The Lost Witness (29 page)

“And you’re guessing that he knocked her up.”

“Maybe. But it wouldn’t really matter who the father was, would it. It’s the threat that counts. She knew who he was and what he was worth.”

Tremell understood and nodded as he sliced the meat away from the bird’s rib cage. “She would have known that he was trying to avoid the rag sheets. That his life had changed and he
couldn’t afford to let the story get out. Higgins told me that you found fifty thousand in her bank account. You’re guessing that it wasn’t good enough. That she wanted
more.”

Lena wasn’t about to follow the DA’s lead and talk about details. At the same time, what Tremell just said was obvious enough that it deserved an answer.

“Probably a lot more,” she said. “Enough that you might notice.”

“So, my son decides that the only way to get rid of his problem is to get rid of his problem.”

Lena didn’t respond and didn’t need to. Tremell was putting it together himself.

“Justin lures her out to that whorehouse,” he said. “The Cock-a-doodle what?”

“The Cock-a-doodle-do.”

“He lures her out to that place with the promise of another payday. Someone he knows or hired is waiting in the parking lot. Justin waits inside. She walks out. And the man hiding behind
her car takes care of the details. Is that pretty much it?”

“There may or may not be other ways of looking at it,” she said. “But yes, I’d say that’s pretty much it.”

The sous-chef walked out to check on them. After eyeing their plates, he glanced at Tremell and disappeared into the bar. A few minutes later, he returned and set a glass down on the table. She
watched Tremell reach for the drink and take a short first sip.

“Bourbon,” he said. “Would you like one?”

Lena shook her head. “No thanks.”

The sous-chef walked off and they were alone again.

“Do you hate rich people, Detective?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“But you hate the pharmaceutical companies,” he said. “I could tell on Saturday. You hate being bombarded by all those TV ads. You think that they’re stupid, maybe even
dangerous because they encourage self-diagnosis. You hate all the talk about money, stock options and year-end bonuses that add up to hundreds of millions of dollars. I’ve been around long
enough to know the rap. Fifty percent of the population makes less than thirty-five thousand dollars a year. Twelve million kids in the United States aren’t just hungry, they’re
starving to death. Executive compensation isn’t related to performance. Companies stumble, lay off everybody, and then renege on billions of dollars in pension obligations. It takes one and a
quarter years for the average salaried employee to earn what most CEOs make in a single day. You hate me because of what I stand for. And that’s the reason, isn’t it? That’s the
real reason why you’re going after my son. You want to take the one thing away from me that I can’t buy. The one thing in my whole life that I truly love.”

Tremell’s voice trailed off. He pushed his plate away and took a longer pull on that glass of bourbon. Lena was glad that she had come. Glad that she understood what was motivating
him—the reason he wanted to talk. Tremell was frightened that he might lose his only son. Talking to the district attorney wasn’t good enough because he couldn’t count on the man.
Tremell would make his pitch to everyone involved. He would do whatever he could. Whatever it took.

“I don’t hate anyone, Mr. Tremell.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, you know that. And you look good in this room. You look good in black.”

A moment passed, the two of them staring at each other.

“No one’s going after your son,” she said finally. “A young woman was murdered. Like any other investigation, we’re following the evidence.”

“But I don’t want Justin to pay the price for who I am or who you might think I am. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“How much are you worth?”

“Eighteen billion, but the stock’s down. On a good day, twenty-three.”

A beat went by. The kind that follows the word
billion.

“Then why are you fucking his wife?” she said.

“I thought we already went through that.”

“You’ve got more money than a hundred people could spend in ten lifetimes. You could have half the women in Los Angeles on any terms you want no matter what their age. Why are you
doing it?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“How complicated could it be? You said you love him. Why do you need to beat him? That’s what it’s really about, isn’t it? How hard is it to stay away from your
son’s wife?”

