laptop immediately. “You’re looking for mentions of Logan and any gun-related plans. That sort of thing, right?”

Bailey nodded. “I’m going to get some coffee. Want some?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Nick said.

“Want anything in it?” she asked.

Nick looked up and gave her a lazy smile. “Why don’t you just dip your little ol’ finger in it? That oughta sweeten it up for me, darlin’.”

It was a cheesy line, but Nick sold it. Maybe it was the accent, which sounded for real, but I had a feeling it was just Nick’s gift. And the proof was right there on Bailey’s face. She smiled and rolled her eyes. If any other guy had said that, she would’ve drilled him with a stare so cold his eyebrows would freeze.

For the next forty-five minutes, Bailey and I hovered as Nick worked on Otis’s laptop. Finally, he looked up and rubbed his face. “Other than that nasty photo of Logan, I’m not seeing anything suspicious. And I doubt he wiped anything. The kid didn’t even clear his search history. That’d be the least he’d do if he had anything to hide. I’ll take it deeper to make sure, but from what I’ve seen, if he wrote down any of his plans for the shooting he didn’t do it here.”

“Isn’t that kind of strange? I mean, wouldn’t you expect him to have
something
on his computer?” I asked.

“Back when not many folks knew how easy it was to find old emails and search trails I’d have agreed with you. But nowadays, everyone’s a lot smarter about that. Kids especially know there’s a good chance that anything they type can be found. Deleting don’t mean squat. So the long answer to your short question, ma’am, is no, I don’t think it’s strange. Not necessarily.”

I winced. “Nick, do you have to call me ‘ma’am’?”

“No, ma’—uh, no.” He smiled. “But why does that worry a pretty young thing like yourself?”

I tried not to smile back, I really did. But I could feel the grin spread across my face. And, of course, Graden chose that moment to walk out of his office, which was just ten feet from Bailey’s desk. There was no way he could’ve missed Nick’s flirty look, and I didn’t want to imagine what he could see in mine. “Hi!” I said, as I dialed up the wattage on my smile. “Nick’s checking out Otis’s laptop.”

Graden’s raised eyebrow said that wasn’t all Nick was checking out. “Anything?” he asked Nick.

Nick, smooth as glass, answered, “Not yet. Which means if there’s anything here, it’s buried pretty good.” He shook his head. “I’ll take this back to my office and keep working on it.”

Graden moved toward me and leaned in close. “How’ve you been?”

I shook my head. “Probably the same as you. And everybody else. Stressed. Angry. Frustrated. Sick.”

“You and Bailey going back to the Biltmore?” I nodded. “How about if I meet you there?”

“Sure,” I said.

Nick threw a glance at Graden and me as he finished packing up the laptop. It occurred to me that this was the first time Graden had acted like my boyfriend when we were at the station. I wondered if he was sending Nick a message. But Graden wouldn’t do that.

Would he?

It was close
to midnight by the time we got to the Biltmore. Way too late for dinner, even at the bar. We’d have to fill up on appetizers and snacks. On the way there, I got a text from Toni saying she was on her way home from a date with J.D. and was wondering if we were still alive. When I told her we were—just barely—and that we were headed for the bar, she said she’d meet us there; we probably needed a little
sane
company.

“What’s up with that crack about ‘sane’ company?”

“Can’t imagine,” Bailey said. “She must not know I’m here.”

Toni had the bar to herself, and she’d already ordered our drinks—Ketel One martinis for herself, Bailey, and me, and a Dalwhinnie scotch on the rocks for Graden—and a double order of the standard assorted nuts and crunchy bar snacks.

We hugged and I slid into the booth across from her. “Hey, how’d you beat us here?”

“J.D. and I had dinner in the neighborhood. I had a feeling you guys would wind up here tonight.” Toni looked at us, sympathy in her eyes. “How’re y’all doing?”

She kept her voice low, though there was no one else around. I shook my head. “It can’t even be described, Tone. To say it’s the worst I’ve ever seen doesn’t begin to get there.”

Toni nodded. “I can’t—well, frankly I don’t even want to—imagine.”

Graden appeared. He gave Toni a hug and sat next to me.

I leaned in. “Has Vanderputz grabbed his face time with the press yet?”

Toni rolled her eyes. “Of course—”

“But he doesn’t know anything,” Graden said. He looked at me. “Unless you’ve been filling him in.”

“Yeah, ’cause I run to him every chance I get.”

“As if he needs to know something to justify a presser,” Toni said. “What’s wrong with you two? He didn’t say anything. Just said how his heart ached for the victims and their families and that he’d see to it the case was brought to a ‘swift and just conclusion.’”

That sounded about right. I dipped an olive into my drink. “Did the chief do a press conference?”

Graden nodded. “Just said the killers were at large and named Logan Jarvis as a ‘person of interest.’” Graden raised an eyebrow. “But it’s very reassuring to hear that Vanderhorn’s promising a ‘swift and just conclusion.’ With him hot on the trail it’ll be wrapped up in no time.”

