RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (8 page)

Sunlight streamed
through the living room window. I’d forgotten to pull the drapes last night. I rolled out of bed, pulled on my plushy microfleece robe, and went out to the balcony.

The air was surprisingly balmy for a December morning. It would be a great day to get some fieldwork done, but I couldn’t do it alone. One of the cardinal rules of investigation, especially for a lawyer, is never talk to a witness alone. A lawyer can’t ethically testify in his or her own case. That means if a witness takes the stand and decides not to remember what he told you during a private interview, you’ve got no way to prove that he’s lying. I opened my cell phone.

“Detective Keller, please. It’s Rachel Knight.”

After about five ominous-sounding clicks and an inordinate amount of time, a voice told me to “hold for Detective Keller, please,” and I held some more. If I’d called the Kremlin it wouldn’t have taken as long. It cheered me to know that the cops weren’t doing any better with their support staff than we were.

“What?” Bailey barked.

“Feel like a massage?” I asked.

“‘Happy endings’ included?” Bailey said, chuckling at her own joke.

“You can’t afford me,” I said. “I meant—”

“I’ll be there in ten,” she said, and then hung up.

I called Melia and told her I’d be out interviewing witnesses.

“Oh, uh…” Melia paused for so long I thought we’d been disconnected. “I think Eric wants to talk to you.”

“Okay, have him call me on my cell,” I replied.

“Uh, no. I think he wants to talk to you now.”

“Then why don’t you ask him and find out for sure?” I said.

This kind of lame exchange was vintage Melia. At least it wasn’t in person. I walked over to the dresser and pulled out a pair of black jeans—a compromise that’d let me look presentable if I had to go to the office later.

“Um…hang on.”

Seconds later, Eric’s voice came on the line. “Rachel?”

“Hi, Eric. What’s up?”

“You running on that John Doe case?”

“Yeah. I’m checking out the suspect we’ve got in custody,” I explained. “It’s pretty shaky on him from what I’ve seen so far.”

There was a beat of silence, then I heard Eric sigh. “Okay, I’ll give you today to get it sorted out. But if we have to cut this defendant loose, you’re going to have to let the case go back to a regular trial unit. This isn’t a Special Trials case, and your dance card’s already pretty full.”

Something was fishy. It wasn’t like Eric to interfere with us about the cases we picked up. It took me a second, but I got there. “Hemet’s on the warpath, isn’t he?”

“For some reason,” Eric admitted. “He got all worked up at the head deputy meeting last night. Said Special Trials deputies have been overstepping. We all knew he was talking about your John Doe case, so I told him it wouldn’t have happened if his deputy hadn’t dropped the ball—”

Go, Eric. This was one of the many reasons I loved him. “Which he took real well, I’m sure,” I said dryly.

“Not so much. He said that since I didn’t seem inclined to do anything about it, he’d talk to Summers.”

“Which he was going to do anyway, Eric. It didn’t matter what you said or did.”

“Yeah.” Eric sighed. “The feces is undoubtedly about to hit the whirling blades.”

The only question was how hard and how fast. Fred Summers, the chief deputy, was officially the second in command to our fearless and witless leader, District Attorney William Vanderhorn. But in reality Vanderhorn was more political figurehead than boss. Summers was the real force to be reckoned with. And from what I’d seen and heard, he was generally a good guy with real smarts. Why he was giving an ear to Hemet was a mystery. I wondered if Hemet had some kind of dirt on him.

“This is such petty bullshit, Eric,” I said heatedly. “It’s not as though Hemet wants this loser.”

“No,” Eric agreed. “But I don’t need to tell you how the rest of the office feels about our unit. Vanderhorn keeps us in Pampers because he knows he needs you trial monkeys to cover his ass on the heavy cases, but he’s taken some heat about cherry-picking special unit deputies—”

“Anyone who wants to call this case a cherry should be disbarred for incompetence—”

“Of course, but the specifics won’t matter. It’ll be just another time he hears about a beef with a special unit—and this one in particular.”

Because Special Trials got the most complex, high-profile cases, the deputies in that unit got all the “ink.” Some were smart enough to know this was no gift, but many who weren’t in the unit were bitterly jealous of the media attention.

