The Competition (16 page)

Bailey got a
crime scene tech to come out and take photos and scrapings from the paint transfers on Jeremy’s car. Once we found Logan’s car, we’d be able to confirm that it matched. “There’s no way Logan can hide that kind of body damage,” she said, after Jeremy and his mom had left.

“At least it’ll give the chief something to tell the press. I just don’t get why no one’s spotted it by now.” They’d put out the alert on Logan’s car the moment we had confirmation that he was one of the shooters, but so far it hadn’t turned up. Maybe the description of the body damage would do the trick.

“Me either,” Bailey said. “Even if they’ve ditched it, I would’ve expected someone to spot it by now.”

“Or spot
him.
”

Bailey shook her head. Logan’s photo and all identifying information had gone national, and every source—cell phone, bank account, gas card, you name it—was being tracked. Nothing.

“But thanks to Jeremy, we know one thing for sure,” Bailey said. “We’ve got two shooters out there.”

“Right. So now there are two killers we can’t find. And one of them isn’t even ID’d yet. Terrific.” I shook my head. “How’re we doing on Shane? Do we have his military records yet?”

“Yep. And they show he’s been to the VA clinic in Westwood, so we got their records. But they’re not fully computerized, so we’ve got a ream of paper to go through, and none of it’s organized. I’ve got unis working on it.” Bailey looked at her watch. “We should head out to Camarillo.” The tree service where Shane worked was up next on our agenda. “I sent a couple of detectives to check the place out. They’re sitting on it for us, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I want to get out there and talk to the boss man, see if he can give us anything.”

“Okay, but first I’ve got to check in at the office.”

“Want me to pick you up? We really have to move.”

“No, but I’ll be back here in less than an hour. I promise.”

I pulled on my coat and scarf and headed to the courthouse at a fast trot. I passed by Toni’s office on the way to mine, but the door was closed. She was probably in court. I unlocked my door and dropped my purse on the chair in front of my desk. Home sweet home. Everything was as I’d left it on Tuesday morning—except for the thin layer of dust. A file I’d been reviewing on Monday still lay open on my side table. Even the air felt the same. I took off my coat and scarf and draped them over my chair—a majestic judge’s chair that I’d found abandoned in the hallway one night. I sat down and exhaled. It was a tiny office, but it was my sanctuary. And it boasted an awesome view of Los Angeles, something I would never take for granted.

But I didn’t have time to sit and enjoy the solitude, so I picked up my office phone to check for messages. There were eighty-seven. Eighty of them were from the media. You’d think they’d have gotten the hint that I wasn’t talking by now. The rest were routine business. “Hi, Rachel, it’s Zack—Zack Meyer on the Valenzuela case. Just a heads-up: I’m going to ask for a continuance. Hope that’s okay with you.”
Beep.
I made a note and deleted the message. It wouldn’t matter if it was okay with me. It was Zack’s first request for more time, and the judges loved him. The other six were all variations on the same theme. It surprised me how little I’d missed. I’d expected to be bombarded. I kept forgetting it had only been three days. It felt like three months.

My in-box only had a couple of new motions. One was a routine discovery motion, the other was a motion to let a defendant use the jail law library—where he’d learn just enough to drive his lawyer crazy. I’d be glad to go along with that one. I filed them and made a note of the dates on my calendar, then headed back to the station. Bailey was at her desk, doing paperwork, her least favorite thing in the world. She looked surprised when she saw me. “That was fast.”

“Told ya. So, Camarillo?”

Bailey stood up. “Yep.” We were about to step into the elevator when Graden called out to us. “Hang on, guys. Can you give me a minute?” We went back to his office. He closed the door and perched on the edge of his desk. “We got a hit on the Army-Navy surplus store in Van Nuys. The cashier remembers selling two camouflage jackets in about the right sizes to a couple of guys—”

“Do they have surveillance footage?” Bailey asked.

“Unfortunately, no. It’s a small operation. And we got a description from the cashier, but it’s pretty vague.” He picked up a report and read. “One tall guy with longish hair, one shorter guy, no further description. The shorter guy paid for both coats in cash.”

“We’ll get out there and talk to him,” Bailey said.

“Do it fast. The tabloids are everywhere now that we’re giving press conferences.”

“Good,” I said. “Maybe they can figure out who the second shooter is while they’re at it.”

“Just give them a minute, they will,” he said.

“You mean they’ll dig up some crank who says it’s all an FBI conspiracy,” Bailey said.

Graden nodded. “Yeah, the tabs will have it all figured out for us. That’s why we’re going to start putting a little more substance in the press releases. Better to get out in front of it and at least try to give the public the truth. So lock down all the statements you can—before your witnesses get contaminated by tabloid bullshit.”

