Blood Defense Read online

  “As always, yes. I must.” I like to leave my window open. It keeps me awake. And Michelle complains about it every time.

  Michelle folded her arms, her lips twisted with irritation. “And we just lost our Wi-Fi connection.”

  We needed to upgrade, but we couldn’t afford it. “Again?”

  “Again.” Michelle sighed. “I’ll have to go down to Apex and use their computer.”

  Our downstairs neighbor, Apex Printing, almost never had customers, but they had an industrial-strength connection, and they were pretty generous about letting us use it. But hanging around there wasn’t a smart move. The few customers they did have showed up only after five o’clock—sporting tats, piercings, and bone-crushing rings on most fingers. Michy and I pegged it as a drug front the day we moved in. I expected the DEA to raid the place any minute. “Let me call the carrier and see if I can get us a deal on an upgrade.”

  “I tried, Sam. They won’t do it.”

  “Can’t hurt to try again.” Michelle rolled her eyes and walked out.

  I’d been down to Apex a few times in the past month, just being neighborly. And, of course, dropping off my business cards. Someone in that place—whether the employees or their customers—was bound to need my services sooner or later. The last time I was there, I’d asked an employee about their Wi-Fi carrier, saying I was shopping for a new one. He’d said theirs was the best and logged on to show me. Now, I remembered noticing the length of his password. These guys weren’t exactly tech wizards. I had a hunch. I used my iPad to find their network provider and typed in AP8182458989. The business initials and their phone number. Stupid. Obvious. And right. I was in.

  I went out and told Michelle. “Hey, good news! I got us the upgrade. Same provider as Apex.” I handed her the Post-it sticker with the password.

  “That’s fantastic!” Michelle took the sticker and logged on. Two seconds later, she spun around and stared at me with narrowed eyes. “You stole their password.”

  I shrugged. “A little. But hey, we deserve it.”

  “If they catch us, Sam—”

  I waved her off. “Please. Piggybacking on their Wi-Fi’s the least of their concerns.” Michelle shook her head. I put my hands on my hips. “What? Now you don’t have to go hang with a bunch of cartel mules and you’ve got a great connection. You’re welcome.”

  As I headed back to my office, I heard her say something under her breath about us “winding up in a block of cement.”

  I called out over my shoulder, “They’re not that creative, Michy.”

  Michy called back, “Real comforting, Sam.”

  I sat back down at my computer and jumped on with the Apex Wi-Fi. It was the fastest I’d ever connected to the ’net. I should’ve done this months ago. I scrolled down, looking for the e-mail from Zack.

  I’d been hoping we’d get Kaitlyn’s statement soon. Dale had said Chloe was on the phone with her when he came by that night. I found the statement. “Damn it!”

  Michelle came in. “What?”

  “Chloe told her sister she was going to break up with Dale that night. Damn it!” Fighting over a drug habit is one thing. But fighting over a breakup is classic murder motive.

  “I take it Dale never mentioned anything about a breakup?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe they got stuck on the drug thing and she didn’t get around to it.”

  Maybe. Hopefully. Because I didn’t want to believe Dale was holding out on me so soon. “You know where to find Kaitlyn?”

  “She works afternoons at a Starbucks near Santa Monica Community College. The four p.m. to nine p.m. shift.”

  “Thanks, Michy. I might hit her up tomorrow.”

  It was eight thirty when Michelle and I packed up to leave for the day. Alex was still in his office, hard at work. I stopped at the doorway. “Hey, don’t kill yourself. You’re not getting paid by the hour. And we need to get on the road early tomorrow.”

  Alex smiled. “I already finished the discovery. I’m reading up on PI techniques now. What time?”

  I’d so lucked out with him. “Make it eight o’clock. You’ll have to pick me up at my place. Beulah’s still not running.” I pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “And bring coffee.”

  He took the money and saluted, and Michelle and I left. She was giving me a lift home.

  My cell phone rang just as Michelle pulled out of the parking lot. The caller ID said Blocked. I knew what that meant. I could’ve let it go to voice mail, but I decided I might as well bite the bullet now.