Eric continued, “If Vanderhorn gets the sense that we can afford to pick up cases at random, he’ll jump on the excuse to cut the unit down. And since yours will be the neck that’s sticking out…”

I’d wind up trying meth-lab cases in Newhall for the rest of my career. “Okay. I’ll get this wrapped up by the end of business today.”

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” Eric said. “But this is for your own good—and mine. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Thanks, Eric. I understand,” I said. “And I appreciate it.”

“You know it wouldn’t happen if it were up to me. You did a good thing. We’re prosecutors. We go after the bad guy no matter who the victim is.”

Not that it mattered to petty bureaucratic asshats like Hemet. But I could tell that Eric was feeling guilty for having to give me grief about the case, so I tried to dial myself back.

“It’s okay. I get it. I’ll be in tomorrow, I promise.”

We ended the call, and I grabbed my coat and purse and flew out the door. Bailey was probably fuming by now. Fortunately, when I ran out through the lobby and reached her car, I saw that she was swaying in her seat to the rap classic “Changes” by Tupac Shakur and seemed to be in a good mood. I slid into the passenger seat. “Sorry I’m late.”

She waved me off. “It’s all good.”

“You’re white, Keller,” I said, pulling my seat belt on. “Deal with it.”

She started to say something, then stopped herself. “You okay?”

I filled her in on my conversation with Eric.

“That was fast,” she remarked.

“I take it you’ve already heard about Stoner?” I asked.

She nodded. “They made it official this morning. He’s confined to quarters until they decide what to do with him.”

“It makes me sick that a jerk like Hemet can rain crap on everyone for no good reason.”

“Well, Stoner did deck that deputy DA,” Bailey said philosophically.

“He had it coming,” I replied, wishing I’d gotten in a good kick or two myself.

We pulled
around the corner from the tiny storefront spa and parked in a loading zone.

“I’ve got the results on the blood on Yamaguchi’s jacket,” Bailey said.

“And?”

“It doesn’t match our victim,” Bailey replied.

“Huh,” I observed brilliantly. “Is it Yamaguchi’s?”

“Nope.”

“Damn.” I shook my head. “You ever find out how big the stain was?”

“Yeah, not big. About so,” Bailey said, making a dime-size circle with her thumb and forefinger.

I thought for a moment, nursing a hunch. “Let’s go talk to some spa workers, shall we?”

An oldish Asian woman with baggy eyes sat at the counter that was just three feet inside the door. Incongruously, a brightly colored parrot sat in a cage that hung from the low ceiling. If I hadn’t believed Yamaguchi before, I did now: this definitely was a real spa. A curtain of hanging beads separated the counter from the rest of the business, but we could clearly see that the entire room was filled with massage beds—all out in the open, no closed doors. Several of those beds were occupied by customers who were clothed in at least tank tops and shorts, if not more, and were being attended to by white-coated massage therapists.

We stepped up to the counter that was just big enough to hold a register and a bowl of wrapped peppermint candies, and I pulled out my badge. “We’re here to talk to you about an employee of yours, Ronald
Yamaguchi
.”

The woman peered at my badge and the photo on the opposite side, then narrowed her eyes at me. “Hair look different,” she remarked.

“Yeah, it was longer back then,” I replied.

“Better now,” she observed.

And maybe the parrot wanted to weigh in on my makeup?

“Were you here the day he got arrested?” I asked.

“Sure,” she replied in a voice that quavered with a mixture of high and low notes. “He no kill that guy. Ronald no kill anybody.”

“But he did go out to the bank that day,” I said. “And the murder happened right outside that bank.”

She shrugged. “I not there. I just know.”

Fair enough. Everybody’s entitled to an opinion, but I needed evidence.

“Is he friendly with any of the other therapists here?” I asked.

The woman turned around to look at the workers behind her. After a moment, she pointed to a small ponytailed Asian woman at the back. “Wendy. She and Ronald friends. Eat lunch together.”

“You know when she’ll be done with her customer? We won’t take long. We just have a few questions for her,” I said.

The woman looked up at the ’50s-style clock—probably less an effort at retro chic than simply the one she brought from home—that hung on the wall. “About fifteen minutes.”

