Guilt By Degrees

67

“Thank you so much, Chris,” I said.

“Just so you know, I’m willing to do my civic duty…to a point,” he said. “But don’t put me on the witness stand, Ms. Prosecutor.” He gave me a stern look. “It’s not my thing.”

“I’ll try,” I said, smiling. But I wouldn’t promise anything. A character like Chris would have the jury eating out of his hand.

“Try hard,” Chris replied, giving me a mock glare. “Now drink up. There’s nothing more disgusting than a warm martini.”

He sashayed off to the next table.

“Nothing?” Bailey asked.

“No,” I replied. “Nothing.” I held up my glass for a toast. “To one ginormous break in this damn case.”

“And may they keep on coming,” Bailey said.

We clinked glasses and took a long sip.

“You have an address for Conrad Bagram’s place?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Want to drive by?”

“Just to get a look,” I said.

Not wanting to blow our security’s cover, I texted them the address of our next destination.

Dinner was tasty. I had the penne alla vodka, and Bailey had the croque-monsieur. Pleasantly full, warm, and probably more stoked by Chris’s identification of Lilah than we should’ve been, we paid our bill, left Chris a big tip-those eyelashes weren’t cheap-and headed out to Conrad’s Auto Body and Repair. We made it there by eight thirty. It was a fairly large operation, with three repair bays and a big fenced-in area that held several cars with FOR SALE signs. Surprisingly the lights in the office next to the service bays were on. We pulled in and parked in one of the spaces at the side of the station. When we got out and approached the office, a man I assumed was Conrad Bagram came out to meet us.

Five feet one on his tallest day, thin, and hyper, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “What can I do for you ladies?” he said with a toothy crocodile grin.

I could tell by his expression that he was hoping we either were in the market to buy a car or needed ours repaired-preferably in a big hurry that would put us at his mercy. But when he peered over our shoulders and saw Bailey’s car, his smile dimmed.

“Police?” he asked with little enthusiasm. He forced a smile back onto his face and nervously extended his hand. “Conrad Bagram. What can I do for you?”

Bailey shook his hand perfunctorily. “You had a car stolen off your lot about four years ago,” she said. “A red Audi.”

“No disrespect, Officer,” he replied. “But it’s hard for me to remember that long ago. I’ve had more than one car stolen from here. Especially back then.”

I looked at the fence that surrounded the cars and the cameras that were mounted around the perimeter. Three red LED lights glowed in the dark. Conrad Bagram caught my glance.

“Back then, I didn’t have as good security,” he said. Then he lowered his voice. “And those cameras are just for show.”

Bailey pulled out a printout and presented it to him. “What can you tell us about this car?”

He took the paper and scanned it. After a moment, he said, “What is there to tell? It was there, then it was gone. I called the police.”

“Did you know how long it’d been gone when you reported it?” I asked.

Conrad shrugged. “Honestly, I can’t recall. It wasn’t one of my better cars, so I didn’t keep such good track of it. And like I said, I didn’t have very good security measures back then.” He shook his head.

“Did the police ever tell you they found it?” Bailey asked.

Conrad’s hefty brows knitted, creating a forest of unibrow. “No. That I would have remembered.”

“You make an insurance claim on it?” I asked.

“The car was here on consignment, so I didn’t carry insurance on it. You’d have to ask the owner about that.”

“What do you remember about the owner?” I asked.

“Whatever it says on that paper,” he said, nodding toward the printout.

“You remember whether it was a man or a woman?”

“Like I said, whatever’s on that paper,” Conrad said, his voice edgier. “I sell a lot of cars. You ask me about one, but it was nothing special, so…”

So I wasn’t going to get anything out of this guy. Whether he had it to give or not.

Conrad looked down at his watch. “Look, I’m always glad to help police, but it’s past my closing time, and my wife made dinner. She’s going to kill me if I’m late…”

“Okay,” I said. “But if we come back…”

“You’ll be welcome,” Conrad said quickly. “You know where to find me.”

“Yeah, we do,” Bailey said.

Conrad tried and failed to hide the look of alarm that crossed his face, then rallied and managed to wave to us before hurrying back to his office.

Bailey and I exchanged a look, then quickly walked to the car. She drove a half block away and parked on a side street. Less than a minute later, we saw the office lights go out and Conrad walk briskly to a late-model Mercedes that’d been parked at the side of the station. He got in and drove off, heading eastbound on Sunset Boulevard.

Bailey alerted our security to fall back, and we followed Bagram at a discreet distance. When he turned left onto Camino Palmero Street, she hung back in the shadows at the corner. Conrad pulled into the gated driveway of one of the apartment buildings, and Bailey drove past it so I could see the address. I gave it to her and she called it in, then we headed downtown.

Two minutes later, Bailey snapped her cell phone shut. “It’s legit,” she said. “He lives there.”

“But something’s not right with him,” I said. “He’s nervous.” I replayed the conversation we’d just had. “But he’s not worried. Whatever the story is with that car, he’s pretty sure we can’t figure it out.”

Bailey nodded grimly.

We were getting closer. I just didn’t know to what.