“The situation isn’t what you think it is. And it would take too much time to explain. All you need to know is that my wife’s gone and my son is all I have left. That’s
why I don’t want to see the progress he’s made over the past few years destroyed by accusations or innuendo. By the word of someone working at a whorehouse who thinks she saw this or
that but really isn’t sure who she saw or even what day it was.”

Lena looked at her plate, then back at Tremell. “Have you been out there? Have you been talking to the girl?”

Tremell shook his head. “No. But in the grand scheme of things, how reliable is an eyewitness compared to circumstantial evidence? If you had to go to court, Detective, which would you
rather build your case on?”

“The evidence.”

“Why?”

She gave him a look before answering. She could see the intelligence in his gray eyes and sensed that he was leading the conversation in the exact direction he wanted it to go.

“Because eyewitnesses make mistakes,” she said. “What they saw or thought they saw needs to be corroborated. In this case we’ve done that. Four people saw your son with
Jennifer McBride on Wednesday night.”

“According to Higgins eight other employees say they didn’t see him at all. That leaves two busboys and another waitress, all with criminal records. The only real witness
you’ve got is the part-time hooker, Natalie Wells.”

“Higgins ran background checks and gave you the information.”

He nodded and took another sip of his drink. “I don’t believe that my son was there. I don’t believe that he knew her. And even if he did, I don’t believe that he’d
do the things you think he did. He’d have no reason to. You were right about the money I have. The well’s too deep to ever run dry. But the same thing goes for Justin because he’s
my flesh and blood. He wouldn’t throw his life away—he wouldn’t take the risk—for something he could buy his way out of by writing a check. It wouldn’t have mattered
how much Jennifer McBride wanted. He could have afforded any price and never looked back. Do you understand where I’m going?”

Lena didn’t say anything.

“We share the same goal, Detective. You’re looking for a witness. The one who sent you those pictures. The only one we know with certainty who was there, saw the abduction and shot
the video to corroborate the facts. A young man who knows exactly what happened and what the murderer looks like. A young man who might be able to clear my son’s name. Finding that witness is
more important to me than it is to you.”

“I understand, but—”

“But nothing, Detective. I’m offering you my resources. I’m offering you everything I have. I’m offering you free access to the well.”

S
he didn’t see the traffic backup on the 110 Freeway
until she reached the top of the ramp and there was no way
out. No way but forward, one or two feet at a time.

She didn’t mind. She was still trying to process what Dean Tremell had said to her at lunch.

Her cell started vibrating, but she couldn’t dig it out of her pocket in time. As she tossed it on the passenger seat, the phone triggered a memory maybe ten years old. An interview that
she had heard on either KPCC or KCRW—two NPR affiliates that crisscrossed the city from Pasadena to Santa Monica. It was an interview with the CEO from one of the country’s biggest
engineering firms, a company that made everything from dishwashers to jet engines. The man had been known as an innovator, was on the verge of retiring and had written a book. When he was asked how
he came up with so many great ideas, his answer was something Lena never forgot. He said that his best ideas usually came while performing mundane tasks. Cooking, gardening, cleaning up his desk.
But his biggest breakthroughs came while driving his car. There was something about the act of driving to and from the office, being alone with himself, letting his mind wander. He said that when
the cell phone came out he knew that ingenuity would take a measurable hit. No one would be on the road by themselves anymore. No one would have the quiet time to think about what they were doing
and where they wanted to go. Instead, everyone would be on autopilot, jabbering away about nothing.

Lena remembered the interview because she agreed with the man and respected him. But as the traffic started moving, her mind appeared stuck in neutral. It would take a longer road—a lot
more miles—to come to terms with what Dean Tremell had said to her.

She hadn’t expected him to ask her for help. She didn’t foresee the setup or realize that this had been his purpose all along.

Lena bailed out at the first exit, then cut across town to Parker Center. Pulling into the dilapidated garage, she hoped that it wouldn’t fall down until she found a place to park. As she
ran across the street, her cell lit up again and she flipped it open. Innovation might have taken a hit, but at least she knew that the caller was a friend.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Watching you cross the street from the third floor,” Rhodes said. “I just got back.”