“Tell her not to leave when she’s done with the customer,” I said. “We’ll be right back.”

Bailey looked at me, puzzled, when we got out to the sidewalk. “Why aren’t we waiting in there?”

“Because I didn’t have time to order breakfast, and I’m starving,” I said testily. “You can join me if you want.” I pointed to the coffee shop on the corner.

“You’re such a pleasure right now, why wouldn’t I?”

I’d just placed my order with a tired-looking waitress at the counter when Bailey suddenly leaned forward and stared intently in the direction of the spa.

“What?” I asked.

A slow smile spread across her face. “Look,” she said, pointing.

A patrol officer was staring into the newsstand machines in front of the spa, but after a few seconds I noticed that he wasn’t looking at the papers; he was looking around the street as though checking to see if anyone—like us, I supposed—was watching. After one more quick glance, he entered the spa.

“Yamaguchi’s customer?” I said.

The waitress was busy, so I headed for the register to cancel my order. Bailey walked with me as she kept her eyes glued to the door of the spa.

“I’d rather be lucky than good,” Bailey said.

“Who said you have to choose?”

I nixed my order, and we did a fast trot back to the building.

We caught
up with him at his massage bed. He’d just leaned down to untie his shoes when Bailey badged him.

“Don’t panic,” she told him. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

The patrol officer stood up, his face—which had been red with the exertion of bending over—now white with fear. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and simply nodded. He shuffled out behind us, his shoes still untied.

“Detective Keller,” Bailey said as she stuck out her hand.

“Harley Sahagan,” he replied, taking it.

“And this is Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight,” she added.

I held out my hand, and Harley gave it a weak shake.

“I know this looks bad, but before you bust me, I want you to know I’m not just screwing off here. I got in a car accident on duty last year.” Harley, having found his voice, was talking fast. “Felony evasion, the guy crashed into a wall and we couldn’t stop in time. We rear-ended him hard. It messed up my back real bad. Riding in the squad car is killing me, but I used up all my leave, so I’ve gotta work. These guys”—he gestured over his shoulder at the spa—“saved me. I couldn’t afford a fancy spa, and insurance won’t cover a chiropractor. I was in really bad shape until someone told me about this place. I’m not cured, but at least I can deal.”

“Harley, that’s a lot of information, but I’m not here to bust you,” Bailey said. “And I’m glad you’re better. We just want to know if you have a regular masseur here.”

“Uh, yeah,” Harley replied uncomfortably. Then he nodded to himself. “So I guess he told you. Yeah, Ronald Yamaguchi was my masseur. Matter of fact, he was working on me when I got the call about that homeless victim.” He shook his head, his expression perplexed. “I’ve got to admit, I never figured him for the type to do something like that.” Harley sighed. “Guess you never know.”

“Actually, in this case, you might,” I said. “The way the evidence is shaking out, we’re thinking he probably isn’t the killer. And you just helped confirm that by corroborating his story.”

“Good to hear,” Harley said thoughtfully.

“And just FYI: he never did give up your name.”

Harley acknowledged this with a little smile. “Heck of a guy.”

I had a feeling Ronald’s tips were about to get healthier.

“By any chance, did you interview any witnesses at the scene?” Bailey asked.

“Nah, just crime-scene control,” Harley replied.

“Okay, we’ll get back to you if we have any more questions,” I said.

“Glad to help.” He paused. “Uh…would you mind…?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Have a good one,” Bailey said.

Harley went back inside and headed for his massage bed. We went in and returned to the front counter, where we found the ponytailed masseuse deep in conversation with the older Asian woman. When we walked over to the young woman, she looked pointedly at her watch.

I decided to play my hunch. It was a low-risk proposition at this point. I introduced myself and Bailey, then got right to it.

“Wendy, I understand you and Ronald Yamaguchi are close,” I began.

“Yeah,” she said, flipping her ponytail back. “So?” she asked with attitude.

“He ever let you wear his jacket?” I asked.

The question took her off guard, as it was meant to. She frowned at first, then shrugged.

“Sometimes he lets me, other times I just take it,” she replied. “When I’m not working—it gets cold in here.”

