Mr. Kiss and Tell (5 page)

Preuss’s evidence had already arrived when Veronica got to the office at nine the next morning. It was crowded around her desk, a dozen cardboard bankers boxes labeled in black Sharpie. The sight made her feel slightly claustrophobic.

“They said a
few
boxes,” she said incredulously.

Behind her, Mac stood cradling her coffee mug. She smirked knowingly.

“Please. Endless stacks of evidence and unsorted information to sift through? You’re thrilled. This is Veronica Mars catnip.”

“Yeah, better get your spray bottle at the ready in case I start rolling on a pile of carpet-fiber spectrographs,” Veronica said with a mock scowl. “This is why you shouldn’t hire your friends. It’s all nice and professional until the insubordination starts.” She sighed. “Well, you know where
I’ll
be.”

“I’ll poke some food under the door at lunchtime,” Mac said, giving a jaunty little wave.

Once she’d shut her office door, Veronica just stood for a moment, looking around the cramped office. One box was labeled
MEDICAL
in a barely legible scrawl; another said
CRIME SCENE
. Several others were unlabeled. A few seemed to be packed past capacity, bulging ominously.

One of the first lessons Keith Mars had taught his daughter about solving crimes was that their most important tool was organization. That didn’t necessarily mean keeping an immaculate system of files and notes and evidence. Keith’s own notepad was indecipherable and incomplete, his corkboard a fluttering mess of scrap paper. But his mind was a Euclidean engine of perfect order and universal recall. He had his way; she had hers. But both understood that, without some way of sorting and cataloging facts, there was no way to see patterns. No way to change scope from forest to trees and back again. Her first job was to get a sense of how the case hung together, piece by awful piece.

She pried the lid off a box and started to unpack.

The first few folders contained schematic maps and photos of the place where the victim had been discovered—a field halfway to Pan Valley, more than twelve miles from the Neptune Grand. It had been raining on the night of the attack, and dark puddles mottled the landscape in the pictures. The rain seemed to have washed any evidence away; the only boot prints they had found belonged to the man who found the victim, an antiques dealer named Frank Kozlowski. The cops had found a tire print fifty yards away, on the road above the empty lot, and had identified it as a Firestone belonging to a midsized car, but there was no way to know if that print was connected to the crime.

Behind that folder, Veronica found another file crammed with photos. At first, she couldn’t quite tell what she was looking at: a bloodied mass of flesh; a shapeless form, black-and-blue and pink. Then the image resolved and she saw that it was a girl lying in a hospital bed.

She’d braced herself for the photos of the victim’s injuries—the insurance adjustor’s circumspect language told her the attack had been brutal—but she still stiffened at what she was seeing. The girl’s skin was a patchwork of contusions. Her nose was swollen, twice its normal size. Her eyes were blackened, lashes sticky with blood. One cheek was split jaggedly open. Her left arm was in a cast; her fingers were in splints. An ovoid pattern of bruises crisscrossed her throat.

Strangled,
Veronica thought. She set the photos aside and picked up the medical report.

According to the medical examiner, the victim had suffered over twenty broken bones, including her nose, clavicle, three fingers, and the hyoid bone at the base of her neck. Her left shoulder had been dislocated. The cartilage in her throat had been torn and bruised, leaving her unable to speak for days after the attack. She had a severe concussion. On top of that, the examiner noted symptoms of cerebral hypoxia, meaning her attacker had choked her long enough to cut off her air supply. Semen evidence taken from her body had been entered into the DNA database, but had yielded no matches.

Veronica placed the ME’s report next to the toxicology panel. The victim had tested negative for everything except evidence of moderate alcohol consumption and traces of Xanax, for which she had a prescription. There was no sign of anything recreational—no meth, no heroin, no Oxy, no E. Not even cannabis. No Rohypnol or GHB either, meaning her memory loss was likely a result of her brain injuries and her trauma.

Or an act,
Veronica thought. Though for the girl to cover for her attacker after what he had subjected her to? Not impossible, but definitely implausible.

She worked slowly, spreading files out across her desk and labeling them, rearranging and collating as she went. There were more photos, some showing further details of the girl’s injuries, others showing details of the field. One showed the dress she’d been wearing, filthy and torn, laid out on a metal exam table. A close-up of the tag revealed that it was Versace.

Finally, she found what she’d been looking for: the police report. It was dated March 9, two days after Grace had been found. Two deputies had signed it, a Tim Foss and a Jerrell Bundrick—neither familiar to her. In cramped type, they had detailed a living nightmare in flat, bureaucratic language.

