It was the kind of case where with every new seam, every half step forward, she hoped for the best but got pushed back. It had been that way from the very beginning, from the moment she walked into Club 3 AM and discovered that one of the two dead bodies was Jacob Gant. And it had been that way with Pete London and the story he’d told, written and directed by his friend Tim Hight.
On the drive over to the Westside this morning, Lena had been listening to KPCC, an NPR station broadcasting out of Pasadena. The host of the program was interviewing a baseball player at spring training in Clearwater, Florida-a slugger who had been averaging nearly fifty home runs a year and was considered to be an automatic first-ballot pick for the Hall of Fame once he retired. What struck Lena most about the interview was the player talking about how he’d dug his way out of a hitting slump last August. After a long series of strikeouts, he began to realize that the longer the slump went on, the more the percentages began to move in his favor. The longer he went without a hit, the more likely he was to break out of it at any moment and find the zone.
Lena watched Vaughan search through a stack of DVDs piled up beside his computer, and along side a single pair of headphones. He’d pulled a clip from Gant’s trial that he wanted to show her, but they couldn’t watch it in here with the sound up because of what Vaughan had found in his phone. Lena understood all too well that she wasn’t qualified to sweep a room for electronics. But after watching Bobby Rathbone search her house last year, she knew a few things to look for. The bug Vaughan had found in his phone was the obvious one. Unfortunately, it looked to her like there were at least three more in the room.
“Let’s go,” he whispered under his breath.
Vaughan slipped the DVD into his pocket and they walked out, heading around the corner for another office at the end of the hall. As Lena entered, Vaughan followed her in and closed the door.
“It’s okay,” Vaughan said. “He’s away on vacation.”
“Your office is wired, Greg.”
Vaughan rolled a chair over to the computer and switched it on. “I know,” he said. “I’ve been coming in here to use the phone.”
“I’m not talking about what you found in your phone. I counted three more, and I’m not even a pro.”
He stopped and looked at her. “Where?” he said
“The surge protector that your computer is plugged into. That was easy because I found one exactly like it at my place last year.”
“Where are the other two?”
“The wall plate covering the outlet above the credenza, and another just like it facing your desk. Both are wired for video and sound. If you look in the middle of the plate you’ll see what I mean. That’s not a screw holding the plate to the wall. It’s a small camera.”
Vaughan sat back in the chair, stunned. “They’re watching. They can see what I’m doing.”
“The signal’s probably not strong enough to reach the street.”
“It wouldn’t need to,” he said quietly. “Bennett’s office is right upstairs.”
He let out a deep breath and seemed to be letting the worry get to him.
“Show me the clip,” she said.
He nodded, then snapped out of it and loaded the DVD into the computer. When a menu rendered on the screen, he scrolled through a long list of files, found the clip and hit PLAY.
The clip began with a shot of Jacob Gant sitting beside Buddy Paladino in the courtroom. Lena moved closer for a better view. There was something about seeing Gant alive again. Something about seeing him at that table knowing what she knew about him now. Something about the determination showing on Paladino’s face. Something about knowing Gant was about to run out of luck and time, and about to be kissed by fate.
“This isn’t it,” Vaughan said. “Another half minute.”
Lena became aware of the audio track. It was Debi Watson’s voice. She was asking someone-
“Here it is,” Vaughan said. “This is it.”
The video made a hard cut to Cobb sitting on the witness stand. He was holding one of Lily’s boots, which was found behind her body by the bed. And as Watson threw him one question after the next, he seemed confident and perfectly at ease. He was dressed in a gray suit that looked so well tailored, Lena guessed that it had been purchased for this court appearance. Had she been sitting in the jury box, she would have been impressed with who he was and how he spoke.
“Detective Cobb, how many homicides have you investigated?” Watson was asking.
“I’m not sure I could give you an exact number. I’ve been working homicides for twenty-five years.”
“Would you say that the number of cases you’ve investigated is over one hundred?”
“Yes,” Cobb said.
“Over two hundred?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“So you would call yourself an experienced detective,” Watson was saying. “A veteran detective. Someone extremely familiar with any or all crime scenes in a homicide investigation. You know what they look like. You know how they operate. Crime scenes have been your place of work for the last twenty-five years.”
Cobb glanced in the jury’s direction and said “Yes” with a polite smile.
“So let’s get back to this crime scene. A few minutes ago you said that you could tell by looking at Lily’s body that she had been sexually assaulted before her murder. Specifically, what did you see?”
“Her underwear had been hiked up around her waist,” he said with authority. “I could see blood on her thighs. And it wasn’t coming from the chest wound. It was coming from between her legs.”
Watson let Cobb’s last line settle in for the jury. She took the boot that Cobb had been holding and pretended to examine it. After a short time, she handed the boot back to him.
“Her jeans had been stripped away from her body,” she said finally. “Her boots and socks-everything tossed into a pile. Where did you find them in relation to Lily’s body?”
The video had cut to Watson, who expected a quick answer-but it never came. When she turned back to Cobb, she seemed annoyed. The size of the image on the computer monitor was small. Still, Lena thought it looked like Cobb had lost his composure and broken out into a heavy sweat.
Watson repeated the question, but Cobb remained silent and began fidgeting in his seat.
“Detective?” she asked finally. “Is there something wrong, Detective?”
Cobb stammered. “Excuse me,” he said. “But may I have a glass of water?”
The monitor went blank, the video clip over. Vaughan turned back to Lena.
“After he drinks the glass of water, he’s fine. It cuts back to a wide shot, but you can tell he’s okay.”
Lena sat down beside the desk. “So what are you saying?”
“I don’t know,” Vaughan said. “Something happened, and I don’t think he was having a heart attack.”
“You think he was stalling when he asked for the water.”
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.”