She looked up and found him in the window. “How’s your sister?”

“Doing great. Her doctor thinks she’s out of the woods.”

Lena could tell that Rhodes was still worried. She could hear it in his voice.

“I’m glad she’s okay,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me, too,” he said. “I can’t find Barrera, and no one’s around. I need to catch up.”

“I’ll be there in ten. I’ve gotta drop something off first.”

She slipped the phone into her pocket and shouldered her briefcase, wondering if Rhodes could hear the worry in her voice. Whether or not he knew her as well as she knew him. Entering the
building, she rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and walked down the hall to the Questioned Documents Unit. Irving Sample ran the unit, but wasn’t in. Fishing through her briefcase, she
found the forms Jennifer McBride had filled out at her doctor’s office, along with her application for the apartment on Navy Street. Then she wrote a note that included her cell number and
left everything on his desk. Sample had examined McBride’s driver’s license and was already familiar with the case.

Deciding against the elevator, she took the stairwell down to the third floor and entered the alcove outside the captain’s office from the rear. None of the administrative assistants were
here, and she didn’t see Lieutenant Barrera through the plate glass window. When she glanced at the bureau floor, she didn’t see Rhodes or anyone else at their desks. She checked her
mail slot and found a manila envelope. The papers inside were still warm from the fax machine. As she glanced at the cover sheet, she realized that they had come from Dean Tremell’s
office.

Her cell started vibrating again. She flipped it open thinking that it was Rhodes. Instead, Irving Sample was back at his desk.

“I just read your note,” he said. “What am I looking for?”

“I left two sets of forms with you. The first is a single-page application the victim filled out for an apartment. The second is a two-pager from her doctor’s office.”

“I can see that,” he said. “If you want to know if they were written by the same person, it’s an immediate yes.”

“I understand,” Lena said. “But it’s that two-pager from the doctor’s office that bothers me. It’s probably nothing. It’s just that it looks like she
rushed through the first page, then slowed down to fill out the last. If I hadn’t seen her application for the apartment, I wouldn’t have noticed.”

Sample didn’t respond. She could hear papers rustling in the background.

“I see what you mean,” he said finally. “There’s a difference. It’s subtle, but I see it. They handed her these forms at the doctor’s office and she ripped
through the first page writing as fast as she could. But what are you getting at?”

Lena lowered her briefcase to the floor and gazed out the window. “Why would she start fast and end slow? Most people in a hurry pick up their pace at the end, right? Most people see the
clock ticking and rush to the finish line. When I saw them side by side, I thought that it might be worth checking out. You think it’s ridiculous?”

Sample didn’t say anything for a while. When he finally spoke, she heard the hesitation in his voice.

“This girl wasn’t like most people, was she.”

“No,” Lena said. “I don’t think she was.”

“Let me see what I can do,” he said. “I’ll let you know either way.”

She closed her phone, feeling embarrassed as she imagined Irving Sample shaking his head at her from the fourth floor. She was grabbing at straws and he was being polite. Her request, an obvious
lack of ingenuity due to too much time spent on a cell . . .

She shrugged it off and sat down at her desk. She noticed that Rhodes had hung his jacket on his chair and wondered where he went. After a moment, she settled down and reviewed the papers Dean
Tremell’s office had faxed over. A copy of the child’s birth certificate was here, along with his daughter-in-law’s release from the hospital. A copy of the bill was also included
with all personal and financial information blacked out. Just the length of stay and what it cost. Still, Dean Tremell had made the call to his office just as he promised. And he had saved her some
time. There could be no doubt that his daughter-in-law gave birth to a son. In all probability, the woman living as Jennifer McBride did exactly what her doctor guessed that she had done. Her
pregnancy ended with a miscarriage or an abortion. Either way, there was no child.

Lena heard someone and turned around to find Barrera exiting one of the interrogation rooms. Rhodes was behind him, closing the door. Both looked concerned as they spotted her on the floor and
approached.