The Competition - [56]

“Told ya. So, Camarillo?”

Bailey stood up. “Yep.” We were about to step into the elevator when Graden called out to us. “Hang on, guys. Can you give me a minute?” We went back to his office. He closed the door and perched on the edge of his desk. “We got a hit on the Army-Navy surplus store in Van Nuys. The cashier remembers selling two camouflage jackets in about the right sizes to a couple of guys-”

“Do they have surveillance footage?” Bailey asked.

“Unfortunately, no. It’s a small operation. And we got a description from the cashier, but it’s pretty vague.” He picked up a report and read. “One tall guy with longish hair, one shorter guy, no further description. The shorter guy paid for both coats in cash.”

“We’ll get out there and talk to him,” Bailey said.

“Do it fast. The tabloids are everywhere now that we’re giving press conferences.”

“Good,” I said. “Maybe they can figure out who the second shooter is while they’re at it.”

“Just give them a minute, they will,” he said.

“You mean they’ll dig up some crank who says it’s all an FBI conspiracy,” Bailey said.

Graden nodded. “Yeah, the tabs will have it all figured out for us. That’s why we’re going to start putting a little more substance in the press releases. Better to get out in front of it and at least try to give the public the truth. So lock down all the statements you can-before your witnesses get contaminated by tabloid bullshit.”

Because the more a defense lawyer can show that witnesses could have been influenced by what they saw on TV or read somewhere, the less a jury will trust their testimony.

Graden handed Bailey the report, and we headed for the door. “Oh, and one more thing,” Graden said. “If you two get finished in time for dinner, let me know. It’s on me.”

“Depends,” I said. “Where?”

“So this is where we’re at now? Bribery? What happened to the joy of good company?”

“Who says they’re mutually exclusive?” I asked.

“I had to fall for a lawyer.” Graden shook his head. “Fine. Pacific Dining Car.”

Bailey nodded. “Sounds good.”

“You’re on.”

34

We hit the Army-Navy surplus store first. The cashier-Eddie Hemmings-was a short, skinny guy with sharp features. We’d hoped to dredge up at least a little more information than we already had, but no dice. Before we left, I warned him about the media. “I can’t stop you from talking to the press, but I can say that if you do, you’ll damage your credibility as a witness. And believe me, whatever they promise to do for you, they’ll forget it about ten seconds after they get your statement.”

I could see him weighing his options even as I spoke. But when I finished, he nodded amiably. “Got ya. No problem. I’ll keep it on the down-low.”

We hurried out to the car, and Bailey headed for the 101 north. “A fin says he talks to the press by noon tomorrow,” Bailey said.

“So little faith in your fellow man.” I shook my head. “A twenty says he’s on camera before we make it to Camarillo.”

Bailey groaned. “Never mind. I fold.”

We rolled onto the lot of Camarillo Tree Cutters just before noon. I’d heard the loud metallic growl of a chain saw as soon as we pulled onto the street, and the smell of cut lumber filled the air. It was a huge lot that had piles of cut wood at the front and hundreds of felled trees waiting to be cut behind them. The workers I could see all seemed to be Hispanic. I pointed to a small hut on the right that had a sign over the door, OFFICE. Bailey parked in front of it.

We knocked but got no answer. Bailey tried the door and found it was open, so we walked in. Calling it an office was a stretch. It was a small room with a window that afforded a view of the lot. A couple of folding chairs were in front of a table piled high with invoices. An old Mac desktop computer sat on a short metal filing cabinet to the left of the table, a green cursor blinking on a black screen. Everything was covered in a thick layer of sawdust. The air was so filled with the stuff, I coughed when we stepped inside. A toilet flushed, and a door on the right side of the room opened. And out stepped Paul Bunyan.

Well, not exactly, but close. He was well over six feet, and though he had a bit of a paunch, his arms and chest were solid muscle. And huge. When he saw us, he tugged down his T-shirt with one hand and pushed his wavy-though thinning-brown hair back with the other. “Uh, what can I help you ladies with?”

Ladies. Again. But this time I didn’t mind. I was distracted by the feeling that we’d stepped into an American fairy tale. I pulled out my badge and did the introductions. “And you’re the owner here?”

“Yeah. Isaiah Hamilton.”

“You have an employee named Shane Dolan?” I asked.

He half snorted. “I did. But he hasn’t shown up for the past four days.” Isaiah sat down and motioned for us to do the same. I took a swipe at the sawdust on one of the two metal folding chairs in front of his desk and tried not to think about what was going to be stuck to my pants.

“When was the last time he came to work?” I asked.

“Friday.”

“And was he supposed to be here on Monday?” I asked.