Killer Ambition Read online

  39

  When we got back to the station, Bailey called the evidence officer and asked what else they’d found so far.

  “Anything good?” I asked when she hung up.

  “A nine-millimeter Ruger. Bottom drawer of his nightstand.”

  “Registered?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t. It was a puny charge, but at least it was solid.

  “Yes. Which is more than I can say for you—”

  “My guns are registered.”

  “Now. After I pounded on you repeatedly for months.”

  “I’d been busy. Did they get his toothbrush or anything we can use for DNA?”

  “A toothbrush and a used condom.”

  “Great. And yuck.” Gross, but great. “Have we checked out Averly’s bank accounts?”

  “You mean like for a deposit of at least half a million in cash?”

  I nodded.

  “Of course. I put in the request before we left for New York.”

  “And?”

  “If the answer was yes, don’t you think I’d have told you by now?”

  Her phone rang and she answered it. “That was Numan’s assistant,” she said. “The particulates and plant debris on Averly’s Mustang came from Boney Mountain. They look very similar to the samples that were taken from Brian’s car.”

  “So Averly’s car was up there too. Now the question is, can we put Ian in that car?”

  “That’s Dorian’s problem,” Bailey said. “We’ve got one of our own: like what are we going to do with Ian’s laptop?”

  I’d been thinking about that on the ride back to the station. “We could throw caution to the wind and just dig into it. Or we could go to court and ask to have a Special Master appointed to look through everything and make sure there aren’t any privileged materials on it.”

  Usually the court appoints a Special Master—a lawyer well versed in legal privileges—to examine files only when they belong to a shrink or a lawyer. Getting one in this case was a bit of overkill, but I didn’t want to risk losing something critical on the off chance we ran into something we weren’t supposed to see.

  “Doesn’t it take a while to get a Special Master appointed?”

  “It can. But it doesn’t have to.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I could probably get a judge to appoint Daniel Rose to do it right now.”

  “I repeat: what are you thinking?”

  Daniel Rose was well recognized as both a legal scholar and a brilliant trial lawyer; his practice used to consist primarily of giving expert opinions on whether lawyers had rendered ineffective assistance—in legal parlance, a Strickland lawyer. Any judge would be happy to appoint him Special Master. Bailey’s concern wasn’t legal, it was personal. Daniel and I had been in a serious relationship a few years ago, until I’d hit an emotional bump and ended it. Last year, after I’d broken up with Graden, I ran into Daniel at Checkers, a restaurant in the downtown Hilton Hotel. He said he planned to move into a condo not far from the Biltmore, and a few months later, he made good on his word. Since then, he’d dropped some hints that he’d be interested in getting back together. Though I hadn’t taken him up on his offer, I never really turned him down either. But I figured that the ever-active courthouse gossip mill would have clued him in about me and Graden by now, so there was no need to get all telenovela about it.

  “I can just ask the judge to appoint him, and then you can let him check out the computer.”

  Bailey looked at me warily, but conceded that might work. “Which judge?”

  “I think we stick with Judge Moss.”

  “Probably a good idea. Plus, it’ll impress her that you’re being so careful.”

  I smiled.

  Bailey raised an eyebrow and pushed her desk phone over to me. “Here.”

  I dialed. Judge Moss approved. I hung up and told Bailey she’d be hearing from Daniel soon.

  “And you probably don’t need to run into him—especially not here,” Bailey said.

  Where Graden could walk by and see us, and think…the wrong thing. I nodded and started to leave, then turned back. “If Dorian says it’s Ian hair in Jack Averly’s Mustang, I’m going back to Judge Moss to get the GPS on Ian’s cars.”

  “’Course.”

  Bailey’s phone rang and I moved slowly, straining to hear who it was. I heard her say, “Just a sec.

  “Do you need an escort, Counselor?” she called out to me, eyebrow raised.

  I glared at her, then turned and headed for the elevator.

