Fair Warning

16

The courtroom was the crowded port of entry to the criminal justice system, a place where those swept up in the maw of the legal machinery stood before a judge for the first time for a reading of the charges against them. Then their initial court date would be scheduled, the first step in their long and twisting pathway through the morass that would leave them at least bowed and bloodied, if not convicted and incarcerated.

I saw Bill Marchand rise from a seat in the row running along the front rail of the courtroom and start making his way toward me. It had been a night without sleep, and every muscle in my body seemed to hurt from the hours I had spent clenched like a fist and fearful in the communal holding tank. I had been in jail before and knew that danger could come from any quarter. It was a place where men felt betrayed by their lives and the world, and that made them desperate and dangerous, ready to attack anybody and anything that appeared vulnerable.

When Marchand got to the slot through which we would be able to talk, I opened with the five most urgent words in the world to me.

“Get me out of here.”

The lawyer nodded.

“That’s the plan,” he said. “I already talked to the prosecutor and explained to her the hornet’s nest her detectives have kicked over, and she’s going to nolle pros this one. We’ll get you out of here in a couple hours tops.”

“The DA’s just going to drop the charge?” I asked.

“Actually, it’s the city attorney because it’s a misdemeanor charge. But they’ve got nothing to support it. You were doing your job with full First Amendment protections. Myron’s here and ready to go to war. I told the prosecutor, you arraign this reporter on that charge and that man over there will hold a press conference outside the courthouse within the hour. And it won’t be the kind of press her office wants.”

“Where’s Myron now?”

I scanned the crowded rows of the gallery. I didn’t see Myron but motion caught my eye and I thought I saw someone duck behind another person as though bending down to pick something up. When the man came back up, he looked at me and then shifted behind the person sitting in front of him. He was balding and wore glasses. It wasn’t Myron.

“He’s around somewhere,” Marchand said.

At that moment I heard my name as Judge Crower called my case. Marchand turned to the bench and identified himself as counsel for the defense. A woman stood up at the crowded prosecution table and identified herself as Deputy City Attorney Jocelyn Rose.

“Your Honor, we move to drop the charge against the defendant at this time,” she said.

“You are sure?” Crower asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Case dismissed. Mr. McEvoy, you’re free to go.”

Only I wasn’t. I wasn’t free to go until after a two-hour wait to be bussed back to the county jail, where my property was returned and I was processed out. The morning was gone, I had missed both breakfast and lunch at the jail, and I had no transportation home.

But when I stepped through the jail exit I found Myron Levin waiting for me.

“Sorry, Myron. How long were you waiting?”

“It’s okay. I had my phone. You all right?”

“I am now.”

“You hungry? Or you want to go home?”

“Both. But I’m starving.”

“Let’s go eat.”

“Thanks for coming for me, Myron.”

To get to the food quicker we went just over to Chinatown and ordered po’boy sandwiches at Little Jewel. We grabbed a table and waited for them to be made.

“So, what are you going to do?” I asked.

“About what?” Myron asked.

“The LAPD’s flagrant violation of the First Amendment. Mattson can’t get away with this shit. You should hold a press conference anyway. I bet the Times will be all over this. The New York Times, I’m talking about.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s very simple. I was on a story, Mattson didn’t like it. So he falsely arrests me. It’s not only First Amendment, it’s the Fourth as well. They had no probable cause to detain me. I was doing my job.”

“I know all of that but the charges were dropped and you’re back on the story. No harm, no foul.”

“What? I spent a night in jail where I was backed into a corner with my eyes open all night.”

“But nothing happened. You’re okay.”

“No, I’m not okay, Myron. You try it sometime.”

“Look, I’m sorry for what happened, but I think we should roll with it, not inflame things any further, and get back on the story. Speaking of which, I got a text from Emily. She says she got some good stuff from UC–Irvine.”

I looked across the table at Myron for a long moment, trying to read him.

“Don’t deflect the conversation,” I said. “What is it really? The donors?”

“No, Jack, I told you before, the donors have nothing to do with this,” Myron said. “I would no sooner let donors dictate what we do and what we cover than I would let Big Tobacco or the auto industry dictate to us.”

“Then why are we sitting on our hands on this? That guy Mattson needs to be raked over the coals.”

“Okay, if you want to know the truth, I think if we make a stink about this it could come back on us.”

“Why would that happen?”

“Because of you. And me. You are a person of interest in this case until we know otherwise. And I’m the editor who didn’t yank you off it when I should have. If we go to war that’s all going to come out and it’s not going to look that great, Jack.”

I leaned back and shook my head in impotent protest. I knew he was right. Maybe Mattson had known he could do what he did because we were compromised.

“Shit,” I said.

Myron’s name was called because he had paid for lunch. He got up and got our sandwiches. When he returned I was too hungry to keep talking about the issue. I had to eat. I mowed through half of my po’boy before saying another word. By then, without the edge of hunger in my anger, my desire for a constitutional battle with the LAPD had waned.

“It’s just that I feel like this is where we’ve come to,” I said. “Fake news, enemy of the people, the president canceling subscriptions to the Washington Post and New York Times. The LAPD thinks nothing of just throwing a reporter in jail. At what point do we take a stand?”

“Well, this would not be the time,” Myron said. “If we’re going to take that stand then we have to do it when we are one hundred percent clean, so there are no comebacks from the police or the politicians who love seeing journalists thrown in jail.”

I shook my head and dropped the argument. I couldn’t win and the truth was I wanted to get back to the story more than I wanted to take on the LAPD.

“All right, fuck it,” I said. “What did Emily say she has?”

“She didn’t,” Myron said. “She just said she got good stuff and was heading up to the office. I figure that after we finish here we’ll go meet with her.”

“Can you drop me at my apartment first? My car’s there and I want to take a shower before I do anything else.”

“You got it.”

My phone, wallet, and keys had been confiscated during the booking process. When they had been returned upon my departure I stuffed them back into my pockets in a hurry because I wanted to get out of that place as soon as I could. It became clear that I should have looked more carefully at the key chain when Myron dropped me off in front of my building on Woodman. The key to the front gate was on the ring, as well as the key to the Jeep, a storage locker in the garage, and a bike lock. But the key to my apartment was missing.

It was only after I rousted the live-in property manager from a post-lunch nap and borrowed the management copy of the key that I got into the apartment. Once in, I found a copy of a search-warrant receipt on the kitchen counter. While I was in a jail cell the night before, Mattson and Sakai were searching my apartment. They had most likely used my trumped-up obstruction case as part of the probable cause for the search. I realized that was probably their goal all along. They knew the case would get kicked but they used it with a judge to get into my home.

My anger quickly returned and again I took their action as a direct assault on my rights. I pulled my phone and called the LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide Division and asked for Mattson. I was transferred.

“Detective Mattson, how can I help you?”

“Mattson, you better hope I don’t solve this before you because I will make you look like the piece of shit you are.”

“McEvoy? I heard they turned you loose. Why are you so mad?”

“Because I know what you did. You booked me so you could search my place, because you are so far up your ass on this case you wanted to see what I had.”

Looking at the search-warrant receipt I saw that they did not list a single item being taken.

“I want my key back,” I said. “And whatever you took from here.”

“We didn’t take anything,” Mattson said. “And I have your key right here. You are welcome to come by anytime and pick it up.”

I suddenly froze. I wasn’t sure where my laptop was. Had Mattson taken it? I quickly reviewed the evening before and realized I had left my backpack in the Jeep when I decided to go up to the front curb to check my mailbox. I’d been intercepted there by Mattson and Sakai.

I grabbed the search-warrant receipt and quickly checked to see if the search was authorized for my home and vehicle. My laptop was fingerprint- and password-protected but I assumed it would be easy for Mattson to go to the cyber unit and have someone hack their way in.

If Mattson got into my laptop he would have everything I had and know everything I knew about the investigation.

The search warrant was only for the apartment. I would find out in the next thirty seconds if there was a second warrant waiting in my car.

“McEvoy, you there?”

I didn’t bother responding. I disconnected the call and headed for the door. I went down the concrete steps to the garage and quickly crossed to my Jeep.

My backpack was on the passenger seat where I remembered putting it the day before. I returned to my apartment with the backpack and dumped its contents on the kitchen counter. The laptop was there and it appeared that Mattson had not gotten to it or the case notes. The rest of the contents of the backpack seemed to have been untouched as well.

The relief that came from not having my work and my emails rifled through by the police came with a wave of exhaustion, no doubt due to my sleepless night in jail. I decided to stretch out on the couch and catch a half-hour nap before going into the office to meet with Myron and Emily. I set a timer and was asleep within a few minutes, my last waking thought about the men I had been bussed to the courthouse with that morning, all of them most likely back in their cells now in a place where just closing your eyes made you vulnerable.

17

I was disoriented when I woke. I had been stirred from a deep sleep by the sound of a leaf blower outside. I checked my phone for the time but it was dead, having spent the night in a jail property room rather than on a charger. I had no doubt slept through my allotted thirty minutes. I didn’t wear a watch since I usually carried the time on my phone. I got up and stumbled into the kitchenette, where I saw it was 4:17 on the oven. I had been out more than two hours.

I had to plug my phone in and wait for it to get enough charge for the screen to activate. I then texted Myron and Emily on a group text and explained my delay. I asked if it was too late to meet and the response was immediate: Come to the office.

Twenty-five minutes later we met.

