Guilt By Degrees

63

“Records show they were married for two years, and according to witness interviews, they dated for about six months before that,” Bailey said.

“Then let’s go back a year before the marriage to be on the safe side,” I said. “Where was Zack working back then?”

“I’ll check,” Bailey replied, pulling out her cell.

“Well, I’ll leave y’all to it,” Toni said, giving her makeup a final check in the mirror next to the entry. When I’d first moved into this suite, I’d thought that was a weird place for a mirror. Toni showed me the error of my ways.

She looked outside and set aside her coat. “Got an extra scarf?” she asked. “Preferably gray,” she said, gesturing to her pale blush-colored blouse.

“Oh yes, ma’am,” I replied jokingly. My neck is my weak spot when it comes to cold, so I’ve got a pretty impressive array of scarves, pashminas, and mufflers. Toni, of course, knows this. I went to my closet and dug out a charcoal-gray wool-fringed number for her approval.

“Perfect,” Toni said. With one deft movement, she had it wound around her neck and looking better than I’d ever managed.

“You going to be around this weekend?” I asked.

“I am,” Toni said. “J.D.’s got a conference to go to. Want to do something?”

“Definitely,” I replied. I looked at Bailey.

“Drew and I are going up to Ojai on Sunday.”

“You’re dead to me,” I said.

It was actually for the best. I’d been looking for a chance to tell Toni about Romy anyway.

“Call me,” Toni said, and glided out the door.

Bailey had already pulled out her phone to find out where Zack had been assigned before his marriage to Lilah.

I went to finish my makeup and hair, and finally admitted that I was preparing myself in case I ran into Graden. Telling Bailey everything had had a calming effect. Seething done in private can keep anger burning, but like a pot of boiling water, once you take the lid off, the heat dissipates and the boil turns to a simmer. I was still angry with Graden, but there was a small part of me that was beginning to consider the possibility that I’d overreacted. Just possibly.

“Hollywood,” Bailey said, snapping her cell phone shut.

It was Bailey’s old stomping ground before she’d been assigned to Robbery-Homicide, so she got a hero’s welcome.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said the Hollywood station desk sergeant, a rotund, apple-cheeked man with thinning brown hair and big, dark eyes.

“Gomez, how come they haven’t fired you yet?” Bailey asked, grinning.

He shrugged. “Guess they keep forgetting,” he replied. “Come on back, we’ll get you set up.”

Five minutes later, we were parked in front of a computer and scrolling through all the crime reports signed by Zack Bayer.

“Could be any kind of crime,” Bailey said.

“As long as there’s a female involved somehow,” I said. “Either as a suspect, witness, or victim. Anyone who might be Lilah, using an alias.”

“That narrows it right down,” she said sarcastically. But it wasn’t a completely useless filter. We weeded out a bunch of drug busts that involved no females right off the bat.

“Hmmm, domestic-violence call,” Bailey said, pointing to the screen.

She read aloud, “Victim: Latasha McKenzie, five feet one, one hundred ten pounds, African-American-”

“Okay, probably not the victim,” I said. “Suspect?”

“Boyfriend, Lamar Washington, six feet, two hundred pounds-”

“Any witnesses?”

“None,” Bailey said. “We move on.”

I watched as she scrolled. “Hey, what about that one?” I said, pointing to a robbery.

Bailey clicked and read. “Victim: Oren Abnarian, male…whatever. Suspect: Abner Clarence, male…whatever. Witnesses: Starla Moreno, no description, but she’s female for sure, and two males. Checking on Starla.”

“Interesting name,” I replied.

Bailey clicked for the full report. “Yeah,” she said, continuing to read. “Even more interesting than you thought. Starla’s aka is Stanley. Description is six feet one and two hundred pounds with a skull-necklace tattoo.”

“She sounds lovely.”

Bailey sighed. “This is going to be a long night. And I’m spending it with you.”

By ten p.m., the morning-watch crew-who worked ten p.m. to six a.m.-was heading out for duty. I stood up and stretched. “I hate to have caffeine after breakfast, but if I don’t, I’ll do a face-plant. Want some?”

“Yeah. And make it black,” Bailey said.

As I walked out to the vending machine, I saw that our investigators had already tanked up. The table was littered with paper cups and sugar packets. I came back bearing our doses of caffeine, and we rolled on.

“Prostitution bust, suspect name, Brandy.”

“Isn’t it time to retire that name?” I asked.

“It’s a classic,” Bailey said. “Seems the right age.” She continued to read. “Hispanic-”

“Could be faked.”

“She’s five feet ten,” Bailey said.

“Next.”

We sorted through a dozen more without finding anything worth exploring further.

I was leaning on the desk, head propped up on one hand, rubbing my temple with the other to keep myself awake. I was trying to think of a faster way to do this when Bailey elbowed me, pointed to the screen, and read aloud.

“Res burg-owner/victim’s a white female, no witnesses, no suspects.”

Residential burglary and a promising-looking victim. “Apartment building or house?” I asked.

It was unlikely that someone as young as Lilah was at that time could’ve afforded a house. The residence needed to be an apartment to make the case a real possibility.

“Apartment,” Bailey replied. “Victim: Nina Klavens, no DOB.”

“That’s a keeper.”

By four a.m., we’d gone through the entire year of crime reports and come up with two other distinct possibilities: a car theft in Los Feliz, and a purse snatch on Sunset Boulevard.

We called it a night and dragged ourselves back to the Biltmore. I fell into bed. My last thought before I dropped off was that Phil Hemet didn’t put in this many hours in a month. How come there was no reporter tailing me now?