The Lost Witness (12 page)

Lena looked through the slider at the vast basin below Hollywood Hills. It was a clear night, and she could see the lights of the city shimmering from downtown all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
She found the Santa Monica Freeway in the distance. The traffic was so thick, the lights so fluid, it took on the appearance of a fifteen-mile-long lava flow.

The connection was loneliness, she decided. Living life on her own. Floating through time on a raft. Seeing the sharks in the water and doing whatever it takes to survive. She had handled
herself differently than Jane Doe. She had made her own choices—and her memories, no matter how bleak on the surface, were good ones. Yet the connection was still there because it felt like
they had started out in the same place. They had been spoon-fed from the same empty bottle. She didn’t understand why the chief assigned her the case, but knew deep down in the marrow of her
bones that no matter how bad things got, how cold the trail grew, she would never let this one go. The woman laid out on a gurney at the morgue was her client. No matter who she was. The connection
was irrevocable and she wouldn’t let go.

Her mind surfaced, her eyes focusing on the TV and a news broadcast that had just begun. Although she knew that Jane Doe’s murder wasn’t the first story, it took a moment to figure
out what was going on. A live remote had been set up from somewhere on the Westside. From what Lena could tell a man had bought his wife a new Lexus for Christmas. After pulling into his driveway,
he attached the large red bow the dealership had given him to the roof. As he adjusted the ribbon from inside the car, a chunk of ice the size of a basketball fell out of the sky, crushing the
vehicle and killing the man. Nothing was left except the big red bow and a story that would probably run for most of the night. The house and driveway were flooded with camera lights. The reporters
that came with the cameras were fighting off grins and struggling to put on their game faces.

Lena turned up the sound. A scientist from Caltech was being interviewed from his office in Pasadena over a shot of the police line and pile of rubble in the driveway. Either it came from a
passing jet, he was saying, or the more likely theory—the chunk of ice was really an atmospheric meteorite, the tragedy a result of global warming.

Christmas in the Palisades . . .

If the murder was broadcast at all, it would be so brief no one would notice.

Lena tossed the remote on the couch and walked around the counter into the kitchen. She didn’t watch much television, particularly since the networks had been invaded by the pharmaceutical
companies, bludgeoning their audiences with all those idiotic TV ads the same way candy, cereal, and fast-food makers tried to brainwash kids. Watching television these days carried unmeasurable
risks, yet no one cared enough to say anything.

She opened the fridge and looked around, but still felt too unsettled to eat. Moving to the pantry, she spotted the case of wine on the floor and reached for a bottle. As she opened it on the
counter and poured a glass, the wine triggered another series of memories, this time good ones. It was a bottle of Pinot Noir from Hirsch Vineyards, and the price was way out of her league. The
case had been a gift from someone she met at a restaurant downtown, a stranger she shared a meal with last month while sitting at the chef’s table in the kitchen. Lena had become friends with
the chef at Patina exactly one year after moving to Los Angeles. It had taken a year for her to realize that the easiest way to a full stomach was working at a restaurant, and she lucked out when
she got the job. Ever since her graduation from UCLA, the chef had invited her into the kitchen and served what was undoubtedly the best food she had ever tasted. The invitations came two or three
times a year and had never stopped. Last month she sat at the table with a developer whom she had read about but never previously met, the man most people considered the prime mover in reshaping
the City of Angels. Because Lena had majored in architecture, they had a lot to talk about. After the dinner ended, the man asked her to pull her car around to the kitchen door and threw the case
in her trunk. When she tried to object, he laughed and told her that he was a new grandfather of twins. His wife was helping his son and daughter-in-law at the house. He didn’t smoke cigars
anymore, so she had to accept the wine as his gift.

It had been an act of generosity and grace from someone who loved the city as much as she did—the kind of thing you don’t hear about very often. As she sipped the red wine and
savored its clean, smooth taste, she felt her stomach glow and finally began to relax. After a second sip, she returned to the living room and opened her briefcase.

