Ashes of Justice

J.J. Miller

Innkeeper Publishing

© 2024 Innkeeper Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental. 

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Books by J.J. Miller

THE BRAD MADISON SERIES

Force of Justice (Book 1)

Divine Justice (Book 2)

Game of Justice (Book 3)

Blood and Justice (Book 4)

Veil of Justice (Book 5)

Savage Justice (Book 6)

THE CADENCE ELLIOTT SERIES

I Swear To Tell (Book 1)

The Lawyer’s Truth (Book 2)

The Lawyer’s Heart (Book 3)

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Email: jj@jjmillerbooks.com

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Contents

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

PART II

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

PART I

Chapter 1

Athick plume of smoke blew into my path as I walked. I sidestepped, but my mouth and throat caught some of the acrid stuff, and I started coughing like a clapped-out engine. Finding clear air again, I looked to the sky. It was pre-dawn on a cool February morning in Los Angeles, and sitting high above me and the streetlights was an unbroken sheet of dark gray. The clouds were going nowhere, as the forecast said, and the coming day was set to be dull, bleak, and wet.

Up ahead, the darkness was lit red and blue by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. Two fire truck crews were tackling a structure fire. The ladder from one truck extended high over the single-story building and was jabbed into the billowing clouds that rose to the bleak heavens. As far as I could tell, the crews had subdued most of the fire, but it still spat angrily wherever they poked at it with their hoses.

I hadn’t stopped to be a rubberneck. This was where I was asked to come—the address of a high-end gym that now was little more than a smoking pile of rubble on Normandie Avenue, Edgewood Park. A metal sign saying “Phoenix Fitness” remained bolted to the exterior wall, defiantly untainted by the inferno. Phoenix Fitness, huh? This burnt-out shell wouldn’t be rising anytime soon.

“Mr. Madison,” a man’s voice called. “Over here!”

I turned to see a man in a white Lincoln parked on the curb twenty yards down. He withdrew his head from the window and settled back into the driver’s seat, looking straight at me. That must be him. Eduardo “Lalo” Silva, the guy who’d woken me up in the dead of night to come help with something urgent.

Right at this moment, looking at Silva beckoning me towards him, as the wipers crossed his line of sight, I felt like I was in a sliding-doors moment. Something in my gut told me I was getting dangerously close to making a wrong turn. Omen noted I went to the car. I had plenty of time to walk away. I just had to get a bead on what this was all about.

I opened the passenger door and got in.

“Good morning, Mr. Madison,” he said with a slight Hispanic accent. He swung out a hand. “Thank you for coming, my friend.”

“The sun’s not up, Mr. Silva, and we’re not friends,” I said, giving him a wry smile. “We’ve got a bit of getting-to-know-you to get through first. Let’s start with you telling me what’s going on.”

“That fire is years of my blood, sweat, and tears going up in smoke,” he said with quiet resignation.

Silva was a fit and bright-eyed individual. His dark hair was cropped short and his stubble was groomed. He was dressed in sweats and sneakers, but not the off-the-shelf-at-Ross kind. Every item of clothing looked designer-label pricey. He obviously wasn’t planning on getting dirty today—from the distressed sweater down to the fresh-from-the box shoes, he was all white.

Silva told me Phoenix Fitness was the crown jewel of his growing empire. That didn’t help me understand why he called me. File a claim and wait for the payout, I said. It was a rough, but temporary, setback. But he shook his head and insisted he was in urgent need of help, from me. What I’d assumed was the distress of seeing his gym being destroyed started to look like fear. Silva said the next place he got to call his own might be a prison cell.

“Are you telling me a faulty treadmill or badly-wired stair climber isn’t to blame here?” I said. “Is your handiwork?”

“No.”

“So send in a claim,” I said. “What’s the problem? You’re not late on your payments, are you?”

Silva shook his head. “No,” he said. “I had nothing to do with it. I swear. But the authorities won’t see it that way.”

“Are you saying it was arson?”

“Yes.”

“You think or you know?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“And it wasn’t you who lit the match?”

“I already told you it wasn’t me,” he said. “Mr. Madison, you don’t know me from Adam. I get that. I don’t expect you to take my word on anything. My other two gyms are not like this one. This one was very special to me, Mr. Madison. It meant something to me. This is the last thing I wanted.”

He was right—I wasn’t about to swallow everything he fed me. But Silva proceeded to tell me a story that got my attention. It wasn’t just the words. The guy was streetwise and charismatic. He seemed the type who could beat a polygraph with ease. And that got me wondering if I was in the company of an honest man or a huckster. The more time I spent with Lalo Silva, the more I thought it could go either way.

From the first, Silva wanted me to know he’d done time. In his late teens, he and a friend took to selling cocaine to college kids, using burner phones to take home-delivery orders. Uber Eats for small-scale drug deals, basically. But then students started dying from coke laced with fentanyl, and Silva and his buddy were netted in the sting. There was proof they had anything to do with the lethal cocaine, but Silva and his friend copped felony charges for possession with intent to sell. Given the loss of promising young lives, the judge wasn’t inclined to take Silva’s shoplifting prior lightly and she slapped him with the maximum penalty under Health and Safety Code 11351—four years in State prison. He was taken to Avenal and placed in a Level II facility, where he served not a day less than the term he was given. Then, Silva assured me, he walked out a changed man.

“I told myself I was never going back,” he said. “I promised I’d turn my life around, and that’s what I did. I did a lot of training in jail, and I seized on that as an idea. I knew how to get myself into shape, so I got into the health and fitness business.”

When Silva told me the first thing he did was set up an online store to sell fitness supplements, I stopped him.

“Hang on,” I said. “You spend four years in the box for selling cocaine, and you go out and start flogging powders?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “It has to be a front for illegal drugs, right?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” I said. “And,” I said, nodding at what was left of his gym. “I bet that’s what—”

“I know what you’re going to say, Mr. Madison,” Silva cut in. “The authorities will take one look at my past, and they’ll smell a rat. And they’ll be right. This was no accident. Someone did this on purpose.”

“What makes you so sure? There’s no investigation yet. No report’s been filed.”

I ran my eye over the emergency services at the scene. Along with the fire crews, two black-and-white cruisers were in attendance—Ford Crown Vics belonging to the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, the LASD. While Silva was telling me his story, I saw a police department (LAPD) patrol car pull up. A big sheriff’s deputy strolled over and spoke with the occupants, and they moved on.

“I don’t need an investigator to tell me what I already know, Mr. Madison. It’s arson, and they’re going to blame me for it.”

Silva had told me the gym’s fire alarm pushed a notification out to his phone. He got to the site at about the same time as the fire trucks. The LASD were not far behind. He went and spoke to the deputies, and they took a statement.

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them I’ve got no idea how this happened,” said Silva. “I told them what I told you. I got the alert and came as quickly as I could.”

“You told them what you told me? That you think it was arson?”

“What do you take me for?”

“I don’t know yet, Mr. Silva,” I said. “But all options are on the table.”

Silva smiled, showing that even under stress he had a sense of humor.

“How did you get my number anyway?” I asked. I wasn’t happy that a stranger had called me on a number I keep very private. But to be honest, it wasn’t the first time. There was nothing private about my so-called private number anymore. Happy clients flung it around LA like loose change.

I held up a hand. “Let me guess. You were in Avenal, right? Medium security.” I racked my brains for which of my clients got sent there. Suddenly, a name sprang to mind—Joaquin Tacito—and my stomach turned. “Not Kiki Tacito?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” smiled Silva, not reading my apprehension. “He said you were a magician. Said if it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t have had a prayer of ever getting out.” That was true enough, I guess. Silva’s expression turned serious as he studied my face. “So, are you a magician?”

“No,” I said. “I’m a lawyer. I know my way around a courtroom.”

Finding out Kiki Tacito was connected to this situation, however remotely, tightened the ratchet on my unease. Tacito was Mexican mafia, a member of the Sonora drug cartel. If I wanted to stay a mile away from trouble, I needed to put at least ten miles between me and Tacito.

I needed time to collect my thoughts.

“I’m going to go take a look,” I said without looking at Silva. I pushed open the passenger door and stepped out.

It was just after six, and the fire crews were packing up some of their equipment. The two deputies were stepping cautiously through the blackened ruins. With their heads aimed down, they didn’t notice me. Since no police tape had been put up, it wasn’t technically a crime scene, so I wasn’t in danger of copping a criminal trespass charge. That didn’t mean that these guys would be pleased to see me.

I’d covered no more than five yards when I heard someone shout, “Officer! Got a body over here!”

It was a firefighter who’d called out. He was now bent over, looking closer at whatever he’d spotted. As I walked over, he straightened and stepped to one side.

“Make that two. We’ve got two fatalities,” he said, his voice trailing off out of respect for the dead.

As I reached the fireman, I heard the crunch of heavy footsteps coming up from behind. I studied the ground. At first, I couldn’t see anything resembling a human body. Everything looked the same—a jumble of blackened, misshaped forms. Seconds later, I made out the charred remains of a human hand. The foreboding I’d had earlier now hardened into pure dread. Lying beside the charred hand was a deformed, partially melted metal object impossible not to recognize—a deputy sheriff’s badge.

The weight of Lalo Silva’s predicament dropped like a cut elevator. There was a dead sheriff’s deputy in his gym, and another dead body nearby. If this was arson, as Silva assured me it was, one thing was for certain—whoever was responsible was going to pay.

“Hey! Who the hell are you?”

This loud and furious challenge was yelled unapologetically into my ear from close range. It was accompanied by a hard backhander to my shoulder. I rounded to see the big deputy, his body the size of an industrial refrigerator and his fleshy face red with fury. The three chevrons on his arm told me he was a sergeant. His face was clenched into a hostile glare. He looked like he wanted to hammer me neck-deep into the ground. From behind, I guess he thought I was an investigator. But now that he could see I was nothing more than a civilian in a tailored suit and polished shoes, my presence was an outrage.

“I’m the property owner’s lawyer,” I lied—I was now more certain than ever that Lalo Silva would not be my next client. “I’m here to—”

“You’re not here to do a damned thing,” the sergeant said, stepping in closer and lowering his voice to a quiet growl. “Get your ass out of here post-haste, or I’ll have you cuffed and in my car before you can take another lousy breath. You hear me?”

By now, another deputy had arrived. He clocked the hand and the badge, before glaring at me. Now I had two deputies looking fit to kill. I decided against arguing the points of law, gave them a nod, and turned away. I’d seen all I needed to see. By that I mean I’d seen enough.

I walked back to Silva’s car, weighing up my next move. Did I want to stand between Silva and a bunch of deputies hell-bent on revenge? No one had to tell me about LA’s deputy gangs, and how they were a law unto themselves. And we were in Edgewood Park, the precinct of the reputed deputy gang known as the Vipers. If that dead body was a gang member, his brethren would be baying out for blood. They would hunt down whoever did this with no mind to play fair. I had a daughter to think about. Someone I cared about more than anything in this world. My duty to her outranked any duty I’d sworn to as a lawyer. I wasn’t the only suit in town who could defend Lalo Silva to the fullest. What mattered more? My role as a father or my duty as a defense attorney?

I came up with a name and number to give Silva. Doug Ziegler was a first-rate operator, and I knew he was hungry for cases. More than that, I knew he’d jump on this case like a pit bull onto red meat. He had a history with the LASD. Up until a few years ago, he was a prosecutor, and he’d been integral in securing a conviction against Sergeant Ethan Hume, a sheriff’s deputy who’d run a drug ring smuggling heroin into prisoners. That Hume headed up the unit assigned to stopping convicts from getting their hands on drugs said a lot about LASD corruption. Ziegler was very unhappy when Hume got off lightly. He left the District Attorney’s office and accepted a handsome offer to join the Cooper, Cygnet, and Shaw. He was now a criminal defense attorney. And if the LASD was going to try to railroad a case, Ziegler was the guy to put in their way.

No doubt about it. Ziegler was the man for Silva. I had his name and contact details queued up on my phone and ready to send. That was my intention when I tapped on the passenger window. That was my plan.

But that’s not how it worked out.

Chapter 2

“Silva,” I said, leaning into the window, “I’m giving you the name of the guy you should call. He’s a gun. Perfect for you. I can’t recommend him highly enough.”

I sent him Ziegler’s details. Silva said nothing. He glanced at his phone as it lit up.

“So that’s it, huh?”

“There’s nothing I can do for you that Ziegler can’t. I’m giving it to you straight.”

“Mr. Madison, wait,” he said, getting out of the car and rounding the hood. Silva was about six feet tall, just a couple of inches shorter than me. “Can I call you Brad? Mr. Madison makes me think of my old high school principal, Mad Dog Madison. I hated him only slightly more than he hated me. You’re not related, are you?”

“If I am, I don’t know it. Look, I’m not making any judgments here. This is not about you.”