Because the more a defense lawyer can show that witnesses could have been influenced by what they saw on TV or read somewhere, the less a jury will trust their testimony.

Graden handed Bailey the report, and we headed for the door. “Oh, and one more thing,” Graden said. “If you two get finished in time for dinner, let me know. It’s on me.”

“Depends,” I said. “Where?”

“So this is where we’re at now? Bribery? What happened to the joy of good company?”

“Who says they’re mutually exclusive?” I asked.

“I had to fall for a lawyer.” Graden shook his head. “Fine. Pacific Dining Car.”

Bailey nodded. “Sounds good.”

“You’re on.”

We hit the
Army-Navy surplus store first. The cashier—Eddie Hemmings—was a short, skinny guy with sharp features. We’d hoped to dredge up at least a little more information than we already had, but no dice. Before we left, I warned him about the media. “I can’t stop you from talking to the press, but I can say that if you do, you’ll damage your credibility as a witness. And believe me, whatever they promise to do for you, they’ll forget it about ten seconds after they get your statement.”

I could see him weighing his options even as I spoke. But when I finished, he nodded amiably. “Got ya. No problem. I’ll keep it on the down-low.”

We hurried out to the car, and Bailey headed for the 101 north. “A fin says he talks to the press by noon tomorrow,” Bailey said.

“So little faith in your fellow man.” I shook my head. “A twenty says he’s on camera before we make it to Camarillo.”

Bailey groaned. “Never mind. I fold.”

We rolled onto the lot of Camarillo Tree Cutters just before noon. I’d heard the loud metallic growl of a chain saw as soon as we pulled onto the street, and the smell of cut lumber filled the air. It was a huge lot that had piles of cut wood at the front and hundreds of felled trees waiting to be cut behind them. The workers I could see all seemed to be Hispanic. I pointed to a small hut on the right that had a sign over the door,
OFFICE.
Bailey parked in front of it.

We knocked but got no answer. Bailey tried the door and found it was open, so we walked in. Calling it an office was a stretch. It was a small room with a window that afforded a view of the lot. A couple of folding chairs were in front of a table piled high with invoices. An old Mac desktop computer sat on a short metal filing cabinet to the left of the table, a green cursor blinking on a black screen. Everything was covered in a thick layer of sawdust. The air was so filled with the stuff, I coughed when we stepped inside. A toilet flushed, and a door on the right side of the room opened. And out stepped Paul Bunyan.

Well, not exactly, but close. He was well over six feet, and though he had a bit of a paunch, his arms and chest were solid muscle. And huge. When he saw us, he tugged down his T-shirt with one hand and pushed his wavy—though thinning—brown hair back with the other. “Uh, what can I help you ladies with?”

Ladies.
Again. But this time I didn’t mind. I was distracted by the feeling that we’d stepped into an American fairy tale. I pulled out my badge and did the introductions. “And you’re the owner here?”

“Yeah. Isaiah Hamilton.”

“You have an employee named Shane Dolan?” I asked.

He half snorted. “I did. But he hasn’t shown up for the past four days.” Isaiah sat down and motioned for us to do the same. I took a swipe at the sawdust on one of the two metal folding chairs in front of his desk and tried not to think about what was going to be stuck to my pants.

“When was the last time he came to work?” I asked.

“Friday.”

“And was he supposed to be here on Monday?” I asked.

“Yeah. Didn’t even bother to call.” Isaiah shook his head. “Hate to lose him though. He in some kind of trouble?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Was he a good worker?” It’d be a surprise if he was, given what we’d heard about him.

Isaiah shrugged. “Not the most energetic guy. But he spoke English, so I could use him to fill in for me on the phone. Take orders and such. The rest of my crew”—he jerked a thumb toward the workers outside—“are good guys, but they’re strictly Spanish-speaking.”

“Did Shane ever have any visitors here?” I asked.

Isaiah rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess you could call her that. A girl used to come around a lot, but I haven’t seen her lately.”

“Was that girl the only one?” Isaiah nodded. “Did you get her name?” I asked.

Isaiah looked down at the cluttered desk and drummed his fingers on it. I couldn’t imagine how staring at that mess could help him remember anything except that a cleaning was overdue. Finally, he squinted at me. “Nancy. Nancy Findley. She called here about a hundred times.”

Isaiah’s disapproving expression made me smile. “So she was a fan of Shane’s,” I said.

“More like a stalker. Though why she was so hooked on him I have no idea. You ask me, the guy was a real case of arrested development.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“Had a hard time doing what he was told. Didn’t matter what I asked him to do—even just to get here on time—he’d give me major-league attitude.”

“Then you’d say he had issues with authority?”

“Big-time. But I kept him around because, well, you know…” He gestured to the office.

