Guilt By Degrees - [10]

And who was our John Doe, who lay alone and ignored on a filthy sidewalk while his life seeped away? I imagined a mother looking down at her newborn’s face, full of hopes and dreams.

I pushed aside the depressing thought and refocused on the report. John Doe’d had a box cutter in his pocket, and he’d grabbed that woman. It was possible the killer had stabbed John Doe in response to a threat. But if it wasn’t a self-defense killing, then I owed it to John Doe to make his murderer pay, or at least to give it a fair try.

The crime scene was just a short hike from the office and only a few blocks away from my home-a suite at the Biltmore Hotel, a grand historical landmark in the heart of downtown L.A. I’d been lucky enough to score a sweet deal as a long-term resident after getting a sentence of life without parole for the murderer of the CEO’s wife. Recently, the CEO had upgraded me to a suite with two bedrooms, claiming it wasn’t getting much use anyway. I’d been a little reluctant to be on the receiving end of even more of his generosity. But when he continued to insist, I caved in. It did make sense that my old room, being smaller and more affordable, was easier to book.

I picked up the phone and punched in Bailey’s number. Being at a crime scene always gives me a firsthand feeling for how everything went down-gives me ideas about where to look and what to look for. And it always helps to have the benefit of Bailey’s discerning eye.

“Detective Keller, please,” I said.

I gazed out at my view of downtown Los Angeles. Having a window office had thrilled me from the moment I’d landed here, in my dream job as a prosecutor in the Special Trials Unit. I made it a point to enjoy the spectacular view every day, no matter what else was going on. The wind was still wreaking havoc with skirts, hats, and hair. A young couple in jackets that were way too thin for the wintry cold shivered and clung to each other as they waited to cross Spring Street. An older woman-who’d unfortunately chosen to wear a wide skirt-awkwardly walked with one hand pressed to her thigh as she hugged the shoulder strap of her purse with the other hand. Behind her a teenage boy mugged for his friends, pretending to be Marilyn Monroe in the famous skirt-blowing scene. He pressed his hands to the legs of his jeans and puckered his mouth as the others snickered. Yeah, I thought, you try walking downhill in a skirt and heels in this wind, smart-ass.

My call was put through.

“Keller.”

“Knight here. Want to walk a crime scene?”

“John Doe stabbing?”

How the hell…?

“It’s all over the station, Knight. But how’d you wind up with this case? It’s not exactly Special Trials material.”

“The guy who had the case was a useless sack-”

“Who was gonna dump it, so you got pissed off and grabbed it. And, now that you’re in this thing up to your ears, it turns out the case is a dog.” Bailey sighed. “You know, I get your whole ‘justice for all’ thing. What I don’t get is why it means I have to be roped in.”

As if Bailey-or Toni, for that matter-was all that different from me. This wasn’t just a nine-to-five job for any of us. But given Bailey’s current attitude, not to mention the fact that she was right about the case being a dog, I decided now was not the best time to point that out. “Because you’ll get to give me hell about my lack of impulse control?”

“I can do that anyway, and besides, I’m in the middle of a report…”

I saw that I’d have to up the ante. “I’ll give you the blow-by-blow on what happened in-and out of-court.”

Bailey exhaled. “Where’s the scene?”

The lure of gossip. It seldom fails. I told her.

“Meet you in ten,” she said, and hung up.

It gets tiresome the way Bailey goes on and on.

8

I called Melia, the unit secretary, and told her I’d be going out to a crime scene. Then I pulled on my coat, reached into the pocket for my.22 Beretta, flipped off the safety, and headed out.

I found Bailey standing at the corner of Hope and Fourth Street, her short sandy-blond hair barely ruffled by the heavy wind. Only the tall and lean Bailey could pull off a midcalf-length camel-hair coat. The day was cold enough to make even the weatherproof detective wrap a scarf around her neck, and its jewel-toned colors brought out the green in her eyes. If she weren’t one of my besties, I’d hate her guts.

“According to the report,” I said by way of greeting, “our John Doe was slightly more than halfway between Fourth and Fifth when they found him.”

We headed toward the spot.

“I didn’t leave my cozy cubby just to walk a scene with you. What the hell happened in court?”

I filled her in.

“Jeez,” she said with a sigh when I’d finished. “Poor Stoner. He’s had it rough lately.”

“So you know him?”

“We worked together in Hollywood Division a while back. Really good guy, and a great cop.”

“So I should believe him when he says he won’t give me grief if the case goes south?” I asked.

Bailey hesitated. This did not reassure me.

“What?” I asked impatiently.

“Yeah, he’ll probably be okay,” she said, then stopped and looked off down the street. “It’s just that he’s going through a real bitch of a divorce. It’s got him a little…unhinged. Otherwise he never would’ve gone off on some dumb-punk DA, no matter what he said.” Bailey put her hands into her pockets and looked at the ground for a moment. “But you did him a solid-pulled his case out of the Dumpster. I’d think you’d be bulletproof where he’s concerned.”