Murder Season (16 page)

Orth picked up after three rings.

“I was just about to call you, Lena.”

“Good,” she said. “Then you have something.”

Orth was an SID supervisor and had played a key role in Lena’s last case. They worked well together. Like everyone else at the lab, Orth had been caught up in the DNA evidence that went missing during Gant’s trial. But Lena regarded the scandal as guilt by association. Orth’s only involvement in the crisis was his position as a team leader. Lena had always known him to be a consummate professional and she trusted him completely.

“We’ve got something,” he said. “The cocaine’s a match. What you found at Hight’s house mirrors what was found at Club 3 AM in every way. They are chemically identical, the cut made at exactly the same percentage. It’s high-grade stuff, better than what we’ve seen in a long time.”

Lena started pacing. “So, either Hight was in the room or they used the same dealer. What about fingerprints on those hundred-dollar bills?”

“No luck there,” Orth said. “But we’ve got blood, Lena. We found it in the sole of Hight’s left shoe.”

“Enough to work with?”

“If he was in that room, we’ll know about it. And that’s a promise.”

It wasn’t the gun, but it was close. Maybe even enough to convince Hight that a confession was the easiest way out. If the blood from either victim wound up on his shoe, there could only be one explanation.

“Are you gonna be in your office this afternoon?” she said.

“I’ll be here all day. What’s up?”

“I want to show you something.”

Another call was coming in. Lena glanced at the caller ID.

“I’ve gotta go, Marty. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“See you then,” he said.

She clicked over to the next call. It was Buddy Paladino, calling on her home line at ten after seven in the morning.

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” she said.

Paladino remained silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft and low and smooth as silk.

“There’s a rumor floating around town, Detective Gamble. All across the city, people want to know.”

“What’s the rumor?”

“That you’ve reopened the Lily Hight murder case.”

It hung there—a heavy silence enveloping his words and radiating through the house. Lena moved to the counter, grabbed a stool, and sat down. She had helped Paladino with a personal problem last year, and knew that he was in her debt. But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t dangerous. It didn’t mean that she could trust him or that she was safe.

“It’s a bad rumor, Buddy. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“I think you’re trying to mislead me. I can tell by the sound of your voice. I thought we had an understanding, Lena. That we were above all this. You scratch my back, I scratch yours—so to speak.”

Vintage Paladino.

“Who did you talk to?” she said.

“A friend.”

“Then it’s not all over town?”

“No. Just you, me, and a friend. We’re a small network. I just wanted to see how you’d take it. By the way, I could tell that you were lying to me. You’re gonna need to work on your technique. It’s not what you say. It’s the way you say it.”

Lena shook it off. “Maybe we could meet at your office,” she said. “Later in the day.”

“Later in the day. I like it.”

“Fine,” she said. “But I have a question before we meet.”

“About what?”

“Tim Hight.”

He paused a beat. “I’m listening.”

“Hight and his daughter. Was there anything there?”

Paladino became quiet again. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its polish and become exceedingly quiet and precise.

“I had three spotters in the courtroom, Lena. Three of the best analysts around. When I floated the idea that Hight molested his daughter, it was clear that no one on the jury wanted to hear that.”

Lena got up and moved to the slider. The city was awash in new morning light. “Okay, so the jury didn’t want to hear it. But were you fishing, or was it more than that? Did you have something real?”

“We’ll talk in the office,” he said. “Later in the day.”

And then he hung up.

24

She drove across town to Hight’s house
in the TSX, listening to the V6 under the hood and thinking about what she hoped to accomplish in the next hour. She didn’t mind doing this alone. There was a certain advantage to seeing Hight without a partner by her side, a chance that Hight might speak more freely. But as she pulled around the corner and spotted the patrol unit still on watch at the curb, she had to admit that she felt some degree of relief.

Lena parked in the drive and walked over to the car with her briefcase. Sitting behind the wheel was a uniformed officer she recognized from the day before and knew by name. Carmine Ruiz looked like he only had one or two weeks on the job, but that was okay with her.