The text Emily had sent Myron earlier was correct. She had gotten good stuff on William Orton down at UC–Irvine. We met in the FairWarning conference room and she laid out what she had found.

“First of all, none of this is on the record,” she said. “If we want to use it we need to find independent verification — which I think will exist at the Anaheim Police Department, if we can find a source there.”

“How good is your source at the school?” Myron asked.

“She’s an assistant dean now,” Emily said. “But four years ago when all of this went down she was the assistant to the coordinator of the Title IX unit. Do you know what Title IX is, Jack?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s the sexual violence and harassment protocol for all schools that get federal money.”

“Correct,” Emily said. “So my source told me off the record and on deep background that William Orton was suspected of being a serial abuser of his students, but they never got the goods on him. Victims got intimidated, witnesses recanted. They never got a solid case against him until Jane Doe came along.”

“Jane Doe?” I asked.

“She was a student — a biology major — who took classes from Orton and claimed he had roofied her and then raped her after a chance encounter at a bar in Anaheim. She came to naked in a motel room and the last thing she remembered was the drink with him.”

“What a creep,” Myron said.

“You mean what a criminal,” Emily said.

“That too,” Myron said. “What happened? Jane Doe change her mind?”

“No, not at all,” Emily said. “She was solid. And smart. She called the police that night and they got a rape kit and took blood. Orton used a condom during the assault but they got saliva off her nipples. They were building a solid case against this guy. The tox on Jane came back with flunitrazepam, better known as Rohypnol, the date-rape drug. They had a solid witness in the victim and they were good to go with a case. They were just waiting on the DNA.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“The DNA typing was done by the Orange County Sheriff’s Lab,” Emily said. “The saliva came back as no match to Orton.”

“You’re kidding,” Myron said.

“I wish,” Emily said. “It killed the case. It cast doubt on her story because she had said under questioning that she had not been with another man for six days. An investigator with the District Attorney’s Office down there then dug up a number of prior sex partners Jane Doe had been involved with. It all added up to the DA passing. They wouldn’t touch it without the direct DNA link.”

I thought about what Jason Hwang had said about the DRD4 gene. The Orange County DA had dismissed Jane Doe as promiscuous and therefore not believable enough to support the case at trial.

“You said it was a chance encounter,” I said. “Was there any more on that? How did they know it was a chance encounter?”

“I didn’t ask that,” Emily said. “They just said it was random, you know. They ran into each other in a bar.”

“Did the saliva match anybody else?” I asked.

“Unknown donor,” Emily said. “There was a rumor going around at the time that Orton, being a DNA researcher, had somehow altered his own DNA to prevent the match.”

“Sounds like science fiction,” Myron said.

“It does,” said Emily. “According to my source, they ran the test at the sheriff’s lab a second time and it came back again as a negative match.”

“What about tampering?” Myron asked.

“It was suggested, but the Sheriff’s Department stood by the lab,” Emily said. “I think any indication that there was an evidence-integrity problem would endanger every conviction that relied on that lab for evidence analysis, and they weren’t going to go down that road.”

“And Orton walked away,” I said.

“To a degree,” Emily said. “There was no criminal case, but there was enough smoke because of Jane Doe’s unwavering story, even in the face of the DNA, for the school to go after Orton under the employee-conduct policies. Their mandate wasn’t criminal. They needed to protect other students at the school. So they quietly negotiated his exit. He kept his pension and a cloak of silence was dropped over the whole thing.”

“And what happened to Jane Doe?” I asked.

“That I don’t know,” Emily said. “I asked my source whom she dealt with at Anaheim PD and she could only remember that the detective who handled it had a perfect name for a detective: Dig.”

“First or last?” I asked.

“She said first,” Emily said. “She described him as Latino so I am assuming the first name is Digoberto or a variation of that. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.”

I nodded.

“So,” Myron said. “Orton gets shown the door at UC–Irvine and just sets up shop in a private lab down the road. He got off easy.”

“He did,” Emily said. “But like my source told me, their big concern was getting him out of the school.”

“What about that rumor about changing his DNA?” I asked. “Is that even possible?”

“I did a little bit of research while waiting for you to show up,” Emily said. “Gene-editing technologies are advancing every day but they are not at the point — and certainly not four years ago when this happened — where you can change your entire code. What happened with the Jane Doe case is a mystery. According to my source, Jane Doe had a lawyer ready to sue Orton and the school. His office conducted its own testing on the sample and got the same result. No lawsuit was ever filed.”

All three of us were silent for a moment before Myron spoke.

“So what’s next?” he asked.

It was my story and I wanted to be protective of it, but I had to acknowledge that Emily Atwater had moved it along in a big way.

“Well, one thing we have to remember is that William Orton is a shady figure, but what Jack is pursuing does not touch him — yet,” Emily said. “It bears further reporting but let’s look at where we are. The four victims we know about were GT23 participants. It is possible but not yet proved that their DNA could have been sold to Orton’s lab for his research purposes. Now add in that Orton appears to be a sexual predator and it all gets more interesting. But we have nothing concrete that connects one with the other.”

“Exactly,” Myron said. “I’m wondering how far we go with this without a stronger connection.”

Myron looked at me, which I took as a good sign. It was still my story and he wanted to hear from me.

“I think it’s part of throwing out the net,” I said. “We have to see what comes up. I think the thing to do is try to get inside Orange Nano and talk to Orton. Maybe get a feel for him from a direct contact. I’m not sure how to do that, though. I don’t think we should call up and say we’re looking into the murders of four women. We need another way in.”

“I was thinking about that,” Emily said. “Again, waiting for Jack today I was looking around for anything I could find on Orton and I found one listing for him in an annual report for the Rexford Corporation. He’s a member of the board.”

“What’s Rexford do?” I asked.

“Primarily, it’s hair products for men,” Emily said. “With an emphasis on alopecia — hair loss. It is on the rise in both genders and within five years is expected to be a four-billion-dollar industry.”

“Orton’s trying to cure it,” I said.

“My guess, too,” Emily said. “If he can discover or create the genetic therapy that cures it or even slows it down, then just think what that would be worth. He’s on the Rexford board because the company is funding his research and that could be our way in.”

“We say we’re looking into hair loss?” I asked.

“We follow the money,” Emily said. “Billions are being spent each year but there is no cure — not now. We go in with the consumer angle: How many of these treatments are worthless and where are we on the genetic cure? We play to Orton’s ego, say we heard that if anybody is going to make the breakthrough, it’s you.”

It was a good plan, only marred by my wish that I had thought of it first. I said nothing and Myron looked at me.

“What do you think, Jack?” he asked.

“Well, this alopecia research is new to me,” I said. “Jason Hwang told me that Orton was studying addiction and risky behaviors. Going bald is not connected with either — as far as I know.”

“That’s how these researchers work,” Emily said. “They get a ride on a Big Pharma ticket to do research in one arena and it funds their other research, the stuff that really holds their interest. Rexford is paying for the research they want but funding the research Orton wants.”

I nodded.

“Then I think it’s a good idea,” I said. “That’s our way in. Maybe we go through Rexford first. Get their corporate PR people to set it up, make it harder for Orton to say no — especially if he’s got something hinky going on down there.”

“That’s a good idea,” Emily said. “I—”

“I’ll call first thing in the morning,” I said. “Try to get it set.”

“Tell them there will be two of you on the interview,” Myron said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I want you both to go down there,” Myron said.

“I think I can handle it,” I said.

“I’m sure you can,” Myron said. “But for security reasons I want you both to go. Emily, take the Canon and you can take photos.”

“I’m not a photographer,” Emily protested.

“Just take the camera,” Myron said.

“What about Anaheim PD?” Emily asked. “You want us to tag-team that too?”

“I was going to go down there tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll find Detective Dig.”

Emily said nothing. I was expecting a protest, with her claiming it was her lead, but she didn’t make one.

“Okay, fine, you go, Jack,” Myron said. “But listen, I don’t want this to be a competition. Work together. I’m devoting half our staff to this. We can’t waste time. Find out if there is something there and if not, get out and move on to the next story.”

“Got it,” Emily said.

“Okay,” I said.

The meeting broke up after that and we returned to our respective work stations. The first thing I did was call the Anaheim Police Department and try to get a line on Dig. This turned out to be easy. I asked for the detective bureau and asked the woman who answered, “Can I speak to Dig?”

“I’m sorry, Detective Ruiz is gone for the day. Can I take a message?”

“No, that’s okay. Will he be working tomorrow?”

“He is, but he’s signed out to court all day. Do you want to leave a message?”

“No, I guess I’ll see him at the courthouse. That’s the rape case?”

This was an educated guess based on Ruiz working the Jane Doe/Orton case.

“Yes, Isaiah Gamble. Who can I tell him called?”

“That’s okay. I’ll see him there tomorrow. Thank you.”

After disconnecting, I pulled up the Orange County District Attorney’s Office website and plugged the name Isaiah Gamble into the search window. This led me to an extract on the case — abduction and forcible rape — and the courtroom it was assigned to in the courthouse in Santa Ana. I would be good to go in the morning.

I was writing the information down in a notebook when I was interrupted by a text from Rachel Walling.

It came out of the blue. I drop in on her unannounced for the first time in more than a year and the next day she wants to have a drink. I didn’t wait long to reply.

I waited but there was no immediate reply. I started packing up for the day, shoving into my backpack everything I might need in Orange County the next day. I was about to get up and leave when I got the return message from Rachel.

