The Competition

33

Bailey got a crime scene tech to come out and take photos and scrapings from the paint transfers on Jeremy’s car. Once we found Logan’s car, we’d be able to confirm that it matched. “There’s no way Logan can hide that kind of body damage,” she said, after Jeremy and his mom had left.

“At least it’ll give the chief something to tell the press. I just don’t get why no one’s spotted it by now.” They’d put out the alert on Logan’s car the moment we had confirmation that he was one of the shooters, but so far it hadn’t turned up. Maybe the description of the body damage would do the trick.

“Me either,” Bailey said. “Even if they’ve ditched it, I would’ve expected someone to spot it by now.”

“Or spot him.”

Bailey shook her head. Logan’s photo and all identifying information had gone national, and every source-cell phone, bank account, gas card, you name it-was being tracked. Nothing.

“But thanks to Jeremy, we know one thing for sure,” Bailey said. “We’ve got two shooters out there.”

“Right. So now there are two killers we can’t find. And one of them isn’t even ID’d yet. Terrific.” I shook my head. “How’re we doing on Shane? Do we have his military records yet?”

“Yep. And they show he’s been to the VA clinic in Westwood, so we got their records. But they’re not fully computerized, so we’ve got a ream of paper to go through, and none of it’s organized. I’ve got unis working on it.” Bailey looked at her watch. “We should head out to Camarillo.” The tree service where Shane worked was up next on our agenda. “I sent a couple of detectives to check the place out. They’re sitting on it for us, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I want to get out there and talk to the boss man, see if he can give us anything.”

“Okay, but first I’ve got to check in at the office.”

“Want me to pick you up? We really have to move.”

“No, but I’ll be back here in less than an hour. I promise.”

I pulled on my coat and scarf and headed to the courthouse at a fast trot. I passed by Toni’s office on the way to mine, but the door was closed. She was probably in court. I unlocked my door and dropped my purse on the chair in front of my desk. Home sweet home. Everything was as I’d left it on Tuesday morning-except for the thin layer of dust. A file I’d been reviewing on Monday still lay open on my side table. Even the air felt the same. I took off my coat and scarf and draped them over my chair-a majestic judge’s chair that I’d found abandoned in the hallway one night. I sat down and exhaled. It was a tiny office, but it was my sanctuary. And it boasted an awesome view of Los Angeles, something I would never take for granted.

But I didn’t have time to sit and enjoy the solitude, so I picked up my office phone to check for messages. There were eighty-seven. Eighty of them were from the media. You’d think they’d have gotten the hint that I wasn’t talking by now. The rest were routine business. “Hi, Rachel, it’s Zack-Zack Meyer on the Valenzuela case. Just a heads-up: I’m going to ask for a continuance. Hope that’s okay with you.” Beep. I made a note and deleted the message. It wouldn’t matter if it was okay with me. It was Zack’s first request for more time, and the judges loved him. The other six were all variations on the same theme. It surprised me how little I’d missed. I’d expected to be bombarded. I kept forgetting it had only been three days. It felt like three months.

My in-box only had a couple of new motions. One was a routine discovery motion, the other was a motion to let a defendant use the jail law library-where he’d learn just enough to drive his lawyer crazy. I’d be glad to go along with that one. I filed them and made a note of the dates on my calendar, then headed back to the station. Bailey was at her desk, doing paperwork, her least favorite thing in the world. She looked surprised when she saw me. “That was fast.”

“Told ya. So, Camarillo?”

Bailey stood up. “Yep.” We were about to step into the elevator when Graden called out to us. “Hang on, guys. Can you give me a minute?” We went back to his office. He closed the door and perched on the edge of his desk. “We got a hit on the Army-Navy surplus store in Van Nuys. The cashier remembers selling two camouflage jackets in about the right sizes to a couple of guys-”

“Do they have surveillance footage?” Bailey asked.

“Unfortunately, no. It’s a small operation. And we got a description from the cashier, but it’s pretty vague.” He picked up a report and read. “One tall guy with longish hair, one shorter guy, no further description. The shorter guy paid for both coats in cash.”

“We’ll get out there and talk to him,” Bailey said.

“Do it fast. The tabloids are everywhere now that we’re giving press conferences.”

“Good,” I said. “Maybe they can figure out who the second shooter is while they’re at it.”

“Just give them a minute, they will,” he said.

“You mean they’ll dig up some crank who says it’s all an FBI conspiracy,” Bailey said.

Graden nodded. “Yeah, the tabs will have it all figured out for us. That’s why we’re going to start putting a little more substance in the press releases. Better to get out in front of it and at least try to give the public the truth. So lock down all the statements you can-before your witnesses get contaminated by tabloid bullshit.”

Because the more a defense lawyer can show that witnesses could have been influenced by what they saw on TV or read somewhere, the less a jury will trust their testimony.

Graden handed Bailey the report, and we headed for the door. “Oh, and one more thing,” Graden said. “If you two get finished in time for dinner, let me know. It’s on me.”

“Depends,” I said. “Where?”

“So this is where we’re at now? Bribery? What happened to the joy of good company?”

“Who says they’re mutually exclusive?” I asked.

“I had to fall for a lawyer.” Graden shook his head. “Fine. Pacific Dining Car.”

Bailey nodded. “Sounds good.”

“You’re on.”