“You’re not breaking my heart, Brad.”

“There are two dead bodies in there.”

His jaw dropped. “What? What are you—”

Silva spun toward the ruins of his gym. The deputies were rolling out the crime scene tape.

“There could be more bodies,” I said. “But the real kicker is that one of them’s a frickin’ LA County deputy. The other might be, too. What the hell happened here, Silva?”

“I have no idea,” he said softly and slowly. He was grappling with the news and was no doubt being hit by a freight train of thoughts.

“You said it was arson.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Then who was it?”

Silva shook his head. “Look. I swear, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You’ve got no idea whatsoever? No enemies? No crazy exes?”

“There’s no one out to get me, if that’s what you’re asking. At least, that I know of. I mean, a few of my competitors would like to see me go down, that’s for sure.”

“Whether or not it’s arson it doesn’t really matter—it adds up to the same. This a deep, dark, ugly mess.”

Silva rubbed his mouth, and his eyes dropped to focus somewhere on the ground behind me. The gravity of his plight was sinking in.

“What time does your gym close?” I asked.

“What? Eleven.”

“Eleven. Right. So what was an LA County deputy doing in your closed gym in the middle of the night?”

“I can’t answer that,” said Silva.

“You can’t or you won’t?” I said. “You get what’s brewing here, don’t you? This is a force-12 hurricane heading your way. If you don’t have an airtight alibi, you’re about to become the number-one enemy of one of the most powerful entities California.”

“My business is ruined, Brad,” said Silva, shaking his head and sucking in some deep breaths. “That’s all I know.”

“You know we’re in Edgewood Park, right?”

He gave me a look. “Of course.”

“Then you know the LAPD doesn’t operate here.”

“I’m not stupid.”

Edgewood Park was one of LA County’s unincorporated areas, patrolled by the LA Sheriff's Department (LASD). Bigger than the LAPD in terms of jurisdiction, population served, and staffing, the LASD also ran the county’s vast prison network, which contained something like 17,000 inmates, and supplied its thirty-seven courts with bailiffs.

But this gigantic agency was known to be littered with some of the most corrupt, racist, and brutal individuals ever to wear a badge. Rogue officers had formed deputy gangs all over LA County, going by names like The Grim Reapers and The Pirates. Like outlaw motorcycle gangs, they operated with contempt for the law. But unlike the Hells Angels, say, these guys were sworn by oath and paid by the State to uphold the law.

“I’m not blind, Brad,” said Silva. “I know how things work around here.”

“Then you know about the Vipers?”

“I’ve heard of them,” he said. “I’ve had nothing to do with them.”

Something about his tone struck me as a lie, but I couldn’t say why.

The wind picked up and sprayed us with a fine drizzle of rain. Traffic was building on Normandie Avenue, and drivers were slowing down to get a good look at the scene. Another LASD vehicle arrived, and one of the fire trucks left. The big deputy, the sergeant, had a cell phone pressed to his ear. No doubt sharing the grim news with his higher-ups. His partner was taking a statement from a young guy in grimy street clothes.

I went to give Silva a parting handshake. He raised his palms. “Okay, okay. Look, I need to start over here.”

He stared at me, maybe hoping his brain would work faster. Denial was written all over his face. Pretty soon, he’d have to make some smart decisions.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “That number I gave you? That’s your lifeline.” I jabbed a thumb in the direction of the deputies. “I’m telling you, those guys are angrier than a bull with pepper on its balls. If they come after you, you’ll need the best defense money can buy. Ziegler’s your man.”

I turned to walk away.

“Wait,” he said. He struggled to find the right words. “There's a lot more to this—a lot more—than meets the eye.”

“Oh, I’m sure there is,” I said. “That’s what worries me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” My frustration was growing. I never liked turning people away. “I’m not putting myself, my family, or my friends in the middle of this mess. I can’t stand between you and the LASD. Call Doug.”

“I’m sure Doug’s a good lawyer,” he said.

“He is.”

“But he’s not you. Believe it or not, I didn’t call you because I thought I’d be charged.”

“And you haven’t been,” I said. “But you need to get ahead of this. You called me earlier, now call Doug.”

“I wanted you to help me with another matter.”

“What are you talking about? There is no other matter. This is it. You’re about to—”

“No, this is bigger,” Silva insisted. “Please, just hear me out. Look, can we talk in the car before we get soaked? Give me five more minutes. Please.”

The thought of getting into the car had crossed my mind a few times—my car. But I nodded.

“Okay,” I said.

Silva skipped around to the driver's side and we resumed our seats in the Lincoln.

“Look, first off, I want to say thanks,” said Silva. “Right after we’re done here, I’ll call Doug. But I need your help me with something more important.”

“More important than staying out of jail?”

“Yes. A lot more,” Silva said. “I believe your heart’s in the right place, especially when it comes to your daughter. I’ve got two little girls, and I need your help to keep them safe.”

“Your property’s burning to the ground, and you’re calling me to talk about your daughters?”

Silva nodded, then all of a sudden he grimaced and grunted with pain, reaching for his lower back to massage it.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, grabbing a sheet of capsules from the center console and punching out two into his palm. “Just sprained my back. Got a little ambitious with my squats.”

He chased the pills down with a swig of water from a plastic squeeze bottle, then wiped his mouth and relaxed back in his seat.

“Where was I?” he said. “Look, Brad, I’ve been meaning to call you for a while now, but the fire made it urgent.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“Kiki and I shared a cell, as you know, and so we talked about a lot of things. You learn a lot about a guy when you share a cell with him. And one of those things he talked about, believe it or not, was you. I never heard him speak more highly of anyone than you. Trust me. You’ve got a huge fan there, Brad. I’m telling you.”

Silva was smiling now, and his voice was congenial. One thing this guy knew was that flattery could always buy you time. Entry-level stuff for con artists and salesmen alike.

“I did my job,” I said.

“He said if there was one man on this planet he could trust, it was you. He insisted I take your number in case I ever needed your help. And now I do.”

“Get to the point, Silva.”

But before Silva could answer, a voice boomed from outside, so loud it damn near shook the car.

“Hands on the wheel! Now!”

The big sergeant was standing in front of the Lincoln, his eyes locked on Silva. His partner was positioned close behind, fanned out to the right, hand over his gun. Their bitter faces made it clear they’d love an excuse to draw.

“Get out of the car,” the big deputy demanded. “Now!”

Chapter 3

“I’m Sergeant Craig Dillon,” said the big deputy to Silva, who was standing calmly in front of them, hands clasped. “And this here’s Deputy Paredes,” Dillon added, nodding toward his partner, whose nameplate also read “Hablo Español.”

The tension had eased since we’d gotten out of the car. Dillon even cracked a half-smile, but Paredes kept up his predatory glare, not moving a muscle.

“Mr. Silva, you told Deputy Paredes earlier you arrived here at four-thirty.”

“That’s right,” said Silva, repeating his story about getting the alarm notification.

“So how come we have a witness who saw you leave the premises right before the fire started?”

“What?” Silva looked baffled.

“Says you got into that Lincoln of yours and left in a hurry,” Dillon added.

“Who said that?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Dillon barked. “And I’m asking for an explanation.”

Silva didn’t pause in the hope that I’d step in. This was a situation he felt he could handle. That he’d decided earlier to give the cops a statement without a lawyer present spoke volumes about his confidence. He wasn’t some wide-eyed teenager. He was a former criminal. Yet he went ahead and gave that statement.

“I have no reason to destroy my own business,” said Silva. “I cherished that place. Why would I burn it down?”

I was prepared to cut in and advise Silva for free, but I saw no reason to. He was holding his own.

“Why indeed?” said Dillon. “That’s one of many questions I’d like to ask you, but what say we get out of this rain and go chat at the station?” Dillon looked at me. “What do you say, lawyer?”

“Is he under arrest?” I was glad I hadn’t walked earlier. Silva needed someone like me by his side.

“I never said that,” said Dillon, shuffling the tension out of his big frame, playing the good cop. “Just being civil. Just asking Mr. Silva to help us get to the bottom of what happened here.”

I place my hand on Silva’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Lalo. Go with them. I’ll meet you there. Just do me one favor, okay?”

“What’s that?”

“Keep your trap shut until I get there. No answers and definitely no more statements. Understood?”

“So you’re my lawyer now?”

“For now, yeah,” I said. “But I meant what I said earlier. I’ll just be keeping the seat warm for Doug.”

“Deputy Paredes,” said Dillon, nodding his head at Silva. Paredes stepped forward to pat Silva down. Then he invited Silva to get in the squad car.

As they took off, I hurried to my Silverado, a near-new ZR2. I started the engine, telling myself I shouldn’t have let Silva out of my sight. I put my foot down, hoping to catch the squad car. But they hit the flashing lights and, siren blaring, went through one red light and then another, leaving me stuck in traffic.

Surely, Lalo Silva could keep his mouth shut until I got there. For an ex-con like him, that would be all too easy. Right?

Chapter 4

“He’s been here ten minutes,” I said tersely, tapping my watch. “Twelve, in fact. I demand to see him.”

The receptionist got busy with her hands, working her keyboard and mouse with slick precision. “I understand, Mr…”

“Madison. Brad Madison.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “Now, I can tell you that Mr. Silva hasn’t been assigned an interrogation room yet. That can take a while.”

I’d never dealt with this station or the people who ran it, so to them, I was just some guy off the street.

The receptionist handed me a clipboard. “Why don’t you complete the visitor form? When that’s done, I can get you logged in. I’m sure it won’t be long before we know when you can see Mr. Silva.”

I took the form and glared. She kept her eyes glued to her screen. I crossed the room to a row of hard plastic chairs and sat down. As I filled out the form, I calmed myself down, knowing that Silva would demand a lawyer if things got serious. This wasn’t Soviet Russia. Even the LASD had to follow protocol, eventually.

Fifteen minutes went by. After handing back the form, I returned to the receptionist twice. Both times, she claimed that no interrogation room had been assigned to Silva.

I insisted she call Dillon. When she did, all she got was voicemail. She looked at me as she left a clear message that I was anxious to see Mr. Silva at the “earliest opportunity.”

I couldn’t sit still. I tried Silva’s number a few times, but it kept ringing out. I was about to try again when a door to the side of the lobby opened, and Dillon walked up toward me.

“Mr. Madison,” he said and left it at that.

“What the hell is going on? I demand to see Silva.”

Dillon shook his big head, looking down his nose at me. “Would if I could, Madison, but Mr. Silva hasn’t asked for a lawyer. You can either wait out here like a good boy, or you can get yourself gone.”

“What do you mean he hasn’t asked for a lawyer?”

“Exactly what I said. More to the point, he specifically said you were not his lawyer. He said you’ve got nothing to do with his situation.”

My mind spun with this unexpected news. Was Dillon lying? Was Silva planning to call Doug Ziegler instead of me? Either way, it didn’t sit right.

“If you’re interrogating him,” I said through gritted teeth, “I swear to God, any statement you get from him will be useless. I’ll get it tossed as improperly obtained evidence. LA judges don’t like coercion, Dillon.”

“I told you before—he’s not under arrest,” said Dillon. “He’s not being interrogated. He’s helping us voluntarily. And again, he made it crystal clear that you aren’t his lawyer. So you’re just going to have to wait until we’re done.”

Dillon barked the last word in my face. He spun around and disappeared through the same door. I looked at the receptionist. For the first time since I’d arrived, she held my gaze eye to eye. Her eyebrows were raised slightly as if to say, What are you waiting for, buddy? Scram.

I returned to my seat, debating whether to call Doug Ziegler. It was eight thirty-five. He’d definitely be at his desk.

I got to my feet again. As I was about to hit Ziegler’s number the door behind me swung open again. A deputy—my height but heavier, late fifties with gray hair trimmed to stubble—marched straight at me. He was rubbing his right fist with his left hand, and his glowering blue eyes bored right into me. I focussed on his name tag. “Auerbach,” it read. As I stepped aside to avoid him, he slammed into my shoulder, knocking the phone out of my hand.

“Out of my way,” he muttered, storming ahead and flinging the door open so that it crashed into the wall.

As I bent down to retrieve my phone, Dillon, Paredes, and Silva entered the lobby. My blood boiled at the sight of Silva. His upper lip and right cheek were swollen, and a trickle of blood ran from his right eyebrow. He could barely bring himself to look at me.

“What the hell happened?” I demanded.

“Nothing,” said Silva, keeping his head bowed while his eyes looked for the exit.

“What can I tell you?” said Dillon casually. “Guys’ got two left feet. Took a tumble on the stairs out back. Right, Mr. Silva?”

Silva nodded.

“He’s free to go, Madison,” said Paredes. “No charges.”

“Yet,” said Dillon over his shoulder as the pair made for the door.

I turned to Silva. “Lalo, you need to tell me what happened.”