“Is he in there?” she asked.

Ruiz fought off a yawn as he pointed to the sunroom. “He’s been in there all night. He sits in that window chain-smoking in the dark. He came out once to tell me that he wanted his car back. I think he was drunk.”

“I’m gonna need your help, Carmine. No big deal. Just come inside with me and wait in the foyer.”

“You got it,” he said.

They walked through the gate and up the path onto the porch. Before Lena could knock, the door swung open to reveal Hight and those bloodshot eyes of his. He stared at them for a while—back and forth and long enough to creep Lena out. But then, without a word, he stepped aside to let them enter.

“Are you sober?” Lena asked.

Hight nodded. “Close enough.”

“I want another look at your daughter’s bedroom.”

The man seemed to need time to process her request, but eventually started up the staircase. Lena followed three steps behind, keenly aware of the distance between them. When they reached the landing, she gave him a good lead through the gloom until they reached the door.

“Where’s your friend?” he asked.

“Officer Ruiz will wait downstairs.”

“How much time is this gonna take? What are you looking for?”

“Open the door, Mr. Hight.”

He turned the knob and gave it a soft push, the bright light from the bedroom spilling over them like the crest of a ten-foot wave. As Lena entered, she noticed Hight’s hesitation to follow and watched him lean against the doorjamb.

“You lied to me yesterday, Mr. Hight. You said that you hadn’t seen Jacob Gant since the trial. But that wasn’t the case at all, was it? You’ve seen him many times over the last six weeks. And you had an argument with him on the day he was murdered.”

He met her eyes, but couldn’t hold her gaze—shifting his weight and looking down at the floor.

“Maybe I didn’t understand the question,” he said.

“Maybe. But it was a simple question, Mr. Hight. Tell me what the argument was about.”

Hight shrugged. “I saw him hop over the fence. I told him to stay off my property.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Hight.”

“That’s your problem, not mine, lady.”

“Is this the way your attorneys told you to act?”

“I didn’t call them.”

There was a touch of arrogance in his voice. Defiance.

“You can’t do this alone,” she said. “You can’t do it because it is your problem. And it’s a big problem. You need legal advice. It’s your right.”

He wasn’t listening. He needed legal advice, but he needed a shower and a shave and a change of clothes as well.

Lena finally broke her gaze to take in the room. She could see fingerprint powder on almost every surface and remembered the request she’d made as they waited for Paladino’s press conference to end yesterday in the front yard. No matter how odd, their daughter’s bedroom hadn’t been turned into a tomb. Based on the large number of smudges, the room was obviously still in use.

“You spend time in here,” she said.

Hight shook his head. “I haven’t set foot in this room since Lily died. Once in a while I’ll find my wife in here. I don’t know what she does.”

Lena found a pair of gloves in her briefcase and walked over to the chest of drawers. Yesterday she had been looking for a gun. Today was all about confirmation. When she spotted a camera in the top drawer, she pulled it out and hit the
POWER
button. Remarkably, the device fired up, but only to indicate that the battery needed to be charged and that the media card was empty. After ten seconds, the screen went blank and the power shut down.

“Your daughter liked to take pictures?”

“She wanted to make it her living,” he said. “That photograph by the bed is one of hers.”

Lena stepped over for a look. It was a landscape, a black-and-white image shot at the beach from atop a cliff. The lens was pointed straight down at the rocks and sand, the shutter snapped just as a wave reached the shoreline. What struck Lena most about the image was the sunlight sweeping across the rocks and sand from a low angle—the way the image was composed.

“Your daughter had an eye.”

“Well beyond her years.”

“What happened to the rest of her work?”

“Cobb had her computer taken away after Gant was arrested. When we finally got it back, I downloaded the images and erased the drive.”

“Were they all landscapes, Mr. Hight? Or did she photograph people, too?”

Lena’s eyes were on him, but Hight showed no emotion—no changes.

“A little of both,” he said.