“Mind if I take a look at your arms?” I asked.

Wendy looked at me suspiciously for a moment before answering. “Why?” she asked in a bitchy tone. “You want to bust me for killing someone too?”

“Maybe,” I replied. “Did you kill anybody?”

She rolled her eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking,” I said flatly.

She sighed again. “No. I didn’t kill anyone.”

“In that case, I just want to see your arms.”

“Why?” she asked, her tone now belligerent. “I’m not a junkie or nothing.”

This was getting truly annoying.

“Look, Wendy,” I said in a stern voice, “I don’t know many junkies who’re full-time masseuses, but assuming you’re one of the few, let me reassure you, I couldn’t care less. I’ve got a homicide to deal with that has very little to do with you, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with it. So how about you show me your arms and we’ll both get on with our day?”

Wendy didn’t immediately respond, but eventually she rolled up the sleeves of her white uniform and showed me her arms, palms down.

“Could you turn them over, please?”

She complied, and there it was. A deep two-inch-long scratch on the inside of her wrist. “What
happened
there?” I asked as I pointed at the fresh-looking wound.

“I took that silly bird”—she gestured at the parrot—“out of his cage and he lost his balance. He scraped me with his claw.”

“You remember when that happened?” I asked.

She thought for a moment. “Probably about two weeks ago.”

“The day Ronald got arrested?”

“Right around there,” she confirmed.

A young woman in tights and leg warmers came in. Wendy waved to her. “Go on back, Riley. I’ll be right there.”

Wendy watched her go, then looked at me. “You done?”

“I am.”

She started to go, then stopped. “Ronald didn’t do it, you know. You got the wrong guy,” she said defiantly.

“I know,” I replied.

This caught Wendy by surprise, and her eyes got big. “You know?” she asked, incredulous. “Then why don’t you let him out?”

“We are,” I replied. I glanced at Bailey, who nodded. “Today, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh.” She took a moment to regroup after the unexpected response. “Well, good,” she retorted. “Never should’ve arrested him in the first place.” And with another insouciant flip of the ponytail, Wendy went back to work.

Bailey made the call to the county jail. I was supposed to get in touch with Eric. Instead, I waited for her to finish.

“The minute I tell Eric we cut Yamaguchi loose, the case goes back into the hopper,” I said.

Bailey agreed. “I’ll probably have to give it up too. I only got it because we had a suspect in custody and they needed someone to babysit it through the preliminary hearing.”

“So it’ll wind up an unsolved, probably forever,” I predicted.

Bailey nodded unhappily.

I couldn’t drop this case into oblivion without a fight. John Doe deserved at least that much.

“Technically, Yamaguchi’s still in custody, right?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Bailey answered slowly, guessing where I was going.

“So technically I don’t have to give up the case just yet.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s not even noon. That gives us a whole day and night to do…something.”

“That’s still not a lot of time. We need a tight game plan.”

My loudly growling stomach told me what we’d do first.

Bailey heard it and smiled. “Since we need to regroup anyway, we may as well do it over lunch.”

To save time, we went back to the coffee shop. I ordered a spinach salad with the dressing on the side, and Bailey, Queen Sadistica, ordered a cheeseburger and fries. They served us and we ate quickly. We had to pull a rabbit out of a hat in mere hours. At this point, we didn’t even have a hat.

I finished my salad and began to pick at Bailey’s fries—an endearing sign of trusting friendship, as I’ve explained to her on many occasions. Bailey says it really isn’t so endearing, but I know she doesn’t mean it.

“Other than nailing the perp, what’s the one thing you’d like to figure out before we have to let this case go?” I asked.

Bailey thought a moment. “Why the hell you had to call me when you got it refiled?”

“Close, but no,” I replied. “The burning question of the day is our victim’s identity.”

“Yeah, that too.” Bailey took a deep breath, then blew it out. “But that’s a tall order, Knight. This guy shows up nowhere. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But we have a clean photo of him from the coroner, don’t we?”

Bailey nodded, knowing where I was headed. “Yeah. But showing it around and hoping for an ID is like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“Except I just might happen to have a magnet.”