The Lost Witness (21 page)

“Why wouldn’t she be all there?” he asked.

“I can’t answer that,” she said. “It’s something we need to check.”

“How much would be missing?”

“I don’t know.”

Another moment passed. Longer. Heavier. Both of them thinking it over. She could feel the wall vibrating beneath her back from headbanger’s night on KROQ. She could see the lights from the
Library Tower, the tallest building west of the Mississippi, flickering in the rain clouds. She kept her eyes on the tower—the city’s beacon standing tall. For a moment it felt like she
was riding out a storm in heavy seas, steering the bow of a disabled ship toward a lighthouse on a rocky shore.

“Can we do it?” she asked. “Can we take another look?”

“You bet we can. First thing in the morning.”

“See you then,” she said.

She closed her phone, wondering if it wasn’t too late to call Rhodes. She had held back all day, not wanting to break in on his time with his sister. Just one call in the morning, letting
him know that they had found the crime scene and SID was processing the evidence. No need for him to change his plans and return.

Deciding to wait, she scrolled through her address book searching for Bobby Rathbone’s number. She needed another favor tonight, help from an old friend, and hoped that his cell number was
still good. But before she could make the call, her cell started vibrating in her hand. She checked the display and saw Denny Ramira’s name pop up. She had forgotten to call the reporter
back.

“You said five minutes,” he shouted over the phone.

“I don’t have time for this, Denny.”

“Five minutes,” he repeated. “It’s been more than twenty. When I called the house, all it did is fucking ring.”

“You leave a message?”

“No. I called your cell. I’m in trouble, Lena. Big trouble. I need your help. We need to meet and talk this out.”

She shook her head. She needed to reach Rathbone, not waste time on a reporter worried about making his deadline. She wanted Rathbone to sweep the house tonight. She wanted to know exactly what
Klinger had done.

She lifted the phone back to her ear. “Talk about what, Denny? There’s nothing to say. We processed a crime scene. End of story. Call your friend on the sixth floor.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about saving my fucking life. I’ve got information. We need to meet tonight.”

His voice had reached a fever pitch. Ramira sounded frightened.

“Information about what?”

The reporter didn’t say anything.

“Information about what?” she repeated.

“That body you found in the trash.”

L
ena switched on the wipers
and made a left at the end of the drive. The rain had picked up and the road felt slick.

Ramira had insisted on meeting in person and wouldn’t say anything over the phone. Wouldn’t even give her a hint. She finally agreed to see him—agreed to meet at the
Blackbird—based on his word that whatever he had was worth a late-night trip downtown.

She checked the rearview mirror, the asphalt beginning to glisten behind her. Somewhere around the bend a car was on the move. Probably Klinger and his sidekick—the dynamic
duo—heading out for coffee and donuts after a busy day wiring her home and breaking the law that was no longer a real law anymore.

She started down the hill, picking up speed and listening to the rain pound against the car. As she rolled into the next curve, she checked the mirror again and caught the headlights just
rounding the bluff fifty yards back. Measuring the car’s speed, she watched the bright lights spread across the rear window as the glass fogged.

They were in a hurry—the distance closing fast.

It occurred to her that Klinger may have stepped up his demented surveillance efforts, deciding to keep closer tabs on her. But if he was following her, why would he be so obvious about it?
Particularly on a Sunday night during a rainstorm when they were alone on the road. Why play it so close?

Her car filled with more bright light, the glare wiping out her mirrors. They were on top of her now, a few feet back on the slippery road.

For some reason she couldn’t explain, her thoughts turned to that pack of cigarettes Rhodes kept in his car. She had been thinking about them off and on for most of the day, but managed to
beat back the urge and keep going.

She blew through the stop sign at Scenic Avenue, accelerating all the way down the hill to Franklin. Ignoring the freeway, she hit the overpass and raced down the street until she reached Gower
Gulch. When the headlights kept up with her and actually followed her into the strip mall, her jittery nerves hit overtime. She found a place to park in front of the Rite Aid and got out. Hurrying
through the rain, her eyes swept across the lot searching for the Caprice in the milieu of cars. But as she reached the sidewalk beneath the overhang, she couldn’t find it.

