Murder Season

half a block ahead, but pulled over when she noticed a woman with blond hair walking out the front door with two young children and their nanny. Vaughan followed them out, opening the doors to his crossover and helping with the car seats. All three adults were laughing about something. Once the kids were finally strapped in, the blonde got behind the wheel and Vaughan waved as she drove off in his car.

Lena didn’t know what to make of what she was thinking or feeling right now. All she hoped for was that when she looked at Vaughan or Vaughan looked at her, things would be back to normal. She didn’t want to sense something extra going on. She needed assurance that what was happening in her mind was only happening in her mind, and not part of the real world.

She pulled up to the house. Vaughan walked over and poked his head in the passenger side window.

“You just missed the kids,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Where’s your car?”

“My ex-wife took it for the day. Hers is in the shop. When it’s fixed, they said they’d deliver it to my office. We’ll switch back later. You don’t mind driving, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“Let me grab my briefcase.”

He smiled at her. She caught the glint in those light brown eyes of his. Switching the radio over to KNX, she hoped that the news station might distract her and make things easier. But her efforts proved unnecessary. Once Vaughan got in the car, he spent most of the drive talking about what they had discovered yesterday. He couldn’t comprehend how two deputy DAs were able to step before a judge and look him in the eye knowing that they were trying the wrong man. The fact that they had the district attorney’s blessing made it all the more difficult to absorb. When Lena glanced over at him, she could see how revitalized Vaughan had become. She could see the transformation in his posture, in his face; the confidence and energy that comes from the thrill of the chase.

The drive took less than ten minutes. Vaughan checked the address and spotted a parking space a block off.

“Better take it,” he said.

Lena backed into the space, and they walked up the sidewalk to the corner. The house on Strongs Drive was easy enough to spot. A camera crane sat on the front lawn, and movie lights had been mounted outside the windows on the first floor. As they got closer, Lena realized that the house was backed up against the canals. She could see a large hot tub off the rear terrace. Beside the house was probably the only vacant lot in all of Venice. Two trailers were here, along with a grip truck, a catering truck, and several long tables with chairs set beneath a large tent. Both lots had been secured with yellow tape as if they were crime scenes. On the street, two off-duty cops leaned against their black and white cruisers providing security.

Lena gave Vaughan a nudge. “What’s the name of this show?”

“I keep forgetting the title. It’s one of those crappy reality shows. I see them when I’m looking for the cartoon channel for the kids. They put six losers in a house, shoot them talking about nothing, and somehow it sells.”

Lena noticed a small sign stapled to a telephone pole. The word Lowlife was printed across the top with an arrow pointing toward the house.

“That’s it,” Vaughan said. “That’s the name of the show. Lowlife.”

It was one more reason on a list of a hundred other reasons why Lena seldom found anything worth watching on television. But she didn’t say anything. As Vaughan spoke with a young production assistant, Lena identified herself to the off-duty cops, then turned and followed Vaughan underneath the tent. Pete London was sitting at one of the tables, sipping coffee, and editing a script with a blue pen. When he noticed them enter, he stood up and they shook hands.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I appreciate it. Would you like coffee? Something to eat? The catering truck never closes. The food’s pretty good on this one.”

Both Lena and Vaughan thanked him but declined, and everyone sat down. London pushed the script aside, cradling the paper coffee cup in his hand. Remarkably, he looked like he could have been Tim Hight’s more polished brother. His hair was the same mix of blond and gray, but longer and better styled. Dressed in jeans and a light cotton shirt, he was on the lean side, wore glasses with tortoiseshell frames and seemed too cerebral, too intelligent to be producing a reality TV show called Lowlife for one of the music channels that no longer had any interest or influence in music.

“I’ve been reading about the murders at Club 3 AM,” he said. “And I’m very concerned about Tim Hight. He’s my friend, and that’s why I called you.”

Lena glanced at Vaughan, then turned back to London. “Have you spoken with him?” she said. “Did he tell you what happened that night?”

“No,” London said. “He won’t take my call. We haven’t talked for a long time.”

“Since you let him go?”

A beat went by before London finally nodded. Lena tried not to show her disappointment. Vaughan picked up the slack.

“Why did you fire him?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to,” London said. “He took a month off after Lily was murdered. When he came back, he was different. I tried to overlook as much as I could. But at a certain point, no matter how much sympathy I may have had for what he was going through … it just wasn’t working and I had to let him go.”

“What about before that?” Lena said. “What about his relationship with his daughter?”

“What are you talking about?”

London obviously thought of Hight as a friend. Lena tried to work through the subject as gently as possible without sounding too vague.

“Did you ever notice anything odd? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“They were close,” he said. “But not that kind of close.”

“How do you know?” Vaughan asked.

“Because I’ve worked with him for most of my life, and I know who Tim Hight is. I produced Prairie Winds, his best motion picture. We spent three months living in tents and working in conditions that would break most men. Believe me. You do time like that with a guy and you run out of secrets. You walk away knowing each other like brothers.”

“You’re not upset, are you?” Lena said.

“Not at all. I know that you have to ask questions like this. It’s part of your job. If I can help, I’m happy to do it. But you’ve gotta understand something. Tim might be drinking and smoking and doping it up, but all of that started after Lily’s murder, not before. It isn’t part of who he was. He loved Lily. He was ruined by her death. Ruined by the way she died as much as the death itself. I don’t know what losing a child would be like, what demons are haunting the guy. All I hope for is that he gets help.”

“I’m guessing you knew Lily and spent time with her as well,” Lena said.

London looked away for a moment, eyeing the memory. “Tim was a great father. He used to bring her to work as often as he could. She liked cameras. She had real talent and got along with everyone on the set.”

“What about Jacob Gant?” Vaughan asked. “Did Hight ever talk about him?”

London nodded. “He was worried that Lily was growing up too fast and that her friendship with Gant was more than a friendship. Gant was in his mid-twenties, right? Lily was only sixteen. I mean, that kind of thing worked for Elvis. But in the real world, what dad wouldn’t be worried?”

Lena had been watching London. His story presented Tim Hight as a loving father. From what she could tell it was perfect. Everything about it was perfect. Everything except for the way London was cradling that paper coffee cup in his hand. Ever since they had begun the interview, London had been rotating the cup and swirling the brew. And that’s why nothing about the moment was perfect. It was supposed to be a cup of coffee, but London was treating it like a glass of bourbon.

Lena glanced around the tent and didn’t see anyone, then turned back to London. “Do you know what happens to people who try to mislead or interfere with police officers investigating a homicide?”

London froze up. Vaughan seemed just as surprised by the question.

“Do you know?” she repeated.

London didn’t say anything, still appearing shocked and trying to collect himself.

“If you want us to pull your phone records, I will,” she said. “But if you make me do it, if you waste more of