“That the boss, honey?”
Lena turned around as Barrera and Ramsey walked off. The old woman was standing behind the wire mesh holding an evidence box. She nodded at her and watched as she unlocked the window and pushed the box across the counter.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s the boss.”
28
It wasn’t a very large box. As Vaughan pulled out of the lot heading for the freeway, Lena cut through the tape with a key and opened the carton. Inside she found an inventory of the contents and checked to see that everything was there. The girl’s jeans, her boots, a belt, and a pair of socks-it didn’t add up to much. A note attached to the list indicated that what remained of the teenager’s other clothing-her T-shirt and blouse-had been frozen and placed in the vault at the lab because both items contained blood evidence from the victim’s wound.
Vaughan reached the freeway and shifted lanes, steering the car east toward the San Bernardino Freeway. “If it’s possible that the killer’s DNA was transferred to her clothing, why didn’t they send it to the lab before the trial?”
“I’m sure they did.”
“Then why are we doing it again?” he said.
Lena tried not to show any doubt. “Because they weren’t looking for what we’re looking for. Think about what they already had. Gant’s semen. His saliva. Why waste time and money when they already had everything they thought they needed? It wouldn’t have made sense after they locked Gant in. They had their man.”
“Right,” he said. “I keep thinking that they knew about the lab screwup before the trial, not one week in when it was too late. But this clothing has been handled. It would have been examined for hair and fiber. The lab would have gone over every inch, looking for bodily fluids. After that, it was thrown in this box and sent to storage. What could be left?”
Lena didn’t say anything; she was still wrestling with the same question.
What could be left?
She turned and looked out the window. The air was no longer transparent, the city barely visible through the brown haze. According to a weather report she had heard on the drive into town, the city would break another record as temperatures climbed to 117 degrees. She wondered when the heat would break-and when the case would break.
The drive out to the crime lab only took another ten minutes. As Vaughan parked, Lena glanced at the sign and admired the building. Officially named the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center, the new crime lab was set on the campus at Cal State University and housed the LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division as well as the Sheriff’s Department Scientific Services Bureau. The facility was capable of handling evidence from more that 140,000 criminal cases every year-the people who worked here were dedicated to their jobs. The fact that the evidence went missing in one of the city’s biggest cases was more than unfortunate for everyone.
Lena hadn’t been out to the lab since the verdict. As she followed Vaughan into the building, she sensed something was wrong before they got through security and reached the elevators. It was the same odd feeling she had experienced yesterday morning as she entered Parker Center. When they found Martin Orth in his office and he looked up from his desk, she could see the concern in his eyes. He glanced at the evidence box she was carrying, then looked back at her. Was it concern? Or was it fear?
“What’s going on, Marty?” she said.
He grimaced, pushing his chair away from his desk as he stood up. “Take a look across the hall,” he said.
Lena turned with Vaughan and gazed through the glass window at the two men in the conference room. Howard Kendrick, the chief administrator of the crime lab, was seated at the table watching the second man pace along the far wall while talking to someone on his cell phone. Lena didn’t recognize him. Although he appeared to be somewhere in his late fifties, it was obvious that he still worked out. He was sturdy and tall with wiry hair that had been dyed an unnatural reddish brown and looked like it might be a piece. His face appeared frozen, his rough skin stitched so tight across his cheeks, she couldn’t get a read on him.
“Who is he?” she said.
Vaughan answered for Orth. “Jerry Spadell,” he said in a quiet voice. “A former investigator with the DA’s office. A shadow from Higgins’s past. A goon.”
Orth gave Spadell a last look, then shut the door and returned to his desk. “He might be with Higgins, but Bennett sent him over.”
“What is it?” Lena said. “What’s going on?”
“That story in
Vaughan leaned against the windowsill. “Kendrick agreed?”
Orth nodded. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never thought that we actually lost them. Just that someone mislabeled them. That’s why it’s a waste of time. The samples are invisible. You could be staring right at them and still not see them.”
Lena pushed the evidence box across the desk. “We need a favor.”
Orth read the label on the carton-his eyes changing as they passed over Lily Hight’s name. When he opened the box, Lena started to say something but he waved her off.
“I already know what you want, Lena. The timing’s not so good right now.”
“It’s a big favor,” she said. “An important favor.”
He met her gaze, mulling it over. “Let me ask you a question first,” he said finally.
“Anything.”
“Yesterday you had one of our guys dust Lily Hight’s bedroom for prints. I’d like to know why.”
She paused a moment, worried that she might have misread Orth. It was possible that he might not be the ally she thought he was. That he was about to repeat everything Barrera had said to her last night-that she was scaring the shit out of everyone. That her request to dust the room bordered on the ridiculous-and in the end, Steven Bennett was right. Just do the job you were asked to do. Get Hight for the double murders at Club 3 AM, and let go of the past.
She glanced at Vaughan, then back at Orth. “We had time to kill,” she said. “Paladino was doing a press conference on the front lawn. We couldn’t get out.”
“But the crime scene was at Club 3 AM, not the house.”
Lena shook her head. “There’s something about the girl’s room that’s not right. I found things that shouldn’t have been there. And there’s something wrong with her father that has nothing to do with what happened the other night. If I wasted everybody’s time, I won’t apologize because I’d do it again, Marty. If someone has a problem with that-if someone complained-they should have called me, or even Barrera, not bothered you.”
“No one complained,” he said. “But you might want to stop by the Latent Print Section when you get a chance. I just got a call. They finished up this morning. Your reports should be ready in another hour.”
Lena studied Orth’s face, suddenly aware that she had missed something important. It wasn’t criticism that the SID supervisor had in mind. Instead, she sensed an undercurrent of support. For some unknown reason, Orth was on their side and had every intention of-
“What did they find?” she asked.
Orth glanced at the door, then turned back to her and lowered his voice. “Jacob Gant’s fingerprints,” he said. “All over the room. The closet, the dresser, every handle on every drawer. And they’re fresh prints, Lena. They’re exceedingly clean. No doubt about it-Gant was in that room within the last two weeks of his life. And he was looking for something. You got any idea what it might have been?”
