Chapter Twenty-One
Hugo Quintana was waiting when Jason arrived in the Touchstone lobby to collect his belongings from Professor Ono’s apartment.
“You didn’t fool me. I knew you were a cop the whole time,” Quintana informed him, following Jason into the elevator. “I could smell it on you.”
“I’m starting to get a complex,” Jason remarked. “If you knew I was law enforcement, why have you been such an ass? I’m just doing my job. Same as you.”
Quintana puffed up like an angry rooster. “Same as me, right!” His laugh was harsh. “Don’t bother with the fraternal order bullshit now. If you wanted cooperation, you shoulda been upfront about why you were here. Your pal with the Bob’s Big Boy do was replaying LAPD’s greatest hits.”
“Meaning?”
“They wanted to blame it all on us. They hinted we were harassing her and ignoring break-ins. Or we were the ones trying to break in. We were negligent, or we were criminal. Take your pick. Their minds were all made up. I know how cops think, how they look at security personnel: rent-a-cops, toy cops, plastic badges, wannabe cops. I’ve heard it all. From cops! Anybody gets hurt, it must have been our fault. We weren’t doing our jobs.”
Jason got it. Security guards, prison guards, they didn’t get a lot of respect. That didn’t mean they didn’t have a tough job or weren’t doing it to the best of their ability.
“You have to admit there were some gaps in protocol,” Jason said. “Erasing the security camera film every forty-eight hours, for one. Allowing unmonitored access into the building after ten o’clock at night. Those were procedures that needed to be corrected. But if it makes you feel better, there was nothing in the police reports to indicate suspicion fell on any member of Touchstone’s security team.”
“No, just the team as a whole!”
Jason inwardly sighed. He was wasting his breath. Quintana had a chip on his shoulder the size of a prison ball. In his defense, he’d been the target of Ono’s accusations, so maybe that touchiness was understandable.
They reached Ono’s apartment. Quintana insisted on waiting in the hall as Jason went inside and gathered up his files and belongings. It didn’t take long. He had a final look around. Even after a week of sifting through the circumstances of Georgette Ono’s life—and death—he had no strong sense of who she was or what she had wanted.
When I went to the film and saw all the black-and-white feelings that nobody felt…
But maybe the idea that anyone ever really knew anyone else was a comfortable illusion. Certainly, a career in law enforcement would lead you to that conclusion. Trust in another person was both calculated risk and leap of faith—even for the Sam Kennedys of the world.
He stepped into the hall, let the apartment door close behind him. Quintana stuck his hand out, and Jason handed over the keycard.
“It’s all yours.”
But in the elevator on the way down, Quintana’s curiosity got the better of him.
“Was she murdered?”
Jason shrugged. “It looks like it.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“I think so. Proving it will be up to someone else.”
Quintana folded his arms as though this kind of half-assed answer was exactly what he expected.
Jason was nearing the UCLA campus when he noticed a battered gold Chevy Impala in his rearview.
The Impala was a couple of lengths back, and he was unsure when he’d picked it up—or if he’d picked it up. There was more than one vintage gold beater tooling around the mean streets of LA. Maybe this was the same car that had nearly run him down in Touchstone’s front driveway. More likely not.
Still.
As he neared the entrance to faculty parking, Jason began to plan out where he would position his vehicle, his communications to UCLA’s security personnel and campus police, the condition of his carry—he had managed to stop compulsively checking his weapon every time there was a chance he’d have to fire it (a tic he had picked up after his shooting in Florida), but he always felt a flash of anxiety that he was unprepared for the worst.
He was not unprepared. He was trained, and he was ready.
All unnecessary because as he turned off, the Impala continued down the street, flashing past the gates too fast for Jason to get more than a glimpse of the driver: pulled-down felt hat, hunched shoulders…
The car did not have a license plate.
In the cold light of day—well, the cold light of day did not reach down to the subterranean chambers of the Archive Research and Study Center—but on Saturday morning, with office doors open and slightly hungover employees wandering zombie-like through the narrow corridors, Jason’s midnight encounter with Pop felt like just another weird dream.
He let himself into his shoebox of an office, pulled out his computer, turned on Harry Styles, and settled down to work. He was hoping to finish his report and be out of there by lunch.
He was reviewing the crime-scene video of Ono’s apartment one final time—the fact that she’d been found hanging in the closet should have been everyone’s first clue something was amiss (her family had drawn the obvious conclusion when they’d gotten rid of her mattress)—when Sam phoned.
“Hi!” This was definitely a surprise. By Jason’s estimation, Sam should be up to his elbows in grisly forensics and disturbing psych evaluations by now. He lowered the volume on “Late Night Talking.”
“Hey.”
“How’s it going?”
Sam said curtly, “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be staying through Sunday. I’ll fly out Monday a.m.”
“You’re kidding.”
The silence on the other end of the line was absolute and utter.
“That’s great,” Jason said quickly. “I didn’t think— This is great.”
Sam said, “I get the feeling you believe you’re the one making all the compromises.”
Jason said carefully, “I think I’m in a position to make more compromises.”
“That’s correct. But.”
“But?”
“We’ll talk it over this weekend.”
What the hell did that mean? Was this good news or bad news?
“All right. I’m not complaining. You know that, right?”
“I know that. See you tonight. Probably around nine.”
“See you tonight. I l—”
“Love you,” Sam concluded briskly, and hung up.
Okay, then.
Jason returned to studying the crime-scene vid. Part of why everyone (himself included) had overlooked the unlikelihood of Ono pleasuring herself to death in a closet probably had to do with discomfort over Ono’s sexual proclivities as well as the distraction of the pornographic articles strewn around her feet. Had he shown Sam this video, Sam would probably have instantly noticed all the silly inconsistencies—
His email dinged.
Joe North’s roommate Margot had emailed him with an attachment.
Jason opened the email. The message was no more than a note.