Guilt by Association (39 page)

That smug smile dropped away suddenly.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” I said. “You got lucky. You didn’t mean to, but you caught Densmore on tape. Perfect blackmail
material. A guy like him, big-shot businessman, he couldn’t afford to have people know he’s hooking up with street trade.
A big break for you, because after that, you didn’t have to worry if he found out.” I leaned back in my chair. “By the way,
we’ve got a warrant for your house. We find that tape, I’ll have the pleasure of adding an extortion count to that impressive
list of charges.”

I don’t know whether it was the mention of an extortion count or the mention of a search warrant—or maybe it was everything
falling in on her at once—but for the first time she seemed rattled. What had she expected? On the other hand, she wasn’t
exactly your typical career criminal.

Evelyn said nothing, which worried me. I kept talking, hoping to provoke her.

“So I don’t buy your story that Densmore invited Stayner to his house,” I said. “Tell you what I think. I think Stayner showed
up uninvited to pressure Densmore into putting cameras into his high-end health centers.”

It was a shot in the dark, but judging by Evelyn’s grim expression, I’d hit close to the mark. Still, she remained mute. This
was not good. I pulled out the file I’d brought and opened it. I took a moment to review the notes I’d made the day before.

“I don’t think you’re really the criminal type. Or at least you weren’t.” I looked up from the file and studied her face a
moment. “You’ve been with Densmore from the beginning, when he opened the Hollywood clinic. That was his first one, wasn’t
it?”

Evelyn nodded warily.

“Right. No pricey ‘health centers’ back then,” I said. I deliberately looked down again to consult my notes. “And you were
a single mom, struggling to support your teenage daughter, Katie. So you were grateful when Densmore said you could hire her
to help with the filing at the clinic, weren’t you?” I asked.

At the mention of her daughter, Evelyn’s face suddenly froze. The story of Katie had come to us courtesy of Nurse Sheila,
who’d started with Densmore at the Hollywood clinic at the same time as Evelyn. Sheila had proven to be a great source of
information—once we knew the right questions to ask.

I noted Evelyn’s reaction and shot a brief glance at Bailey, who was leaning against the far wall. She nodded and moved in
closer. When Evelyn looked up at her, Bailey began to speak.

“But after Katie started working there, she got sick. Hep C. She fell for one of the young street boys, didn’t she?” Bailey
asked.

Shaken, Evelyn nodded, her expression bitter.

“And he gave her a potentially fatal disease,” Bailey said, her tone sympathetic.

Evelyn nodded again.

“By the time you realized how sick she was, she’d probably had the disease for over a year. Densmore helped you out with the
new interferon, but it made Katie horribly sick. And she was probably miserable, maybe even suicidal. So you bought into those
so-called cutting-edge drugs that promised a miracle cure. But they were expensive—”

“And none of them worked!” Evelyn spit out angrily.

Bailey nodded in acknowledgment. “Katie’s still very ill,” she
said. “From what I’ve heard, there’s a strong likelihood she’ll die of liver cancer. And it’s all because you had to work
in that place.” She paused for effect. “No Hollywood clinic, no hep C. Right?”

Evelyn was stone-faced, but I could see the anger boiling just below the surface. I glanced at Bailey, who nodded. I leaned
in and took over.

“And meanwhile Densmore’s beautiful little daughter, Susan, never had to work a day in her life, let alone in a place like
that,” I said. “Bottom line, you needed money and Stayner offered you a way to make it, quick and easy. And it didn’t hurt
that you got to screw over Densmore in the process.”

Evelyn sat up now, her cheeks flushed with anger. “You watch your kid suffer like that, you’ll do anything. Besides, Carl
wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t like we were pulling any of those kids off their teeter-totters.”

I wasn’t a mother. Who could say what I would’ve done? Evelyn went on, her tongue loosened by anguish and fury.

“It would’ve been fine, but Carl got greedy and started pressuring Densmore to put cameras in the other health centers. I
told him to let it be, but would he listen? Of course not,” Evelyn fumed. Then she stopped, her face fell, and she grew quiet.
A note of true remorse crept into her voice. “And then the sick asshole had to go and rape Densmore’s daughter.”

I could tell this was the turning point. I let a beat of silence punctuate her last words, then took the plunge.