I stared at my phone’s screen. I knew that she meant Mistral. That seemed a bit weird but maybe there was going to be more to the meeting than a drink. Maybe Rachel had changed her mind about my proposal to her. I texted back with the name and address and told her I was on my way.

I went by Emily Atwater’s cubicle on my way out. She looked up from her screen.

“I located Dig,” I said. “His last name is Ruiz. He’s going to be in court tomorrow on another case.”

“That’s perfect,” Emily said. “You should be able to get to him there.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. And also, I wanted to say sorry if it seems like I’m being a dick.”

“No, you aren’t. It was your story. I get it.”

I nodded.

“Thanks for understanding,” I said. “So if you want to go down with me to find Ruiz that would be fine. It was your lead.”

“No, I’m fine to stay up here, actually,” she said. “I was thinking that while you do that, I’ll see what I can come up with through the feds. I’ll start with the FDA.”

“They’re not doing anything on this,” I said. “They’re still in the ‘thinking about it’ enforcement stage.”

“Yes, but we need to get that on the record and ask why it is and when it’s going to change. The government is behind the curve and that’s a big part of the story.”

“Right.”

“So, I’ll do that and you go down to Orange County.”

“I’ll try to set something up with Orton through Rexford PR. I’ll let you know.”

She smiled. Somehow it made me think that I was still being a dick about things.

“So we’re good?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s see where things are tomorrow.”

I nodded and she spoke as I turned to leave.

“I would never apologize for being protective about my story, Jack.”

I looked back at her.

“You saw something and went after it,” she said. “You have every right to keep it.”

“Okay,” I said.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

18

Rachel was already at the bar at Mistral when I got there, her martini glass half full. She didn’t see me enter and so I stood back and looked at her for a few moments. She had her eyes down on the bar, reading a document. She reached for the stem of the martini glass without looking and then took a small sip. My interactions with her had spanned nearly twenty-five years and had been hot and cold, intense and distant, intimate and strictly professional, and ultimately heartbreaking. From the beginning, she had left a hole in my heart that could never quite heal. I could go years without seeing her but I could never stop thinking about her. Thinking about where she was, what she was doing, who she was with.

I knew the moment I decided to visit her the day before that I was buying myself another round of hope and hurt. But some people are fated this way, fated to play the same music over and over like a scratched record.

The moment was ruined when the bartender saw me standing by the door and called out her version of my name.

“Jacques, what are you doing?” she said. “Come in, come in.”

Elle, whose last name I did not know, spoke with a French accent. She knew me as a regular, though she put a French twist on my name. Still, it was close enough that it caused Rachel to look up and see me. And my moment of reverie and hope ended.

I walked to the bar and sat next to Rachel.

“Hey, been here long?” I asked.

“No, just ahead of you,” Rachel said.

Elle came down the bar to take my order.

“The usual, Jacques?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Elle went back down the bar to where the bottle of Ketel One was and started preparing my drink.

“Ze use-you-well, Jacques?” Rachel whispered mockingly. “You know that accent is fake, right?”

“She’s an actress,” I said. “The place is French.”

“Only in L.A.”

“Or maybe Paris. So, what brings you over the hill to the Valley?”

“Trying to hook up a new client and today we had the dog-and-pony show.”

“Background searching?”

“Our meat and potatoes.”

“So you go in there, flash the former-FBI credentials, and tell them what you can do and they give you their business?”

“That’s a little simplistic but, yeah, that’s how it works.”

Elle brought my martini over and put it down on a cocktail napkin.

“Voilà,” she said.

“Merci,” I said.

Elle moved back down the bar, smart enough to give us space.

“And this is your hang?” Rachel said. “The bartender with the phony French accent?”

“I only live a couple blocks away,” I said. “I can walk home if I get into trouble.”

“Or you get lucky. Gotta get them home before they change their minds, right?”

“That’s a low blow, and I wish I hadn’t even told you that yesterday. That is the one and only time that ever happened to me here.”

“I’m sure.”

“It’s true, but it’s beginning to sound like you’re jealous.”

“That’ll be the day.”

We broke off the conversation there for a few moments and I had the feeling we were both reviewing memories of our checkered history. It always seemed to be me who blew it. Once during the Poet investigation when my own insecurities caused me to doubt her in a relationship-stunting way, and the last time when I put my work ahead of our relationship and put her into an intolerable position.

Now we were left to meet at a bar and trade coy remarks. What could have been was killing me.

“I have to say I am jealous about one thing,” Rachel said.

“That I live in the Valley now?” I said.

I still couldn’t get away from the coy remark. Jesus.

“No, that you’re on a case,” she said. “A real case.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “You have your own business.”

“Which is ninety percent sitting at a computer and doing background searches. I haven’t worked a real... I’m not using my skills, Jack. And if you don’t use them you lose them. You coming in yesterday just reminded me of what I don’t do anymore.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s all on me. Your badge, everything. I fucked everything up for a story. I was so blind and I’m so sorry.”

“Jack, I didn’t come because I need your apology. The past is past.”

“Then what, Rachel?”

“I don’t know. I just...”

She didn’t finish. But I knew this wasn’t going to be a quick drink and goodbye. I held two fingers up to Elle at the other end of the bar: two more.

“Did you do anything with what we talked about yesterday?” Rachel asked.

“I did,” I said. “I got some really good stuff and would have continued today but then I ended up staying all night in jail.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the LAPD guy on the case is scared. Scared I’m ahead of him on this, so he grabbed me on a trumped-up obstruction thing last night and I spent all night in Metro and then half the day in court and riding jail buses back and forth.”

I finished my martini just as Elle delivered a new one.

“Je vous en prie,” she said.

“Merci,” I said.

“Gracias,” Rachel said.

Elle went away.

“Hey, we forgot,” I said.

I held my fresh drink up.

“To the single-bullet theory?” I asked.

Maybe that was going too far, but Rachel did not balk. She held up her glass and nodded. It was a reference to something she had told me years before: that she believed everybody had somebody out there in the world who could pierce their heart like a bullet. Not everybody had the good fortune of meeting that person, and not everybody could hold on to that person if they did meet.

To me there had never been any doubt. Rachel was the one. Her name was on the bullet that pierced me.

We clinked glasses. But then Rachel moved on before any more could be said on that subject.

“Were you charged?” she asked.

“The deputy city attorney kicked the case as soon as she saw it,” I said. “It’s just a new form of harassment in the era where reporters are viewed by some as lower than scum. These cops think they can get away with everything.”

“You really think you’re out in front of them on this case?”

“I do. Have you changed your mind about—”

“What have you gotten?”

I spent the next twenty minutes telling her about Jason Hwang, William Orton, and how my partner on the story, Emily Atwater, had made further strides with a source at UC–Irvine. Rachel asked several questions and offered bits of advice here and there. It was clear that she felt I was onto something that was right in her ten ring. She had once hunted serial killers with the FBI; now she was doing background searches on job candidates. We drank another round of martinis and when the talking ended there was a decision to be made.

“You just leave your car here?” Rachel asked.

“The valets know me here,” I said. “If I’m walking home because I’ve had one too many, they’ll give back my keys. Then I just walk back up in the morning and get my car.”

“Well, I shouldn’t drive either.”

“You can walk with me to my place. We can come back for your car when you’re ready to drive.”

There it was. A half-assed invitation. She gave it a half-smile in return.

“And what if that is not until the morning?” she asked.

“Three martinis... I think it’s going to take at least that long,” I said.

I paid the tab with a platinum American Express card. Rachel saw it.

“You still getting royalties, Jack?”

“Some. Less every year but the books are still in print.”

“I heard that every time they catch a new serial, he has a copy of The Poet somewhere in his possessions. It’s also a popular book in every prison I’ve ever been in.”

“Good to know. Maybe I should’ve had a book signing in Metro last night.”

She laughed loudly and I knew she’d overdone it with the martinis. She was usually too much in control to laugh out loud like that.

“Let’s go before we both pass out,” I said.

We slid off our stools and headed for the door.

The alcohol continued to loosen her tongue as we walked the two blocks.

“I just want you to know that the maid at my place has been on vacation for about a year,” I said.

She laughed again.

“I would expect nothing less,” she said. “I remember some of your places. Heavy on the bachelor.”

“Yeah, well, I guess some things never change,” I said.

“I want in,” she said.

I took a few unsteady steps without responding. I wondered if she was talking about our relationship or my story. She made it clear without my asking.

“I’m making tons of money but I’m not... doing anything,” she said. “I used to... I had a skill, Jack. Now...”

“That’s why I came to see you yesterday,” I said. “I thought you would be—”

“You know what I did today? I presented to a company that makes plastic furniture. They want to make sure they don’t hire any illegals, so they come to me and guess what? I’ll take their money if they want to give it to me.”

“Well, that’s what the business is about. You knew that when—”

“Jack, I want to do something. I want to help. I can help you with your story.”

“Uh... yeah, I thought maybe you’d want to profile this guy — whoever’s doing this. Also, the victims. We need—”

“No, I want more than that. I want to be out there on this. Like with the Scarecrow.”

I nodded. We had worked hand in hand on that.

“Well, this is a little different. You were an agent back then and I already have a partner on—”

“But I can really help you on this. I still have connections in the federal government. I can get things. Find out things you can’t.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know yet. I would have to see but I still know people in all the agencies because I worked with them.”

