Guilt By Degrees

48

Bailey drove down Alameda Avenue toward the Golden State Freeway, which would take us back downtown. I’d wanted to interview some of Zack and Lilah’s neighbors who’d lived nearby, but it had been a long day and we’d both run out of steam. Not to mention the fact that the likelihood of finding a neighbor at this point who’d add anything of substance was pretty low. Door-knocking the ’hood was Standard Police Procedure 101, and Rick had hit every single house within a five-block radius. In short, the neighborhood interviews would keep.

But I did want to get a look at the murder house. I always had to see crime scenes for myself. Even in cases like this, where the crime was already years old and the exact site of the murder no longer existed-the new owners had filled the basement with concrete in an effort to wipe out all memory of its bloody history-I liked to at least see the area. It put the events in context for me.

“How about if we go to the house?” I suggested. “Just a quick drive-by.”

Bailey looked at her watch. “May as well. It’s already rush hour, so we’re screwed anyway.”

She made a U-turn, then took Glenoaks Boulevard to Louise Street and pulled to the curb across the street from the house. It was completely unremarkable. Roughly two thousand square feet, it had a fresh-looking coat of white paint and green shutters that framed the two paned windows facing the road. I could see that all the lots on the block were narrow but ran deep, providing a decent backyard for planting or playing. A great house for kids, as the minivan in the driveway attested.

“Did you know that real estate agents are required to tell prospective buyers if a violent crime was committed on a property?” I asked Bailey.

“Do now.”

“Would you buy a house if you knew someone had committed a murder in it?”

Bailey looked in her rearview mirror for traffic, then pulled away from the curb. “Doubt it.”

Bailey?Afraid of ghosts? “Bad vibes?” I asked.

“Nah. I just wouldn’t be able to stop looking for evidence.”

Of course.

Bailey merged with the barely crawling traffic on the freeway, and we inched along in silence as the weak gray light of day faded into darkness.

“I don’t know what to make of that fertility-drug business,” I said. “Even if she decided she didn’t want kids, there are a lot less drastic ways to avoid pregnancy than killing the guy.”

Bailey nodded. “But I also don’t buy the claim that it shows she didn’t do it either.”

“Not because of that, no.”

“‘Not because of that’?” Bailey asked. “You’re thinking she didn’t do it?”

“I’m just wondering,” I said. “The harder we look, the less I see. Seems like the evidence gets less and less compelling-at least from where I’m sitting.”

It was like watching the sand flow out from under your feet when the wave recedes.

Bailey sighed. “It does, doesn’t it?”

It was a relief to hear that I wasn’t the only one having doubts. “I’d like to come up with one rock-solid piece of evidence that’d make me sure-either way.”

“Yeah. I keep going back and forth in my head. ‘She did, she didn’t.’ The jury’s verdict seems less and less crazy.”

I agreed. It was maddening. I felt as though no matter how I twisted the lenses to bring Lilah into focus, her image stubbornly remained blurry. I watched the downtown buildings grow as we drew closer to the city and pictured myself going back to my room and ordering dinner, knowing there’d be no call from Graden. An icy chill spread inside my chest, and I reflexively wrapped my arms around my middle.

“Hey, would you mind dropping me at Checkers? I need a change of scenery.”

The restaurant was near enough for me to walk home, and being alone wouldn’t feel so bad in a different place.

One minute later, she pulled over to let me out.

“I’ll call you,” she said.

“Good deal.” I got out, patted the roof of the car, and nodded to the doorman, who welcomed me inside.

I could’ve eaten at the bar but decided to give myself a solitary fine-dining experience instead. The dining room was spacious but not so big that it lost warmth, and the decor of soft, warm colors, gentle lighting, and white tablecloths was soothing. I asked for a corner seat against the wall.

A waiter who really knew how to work his fitted vest gave me a menu and took my drink order. I decided to splurge on a bottle of Ancien Pinot Noir.

A few minutes later, he returned and poured a taste for me. Delicious. The waiter filled my glass, and I ordered a grilled-artichoke appetizer. Then I took a long sip of wine, sat back, and felt the rough edges of the day begin to smooth out. I looked around the restaurant. From my relatively hidden corner, I could be subtle about watching my fellow diners.

An older woman in her seventies, dripping with heavy diamonds and also dining solo, imperiously gave her waiter one of the most detailed critiques of a bread basket I’d ever heard, added an elaborate order that included how each dish was to be prepared, and capped it all off by commanding that her food be brought “right away.” The waiter took it all in stride with a courteous bow. I’d done a few stints as a waitress during undergrad and law school, and I couldn’t remember anyone being as high-handed as this lady.

The waiter brought my artichoke, and as I pulled off the first leaves, I heard the woman talking. I turned to see that she was in animated conversation, hands flying, expression lively, laughing and gesturing…to an empty chair. Riveted by the bizarre scene, I didn’t notice that anyone was nearby until I heard my name.

“Rachel?”

The familiar voice startled me. It was out of place, so I couldn’t immediately make the connection. But when I looked up, there he was, smiling.

The former love of my life.