Before leaving Parker Center, she had stopped by SID and picked up a second eight-by-ten photo of the victim pulled from her driver’s license. Lena would meet with Steve Avadar from Wells
Fargo Bank in the morning. But she also wanted to show Pamela McBride the photograph on the outside chance that her daughter and Jane Doe knew each other. Although Jane Doe’s knowledge of the
identity she stole was crystal clear, Lena still considered the possibility unlikely. This was a case about people feeding off people who couldn’t fight back. The law of the technological
jungle. The iJungle. The me-jungle. The fuck-everybody-else-jungle. As she thought about the mother’s scrapbook, more than enough information had been published in the newspapers for Jane Doe
to get started. If she had any computer savvy at all, it would have been easy to fill in the blanks over the Internet. Still, the idea needed to be checked out and crossed off the list.

She took another sip of wine and looked at the TV. A commercial had just ended and they were cutting back to the newsroom. After the picture faded up, she saw a graphic that included Jane
Doe’s photograph and the help-line number.

They were doing the story.

As the newsreader summarized the case, Lena realized why the station wanted so much lead time with the photographs. They had set up another remote, not on the Westside covering a crushed Lexus,
but in an alley just north of Hollywood Boulevard. And this time there wasn’t even a hint of a smile on the reporter’s face. It was all business as the man stood beside the Dumpster
where Jane Doe’s body had been found.

The station had done their homework. They knew the condition of the body even though the details had never been released. They cut to a series of shots from last night. The camera operator must
have paid off someone because he found a position on a rooftop and recorded the body being loaded into the coroner’s van. They even included a shot of Lena walking away from the crime scene,
along with a brief history of her role in the Romeo murder case.

She didn’t care about the leak or about being singled out. They had spent five entire minutes on the story and ended it with the two photographs set side-by-side—the victim and her
killer. Lena couldn’t have hoped for more.

The phone began to ring. Moving to the counter, she switched on the small table lamp and read the name off the Caller ID screen. It was Rhodes.

“I think Barrera did good,” he said. “Tonight was the right time to release the story.”

“You hear anything?”

“Only that I’m still working with you. At least through tomorrow.”

“What about Tito?”

“He made plans, so he’s not that happy about it. He’ll be there, though.”

“You guys will start with Fontaine, right?”

“I’ll run him through the system,” he said. “Tito’s geared up to interview the doctor’s neighbors. What about you?”

She thought about her meeting with Steve Avadar in the morning. That just maybe the victim’s bank statements would shed some light on Fontaine’s involvement. She didn’t say
anything because it was only a hunch. Still, it had been the single reason why she called Avadar on a Friday night. The reason she didn’t want to wait until Monday to see the statements.

“I’ll be in later,” she said. “I’ll call from the bank when I’m done.”

“Sounds good. What are you drinking?”

She smiled. “How do you know I’m drinking?”

“Your voice,” he said. “It changes. It gets deeper and cracks.”

She set the glass down on the counter. “Ice water,” she said.

Rhodes laughed. “I’ll bet it’s really good ice water. Try and get some sleep. I think we’re gonna need it. I’ve got a feeling about this one.”

“Me, too,” she said.

He hung up. Lena stared at the phone, thinking about what Rhodes said for a moment. Letting the words sink in. Then she switched off the TV, crossed the room to the slider, and opened the door.
The thermometer on the wall read thirty-nine degrees, but it felt much colder than that. As she stepped outside and walked down the steps to the pool, she could feel the cold penetrating her socks
from the concrete.

She sat down at the table and lifted her feet off the ground. Gazing over the lip of the pool, her eyes swept across the city below. She could see the world moving, but she couldn’t hear
it.

She took another sip from her glass. She was beginning to feel the wine now. The ebb and flow of her breathing. As her mind quieted, she thought about Rhodes and wondered if he was alone
tonight. She could tell that he still had feelings for her. Although she felt the same way, she was torn because she liked working with him so much and didn’t want it to end.

