The Competition - [19]

I didn’t answer. Tom saw my expression, and his features hardened.

Bailey scanned the room. “It’d help if we could have a crime scene tech in to test for gunshot residue or-”

Tom cut her off. “We’ve already helped enough. Now how about you help us and find our son, goddamnit! Otis had nothing to do with this! So if you want to waste more time searching here, you’d better get a warrant.”

He turned and left the room and we followed him out. There was no point arguing. If we got anything more to tie Otis to the shooting, we’d get that warrant. Short of that, we had no choice but to leave.

From what we’d seen, Otis did look like the typical angry, alienated loner who hated the world enough to lash out, but that didn’t mean he was one of the shooters. At least, not yet.

10

By the time we left Otis Barney’s house it was almost eleven p.m. The autumn air had a bite that made me pull my peacoat closer and wish I’d brought my cashmere scarf. When we got back to Bailey’s car I reached for the heater.

“It’s not that cold,” she said.

“It is for me.”

Bailey closed the vents on her side. “Maybe you should transfer to the DA’s office in Dubai.” We rode in silence as she steered us toward the Tampa Avenue freeway on-ramp.

“Those posters were pretty strange,” I said. “But we didn’t find anything else. Maybe his parents are right. Maybe he isn’t one of the shooters.”

“And maybe his parents are in denial about who their son is. They wouldn’t be the first. But I don’t blame them for being pissed off at us. It’s a hell of a thing to hear your kid accused of mass murder.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. It was hard to even imagine how that must feel. I pictured Otis’s room again. Those posters. And something I hadn’t seen. “I didn’t notice a computer,” I said. “He must have one.”

“Yeah, probably a laptop. But I didn’t want to bring it up and give them any ideas. If Otis does have one, I’m hoping they won’t think to wipe it before we can get a warrant.” Which meant we had to dig up some probable cause for a search warrant, and fast. “Home?” she asked.

“May as well. Can’t get anything more done tonight.” I put my hands next to the vents to warm them. “We need to have the unis ask around about Otis. Talk to students, teachers, and counselors and find out if he was into guns or made any threats, that kind of thing. But they can’t make it sound like-”

“He’s our guy. One of ’em, anyway. I know.”

Traffic was light, and before I knew it, we were heading into downtown Los Angeles. Bailey cleared her throat. “Feel like a drink?”

I was tired and depressed and in no mood to hang out, but Bailey’s voice was uncharacteristically strained. I looked at her closely. She had a death grip on the steering wheel, and her jaw was clenched so hard the cords in her neck stood out. She needed company-and a stiff drink…or seven. Come to think of it, so did I. “Sure. And why don’t you crash with me?”

Bailey gave me a tight smile. “Sounds good.”

Twenty minutes later, Bailey pulled up in front of the Biltmore and parked next to a fire hydrant. Bailey believes illegal parking is one of the few perks of being a cop. But it’s not just a matter of convenience. She’ll pick the red zone over a closer space every time. It’s a religion with her. “You know, eventually, someone’s going to bust you for this shit.”

“Good thing I know a lawyer then, huh?”

“Please. I’ll be the first to testify against you. You want to know who’ll be second?” I pointed to Rafi, the Biltmore valet, who was shooting daggers at Bailey.

Bailey threw him a smile as we walked past the valet stand. “Catch ya next time, partner.”

Rafi nodded sullenly.

“That’s what you always say,” I said, as we reached the front entrance.

Angel, the doorman, opened the door and chuckled. “I believe she’s right about that, Detective,” he said.

“Good idea, Angel, side with her,” Bailey said. “You don’t care about getting that Christmas bottle of scotch anyway, right?”

Angel put on an earnest expression. “On second thought, I believe you have let him park your car on many prior occasions,” he said.

“Shameless,” I said.

“Nicely played,” Bailey said.

Angel smiled. “Marriage has taught me many things.” We stepped inside. “Have a nice evening, ladies.”

The familiar faces of home. It was the best I’d felt all day. And I knew it was comforting to Bailey too. Even so, as we crossed the lobby and headed for the bar I noticed her steps were heavy. We had to lighten up. There was no way of knowing how long it would take us to wrap up this case. If we didn’t find some emotional balance we’d wind up wearing jumpsuits with very long arms. I grabbed the large brass handle of the bar door, pulled it open, and gestured for her to enter. “Your Highness.”

“Your Highness?”

“There’re plenty of other things I could call you.”

Bailey and I took our usual spots at the end of the bar nearest the wall. It was a classic, well-appointed bar, mahogany with plush swivel stools and a mirror that was lit softly enough to prevent depressing news if I accidentally caught a glimpse of myself. Our spot at the end offered the most privacy. But that wasn’t a problem tonight. The bar was relatively empty. Just a few businessmen whose loosened ties and red faces told me they’d finished their business for the day at least three drinks ago.