But Shane hadn’t had those issues with Lock, the gun range owner. I suspected tree cutting didn’t have the same allure as the gun range. Go figure.

“Did he ever talk to you about guns?” Bailey asked.

Isaiah gave a short bark of a laugh. “Ho, yeah. Nonstop. Kept wanting to take me out to the range where he worked. And he was always trying to sell me one.”

Sell? I leaned forward. “What kind of guns was he trying to sell?”

“Handguns mostly. Thirty-eights, forty-fours. He did mention a rifle once, I think.”

“What kind of rifle?” Bailey asked.

Isaiah began drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Remington? Yeah, I believe that’s right.”

“So not an assault rifle?” I asked.

“No. They’re illegal, aren’t they?” I nodded. “Well, even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t let him sell those things to anyone around here. You ask me, they don’t belong in civilian hands.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Are you into guns?”

“Not at all.”

Why would he be? He didn’t need a gun. He could just pick you up and throw you out the window. “So you don’t know whether the deals he offered were any good,” I said.

“No. But Pedro might.” Isaiah stood up and walked over to the window. He cranked it open and yelled, “Hey, Pedro.”

Pedro, a middle-aged Hispanic man in a denim jacket and cowboy boots, came in. Isaiah asked in fairly decent Spanish what Shane had offered him. He translated for us, though I pretty much got the gist of what Pedro had said. “Shane offered him a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight special. Pedro says it was like new—for two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“He showed Pedro the gun?” I asked.

Pedro nodded and said,
“Sí.”

“And it was in good shape?” I asked.

Pedro said in Spanish that it looked brand-new.

Isaiah nodded. “He said it looked—”

I held up my hand. “Got it. Did Pedro buy it?”

Isaiah translated, and Pedro shook his head.

“Did Shane offer to sell guns to anyone else?” I asked.

Isaiah translated, and Pedro replied in Spanish. Isaiah turned to me. “Pedro says he tried to sell to all the other guys, but he doesn’t think anyone bought a gun from him. Too much money, and they weren’t sure how legal it was.”

But just to make sure, we had Isaiah bring in all the other workers, one by one. Pedro was right. No one had bought a gun, though others had seen the one Pedro described and all agreed it looked new. When we finished with them, we thanked Isaiah for his help, said we’d be in touch, and warned him that at some point the media might come after him for a statement. He chuckled. “Don’t worry, they won’t get anything out of me, ladies.” Ladies. Again. Oh, well.

But I wasn’t worried about him.

The reporters who messed with him—
them,
I worried about.

“Do you realize
how much a new Smith and Wesson thirty-eight special costs?” I asked, when we got back into Bailey’s car.

“No, but I’m guessing you do.”

“Over seven hundred bucks. If that gun Shane was trying to sell to Pedro really was new, his price was ridiculously low. Looks like Shane had a little business going on the side.”

“Selling hot guns?” Bailey said. I nodded. “Pretty risky. If anyone ever ratted him out he’d do some serious time.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type who’d play out those consequences. Like Isaiah said, he’s got authority issues.”

“Assuming Paul Bunyan back there sussed him out right.”

“So you saw it too?” I grinned at Bailey. “He was actually kind of dreamy, don’t you think?”

“To me? No. But I noticed you got a little fluttery.”

“Fluttery.” I gave her a look. “Me. Are you high?”

“S’okay. He looked like he wouldn’t have minded letting you do a little more questioning either.”

“You can let me out of this car anytime.” I folded my arms and looked out the window. The road to the freeway led us past miles of strawberry, Brussels sprout, and lettuce fields. We were out in the middle of nowhere.

Bailey turned on the radio. The opening organ notes of “Light My Fire” filled the car. I usually love the Doors, but the timing right now only served Bailey’s obnoxious purpose. And, of course, she was smiling. I glared at her. “I just want you to know I’m ignoring you.” She stifled a yawn.

We rode on through the fields in silence. I thought about what we could accomplish while we were up here in farm country. “You want to try and dig up Nancy Findley?”

“That’s what I was thinking. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

“Not necessarily better, but if we have trouble finding her, we could head back to L.A. and see what Evan and Caleb have to say about Shane Dolan. If Logan was that impressed with Shane, he might’ve tried to show him off.”

“Good idea.”

Bailey called in and asked for a location on Nancy Findley. As it turned out, she lived in Thousand Oaks, just a few minutes south of Camarillo, which was on our way back to L.A. And she was in pocket.

“Guess it was meant to be,” I said. “So where’s ‘in pocket’?”

Bailey pulled off the freeway. “You’ll see.” Five minutes later, she’d parked in front of a tattoo parlor in a strip mall. It was sandwiched between a nail salon and a frozen yogurt place. Kind of a nice combination of services. I could just picture it: “Hey, Mom, let’s have a girls’ day. We can do mani-pedis, get tattooed, and have double scoops with sprinkles.”

