Vaughan shrugged. “Maybe, but why? Watson’s got a nice rhythm going. Paladino is giving her a pass and not objecting. Cobb’s talking about his experience and looks as cool and relaxed as any detective I’ve ever seen. And then in a single instant, it’s like his mind needs a reboot. He can’t speak. He’s just been asked a routine question, and he can’t answer it. He can’t find the words. Once he has a minute to pull himself together, he’s fine for the rest of the day.”
“Maybe they didn’t spend a lot of time coaching him.”
“In a case this big-are you crazy?”
“Maybe he didn’t rehearse,” she said.
“Impossible. And for the same reason, Lena. Too big a case.”
“Maybe the whole thing was scripted. Maybe he lost his place.”
“But every trial is scripted. If he’d lost his place, or even forgotten where the clothing had been found, he could have glossed over everything until Watson repeated the question and he was okay again.”
Lena’s cell phone chirped. When she checked the touch screen, she realized that Martin Orth from SID had tried to reach her five minutes ago. Her phone was searching for a signal that kept drifting in and out.
“I’ve gotta make a call,” she said. “How do I dial out?”
Vaughan pushed the desk phone closer. “Nine,” he said. “Who?”
She met his eyes. “Orth.”
Lena entered the number on the desk phone. When Orth picked up, she could tell by the sound of his voice that something had gone wrong.
“It’s the blood on Hight’s shoe,” she said.
“Not the shoe, Lena. We’re not there yet. Maybe later today or tomorrow.”
“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”
Orth hesitated for a moment, his voice weak. “It’s the girl’s jeans,” he said finally. “You were right. They were removed with force. Enough skin cells to leave a DNA trail.”
Lena glanced at Vaughan. Flipping the handset up, he leaned in close enough to listen.
“You’ve got the results?” she said.
“I’ve got them, but I think you should sit down.”
Lena traded looks with Vaughan, ready to burst. “I’m with Greg,” she said. “Tell us, Marty. Who was it? Jacob Gant or Tim Hight?”
“That’s the thing, Lena. That’s why I told you to sit down.”
“Who murdered Lily?” she said. “Who did it?”
Orth took another moment to compose himself. When he was ready, he said, “That’s the thing, Lena. It’s not Gant and it’s not Hight. It’s a third man.”
39
A third man.
It had been there all along. Right in front of her eyes. A crime scene photo stuffed inside Cobb’s murder book. The photographer from SID had snapped pictures of the entire house on the night of Lily’s murder, including the sunroom where Tim Hight sat every night. But just as Pete London had told them, Hight’s slide to the bottom of the hill didn’t occur until
Lena sat at a table on the terrace over at the Blackbird. The heat was so oppressive, the air so foul, that she had the space to herself. Hot coffee wasn’t much of a help, nor was the cigarette she’d just finished. Still, she struck a match and lit another as she stared at the photograph.
Hight’s chair wasn’t in the sunroom. Nor did she see a police scanner, an ashtray or an oversized glass of vodka set on the sill. Instead, Lena saw a Pilates machine, a floor mat, and a room filled with house plants.
She closed her eyes and lowered her head.
Hight wasn’t who she’d thought he was. Hight was the man Pete London had stepped up to defend.
A loving father who measured his daughter’s height on her birthday every year and marked her progress on the pantry door. A father who encouraged his daughter’s talent with a camera and took her to work with him as often as he could. A father who had been worried that his daughter was growing up too fast.
A loving father who had been ruined by his loss.
Lena had misread everything.
Everything.
While Hight may still have been responsible for the murders of Bosco and Gant, she doubted it. The killings were about what Gant had found. What he had seen. What he’d brought to show Bosco. The killings were about Lily’s murder and the third man.
But it got worse. Much worse.
Martin Orth had given them more news.
After reexamining Lily’s jeans, a small amount of semen was found inside the clothing just below the zipper that had been missed during the original investigation. DNA analysis revealed that the semen belonged to Jacob Gant and proved that he had been telling the truth all along. He’d had sex with Lily early in the evening. When they’d finished, Lily got back into her jeans and they went downstairs to the kitchen.
The polygraph had proven a lack of deception on Gant’s part and should have been enough to end it. But finding his semen inside Lily’s jeans proved that her rape and murder had been an entirely separate event. Had the semen been found the first time around, it would have prevented every domino since the night Lily was murdered from falling down. Lives would have been spared.
There was no gray to it. No question marks. No blank spaces. Everything was in black and white now.
A sixteen-year-old girl was dead-a teenager growing up too fast with a voracious appetite for sex. Johnny Bosco wanted to help. Johnny Bosco wanted to-
She leafed through her notes looking for the Death Investigation Report. Dante Escabar’s contact information would be listed in the second box down because he’d reported the murders, discovered the bodies, and identified Johnny Bosco’s corpse. She found his cell number and punched it into her phone. Escabar picked up on the first ring, his voice no longer littered with sarcasm.
“I know why Johnny wanted to help Jacob Gant,” he said.
“I think I do, too,” she said quickly. “You might not be safe.”
He laughed at her. She remembered the gun he kept.
Lena cleared her throat. “When was Lily at the club?”
“The cameras picked her up twice,” he said. “Both were Friday nights. One and two weeks before her death. She’s sitting at the bar.”
Lena was thinking about the man Gant had said he’d seen struggling with Lily on the Friday night one week before the murder. Paladino had told her that Gant couldn’t be sure of anything because it was too dark and too far away to see clearly. When he’d gone over to the house to check on Lily, the car was gone and no one answered the door.
“Was she with anybody, Dante?”
“She came with a girlfriend the first time,” he said. “They didn’t stay very long. But one week before the murder she came alone. She was talking to a guy. Touchy-feely stuff. They left together.”
“Can you see his face?”
“He’s standing beside her, not sitting. His face didn’t make the shot. I’m burning you a copy right now.”
“Keep the doors locked,” she said. “I’m on my way over.”
He laughed again. “They’re always locked, Detective Gamble. See you when you get here.”
40
Something about the way Escabar laughed hit her in the gut. The tone. The edge. The grim feeling followed
