The Competition (37 page)
Authors: Marcia Clark
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers, #General, #Crime
Graden worked through
the night, but Toni and Bailey stayed in my hospital room with me. The next day, before I was released, Graden came by to tell us the rest of the story. We figured Evan had been living in his car all along, and we were right. A car had been found parked at the side of the hill near the amphitheater. It had been stolen early on the morning of the memorial from a location near Taft High. Clothing, food, three handguns, and a notebook that had the plans for all the shootings, plus a detailed diagram of the San Juan amphitheater, were found in it. The writings in that notebook revealed that Evan and Logan had planned to do the Cinemark shooting together, but that Logan had lost his stomach for the killings after Fairmont. He’d committed suicide. Evan had waxed eloquent in his disgust for Logan’s “pathetically inferior weakness,” saying that he didn’t need that “fucked-up loser.” He would win this “competition” on his own.
Evan used Charlie’s car as the decoy at Taft. And there had indeed been a body in that car. A canvass of the neighborhood near the school turned up a good lead as to whose it was. The cashier at a 7-Eleven on Ventura Boulevard saw a white male matching Evan’s description talking to a Hispanic man who regularly hung out at the store, looking for work. The Hispanic man was last seen getting into a car with that white male. The car matched the description of Charlie’s beige Chevrolet. The charred remains in the car hadn’t left much to work with. They were still trying to get a positive ID.
Bailey and I were both taking time off. We hadn’t slept much in the past two weeks, and that plus the endless rounds of interrogations had left us thoroughly depleted. My gunshot wound was healing, but it was no picnic.
We probably could’ve slept for the next two weeks straight if we’d had the chance. But we didn’t. From the moment we left the hospital, Bailey and I had been besieged by requests for interviews and appearances by every news program in the country.
Neither of us had much love for the spotlight, and after so many had died, we didn’t feel like there was anything to celebrate. We kept our appearances to the bare minimum. The City of Los Angeles had voted to award us a sort of medal of valor—or, as the mayor put it, a “warm, heartfelt thanks for your courage and bravery.” It was a big honor. Beyond that, it had the unexpected charm of annoying the hell out of Vanderhorn. That camera-loving, face-time-sucking publicity whore, who would’ve had a hard time choosing between seeing me and suffering a bout of food poisoning, was forced to stand on the stage and clap for us. His smile was so strained he looked constipated. I asked one of the friendlier reporters to see if he could get me some still photos that’d be suitable for framing.
The following week, with police interviews and most media appearances done, we finally had the chance to wind down. Bailey was going to spend the time with Drew, which meant she’d be hanging around the Biltmore a lot. That worked for me.
But Graden was swamped. The fact that both suspects were dead didn’t end the investigation. How they’d acquired their weapons, where they’d stored them, and, most important, how to prevent this atrocity from happening again were among the many questions that still needed answering.
Toni, on the other hand, had finished her trial and was available to play. We spent our first day off getting mani-pedis and taking in a movie at the iPic in Pasadena. It’s a theater that features recliner loungers for seats and serves food and liquor. We ordered martinis and watched a goofy rom-com starring a hottie whose name I forgot five minutes after it ended. It was decadent fun.
I spent the next day going through my closet. Toni had proposed a shopping trip, and I wanted to see what I needed. Midway through the afternoon, I decided I couldn’t try on another skirt. I’d just decided to call to see if Graden was up for lunch, when my hotel phone rang.
“Hey, Rache,” Graden said. “Want some company?”
“I was just about to call
you.
It’s about lunchtime. Want me to order something here? Or you want to go out?”
“Let’s eat at your place. Order whatever you think sounds good.”
I ordered a cheeseburger and fries for Graden—actually, the fries were for me—and a Caesar salad with salmon for myself. Then I put on some makeup, fluffed my hair, and spritzed on some cologne. If I played my cards right, I might get lucky.
But Graden’s expression when he walked in the door told me “lucky” was not on the menu. He gave me a warm kiss and a hug, but his expression was serious. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Really good.”
Room service had already delivered our lunch. We sat down to eat. I asked him about the investigation, but Graden gave me short, terse answers. When we’d finished lunch, he put down his napkin and leaned forward.
“I have news. It’s about the bug in your office. Are you ready?”
I sat up. My heart began to pound. “No, but okay.”
Graden gave a tight little smile. “First, we figured out who put it there. It was a woman on the cleaning crew.”
I sat back and thought about that for a moment. “Someone hired her, didn’t they?” Graden nodded. I started to speak, but my throat constricted. I did—and didn’t—want to hear the answer to my next question. “Who?” Somehow, I knew an instant before he said the name. “Who was it?” I asked again.
“Lilah Bayer.”
A knot twisted in my stomach. “How?” As far as we knew, Lilah wasn’t even in the country.
“The cleaning woman has family in Croatia. She met Lilah there last spring. The woman wanted to bring her children to the States. Lilah promised her money and visas.”
I nodded slowly. “And she didn’t know why Lilah wanted my office bugged.”
“Or care,” Graden said. “But we know why. Lilah wanted to keep tabs on us, on you. To find out whether we were closing in on her. And whether Chase Erling has recovered and started talking.”
“Croatia? We’ll never get our hands on her.”
Graden smiled. “Actually, we have a source who says she’s in the States now. I don’t want to say any more at the moment. But I can promise you this: we will get her. And soon.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Graden came around the table, pulled me to my feet, and put his arms around me. “It’s over, Rachel. You’re safe.”
That night, Graden and I celebrated the good news in a quiet but spectacular way in my suite. The next day, I went shopping with Toni—a less quiet but only slightly less spectacular celebration.