“Later,” he said. “Let’s just go. Can you give me a lift back to my car?”

“See you around, Lalo,” called Dillon, holding the door ajar with one of those big boots of his. “Watch your step now, chief.”

I heard Paredes chuckle from beyond, and then Dillon disappeared.

By the time we reached the parking lot, Silva hadn’t said a single word. We got in my Silverado in silence.

“Lalo, we’re not going anywhere until you tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” he said impatiently. “Can you take me back to my car, or do I have to call an Uber?”

“That cut on your mouth isn’t nothing.”

“I’ve been through worse. They roughed me up a little, but I talked my way out of it. There’s no way they’re going to book me.”

“I don’t believe you. And you don’t either. I may not know you very well, but I know BS when I see it. For God only knows what reason, you’re lying to me.”

I started the car, glad to be dropping him off. “Dillon said you didn’t ask for a lawyer.”

“That’s right.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I can handle it. They let me go, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, you handled it great. Did you ask them to beat you up? Why didn’t you call me?”

A few seconds of silence passed. “You said you didn’t want any part of this,” Silva said. “I respected that.”

“You could’ve called Doug.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“What did they want from you?”

“Just going over my alibi.”

“Did they record this interview?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. Then he clammed up until we reached his car.

Firefighters were still at the site, and investigators were combing through the ruins. Dillon and Paredes were back, standing near the bodies.

Silva didn’t give his destroyed gym a second glance. “I’m going home, Brad,” he said, opening his door and stepping out. “I need to sleep. This’ll all blow over. You’ll see.”

As he closed the door, I called out: “I thought you wanted help with your daughters.”

He opened the door again and leaned in. “I do, Brad,” he said. “I really do.”

“You said it was urgent.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Look, I’ll call you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I watched the Lincoln disappear around the corner, knowing one thing for certain—this was far from over. Lalo Silva was in deep, deep trouble, and he knew it.

Chapter 5

Ididn’t sit around twiddling my thumbs waiting for Lalo Silva to call, though it bugged me how he’d danced me around the night of the fire. First, it was urgent that I help him, then it wasn’t the fire but his daughters he wanted my services for, and then he drove off, leaving me with the impression that everything was on hold.

Part of me thought I’d seen the last of him. No skin off my nose. I’d send him an invoice—I don’t get out of bed at three in the morning for free—and get on with my life. That meant slipping back into the weird normality of being a criminal defense lawyer, joining strangers in the messy, unfortunate, and sometimes unfair lapses of their lives.

One guy I had on the books was insisting on pleading not guilty to a road rage assault. It was captured in 4K on a cell phone in broad daylight, so identifying him was a no-brainer. You could practically zoom in and read the name “Donna” engraved on his dog tag. There was zero doubt that he was the short-fused bully in the video laying into an old man with dumb, unrestrained fury. He’d admitted that his ego got the better of him, and that showed contrition. But with a couple of priors, the chances of him avoiding jail were slim. The DA had offered a fair deal—six months in the can—but my client refused. Sometimes I get paid for advice not taken. Happens more than you’d think.

Then there was a kid—at my age, anyone younger than thirty is a kid—accused of robbing his own parents’ grocery store. He’d put a mask on, pointed an empty gun at the clerk, who was new to the job, and demanded the contents of the register. The clerk thought he recognized the kid’s voice and called him out. The kid bolted out the door, but his parents had had enough and called the cops. They wanted to force their ice-addicted son into a proper treatment program. I figured a judge would sympathize and send him to rehab.

Then there was Josie Hooper, a single mother in her early thirties, charged with possession for sale of narcotics. She ran Sunday school classes and volunteered at a retirement home. I hadn’t dug too deep into the case, but I couldn’t see her copping anything worse than probation.

I checked my watch. It was a quarter past four. I planned to spend the rest of the afternoon on the Hooper case, which prompted me to buzz my legal secretary, Myrna Pembroke.

I looked at my desk phone with something akin to contempt. The new system was Myrna’s idea. She’d insisted we needed to upgrade our comms, and I’d learned not to argue with her. Myrna was beyond retirement age but as sharp as a tack. She explained that the voice-over-internet protocol (VoIP) would integrate all our communications and devices—cell phones, emails, laptops, and office phones—while saving us money. So I signed off on the upgrade, even though my once-simple desk phone now had its own screen and webcam. I stared at the thing, trying to remember how to buzz Myrna, who was just outside my door. I opted for voice-over-and-above-internet protocol.

“Myrna!” I shouted like a captain bailing out water from a sinking ship.

Two seconds later, she was at my door. “Press the green phone icon, then my name,” she said like she was repeating herself, which she was.

“But that’s two steps,” I said. “I used to be able to buzz you with one push.”

Myra stepped up to my desk, dressed immaculately as usual in a tweed skirt and light blue blouse. She wore one of those sleek headsets, a cutting-edge look that contrasted with her classy Fifties style. Myrna leaned over my desk and tapped a painted nail twice on the desk phone screen. From beyond the door, I heard her phone ring.

“Want me to write down the instructions?” she asked with a cheeky smile.

“No, I’ve got it,” I said.

“What did you need?” she asked.

“The Josie Hooper case. Anything from the DA yet?”

Myrna handed me a folder she’d had tucked under her arm. I took it, shaking my head at her psychic powers.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Your sandwich is still in the fridge, Mr. Madison,” she said, using my last name as always. It would be a cold day in hell before she called me Brad. I must have looked confused. Then I remembered—I’d asked her to grab me something when she’d ducked out earlier.

“Lunch,” she said. “Turkey on rye. You can’t let food go to waste. Not at the prices they charge. I’ll get it for you.”

She returned with the sandwich and a glass of water. I opened the file and began scanning the contents, while she briefed me on the next day’s schedule. After reminding me, once again, that all my devices were now synched and accessible from anywhere, she added that after she left the office the AI receptionist would handle any calls I didn’t want to take.

“You see?” she smiled. “Much better than relying on notes that you leave scattered on my desk.”

I took a bite of the sandwich, deadpan. “Can’t talk. Eating. Now go.”

She gave me a humorous glint as she turned on her heel and left.

After I’d absorbed the Hooper file and jotted down some strategy points and questions, I spun my chair around and gazed out the window. Across the mall and beyond the skyline was Santa Monica Beach. The setting sun was a round smear of white behind a wall of cloud. A flash lit up the sky to the north, followed by a low rumble of thunder.

Then, right when I was beginning to feel off-duty, Lalo Silva popped back into my head. I went back to my computer. News stories about the fire revealed the two victims had been identified. One was Deputy Chuck Infante, a bright young lawman cut down in his prime. The other was Arthur Jessop Barkley, some kind of dodgy financier. The LASD investigators working the case said the fire was “suspicious,” which meant they were sure it was arson.

I wondered if Silva had contacted Doug Ziegler yet. I tapped on a link that took me to a profile on Silva and his new gym Phoenix Fitness. It detailed how his time behind bars was a life-changing event. He’d turned his back on crime by building up a successful fitness business, and he wanted to help others make an honest living after prison. So he made a point of hiring ex-cons. The photo showed Silva at the grand opening, standing between two men, one of whom I recognized: Ron Hassenberg, the Edgewood Park County Sheriff.

Something about this puff piece that celebrated the city’s can-do community spirit—reformed lawbreakers and cops working hand in hand—felt off. Given what I saw the night of the fire, nothing about that photo struck me as wholesome.

I was about to click on another link when my phone alarm jolted me back to the present. I’d set that reminder for a reason, but for a second or two, I couldn’t remember why.

Then it hit me. “Oh, shoot,” I said and sprang out of my chair. “Bella!”

I’d booked two tickets for a movie premiere at the Westwood Village Theatre. It started in just under an hour. There was enough time to catch the movie, but not enough for a nice restaurant dinner with my beautiful thirteen-year-old daughter beforehand.

I rushed out of my office and took the elevator to the underground garage. I had two sets of wheels to choose from now, but it was no contest on this one: the Silverado was staying put, and the Mustang was coming out to play.

I tossed my briefcase onto the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. I pressed the ignition button and got that beast singing its sweet eight-cylinder lullaby. I called Bella as soon as I was on the move.

“Did you forget?” she answered with a suspicious tone.

“Forget? Why would you say that?”

She laughed. “You sound rushed.”

I let out a sigh. “You got me, sweetheart. I swear, I set my alarm, but it only just went off. I should have set it for earlier. Damn it. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, dad,” she said. “We’ve got time.”

“Yeah, but you must be hungry.”

“Kind of.”

“Look, I know I said we’d go to that Italian place you like, but we’re going to have to hit the concession stand and then grab a burger after the flick. How does that sound?”

“That sounds great, dad. But relax. It’s all good.”

Bella lived with my ex-wife Claire and her husband Marty in Venice Beach, just a few miles away.

“Promise, I’ll make it up to you for missing out on your favorite vegetarian lasagna.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” said Bella.

“Okay,” I said. “See you in ten.”

Chapter 6

The first spots of rain fell on my windshield as I turned off 4th Street onto Colorado Avenue in the heart of Santa Monica. By the time I pulled up outside Claire’s house and honked, the rain was picking up. Bella came out a few seconds later, and as soon as she climbed in beside me and shut the door, the heavens opened up.

On a summer afternoon, Bella and I would typically hit the beach for a late surf and dinner. But this? LA was doing its best impression of winter. The cool evening had closed in early, and there was nothing better to do than staying indoors, munching on popcorn, and watching a movie with my favorite person on the planet.

“I love thunderstorms,” Bella said as I pointed the Mustang in the direction of Westwood. She leaned forward as I slowed for a red light, the rain drumming hard on the windshield and the wipers working at a frantic tempo. She turned the music down to listen to the storm. As if on cue, a muted rumble of thunder broke through, only audible between a gear change, when the five-liter engine drew breath.

“Me too,” I said.

She turned the music back up, and we started catching up. After giving me a quick rundown of school, Bella asked if I was excited to see the movie she’d picked. It was called Evermore Canyon, and it was about a young family dealing with love and hardship on the American frontier. Drama and the Old West were not typical of Bella’s taste. She preferred comedies and indie flicks. But I had a pretty good idea why she’d chosen this one.

“So, Evermore Canyon, hey?” I asked, smiling.

“I hear it’s brilliant,” said Bella. I didn’t need to look at her to catch the smugness in her voice. “I think you’re going to like it. Like, really like it.”

It was all Bella could to do to stop herself breaking out into laughter. “It’s some of Abby’s best work, apparently.”

There it was. The joke was on me. I’d once dated Abby Hatfield, a Hollywood star. It was good while it lasted, which isn’t saying much. I just seemed to have a knack for pushing Abby away.

“Have you seen her lately?”

“No, Bella. Not for a while. Last I heard, she was out of the movie game. Guess she got an offer she couldn’t refuse.”

“Her performance in this movie is supposed to be Oscar worthy,” Bella said, sounding like an earnest critic.

“Is that right?”

“Maybe she’ll need a date for the awards night,” she said with a cheeky laugh.

“Will you stop?”

Bella giggled, but a moment later her tone shifted. “I wonder if she’s as good as she thinks.”

I did a double take. “I thought you liked Abby?”

Like was not the word. Bella adored Abby.

“I did,” she said. “Until she dumped you.”

I chuckled, and Bella looked at me, puzzled.

“What’s so funny?”

“How do you know I didn’t dump her?”

Bella wasn’t buying it. “Come on, Dad. You don’t have to pretend. It’s me you’re talking to.”

We were in Westwood now. Bella kept looking out the window as I swung into the underground lot.

“She wasn’t right for you anyway. Showbiz types. Who needs ’em, right?”

“Right,” I said, hoping to end the conversation. “So why did you pick a film she’s in?”

“Just to be sure you’ve moved on,” she said.

“I have,” I said. Abby Hatfield was a distant memory, the painless kind. “But if we run into her tonight, be nice.”

“As you wish, father.”

I hugged her as we walked to the elevator.

“So, who are you dating now?” Bella asked casually as we stepped in. There was a young couple in there with us.

“None of your business, sweetheart.”

“Mom says you’re dating someone professional,” said Bella as we stood in line at the concession stand. I put my arm around her shoulder, pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.

“How would Mom know?”

Claire almost had a sixth sense when it came to divining what was going on in my life. But I figured this one came courtesy of Jack Briggs, my “good friend” and private investigator, who loved to stir the pot.

“So, there is someone," Bella said, her eyes shining.

“Maybe,” I said.

During the movie, I could tell Bella was enjoying it, but for me, it was a little weird. I had never seen one of Abby’s films in a theater before. Movies are meant to be a fantasy, an escape writ large on a massive screen. The fact that I knew one of the main actors in real life took away some of that magic. Nostalgia of our time together didn’t stir within me. When the credits rolled, it was what it was—a pretty good movie. I’d moved on, no question.

