The Competition

10

By the time we left Otis Barney’s house it was almost eleven p.m. The autumn air had a bite that made me pull my peacoat closer and wish I’d brought my cashmere scarf. When we got back to Bailey’s car I reached for the heater.

“It’s not that cold,” she said.

“It is for me.”

Bailey closed the vents on her side. “Maybe you should transfer to the DA’s office in Dubai.” We rode in silence as she steered us toward the Tampa Avenue freeway on-ramp.

“Those posters were pretty strange,” I said. “But we didn’t find anything else. Maybe his parents are right. Maybe he isn’t one of the shooters.”

“And maybe his parents are in denial about who their son is. They wouldn’t be the first. But I don’t blame them for being pissed off at us. It’s a hell of a thing to hear your kid accused of mass murder.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. It was hard to even imagine how that must feel. I pictured Otis’s room again. Those posters. And something I hadn’t seen. “I didn’t notice a computer,” I said. “He must have one.”

“Yeah, probably a laptop. But I didn’t want to bring it up and give them any ideas. If Otis does have one, I’m hoping they won’t think to wipe it before we can get a warrant.” Which meant we had to dig up some probable cause for a search warrant, and fast. “Home?” she asked.

“May as well. Can’t get anything more done tonight.” I put my hands next to the vents to warm them. “We need to have the unis ask around about Otis. Talk to students, teachers, and counselors and find out if he was into guns or made any threats, that kind of thing. But they can’t make it sound like-”

“He’s our guy. One of ’em, anyway. I know.”

Traffic was light, and before I knew it, we were heading into downtown Los Angeles. Bailey cleared her throat. “Feel like a drink?”

I was tired and depressed and in no mood to hang out, but Bailey’s voice was uncharacteristically strained. I looked at her closely. She had a death grip on the steering wheel, and her jaw was clenched so hard the cords in her neck stood out. She needed company-and a stiff drink…or seven. Come to think of it, so did I. “Sure. And why don’t you crash with me?”

Bailey gave me a tight smile. “Sounds good.”

Twenty minutes later, Bailey pulled up in front of the Biltmore and parked next to a fire hydrant. Bailey believes illegal parking is one of the few perks of being a cop. But it’s not just a matter of convenience. She’ll pick the red zone over a closer space every time. It’s a religion with her. “You know, eventually, someone’s going to bust you for this shit.”

“Good thing I know a lawyer then, huh?”

“Please. I’ll be the first to testify against you. You want to know who’ll be second?” I pointed to Rafi, the Biltmore valet, who was shooting daggers at Bailey.

Bailey threw him a smile as we walked past the valet stand. “Catch ya next time, partner.”

Rafi nodded sullenly.

“That’s what you always say,” I said, as we reached the front entrance.

Angel, the doorman, opened the door and chuckled. “I believe she’s right about that, Detective,” he said.

“Good idea, Angel, side with her,” Bailey said. “You don’t care about getting that Christmas bottle of scotch anyway, right?”

Angel put on an earnest expression. “On second thought, I believe you have let him park your car on many prior occasions,” he said.

“Shameless,” I said.

“Nicely played,” Bailey said.

Angel smiled. “Marriage has taught me many things.” We stepped inside. “Have a nice evening, ladies.”

The familiar faces of home. It was the best I’d felt all day. And I knew it was comforting to Bailey too. Even so, as we crossed the lobby and headed for the bar I noticed her steps were heavy. We had to lighten up. There was no way of knowing how long it would take us to wrap up this case. If we didn’t find some emotional balance we’d wind up wearing jumpsuits with very long arms. I grabbed the large brass handle of the bar door, pulled it open, and gestured for her to enter. “Your Highness.”

“Your Highness?”

“There’re plenty of other things I could call you.”

Bailey and I took our usual spots at the end of the bar nearest the wall. It was a classic, well-appointed bar, mahogany with plush swivel stools and a mirror that was lit softly enough to prevent depressing news if I accidentally caught a glimpse of myself. Our spot at the end offered the most privacy. But that wasn’t a problem tonight. The bar was relatively empty. Just a few businessmen whose loosened ties and red faces told me they’d finished their business for the day at least three drinks ago.