“Where were you the night Kit was killed?” I asked.

Evelyn’s eyes darted to Bailey, then back to me. She licked her lips, and I could tell her mouth had gone dry. If she dummied
up now, we were toast. The air was thick with tension. I tried to make myself breathe normally as I waited and silently willed
her to speak.

“That was Stayner,” she replied.

I let her words hang in the air and deliberately said nothing. I’ve
found that sometimes silence is the best interrogator. After a moment, she continued.

“Kit found his own photo online and managed to figure out where it had been taken. He tried to use it to blackmail Stayner.”
Evelyn shook her head at the folly of it. “I had no idea he was going to kill the kid.”

Bailey glanced at me, and I sat back. She turned to Evelyn. “A dead man is an awfully convenient fall guy,” Bailey said. “If
you want me to help you out, you’re going to have to give me something that proves it was Stayner.”

Evelyn thought about it for a minute, then stared straight ahead as she spoke.

“I can tell you why that DA guy wound up dead.”

I felt a little sick, not sure I wanted to hear what she was about to tell us. But, after all this time, I knew I had to find
out. I only hoped that, good or bad, it would be the truth. Bailey nodded to prompt her, and she continued.

“Kit bragged that he was friends with a DA. Said that the guy helped him all the time and that he was going to be waiting
outside the motel. I’m sure he figured that would scare Carl into giving him the money and getting out of there.” Evelyn paused,
then continued. “Carl didn’t buy it. Thought the kid was just bullshitting. But Carl was wrong. The DA really was waiting
outside. And even so it wouldn’t have mattered, except Carl showed up late. So by the time he shot Kit, the DA had gotten
worried and came in to find out what was going on. Once that DA came knocking on the door, Carl was stuck. Besides, he didn’t
know what Kit had told the guy.” Evelyn paused and sighed. “No way Carl could just let him leave.” She sat back and exhaled.

“So Stayner let the DA into the room and shot him, then set it up to look like a murder-suicide,” Bailey said.

Evelyn nodded. “You check that DA’s cell phone. I’m betting
you’ll see there’s a call from Kit sometime that day setting the pickup spot.”

I struggled to hide my emotions. My relief was mixed with profound sorrow. Jake would be cleared, but it was gut-wrenching
to think that his act of kindness had led to his murder. And Evelyn’s story didn’t fully explain the nature of Jake’s involvement
with Kit. Much as I hated the thought, I resigned myself to the possibility that I might never find out. With an effort, I
put aside my feelings and pressed on.

“But if Stayner didn’t know Jake was coming, then how did our man just happen to have a photo of Kit to plant on Jake?” I
asked, my tone deliberately skeptical.

“I told Carl to have Kit bring it with him. I wanted to have a look at it to see what tipped Kit off to the fact that we’d
taken it at the clinic. If Kit could figure it out, so could someone else. I didn’t want any more blackmailers out there.”

Other than you,
I thought. Not surprisingly, the irony was lost on Evelyn. But I had what I needed. Now it was time for the endgame.

“I’ll buy that,” I said with a shrug. “But it doesn’t prove Stayner killed them. Where were you that evening?”

Evelyn made a show of thinking about the answer. “I believe I was at work. Matter of fact, I was at the Hollywood clinic.”

“Till what time?” I asked.

“I was the last to leave that night, and I seem to remember locking up around seven thirty,” she replied.

It was a decent alibi. The murders were committed at 5:30. And it was a smart answer, because nobody punched time clocks at
that clinic. So if Evelyn was alone, there was no one who could contradict her story. There was just one problem.

“Stayner’s cell phone records put him in Santa Monica. Sixteen miles from the motel.” I paused to watch Evelyn’s reaction.
She obligingly gave me one.

“Doesn’t mean the phone was on him. He could’ve loaned it to somebody,” she said.

“But he didn’t,” I replied. “We’ve got an intersection photo that shows him driving north on California Ave. At five thirty
p.m. There is no way he could’ve been there if he’d just killed Kit and Jake. At that time of day, it would’ve taken him over
an hour to get from downtown to Santa Monica.”

Evelyn blanched so suddenly I thought she would faint. She stared at the table with sightless eyes as the shock of what I’d
said sank in.