We went for burgers and Bella raved about the movie. She was genuinely surprised I wasn’t gushing too.

After I dropped her back at Claire’s, I didn’t feel like going home.

My phone was stuck magnetically to a windshield mount. I reached out, tapped a couple of times and made a call.

A familiar voice answer after two rings.

“Were you sitting on your phone,” I asked, amused.

“I was scrolling Facebook, actually.”

“How about coming out for a drink?”

“How about not?” she replied. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow. And it’s pelting down.”

The rain had settled into a steady downpour.

“It’s not too bad,” I said. “I like it.”

“You know what I’d like?”

“What?”

“I’d like you to come here, and let me fix you that drink.”

I grinned. “On my way.”

The Mustang’s V8 roared as I set off, the tires slipping a little with the sudden power command. I got it under control and remembered why I liked this car so much. It was simple, direct, and fun. Not like some fancy dream car that was three times the cost and ten times the maintenance.

I was talking about cars, right?

Chapter 7

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into a driveway on Pine Avenue, Manhattan Beach. I barely made it to the door before she opened it.

“That was fast,” she said, stepping forward, pressing up against me and kissing me with such fire that I momentarily, gladly, lost my place in the world. “I like that.”

And I liked pretty much everything about Eliza Spouse. We’d met a few months earlier on a case in which I needed to hire a psychiatric expert. Dr. Julian Wagner, my go-to shrink for delivering expert opinions in court, was unavailable and suggested Eliza. I was attracted to her instantly. She was stunning—with her flowing brown hair, full lips, and hazel eyes—but on the stand, she really was captivating. I wouldn’t go so far as to say she won me the case, but she had the jury in awe of her warmth and intellect. She even had the judge and bailiff under her spell.

When the case was over, I made an excuse to deliver her check personally. That’s when I learned she worked mostly from home because of her eight-year-old son, Arlo. Wagner must have noticed my disappointment, because he quickly added that she was divorced and single. From there, one thing led to another—first coffee, and then, more.

Now, coffee was the last thing on my mind. We’d been seeing each other for a few weeks, and I knew her well enough to know that Arlo was on a school trip to Washington, D.C. That was why I suggested we go out for a drink. But I didn’t care where I got to see her.

“I’ve got some whiskey I think you’ll like,” she said.

“Whiskey sounds good.”

Eliza led me down a hallway of polished floorboards. On the walls were a few framed photos of Arlo, taken by his mom. The living area was elegantly styled with a gas fireplace, modern artwork and the odd sculpture. The kitchen was an extension of the same space, and Eliza went ahead to get glasses and a small jug of water.

She showed me a bottle of fifteen-year-old GlenDronach single malt.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Not really an occasion,” she said with a modest smile. “Just a little something to celebrate.”

She grabbed her laptop on the counter and tapped the space bar to wake it up. Then she spun the screen around, grinning.

“I got a story published in McSweeney’s Quarterly.”

“I can see that,” I said, my eyes on the screen, reading the title and teaser presented in a classic, legible font. The page was entirely devoted to the words—no illustration, artwork, or photo. The publication was clearly a few rungs up the literary ladder from Cosmopolitan.

“The View From Lower Elm Avenue, by Eliza Spouse,” I read. “Wow, that’s impressive. What’s it about, without giving it all away?”

“It’s about a young mother in the Seventies who returns home to her family in Long Beach after a stint in a drying out facility,” Eliza said.

“Drawn from personal experience?”

“Kind of. My mother struggled with alcohol, but she wasn’t that bad. Other than that, it’s all made up.”

I stepped around the bench and took Eliza in my arms and kissed her, feeling the warmth of her against me. I had no idea she was a writer, let alone good enough to get published in McSweeney’s. There must be thousands of young writers enrolled in courses across the country, graduates with degrees and master’s degrees in creative writing, who could only dream of getting a story published in such a prestigious magazine.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” I said, and I kissed her again. “Congratulations. That really is something.”

“Writing was always my first love. Psychiatry came later, and I loved it too, but I always felt it was partly a bid to understand my mother better.”

“And do you?”

“I suppose I do,” she said. “But not that it did me or her any good. She died in an auto accident after my father left her.”

“Well, whatever you’re putting down on paper must resonate with a lot of readers. Is that what you’d prefer to be doing? Writing?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe. I’ve got a bunch of short stories, but none come close to that one. I think I just somehow struck a rich vein and out came something worthy.”

“Well, here’s to your success,” I said, raising my glass for a toast. “You made lightning in a bottle.” We both took a sip. “And I bet that’s what the distiller thought when he first tasted this drop.”

Eliza walked out to the living room and sat down on one of the broad leather couches.

“How was the movie?” she asked as she moved.

“It was okay,” I said, following. “Bella liked it a lot more than I did.”

“What did you see?”

“Evermore Canyon,” I said, plopping myself onto the couch. Eliza leaned over and snuggled up to me.

“Isn’t that an Abby Hatfield movie?”

“Yes, it is,” I said warily.

“And, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t she your ex?”

My hesitation caused her to pull back and stare at me with amused curiosity. I was surprised she knew.

“Have you been googling me, or something?” I asked. I knew there were dozens of photos and stories on the subject.

“You call it googling, I call it vetting,” Eliza said with a laugh.

“Are you putting me on the stand, Dr. Spouse?”

She smiled. “This isn’t a cross-examination, counselor. But I do have a few more questions, if you don’t mind. By all means, feel free to object… or plead the Fifth.”

“Okay,” I said. “Fire away.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Weren’t you two engaged?”

“Now, I must object on three points. First, lack of foundation. The fact that we dated does not stand as evidence of intent to marry. Second, it assumes facts not in evidence. And third, hearsay, as in I don’t know where you got that from, but I could guess, given that the press thinks it’s okay to write anything they want.”

Eliza laughed. “Look at you,” she said. “Talk about putting the defense into criminal defense attorney.”

“You can ask me anything,” I said. “But that wedding bells angle was all just a rumor.”

“I don’t care,” she said, leaning in close. “Her loss is my gain.”

She sat up and wriggled her empty glass. “Another?”

I nodded, and she got up, leaving the smell of her perfume lingering with me.

Eliza was like no one I’d ever met. She was vivacious, smart, and radiated a bright and infectious joy. Most psychiatrists I’d met were serious, humorless types. They seemed compelled to weigh, measure, analyze and treat humanity with such dry intellect. Eliza was nothing like that.

I watched her as she walked back to the kitchen. As she poured, she locked her eyes onto me, and the space between us became filled with hot-blooded tension. After we drained our glasses, Eliza took them both and slipped them away. She fell into me, slowly, and as we kissed, the room and the world beyond fell away. Our hands raced to release each other’s clothes. When I flung her blouse to the floor, she laughed and leaned back on the couch. Within a few moments there was nothing between us but skin.

“I can’t get you out of my head,” I said.

“Is that right?” she smiled.

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said. “If I were your shrink, I’d say that’s something we need to explore… In fine detail.”

Chapter 8

“It’s almost midnight,” Eliza said. “You’re welcome to stay, but I’ve got a big day tomorrow and need my beauty sleep.”

“Beauty sleep? What’s there to improve?”

“It’s not just about looks—sleep replenishes the mind, body, and skin.”

“Ah, well, I’d better not keep you up,” I said, pulling her close. Our kissed lingered, then we lay together for a few extra minutes, the tips of her fingers running softly over my chest. Then she finally sat up.

“Come on, you need to go before I forget about sleep altogether.”

I got myself dressed, and she walked me to the door with nothing but a shawl draped around her.

I opened the door and, as if on cue, the rain went from shower to downpour in a heartbeat. “Great,” I said, before kissing Eliza goodbye and running for my car.

The storm was relentless. I was practically driving through a waterfall, while flashes of lightning lit up the leaden sky and thunder boomed ominously. With my face almost pressed up to the windshield, it took me a while to notice there were red and blue lights flashing right behind me. The driver gave the siren two quick bursts to convey his impatience.

I pulled over, wondering what on earth I’d done wrong. Maybe the rain had put out a taillight.

I watched my rearview, and waited. Whoever it was seemed to be in no hurry. A couple of minutes passed, so I began checking my phone. A hard knock on my window startled me. I lowered it to see a cop standing so close and upright that I couldn’t see his face. A khaki shirt filled my field of view, stretched sideways by its owner’s gut. I didn’t need to see a nameplate to know Sergeant Craig Dillon was standing beside me.

Dillon stepped back. He didn’t bend down to address me, he just stood upright in the rain, oblivious to the drenching he was getting.

“Know why I pulled you over, sir?”

“No idea whatsoever, Sergeant Dillon,” I said. “Pretty sure I wasn’t speeding.”

“It’s not about speeding,” he said, as rain streamed off the dipped brim of his hat.

“What are you doing in Manhattan Beach, Sergeant Dillon? Long way from Edgewood Park. You been following me?”

“We patrol wherever we’re needed,” he replied. “You were driving erratically, so I ran your plates. And, lo and behold, something came up.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Dillon bent down and sneered at me. “It was Chuck Infante we found in that fire,” he said darkly. “Burned alive, thanks to your scumbag friend.”

Beneath his hateful eyes, Dillon’s jaw was clenching so hard it moved his hat. I noticed he’d removed his nameplate. I checked his body cam. No light.

“Shouldn’t that be on?” I asked. I raised my hands. “Just getting my phone. At least one of us should be recording this.”

Quick as a flash, Dillon ripped his gun out and jammed it in my face.

“Don’t you move, wise ass. Keep both hands glued to the wheel.”

A passing car slowed but moved on. I guess the driver wasn’t interested in hanging around to see if this law enforcement officer might shoot an unarmed civilian. None of their business. Not after midnight on a dark, empty LA street.

“Out of the car. Now.”

I climbed out a little awkwardly as I had to keep my hands raised, and stood face to face with the deputy. He was soaked through, as I was about to be in a matter of seconds.

“What are you going to do, Dillon? Shoot me? Do you want to get something off your chest? Let me guess, you don’t want me helping out Silva. Is that it?”

“Shut your mouth,” he spat.

“I’ll give you my number. Next time, you can call me, instead of having to waste everyone’s time and money by following me around.”

“I said shut up.”

With that, I saw another flash of lightning, but it had nothing to do with the storm. Dillon had launched a brutal left hook into my jaw. I had to hand it to him—he sure knew how to throw a punch. I barely held onto consciousness as I fell to the ground. Thankfully, I buckled as I went, and my shoulder hit the pavement first, softening the blow to my head.

“That lowlife killed an officer, Madison,” he snarled, now bent down and parking his head above mine. “Infante was a good man, a family man, and your boy killed him. Burnt him alive.”

“My boy? I’m not actually his lawyer, you moron.”

“Shut your mouth. We’re going to handle this the right way, you hear me? Nobody screws us and gets away with it. If you want to stand in our way, go right ahead. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He stood, took a step back and launched his right boot into my chest. My ribs screamed in pain and I struggled to breathe. As I tried in vain to suck air back into my lungs, I saw Dillon turn and walk back to his car. On the way, he stopped to smash my taillight.

“Better get that fixed.”

Once Dillon was gone, I rolled onto my back and stared up into the night sky, soaked through by the relentless rain. I touched my face and saw blood on my fingertips.

There and then, shivering with cold, I again wondered why Silva hadn’t called.

It was almost prosaic how Dillon’s violent threat had the immediate and opposite effect. Telling me to walk away from Silva’s case only spurred me to advance.

Sergeant Craig Dillon was the last person I’d be taking orders from.

Chapter 9

After dragging myself off the pavement, I headed back to my apartment in Santa Monica for a hot shower. Eliza had sent me a sweet goodnight message. I shook my head at the insanity that had occurred after I left her. I winced. Dillon’s handiwork had rattled my brain, and the slightest head movement hurt. I self-diagnosed a minor concussion, but I wasn’t about to take myself to the hospital. I needed sleep.

I awoke not when my alarm went off, but when my phone rang. Through half-closed eyes, I tapped the green button and put the phone to my ear, expecting to hear Eliza’s voice.

“I should have stayed over,” I said groggily. There was a pause, before a man’s voice broke the silence.

“Another cruiser just passed by my house.”

I didn’t have to read the screen to identify the caller. It was Silva.

“That’s three in the last two hours,” he said, sounding agitated. “They followed my daughters home from school yesterday.”

“What time is it?” I said. By the light in the room, I knew dawn had broken.

“Seven-thirty,” said Silva.

I winced as I sat up—my head and ribs let me know they preferred to be lying down and recuperating. “What’s going on, Lalo?”

“They’re coming for me, man,” he said. “They’re circling me like sharks. I need to see you.”

“What? I’m confused,” I said, getting to my feet. The effort left me light-headed. I put out an arm out and braced myself on the nearby wall. “Is this about you or your daughters?”

“Both, maybe,” he said. “But I need your help with my daughters. Now.”