  40

  So much had happened, it was hard to believe that it was still just early afternoon. I walked out of the station into yet another day of blazing heat; the sun beat down from a cloudless topaz sky, the light bouncing white and searing off the sidewalks. Even through my sunglasses I found myself squinting as I made my way up the street to my office. A bus belched out a cloud of exhaust just as I was about to climb the back stairs and I held my breath all the way into the lobby.

  It was a good thing I got in a few deep breaths as I ran for the elevator, because the intense mix of perfume, body odor, and food in the densely packed crowd made me hold my breath again. I was lightheaded by the time I got back to my desk. As I dug through the work that’d piled up in my absence, my thoughts kept straying to the laptop, the bloodstain, the hair…everything I had to wait for. It was driving me nuts.

  “How goes it?”

  I looked up to see my boss, Eric, standing in my doorway. His wavy brown hair was unusually wild today, and in his rolled-up shirtsleeves and scuffed loafers, he presented the very picture of an “aw shucks” country boy lawyer. Which is why defense attorneys never saw him coming. And by the time they realized that he was the smoothest shark in the tank, it was too late.

  “Yeah. We’ve got a lot of evidence cooking, but no results yet, so…”

  “You’re waiting, and loving it.” Eric smiled. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

  I gave him the latest developments, ending with my decision to bring in Daniel Rose as a Special Master.

  He nodded approvingly. “It’s good to be cautious on this one.” Not usually my strong suit, but a lot of unusual was about to come my way.

  A week later, news of Brian’s murder was finally announced, and it reinvigorated the press coverage, though we’d managed to keep a tight rein on the details. With no suspect in custody, media interest was a simmering cauldron—semi-contained, but ready to boil over at a moment’s notice. And if we did arrest Ian Powers, the case would go nuclear.

  Eric stopped by my office, looking as anxious as I felt. “I’ll keep giving Vanderhorn the updates for now,” he told me, “but you’ll have to give me a major heads-up if it looks like Powers is getting arrested.”

  My expression must’ve shown what I thought of having to put Vanderhorn in the loop. “There’s nothing he can do,” Eric said. “He can’t stop Bailey from making the arrest. But he does have to be prepared. The press will want a statement and—”

  “The press will want it? Vanderhorn will trip over his own tie to get the press to take his statement.”

  Eric gave a wry smile. “And you should be there when he does.”

  Because he’d need someone around who actually knew something about the case when his good buddies in the fourth estate asked questions.

  “What do you want to do with Jack Averly?” he asked.

  “Unless we find proof that he’s the killer, I’d let him plead out for testimony.”

  “Plead to what?”

  “I can’t say right now. I don’t want to go there until I have something more on either him or Ian.”

  Eric stared out the window, momentarily silent. When he looked back at me, his expression was concerned. “Going after a big wheel like Powers is a dangerous thing, Rachel. If this goes to trial, Ian’s defense will go after you with everything they’ve got. In every media outlet available. They’ll make up stories to undermine your credibility and your integrity. And it�
��ll all creep into the courtroom because they’ll have the press at their beck and call. Forget about fact-checking or corroborating sources; it’ll go straight out from the lying horse’s mouth.”

  He spoke with a quiet intensity that told me this was no general warning. “Been there?”

  Eric nodded. “Huge fraud case. The defendant owned several banks and he cost the customers millions.”

  “Do I know about this one?” It sounded familiar, but not recent.

  “It was years ago. Just before I got transferred over here to head up Special Trials. It was the day before jury selection, and I was supposed to meet some friends at a bar near my old office in Norwalk. While I was waiting, this tipsy girl starts flirting with me. The next thing I know, she’s sitting on my lap, unbuttoning my shirt—it was crazy. I pushed her off and eventually she gave up and left, but the next day, there was a story in one of the tabloids about the prosecutor having an affair with a teenager. The story got picked up by the local press and it almost cost me the case—and my job.”

  “But it didn’t. And it obviously didn’t hurt your career any.”