  Michelle looked at me. I mouthed, “Mommy dearest.” She shook her head. “Give her my love.”

  Celeste came at me like I’d told People magazine she wore knockoff Louboutins. “It’s just a publicity stunt, right? You’re not really going to do it!”

  “Do what?” I knew what she was talking about, but I didn’t want to make this any easier on her than I had to.

  “Represent that awful murderer! I just saw you on the E! channel news. That man is dangerous. What if he comes after you?”

  “He’s in jail, Celeste. He can’t come after anyone.”

  “But he might have people on the outside who can do it for him!”

  “He’s a cop. Not a Crip. Or John Gotti. And why would he come after me? I’m on his side.”

  “Because he’s a criminal, Samantha. He doesn’t need a reason. He’s insane. Otherwise why would he kill that sweet actress and her roommate?”

  “Whatever happened to presumed innocent? You know, it’s possible he didn’t do it.” Not likely, but possible.

  “Please, Samantha. They’d never charge a detective unless they knew for sure he’d done it—”

  There was that. But I’d rather chew ground glass than agree with her. “They make mistakes just like everyone else.” Her they’re-all-guilty attitude was nothing new—and besides, I agreed. I moved on to what was new. “Since when do you care what I’m doing or who my clients are?”

  Her voice grew sharp. “Don’t take that tone with me. I care about everything you do.”

  The hell. “When it affects you.”

  There was a long beat of silence. “You always think the worst of me, Samantha.”

  “I think the reality of you, Celeste.”

  Her voice was rising. “Well, you’re wrong! I’m telling you this for your own good. Don’t take this case. Get away from that man—that cop! Do you hear me? Let it go!”

  I was one block away from my building. “I’m about to pull into the garage; I’m going to lose the signal.”

  “Listen to me, Samantha! Have I ever said this to you before?”

  She’d said plenty of other obnoxious and undermining things, but she was right. This was a new one. “I’ll think about it. ’Bye.”

  I ended the call, and Michelle pulled up to the curb in front of my building.

  “I take it your mother is less than thrilled with you taking the case.”

  “Your powers of deduction are, as always, astounding.”

  “Why don’t you tell her you need the money?”

  “Because she’d tell Jack to give it to me, and I’d rather cut off my right hand than take money from her.”

  Michelle sighed. “What time do you think you’ll get back to the office tomorrow?”

  “Can’t tell. I’ll call with updates.”

  When I got upstairs and changed into my sweats, I kept my promise to Celeste. I did think about it. Not about getting off the case. About why she wanted me to.

  I’d had thirty-three years of up-close-and-personal experience with Celeste Brinkman (changed from the original “Charlene” because she thought Charlene was a “hillbilly” name). Enough to know that this had nothing to do with her concern for my safety. When she got this whipped up about something, it always had to do with her. Her image, her status, her convenience.

  Conclusion? Someone at the country club or her Pilates class must’ve dropped a comment that made her believe my taking the case would make h
er look bad.

  As earth-shattering as that event might be for her, I was willing to let her deal with it. Because that’s the kind of evil, selfish bitch I am.

  SIXTEEN

  I had the friggin’ nightmare again and woke myself up with the sound of my croaking scream. It took four cups of coffee to loosen the grip of the ugly images and stop the shakes, so I was running a little late. Of course, that meant Alex showed up fifteen minutes early. “Sorry, Sam. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  “No problem.” That’s LA. You’re either an hour early or two hours late. Two large coffees were in a cardboard tray on the passenger seat. I was probably pushing it with a fifth cup, but I’d rather have a caffeine buzz than a nightmare fog. “Plain, right?” I’m not a fan of all that latte, frappe business. Just give me the caffeine and no one gets hurt. Alex nodded. “Thanks.”

  Alex was wearing slacks and a blazer. He took in my outfit as I pulled on my seat belt. “Jeans and a black leather jacket? Don’t you want them to believe you’re a lawyer?”