I nodded. We had gotten to my building. I couldn’t tell how much of what she was saying was the alcohol talking but she seemed to be talking from the heart. I fumbled with the keys to open the gate.

“Let’s go in and sit down,” I said. “We’ll talk more about it.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore tonight, Jack,” she said.

19

I had never been to the courthouse in Santa Ana, nor had I ever driven from the San Fernando Valley down to Orange County on a weekday morning. I left at seven to make sure I got there before nine. That was after I walked up the street twice to Mistral to retrieve my Jeep and then Rachel’s BMW. I parked hers in front of the building, in the same spot Mattson and Sakai had used to arrest me. I then returned her key to the table next to the bed where she slept. I wrote a note asking her to call me when she woke up and left it with two Advils on the bed table.

Rachel might find waking to an empty apartment upsetting, but I wanted to get to Detective Digoberto Ruiz before the trial started.

Best-laid plans. After tie-ups on both the 101 and 5 freeways, I rolled into the parking garage at the Criminal Courts Building in Santa Ana at 9:20. Proceedings in the trial of Isaiah Gamble were already underway. I slipped into the back row of the gallery and watched. I was in luck. It took me only a few minutes to realize that Detective Ruiz was the man on the witness stand giving testimony.

The gallery of the courtroom was empty except for me and a woman in the front row on the prosecution side of the room. The case apparently had drawn no attention from the local populace or media. The prosecutor was a woman who stood at a lectern between the prosecution and defense tables. The jury was to her left: twelve jurors and two alternates, still alert and paying attention in the first hour of the day.

The defendant, Isaiah Gamble, sat at a table next to another woman. I knew that it was part of the sexual-predator playbook to go to trial with a female lawyer. It forces the jury to ask: If this man really did what they say he did, would a woman represent him?

Ruiz looked close to retirement. He had a gray fringe of hair circling a bald dome and permanently sad eyes. He had seen too much on his job. He was recounting just one episode of many.

“I met with the victim at the hospital,” he said. “She was being treated for her injuries and evidence was being collected.”

“And was she able to provide you with other evidence or information?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes, she had memorized a license plate that was in the trunk of the car with her.”

“It wasn’t on the car?”

“No, it had been removed.”

“Why was it removed?”

“Probably to help the suspect avoid being identified in case someone saw the abduction.”

The defense attorney objected to the detective’s answer, saying it was conjecture. The judge ruled that Ruiz had more than enough experience in rape cases to form the opinion he had voiced and allowed the answer to stand. It also emboldened the prosecutor to take the question further.

“You have seen this before in cases?” she asked. “The removal of the license plate.”

“Yes,” Ruiz said.

“As an experienced detective, what does that indicate to you?”

“Premeditation. That he had a plan and went out hunting.”

“Hunting?”

“Looking for a victim. For prey.”

“So going back to the victim being in the trunk, wasn’t it too dark in the trunk to see the plate?”

“It was dark but every time the kidnapper hit the brakes the taillights lit up part of the trunk and she could see. She memorized the plate that way.”

“And what did you do with that information?”

“I ran the plate on the computer and got the registered owner’s name.”

“Who was it registered to?”

“Isaiah Gamble.”

“The defendant.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do next, Detective Ruiz?”

“I pulled Gamble’s photo from his driver’s license, put it in a six-pack, and showed it to the victim.”

“Please tell the jury what a six-pack is.”

“It’s a photo lineup. I put together six photos, including the shot of Isaiah Gamble and five other men of the same race and similar age, build, hair, and complexion. I then showed it to the victim and asked if any of the men in the photos was the man who abducted and raped her.”

“And did she identify any of the men in the photo lineup?”

“Without hesitation she identified the photo of Isaiah Gamble as that of the man who had abducted, raped, and beaten her.”

“Did you have her sign her name under the photo of the man she identified?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And did you bring that six-pack with you to court today?”

“I did.”

The prosecutor went through the steps of introducing the six-pack as a state’s exhibit and the judge accepted it.

Twenty minutes later Ruiz had completed his direct testimony and the judge took the morning break before the defense’s cross-examination would start. He told the jurors and all parties to be back in fifteen minutes.

I watched Ruiz intently to see if he would leave the courtroom for a restroom or coffee break, but at first he stayed seated in the witness box and small-talked with the courtroom clerk. But then the clerk took a phone call and turned her attention away from the detective. After another minute Ruiz stood up and told the prosecutor he was going to the restroom and would be right back.

I watched Ruiz walk out the door and then followed him. I gave him a one-minute lead time in the restroom before I entered. He was at the sink washing his hands. I went to a sink two down and started doing the same. We saw each other in the mirror over the sink between us and both nodded.

“That must feel good,” I said.

“What’s that?” Ruiz asked.

“Putting sexual predators away for a long time.”

Ruiz looked at me strangely.

“I was in the courtroom,” I said. “I saw you testify.”

“Oh,” Ruiz said. “You’re not on the jury, are you? I can’t have any contact with—”

“No, I’m not. I’m a reporter, actually. Down from L.A.”

“For this case?”

“No, not this one. Another case you handled. My name’s Jack McEvoy.”

I threw the paper towel I was drying my hands with into the trash can and offered my hand. Ruiz took it tentatively. I didn’t know if that was because of what I had said or the general awkwardness that comes with holding out a hand in a restroom.

“What other case?” Ruiz asked.

“I guess it’s the one who got away,” I said. “William Orton.”

I watched his face for a reaction and thought I caught a glimpse of anger flare before his face turned to stone.

“How do you know about that case?” he asked.

“Sources,” I said. “I know what he did at UCI. You didn’t put him in jail but at least you got him away from the students there.”

“Look, I can’t talk to you about that case. I need to get back to court now.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Ruiz opened the door and looked back at me.

“You’re doing a story about Orton?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Whether you talk to me or not. I’d rather it be after we’ve talked and you can explain why he was never charged.”

“What do you think you know about him or that case?”

“I know he may still be a predator. That enough?”

“I have to go back to court. If you’re still here after I’m finished, then maybe we can talk.”

“I’ll—”

He was gone and the door slowly closed.

After I returned to the courtroom, I watched the defense lawyer cross-examine Ruiz, but she scored no points that I could tally and made one large misstep in asking a question that allowed Ruiz to state that DNA collected at the hospital after the abduction and rape was matched to her client. This, of course, would come out anyway, or may have already come out through an earlier prosecution witness, but it’s never a good thing for the defense to reference the state’s key piece of evidence against your client.

After twenty minutes of questions gained little traction for her client’s cause she gave up and the detective was dismissed as a witness.

I left the courtroom and sat on a bench in the hallway. If Ruiz was going to talk to me he would come out. But when he did it was to collect the next witness, who was waiting in the hall on the next bench down. I heard Ruiz call her Dr. Sloan and tell her she was up. He walked her to the courtroom and when he opened the door for her he looked back at me and nodded. I took it to mean he would be back for me.

Another ten minutes passed and Ruiz finally came out of the courtroom again and sat on the bench next to me.

“I should be in there,” he said. “The prosecutor doesn’t know the case like I do.”

“That doctor, is she the DNA expert?” I asked.

“No, she runs the rape-treatment center at the hospital. She collected the evidence. The DNA expert comes next.”

“How long will the trial last?”

“We’ll finish tomorrow morning, then it will be whatever the defense puts on — which doesn’t look like much.”

“If it was such a lost cause, why didn’t he plead, get a deal?”

“Because a guy like that, we don’t give him a deal. Why are you here?”

“I’m working on a story and it’s taken me to Orton. We found out about the UCI case and I wondered why it never went anywhere.”

“Short answer: the DNA didn’t match. We had the victim’s ID, witness corroboration of checkable facts, but the DNA knocked our legs out. The DA passed. How is Orton related to what you’re working on?”

I could see what Ruiz was doing. He was trading. He’d give up information to get information. But so far he hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know.

“I’m looking at the murder of a woman,” I said. “No direct link in the case to Orton but I think her DNA went through his lab.”

“At UCI?” Ruiz asked.

“No, this is after he left. His current lab, Orange Nano.”

“I don’t get the connection.”

“My victim was killed by a sexual predator. From what I’ve found out about Orton, he’s one too.”

“I can’t make that statement. We never charged him with a crime.”

“But you wanted to. It was the DA who wouldn’t go forward.”

“With good reason. DNA works both ways. It convicts and it clears.”

I pulled out my notebook to write down that line. It freaked Ruiz out.

“You can’t use anything from me. I don’t want to be sued by him. There was no case. The DNA cleared him.”

“But you had the victim’s story.”

“Doesn’t matter. The DNA threw a wrench into things. Made the case untenable. We didn’t proceed. End of story. Is this — do you work for the Times up there?”

“I work for a website that partners with the Times on occasion. How surprised were you when the DNA came back and it wasn’t a match to William Orton?”

“Off the record: very. On the record: no comment.”

I put my notebook down on the bench so he would not perceive it as a threat.

“Any theories on the DNA and where it came from?” I asked.

“Nope,” Ruiz said. “I just know it killed the case. It didn’t matter how credible our victim seemed. DNA from another man on her body killed the case.”

“What about the possibility of tampering?”

“I don’t see where. I took the sample from Orton with a court order. I delivered it to the lab. You accusing me of something?”

“Not at all. Just asking. There’s also the second sample Orton’s was compared to. Was there any kind of internal investigation of that?”