“You didn’t call Ziegler?”

“No,” he said. “Look, I think things are about to kick off in a bad way. I’m sorry to leave it to the last minute, but I’ve been in two minds, about a lot of things.”

“Has Sergeant Dillon been to see you?”

“Yes. He looked like he wanted to kill me. Maybe he would have if my mother-in-law Antonella wasn’t here.”

“If he wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

Actually, that wasn’t accurate. Dillon might indeed be intent on killing Silva, but he just needed the right time and place to ensure he’d get away with it. That would take some planning. Dillon and his pals would be fools to pull Silva over, shoot him and plant a weapon. Not while he was the key suspect in the felony murder of their comrade. But once he was charged and in custody, he would be delivered right into their hands. With the LASD running the jails, they’d have lots of ways to settle the score.

“Look, I know you want me to go to Doug, and I will, but the situation with my daughters… I’m begging you to help me.”

If Dillon hadn’t pulled me over and roughed me up, I’d still be urging Silva to contact Doug. Not anymore. Dillon had made it personal.

“Don’t sweat it, Silva,” I said. “I’m in.”

I heard Silva exhale. “Thank you, Mr. Madison. You have no idea what this means for me and my family. The first thing I need you to do is take my girls somewhere safe.”

“What?” I said, confused. “What about your wife?”

“My wife’s not in a position to help. I need you to come and pick up my girls and take them to a place where I know they’ll be safe.”

My mind shot ahead to the day I had planned and the meetings I had scheduled. I could juggle a few things around.

“Are you asking me to take the girls to a safe house?”

“Yes,” he said. I could hear the tension in his voice. He sounded for all money like a man who was fighting back tears. “I don’t want to say anything more about it over the phone. I’m sure you understand. I’ll give you all the details when you get here.”

I hung up and went to the shower to get myself properly awake and refreshed. After I’d shaved and gotten dressed, I checked my phone and saw Silva had sent me an address.

Great. The place was in West Covina, about halfway across LA. I put the details into my maps app and saw it was going to take just over an hour to get there, but rush hour had barely even started.

I went to the kitchen and yanked the filter holder out of the coffee machine and filled it with ground beans. I slotted it back in and hit the switch. I checked the time. It was almost eight. Not too early to call Myrna, so that’s what I did, and then just like that my day was free.

Before I went out the door, I grabbed the keys to the Mustang and headed for the office garage. I’d be ferrying passengers somewhere, so a people mover was called for. It was Silverado time.

I pulled up in front of a small house on West Barbara Avenue. It had a square patch of lawn out front, hedges against the walls and a rose bed lining the driveway. I swung around and backed the car into the carport.

Silva was standing in the front doorway when I got out. Behind him, I could see two young girls and behind them moved a woman who I took to be his mother-in-law. Silva waved me in and closed the door.

“Mr. Madison,” he started.

“I thought we agreed you’d call me Brad.”

“Brad. I’d like you to meet my daughters.” Silva placed his arm on the shoulder of the taller girl. “This is Rihanna. She is ten. And this is Bianca, and she’s eight.”

Both girls said hello quietly. Their blank, unsure expressions conveyed a high degree of anxiety. It looked like both had been crying. On the floor next to them were three suitcases and some shopping bags filled with groceries.

“Please, girls,” said Silva. “Go wait in your room while Brad and I talk. Okay?”

The girls didn’t move. Then the woman I saw earlier appeared, and she ushered them out silently and without looking at me.

“That’s my mother-in-law,” said Silva. “She’s old-school Puerto Rican. Doesn’t speak much English. Just so you know.”

“Lalo, what the hell’s going on?”

He dug a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed me a folded sheet of paper. “Here,” he said. “I’ve printed out the details.”

I took the paper and unfolded it. Before I could read anything, Silva said, “I want you to take them to San Juan.”

As he spoke, I began reading the document. “San Juan, Texas?”

“No. Puerto Rico.”

I stopped reading and stared at Silva. “You can’t be serious. You want me to fly your family out to the Caribbean?”

“Yes.”

My eyes returned to the document. It was a printout of bookings Silva had made in my name.

“For God’s sake, Silva. I’ve got a business to run. It says here the flights are ten hours each way.”

“That’s about as fast as it gets. There’s a layover at Dallas on the way there and Charlotte on the way back.”

“Yes,” I said dryly. “I can see that.”

“The flight leaves in three hours,” he said. “Now, as you know, Puerto Rico is a US territory, so you don’t need a visa or a passport. Nothing. It’s like you’re going to Miami. My brother will—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “Hang on, Silva. We need to unpack this thing first. This is crazy. I can’t just go jump on a ten-hour flight.”

Silva raised his hands to appease me, he stole a glance toward the room where Antonella had taken the girls and lowered his voice. “Mr. Madison.”

“Brad.”

“Mr. Madison,” he insisted. “I’m far from crazy. My mind couldn’t be clearer. Let me explain. Like I told you, I spent a lot of time—too much time—in the company of Kiki Tacito. And I know he will be an outlaw for life.”

“That’s stating the obvious. He’s a cartel foot soldier.”

“But you treated him with respect and without prejudice. He said he’d trust you with his mother’s life. I’ll never forget him saying that. He wrote your number on a piece of paper, just in case I ever needed your help. And on the night of the fire, that’s when I knew there was only one person to call. On Kiki’s recommendation, I’m willing to trust you with the most precious things in the world to me—my daughters. I’m asking you—no, I’m begging you—to take them somewhere safe. They’re not safe here in LA. I think you know that.”

“Surely Antonella can—”

“She can comfort them, Mr. Madison. She can’t protect them. They will try to follow you when you leave here. I trust that you are clever enough to make it hard for them. I’ve actually planned out a route to LAX.”

“I know how to lose a tail, Silva,” I said.

“Of course you do,” he said. “Just as I expected. But all the same, I offer this route as a suggestion.”

“Silva, all I’ve got is my briefcase and laptop. If you’d given me a heads-up, I could at least have packed a change of underwear.”

“I couldn’t tell you any details over the phone. They think I killed that deputy, Mr. Madison,” said Silva. “Who’s to say they don’t already have a court order to tap my phone?”

Silva was right. They didn’t even have to wait for a court order. They could go ahead and set up a preliminary wiretap before getting the paperwork in front of a judge.

“You don’t have to worry about clothes. I took the liberty of buying you new underwear plus some toiletries. Antonella packed them. My brother Hayden will meet you on arrival at San Juan. He’ll have a comfortable change of clothes for you. It’s very warm and humid there right now.”

“Why Puerto Rico? I can find you a safe house. I have a friend with some land up near Lake Tahoe. Lots of space, no neighbors nearby, easy to come and go. No one will know your girls are there. And it’s just a few hours’ drive away.”

“Mr. Madison,” said Silva. “I’m sure it would be safe there. But in San Juan, the girls have family members to take care of them. They will keep my girls safe, and they will keep their mouths shut.”

“Seems like you’re prepared for everything, except for me to say no.”

“I have plenty of money. I’m not asking you to do it for free. But will you do this for me? Please.”

There was a pause as Silva’s words struck my heart. I had no choice.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “I’ll do it.”

He smiled and put a thick wad of cash in my palm. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Madison. This money is for whatever you or the girls need on your trip. My brother Hayden will meet you on arrival. He will explain to you the business side of things.”

“Business side of things? What are you talking about?”

“He’ll explain,” Silva said. “I’m not just asking you to help secure their safety, Mr. Madison. I’m asking you to help secure their future.”

Chapter 10

Silva must have briefed Antonella and the girls before I’d arrived because he wasted no time hustling us out the door and into my car. The girls, still weeping, put on brave faces as they hugged their father one last time.

Once everyone was strapped in, Silva leaned into my window.

“I leave my heart and soul in your hands,” he said quietly. He gripped my shoulder tight. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Yesterday, I was a regular defense attorney. Today, I felt like I was a character in a spy thriller. I mapped out my own route to LAX that kept us off the main roads. Two hours later, we reached the airport without incident. I scanned the parking lot before getting Antonella and the girls out.

Once inside the terminal, there was just enough of a crowd to give us cover. I didn’t expect the Edgewood Park LASD deputies would be crawling all over LAX—but who knew how far Dillon’s reach stretched.

I scrutinized everything and everyone in our vicinity. Seated at our gate, we were the most exposed since we’d left Silva’s house. If the LASD got wind of our destination, they might be able to call on some favors from their law enforcement brethren in Puerto Rico. Countless scenarios raced through my mind. The constant vigilance gnawed at me.

On the drive to the airport, I’d spent half an hour on the phone with Myrna rearranging my schedule. After her initial surprise that I’d be out of action for forty-eight hours, she worked swiftly and smoothly to ensure everyone was notified and put at ease. Luckily, there was only one court appearance that I was due to make but, with a day’s notice of my absence, I knew the judge would only be mildly annoyed.

The older girl, Rihanna, took out her phone. This was the first I’d seen it.

“Have you spoken to anyone today?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Papa told me not to. I was just going to let him know we were waiting to get on the plane.”

I shook my head. “No calls, no text messages, whatsoever. You do not contact anyone. Okay?

“Okay.”

“Not even an emoji.”

She nodded, and then asked if she could use her phone to play games. Once I’d checked the device and was happy the games weren’t connected online, I agreed.

I told the girls to stay put and if they had to use the bathroom to only go with Antonella. I went and fetched some snacks and magazines—keeping it safe with National Geographic Kids, something else with a cat on the cover and the latest issue of Ranger Rick, a wildlife magazine my daughter Bella used to love.

An hour later, we boarded the flight. It was only after we’d climbed through the clouds and reached cruising altitude that I allowed myself to relax. The American Airlines 787 Dreamliner had a three-three-three seat configuration. I took the right seat of the middle row, while the girls and their grandmother had the three seats to my right. Both Rihanna and Bianca were now at ease. They were excited to order off the in-flight menu, and spent a good amount of time with their faces pressed against the glass. The storm stayed behind in Los Angeles, and the surrounding sky was soon cloudless. The girls pointed at rivers and mountains until the novelty wore off. Fed and relaxed, having been running on nervous energy all morning, both girls were soon sound asleep.

Antonella, who spoke next to no English, took out a book. She opened the covers at a dog-eared page and turned to catch my eye. Her face softened into a beautiful smile.

“Gracias, Señor Madison,” she said and dabbed a hand to her heart. “Muchas gracias.”

With a bourbon in hand, I logged onto the plane’s Wi-Fi and scanned emails. The situation felt very unstable, so I started putting together a detailed message for Jack. I needed him to profile a host of people, starting with my client. Beyond Lalo Silva, there was Sergeant Craig Dillon and Captain Don Auerbach, and anything he could find on deputy gang activity in the Edgewood Park area. Then there were the victims, Deputy Chuck Infante and Arthur Barkley. To date, Silva had been too short on detail. My suspicion that he was hiding something hadn’t changed. I hoped Jack might clear up who and what Silva was connected to.

We had a forty-minute layover in Dallas. Los Angeles was fifteen-hundred miles behind us, but it didn’t feel far enough. It was now dinner time, and the girls’ faces lit up at my suggestion that they might like Chik-fil-A. Antonella took the orders and set off while I stayed with the girls, scanning constantly.

While Antonella and the girls ate, I crossed the hall to a coffee stand. I had no appetite. Just a gutful of nerves. That forty minutes dragged by at a snail’s pace. Other passengers arrived, and pretty soon there wasn’t a spare seat at the terminal. No one gave the girls a second look, save for two older women who exchanged pleasantries in English before addressing Antonella in Spanish. It was clear the women were from Puerto Rico. I’m pretty sure they asked if I was the girls’ father. The pair seemed to feel a little awkward to find that Antonella said next to nothing to them. The conversation died as quickly as it had begun.

The moment I exited the plane in San Juan, I was hit by the humidity, warmth and the smells of the tropics. The air carried a hundred different scents—the brine of the sea, the fragrance of hibiscus and bougainvillea, the smoke of grilled meat, and of course, the tang of jet fuel. I immediately felt overdressed in a suit. I hadn’t even looked to see what Silva had packed for me by way of clothes, but I’d be digging them out at the first opportunity.

Antonella led us away from baggage claim, and we walked toward the exit. We hadn’t gone far when I noticed a man beside a soda machine watching us. I saw the moment he picked Antonella out from the crowd. He was a shortish man with a big mustache, and he wore a linen suit and a colorful shirt. Antonella greeted the man with a huge smile and some tears. He was grinning from ear to ear. He wrapped her up in his arms with great affection before greeting the girls with big hugs, kisses and laughs all round.

“You must be Mr. Madison,” said the man with a big smile. When I went to shake hands, he gripped mine with both of his and gratitude beamed from his happy eyes. “Hayden Silva at your service. Lalo’s older brother. It is truly an honor to meet you.”