Victim currently unable to speak as a result of her injuries, but was able to answer preliminary questions with pen and paper.

Victim arrived at Neptune Grand at approx. 10:30 p.m. on March 6, 2014. Victim claimed she was there to meet her boyfriend, but was unwilling to give his name. She waited for him in the rooftop bar, but according to victim he canceled their plans at 11:15; she stayed on and ordered more drinks. Victim says she remembers entering the stairwell, which she “always uses.” Victim remembers receiving blows to her face, head, and torso, but cannot describe her attacker. She also remembers having her air cut off by someone or something crushing her throat. She is unsure where the attack took place, and doesn’t remember leaving the hotel. At this time, victim is still disoriented and confused—the medical examiner’s official report is pending but according to the ICU doctor, memory loss and confusion are normal in cases of strangulation.

Veronica read on and stray words registered—
blonde
,
shock
,
evidence
. Then her eyes fell on the victim’s name.
Grace Elizabeth Manning
. Age nineteen.

It took a moment for the name to register.

Grace Elizabeth Manning.

It couldn’t be the same Grace Manning. It just couldn’t.

Even as Veronica fought the idea, she knew in her gut that it was true. The girl in the photos, beaten to the brink of death, was the same Grace Manning she’d last seen ten years ago, when she’d still been in high school. Their paths had crossed because of Veronica’s friendship with Grace’s older sister, Meg.

Meg had been an anomaly among the ’09ers; she was pretty and popular but also genuinely kind. She’d been one of the few friends who stuck with Veronica after Lilly Kane’s murder. The friendship lasted even after Meg started to date Veronica’s ex-boyfriend, Duncan Kane, but hit the rocks hard when he got back with Veronica.

The intensity of Meg’s spite had surprised even Veronica, who knew bitterness all too well. Then came the bus crash that killed eight of their classmates and severely injured Meg. Veronica soon learned the real reason for her hostility to Veronica and Duncan: She was pregnant with Duncan’s child.

Meg died from her injuries, but her baby survived and the Mannings got sole custody. A few weeks later, Veronica broke into the Manning house to investigate hints of child abuse. There she found Grace Manning, nine years old and terrified, crouched in a tiny compartment behind the wall in her closet. She’d been shut in by her parents, religious fanatics who didn’t believe in sparing the rod. Veronica and Duncan’s next move was the only viable one they could see: Duncan had kidnapped the baby, and Veronica had masterminded an escape to a safe home far away from Neptune. She hadn’t heard one word from Duncan since.

Veronica didn’t know what had happened in Grace’s life since that night. She didn’t know what triumphs she might have celebrated, what hopes and dreams she’d pursued. All she knew was that it wasn’t fucking fair. Sometimes lightning struck twice; sometimes, one person got more than their share of suffering.

But none of that mattered now. There were still boxes and boxes of information to comb through, and a hundred unanswered questions about the attack. Veronica picked up the file and continued reading. Deputies Bundrick and Foss kept going back to the girl’s bedside and asking the same questions, over and over.
They’re trying to catch her in a lie,
Veronica realized, staring down at the fourth such interview.
She’s lying there in a hospital bed, unable to speak, barely able to move, and they’re trying to figure out how to get this case off their desk.
Their frustration was palpable. So was Grace’s.

BUNDRICK: So you remember going into the stairwell. Do you remember going into one of the rooms on the way down?

VICTIM: No. I remember walking to the stairwell and starting down, but nothing’s clear from there on. I don’t know what happened.

BUNDRICK: But last time we were here you claimed to remember someone hitting you in the face.

VICTIM: I remember the sensation of someone hitting me in the face. I don’t remember what he looked like, or where I was. But I remember how it felt. I remember falling down. I remember someone hitting me again and again.

BUNDRICK: But you don’t actually remember being hit in the face, then. You remember getting hurt, but you don’t actually remember how it happened. Is that right? Now, now, there’s no need to cry, Miss Manning. We’re on your side.

Foss, on the other hand, was obsessed with finding out the identity of Grace’s boyfriend.

FOSS: Look, Grace, I’m going to be straight with you here. We can’t move forward on this investigation until you tell us more about this man you’re protecting. We really need to know more about him if we’re going to rule anyone out.

VICTIM: But he wasn’t even there that night.

FOSS: Grace, honey, you know who the perp is in 99.99 percent of cases like this? The boyfriend, that’s who. Are you afraid of him? Because we can protect you.