“Not beyond doing the test over and getting the same result. You are talking about a very sensitive subject. You know what the criminal defense lawyers in this courthouse would do with something like that? We’d get buried with appeals of every conviction that ever came out of that lab.”

I nodded. It was a case of looking into the matter but not looking too hard.

“How did the victim take it when you told her?” I asked.

“She was more surprised than me, I’ll tell you that,” Ruiz said. “She insisted then and still does that there was no other man. Just Orton.”

“Did you ever talk to him? Interview him, I mean. Maybe when you took his swab?”

“Not really. We started to get into it but then he lawyered up and that was it. You know, you were right about this one. What you said.”

“What did I say?”

“About him being the one who got away. The motherfucker’s a rapist. I know it. And the DNA doesn’t change that. That’s off the record, too.”

Ruiz stood up.

“I need to go back in,” he said.

“Two more quick questions,” I said.

He gestured for me to go ahead. I stood up.

“Jane Doe’s lawyer, who was that?”

“Hervé Gaspar — I recommended him to her.”

“What is Jane Doe’s real name?”

“You should be able to get that from your source at the school.”

“Okay, then what about the lab report on the DNA? Where can I get that?”

“You can’t. All that got destroyed when the case wasn’t filed. The lab report, the records. His arrest was expunged after his lawyer got a court order.”

“Shit.”

“You’re telling me.”

Ruiz turned toward the courtroom door and took a few steps, but then stopped and came back to me.

“Do you have a card or something? In case.”

“Sure.”

I opened a zipper on my backpack, dug out a business card, and handed it to him.

“Call anytime,” I said. “And good luck with this one.”

“Thanks,” he said. “But with this one we don’t need luck. He’s going down.”

I watched him go back into the courtroom to take care of business.

20

When I turned my phone on after leaving the courthouse, I had a message from Randall Sachs, head of public relations for the Rexford Corporation. With the two-hour time difference in Indianapolis working in my favor, I had called him on my drive down. It was early my time but he was well into his day and I told him that I needed to get into Orange Nano and interview William Orton. I made it clear that if he turned down my request, I would wonder what they were hiding at Rexford, a publicly traded company, when I could not speak to a board member and top researcher. I told him that I would be in the vicinity of Orange Nano later in the day and would love to make the visit then.

The message was that my photographer and I had a two-o’clock interview with Orton that came with a hard stop at three. I immediately called Sachs back to confirm and he gave me the lowdown on who I should ask for on arrival and reminded me that the interview would last no more than an hour. He implied that Orton was against the interview but he, Sachs, had been able to make him see the light.

“We are a transparent company,” Sachs assured me.

I thanked him, disconnected, and immediately called Emily Atwater.

“How fast can you get down here?” I asked. “We have a two o’clock with Orton.”

“I’ll leave right now and should make it in time for us to work out a script,” she said.

“Okay, good. Don’t forget the camera. You’re the photographer and I’m the interviewer.”

“Don’t be a dick. I know what I’m supposed to be.”

“Sorry. You get anything out of the feds?”

“The FTC was good. I’ll tell you about it when I’m down there.”

“Now who’s being a dick?”

“Touché. Leaving now.”

She disconnected.

I had time to kill so I went for an early lunch at Taco María in Costa Mesa. While I ate arrachera tacos I thought about the best approach to Orton. I knew that it might be the one and only time to get an audience with him. Would Emily and I maintain the cover of the story we had told Rexford PR we were doing, or would we confront him?

Based on what I had heard from Detective Ruiz, I was pretty sure that Orton would not bend if confronted. It was likely that a direct approach would only get us shown the door. Still, it might be useful to see how he would react and possibly defend himself against the accusations leveled against him while he was a professor at UCI. Or what he would say if we asked if the DNA from the four dead women at the center of our story had ended up in the lab at Orange Nano.

The tacos were excellent and I was finished with ninety minutes to go before the appointment with Orton.

As I was walking through the parking lot my phone buzzed. It was Rachel.

“Did you just get up?” I said.

“No, I’m at work, thank you,” she said.

“Well, I thought you’d call sooner. Did you see my note?”

“Yes, I saw it. I just wanted to get to work and start my day. Are you down in Orange County?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I talked to the detective who handled the Orton case.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much, but I think he wanted to talk. He asked for my card and that usually doesn’t happen. So we’ll see.”

“Now what?”

“I meet Orton at two. His corporate sponsor set it up.”

“I wish I was there. I could give you a good read on him.”

“Well, the other reporter is coming down. Three would be a crowd, and I’m not sure how I would explain who—”

“I was just saying, Jack. I know it’s not my story or case.”

“Oh, well, you could always give me a secondhand read tonight.”

“Mistral?”

“Or I could come over the hill to you.”

“No, I like Mistral. I’ll be there. After work.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

I got in my car and just sat there for a long moment thinking. Though the feelings and senses of the night before had been fogged by alcohol, they were nonetheless wonderful to me. I was with Rachel again and there was no better place in the world to be. But it was always hope and hurt. Hope and hurt. With her, there had never been one without the other, and I had to prepare myself for the same cycle again. I was riding on the high now but history and the laws of physics were clear. What goes up always comes down.

I put the address of the lab into my GPS app and drove by Orange Nano a few times before pulling over on MacArthur Boulevard and using the cell to look up and call the offices of Hervé Gaspar, the lawyer who had represented Jane Doe. I identified myself as a reporter who needed to talk to the attorney for a story that would be posted by the end of the day. Most lawyers wanted their names in the media. It was free advertising. As expected, I was transferred to his cell phone and could tell I had caught him in a restaurant, eating.

“This is Hervé Gaspar. What can I do for you?”

“My name’s Jack McEvoy. I’m a reporter for FairWarning up in L.A.”

“What the hell is a FairWarning?”

“Good question. It’s a consumer-protection news site. We watch out for the little guy.”

“Never heard of it.”

“That’s okay. There are many who have, especially the charlatans we expose on a regular basis.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

I decided to jump over all the buildup.

“Mr. Gaspar, sounds like you’re eating so I’ll get to the point.”

“Taco María, ever been here?”

“Yeah, about twenty minutes ago.”

“Really?”

“Really. And now I have a two-o’clock interview with William Orton. If you were me, what would you ask him?”

There was a long silence before Gaspar responded.

“I would ask him how many lives he’s ruined. You know about Orton?”

“I know about the case involving your client.”

“How?”

“Sources. What can you tell me about it?”

“Nothing. It was settled and everybody signed NDAs.”

Nondisclosure agreements, the bane of a reporter’s life.

“I thought no lawsuit was filed,” I said.

“There wasn’t, because we reached a settlement.”

“And you can’t share the details of it.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Is there anyplace where this settlement would be recorded?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me your client’s name?”

“Not without her permission. But she can’t talk to you either.”

“I know that, but can you ask her?”

“I can but I know the answer will be no. You’ll be at this number?”

“Yes, it’s my cell. Look, I’m not looking to put her name out there publicly. It would just help me to know it. I’m interviewing Orton today. It makes it hard to go at him on this if I don’t even know the victim’s name.”

“I understand and I will ask her.”

“Thank you. Going back to my first question. You said you would ask how many lives he has ruined. You think there were more than just your client?”

“Put it this way, the case I handled was not an aberration. And that’s off the record. I can’t talk about the case or him at all.”

“Well, if we’re off the record, what did you think about the DNA report? Detective Ruiz said he was pretty shocked by that.”

“You talked to Ruiz, huh? Yeah, it was a big fucking shock.”

“How’d Orton get around it?”

“When you find out, let me know.”

“Did you try to find out?”

“Of course, but I got nowhere.”

“Was tampering involved?”

“Who knows?”

“Can someone change their DNA?”

Gaspar started laughing.

“That’s a good one.”

“I didn’t mean it as a joke.”

“Well, put it this way, if Orton invented a way to change his DNA, he’d be the richest asshole in California, because a lot of people would pay big bucks for that. You could start with the Golden State Killer and work your way down from there.”

“Last question,” I said. “Does the NDA you and your client signed cover the records of your investigation, or could I look at what you’ve got in your files?”

He laughed again.

“Nice try.”

“What I thought. Mr. Gaspar, I would appreciate it anyway if you would give my name and number to your client. She can talk to me in confidence. I will promise her that.”

“I’ll tell her. But I will also advise her that she risks breaking the agreement if she does.”

“I understand.”

I disconnected and sat in my car thinking. So far my trip down to Orange County had produced nothing that pushed the needle or made any connection between the four deaths that I was ostensibly investigating and William Orton or Orange Nano.

My phone buzzed and it was Emily.

“I just got off the 405. Where are you?”

I gave her directions to where I was parked and she said she’d be there in five minutes. I got a text before she arrived. It was from the 714 area code — Orange County.

I assumed that the name had come from Gaspar and he had used a burner phone that could not be traced back to him. This told me a number of things. First, that he was concerned enough about Orton to break the NDA, but to do it in a way that gave him protection. It also said he was the kind of lawyer who used burner phones, and that could be useful down the line.

I texted a thank-you and added that I would be in touch. No reply came. I added the number to my contact list, assigning it the name Deep Throat. I was a reporter because of Woodward and Bernstein, the Washington Post duo who took down a president with the help of a confidential source they had given that nickname.

I saw Emily’s car pull to the curb in front of me. It was a small Jaguar SUV and it was nicer than my Jeep. I got out with my backpack and got into the passenger seat of her car. I checked my phone and saw we still had time to kill.