The smile suddenly dropped from his face. “We must not waste time, though.” He gestured toward the exit. “I have my truck waiting.”

Once we were on the road, with the warm night air rushing through the open windows, Hayden told me we were headed for Dorado, fifteen miles west of San Juan.

“Excuse me,” he said as he raised all the electric windows. “It’s better to use the air-con.”

I noticed his expression had turned serious. I tapped my window with a knuckle to confirm my suspicions. It was bulletproof glass. Hayden saw me do this and ignored me, directing his voice back to the girls, telling them how much their aunty and cousins were looking forward to seeing them. He then told them a story about how he’d seen a manatee a few days earlier, that it had come right up to his boat and he’d dived in and touched it. When Rihanna asked him what its skin felt like, he said it was like a big wet rubber boot, with barnacles. The girls laughed, and the confusing strife of Los Angeles seemed far behind.

All the while, Hayden kept checking his mirrors. He weaved the truck through streets lined with dense foliage. In time, he slowed as the road got narrow and pot-holed. He took one final check in his mirrors before turning into a short road and then came to a stop in front of a large orange metal gate crowned with spikes. On either side of the gate were high cinder block walls that were also topped with coiled razor wire.

Hayden opened his window and tapped a code into the security console, and the big gate slid to one side. Hayden steered the truck up a long dirt driveway that cut between expanses of short grass. He swung the truck around a massive ceiba tree, and a large white colonial hacienda suddenly appeared. He brought the truck to a halt in front of a flight of broad steps leading up the front door of the house.

“Home sweet home,” he said.

As Antonella took the girls up the stairs, a woman emerged to greet them with loving cries.

I tapped Hayden’s arm. “I think I understand why Lalo wanted the girls to come here,” I said. “It looks as safe a place as anywhere.”

Hayden shook his head. “There is no safer place. This is our family home. Actually, there are three homes on the estate. All our family is here. We are very close, and we take good care of each other.”

There was something that had been on my mind ever since Silva has asked for my help.

“Hey, Lalo said he wanted me to help not just to keep his girls safe, but to secure their future. What did he mean by that?”

“Ah,” said Hayden. “He wants to set up a living trust for them, with your help.”

“What?”

“A living trust. It’s like a will, except the beneficiaries don’t have to wait until you die to, you know, benefit.”

“I don’t know the first thing about living trusts.”

“But I do, Mr. Madison. I’m an accountant.”

“So why do you need me?”

“Because he trusts you. I’ll do the paperwork here, but we’d like you to handle some things at the other end.”

“You mean in LA?”

“Yes.”

“Why can’t you do it here?”

“It would not be wise to set such a thing up here in Puerto Rico. Too much corruption and too little privacy. I’m a qualified accountant only in Puerto Rico.”

“But you’re allowed to work in America. You don’t need a work permit or visa.”

“That’s true, I can work in mainland USA, but it’s not as simple as that. To actually practice as an accountant in Los Angeles, I’d need to get a CPA license for California. I have too many responsibilities here, with work and family, and this trust needs to be set up quickly. So Lalo thought it best that I set it up, I handle all the details, and then you pretty much act as a trustee.”

“The trustee?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it very easy for you to follow.”

I didn’t know what to make of all this. I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of this plan. “I don’t know, Hayden. Anyway, what’s the rush?”

“Lalo is in a very precarious position. He needs to know that whatever happens to him, his girls will be taken care of. He’s worked so hard to give them the best start in life. He doesn’t want to leave their fate to chance, and above all else, he wants to know that nothing will stand between his girls and what he wants to leave them. As you know, even with all the best intentions and planning, wills can end up in a mess of legal battles and grubby hands.”

I nodded. “I understand,” I said. Silva was protecting his family from more than just the cops.

“Good, then please. Let’s go inside. I’ll explain your role later. It will not demand much of your time, I assure you. Come and meet my wife. You must be hungry. Are you hungry?”

It was about two in the morning, LA time, and I hadn’t eaten since we’d left.

“I could eat something.”

“I tell you no lies,” said Hayden. “My wife Elena makes the best empanadillas in all of Puerto Rico.”

I had no idea what an empanadilla was, but I was happy to take Hayden’s word for it.

It was late morning when Hayden led me out of the house to drop me back to the airport. Before we got into the car, I looked around and wondered why on earth Lalo believed this place was so safe. Sure, there was a gate, high walls, and razor wire. But in my books a compound’s security is measured by how many guns you have stationed around it. I’d not seen another man besides Hayden and there wasn’t a weapon in sight. When I asked him about it, Hayden laughed and said there was a lot more to the compound that met the eye. And on the trip back to the airport he gave a lesson in the Silva family history.

Fifteen minutes later, Hayden pulled the truck into the airport’s drop-off bay and got out to join me.

“I will be in touch very soon,” said Hayden, shaking my hand warmly. “And thanks again, from Lalo, from me and from my family.”

With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash and, despite my protestations, squeezed it firmly into my palm. “This is business, Mr. Madison. We don’t expect you to work for free.”

Later, when I was sitting by myself drinking coffee, I took the wad out and did a quick count. It was just over twelve grand.

As I was about to board my flight, I got a text from Jack. It was a heads-up to let me know Arthur Jessop Barkley was a conman who’d screwed over countless people, and a lot of them wanted him dead. And Lalo Silva? Nothing confirmed yet, but he just might be one of them.

That wad of cash in my pocket felt dirtier by the second.

Chapter 11

The trip back to LA was mercifully quick, largely because I slept all the way from San Juan to Charlotte. Touching down, I found another message from Jack telling me to get busy and check my emails.

I had a ninety-minute layover, and when I found a place in the terminal to sit, I opened my laptop to check what Jack had dug up on Arthur Barkley. The guy ran a financial services firm called Colossus Wealth Management. He’d gained attention by claiming to direct some of his profits to black charities. There were photos of him with celebrities ranging from Lakers stars to talk-show hosts. One photo showed him wearing a big grin beneath his glasses and a head of hair that was mostly gone save for some gray patches over his ears. Barkley’s spiel was that he and his expert team could be counted on to convert humble savings into peace-of-mind financial security. What he touted as investments, though, were nothing but scams. The guy was a callous fraud.

What was this charlatan doing with a law enforcement officer in Silva’s gym? Rather than try to guess my way through a hundred possibilities, I decided to call Silva before I boarded my flight to LAX.

Silva answered sounding out of breath. He told me he’d just stepped off a treadmill to take the call, but it sounded more like he was in pain. Before I could ask him questions, he thanked me again for helping him with his girls. He said Hayden had called to say that everything had gone smoothly.

“That’s great,” I said. “But I’m not calling to check in. I’m calling about the fire. What’s a conman doing in your gym with a deputy? And don’t tell me you have no idea. If you want me as your defense attorney, I need you to cut the BS and help me join the dots.”

“You’re talking about Barkley?”

“Of course, and don’t be coy.”

“What if my phone’s tapped?”

“Doesn’t matter. Even if they do have a warrant for a wire-tap, they won’t be able to use anything in our conversation or anything derived from it.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Are you a lawyer, Silva? I’m telling you this call is covered by attorney-client privilege. Under the Sixth Amendment, you have a right to private and confidential counsel.”

“Okay,” said Silva, sounding less than convinced.

“Did you have any dealings with Arthur Barkley?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did he owe you money?”

“No, I’ve never met the guy.”

As a former prisoner, I could understand Silva’s reluctance to say anything remotely incriminating on the phone, no matter how much I tried to reassure him. No doubt he’d heard of prisoners being convicted on evidence gained from conversations they’d had on prison phones. These devices are owned by the institution. By using them you consent to whatever’s said during your call to being used against you. All prisoners should know this. Most don’t.

“And the same goes for Chuck Infante, I imagine?”

“Yes. It’s the same. Never met the guy. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

I could tell Silva wanted off the call. This conversation was going nowhere.

“What time are you back in LA?” Silva said. “I can pick you up.”

“No need,” I said. “My car’s there. I’m supposed to get in at three-thirty but no doubt it’s going to be delayed.”

“I’ll come to your office. I’ll meet you there. Four-thirty? Hayden sent through some information about the trust. We should go through that as soon as possible. Would that be okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll message you if the flight’s delayed.”

“Okay. See you then,” said Silva.

As luck would have it, as soon as I’d taken my seat on board the plane, the pilot announced that our takeoff would be delayed. We landed in LAX two hours late. I’d let Silva know about the holdup, but he hadn’t responded. Walking through the terminal, I called Myrna, who said Silva hadn’t been in touch.

I decided to drive straight to his house. When I got there, the place was completely deserted—no lights on and locked up tight. I waited for another half hour before heading back to my office, cursing Silva the entire way for standing me up.

Hours later, Silva finally called.

“About time,” I said gruffly. “Did you forget about our meeting?”

“They’ve charged me,” he said, barely containing his fury. “Arson and two counts of felony murder.”

He told me he’d been arrested and taken to the Edgewood Park station. They’d tried questioning him but he’s said nothing. He was pleased to report they hadn’t resorted to beating him. Yet.

“Stay cool, Lalo,” I said. “I expected they’d be gunning for those charges.”

“But wait, there’s more,” said Silva with evident gallows humor.

“I’m listening.”

“Intent to distribute,” he said.

I wasn’t expecting that. “Intent to distribute what, exactly?”

“Heroin.”

I raised a hand to massage the sudden tension out of my brow and temple. Silva was in deeper than I imagined. He may not have said it in words, but the tone of his voice told me they had him by the balls. I advised him to keep quiet until I got there. But he was right. He was screwed seven ways to Sunday.

Chapter 12

On my way to the Edgewood Park sheriff’s station, I called Eliza. She knew I was distracted, my mind divided between work, LA drivers hell-bent on triggering each other’s road rage, and our call. I still hadn’t told her about Sergeant Dillon’s attack.

“You sound like something’s wrong,” Eliza said, and there was a pause as she waited for an answer.

“Just got a lot on my mind, that’s all,” I said weakly.

“Okay, sounds like everything’s just dandy then,” Eliza said with good humor. “I’ll let you go.”

“Are you still good for tomorrow night?”

There was a gala event hosted by the California Lawyers Association, and with Myrna’s help I’d locked the date into my calendar and given Eliza plenty of notice. I couldn’t have cared less about the event, but I was already picturing how stunning Eliza would look in an evening dress.

“You mean the black-tie party with a bunch of lawyers? I can’t wait,” she said, putting on a sultry voice that always rubbed me the right way. “Katie, my secretary, RSVP’d to Myrna already. And I know Myrna would’ve let you know. Something tells me, you haven’t been checking your emails thoroughly.”

“Guilty as charged,” I said. I already knew I was getting too single-minded about the Lalo Silva case.

At the Edgewood Park station, I killed the engine and dug into my inbox. I’d asked Myrna to get me a copy of Silva’s indictment from the DA’s office. I spend a couple of minutes reading the charges and allegations against him. The police report was also there, which among other things revealed that Detective Mike Medrano was the lead investigator on the case. I didn’t know Medrano, but I figured he’d be a formidable operator. After all, he was a member of the LASD Homicide Bureau, an outfit proudly known as The Bulldogs for their tenacious investigation work. I could only imagine how rabid they’d be hunting down the person who’d killed one of their own.

Upon entering the station, I ignored the unhelpful receptionist, and marched through the door I’d seen Auerbach emerge from during my last visit. I heard the woman protest as the door closed behind me. I caught a deputy walking ahead of me, told him I’d taken a toilet break and lost my way, and he led me to the interview rooms. The first one I looked into was empty. In the next, however, I saw my client sitting at a stainless-steel table. When I entered, I saw he had company. Two men were positioned in a blind spot behind the door. One of them I recognized from the night of the fire—Deputy Enrique Paredes. The other guy was about sixty, had a bald head, and a neat salt-and-pepper mustache, a barrel chest and massive arms. He looked like he could pull tree stumps out of the ground for fun. In every sense, I guess, this stranger was a Bulldog.

“I take it you're Detective Medrano,” I said to him, ignoring Paredes.

The guy didn’t bust even a hint of a smile. He nodded once and watched me with hooded eyes that seemingly had no obligation to blink.

I turned and opened the door for them. They didn’t move.

“Out,” I said. “You’ve had your fun with my client, now he and I need some alone time. I’ll call you when I need you.”

Medrano lifted his head and his mouth cracked in one corner.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” he said, shuffling his thick-set frame slowly out the door, with Paredes following suit.

“I’ll call you when I’m done,” I said firmly.

As Paredes passed, he gave me a tough-guy glare.

“Good to see you again, Enrique,” I said. “Hey, I missed you the other night when Craig and I got together. Shame you weren’t there.”

Paredes looked confused.

As I closed the door after them, I watched them through the window.

“What was that about?” I heard Medrano ask.

