Vigilante

battle she’d had with Lita. There’s no direct evidence against the captain, but Nash would certainly know she’d make our suspect list because of their numerous public disputes.”

“So how does that get us to Hannah Trumbull?” Hawkins asked.

“It’s like the six degrees of separation. He starts digging around in Captain Madrid’s life and up pops her husband, Lester, who’s a real gold mine. The guy is ex-SIS, just the kind of rogue cop Nash loves to feature on that show. Nash researches him, talks to some sources inside our department, and finds out there’s a rumor that Lester had been cheating on his wife with Hannah, who also just happens to be an open murder case from ’06. It’s just what he’s looking for. Lester doesn’t have to be guilty. He just has to look guilty. After all, this isn’t about justice; it’s about Nielsen ratings.”

They all sat there looking doubtful.

“I’m not buying this,” Deputy Chief Hawkins said. “It’s too far out there.”

“Out of the thousands of uncleared murders all he had to do was tie one of them loosely to the Madrids,” I said. “I think Hitch may be right. This guy is plotting his shows in advance by working backward, not forward.”

“It does make some kind of crazy sense,” Alexa said thoughtfully, although I think she was just trying to save us from Deputy Chief Hawkins, who looked like he was about to start giving birth to a chair.

“All we need to do is clear the Trumbull murder fast,” Hitch said. “If Lester is innocent of that murder, it destroys Nash’s conspiracy theory.”

“And what if Lester was cheating on his wife and Stephanie found out?” Hawkins said. “What if Stephanie Madrid is the woman who threatened Hannah Trumbull in the hospital ER and then, two nights later, killed her for sleeping with her husband?”

“We better pray that’s not what happened,” Jeb said.

When the meeting broke up, nobody was happy. We were standing in the squad room outside Jeb’s office and he took a parting shot at Hitch just because he was handy.

“Stop going to cooking classes while you’re on duty, Hitchens.”

“I was off duty, Skipper.”

“I don’t care. You look like … like … like a fucking cook.”

“Yes, sir,” Hitch said softly. “Sometimes I am. But I’ll take that under advisement.”

As we walked to our cubicle, Alexa caught my eye and pointed toward the elevators, then went up to her office, leaving me with Hitch.

When we were alone, Hitch said, “While we were rolling that out, it sounded pretty damn weak even to me. It’s very dangerous to pursue an offbeat idea like that if we can’t prove it.”

“A dangerous idea isn’t responsible for the people who believe in it,” I said.

“I really hate this,” Hitch said. “Our theory sucks.”

“There are no coincidences in police work,” I said, trying to reassure him. “I agree that there is something more than we know about going on here. We’re obviously missing a big piece. However he’s doing it, Nash has a great source that’s giving him an edge. We just have to keep working it until it all makes sense.”

It was almost midnight now and the administration floor was deserted. Alexa was waiting for me in her new tenth-floor office. It was larger than her old digs at the Glass House, where she had no view. This new office had wide double windows that faced City Hall. As soon as I entered, she shut the door.

“Do you really believe any of that?” she said. “Working backward hardly explains this coincidence.”

“Caleb Cole told us everything would tie in and look what just happened.”

“And you think it’s not random, the way he picks the cases?”

“I think the guy is writing a script like Hitch said. Then he’s shooting it. None of this is coincidence.”

“It still doesn’t explain how he’s doing it,” she persisted.

“I know, and if we don’t find out fast, we’re all going to be looking for new professions.”

CHAPTER 32

That night at home, as I lay in bed with Alexa asleep beside me, I kept wrestling with the same gloomy feeling I’d had in the V-TV control room. It was a growing certainty that this case wasn’t going to end well for any of us. I felt like I was being led by the nose through a maze that had no back door.

I finally got up and, without waking Alexa, went out to sit in the den. I thought about Lester and Stephanie Madrid and, despite the theory Hitch and I had advanced in Jeb’s office, how improbable it was that the murders of Lita Mendez and Hannah Trumbull each touched one of the Madrids.

I kept looking at the problem and turning it over like a Rubik’s Cube, examining all sides, twisting facets. No matter how I tried to get all the same colors to line up, I couldn’t make it come out right.

A random thought struck me. We’d all assumed that Nix Nash picked Los Angeles as the city he wanted to feature in the show’s third season because this was where he had lost his law license. We’d assumed he hated the LAPD for putting the fraud case on him, which sent him to prison and got him disbarred. It made such perfect sense that he was here seeking revenge against us that we’d never looked at any alternate theories.

What if that wasn’t the reason he chose L.A.? What if the reason was because he’d lived here for years? He’d associated with cops and criminals. He had contacts. He had to already know about the Madrids because Stephanie was chief advocate even back then and she was fielding a lot of his lawsuits against cops. Taking it a step further, it would have been impossible for Nix to miss Lester with all the press coverage he got in the Times for dumping assholes in the street back when he was in SIS.

Maybe it was usable information, and not revenge, that had brought Nix back here for his third TV season.

I would discuss it with Hitch in the morning and see if he could think of a way to twist my cube further and make the colors line up closer.

I was just getting up to head back to bed when a text message signal sounded from my cell phone in the charging dock across the room. I walked over and read it.

YOU ARE INVITED TO JOIN NIX NASH AND THE CAST OF V-TV ABOARD THE HMS BOUNTY FOR BRUNCH AND A CRUISE CELEBRATING THE PREMIERE OF OUR THIRD SEASON. WE’RE LEAVING FROM FISHERMAN’S VILLAGE, MARINA DEL REY, AT 10:00 A.M. TOMORROW. GROG AND HORS D’OEUVRES. DRESS CASUAL.

I stood in my den holding the cell phone, looking down at the improbable invitation. What the hell did this guy take me for?

Even though it was late, I dialed Hitch.

“What up, dawg?” he said as he came on the line, still fully awake.

“Listen to this,” I said, and read him the text message.

When I finished, he said, “I’d view it as an incredible opportunity. We decided to engage. Full contact, remember?”

“So you’d go.”

“Bet your ass.”

“I’d like it better if we were betting yours.”

“Listen, dawg. If it makes you feel better I could go as your date. We could wear matching sailor suits. But you’ll get more if you go alone; it will keep his guard down. This guy is arrogant. Arrogance is his weakness.”

We were both silent for a long minute.

“I’m tempted,” I said. “But my gut tells me it’s a trap.”

“Unless he pushes you overboard, which I doubt, you’ll get back safely, and then you and I will debrief. We can use whatever intel you get to find a way to net this tuna. While you’re on that cruise, you can also try and pump those other sellouts-Marcia Breen, Frank Palgrave, and J. J. Blunt. See what they have to contribute.”

“Okay,” I finally said. “I guess I’ll do it.”

CHAPTER 33