She was cruising down the Avenue of the Ghosts, but her mind was fifteen miles up the road, so she didn’t notice those stick-figured teenagers getting loaded and waving down customers from the curb.
She didn’t want to get ahead of herself, didn’t want to let her imagination play with the facts or get too revved up. She needed to reach Debi Watson. She needed to get the woman to talk. And she needed to do it as fast as she could.
But she had a bad feeling about it now.
Before leaving the park, Lena had tried calling Watson at her office and was told by her assistant that the deputy DA hadn’t come in today. When she pressed the young woman for more information, she was told that Watson hadn’t called in sick and wasn’t answering her cell or home phone. Her assistant said that she was worried about her, and had given Lena her address on Norwich Drive in West Hollywood.
Before the dread could get a decent grip on her, Lena made a hard right and picked up speed heading for Venice Boulevard. She was still waiting on Cobb. Two blocks later, he finally picked up his cell.
“How did you get this fucking number?” he said.
“You’re a police officer, Cobb. You’re in the directory. Now why didn’t you tell me about what Bennett did to Wes Brown?”
Cobb didn’t say anything for so long that Lena thought her phone had died. She checked the battery, then the signal-then he came back on.
“The 9-mm Smith goes back to what happened eight years ago, Cobb. Bennett had your eyewitness killed. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I’m not sure what it means,” he said.
He was trying to keep his voice down. Lena didn’t like it.
“Where are you?” she said.
“I’m outside Bennett’s house keeping an eye on things. He took the day off and seems agitated.”
“If you’re not sure what it means, why are you following Bennett?”
“I wasn’t,” he said. “I was on Higgins. He and that friend of his stopped by here about an hour ago. When they left, I got curious and decided to stay.”
“Can you see Bennett?”
“He’s standing in his driveway arguing with his wife. They’ve been at it for half an hour. They’re every neighborhood’s favorite couple, Gamble. They’re screamers.”
“What are they arguing about?”
“She knows he’s cheating on her. Apparently she’s not happy about it.”
“Are you in your car?”
“No,” he said. “There’s a hill across the street. Lots of trees with an elevated view of the whole property. Bennett has bucks. He lives on North Rockingham off Sunset. How’s a deputy DA make that kind of cash?”
Lena had reached Venice Boulevard and could see San Vicente just ahead. She began weaving through traffic and using the shoulder when she got stuck. With any luck, she was ten minutes out.
“You need to listen to me, Cobb.”
“Listen to what?”
“I’m gonna tell you what the gun means.”
He went quiet again. She couldn’t tell if he was avoiding the issue or needed to shut down because of what he was doing.
“I’m back,” he whispered. “Tell me what you think it means.”
“You’re being set up, Cobb. You’re the way the killer gets away with this. Somehow he found out that you’re the one who tipped off Paladino and wrecked the case. When Bosco and Gant got too close, he used that gun. When Escabar found the video of Lily at the club, ballistics is gonna tell us that he used it again. You’ve got a target on your back. You’re not safe.”
It hung there for a while, the target on Cobb’s back.
“You might be right,” he whispered finally. “But is it Bennett or is it Higgins? I always thought Reggie got it wrong. No question that Bennett was abusing his brother on the phone, but Higgins was the politician, Gamble. Higgins needed to win that trial, not Bennett. How do we know Bennett isn’t just some mean little prick doing whatever Higgins tells him to do? How do we know it wasn’t Higgins who sent that cop over and got the kid killed?”
She thought about Jerry Spadell again. “We don’t,” she said finally.
“And what about the target on your back? What about the target on Vaughan?”
She didn’t have an answer. She couldn’t be certain. She needed to get Debi Watson to talk.
She blew through a red light and turned onto Melrose, then made another right on Norwich and started picking out street numbers. Watson’s house was halfway up the block on the left side-a two-story Mediterranean covered in ivy with palm trees nested beside the gardens and a eucalyptus shading the front yard. She pulled into the drive and parked before the garage. On any other day she would have looked at Watson’s house as something of an oasis. But today, all she picked up on was the darkness. The bad vibes.
“Any chance you’ve seen Debi Watson today, Cobb?”
“Bennett’s with his wife,” he said. “What’s wrong with your voice?”
Her eyes made a second pass over the house-slower than the first. It seemed so still. So quiet.