“And there is also no way you’d know this much about the murders if you hadn’t done them yourself,” I concluded.

Bailey wrapped it up. “Evelyn Durrell, you’re under arrest for the murders of Jake Pahlmeyer and Kit Chalmers.”

And on that note, Bailey and I walked out.

I filed two counts
of murder against Evelyn. We were still totting up the child-pornography charges. If the jury did the right thing, she’d
get life without parole. As for Densmore, Bailey and I agreed there was no way he’d known anything about Jake’s and Kit’s
murders or their possible link to his clinic. Much as he loved his daughter, he wouldn’t have pushed her case that hard if
he’d known it would lead to proof that his clinic was being used to produce child pornography. As for Stayner’s murder, Densmore
likely figured he’d never get caught—and he very nearly didn’t.

I filed a few counts of child pornography and one count of first-degree murder with special circumstances against him, but
it wouldn’t surprise me if the jury dumped the pornography counts and convicted him only of second-degree murder, or even
manslaughter. Juries don’t mind vigilante parents, even when they’re egotistical control freaks. But even if the jury did
cut him a break, Densmore would get to live with the knowledge that his “associations” were responsible for his daughter’s
rape.

The memory of Densmore’s arraignment was a painful one. The court had been crowded that morning, and the press had predictably
shown up. I wanted to get it over with and get out of the limelight as soon as possible, but by the time the judge finally
called my
case, the reporters outnumbered the lawyers. I read the charges, and Densmore’s lawyer, a slick New York–looking guy I didn’t
recognize, entered his not-guilty plea. We set a date for the preliminary hearing. The whole thing was over in minutes. I
took my time packing up so I wouldn’t have to face the reporters. When I thought it was safe, I picked up my file and turned
to go. There, in the audience, were Janet and Susan. They were talking—or rather listening—to Densmore’s lawyer.

I’d walked down the aisle toward them, unsure of what to say. My heart ached for the pain they’d suffered and would continue
to endure. When I drew near, they looked up and saw me. I stopped.

“Susan, Janet. I’m so sorry,” I said.

I wanted to tell them I’d never thought things would turn out this way, that I’d have changed it all if I could, that I’d
had no choice but to do my job. But I could see there was no point. Susan had leaned away and deliberately looked down. Janet
gave me a cool glare, then turned back to the lawyer. I left the courtroom.

All Susan could see was that I’d destroyed her father. And she probably couldn’t stop thinking that it had all happened because
she told her mother and father that she’d been raped. So she was blaming me, herself—everyone but Densmore. Maybe someday
she’d be strong enough to blame the right person.

But one good and unexpected thing had come out of the arraignment. The next day, after it had aired on all the news channels,
Olive Horner, Kit’s foster mother, called.

“Got somethin’ you’re gonna want to hear,” she’d begun.

“Do you want me to come out and see you?” I offered, curious.

“Nah,” she replied.

I heard the muted sounds of a television in the background but no baby cries. I guessed the little one had been adopted after
all.

Olive continued. “I got this fifteen-year-old, Adam, just came to me recently. One day he sees the picture of Kit I keep in
my wallet.
Says he knew Kit. Did time with him in the hall.” Olive paused, and I heard a muffled voice that sounded like Janzy’s come
from somewhere in the room. Olive said, “Just a minute, okay?”

The phone banged as it landed on a hard surface, and I waited, somewhat impatiently. Where was this going?

A few minutes later, Olive returned. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. So Adam knew Kit,” I prompted.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Then, yesterday, me and Adam were watching you in court and the news showed Jake’s picture.”

Jake. I sat down, the phone pressed tightly against my ear, and braced myself.

Olive continued as I rubbed my suddenly painfully throbbing temples. “Adam knew Jake. Said a bunch of the kids in the hall
knew him. Jake would talk to ’em about how school was important, ’bout stayin’ out of trouble, respectin’ themselves. He’d
bring ’em clothes, books. Even got some of ’em tutors so they could get their GED.”

“So Jake was—,” I began, my voice shaky.

“A kinda guardian angel, from what I hear,” Olive said. “Knew he was your friend. Figured you’d like to hear that.”

“Olive, I can’t tell you what this means to me,” I said, trying to rein in my emotions.