“Dunno,” Paredes shrugged.

Interesting. Was Dillon acting alone? Was he buddies with Deputy Chuck Infante?

Now that we had the room to ourselves, I asked Silva how he’d been treated. He said all Detective Medrano hit him with was questions. He started to talk about the living trust. I held up a hand.

“That can wait,” I said. “What did Medrano say? That you’re looking at life in prison?”

“He said my sentence starts now. He said there’s no way I’m getting bail.”

“Can’t blame him for trying. You’d be surprised how many tough guys go to pieces in front of a guy like that.”

“I told him nothing.”

“What were your exact words?” I asked. Silva wouldn’t be the first client who claimed to have said nothing when they’d actually given away plenty.

“You want my exact words?”

“That would be good.”

“I told him I don’t answer questions.”

I laughed as I took out my laptop and opened it up. “I bet he loved that.”

I started going through Silva’s file. Most of the charges were no surprise, it was the drugs charge that stood out.

“They say they found half a pound of Mexican black tar heroin on your premises.”

“It was planted.”

“Is that what you told him?”

Silva looked at me blankly. “I told him I don’t answer questions.”

I smiled. “Good, but now that I’m here, you’ll have to answer a few when he comes back.”

“I know.”

“So, what’s forty grand’s worth of smack doing in your gym?”

“Mr. Madison,” he said. “I swear to God, I don’t know.”

“You need to start calling me Brad, I’m not your headmaster. What I am, though, is someone you need to be straight with. If you want to keep big secrets from me, I can’t do what’s best for you. It’s that simple. Do you understand? The worst thing you can do for us both is to allow me to proceed on falsities. I’ll defend you, but if and when the truth comes out—and it will come out, these guys are no fools—I won’t be able to make things better. It will be too late. If they get hard evidence you were involved in any of this, then we’ll have no leverage when it comes to a plea. None. And you’ll never take another breath as a free man.”

Silva sank back against his chair. “Brad, I’m no cleanskin. I’m not trying to play you. But those drugs aren’t mine.”

“You know how it looks, right? The optics, as they say, are very bad.”

“I know how it looks. Former drug dealer gets out of prison and makes good, but turns out he’s a liar. Once a drug dealer, always a drug dealer. Right?”

“To them, it’s clear as day. And if this ever goes to trial, the prosecutor will be beating that drum loud and hard.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Silva, folding his arms. “Look, Brad. It’s kind of complicated.”

“Complicated? No, Lalo. It’s not complicated. One of the bodies found in your gym was a sheriff's deputy. You’ve already experienced back-room justice in here, but what’s it going to be like in Men’s Central, where the guards are supplied by—guess who?—the LASD? You’re a sitting duck inside jail.”

“I know.”

“The arraignment’s forty-eight hours away, but that’s an eternity for someone like you.”

Silva sat there silently. He didn’t look scared. He looked calm and solid. The next words he said took me by surprise.

“Did I ever tell you about my wife?”

“All you said was she couldn’t help evacuate the girls. I get the feeling she’s dead to you. Messy divorce, is that it?”

“We’re not divorced,” he said.

“Okay, so why didn’t she come with us to San Juan? I thought maybe she’d be there waiting. But she wasn’t. Anyway, you did—what, five years? I know prison’s tough on marriages.”

Silva had gone quiet. It was like he’d left the room, mentally.

“Rosa was one of a kind,” he said. “She saw the good in me. Despite all the dumb crap I got myself into, she saw the good in me.”

“So, you ended up separated? On okay terms or not so good terms?”

Silva shook his head. His forlorn look made me realize that I’d got it totally wrong.

“Rosa never turned her back on me,” he said. “She believed in me like no one else ever has, before or since.”

I saw something I wasn’t expecting—the walls of a strong man melting away as emotion took over.

“Our family came first,” he said. “Rosa was pregnant with Bianca when I went to prison. Rihanna was almost two. My head was full of stupid ideas of how I was going to provide for my family. I had money to buy them things. I created the illusion of a happy, comfortable life, but it was all built on drug money. And when I was locked up, that’s when things got real. That’s when I knew I’d really screwed up. Suddenly, I saw what was important in life. I promised Rosa that when I got out, I’d go straight. I swore to her that I’d turn my back on crime forever. And she stuck by me.”

“You’re telling me you kept your word?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. It was because of her that I worked so hard to get my own gym. Turns out, I’ve got a good head for business. But there wasn’t going to be a happy ending for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was out of prison for a year before the first signs appeared,” Silva said. “Breast cancer. We thought there’d be time for tests and then surgery if she needed it.”

Tears welled in Silva’s eyes. He steeled himself to deliver the final heartbreaking detail.

“But Rosa’s cancer was so aggressive, all the doors were already shut. There was nothing anyone could do. In less than three months, she was gone.”

I’d gone cold, having no idea that he’d suffered such a profound tragedy. No one in his family told me anything. Not one of them even mentioned Rosa’s name. Not even her mother Antonella.

“Lalo, I’m so sorry,” I said, stunned by his revelation and feeling stupid about my flip remarks.

He shook his head and collected himself. “You say I should fear what these men might do to me,” he said. “They cannot hurt me. My soul has been dragged to a depth of grief they cannot know. I am stronger for it, and wiser.”

While I was sold on Silva’s inner strength, he was kidding himself if he believed they couldn’t hurt him. Even with his children stashed away in a gated compound in Puerto Rico, they were not one-hundred percent safe. As much as I admired Silva’s fortitude, he still had his vulnerabilities.

Evil men had a knack of finding ways to bring a good man to his knees.

Chapter 13

Ispent nearly two hours sitting beside Silva while Detective Medrano conducted his interrogation. He was methodical, his demeanor switching between curiosity and skepticism. At times, he seemed to entertain the idea that Silva could actually be innocent. A moment later, the notion was implausible. He was highly alert, appraising Silva and looking for cracks in his story, like an expert jeweler poring over a shiny stone brought to him on spec.

Silva never wavered. He kept insisting both dead men were strangers to him, that he had no idea what they were doing in his gym, and that he knew nothing about the drugs.

Medrano wasn’t easily deterred. He found Silva’s supplements side hustle very interesting, especially when Silva said he had a hard time keeping the stuff on the shelves.

“I bet you did,” growled Medrano. “Just like old times, huh?”

Silva didn’t bite. He simply went on to explain that most of his supplements stock was kept at the gym’s warehouse but there was a small storage unit he used for overflow. Medrano made notes of the address of the storage unit and said he’d be sending some men to go check it out.

“Once you furnish a warrant,” I said.

Medrano looked at me like he could make me disappear as easy as blowing out a candle.

“You’ll get your warrant,” he said.

After I left the station, I got in my car and called Jack. It went to his voicemail, so I left a message telling him I needed to see him at my office pronto. I wanted a full update on everything he’d found out. We had a big cast of characters to deal with already, and no doubt more would enter the frame.

Before I started the car, I opened an email from Hayden that ran through everything I needed to do to help set up the trust. Lalo’s plan was for the girls to return to LA once his current predicament had been resolved. The life he and Rosa wanted for the girls was based on good schools in LA and college, if the girls wanted, somewhere on the mainland. Having the trust set up in California made more sense.

A message came in from Jack as I started the car. “Give me an hour,” he wrote. “Just finishing up something urgent. Make it two.”

I sighed and sent a thumbs up. Two hours was too long for my liking, but I knew Jack wouldn’t waste a minute getting back to me.

On the drive back to the office, I took a moment to reflect on where I was. I’d told myself I wasn’t going to take cases that put my life in danger. That didn’t mean I’d have to stick to DUIs, but it did hold me to using some kind of “better judgement.” And with Lalo Silva, I’d seen the risks writ large. I’d actually told him to get someone else. But oh no, fate had swung things around so that I wanted this case and didn’t want to hand it off to anyone.

Why? Because that big oaf Sergeant Dillon put his boot into me? It came down to pride and ego. But internally, I framed it as something bigger and more noble. Something like standing up to tyranny.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. There was still time to withdraw. I could just call Doug Ziegler myself. Silva would be no worse off.

I shook the thought from my mind. To abandon Silva now was tantamount to cowardice. I just couldn’t see it any other way, as pig-headed, selfish, lame-brained and self-destructive as that may be. Yes, I was a father, but I was a defense attorney and that meant more than just hanging up a shingle with a few letters after my name. It meant that I believed my work mattered. When I did my job, the world was, in some small, even negligible way, a better place. That’s what I loved about my job. It wasn’t that I earned enough to keep two decent cars in my garage. It’s that I got to make a difference. And I’d bet that people like Lalo Silva, Rihanna, Bianca, and even Rosa from somewhere above would not deem that difference to be negligible.

Back in the office, I asked Myrna to take a closer look at Hayden’s email. I’d only scanned and gathered Hayden was doing an inventory of Silva’s assets, finances, and estate planning. What I didn’t understand was the I was expected to do as a trustee.

Myrna did as I asked and came back to me ten minutes later.

“He wants you to be the trustee, Mr. Madison,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if Eduardo Silva dies or becomes incapacitated, it will fall upon you to oversee the financial well-being of his children. You’d have control over how their trust money was spent.”

“Hang on a sec,” I said. “How many trustees are there? I’m sure Hayden said ‘a trustee.’ Like, I’d be part of a board or something.”

“No,” Myrna said. “It’s just the one—you.”

“What? I can’t do that. I hardly know this guy.”

“He obviously believes he can depend on you.”

Myrna was holding some sheets of paper.

“Is that the printout?” I asked.

She nodded and handed it over, and I proceeded to cast my eyes over it intensely. “Look at this list,” I said. “Education needs, health insurance, living expenses… This is way more than I signed up for.”

“You’ll be well paid for it, Mr. Madison,” said Myrna. “And don’t forget—Hayden Silva will be your formal advisor. He’ll do everything to make it easy for you. I think you should consider it an honor and a privilege. I suggest you stop considering it a burden.”

I think Myrna was telling me to put my big boy pants on.

“You’re right,” I said. “Thanks, Myrna. I’ll take another look at it after my meeting with Jack.”

A few minutes later, I was sipping coffee, looking over some reading material Jack had sent ahead of his visit. It was a detailed report on LA’s deputy gangs. Renegade elements in the LASD first developed in the 1970s. They formed surreptitious groups that condoned violence and intimidation towards the public, especially minorities. Like the Ku Klux Klan or outlaw motorcycle clubs, new members underwent initiations. This sometimes went beyond hazing—murder was a condition of entry into some gangs. In the unincorporated communities that the LASD was meant to serve and protect, these gangs turned a deputy’s badge into a license to commit crime and settle scores. Many of the gangs, or “cliques,” had designed their own tattoos, with common elements being skulls, skeletons, and guns.

The Vipers, Edgewood Park’s alleged LASD gang, were a relatively new phenomenon, little more than a decade old. The LA Times reported that a black woman claimed her brother was shot dead in cold blood because he stepped in to help a kid who was being manhandled by two Edgewood Park deputies. The LASD dismissed the account as a complete misrepresentation of events. As for tattoos, the Vipers were distinguished by an ink-job on their right shoulder that featured a snake’s head—open-mouthed, fangs bared—over two crossed pistols. No blacks or women were allowed in the group.

I’d just digested this charming information when its author strolled into my office.

“I knew these deputy gangs existed,” I said. “But, my God, they’re like the Mob in uniform.”

Jack took the seat opposite my desk. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? Some gangs have been broken up, but others spring up in their place.”

Myrna came in with a mug of coffee for Jack.

“You’re an angel,” he said, firing his dazzling smile at her like a spell. Myrna visibly melted. “Why don’t you leave this fool and come and work for me?”

She patted him on the shoulder and turned on her heel. “I like to keep busy, Mr. Briggs. You seem to have a hard time keeping just yourself occupied.”

Jack was left momentarily speechless as Myrna left the room. “I think she just insulted me.”

“Have you got anything on the Vipers? I want to know if Dillon, Paredes, and that Auerbach character are members.”

Jack shook his head. “No names confirmed yet. From what I hear, they’re into the usual stuff like excessive use of force, unprovoked shootings, corruption, cover-ups, and racism. But there’s a chance they’re into drug trafficking.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“Heroin, apparently.”

“What about this guy Chuck Infante?” I asked. “Get anything on him?”

“Bit of a hard nut to crack, that one. Seems to be the odd one out.”

“How so?”

“I tapped a couple of sources in the LASD ranks but didn’t come up with much. Infante was based out of the Lomita station. Someone I know there, told me Infante has a very positive rep. He was one of the good guys.”

“That’s it?”

“I have more, if you’d let me finish,” Jack said. “There’s a lot of mystery around Infante, which is a weird. But apparently, he was known to hate what the gangs were doing the LASD’s reputation.”

“Plenty of good men turn bad,” I said. “Who knows what kind of incentives and pressures are put on these guys.”

