RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (28 page)

We let
the possibility sink in for several moments.

“The similarity between Alicia’s car and Lilah’s is beyond chance,” I said. “Let’s work with the hypothesis that Alicia Morris may be Lilah’s alias.” When we’d started the search for Alicia, I’d been feeling tired and flat. But now the possibility that I was about to enter Lilah’s world had energized me.

Bailey looked at her watch. “Six thirty,” she said. “Probably too late to pay Bagram a visit.”

We were on a roll and I didn’t want to call it a day, so I considered what else we could do tonight. I checked the report—and smiled. “Seems the car was stolen near La Poubelle. Alicia said it’d been parked on the block behind the restaurant.”

Bailey read my mind. “Gee, what a bummer. We’re going to have to check out La Poubelle.” She pulled away from the curb and headed for Sunset Boulevard.

“You cops are always leading us hardworking deputies astray,” I said.

“You can watch me while I eat,” Bailey suggested. “Save your sterling reputation. But you better give your security detail a call, so they can watch you watching me eat.”

I pulled out my cell and arranged for them to meet us at the restaurant.

Traffic was heavy, and even though we were just a few miles away, it was seven o’clock by the time we got there.

La Poubelle was in the middle of a block of very hip, funky stores and restaurants that were big on character—and characters—and low on fancy. A few doors down from La Poubelle was a place called Birds that served up barbecue and had a human-size birdcage where people who got drunk enough to make it seem like a good idea could dance.

The bar at La Poubelle was already doing a brisk business, and customers stood three deep as the bartenders rushed to fill orders. I took a few moments to let my eyes adjust to the dim light so I could get to a table without doing the lambada with strangers. We slowly inched our way into the dining area in the back. The restaurant catered to a late-night crowd, so there were still a few empty
tables
to be found.

Our waiter sauntered over with a desultory air that told me our service tonight was not a given. His hair, dyed completely white, sloped straight up on one side and dipped precariously over the other to cover his left eye, which was adorned with the longest fake lashes I’d ever seen. His spandex capris were bright pink, which went brilliantly with his silver-sequined V-necked shirt.

“What are we in the mood for
ce soir?
” he asked in a bored voice.

He looked around the room, and I knew we’d lose him midsentence if we didn’t make it snappy. I gave my drink order so fast it came out as one word.

“A Ketel One martini, straight up, very dry, very cold, olives on the side.”

He inhaled, looked down his nose at me, and turned to Bailey. “And you?”

“The same.”

Our waiter wandered off. I had no faith that he was going to place our orders, so I watched to see where whim would take him. He glided slowly through the tables, but eventually I could see he was headed for the bar. Victory was mine. Sort of: there was no guaranteeing he’d take as direct a route back to our table.

“You got the photographs?” Bailey asked.

I patted my oversize purse. “Want to start with the manager?”

“Probably should,” Bailey replied. She stood up. “I’ll go find him.”

Five minutes later, she returned to the table with a handsome man in his forties, wearing jeans, expensive leather loafers, and a shirt opened down to his sternum, very European-looking. Bailey made the introductions, and then I started to pull out Lilah’s photograph.

He put his hand on my arm. “I have to tell you that I’m not the best person to ask. When I’m here, I’m usually in my office or in the kitchen, so…”

He had a French accent, but it wasn’t overpowering. Just sexy as hell.

“Got it,” I said, then showed him the photograph.

His eyes got 50 percent wider, and he whistled softly. “I’d surely remember a woman like
that,
” he said. “But”—he shrugged—“I’m sorry, I do not recall ever seeing her here.” He took another long look at the photograph. “I must say, I wish I had.”

“No problem,” I said. “Can you tell me who was working here about four years ago?”

The manager frowned and stared at the table, then looked toward the bar. “The bartenders, I don’t think so. But you can certainly ask. And maybe Jessie.” He gestured to a slender waitress in black tights and a long, clingy sweater. “I think Chris, for sure—”

“Chris?” I asked.

At just that moment, our waiter appeared with our drinks. I suspected the speed of service had something to do with the fact that we were sitting with the manager. But that’s just me, ever the cynic.

The manager stood and gestured to our waiter. Voilà. “Chris,” he said, “these ladies have some questions for you.”

The manager bowed gracefully. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you,” he said.

I took a moment to enjoy the view as he left the table, then got back down to business.

“Chris, I want to—,” I began.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he said, holding up a hand. “I didn’t see a thing.”

