Robert Ellis - Murder Season

“You look surprised,” he said.

“I didn’t realize it was him. What went wrong? Why’d he stop making movies?”

Wireman shrugged and got back to work. “Shit happens, I guess. Seems like he got more than his share.”

Lena noticed a second door in the hallway. Because it was slightly more narrow than the door leading to the attic, she assumed that it opened to a closet. But when she gave the handle a push, bright sunlight flooded the entire landing and swirled around her feet.

It turned out to be another bedroom. Lily Hight’s bedroom.

And there was a feeling inside-something undefined and difficult to absorb.

The girl’s room was almost the size of her father’s office across the hall. On the left, Lena could see a walk-in closet-a chest of drawers and a bathroom. On the right, a small desk stood beside a pair of bookcases and two sets of windows facing the Gants’ house on the other side of the drive. Curiously, a window was cracked open, a slight breeze filtering warm air into the air-conditioned room.

Lena walked in, letting the door drift shut behind her. As she stepped into the middle of the room, she looked at the double bed pushed against the far wall, noted an armchair, the computer, and various keepsakes the sixteen-year-old had collected before her death. But what struck her most was the condition of the room itself. That feeling she got when she first opened the door.

One year ago this bedroom had been a crime scene. After the investigation, the space would have been released and the Hights given the names of several companies specializing in bio waste and crime scene cleanup. It seemed as if their work had been thorough. Even the white carpet looked spotless. But it was more than that. What struck Lena about the room was that the Hights didn’t appear to have sealed it off. Unlike most families who have suffered a devastating loss, the room had the odd feeling of openness that comes from continued use.

She moved over to the bed. Pillows were propped up against the headboard with several books stacked by the lamp on the night table. An impression left by a body was visible on the mattress. On the carpet by the window Lena noticed marks from the chair and was surprised that the carpet fibers hadn’t filled in after the cleanup. The chair must have been placed in front of the window for a long time before someone moved it closer to the bed.

She turned back to the chest, found it filled with the girl’s clothing, and started searching through the drawers. She tried not to think too much about what she was seeing, the sadness and heartbreak that came with such a loss. Still, Lily Hight’s clothing was clean and neatly folded. And Lena couldn’t help but smell the girl’s body lingering here and there throughout the room. The fragrance of her hair and skin. She knew from experience that no matter how well you cleaned a room, no matter how much you scrubbed everything down, the scent of a human being lasted until the walls were repainted and the furniture was removed.

She tried to push her thoughts away. Tried to work at a steady pace and quiet her mind. When she finished with the last drawer, she heard something outside and checked the window.

Through the tree branches she could see a crowd beginning to form in front of the Gants’ house. Members of the press corps were unpacking cases and setting up their cameras. When she spotted the Acura RL parked at the curb, she knew who it belonged to and understood what was about to happen.

Buddy Paladino was inside conferring with Jacob Gant’s father. There was a buzz in the air-anticipation-the media’s nervous chatter easily reaching the open window. The defense attorney with the million-dollar smile was preparing to make his statement.

Lena’s pulse quickened slightly as she played through the possibilities in her head. Paladino wasn’t going to be talking to the press from his office or even the courthouse. He was here because he knew that they were here-the truck from SID, the marked patrol units and detective cars parked in front of Tim Hight’s house. Paladino was a genius at seeing the single flaw in a prosecutor’s case and working a jury until they saw it, too. But he was even better at playing the press. He had won freedom for Jacob Gant, and now Jacob Gant was dead. He needed someone to blame for his client’s death, someone with deep pockets, and his finger would be pointed directly at the police. He’d stick the blade in as deep as he could and twist it. He’d deliver his message, smear the department, and use their marked vehicles as a visual backdrop only an art director from one of the studios could match.

It was the reason Buddy Paladino was Buddy Paladino, she thought. The reason she found him so fascinating, even dangerous at times.

She stepped away from the window and moved back to the bed. When she noticed the memory box on the night table, she picked it up and sat down. The box appeared to be handmade from cherry wood, the lid inlaid with silver leaves around a glass picture frame. Behind the glass was a snapshot of a wet dog, an English cocker spaniel, sitting on the beach, panting and looking up as if he were waiting to continue a game of fetch. Lena recognized the Santa Monica pier in the background but couldn’t tell when the photograph had been taken.

She opened the lid and removed the pad of notepaper on top. Underneath she found pieces of jewelry and sorted through them with her finger. Mixed in with the jewelry was an old silver dollar, a stamp commemorating Babe Ruth, and finally, an ID tag Lena guessed had been worn by the spaniel in the snapshot. Lily Hight’s dog had been named Mr. Wilson.

She looked away.

There was a sustained sadness here, a presence even the sunlight couldn’t bleach out. The feeling dissipated when Barrera called out her name from the landing and she called back to him. As the door opened and he popped his head inside, she set down the box.

“We need to talk,” he said.

Barrera closed the door and crossed the room for a look out the window.

“We’re fucked, Lena. And the DA’s full of shit. This isn’t going away. Not with Paladino reminding everybody that we fucked up. It doesn’t matter what people thought of Jacob Gant. It doesn’t matter that they’re glad he’s dead. Paladino’s smart enough to know that. Watch him rip us apart and milk the cash cow dry.”

His words came out in a jittery spin that ran out of gas and died. Sitting on the arm of the reading chair, he took in the room and seemed as uncomfortable by the setting as she was.

“You find anything?” he said.

“Not yet.”

“Same with everybody else. Let’s face it, the gun’s not here. It’s not anywhere. When you finish in here we’re done.”

He gave her a look. Something flared up in his eyes.

“You’ve got something,” she said. “What is it?”

“Cash and coke. Street found it in Hight’s dresser drawer.”

“How much?”

“Two grand in hundred-dollar bills. That’s what Bosco carried. Hundred-dollar bills.”

It wasn’t the gun, Lena thought, but it remained a small piece of luck because most people counted their money. Especially when they carried hundred-dollar bills. If the cash found in Hight’s drawer belonged to Bosco, there was a chance that both had left their fingerprints.

“What about the coke?” she said. “How was it packaged?”

Barrera raised his eyes. “A number ten envelope, like Hight found it in Bosco’s desk and scooped the shit in. About fifteen grams worth. Maybe twenty. Enough for a lot of good rides.”

“His eyes,” she said. “He looked strung out.”

“I thought so, too.”

Lena got up and walked over to the window. Paladino was still inside, the number of reporters gathering in the street, too big to count.