  “Sure, but I also want them to talk to me.” I eyed his outfit. “A suit doesn’t say, ‘Relax and spill.’”

  He looked skeptical but didn’t argue. “First, Laurel Canyon, then Santa Monica to see Kaitlyn, right?”

  I nodded. Laurel Canyon used to be one of the hippest places on the planet, creatively speaking. Joni Mitchell, Jim Morrison, Mama Cass, Glenn Frey—everybody lived there back in the day. The Canyon Country store on Laurel Canyon Boulevard still has a psychedelic sign. But now it’s more of a mixed bag. The canyon has peaks and valleys. Literally and figuratively. The higher up you go, the better the view and the ritzier the properties—like multi-million-dollar-type properties. Steven Tyler lives in one of those. I heard Justin Timberlake does, too. So it still has cool people—albeit, bazillionaire-type cool people.

  But the lower parts don’t have a view, and they can be pretty raggedy. Some of the houses look like they’re not much more than caves with plumbing. And I’m guessing about the plumbing.

  Chloe and Paige lived all the way at the bottom of the canyon on the Hollywood side. The last stretch where Hollywood Boulevard dovetails into Laurel Canyon Boulevard. It had the hip-sounding address but none of the coolness factor. Their building was one of many two-story clapboard-style affairs that were thrown up back in the sixties without much attention to charm or detail—or, according to our police reports, soundproofing.

  Alex turned left onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Let’s hit the building next door.” I read from the police report. “Nikki Ingalls in 1C claimed she saw Dale driving up and down the street almost every night—with a ‘creepy look on his face.’”

  “How’d she see the ‘creepy look’ if he was driving by at night?”

  “Well, Supergirl has X-ray vision. But on the off chance she’s not an immortal, that’s what we’ll have to find out.”

  High-profile cases attract and repel all types. Our Nikki might be a wannabe actress/model/game-show host looking for free face time, or just your ordinary loser horny for attention—or she might be a nutjob who thought most people looked “creepy.” The possibility of an honest, sane witness was too statistically insignificant to even make the list.

  Apartment 1C was on the ground floor of a faded, pink two-story building on Hollywood Boulevard that had a couple of sun-bleached plastic flamingos on the small stretch of lawn. All of the units had windows that faced the street. Nikki did have a decent-enough view. But I noticed that even though there were streetlights on both sides of the street, none of them were close to 1C. And they weren’t all necessarily working. We walked up two concrete steps to a tiny front patio area and found a gray door that had a silver 1C hanging just above the peephole. I knocked and stood back to give Nikki a chance to check us out. Also to give her a chance to check out the gorgeousness of Alex. According to the police report, she was in her thirties and lived alone.

  I heard footsteps thud on the wooden floor inside. There was a pause, and then the door opened. She was wearing tight navy-blue sweatpants and a sweatshirt that had the arms and most of the midriff cut off. She pushed back a hank of chin-length, overprocessed platinum hair and leaned against the door with a lazy smile. “What can I do for you?”

  Her eyes were so occupied with Alex that she didn’t even realize I was there. So I took a perverse pleasure in bursting her bubble by speaking up. “Just give us a few moments of your time.”

  The lazy smile went away. She gave me an irritated squint. “What for?”

  “We’re looking into the case involving Chloe and Paige, and we hoped you could answer a few questions.” I try to hold off on saying that I’m working for the defendant for as long as possible. It’s something you pick up after having fifty-seven doors slammed in your face.

  Nikki’s eyes strayed back to Alex. The lazy smile switched back on. She still had hope.

  Knowing how to work witnesses is an important part of an investigation. I hung back to see how Alex would handle it. He played her like a clarinet. He started with a sincere, from-the-heart look. “Ms. Ingalls, I’d really appreciate it if you could spare us some time. I promise just five minutes and we’ll get out of your hair.”

  She melted like a dropped ice-cream cone on a hot sidewalk. “Okay.” She turned and gestured for us to follow her inside. “But we need to make this fast. I’ve got an audition in an hour, and I have to get ready.”