  “I was lucky, not smart. The bartender knew something was fishy and he was able to identify the person who took the picture as one of the defendant’s buddies. The whole thing blew up in their faces, and the press was happy to carry that part of the story too. But a fraud case is nowhere near as sexy as this one, Rachel. It’s a bad combination of heavy hitters, money, celebrity, and a glamorous world. The press will be crawling all over this the moment you file, and every eye in the country will be glued.”

  I nodded.

  “If your killer turns out to be Jack Averly, just a loser dope dealer, it’ll stay manageable. But if it turns out to be Ian Powers…you’ve got yourself one gigantic cluster fuck.”

  I let the information sink in. Eric’s story was chilling, but I appreciated his telling me. Forewarned is forearmed as they say, though I had no idea what I could do about it if Ian’s people decided to set me up. “Thanks, Eric.”

  “Keep me in the loop. I’ll do what I can to manage Vanderhorn.”

  “Will do.”

  Eric left, and for the first time, I stopped to consider whether I was really up for the kind of nasty ride he’d described. I was still pondering the question when my cell phone played Bailey’s ringtone.

  “Daniel’s done with the computer. He gave us the all clear.”

  “Great—” I sat up, and my heart gave a heavy thud as I suddenly realized I’d forgotten something. “Bailey, what about prints? Did you call—”

  “I got Ben, the criminalist who did Brian’s car at the airport, to dust it before Daniel got here. We’ve got some nice prints all over that thing. And Daniel wore gloves, just in case.”

  I sagged with relief. “Thanks, Bailey.” I took a second to breathe. “Did Daniel tell you whether there was anything that looked good for us?”

  “Unfortunately, he said he didn’t see anything to get excited about.”

  Damn. All that for nothing. “Okay, then let’s give it to our computer whizbangs in my office. Maybe Ian’s got some information hidden or encrypted or…something.”

  “I’ll bring it over.”

  “So now we’re just waiting for Dorian and Gelfer.”

  “I checked. They won’t have anything until tomorrow. And I think Dorian blocked my number.”

  I was silent as I tried to figure out what else we could do besides wait. Bailey read my silence.

  “There’s nothing we can do right now,” Bailey said.

  I looked at my desk. I estimated it’d take me only an hour to clear it off. Then what would I do? Pace in my hotel room? Even I didn’t think that would help anything. “I’ll call Toni.” We’d been playing phone tag for a while.

  But first I called the head deputy of our computer crimes section, Cliff Meisner. He agreed to take a whack at the laptop but warned, “People have gotten pretty sophisticated about hiding information, so it’ll take some time.”

  Translation: I had to wait. Again. And I wasn’t getting any better at it.

  41

  Bailey returned with our round of martinis. We all clinked and sipped. A cold martini on a warm summer night. My besties, Bailey and Toni, and the lights of the city spread out around us like a glittering swath of sequined lace.

  “I probably should’ve called Graden,” I said, taking in the nighttime view of downtown L.A. from the corner of the rooftop bar at Perch.

  “Really, Rache,” Toni said. “‘Should’ makes it sound like you’d be doing it out of guilt. That ain’t right.”

  “’Toine’s right,” Bailey said. She pronounced it “Twan.” “Just because you have a night off doesn’t mean you owe it to him. And besides, you’re wiped out, edgy, and pissy. You wouldn’t be able to play nice tonight. So you did him a favor.”

  I couldn’t argue with one word of it.

  “And you’ll notice I’m not with Drew either.”

  “So I’m the only one who’s normal around here?” Toni asked.

  “Relatively speaking,” I said. “Though given present company, that isn’t saying much.”

  Toni waved off the remark. “How’d it go with Judge Moss?”

  “How did you know?” Bailey asked.

  “Black lawyer grapevine. So how’d it go?”

  “She was awesome.” I filled Toni in on the latest developments.

  Toni gave us a smug smile. “Told you she was good. And it doesn’t matter that she wouldn’t give you the GPS. Powers can’t afford to run anyway.”