“So,” I said. “Tell me about the feds.”

“I talked to a guy I had worked with on other stories,” Emily said. “He’s with Federal Trade Commission enforcement, which used to have oversight of the DNA industry until it got too big and the FTC turned it over to the FDA.”

“Which basically does nothing.”

“Exactly. But my guy can still dip into the licensing records and the database.”

“And?”

“And basically these DNA labs have to be licensed, but as you know there is no oversight or enforcement after that. However, the FDA does have to accept complaints, and my guy told me there was a flag on Orton.”

“Is that on the record?”

“On the record but not for attribution.”

“Where did the flag come from?”

“He could not get that, but my guess is that it was from UCI and what happened there.”

That seemed most likely to me.

“All right,” I said. “Anything else?”

“One other thing,” Emily said. “Orange Nano’s license has an amendment allowing it to share anonymized data with other licensed research facilities. So the data it gets from GT23 can pass through the lab and Orange Nano and go somewhere else.”

“Is any approval required of such transactions?”

“Not at this time. It’s apparently going to be part of the rules and regs the FDA is taking its sweet time with.”

“We need to find out who they give DNA to,” I said. “We can ask Orton when we see him, but I kind of doubt that will go anywhere.”

“We’ll see soon enough. What about Jason Hwang, disgruntled ex-employee of the mothership? Maybe he knows something and will share.”

“Maybe. But he would be a transaction removed. He sent DNA to Orange Nano. He would have no control and probably no knowledge of where it went afterward. What about your FTC guy?”

“I’ll try him, but the FTC washed its hands of the DNA industry when the FDA took over. Whatever he can get will be at least two years old or more.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot.”

“I’ll call him later. What did you get from the cop on the UCI case?” she asked.

“I talked to him in court and then I called the lawyer who represented the UCI victim.”

“Jane Doe.”

“Actually, it’s Jessica Kelley.”

“Who gave you that?”

“I think Gaspar, the lawyer.”

I explained the text I had gotten.

“Good stuff,” Emily said. “If she’s still around we can find her.”

“She signed an NDA, so that may be a dead end. But having the name will help us with Orton, if the case comes up.”

“Oh, I think it’s going to come up. Are we ready?”

“We are.”

21

Orange Nano was in a clean industrial park off MacArthur and not far from UCI. It was a single-level precast concrete building with no windows and no sign out front identifying it. The front door led to a small reception area where we found Edna Fortunato, the woman I had been told by Rexford PR would get us to William Orton.

She escorted us into an office where two men sat waiting, one directly behind a large desk and the other to his left side. The office was basic: a desk cluttered with files and paperwork, diplomas framed on one wall, shelves of medical-research books on another, and finally a six-foot-tall sculpture in a corner that was an abstract double helix made of polished brass.

The man behind the desk was obviously Orton. He was about fifty with a tall and slim build. He stood up and easily reached across the wide desk to shake our hands. Though ostensibly looking for the cure to baldness, he had a full head of brown hair slicked back and held in place with heavy product. His bushy, unkempt eyebrows gave him the inquisitive look of a researcher. He wore the requisite white lab coat — his name stitched above the breast pocket — and pale green scrubs.

The other man was the mystery. Dressed in a crisp suit, he remained seated. Orton quickly solved the mystery.

“I am Dr. Orton,” he said. “And this is my attorney, Giles Barnett.”

“Are we interrupting something you two need to finish?” I asked.

“No, I asked Giles to join us,” Orton said.

“Why is that?” I asked. “This is just a general interview.”

There was a nervousness about Orton that I had seen before in people unaccustomed to dealing directly with the media. And he had the added burden of worrying about his secret discharge from UCI. It seemed that he had brought his lawyer to make sure the interview didn’t stray into an area Emily and I surely intended to take it.

“I need to tell you at the outset that I don’t want this intrusion,” Orton said. “I rely on Rexford Corporation to sponsor my work and so I cooperate with their demands. This is one of them. But as I say, I don’t like it, and I am more comfortable with my attorney present.”

I looked over at Emily. It was clear our planning for the interview had been for naught. The scheme to slowly lead Orton down a path toward a discussion of his past troubles would now clearly be stopped by Giles Barnett. The attorney had a tight collar and the thick body of an offensive lineman. In my glance at Emily I tried to get a read on whether she thought we should abandon ship or press on. She spoke before I could make a determination.

“Could we start in the lab?” she said to Orton. “We wanted some photos of you in your element. We could get that out of the way and then do the interview.”

She was proceeding with the plan: get photos first because the interview was going to lead to a confrontation. It’s hard to get photos after you’ve been ordered to leave the premises.

“You can’t go into the lab,” Orton said. “There are contamination concerns and a strict protocol. There are, however, viewing windows in the hallway. You can take your photos from there.”

“That’ll work,” Emily said.

“Which lab?” Orton said.

“Uh, you tell us,” I said. “What labs are there?”

“We have an extraction lab,” he said. “We have a PCR lab, and we have an analysis lab.”

“PCR?” I asked.

“Polymerase Chain Reaction,” Orton said. “It is where samples are amplified. We can make millions of copies of a single DNA molecule in a matter of hours.”

“I like that,” Emily said. “Maybe some shots with you involved in that process.”

“Very well,” Orton said.

He stood up and signaled us through the door into a hallway that led to the far reaches of the building. Emily hung back so that Orton was several feet ahead of us, his lab coat flowing behind him like a cape. She took photos as we walked.

I walked next to Barnett and asked him for a card. He reached behind the pocket square in the breast pocket of his suit coat and handed me an embossed business card. I glanced at it before putting it in my pocket.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Barnett said. “Why does he need a criminal defense attorney? The answer is that it’s only one of my specialties. I handle all Dr. Orton’s legal work. That’s why I’m here.”

“Got it,” I said.

We turned down a forty-foot hallway with several large windows running along both sides. Orton stopped at the first set of windows.

“Over here to my left is PCR,” he said. “To the right is the STR analysis lab.”

“STR?” I asked.

“Short Tandem Repeat analysis is the evaluation of specific loci,” he said. “This is where we hunt. Where we look for the commonalities in identity, behavior, hereditary attributes.”

“Like balding?” I asked.

“That is certainly one of them,” Orton said. “And one of our main points of study.”

He pointed through the window at a device that looked like a countertop dishwasher with a rack containing dozens of test tubes. Emily snapped another photo.

“Where does the DNA for your studies come from?” I asked.

“We buy it, of course,” Orton said.

“From who?” I asked. “You must need a lot.”

“Our primary source is a company called GT23. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Nodding, I pulled a notebook out of my back pocket and wrote down his direct quote. While I was doing so, Emily continued her role as photographer.

“Dr. Orton, I know we can’t go into the lab,” she said. “But could you go in and sort of interact with what you see in there so I can take a few shots?”

Orton looked at Barnett for approval and the attorney nodded.

“I can do that,” Orton said.

“And I don’t see anybody in the labs,” Emily added. “Don’t you have staff that helps with your research?”

“Of course I do,” Orton said, an irritated tone in his voice. “They preferred not to be photographed, so they have the hour off.”

“Forty minutes now,” Barnett added helpfully.

Orton used a key to unlock the STR-lab door. He stepped into a mantrap where an exhaust fan roared to life and then died. He used the key to open the next door and enter the lab.

Emily walked up to the glass and tracked Orton through the lens of her camera. Barnett took the moment to move next to me.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“I want to know what is behind this charade.”

“I’m doing a story. It’s about DNA and how it gets used and protected and who’s out there on the frontier of the science.”

“That’s bullshit. What are you really here for?”

“Look, I didn’t come here to talk to you. If Dr. Orton wants to accuse me of something, let him do it. Call him out here and we’ll all talk about it.”

“Not until I know—”

Before he could finish, he was interrupted by the roar of the fan in the mantrap. We both turned to see Orton stepping out. Concern was written on his face, as he had either heard the confrontation or seen the pointed discussion through the lab’s window.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said before Barnett could respond. “Your lawyer doesn’t want me to interview you.”

“Not until I know what the interview is really about,” Barnett said.

All at once I knew the plan for a subtle lead-up was out the window. It was now or never.

“I want to know about Jessica Kelley,” I said. “I want to know how you fixed the DNA.”

Orton stared hard at me.

“Who gave you that name?” Barnett demanded.

“A source I won’t give up,” I said.

“I want you both out of here,” Orton said. “Right now.”

Emily turned the camera on Orton and me and started firing off shots.

“No pictures!” Barnett yelled. “Put that away right now!”

His voice was so tight with anger that I thought he might lunge at Emily. I slid into the space between them and tried to salvage an unrecoverable situation. Over Barnett’s shoulder I saw Orton pointing toward the door we had come through from the office.

“Get out of here,” he said, his voice rising with each word. “Get out!”

I knew my questions were not going to be answered by Orton or his lawyer, but I wanted them on the record.

“How’d you do it?” I asked. “Whose DNA was it?”

Orton didn’t answer. He kept his hand raised and pointing toward the door. Barnett started pushing me that way.

“What’s really going on here?” I yelled. “Tell me about dirty four, Dr. Orton.”

Barnett shoved me harder then, and I hit the door with my back. But I saw that the impact of my words hit Orton harder. Dirty four had registered with him and for a moment I saw the facade of anger slip. Behind it was... trepidation? Dread? Fear? There was something there.