  Alex and I exchanged a look behind her back as we headed for the ratty, blue-chenille couch in the living room. Sometimes I wish people weren’t such clichés. Other times, I’m glad they’re so predictable. Nikki sat down on the ottoman chair across from us and ostentatiously crossed her legs—toes pageant-pointed and everything. I noticed her toenails were painted bubblegum pink and had sparkly designs on the big toes. I wondered if she’d ever get around to asking us who we were.

  She oozed another smile at Alex. “I told the police I saw the suspect around here a lot.”

  Alex made a show of taking out his notepad, even though his pocket recorder was on. It was a trick I’d learned early in my career, and I’d taught it to Alex yesterday. Those recordings stay secret; I use them only to beef up the notes I take in front of the witness. Nothing that hurts my client gets written down, because if I wind up calling the witness, I have to turn over a report of what they said. And it looks better to the jury if they see that we take written statements just like the cops do. Well, sort of like the cops do.

  Alex took out his pen. “Did you see Dale Pearson on the night of the murder?”

  “No. I was at Hyde Lounge that night.”

  In her dreams. Just like the fantasy age she’d given the police. Nikki had left thirty-five behind at least ten hard years ago. And there was no way she was hanging out at a club as pricey as Hyde Lounge.

  But Alex gave her a twinkle of a smile. “Hyde Lounge. Very cool. Do you remember when you first met Dale Pearson?”

  She pouted and pulled on her lower lip. “About two months ago? I ran into him behind the building. The parking areas are next to each other.”

  “How did you know who he was?”

  “Because he told me. I figured he’d just moved in, so I introduced myself. You know, being a good neighbor and all.”

  And probably hoping to be a really great neighbor.

  Alex gave her an understanding smile. “Was he friendly?”

  Nikki made a face. “No. He was kind of rude. Told me he was in a hurry and said to have a nice day.”

  “When was the next time you saw him?”

  “Maybe a week? Two weeks later? I saw him drive past my place, heading east on Hollywood Boulevard, then he turned around and drove back toward Chloe’s place.”

  “How did he look? Happy? Sad? Upset?”

  “He looked . . . intense. Like he was searching for something. Or for someone.” She gave Alex a meaningful look.

  “Who do you thi
nk he was looking for?”

  Nikki gave an elaborate shrug that hiked her sweatshirt up enough to show the bottom of her bra. It was an act that couldn’t have found a less interested audience, which amused the hell out of me. And Alex—gotta hand it to him—played the part beautifully, giving her the eye bounce she’d aimed for. This boy was a natural.

  Nikki gave a pouty frown. “I don’t know. Another guy, maybe? It seemed kind of stalk-y to me.”

  Huh? So he was driving up and down the street to . . . what? Catch his rival? Wouldn’t it be simpler to just park outside her building?

  “When did you see him next?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe a week? Two weeks later? Same thing. It happened a couple more times. And he had this . . . look on his face. It was kind of scary.”

  My bullshit-o-meter was in the red zone. I had to jump in. “By scary, do you mean angry?”

  Nikki glanced at me, then turned back to Alex. “Creepier than that.” She gave a little shiver. “But it was angry, too. That’s why I thought he was, like, suspicious of Chloe.”

  I could definitely see why the acting career hadn’t taken off. “Do you know if anyone else in the building noticed Dale Pearson looking like that?”

  She barely glanced at me as she answered. “I think Sheila did. Sheila Wagner. She’s in 2C.” Nikki jerked a thumb at the ceiling.

  I didn’t remember reading about any Sheila Wagners in the police reports. “What did she tell you about Dale?”

  I’d asked one too many questions. Nikki frowned at me. “Hey, who are you guys?”

  Alex stepped in with an extra dose of smooth. “I’m sorry, Nikki. I thought we told you already. We work for the defense.” He pulled out a card. “Here you go.”

  She took the card. It was one of mine. I hadn’t had time to make cards for Alex yet. Nikki looked at me, her eyes narrowed. “You guys are on his side?”