Blood Defense - [11]

? Couldn’t be anyone who really knew me. “Who?”

“Rick Saunders.”

Now I got it. I’d had a case with Saunders before. He was an honest cop. If Saunders really was a buddy, Pearson might not be all bad. It’d be easy enough to verify. I checked my calendar. “Why don’t you come by the day after tomorrow?”

“I might already be in custody by then. Can you spare any time today? I can come in as late as you want.”

We agreed on five o’clock. I walked out to tell Alex and Michelle. “He’s coming by at five o’clock. You guys don’t have to wait. I’m sure he won’t feed my body to the shredder.”

Alex tsked. “Your shredder’s way too small.”

Michelle shook her head. “And you’re high if you think we’re going to miss this.”

I figured. “Give me everything you’ve got on Pearson. And Alex, see if you can find out whether he’s tight with this LAPD detective Rick Saunders.”

Michelle tapped a few keys on her computer. “There. Go read.”

It wasn’t much. Dale Pearson, fifty-one years old, had been married and divorced twice. Nothing unusual for a cop. Or a trial lawyer. We’re notoriously bad marriage material. One daughter from the first marriage, Lisa Milstrom, who was seventeen now. He’d graduated cum laude with a BA in political science from UCLA. So he hadn’t always wanted to be a cop. Whatever he’d been planning to do, it took him just one year to figure out it wasn’t happening and sign up with the LAPD.

And he’d done well. He’d made detective within five years, which was pretty fast. He’d done stints in West LA, Rampart, and South Central before winding up in the Hollywood Division.

And then he’d killed two women.

The day moved as slowly as all days do when you’re waiting for them to end. I read up on the latest state and Supreme Court decisions, answered some letters and e-mails, and prayed my mother wouldn’t call.

At ten after five, the buzzer sounded. Michelle spoke into the intercom, our only form of security. Dale Pearson announced himself and Michelle buzzed him in. I’d left the door to my office open so I could listen in while he met Michelle and Alex. It’s always telling how someone treats “the help.” If he was a jackass with Michelle and Alex, he’d be toast.

I’d seen photos of him, so I had some idea of what to expect: reasonably attractive, dark brown hair and eyes, thick eyebrows, and a strong jaw. But he looked better in person.

He was just under six feet and in good shape. He wasn’t Rob Lowe or Colin Farrell gorgeous, but I’d say he was hot enough to snag more than his fair share of attention. Even though Chloe had been more than twenty years younger than he was, I could see the attraction. I guess. I mean, he was a cop, after all.

He shook hands with Alex and Michelle, introduced himself, and thanked them for staying past what he was sure were their normal hours. “I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic was really bad coming over the hill.”

I could well believe that. He lived in the Valley-in Porter Ranch, to be exact, which was one hell of a schlep for him at this time of day. I left my office and went over to him as I held out my hand. “Samantha Brinkman.”

A warm, slightly surprised smile spread across his face as he took my hand. The softness in his eyes gave me a bit of a surprise, too. His grip was strong, but not a “drop you to one knee” bone crusher. “Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Brinkman.”

I didn’t tell him to call me Samantha. I’d see if things got that far. “Come on in.”

SEVEN

I could tell just by the way he’d handled the introductions that Dale Pearson wasn’t your typical barbecue, beer, and broads cop. And he’d dressed to show respect, in a pale-blue button-down collared shirt and black slacks.

He was seemingly relaxed as he sat in the chair across from my desk with his legs crossed guy-style, ankle on top of knee. But his hands were clutched in his lap as though he was afraid that if he let go, they’d start throwing haymakers. I’d given him a thumbnail sketch of my experience, graduated with honors from Loyola Law School, spent seven years in the public defender’s office, handled two hundred homicides, and so on. Dale nodded, but I got the feeling I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know, so I moved on to the meat of the matter.

“Everything you say here is privileged, and the more I know, the better off you’ll be. So I encourage you to be as forthcoming as possible. Okay?”

Dale nodded, but his look was guarded. That was pretty typical. No matter how many times I gave that spiel, I had yet to find a client who really spilled all the beans-then or ever. “I understand the victims’ apartment was burglarized about two months before, and you responded to the call. What was a homicide detective doing on a burglary call?”

“I was doing a favor for Chuck Demeter; he’s on the burglary desk.” He shook his head. “Talk about no good deed.”

“That’s when you met Chloe.” He nodded. “Do you always date your crime victims?” Dale’s face darkened. This wasn’t good. “Look, you might have to take the stand. If you can’t even handle my asking you questions like that, you’ll get shredded when the DA gets in your face. So let’s try that again. If you’ve dated other victims, some of them might come out and say you used your position to push them into it.”