I was a little apprehensive about the expense, but Toni scoffed. “You’ve been through a lot, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Therapy’s a good idea, then, isn’t it?”
“So they say.”
“Retail’s the best kind I know.”
We drove to the Premium Outlets at Camarillo—I’d spotted them during our travels on the case—and spent the day finding lots of things we didn’t need and a few things we did. We’d made plans for all of us to have dinner later at the Pacific Dining Car.
After an insanely fun day of spending—shoes, jeans, tops, and
no
suits—Toni and I returned to my room and changed for dinner. When we went down to the bar, we found J.D. there, talking to Bailey and Drew. J.D. stood up and gave me a hug. “You’ve sure been through the wringer. How are you feeling?”
“Like I haven’t seen you in forever,” I said.
J.D. shrugged. “It’s been about three weeks…”
“Seriously? It feels like three years.” I shook my head.
“You know how time flies when you’re having fun?” Bailey said. “It goes slower than shit when you’re not.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Toni said. “Anyone else?”
It was unanimous. We all piled into J.D.’s car, with Bailey on Drew’s lap, and headed to the Pacific Dining Car. Toni and Bailey and I ordered our usual. Ketel One martinis, very dry, very cold, straight up, with olives on the side. Drew and J.D. opted for a bottle of Ancien Pinot Noir. Graden ordered a shot of Glenlivet.
“Did you see the letter Evan’s parents wrote to the families of the victims?” Graden said.
“No,” J.D. said. “It was a public thing?”
“Yeah,” Bailey said. “They posted it on the Fairmont High Facebook page—”
Evan’s parents—like Logan’s—had been bombarded with death threats and hate mail, so they’d moved away. But shortly after relocating, they’d written an open letter to all the victims’ families, including the family of the as yet unidentified man Evan had used as a decoy at Taft.
“What did they say?” J.D. asked.
“The only thing they could say,” Toni said. “How sorry they were, how they’d have done anything to stop it if they could—”
“‘If they could,’” Bailey said. “It just gets to me the way they had no clue—”
I nodded. “The way they
still
have no clue.”
“And the victims’ families?” J.D. said. “Did they respond?”
“They’re going to. They sent me a draft to look at. It’s incredible. They said they know the parents aren’t to blame and that they’d lost their children too. Just asked that they help Jenny and Michael with their project—”
“Your shrinks?” Drew asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “They’re heading up a study on these mass shooters. The plan is to come up with a handbook to help parents and teachers spot the warning signs.”
“Damn,” Toni said. “That
is
incredible. So they’ve already found a way to make something good come of this.”
J.D. shook his head. “Those people…those families. Amazing.”
“They really are,” Bailey said. “I’m not sure I could do that.”
We all fell silent for a few moments. Then Graden asked what Toni was up to.
“Just finished a kidnap/attempted murder. The wife wanted a divorce. The husband didn’t. So of course he had to kidnap and kill her. What else could he do?”
“He didn’t say that,” Bailey said.
“Yeah, he did. Well, close. It was a version of ‘the bitch had it coming.’”
“Kind of weird a case like that wound up in Special Trials,” I said. Sadly, a husband killing his disenchanted wife was not unusual.
“Not so weird. He was a cop down in Riverside. They moved up here because he got a job with LAPD.”
“Oh, man,” Drew said. “That’s crazy.”
Bailey looked aghast. “We hired him? He couldn’t have been around long.”
“Try twelve years,” Toni said.
Bailey groaned. “Embarrassing. Just friggin’ embarrassing.”
Graden shook his head.
“Hey,” I said. “We’ve got Vanderhorn.”
Graden laughed. “Right. You win.”
“Lucky, lucky us,” Toni said.
We all laughed and drank to that.
It had been a while since I’d laughed like that. Living through so much darkness, I’d forgotten about the light—about the goodness that would always ultimately outweigh the evil. I thought about the strength of the Fairmont High parents, the selfless forgiveness and determination to do all they could to prevent others from suffering the same tragedy. But most of all, I thought about the bonding love that would somehow get them through. Then I looked around the table.
I raised my glass. “To families.”
My profound thanks go to Dr. Bethany Marshall, who gave generously of her time to explain what is known of the psychological makeup of psychopaths in general and this type of killer in particular. I could not have written this book without her brilliant insights and expertise. I also thank her for recommending the published works of Dr. Robert Hare and Dr. J. Reid Meloy on the subject.
For research regarding the actual killings at Columbine High School, I relied upon
Columbine,
the definitive nonfiction book written by Dave Cullen.
Once again, I am forever indebted to Catherine LePard. I would never have taken the leap into novels had it not been for her. To Marillyn Holmes, I again thank you for your keen eye and knowledge. To beloved friends Lynn Reed Baragona and Hynndie Wali. I love you all!
My profound thanks, as always, to Dan Conaway, the best agent, bar none.
My deepest thanks to wonderful editor in chief Judy Clain and to Mulholland executive editor Josh Kendall. I am so fortunate to be working with you. And thank you to Amanda Brower for your excellent assistance. And my thanks once again to senior production editor Karen Landry for yet another terrific job.
My endless gratitude to the fabulous publicity team, Nicole Dewey, Fiona Brown, and Pam Brown. And to all the wonderful people at Mulholland Books, a million thanks to you for all your hard work, creativity, and brilliance.
Marcia Clark is the author of
Guilt by Association, Guilt by Degrees,
and
Killer Ambition.
A former prosecutor for the state of California, she is now a frequent media commentator on legal issues. She lives in Los Angeles.
