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  I moved toward the door, and Alex followed. “Thanks for your time.”

  Janet took a parting shot. “I never understood what a man that age was doing with a young girl like Chloe. I didn’t expect him to kill her, but I knew right from the start nothing good could come of it.”

  I didn’t bother to argue with her. Clearly nothing good had come of it. And right or wrong, I knew I’d wind up with a fair number of “Janets” on my jury.

  NINETEEN

  Alex looked down toward the end of the corridor. “Are we going to check out that dealer?”

  “Heck yeah.” I might be able to claim he was yet another suspect the cops failed to investigate. The more of those I could dangle in front of the jury, the merrier. I took in Alex’s navy blazer and button-down shirt. “But I’ll take the lead. No way he’ll answer the door if he sees you.”

  “According to the book, business attire inspires more confidence and respect—”

  “Wait. What book?”

  “The Comprehensive Guide for Private Investigators. It says—”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t care what some out-of-work ex-cop says. I say you dress for your audience. Always go native.”

  Alex opened, then closed his mouth. “Got it.”

  We walked down to number 212. I motioned for him to stay out of range of the peephole and knocked on the door. I heard music playing inside. It sounded like jazz—Miles Davis.

  A voice came through the door. “I gave at the office.”

  “I’m not asking for money. I want to talk to you about Chloe and Paige.”

  “You a cop?”

  “No. I’m a lawyer.” I pulled out my business card and held it up to the peephole.

  I heard the deadbolt turn. The door opened a crack with the sliding chain lock still on. I poked my card through, and a white male hand reached out and took it. The voice—it sounded somewhere between old and young—said, “Never heard of lawyers going door to door. Seems kind of desperate.”

  I sighed. “I represent the defendant.”

  The chain came off and the door opened. A pot-filled cloud floated out. It was so heavy I thought I might get a contact high. “You represent that cop?” I nodded. “Tough case.” He noticed Alex. “He with you?”

  “Yeah. He’s my investigator.”

  Alex put out his hand. “I’m Alex Medrano.” They shook.

  “Chas Gorman. Come on in.”

  Chas led us to a brown lumpy-looking couch, and he plopped down in a recliner. Our host was a beanpole, skinny and well over six feet tall. His dirty-blond shoulder-length hair was combed back off his face, which was almost handsome. High cheekbones, regular features, but his eyes were a little close together. Funny how just a millimeter can make all the difference. He was barefoot and dressed in jeans and a Thelonious Monk T-shirt.

  The source of the pot cloud stood on the coffee table. It was an elaborately beautiful bong, painted in metallic blues and greens. The furniture looked like garage-sale rejects, the carpet had gaping holes, but the bong and the flat-screen were top of the line. He picked up the bong and took a lighter out of his pocket. “Want some?”

  Alex nodded. “Sure, man.”

  What the . . . ? Damn. I’d told him to go native, and he’d taken it to heart. Chas fired it up, and they both took long pulls. I waited for them to exhale. “You talked to the police?”

  “Hell, no. Under no circumstances.” He set the bong on the coffee table and leaned back in his chair. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did you know Chloe and Paige?”

  “A little. Chloe came over for a hit a few times when she first moved in. But she hadn’t come around for the past three or four months. I liked her; she was cool. Bummer what happened to her.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Did you see any of her friends? Or boyfriends?”

  “Just that cop . . . I mean, your guy.”

  “You ever talk to him?”

  “Nah. Just saw him around a few times.”

  “What about Paige?”

  “I really dug her. She was sweet. I asked her out once, but . . .”

  “It didn’t happen?” Chas shook his head. “Did you ever see her with a guy?”

  He frowned and reached for the bong. “I seem to remember a dude with a motorcycle helmet. I think he picked her up here a couple times.”

  “Recently?”

  He fired up the bong again and took a long pull, then offered it to Alex—who took it. Shit. He was going to be useless. And hungry. Chas spoke while he held in the smoke. “A couple months ago?” He answered his own question. “Yeah.”