Instead, she watched a black Audi pull into an empty space across the lot in front of Denny’s restaurant. Two men got out in the rain. They glanced at her, a beat longer than maybe they
should have, then turned away and headed into the diner.

Lena stood there until the door closed. Ironically, she knew who they were. Everybody did. Jack Dobbs and Phil Ragetti had been partners—two cops from the old school who were forced into
early retirement after beating the life out of a murder suspect. Both detectives had advanced to the Robbery-Homicide Division before getting the boot and leaving the department in disgrace. Lena
wondered how they had managed to escape jail time and keep their pensions. From where she stood, they looked more like a pair of middle-aged bruisers with chips on their shoulders. Ragetti lived in
a house overlooking the reservoir in Hollywood Hills, a mile up the road from Lena. She had heard rumors that he lost everything in the wildfires last spring and had decided to rebuild.

She walked into the pharmacy and bought a pack of cigarettes. Stepping outside, she tore through the cellophane and lit one. Lena had never been a regular smoker. Half a pack eight months ago
when things got really tough with her last case. She drew the smoke into her lungs and blew it out into the cold night air.

But her eyes were locked on that black Audi. Dobbs and Ragetti had burned down three years before she ever got near RHD. Yet the look they had given her was the same one she gave them.
Recognition. They had read her as a cop the moment they saw her. The moment they got out of the car. It went with the job—something you learned on the beat wearing a uniform. Us and them.

She took another pull on the cigarette.

Seeing the two ex-cops felt like a bad omen capping off a rough day. A sign of what things could be like for her if she fucked up. Hitting a diner in Hollywood on a Sunday night. Landing hard
after a long fall.

She took a last drag on the smoke, flicking it into the torrent of rain and watching the fire go out as she climbed into her car. Pulling out of the lot, she turned up Sunset heading for the
freeway ramp to downtown.

The drive took twenty minutes. When she entered the café and didn’t see Ramira, she ordered a cup of the House Blend and found an empty table with a view of the
door. Before leaving the house she had managed to reach Bobby Rathbone, who agreed to meet her at midnight. She had an hour to kill, and wanted to spend it reviewing her day and what it actually
yielded.

She lifted the top away from the cup and held her face over the steam. As she took a short sip and felt the hot brew warm her stomach, she opened her notebook on the table and pulled out her
pen.

Jane Doe, aka Jennifer McBride, had been abducted and murdered by the same man.

She knew this now and had the evidence to support it. A man calling himself Nathan Good. She knew what he looked like, had a rough idea of his age and build, and unless he ditched it, knew the
make and model of his car. The condition of the woman’s body matched the horror found in the garage he rented on Barton Avenue. SID would probably confirm the match within the next
twenty-four hours.

But she also knew that Nathan Good was profoundly twisted. And everything that she had seen today indicated that Art Madina was right to conclude that he had a medical background. Everything she
saw pointed to a depraved individual. A motherfucker with brains.

She checked the door. When she still didn’t see Ramira, she turned back to her pad and skimmed through the notes she had made last night after meeting Justin Tremell and his father.

People with money pay other people to do the heavy lifting. There was no doubt in her mind that for everything Nathan Good had done, he was a paid player.

This was about Justin Tremell. The rich bad boy trying to right the wrongs of his past. The kid who got married, had a son, and didn’t want his father or anyone else to find out that he
was still a piece of shit and doing a young prostitute. The kid under fire with the unusually steady hands who claimed that he didn’t know Jennifer McBride. That the witnesses who saw him
with her were mistaken because he spent the entire night with his wife and son at home.

She thought about those steady hands. Nathan Good’s depravity cut against the way Justin Tremell handled himself during their interview. She thought about both of them for a long time.
Tremell and Good were approximately the same age. Paying Good whatever he asked for wouldn’t have been an issue in his life.