A moment passed, her thoughts lingering. Dreams. Fantasies. The smell of his skin. And that’s when she heard the sound of a car door.

It was close. Too close. The sound had come from right in front of the house. Her closest neighbor was through the brush on the other side of the hill. There was no reason for a car to be parked
there. The road was too narrow, the twists and turns through the hills too sharp.

She got to her feet, glancing at her socks and wishing that she had a pair of shoes on. Checking the driveway, she slid into the shadows and followed the path around the other side of the house.
She moved slowly, silently—her feet burning from the cold. As she reached the clearing, she paused a moment and looked around the corner. Satisfied that she was alone on the property, she
kept to the darkness and started through the brush. There was a bluff between her house and the road, about twenty feet high, and she could hear voices now. Lowering her body to the ground, she
crawled to the top and peered over the other side.

It was a Caprice, parked across the street underneath the trees.

A man in a suit was leaning against the door, smoking a cigarette, and whispering to someone through the open window. They were laughing about something. She noted the chiseled young face and
short brown hair. She could see the gun strapped to his shoulder and knew that he carried a badge. Even though she couldn’t place the name, she remembered seeing him around and knew where he
worked. He was one of Klinger’s friends—someone Klinger was bringing along before he left Internal Affairs. She was having trouble with the name because the bureau wasn’t housed
at Parker Center. Instead, they were over on Broadway several blocks away.

It looked like Klinger and Chief Logan were trying to keep in touch. Close touch. Although she had skipped the meeting after the autopsy and hadn’t called either one, Barrera had said that
he talked to them this afternoon and everything was cool.

She backed down the hill, trying to control her anger and see the situation for what it really was.

If they wanted to keep an eye on her, which was insane, why would they park in the only spot that didn’t offer a view of her house? Why would they park behind the bluff? The man she saw
smoking the cigarette looked young and stupid. All the same, he probably wasn’t that stupid.

As she considered the possibilities, the answer seemed obvious.

She looked up and followed the telephone line through the air. The wire crossed the front yard, then made a run along the side of the house she’d just passed from the pool. She moved down
the path to the utility box and swung open the plastic door. As dark as it was, she didn’t need a flashlight to spot the tap and wireless transmitter.

They didn’t need to keep watch because they were listening. Listening without a judge signing off on a warrant.

Lena closed the box without disturbing the tap. Grabbing her wineglass, she returned to the house and locked the door behind her. She was glad she’d skipped dinner, but thought she might
have trouble getting to sleep tonight.

N
athan G. Cava watched the Mercedes
pull into the drive and vanish behind the grove of oak trees. But it was the Ford
Explorer with darkened glass following the Mercedes onto the property that he found so disturbing. As the gate closed, he pulled into a construction site just across the street. Someone wanted a
new mansion, so they tore down the old one. Nothing was left but a ten-foot wall protecting a bunch of dirt.

Welcome to the Westside. Swimming pools and movie stars.

Cava made a loop, his Hummer grinding up the loose soil. When he had a reasonable view of Fontaine’s place, he slammed on the brakes and watched the cloud of dust rake across the hood.
Then he reached for his binoculars, steadying his view through the trees with his elbows pinned to the steering wheel.

Fontaine and his girlfriend from the office were heading for the front door. The two men riding in the Explorer were walking around both sides of the house, sweeping the property.

It looked like the Beverly Hills doctor had hired a pair of bodyguards. All of a sudden things were getting dramatic. And Nathan G. Cava didn’t like dramatic.

He wondered what had spooked Fontaine, and figured that it must have been that story they ran on the news last night. Cava had seen it on one of the stations when it was rebroadcast at 1:00 a.m.
He’d just returned to his apartment, popped an Ambien CR, and was lying in bed waiting for the drug to take. That’s when he learned that there had been a witness. That part one of his
three-part Hollywood deal wasn’t exactly done yet. There was another loose end. Another screwup, just like all the other screwups he’d endured while overseas.