  “That was the last time you saw him?” Chas nodded. “You never got his name?” He shook his head and let out a stream of smoke.

  “Can you describe him?”

  “About my height, maybe a little shorter. Longish hair, brown . . . and that helmet. It had, like, red flames on the sides.” He thought for a moment. “That’s about it.”

  “You see his bike?”

  Chas nodded. “Saw him riding it when he left.”

  “What’d it look like?”

  “Beat up. And loud. Was it a Harley?” He thought for a moment, then answered his own question again. “Don’t know.”

  “Were you home the night of the murders?” He nodded. “Did you hear anything unusual?”

  Chas looked at me through slitted eyes. “I heard loud voices. But I couldn’t make out words or anything.”

  “Did you see Chloe and Dale come home?”

  “No.” He yawned and patted his open mouth. “Can’t even tell you if they were the ones fighting. I just know people in the building are saying it was them.”

  “Did you see Paige come home?”

  He frowned. “No. But for some reason . . . I think she got home before Chloe.” His words were coming out slower and slower.

  “Why is that?”

  Chas worked his dry mouth. “Good question. Gotta get some water. You guys want some?”

  I declined. Alex, of course, said, “Yeah, thanks.”

  Chas pushed himself off the recliner in slow motion and shuffled into the kitchen. He came back with two bottles of water, handed one to Alex, then flopped back into his recliner. He poured almost the entire bottle down his throat in one long gulp.

  When he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, I took another run at him. “What makes you think Paige got home first?”

  Chas stared at a spot on the wall just over my head, his mouth slightly open. “Uh, I’m not sure. But I think. Someone maybe knocked on their door.”

  “And that person who knocked, he got inside?”

  He frowned. “Yeah, I think . . . because I heard the door close.”

  “Was that before you heard the people fighting? Or after?”

  “Um . . . I think it was before.”

  Before? That wouldn’t help. “Do you know if it was before or after midnight?”

  Chas scratched his chin. “Somewhere around there. Midnight-ish.” He chuckled to himself. “I was blazing with a buddy, so I wasn’t, you know, looking at the clock.”

  I suppressed a sigh. The reliability of any of this was so dubious. “Are you sure it was Chloe and Paige’s door? Could it have been the people next door to them, or two doors down?”

  Chas tilted his head back and gave a soft chuckle. “Not the guy in 206. He’s in his nineties. I’m not dissing the dude. We’d all be lucky to get there. But no one’s coming to see him past, like, lunchtime.” His eyes closed. I thought we’d lost him, but then he stretched, arched his back, and sighed. “The people in 207. It could’ve been their door, I guess.”

  “Who lives there?”

  “A guy and his girlfriend. They’re not home much. I think they must travel a lot. Mail piles up at their door all the time.”

  Alex grinned. “That was cool the way you put that together.”

  Chas grinned back. “Hey, man, maybe I could be an investigator.”

  They shared a chuckle
.

  I shot a look at Alex. Just what I needed right now: Cheech and Chong. “Do you know if the couple in 207 was home that night?”

  He yawned again and stretched his arms over his head. “No clue.”

  “The person who knocked, did you hear him say anything?”

  “I don’t think . . . wait, did I?” He looked up at the ceiling again. “Uh, no. Don’t think so.”

  How much of this could I trust? The guy was a major-league stoner. Maybe someone had come to an apartment. And maybe it was Chloe’s. But maybe not. Maybe it was around midnight. And he thought it was before Chloe got home. But maybe not. I looked at Alex. I’d been about to ask if he had questions, but he had a sloppy smile on his face. I bumped around a little longer to see if Chas remembered anything else, but he could barely get three words out between yawns that were so cavernous I thought he might pull something. Finally, after a string of questions that elicited “I don’t know” and shrugs, I gave up. He was tapped out. The reliability of what little information I’d gotten out of him was up for grabs. But one thing I was sure of: Chas would never play as a possible suspect. He couldn’t have stayed awake long enough to kill anyone.