Barnett shoved me into the hallway and I had to turn to keep my balance.

“Jack!” Emily cried.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Barnett,” I said.

“Then get the hell out of here,” the lawyer said.

I felt Emily’s hand on my arm as she walked by me.

“Jack, come on,” she said. “We have to go.”

“You heard her,” Barnett said. “Time to go.”

I followed Emily down the hall in the direction we had come from. The lawyer followed to make sure we kept going.

“And I can tell you something right now,” he said. “If you print one word about Dr. Orton or one photograph, we will sue you and your website into bankruptcy. You understand that? We will own you.”

Twenty seconds later we were getting into Emily’s car and slamming the doors. Barnett stood in the main entrance of the building and watched. I saw him looking down at the front license plate of Emily’s car. Once we were in, he turned and disappeared inside.

“Jesus Christ, Jack!” Emily yelled.

Her hands were shaking as she pushed the button to start the engine.

“I know, I know,” I said. “I blew it.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she said. “You didn’t blow anything, because they fucking knew why we were coming. We were never going to get anything. They cleared everybody out of there, then started the phony dog-and-pony show. They were trying to extract information, not give it.”

“Well, we got something. Did you see his face when I said dirty four?”

“No, I was too busy trying to not get thrown into a wall.”

“Well, it hit him. I think it scared him that we know about it.”

“But what do we actually know?”

I shook my head. It was a good question. I had another.

“How’d they know what we were there for? I had it set up through corporate PR.”

“Somebody we talked to.”

Emily pulled out of the industrial park and headed back toward my Jeep.

“No,” I said. “No way. The two guys I talked to today, the detective and the lawyer, they hate Orton’s guts. And one of them gave me the name. You don’t do that and then turn around and warn Orton about why we’re coming.”

“Well, they knew,” Emily insisted.

“What about your FTC guy?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see it. I didn’t say anything about us coming down here.”

“Maybe he just tipped them off, said a reporter was sniffing around. Then Orton gets word from corporate in Indianapolis to let me in. He calls his lawyer guard dog and is waiting for us.”

“If it was him, I’ll find out. Then I’ll burn his ass at the stake.”

The tension from the confrontation turned to relief now that we were in the car and away from Orange Nano. I involuntarily started to laugh.

“That was crazy,” I said. “I thought for a moment the lawyer was going to go after you.”

Emily started shaking her head and smiling, casting off tension herself.

“I thought he was too,” she said. “But that was nice of you, Jack, to step in there between us.”

“It would have been pretty bad if something I said got you attacked,” I said.

A City of Irvine patrol car went streaking past us, its lights flashing but no siren engaged.

“You think that’s for us?” Emily asked.

“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe.”

22

Myron Levin frowned and told us that he needed to pull us off the story.

“What?” I said. “Why?”

We were sitting in the conference room — Emily, Myron, and me — after Emily’s and my long, separate rides back to L.A. We had just spent thirty minutes reviewing the events in Orange County.

“Because it actually isn’t a story,” Myron said. “And I can’t afford to have you chasing after something for this long with no results.”

“We’ll get results,” I promised.

“Not with what happened today,” Myron said. “Orton and his lawyer were ready for you and they shut that whole avenue down. Where do you go from there?”

“We keep pushing,” I said. “The four deaths are connected. I know they are. You should have seen Orton’s face when I said dirty four. There is something there. We just need a little more time to pull it all together.”

“Look,” Myron said. “I know there’s smoke, and where there is smoke there’s fire. But right now, we can’t see through the smoke and we’re hitting dead ends. I let you two run with this but I need you back on your beats producing stories. I was never convinced this was a FairWarning story in the first place.”

“Of course it is,” I insisted. “That guy down there has something to do with these deaths. I know it. I feel it. And we are obligated to—”

“We are obligated to our readers and our mission — consumer-watchdog reporting,” Myron said. “You can always take your suspicions and what you’ve found so far to the police, and that would take care of any other obligation you think you have.”

“They won’t believe me,” I said. “They think I did it.”

“Not once your DNA comes back,” Myron said. “Talk to them then. Meantime, go back to your stations, refresh your story lists, and let’s meet individually in the morning to sequence.”

“Damn it,” I said. “What about if Emily goes back to her beat and I stay on Orton? Then you don’t have half the staff on this.”

“Way to throw me under the bus, asshole,” Emily said.

I spread my hands.

“It’s my story,” I said. “What’s the alternative? You stay on it and I go back to the beat? That’s not happening.”

“And neither is your scenario,” Myron said. “You’re both back on the beats. Story lists in the morning. I have to go make calls.”

Myron stood up and exited the conference room, leaving Emily and me staring at each other across the table.

“That was really uncool,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “I think we were getting close.”

“No, I’m talking about you throwing me under. I’m the one keeping the story going and you were the one who fucked it up with that lawyer.”

“Look, I admit I messed up with the lawyer and Orton, but you said yourself it wasn’t going to go anywhere. And it was probably your FTC contact who tipped him off. But this thing about you being the one keeping the story going, that’s bullshit. We both had moves in play and were pushing it forward.”

“Whatever. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

She got up and left the room.

“Shit,” I said.

I contemplated things for a few moments and then pulled out my phone and composed a text to the contact I had labeled Deep Throat.

I read it twice and wondered if it sounded like I was whining. Finally, I cut the last two words and sent it. I then got up and went back to my cubicle, passing Emily’s on the way. I felt bad about what I’d said and the way things ended with her in the conference room.

At my desk I opened my laptop and went into a few folders labeled with stories I had been working on before Mattson and Sakai first showed up at my apartment. Top of the list was the “King of Con Artists” story, which had already been written and turned in but not yet posted because there had been no time for me to sit down with Myron and go over his edit. That would be the first priority. After that, I looked at my futures list, but nothing excited me after being on the recent adrenaline-charged story chase.

I next looked at my follow-up file. It contained stories that had already been posted but that I knew I should circle back on to see if anything had changed — whether the companies or government agencies had fixed the problems my stories had put the spotlight on. Though any reporter at FairWarning could pursue a story of their own interest in any industry, I had informally been given the auto-industry beat. For it, I had posted several pieces about sudden-acceleration issues, faulty electronic-control chips, dangerous gas tanks, and substandard parts, from outsourced integral assemblies to unregulated foreign manufacturers. The U.S. was an auto-based society and these stories hit hard and drew attention. They ran in several newspapers, and I had put on a jacket and tie to appear on the Today show as well as CNN, Fox, and several local news channels including L.A., Detroit, and Boston — with FairWarning getting credit all the way. It was a general rule that if you wrote a negative story about a Japanese car manufacturer, you would get on TV in Detroit.

I knew that I could now piggyback on any one of these stories and probably get a solid nothing-has-changed piece. That might please Myron and help ease me away from the DNA story.

I had a physical file in a desk drawer with all the documentation and contact information I had accumulated while originally reporting the auto-industry stories. I now pulled it and slid it into my backpack so I could refresh my thoughts while taking my morning coffee.

But I was done for the day. I couldn’t simply transition from the unfinished story of Christina Portrero and William Orton to something wholly different and uninspiring. I needed time and now I was going to take it.

But I was still bothered by how things had just gone with Emily. I zipped up the backpack and got up and moved down the aisle to her cubicle.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey what?” she replied curtly.

“I made the wrong move in there. I shouldn’t have thrown you under the bus, okay? If anything happens, we’re both on it together. I just sent a text to my Deep Throat source and told him the story is on fumes and he needs to come through. We’ll see. I probably sounded like a whiny asshole.”

“Probably.”

But she looked up and smiled at me after saying it. I smiled back.

“Well, thanks for being so agreeable about my deficiencies.”

“Anytime. So...”

She turned her screen so I could see it.

“Look what I just got.”

On her screen was what looked like a document with the Federal Trade Commission seal on it.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well, I sent my FTC guy an email directly asking if he tipped off Orton,” she said. “I exaggerated and said that if he did he almost got me killed.”

“And?”

“And he denied it. He even called me to deny it. And then he sent me this as some kind of gesture of good faith. It’s the last list Orange Nano turned over to the FTC of labs it redistributed DNA to. It’s almost three years old but these might be worth checking out — I mean, if we were still on the story.”

Because it was a photo of a document, the writing was small and difficult to read from my angle.

“Well, anything jump out right away?” I asked.

“Not really,” Emily said. “There’s only five companies and all were registered with the FTC back then. I need to pull their profiles to get names, locations, things like that.”

“And you’re going to do that when?”

“Soon.”

She glanced over the top of her cubicle in the direction of Myron’s pod. We could only see the top of his head, but the arch of his headphone crossed over his hair. He was on the phone and the coast was clear. Emily corrected herself.

“Now,” she said.

“Can I help?” I asked. “I was about to leave but I can stay.”

“No, that will be too obvious. You go. I’ll do this from home.

I’ll call if anything pops.”

I hesitated before walking away. I didn’t like the ball being in her court. Emily read me.

“I promise to call you, okay?” she said. “And you call me if Deep Throat comes through.”

“That’s a deal,” I said.

23

I got to Mistral early and grabbed the same stool where I had sat the evening before. I put my backpack on the stool next to me to save it for Rachel and after an exchange of bonsoirs with Elle, I ordered a Stella, deciding to go with a lower octane this night. I put my phone on the bar and saw that I had just gotten a pair of texts from Deep Throat. I opened them up and found two attachments. One was marked “DNA” and the other “Transcript.”

