He called central dispatch, identified himself to the woman who answered, and gave her the plate number. While he waited, he looked through the buildings at Lena Gamble and used the time to think things over.
He hadn’t been prepared for her. He hadn’t thought anyone would show up so soon after Jacob Gant’s death. He’d hoped to have more time to practice what he wanted to say, at least a couple more days to work on his performance. While he may have punched out one or two points, he knew in his gut that he’d blown it. That the way he’d acted meant more than what he’d actually said. That the dominoes were falling and could easily bring down his world and put him in the ground.
The dispatcher came back on the line. Cobb’s eyes stayed on Gamble.
“Samuel Trevor Beck,” the dispatcher said. “White male. Thirty-three years old. Lives in Manhattan Beach.”
“What’s it look like?”
“Clean for the last ten years,” the dispatcher said.
“And before that?”
“Grand theft auto. Two counts.”
“That’s what I figured. Thanks.”
Cobb slipped his phone into his pocket, giving Gamble a last look before driving off. He’d blown the interview with her. He couldn’t change that. Still, he hoped this wasn’t a new scene in the movie that kept playing in his head. A scene toward the end where he felt cornered and would be forced to rip her heart out of her chest.
18
Lena entered the Blackbird Cafe, ordering a large cup of the house blend and a toasted bagel with lox and cream cheese. Stepping around the bookcases, she passed a newly acquired photograph by Minor White and found a table on the far side of the room. It was late afternoon and the cafe was particularly quiet right now. If it had been an ordinary day, she would have called it soothing and spent a few minutes looking at the art on the walls and absorbing the atmosphere. Only a handful of people were here-two sat alone reading while the others sipped their drinks and gazed out the rear windows at the city. The view was magnificent: the sun passing through bands of carbon monoxide to the west, the tall buildings throbbing in a brilliant red light. If it had been any other day, she would have seen it and probably noticed the music in the background as well-soft and subdued and something she hadn’t listened to in a long time-Keith Jarrett playing part one from
The Blackbird had always been her oasis, the place she came to when she needed safe harbor.
But nothing about today was ordinary. And nothing of what the cafe usually provided could prevent her from thinking about Dan Cobb or how he might have blown the Lily Hight murder case. Ever since leaving the Pacific Station, she had been plagued by the possibility that she and Vaughan were caught up in a catastrophe.
The sense of doom was so pervasive that her memory of buying the TSX from Beck seemed like a blur. She remembered him saying something about picking up another car tonight from someone who worked at NBC. That he would drop off the TSX on his way to the studio in Burbank.
But that was about all that cut through her growing feelings of dread.
Worse still, on the drive into town she had switched on the radio and listened to Vaughan’s press conference. According to a reporter from KNX, Bennett and Watson were no-shows, along with their fearless leader, Jimmy J. Higgins. True to their word, Vaughan stood at the podium alone. And just as predicted, the fall guy with the stellar reputation got knocked down with the first two questions.
Vaughan did the best he could. He tried to remind everyone that two murders were committed at Club 3 AM last night, not one. That Gant was dead, but so was Johnny Bosco. That any decisions would be made after they completed their investigation. That he didn’t want to jump to conclusions, and his office was trying to keep an open mind.
But nothing he said seemed to make any difference, and Lena thought that she could hear several reporters snickering in the background as he paused to take another question.
Their voices had become shrill, even moblike, the moment stained with cynicism and open contempt. Before Vaughan could recover, someone shouted a follow-up,
Lena didn’t wait for Vaughan’s response, switching off the radio and trying to clear her mind by concentrating on the road ahead. It was a safe bet that Higgins, Bennett, and Watson were more than pleased with the way things were going as they listened to the press conference from wherever they were hiding. While nothing could change the fact that their reputations had been tainted to the core, within a single day the press had found a new face and a new target. And for everyone following the story, a new memory had been born.
Lena reached for her briefcase. As she set it on the chair beside her, the fear that Dan Cobb botched the case and arrested the wrong man blew back through her like an ice-cold wind. She noticed her fingers quivering again, and struggled to steady them and to push away the thought. The panic.
How much worse would it be if the press found out what she and Vaughan were actually thinking?
She took a sip of coffee, then another as she pulled out Cobb’s murder book and laid it on the table. The three-ring binder Cobb should have been working with for more than a year appeared almost new. Although she had checked before leaving the Westside, she took a second look at the table of contents just to make sure he’d given her the right one. Lily Hight’s name had been written in blue ink at the top, with Cobb and his partner listed below the date of the murder. Lena didn’t recognize the name of Cobb’s partner, nor did she remember seeing any detective but Cobb testify when she watched the trial on TV.
The murder book was divided into twenty-six sections. Often an investigation required two or more binders- the first containing the chronological record, various forensic reports and photographs, while the additional books were filled entirely with field interview cards and witness statements. The book Cobb had compiled only required one binder. Lena paged through the reports, picking out his initials: DC. It seemed clear that Cobb didn’t delegate much of the workload to his partner, and that he had put the book together himself.
She paused a moment to see who was seated around her in the cafe. Satisfied that no one could view the binder’s contents, she flipped forward until she reached the crime scene photographs. The way Lily had been left by her killer. She didn’t spend too much time on any one image. Just enough to get a feel for what Cobb and his partner had walked into.
None of the crime scene photographs had been made public. Only the jury would have had the opportunity to view them as they were presented as evidence at trial.
But as Lena skimmed through the series, she began to feel the weight of the crime pulling her in. The rape and murder of Lily Hight had been far more brutal than she imagined, the details recorded by the camera far more violent.
She could see the girl sprawled out on the carpet by her bed, her left hand clutching the head and shaft of the screwdriver that had been drilled through her chest from behind. But it was her right arm that made the photo all the more difficult to look at. Lily had died trying to reach the handle pressing against her left shoulder blade. From the amount of blood that had wicked through her T-shirt and blouse and pooled on the carpet, the girl had spent a lot of time trying to reach that handle.
Lena took a moment to collect herself, then turned back to the photo. The girl’s boots and jeans had been tossed in a pile in front of the night table. Her panties had been pushed aside and hiked up to her hips. When Lena noticed the unnatural position of her right foot, she flipped ahead to the coroner’s report.
Lily Hight’s right ankle had been broken during the struggle. And it was a severe break, a complete break. Lena read the entire report, surprised, if not concerned, by how much detail she had missed watching the trial on television from her desk at work. It was almost as if the TV provided some sort of safe distance, some way of filtering out or smoothing over facts that she would have considered essential to the case.
This was particularly true of the evidence supporting the charge that Gant had raped the teenager. The rips