  I stood up and tilted my head at Alex. It took him a second to get the hint, but he eventually got up. I smiled at our host. “Chas, thanks. I really appreciate you talking to us.”

  He followed us to the door. “Anytime, man. Always happy to talk to a lovely lady.” He patted Alex’s back. “You too, dude.”

  Alex gave him a lopsided smile. “It was real, man.”

  When we got out to the corridor, I told Alex to head to the car. “You go sleep it off. I’m going to hit up number 207.”

  He drew back and looked at me like I’d grown a third arm. “Sleep what off? I’m not stoned. I didn’t inhale. That would be totally unprofessional. But you said to go native.”

  I laughed. “Nice.” We headed to 207. As we passed number 208, Chloe and Paige’s apartment, I looked at the door. The crime-scene tape was gone, but I could still see black print powder around the doorknob. I had a feeling that apartment wouldn’t be rented anytime soon.

  A woman in her twenties answered the door at 207. She didn’t know Chloe or Paige other than to say “Hey” when they passed in the corridor, and she and her boyfriend had been out of town at the time of the murders. No help there. And the old guy in 206 hadn’t heard or seen anything that night. Not surprising, since he could barely hear us from two feet away.

  We headed to Alex’s car and I thought about what we’d learned from Chas. “Well, that motorcycle guy obviously wasn’t trying to hide the fact that he was seeing Paige. And it doesn’t sound like he has the money to buy her diamonds.”

  Alex nodded. “Besides, I’d have figured Mr. Perfect would be more . . . perfect.”

  “Yeah, the motorcycle guy isn’t him.”

  Alex unlocked the car. “Janet’s going to shred us. And Chas thinks someone was at their place before Chloe got home with Dale. That doesn’t help.”

  “Janet will absolutely shred us. And timing is the least of our problems with Chas. If he were reliable at all, it’d be great to prove someone came knocking on the door that night—no matter what time he says it happened.”

  “Then you want me to serve him a subpoena?”

  We got into the car. “Look at you, all knowing the legal lingo. No.”

  Alex looked at me, perplexed. “The book says we should always have subpoenas ready in case—”

  This book business was going to drive me nuts very soon. “Yeah, Alex. But what do you think the jury’s going to do with a witness like Chas? He’s probably got a conviction or two, and even if he doesn’t, he’s a major stoner and he’s not sure of a friggin’ thing.”

  “Then we can’t use him at all?”

  “I’m not saying that. We might be able to use him for something. Just not for court.” I already had an idea.

  My phone rang. It was the mechanic. Beulah had made a full recovery. Well, as full a recovery as a car that has 157,000 miles can make.

  Alex dropped me off at the station, and I sent him back to the office.

  I’d have to get downtown to Twin Towers and talk to Dale about . . . everything. Not the least of which was why he hadn’t bothered to tell me about his breakup with Chloe.

  Or as the prosecution would put it: his motive.

  TWENTY

  I wanted to get to Twin Towers first thing in the morning, but Deshawn’s hearing was at nine a.m., and there was no way Judge Raymond would let me put it over. A former marine and a slavishly devoted cop-lover, Judge Raymond was a prosecutor’s dream come true. And my worst nightmare. He wasn’t exactly a big fan of mine, either. Which is why I got to court a half hour early. I knew he’d jump at the chance to slap me with a fine.

  Deshawn rolled in at five minutes to nine. That was early for him, and no doubt thanks only to his mother, Tamika Johnson, who was sitting in the audience, her eyes boring into Deshawn’s back. Deshawn had spiffed up for the occasion in black loafers, dark slacks, and a white shirt and tie—thanks again, I was sure, only to Tamika. He turned to glance at her every few minutes, feeling the wrath of her glare. Deshawn feared no one the way he feared his mother.

  Seconds later, Rita Stump, the prosecutor, wearing a dress from Forever 21 (no one told her it was just a name, not a promise) and an irritated expression, marched into the courtroom. The cop, Bruce Ambrose, rolled in behind her. He was one of those red-necked (it’s not a pejorative in this case; his neck was actually red), fleshy cops who looked like a heart attack waiting to happen.