  “Exactly,” I replied. “But I never did get to see what kind of car he had. Did you?” I asked Bailey.

  “You mean cars, plural. A gold two-seater custom Bentley, a black Ferrari, and a white Rolls-Royce.”

  I tried to picture Ian Powers in the Rolls. “White Rolls-Royce? Somehow that doesn’t fit.”

  “It’s the girlfriend’s car.”

  “The Neiman Marcus brunette?” I asked.

  Bailey nodded.

  “No wife, no children?”

  “Neither,” Bailey said.

  I remembered noticing the absence of family photos. There’d just been a smattering of pictures of his girlfriend.

  Toni gave us an update on her double homicide case, which seemed to be going well. All in all, it was as relaxing an evening as it could be, under the circumstances. I made myself go to bed before midnight, hoping that the morning would bring us some answers.

  As it turned out, all the morning brought was an early harbinger of trouble. It came in the form of a call on my private cell phone. I’d left for work early, hoping to beat the worst of the heat. I also figured that since my mind was so wrapped around the case, I might as well obsess in my office. I was about a block from the courthouse when my cell phone played the default ringtone. Sure that it was either Dorian or Numan, I answered without looking at the number. Instead, a man with a real British accent—so I knew it wasn’t that poser-lawyer, Beldon—said, “Hello, Ms. Knight?”

  Maybe I was disarmed by the accent, or just too distracted to think quickly enough to deny it, but I admitted it was.

  “This is Andrew Chatham from the National Inquisitor, and I’m calling about the Hayley Antonovich case.”

  The National Inquisitor? How in the hell did he get my private cell phone number?

  “I don’t know how you got this number, but I’m not at liberty to discuss the case.”

  “But my sources indicate that you may very well have suspects in custody shortly, one of whom is a very highly placed individual in the industry.”

  How could this guy know that already? I quickly tried to imagine who the leak was, but there had been so many people in Ian’s house—and that didn’t even take into account nosy neighbors who might’ve seen all the police cars. I’d probably never know.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chatham—”

  “Do call me Andrew, please. I expect we’ll be in touch quite a lot in the coming weeks and mont
hs. No sense standing on ceremony, is there?”

  “Andrew, please don’t take this personally, but I have no intention of being in touch. Do have a nice day.”

  I ended the call. We hadn’t even made an arrest and it was already starting. But the more shocking part was that the first call had been from a tabloid, not the mainstream press. I’d heard rumors that the major newspapers had taken so many financial hits, they couldn’t compete with the “pay for play” jockeys in the tabloid world. That phone call might be proof that the rumor was true. But more important, this was an early shot across the bow, warning me that if we did arrest Ian Powers, I’d be in for the three-ring circus from hell. I tromped heavily up the stairs to the courthouse as though I were being led to the guillotine. All I could do was hope that the day would pick up from there.

  I stopped at the snack bar on the thirteenth floor to get a bagel and coffee. I’d been in a hurry to get to work and hadn’t wanted to wait for room service. Poor, poor me, having to “wait” for room service. I admit that sometimes I even make myself gag. I was on my way to the elevator, bagel in hand, when I bumped into Daniel Rose.

  “Hey, Rachel! I’d ask what you’re up to, except I already know.”

  “Dan, thank you so much. I can’t tell you what a relief it was to get you as Special Master.”

  He looked gorgeous, which was par for the course. In shirtsleeves, with his jacket slung over his shoulder, he looked like an ad for Armani—except more intellectual, with his thick black hair that had just the right amount of gray at the sides and wire-rimmed glasses. And what cologne was he wearing? He smelled great.

  “The chance to help out a friend…and the allure of getting the inside scoop on a hot case. It’s a tough combination to resist.”

  His eyes were as warm as his smile, and as always, my heart lifted at the sight. But in the next moment I caught myself. I was with Graden now. And although nothing had happened between Daniel and me, it seemed only fair that I should let him know. I began to speak but was cut off by a highly caffeinated and excited Melia, who’d just burst out of the elevator.