I opened the first and saw that my secret source had sent photos of the pages of a document. I quickly determined that it was the four-year-old DNA analysis report from the Orange County Sheriff’s Department forensics lab that found no match between William Orton’s DNA sample and the DNA collected from Jessica Kelley. I scanned the report and realized that I would need a geneticist to translate what the bar chart, percentages, and abbreviations all meant. But the summary was clear: the saliva sample swabbed from the victim’s nipples after her assault did not belong to William Orton.

The attachment that came in the second text was a transcript of a very short interview with Orton conducted by Detective Digoberto Ruiz. It was five pages long and once again the attachment was composed of photos of the hard-copy pages.

I forwarded both attachments to myself on email, then pulled out my laptop so I could download them and see them on a bigger screen. Mistral didn’t offer its customers Wi-Fi service, so I had to use my cell as a hotspot connection. While I waited for everything to boot up and connect I thought about the sender of the texts. I had asked Ruiz for the DNA report, not the attorney Hervé Gaspar. I was shifting my suspicions about Deep Throat and now was thinking it was the police detective. Of course, Gaspar could have acquired the DNA report and interview transcript in the course of preparing a lawsuit against Orton, but the fact that the attachments were photographs of documents led me in the direction of Ruiz. Sending photographs instead of scans or real documents gave him an extra measure of protection against being identified as my source should there ever be an internal investigation. Office scanners and copiers kept digital memories.

My conclusion was further muddled when I was finally able to open the interview transcript on my laptop. I noticed that the document had several short redactions and was able to determine from context that the victim’s name had been removed. This was puzzling since Deep Throat had already provided me with the victim’s name. Had he forgotten?

Putting the question aside, I proceeded to read the entire interview. It was essentially five pages of denial from Orton. He did not assault the victim, he did not know the victim outside the one class he had with her, and he had not been with the victim. When Ruiz started walking him through the night in question in detail, Orton shut it down and asked for a lawyer. The transcript ended there.

I closed my computer and put it away. I thought about the transcript. Aside from the redactions, there were also sections of Orton’s answers highlighted in yellow. Wanting to keep the digital conversation with Deep Throat going, I used this as a reason to text him again and ask what the highlights meant. His response came quickly but indicated that Deep Throat was not as interested in conversation as I was.

That was all he said, but it was enough to further convince me that my source was Detective Ruiz. Checkable facts was a detective’s term. An interview with a suspect in a crime is choreographed to draw answers that can be confirmed or disputed through witnesses, video, digital trails, cell-phone triangulations, GPS navigation systems, and other means. This interview was no different, and someone — presumably Ruiz — had highlighted the things Orton had said that could be proved or disproved.

Of course, I had not gotten the follow-up reports on these checkable facts, so the interview transcript only served to intrigue me. I wanted more. Had Ruiz proved or disproved Orton’s claim to have been somewhere else entirely on the night Jessica Kelley was assaulted? Had he proved or disproved his claim that he was the victim of a smear campaign at UCI organized by another professor who was vindictive because of a dispute over tenure?

I was about to compose another text to Deep Throat saying I needed more information when Rachel slipped onto the stool next to me, not the one I’d been saving with my backpack.

“What’s that?” she asked by way of a greeting.

“I’ve been getting texts from somebody I think is the cop on the Orton case,” I said. “I talked to him today and he wouldn’t tell me anything. But then I started getting these tips. This is a transcript of a short interview he had with Orton before he lawyered up. He denied everything but put a few things on record that they could check. I was about to text and ask if he did.”

“A transcript? That sounds like a lawyer.”

“Well, it could be. I talked to the victim’s lawyer too. He said he and his client couldn’t talk because of an NDA. But I think it’s the cop. He also sent the DNA-analysis report that cleared Orton. I don’t know if anybody would have had that but Ruiz.”

“The prosecutor who dropped the case probably had it. And he or she could have given it to the victim’s lawyer.”

“True. Maybe I should just ask Deep Throat point-blank who he is.”

“Deep Throat. Cute.”

I looked away from my phone to Rachel.

“By the way, hello,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied.

Starting the meeting with a discussion about my source had eclipsed the fact that we had spent the night together — and would again this night if intentions didn’t change. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She accepted the kiss and gave no indication of any tremor in the Force.

“So, were you up here again or did you have to trek over the mountain?” I asked.

“I was here, just closing the deal from yesterday. I timed it to meet you.”

“Congratulations! Or not?”

“I know I was whining yesterday. I was getting drunk. And it wasn’t the only thing I said that was wrong.”

There was a tremor.

“Really?” I said. “Like what else?”

Rachel was saved from answering immediately by the approach of Elle, the faux-French bartender.

“Bonsoir,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”

“Ketel One martini straight up,” she said. “S’il vous plaît.”

“Bien sûr. Coming up.”

Elle moved down the bar to make the cocktail.

“That accent is terrible,” Rachel said.

“You said that yesterday,” I said. “Going with the hair of the dog, huh?”

“Why not? I signed a new client today. I can celebrate.”

“So, what else did you say wrong yesterday?”

“Oh, nothing. Never mind.”

“No, I want to know.”

“I didn’t mean to say that. Don’t read anything into it.”

The night before, this woman had whispered four words to me in the dark of the bedroom that rocked my world. I still love you. And I had returned them without hesitation. Now I had to wonder if she was trying to walk them back.

Elle approached and put Rachel’s drink down on a napkin. The martini glass was filled to the brim and she had placed it too far from Rachel on the bar top for her to lean in and sip the level down before trying to lift it. Anything but a rock-steady hand would spill it when it was moved. I knew then that Elle had heard what Rachel had said about her accent and this was bartender payback. Elle retreated, throwing a wink at me that Rachel didn’t see. A man took a stool in the middle of the bar and Elle approached him with her bad accent.

My cell’s screen lit as a call came in. I saw it was Emily Atwater.

“I’d better take this,” I said.

“Sure,” Rachel said. “Your girlfriend?”

“My colleague.”

“Take it.”

In one steady motion Rachel lifted her glass, brought it across the bar top to her lips, and sipped. I never saw a drop spill.

“I’m going outside so I can hear.”

“I’ll be here.”

I grabbed the phone off the bar and connected.

“Emily, hold on.”

I took a notebook out of my backpack, then walked through the bar and out the front door, where the music wouldn’t intrude on the call.

“Okay,” I said. “You get something?”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Tell me.”

“So, first, you remember that what the FTC has is all over two years old. From before the FDA takeover?”

“Right.”

“So, prior to the switch to the FDA, there is a record of Orange Nano selling DNA code and biological samples to five other labs. Three look like one-time transactions and the other two were repeat customers, so I think we can assume that business continues.”

“Okay. Who were the two repeat customers?”

“First, I think we should keep clear lines. Orange Nano conducted these transactions, not Orton in particular. Yes, it’s his lab, but he has employees and they made these transactions. His name is not on a single document I looked at.”

“Okay. So did you see anything suspicious?”

“Suspicious? Not really. More like curious. The two repeat customers are nearby — Los Angeles and Ventura. The others were a little farther-flung.”

“Which one are you curious about?”

“The L.A. lab.”

I heard papers rustling.

“There were three things that popped for me on this one,” Emily said. “First of all, I google-mapped it and it’s not a commercial address. It’s a residence. In Glendale, actually. I think this guy has a lab in his garage or something.”

“Okay, that’s a little weird,” I said. “What else?”

“The business is registered with the FTC as Dodger DNA Services and I think the owner is a DNA tech with the LAPD’s forensics lab. I googled him and his name came up in an L.A. Times story from last year about a murder trial where he testified about matching DNA taken from a gun to the defendant.”

“So what’s his side business?”

“The mission statement with the FTC says...”

More paper rustling. I waited.

“Here it is,” Emily said. “‘Testing applications of DNA in criminal forensics.’ That’s it.”

“Okay, that’s not that suspicious,” I said. “It’s his lifework. He’s probably trying to invent an instrument or something that will make his job easier and make him a million dollars.”

“Maybe. Until you get to my third point of curiosity.”

“Which is?”

“He only bought female DNA from Orange Nano.”

“Okay, yeah. What’s this guy’s name?”

“Marshall Hammond.”

“Let me write that down.”

I spelled the name out loud as I wrote it down, the phone held in the crook of my neck. Emily confirmed.

“We need to background him,” I said.

“I tried but nothing came up,” Emily said. “I was thinking you might try some of your old LAPD sources, see if you can get a take on him.”

“Yeah, not a problem. I’ll make some calls. Are you still at the office?”

“No, I went home. I didn’t want Myron to see this stuff on my desk.”

“Right.”

“You get anything from Deep Throat?”

“Yes. He texted me the transcript of the interview with Orton and the DNA report that cleared him. I think Deep Throat is Detective Ruiz.”

“I’d like to read that interview.”

“I’ll send it when we get off.”

“Where are you?”

“Meeting a friend for a drink.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow.”

“Let’s take one more run at Myron with all of this stuff. See if we can get a couple more days.”

“I’m there.”

“Okay, see you then.”

I went back into the bar and saw that Rachel had finished her drink. I slipped back onto the stool.

“Ready for another?” I asked.

“No, I want to keep my wits about me tonight. Finish yours and let’s go to your place.”

“Yeah? What about dinner?”

“We can order in.”