“Anything stand out?”

“Not really.”

A moment passed, but she didn’t think he’d bend. “The night she was murdered, where did you find her?”

“Right where you’re standing.”

Lena acknowledged the spot, then turned to the window and found the impressions in the carpet left by the chair. Pushing the chair over, she turned it toward the window and felt the feet fall into place. Through the window and across the drive she could see Jacob Gant’s room and the chair still in place before his window.

“We like it better the way it was,” Hight said.

“But on the night of the murder, the chair was here. And it had been that way for a long time. Long enough to break down the carpet.”

“I guess so.”

“When you had the room cleaned, did they do anything with the chair?”

“They didn’t need to. Just the bloodstains over there by the bed.”

“And the fingerprint powder,” she said.

“Yeah, that, too.”

Lena knelt down to examine the seat cushion, then flipped it over and studied the other side. When she found what she was looking for, she returned to the chest and opened the second drawer. She thought she remembered seeing it yesterday, but wanted to make sure—not the underwear of a girl, but the lingerie of a woman. It hadn’t registered until now. The sheer bras and panties wouldn’t have had any meaning to her before she’d seen the nude photos of Lily on her bed.

“What kind of a girl was she, Mr. Hight?”

He didn’t respond. When Lena turned to check on him, she caught him staring. Not at the contents of the drawer—from his angle he couldn’t see what she held in her hands. Hight was staring at her. At her legs and hips and then up to her chest until he reached her face and realized that she had been watching him measure her. Being caught in the moment didn’t appear to faze him.

“What kind of a girl was Lily?” she repeated.

“Lily was everything they said she was and more. She was full of life. A dream come true.”

“Did she see boys?”

“Most girls her age see boys.”

“Was she involved with anyone?”

He paused to catch himself, but not soon enough. Lena saw through it.

“No one that I’m aware of,” he said in a quieter voice.

“I’m curious about her best girlfriend. What was her name?”

“Julia,” he said. “They were like glue.”

“Julia Hackford—that’s it. How come she didn’t testify at the trial?”

“I asked about that.”

“Who did you ask?”

“First Cobb, then Bennett and Watson.”

“And what did they say?”

Hight shook his head. “Julia didn’t know anything. There was nothing she could do to help.”

“She lives close by, doesn’t she?”

“Right around the corner in the blue house. Why?”

Lena didn’t answer the question and moved to the bedside table. The drawer was filled with pads and pens and knickknacks—things that she had seen yesterday when they were searching the house for the gun. But what she was looking for now would probably be hidden in the back—something else that she would have glossed over before seeing the nude photos in the murder book. As she fished through the contents, she spotted the small tube of K-Y jelly behind a deck of playing cards, then returned everything to its place and closed the drawer.

“What about Lily’s cell phone?” she said.

Hight paused a moment, and Lena noticed something in his eyes—a spark, a glint—something that she hadn’t seen before.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shrugged her off. “We looked for that phone everywhere. When Cobb spoke with the service provider and they agreed to help, he told us that he had everything he needed and we could stop.”

“Did he ask you to keep the account open for a while?”

“Just in case somebody used it, but no one ever did. I checked the bill every month. No one used it to make or receive a call. Cobb told us Gant took it and threw it away.”

“But that’s not what came to mind when I asked the question, is it?”

“What does any of this have to do with what happened at the club? When am I gonna get my car back?”

“What were you thinking when I asked about Lily’s cell phone?”

He gave her a long look, his face reddening. “Her account,” he said. “Not the phone, but her account. It’s still open.”

“You call the number,” Lena said quietly. “You listen to her voice.”

Hight steadied himself against the doorjamb. As Lena looked him over, she sensed that she was witnessing something important. Hight keeping his daughter’s cell-phone account open was anything but strange. She knew that most people who had lost a loved one did exactly the same thing. Most people wanted to call the number and listen to the outgoing message. They wanted to hear their loved one’s voice. And they didn’t need the phone to do it—just the account and phone number.