But this was also about the woman who cast spells. The woman calling herself Jennifer McBride, who met Tremell, knew exactly who he was, and probably figured that she could make some real money.
Maybe enough to get out of bed. And the fifty grand in her checking account wouldn’t accomplish that goal. It wouldn’t come close.

As Lena tossed it over, she realized that no matter how much progress she was beginning to make, her questions still outweighed her answers. And no matter how much time she’d given it, she
still didn’t understand how Joseph Fontaine fit in. The Beverly Hills doctor had known McBride was dead before they even told him about the murder. When asked about his relationship with the
young prostitute, he hid behind his assistant, lied, and threatened to call his attorney.

Fontaine was involved. She just couldn’t see it yet. Couldn’t put it together.

She checked her watch and looked up. Ramira was walking through the front door. Actually, it was more of a breeze than a walk. And as he spotted her and approached the table, she knew in an
instant that her drive downtown would bear little fruit. Forty-five minutes ago, the crime beat reporter had sounded panic stricken. All that appeared gone now.

“What do you have to say, Denny? Why are we here?”

“Let me order a cup of coffee.”

He was stalling. Trying to come up with an excuse and save himself. She didn’t know who was worse, Ramira or Klinger. Both were chewing up time she couldn’t afford to lose.

“You can have mine,” she said.

“It looks cold.”

She shook her head in disappointment. “You said you were in trouble. It’s a Sunday night, and it’s been a real long day. Tell me what happened. Tell me what’s
wrong.”

Ramira’s face reddened and he finally sat down. “I’m sorry, Lena. I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”

She gave him a long look. “You said we needed to talk. You said that you had information about the murder. You were specific. That’s why I came.”

“I didn’t say anything over the phone. All I said was that I wanted to meet.”

“That’s right. And you were talking about the victim. The woman in the trash. This is a murder investigation, Denny. It’s more important than your next story. If you’re
holding something back, then you’re committing—”

“I’m a reporter, for Christ’s sake. Back off, Lena.”

“I don’t care who you are. If you’re holding out and you print the story, I’ll bust you.”

“I don’t know anything,” he said.

She pushed her coffee across the table. He stared at it for a while, thinking something over. Something that appeared deep and troubling enough to cloud his eyes.

“You’re fucking up, Denny.”

“When I called I thought that I knew something. But since then I found out that I don’t.”

“Knew what?” she said.

“Nothing. I was on the wrong track.”

“About what?”

He paused a moment—the clouds back in his eyes.

“About what?” she repeated.

“Who she was,” he said. “I thought I knew, but I didn’t.”

“Who did you talk to? Who said you were wrong? Who knew enough about it to say that you were wrong?”

He shook his head and remained silent.

“Does this have anything to do with that book you’re working on? Who’s feeding you information? Is it Klinger? What about Senator West on the commission?”

Ramira seemed surprised. “What about him?”

“Is he your source?”

“Source for what? West gets along with the chief about as well as you do. You should know that better than anyone over there. Listen to me: I made a mistake and I’m sorry. I’m
sorry I brought you out tonight.”

He pulled the cup of coffee closer and took a long swig as if he needed it. As if the brew was strong enough to bring the sun out in the dark of night. Lena watched him lower the cup, then
remove his glasses and wipe the lenses with a napkin.

“You said your life was in the balance,” she whispered.

He shot a blind gaze her way before slipping his glasses back on. He looked tired. Road weary. After another hit of coffee, he reached into his pocket for his pad and pen.

“I was wrong,” he said. “But as long as we’re here, is there anything you can tell me about what happened today on Barton Avenue? Anything on the record I can use? We saw
that piece of plywood come out of the garage. Paladino won’t let anyone get near his clients. He took them away and said they don’t live there anymore.”

She bit her lip, staring at the man. “This is about more than who the victim was,” she said. “More than thinking you know something and finding out that you don’t. How
did you put it on the phone, Denny? I’m in trouble, you said. Big trouble. I’m trying to save my life. I’ve got information about that body you found in Hollywood. Only now you
don’t have the information. Now you’re making excuses and hoping I won’t see through your smoke.”