matter how well you cleaned a room, no matter how much you scrubbed everything down, the scent of a human being lasted until the walls were repainted and the furniture was removed.
She tried to push her thoughts away. Tried to work at a steady pace and quiet her mind. When she finished with the last drawer, she heard something outside and checked the window.
Through the tree branches she could see a crowd beginning to form in front of the Gants’ house. Members of the press corps were unpacking cases and setting up their cameras. When she spotted the Acura RL parked at the curb, she knew who it belonged to and understood what was about to happen.
Buddy Paladino was inside conferring with Jacob Gant’s father. There was a buzz in the air-anticipation-the media’s nervous chatter easily reaching the open window. The defense attorney with the million-dollar smile was preparing to make his statement.
Lena’s pulse quickened slightly as she played through the possibilities in her head. Paladino wasn’t going to be talking to the press from his office or even the courthouse. He was here because he knew that they were here- the truck from SID, the marked patrol units and detective cars parked in front of Tim Hight’s house. Paladino was a genius at seeing the single flaw in a prosecutor’s case and working a jury until they saw it, too. But he was even better at playing the press. He had won freedom for Jacob Gant, and now Jacob Gant was dead. He needed someone to blame for his client’s death, someone with deep pockets, and his finger would be pointed directly at the police. He’d stick the blade in as deep as he could and twist it. He’d deliver his message, smear the department, and use their marked vehicles as a visual backdrop only an art director from one of the studios could match.
It was the reason Buddy Paladino was Buddy Paladino, she thought. The reason she found him so fascinating, even dangerous at times.
She stepped away from the window and moved back to the bed. When she noticed the memory box on the night table, she picked it up and sat down. The box appeared to be handmade from cherry wood, the lid inlaid with silver leaves around a glass picture frame. Behind the glass was a snapshot of a wet dog, an English cocker spaniel, sitting on the beach, panting and looking up as if he were waiting to continue a game of fetch. Lena recognized the Santa Monica pier in the background but couldn’t tell when the photograph had been taken.
She opened the lid and removed the pad of notepaper on top. Underneath she found pieces of jewelry and sorted through them with her finger. Mixed in with the jewelry was an old silver dollar, a stamp commemorating Babe Ruth, and finally, an ID tag Lena guessed had been worn by the spaniel in the snapshot. Lily Hight’s dog had been named Mr. Wilson.
She looked away.
There was a sustained sadness here, a presence even the sunlight couldn’t bleach out. The feeling dissipated when Barrera called out her name from the landing and she called back to him. As the door opened and he popped his head inside, she set down the box.
“We need to talk,” he said.
Barrera closed the door and crossed the room for a look out the window.
“We’re fucked, Lena. And the DA’s full of shit. This isn’t going away. Not with Paladino reminding everybody that we fucked up. It doesn’t matter what people thought of Jacob Gant. It doesn’t matter that they’re glad he’s dead. Paladino’s smart enough to know that. Watch him rip us apart and milk the cash cow dry.”
His words came out in a jittery spin that ran out of gas and died. Sitting on the arm of the reading chair, he took in the room and seemed as uncomfortable by the setting as she was.
“You find anything?” he said.
“Not yet.”
“Same with everybody else. Let’s face it, the gun’s not here. It’s not anywhere. When you finish in here we’re done.”
He gave her a look. Something flared up in his eyes.
“You’ve got something,” she said. “What is it?”
“Cash and coke. Street found it in Hight’s dresser drawer.”
“How much?”
“Two grand in hundred-dollar bills. That’s what Bosco carried. Hundred-dollar bills.”
It wasn’t the gun, Lena thought, but it remained a small piece of luck because most people counted their money. Especially when they carried hundred-dollar bills. If the cash found in Hight’s drawer belonged to Bosco, there was a chance that both had left their fingerprints.
“What about the coke?” she said. “How was it packaged?”
Barrera raised his eyes. “A number ten envelope, like Hight found it in Bosco’s desk and scooped the shit in. About fifteen grams worth. Maybe twenty. Enough for a lot of good rides.”
“His eyes,” she said. “He looked strung out.”
“I thought so, too.”
Lena got up and walked over to the window. Paladino was still inside, the number of reporters gathering in the street, too big to count.
“The cameras, Frank. How do you want to handle this? We can’t walk Hight out the front door.”
Barrera had been holding what was left of his cigar between his fingers. As he thought things over, he jammed the cigar into his mouth and started chewing and puffing. It didn’t seem to matter that it had burned out.
“Hight’s not going anywhere,” he said finally. “Even if the cameras weren’t here, we’d have to give him a pass. Charging the guy with possession … it can’t look like we’re badgering him. It would only make things worse.”
“Where’s that coming from?”
Barrera gave her a look and shrugged. “It’s got to be solid, Lena. Rock solid like the case was made by God. Every piece has to fit. Every road drawn on the map. Then everything changes. Then we walk the guy out the door no matter who’s outside.” He got to his feet and gave the room another look. “It’s weird in here. I’ve gotta get out. I need more air.”
“What’s Hight’s status?”
“Mifune’s got what he needs. Everybody’s packing up. Until Paladino’s finished and the cameras go away, we’re here.”
“You mean we’re trapped.”
Barrera opened the door, flashing a slight smile. “I just got off the phone with the coroner’s office. Paladino’s taking Gant’s father down to ID his son. It’s scheduled to take place in about an hour and can’t be changed because of the autopsy.”
“I thought the autopsy was set for tonight.”
“It is, but they’re backed up. If he wants to see his son, it has to happen now and Paladino will have to keep his press conference short.”
“As long as we’ve got time, I want to dust this room for prints.”
“Why?”
“You said it yourself-it’s weird in here. As long as we’ve got time, why not?”
He shrugged. “I’ll send somebody up.”
She watched him close the door and listened to his footsteps move down the hall. When she noticed the press corps raising their voices, she looked back through the window.
Paladino had just exited the house next door with William Gant. As they reached the attorney’s car, they stepped around the hood and stopped as if cued by that art director from the studios. Lena didn’t need to look through a lens to verify her guess about the background. And even if a reporter somehow missed the marked truck and patrol cars, no one did after Buddy Paladino turned and pointed them out.
The scene was difficult to watch. The fact that she had a history with Paladino didn’t make it any easier right now.
Her eyes moved up the drive and found the Gants’ house through the tree branches. She could see Jacob Gant’s brother Harry watching his father from a window facing the street on the second floor. And Paladino’s voice was clearer now-the attorney all warmed up in the hot sun and working the crowd as if selling snake oil.