Nancy was easy to spot because she was the only girl there. Also because she had waist-length, neon-green hair with a black stripe down the middle, multicolored tattoo sleeves that snaked up her neck—one of which was an actual snake—a double nose ring, a lip ring in the left corner of her mouth, and rows of piercings up each ear. And those were just the things we could see. I forced my imagination away from all the other piercing possibilities both above and below the belt.

Bailey had pulled up a photo of Shane on her cell phone. After we’d made the necessary introductions, she showed it to Nancy. “Do you recognize this person?”

Nancy, who’d been practically catatonic when we introduced ourselves—so much so, I suspected chemical or herbal influences—suddenly woke up. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh no!” Nancy’s eyes were round with fear. “Is Shane in trouble? Did something happen to him?”

“We just need to ask him some questions,” I said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Nancy wrinkled her nose. “Do you mean actually
saw
him, like in person? Or like on FaceTime?”

“Let’s try in person first,” I said.

“That would be a little over a month ago. It was at the tree service where he works.”

“Did he discuss any plans he may have had to leave the city for any reason?” I asked.

“No.” Nancy’s brow furrowed. “So he’s gone?”

No, I just like to hear about my suspects’ vacation plans. “It seems so. Do you remember what you talked about?”

Nancy frowned at the floor and jammed her hands into the back pockets of her skinny jeans. When she looked up, I saw she was blinking back tears. “That…uh…he didn’t think it was going to ‘happen’ for us. That I couldn’t keep coming by his job and calling him and…like that.” The tears finally escaped and rolled down her cheeks. She gave them a rough, angry swipe.

If Shane had been standing there I would’ve slugged him. Sure, she was a little strange, and, yes, quite possibly a stalker. But still. Knowing what we did about Shane so far, I’d guess Nancy was one of the many girls Shane had picked up, got bored with, and dumped. Asshole.

“I’m sorry, Nancy,” I said. “Did you talk to him again after that? On FaceTime?”

“Yeah. But I called from a friend’s phone, so I don’t think he realized it was me at first. When he came on, I could tell he thought…”

It was someone else. I might’ve been channeling some issues of my own with past boyfriends, but seriously, if I ever found him, I was going to mess this jerk up so bad.

“I told him I just wanted to see him one last time. He said his boss was calling him and he had to go. Said he’d call me later. That was a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t heard from him since.” Nancy heaved a big sigh and swallowed the rest of her tears. “I know he wasn’t good for me. My mom says it’s for the best and I’ll get over it, but it just doesn’t feel that way right now.”

Oh, Very Young, it never does. “Your mom’s right. You won’t be over it until you’re over it. All you can do is keep reminding yourself that you deserve better. Eventually, you’ll believe it.”

Nancy nodded. “Thanks.”

We gave her our cards and told her to call if she heard from him. She promised she would.

We headed back to the 101 freeway, southbound for L.A. “Feel like killing him?” I asked.

“Nah, killing’s too fast. I’d kneecap him. Both knees.”

“Nice.” When it comes to payback, Bailey and Toni are creative geniuses.

At that weirdly inopportune moment, Graden called. “Rachel?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t recognize his voice at first, and I think mine was probably still in “I hate Shane” mode.

“You okay? You sound…strange.”

“Sorry. I’m just a little tired. It’s been pretty nonstop.”

“I know,” Graden said, his tone warm and full of sympathy.

My lizard brain remembered that Graden wasn’t Shane or any other asshole I’d ever had the misfortune of knowing. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Look, I just got word that a letter addressed to you was delivered to the school.”

School? “What school?”

“Fairmont High—”

“Why on earth would anyone send mail to me at—”

“Good question. And there’s no return address. It feels bad to me, Rachel. I know this may sound paranoid, but I told them to leave it right there and not touch it. I called in the bomb squad—”

“Jeez, seriously? It might just be someone who recognized me on some news footage or—”

“I’d be glad to be wrong. But I’m not taking any chances. The bomb guys are going to handle it. Assuming it doesn’t explode, Dorian’s people will check it out. But I expect everyone to move fast, so you should be able to get a look at it pretty quick. I’d suggest you get downtown as soon as you can.”

I agreed, ended the call, and told Bailey what he’d said. “I don’t know how many people would’ve recognized us from the news footage though. The shot I saw was maybe two seconds.”

“Yeah, but they showed footage from the Antonovich trial that had your face all over it. So anyone could’ve written that letter. Might just be a weird fan—”

Big cases always brought out the tinfoil-hat brigade. “I’m still getting mail about that trial…”

“Yeah, the only thing that bugs me is no return address. I’m with Graden. If it was an innocent thing, why not leave a return address?”

That was the question. One of them anyway.