VICTIM: No! I’m not afraid of him. He didn’t do this to me—why would he do this to me? I already told you. He’s married. He’s got a reputation to protect. He’d lose everything if anyone found out. I can’t do that to him. But he wasn’t there that night.

FOSS: We’re going to find out who he is anyway. Trust me, it’ll be a lot better for you and your case if you just cooperate with us now.

By mid-April, there weren’t any more transcripts or notes. It seemed the case had stalled or been shunted aside. But suddenly in June there was another flurry of paperwork. New memories had surfaced as Grace recovered from her physical injuries. Veronica found an amended police report dated June 4, signed off by Deputy Foss.

Victim claims that she’s retrieved more memories of the night of March 6. She now recalls the features and build of the perpetrator and describes him as being Hispanic, about 5'11" and 170 lbs, wearing a red polo shirt with the Neptune Grand logo on the breast. However she still admits to no memory of the location of the attack, or the aftermath.

A police sketch was attached to this report: it showed a brooding man with an aquiline nose and a close-shaven bristle of hair. Veronica placed it next to the mug shot of Miguel Ramirez—the Neptune Grand laundry-room employee who’d been deported in late May.
Ninety percent chance it’s the same guy in both images,
she thought.

She kept reading all through the morning, taking in bits of information, making notes, sorting through the mess. A familiar, almost mechanical feeling was taking over, her focus sharpening, her mind clicking into gear. By the time she started watching the hotel surveillance footage, she was ready to give Mac her due for the catnip crack. There
was
a deep, rhythmic gratification to be found in scanning and organizing evidence; it was as close to high as Veronica got.

A couple of hours passed almost unnoticed, then a soft knock came at her door.

“Yeah?” Veronica said, jarred to reenter the physical world.

Mac opened the door and poked her head in. “We’re ordering sandwiches. You want one?”

“Would you come look at something for me?” Veronica asked, not even looking up from where she sat staring at her computer.

She sensed Mac move silently in behind her. “What’s up?”

Veronica hit a key on her laptop. The Neptune Grand surveillance footage started to play.

“This is the night of the attack. The victim comes in through the main entrance of the hotel at ten twenty-seven.” The camera showed a sleek young woman walking briskly through the doors. Her long blonde hair was twisted up at the nape of her neck. She wore a tight blue dress that showed off a double take–worthy figure. The shoes were expensive-looking silver stilettos.

The lobby was busy for a Thursday night. Grace passed a cluster of women in flamboyant red hats—some kind of social club, it looked like—clustered around the reception desk. She cut between four tall college-age boys in matching team jackets, all of whom checked her out as she passed. A family of five got out of the elevator as she clambered on, then made their way arguing toward the front door.

“A series of cameras track her across the lobby. Then she takes the elevator up to the rooftop bar.” She clicked through different windows, marking the woman’s path. The camera in the elevator gave a closer and sharper view of her features than those in the lobby. “Oh you kid! Opal blue eyes, heart-shaped face, bee-stung lips—insert 1930s
Variety
prose here.”

Grace’s makeup was flawless and made her look older than she was. It gave Veronica a slight pang, imagining the shy child she’d met a decade ago as this chic sophisticate—and then imagining her again as the savaged figure on the hospital bed.

“Okay, now our young Jean Harlow gets out at the Eagle’s Nest.” Veronica pulled up a different file, showing the Neptune Grand’s rooftop bar. It wasn’t exactly new—it’d been there since Petra Landros’s renovations a few years ago—but it still gave Veronica a chill. The last time she’d been anywhere near the roof of the Neptune Grand, Cassidy Casablancas had been trying to force her to jump off of it at gunpoint.

Back then, the roof had just been a roof; now, it was a coolly lit pleasure garden with a view of the city below. Clusters of oversized chairs were arranged near the railings so patrons could take in the view. In the center of the rooftop a large open-flame fire pit flickered steadily, surrounded by low, curved benches. The clock in the corner of the screen registered the time as 10:31 p.m. when Grace Manning stepped out of the gleaming brass elevator.

“She hangs out at the bar for an hour or so,” Veronica said, hitting Fast Forward. The image picked up speed, the bartender—a young woman in a cummerbund and bow tie—darting erratically, like an agitated squirrel, while a handful of patrons zipped in and out. No one talked to Grace except for the bartender. “She has three drinks. She chats a few times with the bartender. Then she gets up at eleven thirty-seven. But instead of going back to the elevator, she goes into the stairwell.”