“I don’t see Drew,” I said. Drew Rayford is the head bartender and, more important, Bailey’s boyfriend.

“No, he’s off tonight. We were supposed to have dinner, but…”

“But a mass murder got in the way.”

We exchanged a look and sank back in our chairs. I’d hoped Drew would be here tonight. It would’ve been good for both of us to see him. Cliché though it is, he became my confidant and buddy from the day I first moved into the hotel. And he’s plenty easy on the eyes, which is also helpful. Tall, with a muscled V-shaped torso and skin the color of mahogany, Drew had women falling into his lap when he wasn’t even trying. When he and Bailey got serious, I could practically hear the weeping from all corners of L.A. County. I probably would’ve been one of them myself if I hadn’t been such an emotional wreck when we first met. I had been staying with my mother, nursing her through her battle with breast cancer. But after she died, I couldn’t bear to be there anymore. I had a high-​profile murder trial that was about to start, so I’d temporarily moved into the hotel because it was within walking distance of the courthouse. The murder victim was the Biltmore CEO’s wife, and she’d been killed in the parking garage during a robbery. Between the stress of that trial, my mother’s recent death, and the breakup with my long-term boyfriend, Daniel Rose, I wasn’t looking for love. Drew poured my drinks while I poured out my heart, and a deep, long-lasting friendship was born. As a side perk, after I’d won the trial, the CEO had made me an offer I couldn’t afford to refuse: a permanent residency at the hotel. I hadn’t planned to stay longer than a year-two at the most. But it’s been three years now and it still hasn’t gotten old. The truth is, it’s hard to give up a life with no laundry, no dishes, and room service.

A young bartender who’d started a few months ago took our orders: Ketel One martinis straight up, very dry, very cold, olives on the side. Bailey asked for an extra tray of Crunchies, the only food we could get at that hour.

“We need to nail down a list of who’s accounted for and who isn’t,” I said. “Have all the bodies in the hospital and the morgue been identified?”

“Not quite. Not all the kids carried ID with them when they went to the pep rally. We’ve got officers on loan from the burglary desk working on it. A lot of kids ran home, but not all. The parents have been blowing up the phone lines at the Valley Division.”

“It would help if we could round up all the students and take roll call-”

“Like they’d be doing if they had a school to go to?”

I sighed. “Yeah.” Fairmont High School would be out of commission for the next few weeks while every inch was combed for evidence. In the meantime the students had to be relocated, but finding the space for them in the overcrowded L.A. Unified School District was going to be a nightmare.

“I hate to tell you this, but it’s even worse than you might’ve thought,” Bailey said. “The unis said there were a ton of kids who were ambulatory whose parents took them to hospitals and clinics all over the place. If they weren’t brought in by paramedics, they might not show up on any of our lists.”

“But I heard the parents who haven’t found their kids are all waiting at the local rec center. That should give us a pretty accurate missing list.”

“Not necessarily. Not all of the parents are there, and even those that are keep coming and going. Like Sonny and Tom. Plus, some kids got taken to the hospital by other kids’ parents. Some kids went on their own. And I’ve heard some just ran to friends’ and relatives’ houses. It’s pretty crazy.”

So even if students were reported missing, that didn’t mean they really were. “The fastest way to find out who’s really unaccounted for is to go public with the fact that the shooters are still at large and ask all students to check in at the local police station. But that’ll tip off the killers-”

“Not to mention cause a riot,” Bailey said. “But we’ve got to do something or it’ll take us days to figure out who’s missing-”

“And we don’t have days.” I rubbed my forehead. “We’re going to have to let it out pretty soon no matter what.”

“If it doesn’t get leaked first.”

“I just wish we could get the killers ID’d before we go public with it,” I said. “At least we’d be able to tell everyone who to look out for.”

Bailey leaned back and sighed. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

The waiter brought our drinks, and I raised my glass. We clinked and drank, but two more miserable toasters would have been hard to find.