  He’d busted Deshawn for a seat-belt violation, then claimed to have seen something “funny” about his glove compartment. The ensuing search turned up a handgun that Deshawn swore wasn’t his.

  Ambrose got on the stand, and Rita took him through the fairy tale he’d written in his police report. Then it was my turn.

  I started by having him describe what was so “funny” about the glove compartment. He claimed it didn’t seem to “line up right.” I made him get specific about it—which edges didn’t line up, how far off they were.

  He stared at me with cold, hard eyes. “It looked to me like there was at least half an inch between the dash and the top of the glove box.”

  “And yet the glove compartment was fully closed, wasn’t it?”

  “It was closed.”

  “Amazing feat of engineering, wouldn’t you say? That it could stay closed—”

  “Objection!” Rita jumped to her feet. “Counsel’s sarcasm is inappropriate.”

  I held up my hands. “I’m just asking for his opinion. I mean, he’s clearly an expert in glove boxes—”

  The judge gave me a menacing look. “Ms. Brinkman, you’ll knock off the personal comments and the sarcasm or we’ll stop this hearing and start contempt proceedings.”

  I turned back to my buddy Ambrose. “And of course, you took photos of that glove box so we could all see how ‘funny’ it looked—”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  I let that sink in for a moment, then moved on. “This wasn’t the first time you met my client, was it? You’ve had a few run-ins in the past.”

  “I wouldn’t call them run-ins. I had information that indicated to me he might’ve committed a crime on two previous occasions, and I detained him for further questioning.”

  But the descriptions of the suspects in those cases didn’t even remotely fit Deshawn. The first suspect was five foot seven, 150. The second one was even more ridiculous: he was five foot six—and Hispanic. Deshawn was six foot three. I told Deshawn to stand up next to me. “Your Honor, for the record, I’m five foot six.” I stared up at Deshawn. I glanced at the judge and saw that I’d made my point. Time to move in for the kill.

  I picked up the gun Ambrose claimed to have found in Deshawn’s glove box and took it to the witness stand. “Officer, would you read the serial number on that gun for us?”

  He stared at me for a moment, the
n slowly read it.

  “Thank you. Now I’m going to show you a police report that was prepared about a month before you arrested Deshawn.”

  “Objection! Irrelevant!” Rita bounced up again. “What does a police report on a different case have to do with—”

  The judge cut her off. “I think we’re about to find out. Overruled.”

  I put the report in front of Ambrose and pointed to the bottom of the page. “Please read those last two lines for us.” I watched to see if his lips would move. They didn’t. But when he finished, I saw him swallow hard. “That report was prepared one month ago by another LAPD officer, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it shows that another officer seized this very gun from a suspect named Julio Ortiz and booked it into evidence one month before you stopped Deshawn Johnson, doesn’t it?”

  Ambrose darted a look at Rita, then licked dry lips. “Yeah.”

  I pulled out the follow-up report on Julio Ortiz and showed it to Ambrose. “If this gun had been released back to Ortiz, it would say so in this report, wouldn’t it?” Ambrose nodded. “But it doesn’t say that, does it?”

  Ambrose stared at the report for a long moment. “No.”

  “So can you explain to us how a gun that was booked into evidence a month before you stopped Deshawn Johnson wound up in his glove compartment?”

  “I . . . someone must’ve taken it out of evidence.”

  “And that someone had to be a cop, didn’t it? You guys don’t let people like Deshawn or me go check stuff out of the locker, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea who that cop might be?”

  Ambrose stared straight ahead. “No.”

  “But there’s a video camera in the evidence locker, so we could find out, right?”

  Ambrose turned a scary shade of red and gave me a death glare. “I guess so.”

  “Did you ever have the gun tested for prints or DNA?”

  “No.”

  “But being a good police officer, you handled it carefully so as not to wipe off any prints or DNA that might be there, right?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t really worried about that. It was in his glove box.” Ambrose’s face got so red I thought the top of his head would blow off.