Toni and I sighed. The deputy DAs in Special Trials work closely with the detectives, but the detectives lead the investigation—not us. Vanderputz, however, never let accuracy get in the way of a good sound bite. “He couldn’t be a bigger jackass if he put on the back end of a donkey costume,” I said.

Graden chuckled. “Anyway, as predicted, the tip line blew up. We’ve got sightings of Logan Jarvis from Indio to Cape Town.”

I put down my drink. “Cape Town? As in South Africa?”

“I blame the interweb,” Bailey said. “It lets the crazies go global. So nothing for real yet?”

Graden shook his head. “Not yet.”

“That’s the problem in a city this big,” Toni said. “It’s easy to hide. And if he has the brains to cut or dye his hair or wear a wig, he’ll slide right by.”

“The only thing that’ll make it a little harder for him is his height,” I said. “But even that…”

Bailey nodded. “And we’ve checked cell phone records for Otis and Logan, Logan’s license plate, his gas card, everything we can think of. Nothing. No sightings on Logan’s car and there’s been no activity—not on their cell phones, not on the gas card. They’re off the grid.”

“What about their bank accounts?” Graden said.

“We’ve got someone checking on that,” I said. “And tomorrow we’ll be talking to everyone who had classes with them in the past year.”

“After that we’ll hit Logan’s brother,” Bailey said.

“That might lead you somewhere,” Toni said. “I assume you’ve checked his alibi?”

“Immediately,” Graden said. “He was nowhere near Fairmont. Not that he fit the profile anyway.”

“And I’m not that optimistic about what he can tell us,” I said. “According to Mom, they had gotten closer in the past couple of years, but they weren’t that tight.”

Graden took a sip of his drink. “Take it from me, he’ll know something.”

Graden and his younger brother, Devon, were different as night and day, and they hadn’t been that close as kids. But when they reached their twenties, they discovered each other. Now they were not only the best of friends but also partners in the video game they’d developed that had become the hottest thing since Grand Theft Auto.

Before Graden knew what he wanted to be when he grew up, he loved to design video games. It was a hobby, nothing serious. When he got hired by LAPD, he decided it was time to quit. Just before he graduated from the Police Academy, he created one last game, Code Three. Devon wrote the program for it. Graden had walked away from the project—it was time to put away such childish things—but Devon refused to let it go. Graden gave Devon his blessing to try to sell it, never dreaming it would amount to anything. It took a few years, but Devon found a buyer, and the game took off like a rocket. By the time Graden made detective, both he and Devon were millionaires many times over.

“Give me a ‘for instance,’” I said. “What do you think the brother would know? Assuming he wasn’t actually in on it, which I seriously doubt.”

“I do too, though I never like to rule anything out,” Graden said. “It’s possible he got unhinged during his tour of duty.” I raised an eyebrow. “But even if the brother’s not in on it, Logan might’ve been less guarded around him. Maybe he let something slip. You’ve got his info, right?”

“Yeah,” Bailey said. “He’s got a place up in Oxnard. Works at a garage there.”

The waiter came by to tell us it was last call, and we all decided we were ready to pack it in.

Toni looked from me to Bailey. “Listen, I know things are going to get crazy, so both of you, remember to eat and sleep, okay?” She looked at Graden. “You too. You’re no better than they are.”

Drew, who’d just finished for the night, came out to join us, then seconded the vote. “Yeah, you’re all looking pretty raggedy.”

Graden smiled, but Bailey gave Drew a sour look. “You really think that’s what I need to hear right now?” she asked.

“Yes.” He kissed Bailey and helped her with her coat.

Bailey rolled her eyes. “I’ll deal with you later—”

“Looking forward to it,” Drew said. For the first time that day, I saw an actual smile—well, half-smile—on Bailey’s face.

She buttoned her coat. “Okay, Knight. Get some sleep. I’m picking you up at seven thirty.”

“Why not eight?” Morning and I are not the best of friends.

“Because we’re meeting with kids at Taft High School at eight fifteen.”

“Taft. That’s where they’re housing the Fairmont students?” Bailey nodded. It made sense. Taft was closest to Fairmont High. But that meant we’d have at least a forty-minute drive. “Next time,
I
set up the interviews.”

Toni laughed. “You’ve got my sympathy.” She, Bailey, and Drew left.

Graden walked me up to my room “just to say good night.” When we got inside, I dropped my coat and purse on the wing chair and turned on
Kind of Blue
by Miles Davis. We sat down on the couch and snuggled in. Neither of us felt the need to talk. As I listened to the steady beat of his heart and inhaled his scent, my chest unwound and I think I even dozed for a few minutes. Then he leaned down, tilted up my chin, and kissed me. “I should probably hit the road,” he said. But then he kissed me again. A warm, lingering kiss that left me a little out of breath.

I suggested the road could wait until tomorrow.

He thought I might be right.