“You don’t know what we’re going to ask.”

“Exactly,” he said, staring at me to make his point.

“I just want to know whether you recognize the person in this photograph,” I said, pulling out the picture of Lilah.

Chris gave an exaggerated sigh and dipped his neck, swanlike, to look. After a few moments, a little smile spread across his face.

“Why yes, I believe I do,” he said, his voice mildly surprised. “I think she was here a few times.”

“Recently?” I asked.

“Mmm, no,” he said. “A while ago.”

“Could it have been around four years ago?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Four years ago?” Chris put a finger to his cheek and tilted his head. “That would’ve been my first year here.” He held his tray against one hip and thought a moment more. “Yes, I believe that
is
when I saw her.”

I couldn’t take the chance that he might waver after calmer reflection. “Are you sure?”

“Oh my, but yes.” He tapped the photograph. “Not a face you see every day. Or forget once you do.”

“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 gi
nor
mous 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.

On Monday,
I had an appearance on a double homicide that’d been languishing while the defendant played “musical lawyers,” hiring and firing them to delay the inevitable. Bailey went to the station to work the phones with a contact at the DMV and check out Alicia Morris and the stolen report on her red Audi.

The judge let the defendant substitute in his fifth new lawyer but put his foot down. “This marriage is going to last, Mr. Hamlin. No more divorces. Got it?”

Glad to have a go-date for the trial but worried about my burgeoning caseload, I hurried toward the courtroom door, too distracted to notice that someone in the gallery had stood up to intercept me.

“Rachel?”

I stopped and turned. Graden came out to the aisle. “Could I talk to you for just a second?”

My pulse stuttered at the sight of him. There was no denying it, the attraction was still as strong as ever. But the courthouse, where the whole world could see—and gossip—was not the place to hash anything out, even if I’d wanted to. Which I didn’t.

He saw my expression and shook his head. “It’s important.”

Not trusting myself to sound as cool as I wanted to, I nodded mutely and headed out to the corridor. We moved to a corner that was relatively quiet.

“I…first, how are you?” he asked.

Standing this close was distracting—the smell of his cologne, the warmth of his gaze…it was an effort to wall off my feelings. “I’m okay, and you?”

Graden looked at me closely. “I’ve been better. Look, I came to tell you about a weird thing that happened the other night.”

He told me about a woman who’d gotten “friendly” with him at a bar and tried to buy him a drink. At first I thought maybe he was trying to make me jealous. But by the time he’d finished, I stared out at the crowded hallway with eyes that were filled with the image of Lilah. There was not a doubt in my mind that that’s who had chatted Graden up at the bar, and I told him so.

“It fits.” He frowned. “But it’s very weird. And very dangerous.” He looked at me with a puzzled expression. “You don’t seem all that shocked.”

I wasn’t, though I couldn’t explain why. I shrugged. “She’s a strange duck—nothing she does would surprise me.”

But I had to admit, what she’d done made no logical sense. The woman had an alias and obviously didn’t want to be found. But she was stalking me, mucking around in my life? Whether she’d hoped to seduce Graden or not—and I had to admit I was impressed that he hadn’t taken the bait—somehow I knew her goal was to get at me. And though I wasn’t surprised, it did creep me out. The danger was less of a worry, thanks to my trusty security detail. How to let Graden know about bodyguard investigators without telling him I’d been banged up? But the conundrum solved itself.

Graden peered at my face, his expression worried. “What’s going on? Did something happen to you?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to deny it, but for some reason I couldn’t. I told him about how I’d been ambushed.

Graden raked his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. “Jesus, Rachel. Why didn’t you…” He caught himself—we both knew why I hadn’t told him. “Please tell me you have security.”

“Oh, I’m loaded for bear.” I smiled. I told him about the investigators who’d been assigned to me and how they were dogging my footsteps. Seeing him smile and nod his approval reminded me of how good it’d been to be with someone who understood my world, because it was his world too. I’d missed him. But that didn’t mean we were good for each other.

“Will you promise to let me know if I can do anything?” he asked.

“Of course,” I lied.

Graden’s expression told me he didn’t entirely believe me.

“Well…thanks for the heads-up,” I said.

“I…sure.” He paused and gave me a searching look. He seemed to want to tell me something. I braced myself for whatever that might be, but then he said simply, “Take care of yourself, Rachel.”