Mac leaned over her shoulder, frowning. “Why would she do that? It’s, like, fourteen stories. She’s wearing stilettos.”

Veronica shook her head. “No idea. But here’s the real question.” She opened up all of the lobby camera files and hit Fast Forward again so they all started to run at once. “Where did she go?”

They watched the video in silence. The clock in the corner of each screen ran up, minutes slipping by. 11:40. 11:45. 11:50. At midnight, there was a shift change, with several housekeepers and clerks leaving through the service exit. The bar closed down and the handful of stragglers left. After that there was very little movement except for graveyard-shift clerks fidgeting to keep themselves awake, and one or two employees moving up and down the service corridor.

At just after 5:13 a.m., a parade of sleepy-looking college guys in matching red jackets traipsed through the lobby. Another camera, positioned in the passenger loading area, filmed them outside, climbing groggily onto a charter bus waiting in the valet lane. It was still dark, and drops of rain speckled the camera’s lens. Veronica could just make out the letters on the backs of their coats:
PSU BASKETBALL
. After they left, no one else came through the lobby until the continental breakfast started up at six.

At no point did Grace reappear on the cameras.

She didn’t come out through the stairwell on the ground floor. She didn’t get on or off the elevator. She didn’t pass through the glass double doors at the front, or the service exit in back, or the parking garage.

“I’ve watched it all the way through to seven a.m.,” Veronica said, looking up at Mac. “That’s when the junk guy found the victim in the empty lot ten miles away. But I don’t see any sign of her leaving through any of the exits.”

Reflected light from the monitor shone in Mac’s eyes. She reached over Veronica’s shoulder and grabbed the mouse, backing up the video and playing it again.

“There aren’t cameras on the individual floors?”

“Nope. But the service corridors are all covered.” Veronica opened up a window that showed the basement hallway. “Petra Landros likes to make sure she gets her money’s worth out of the help. No sign of her there either. But there’s the guy the victim accused.” She pointed to a man in a red polo shirt, pushing a laundry bin up the hallway. The image was heavily pixelated, but she recognized him from the mug shot. Dark hair, broad shoulders.

Mac frowned. “Those laundry baskets are pretty big. Maybe he used one of them to move the victim?”

“That was my thought too. But the bins don’t leave the hotel, at least not that I can see.” She leaned back in her chair. “So we’re left with the same question either way. How did
this
girl”—she touched the image of Grace on her screen as she disappeared once again into the dark, unmonitored stairwell—“end up
here
?” She gestured to the pile of photos on the desk next to her. Mac picked up the top one, an image of Grace’s bruised and broken face, and blanched.

“If we can’t get DNA from the guy she accused, there’s no way to prove for sure he did it.”

Veronica paused, staring for a moment at the photo in Mac’s hands. Staring at the face of a woman who, all other points aside, had been raped, brutalized, and left for dead.

“And that means the asshole who did
that
might still be out there right now, digging into a big old sack of fried cheddar sticks at the ballgame.”

Mac’s eyes lingered on the photo for another moment before she looked up at Veronica. “So how are we going to stop him?”

Veronica sighed. “Well, the first order of business is going to be to talk to the victim. Fun!
‘Hey girl, I’m working for the suits who’re trying to prove you’re lying about your rape. Coffee? My treat?’
”

Mac winced. “Do you think she’ll talk to you?”

“Wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. But I’ve got to try.” Veronica picked up her phone. “I need her side of the story. And she deserves a shot at telling it her way, on her own turf.”

For a moment she considered going straight to Grace’s apartment unannounced, seeing if she could catch her in person. With most witnesses, that was the go-to strategy. Catching people off guard often paid off in straight, unrehearsed answers. But she didn’t want to ambush Grace—didn’t want to blindside her with questions about what presumably was the most traumatic day of her life. So she punched in the phone number from one of the police forms and waited.

The voice that answered was a calm, even alto. “This is Grace.”

Veronica jumped slightly. She’d half expected it to go to voice mail.

“Hi, Grace. My name is Veronica Mars.” She didn’t mention their connection. Either Grace would remember it herself, or she wouldn’t. Given the context of the call, Veronica wasn’t sure which she’d prefer. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m calling because I’m doing some research for the insurance firm that covers the Neptune Grand.” She paused, her mouth suddenly feeling dry. “First of all, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for everything you’ve already been through…”

“What’s your question?” The girl’s voice was still calm, but quicker than before, a bit impatient.

“Well, I was hoping I could meet with you in person and ask a few questions.”