I nodded and headed for the elevator. When I got back to my office, I found Bailey there waiting for me. I started to tell her about my visit from Graden, but when I saw the dark expression on her face, I changed course. “What happened?”

“The car registered to Lilah was found in Griffith Park about two weeks after it was stolen from Conrad Bagram’s lot.” Bailey paused and examined her notes. “The car had rolled down an embankment and crashed into a tree,” she said. “Young guy named Tran Lee was found in the driver’s seat. Dead. Lee was a meth head who presumably stole the car while he was high and crashed it.”

“And we would’ve known that if we’d finished running down the records on Lilah’s car before we hit Bagram,” I said.

We both fell silent. Something about this latest development didn’t feel right.

“I wouldn’t mind shaking out any paperwork Bagram had on that car,” I said. “At the very least, he must’ve written up some kind of consignment agreement.”

“Agreed,” Bailey said. “Rick Meyer must’ve investigated this at some point when he was getting ready for Lilah’s trial.”

“I would too,” I said. “There’s one way to find out…”

Bailey nodded, but she didn’t look happy. She abruptly shifted gears. “First, let’s get all we can on Tran,” she said. “The reports should be at the Hollywood station.”

We threw on our coats, and Bailey went to tell the DA investigators they could take the day off. Five minutes later, we were in Bailey’s car and rolling. I told her about Lilah’s move on Graden.

Her eyes widened. “Oh man. Who
is
this psychobat?”

More than ever, that question burned in my mind. I’d spent more time researching her than I’d ever spent on any defendant. What I’d learned in terms of concrete facts was precious little. But I had a growing intuitive sense of her, especially after hearing about her interaction with Graden. It wasn’t something I could quantify or put into words, though, so I shorthanded my answer to Bailey. “She’s like no other. Nervy, nuts, and obsessive. A bad combination.”

“But now we know: she is still in town.”

“And can therefore kill us both at close range,” I said.

“You are such a buzz kill, Knight.”

I supposed I was. I sat back and tried to relax, but the morning traffic was brutal, and our halting progress was making me want to jump out the window, so I fished out my headphones and punched up “Soul Food” featuring Cyrus Chestnut on piano and James Carter on tenor sax, one of the finest players ever to lift the instrument. I defy anyone to feel bad when they listen to that song. I was swaying to the music when Bailey nudged me.

“Uh, excuse me, Ms. Daisy,” she said, annoyed. “There’s a way you could actually be useful.”

I hit pause and took off my headphones. “Already did it,” I said.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yeah, I do,” I replied, enjoying the moment. I don’t often get the jump on Bailey. “While you were talking to the investigators, I called Scott and asked for Tran’s autopsy report.”

Unlike other recent requests I’d made of coroner’s investigator Scott Ferrier, this one hadn’t put him in the position of risking his job to smuggle out confidential material. I’d thought he sounded a little disappointed about that, but I could be wrong.

Bailey stared at me. “Put your headphones back on,” she said flatly.

I gave her a smug grin and returned to James Carter.

Back at the Hollywood station, it took very little time to find Tran Lee’s accident reports. The car had rolled down an embankment and hit a tree at the bottom. Tran Lee had been thrown through the windshield. A crack pipe had been found on the dashboard, and the coroner’s toxicology report showed his blood tested positive for methamphetamine. Cause of death was massive blunt force trauma. It’d been two weeks since the car was reported stolen, and the condition of the body indicated it had been lying there for some time when two hikers finally stumbled upon it. The coroner’s report would tell us how long.

“No witnesses,” I said, disappointed.

“And no next of kin,” Bailey added. “At least not in this country.” She continued to scan the final report. “But here’s something.” She read for another moment. “Tran Lee’s friends said he was supposed to meet them for dinner but never showed. And he didn’t turn up at the restaurant where they all worked as waiters either, which wasn’t like him. Apparently he was a pretty reliable employee. When no one had heard from him for a couple of days, they filed a missing persons report.”

I took the incident report from her with no great enthusiasm. It looked like another dead end. Some tweaker stole a car, got high, crashed it. Sad, but not all that remarkable. I set it aside, then picked it back up. Something had caught my eye. I scanned through the report again.

And then I saw it.

“You happen to notice where the dead guy was supposed to meet his buddies?” I asked Bailey.

“No, where?”

“Birds,” I said. “Mr. Lee stole a car on his way to dinner at a restaurant that’s just a few doors down from La Poubelle.”