“My sources say Infante was a model cop. Earned commendations, worked like a Trojan, gained the respect of his colleagues, caught the eyes of his higher ups.”

“Yet he dies alongside a crook within an arm’s reach of a heroin stash? For a straight guy, that’s pretty bent company.”

I turned the conversation onto Lalo Silva and told Jack about the trust and Rosa. When I was done, he looked emotionally untouched.

“That’s a sad story,” he said, shaking his head. “A tragedy, for sure. But one of us here has to make sure we don’t get pulled along by our heartstrings.”

“I’m not losing my objectivity, Jack,” I said.

“You say that, but I know you, Madison,” he said. “You can’t help getting involved. And that’s not good. It impairs your judgement. Makes you soft. Mushy in the head. Shaky in the knees. Screwy in the—”

“Okay, Jack. You’ve made your point.”

We wrapped things up, and after Jack left, I kept thinking about the connection between Lalo Silva, Arthur Barkley and Chuck Infante. And even though I knew a lot more than I did previously, the picture wasn’t getting any clearer. If I was going to prove Silva was innocent, I desperately needed some hard evidence.

Then something struck me like a bolt of lightning. I pressed the screen of my desk phone twice, like Myrna had shown me.

“Yes, Mr. Madison?”

“Get me Dr. Gary Tuttle,” I said.

“What’s his field?” she asked to help speed up her search.

“Forensic pathology expert,” I said. “Culver City.”

“Okay, I got it,” said Myrna. “And after I’ve put you through, would you like me to prepare a motion for independent examination?”

“You’ve read my mind. Again.”

Something about the deaths of Infante and Barkley didn’t sit right with me. I’d seen the medical examiner’s report from the fire. Dr. Quentin Myers had concluded both men died of smoke inhalation before their bodies burned. But I wanted a fresh set of eyes. And I knew Gary Tuttle could give me a second opinion I could trust.

I needed to know exactly how those men died.

Chapter 14

After pulling into Eliza’s driveway, I stole a glance in the mirror to check for crumbs. I’d grabbed a slice of toast on my way out of my apartment because I’d skipped lunch. But Lalo Silva was out of mind now—work was done for the day. Time to enjoy the company of the person I most wanted to spend time with.

Her Mediterranean-style house sat perfectly lit under a cloudless LA sky. A cool sea breeze carried a rich floral aroma. This was the so-called Tree Section of Manhattan Beach, a leafy, lower-density area favored by families and professionals. Although I’d spotted a lot of Teslas and Mercedes-Benz parked along the street, the vibe was neighborly, with basketball hoops hanging over driveways and American flags angled over stoops.

I adjusted my cuff links and sprang up the steps to her door.

Before I could knock, the door opened, and there she was. A picture of class and elegance, she broke every stereotype I ever held about shrinks.

“You look amazing,” I said as I kissed her, and felt that wasn’t anywhere near enough of a compliment. “I mean, I’m sure I’ve got the right address, but you’ve thrown me—are goddesses allowed to date mortals? Give me a sec, and I’ll go grab my golden chariot and six white horses. I feel stupid coming here in that thing.”

Eliza laughed. I think she blushed a little too. “Don’t sell yourself short, big guy,” she said, shutting the door and slipping her arm into mine. “And that chariot will do nicely. How could you not love a GT Mustang?”

I dangled the keys in front of her. “You want to take the wheel?”

She laughed again and leaned into me. “Some other time. Heels and V8s don’t really get along.”

A short while later, we arrived at the Walt Disney Concert Hall, its gleaming steel reflecting the lights of Downtown LA. Inside, a vast golden-lit room crested by crystal chandeliers was filled with all the movers and shakers in the legal profession, clinking champagne flutes to the strains of a string quartet.

“So, are you getting an award, Brad?” asked Eliza as a tray of glasses was offered to us. “Is that why you wanted me to come? To show me what a legend you are?”

We clinked glasses and sipped. I smiled, not wanting to take my eyes off her.

“Listen, I’m not an awards type of guy,” I said with mock candor. “Don’t need ’em. This here shindig is not about winning anything.”

“Come on. You and I both know you don’t stand a chance,” Eliza said, her eyes were bright with mischief.

“Now that’s not fair. Did you actually read up on this?”

“I did. And there’s one award for long-term services to the poor that you’re not going to get. And the one for leadership, the one for diversity, equity and inclusion, and the—”

“Okay, okay. You got me,” I said, laughing. Then I leaned closer. “Look, I can’t promise this will be a fascinating night for you, but I need to show my face.”

“Oh, I think it’s more than that,” she said with a smile.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re here to work.”

I paused for a moment, surprised that she’d read me like a book. “How did you know that?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea what kind of man you are,” she said. “And you’re not here to let your hair down and get a pat on the back. You’re here to test the lay of the land. You’ve got Lalo Silva’s case on your mind.”

Not half an hour ago, I was telling myself the exact opposite. But Eliza was right. “That’s not entirely true,” I said. “I’ve got LA’s hottest psychiatrist on my mind.”

She smiled, and touched my forearm. “You didn’t have to say that, but thank you. And, look, I don’t mind. I get it. This isn’t your idea of a perfect date. At least, I hope it isn’t.”

“No, we’d be a long way from here if it was.”

“But we’re here for a reason. Well, a couple of reasons. But it’s okay. I’d be doing the same thing. Just let me know if I can help in any way.”

“Did I ever tell you, you’re amazing?”

“Nope, I don’t believe you did,” she said, shaking her head with a pout. “Words to that effect, maybe, but not the actual word ‘amazing.’”

“Well, you are.”

A quick scan of the room told me my date had attracted an awful lot of attention. I saw the wife of a judge tap his arm in a mild reprimand, having caught him admiring Eliza. It was Harrison Gould, a highly respected judge I’d appeared before numerous times. By the laugh that they shared, I gathered Judge Gould had let himself be caught ogling.

Elsewhere in the room, I saw Roger Russell, my parents’ dear friend, my godfather and my legal mentor. He was the one who suggested to Myrna that she might like working for me. That was just one of many things for which I owed Roger. I was about to take Eliza over to meet him when a man’s voice came over my shoulder.

“Good evening, Madison. I’d have thought a stuffy affair like this wasn’t your thing.”

The speaker was standing in front of me now, and I was surprised to see who it was. He didn’t know me personally, had never come across me professionally, and so had no right to claim he had my taste and character dialed.

I, on the other hand, had good reason to prejudge him. It was none other than Lester Vandermay, LA County’s new District Attorney. He was a year into his first term, and the shine was already starting to come off the Democrats’ latest poster boy for justice reform. He looked just like he did on TV—a handsome sixty-something gent with a newsreader’s haircut, white smile, clean-shaven face, double chin, and a paunch that was making his cummerbund work.

I ignored Vandermay’s assumed familiarity. “Eliza, this is Lester Vandermay. Top dog of all the prosecutors in LA County. Mr. Vandermay, this is Dr. Eliza Spouse.”

“I know what a DA is,” Eliza said, shaking Vandermay’s hand while throwing me some good-natured shade. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Vandermay, though I must say I’m disappointed you decided to wind back the mental health division.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” said Vandermay with pleasant verve, yet it was clear he was surprised and disappointed to be gently challenged by this beautiful new acquaintance. “I would prefer to say we’ve refined the process of how we deal with mentally ill criminals.”

“That’s one way to put it,” said Eliza. “If by refined you mean reducing something while retaining its potency, I’m afraid you’ve lost me. But I can understand that addressing mental health properly comes over as weak and woke. Not as sexy as reducing homicides and smash-and-grabs.”

“You’ve obviously got a vested in mental health.”

“I’m a psychiatrist with a lot of experience in crime,” said Eliza.

“And no doubt you know that I was voted in as an agent of change,” he said. “Whether I improve things or not is always something that will be up for debate. My enemies point out my shortcomings with far less grace than you, my dear. But hopefully you’ll see I deliver on my promises.”

During his campaign, Vandermay vowed to make the streets of LA safer, reduce the homicide rate, and tackle the spate of daylight robberies that had people choosing not to leave the house with jewelry on. On top of that, he proclaimed he’d be cleaning house, promising to reform the criminal justice system and weed out the bad eggs giving law enforcement a bad name. But the truth was, he’d already been accused of being all talk. On top of that, he had a sexual harassment claim percolating in the background.

I figured Vandermay would be looking for a way out, but he showed no inclination to move on. In fact, he seemed eager to get in my ear while he had the chance.

“Now, Brad,” he said. “I don’t think I’m the first prosecutor to tell you we could use you on our team. In fact, I have it on good authority you’ve been approached a few times to join my office.”

“I don’t think you can afford me,” I said, keeping it light.

“I’ve looked into you. I have my sources. And you strike me as a man who is not motivated purely by money.”

“Your sources are right about that, at least,” I said.

“But you’re not immune to the power of prestige, are you?”

I think Vandermay was calling me out on getting my face on TV during high profile cases.

“Talking to the press is a way to get my message out there,” I said. “I need to use whatever I can to make sure people with power and prestige can’t just lock you up when they want.”

Vandermay found this amusing. “Still, you must know that if you want to really make a difference, you’re on the wrong side. Spend a few years as our prized prosecutor and next thing you know you’re the LA County District Attorney.”

“You think I want your job?”

“If you’re as serious as I think you are about making a difference, then yes,” he said, with utmost sincerity. “I just wanted to let you know that my door is always open.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But I’m happy on my side of the fence.”

“Eduardo Silva,” Vandermay said with raised eyebrows. “You’ve got your work cut out for you there. The city has lost one of its finest investigators. The arraignment’s Monday, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” I replied, my mind tickled by something Vandermay said.

The DA looked at Eliza. “You’ve got a brave one here, Eliza.”

“Lester, you said Chuck Infante was an investigator,” I said. “Can you tell me his specific duties? I’ve yet to hear a decent explanation for what he was doing in the gym that night.”

“Are you asking me to help you?”

“I’m asking you to be open with me,” I said. “I’ll find out sooner or later.”

I saw Vandermay clench his jaw, considering whether to share anything with me.

“Madison, I’m telling you the truth when I say I can’t tell you everything I know about Deputy Infante’s work. What I can tell you is that this case is close to my heart. Deputy Infante was a decent, hard-working officer. His death was a blow to the LASD. They want justice, and I will do everything in my power to see that they get it.”

“At any cost?”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Madison?”

My reply was silence.

“You want a heads-up? Is that it, Madison? You want me to turn on my own men?”

“That’s not what I said. I asked you to be open with me.”

“Okay,” he said. “You got it. But I don’t think you’re going to like what I’m about to tell you. Just before I got here tonight, I received some very interesting information that should be of grave concern to you.”

Vandermay looked around to make sure nobody was close enough to eavesdrop on our conversation.

“I’m all ears,” I said

“Your client Lalo Silva reworked the insurance policy on his business just two months before the fire.”

“He what?”

Vandermay enjoyed seeing the expression on my face confirm that this was news to me.

“That’s right. He rejigged his insurance. And guess what one of the key benefits of him doing that was? A higher payout in the event of fire.”

“Is that so?” I said, seething that Silva had conveniently failed to tell me this. “I’ll have to check up on that.”

“You do that. Interesting, though, isn’t it? It’s almost like he saw it coming. That’s probable cause for arson. It will be included in his arraignment on Monday.”

Vandermay shook his head. “Keep telling yourself you’re the good guy, Madison.”

Something caught Vandermay’s eye over my shoulder.

“Speaking of good guys,” he said before calling out, “Hey, Clem. Get over here.”

A moment later, we were joined by a tall man with a lean face and thick mustache that hung down the sides of his mouth.

“Clem,” said Vandermay. “Have you met Brad Madison and his gorgeous friend Dr. Eliza Spouse?”

“Can’t say that I have,” said Shepherd, showing us a big cheerful smile beneath piercing green eyes. “Though I do know the name. Good to finally meet you, Brad.”

I didn’t know Clem Shepherd personally, but I’d heard things. He was a tiger. A prosecutor with a killer’s instinct and a missionary’s drive.

“Madison, as you may or may not know,” said Vandermay. “I’m putting Clem on the Silva case.”

“Good to know,” I said. “You guys have been a little coy about who’s going to take the reins.”

With that, Vandermay and Shepherd took their leave. Eliza didn’t hesitate to make her feelings known to me.

“Did he just basically tell you that the LASD is gunning for you?”

“More or less,” I said. “Are you suggesting I drop the case? Let them win?”

“What worries me is what they’re prepared to do to win,” she said. “It doesn’t take a therapy session to see how ruthless those two men are.”

The vibe had gone dead cold. Eliza was giving it to me straight.

I was walking into dark and dangerous waters, and, like it or not, I was taking everyone I loved with me.

Chapter 15

The hangover I woke up with the next morning wasn’t alcohol-induced. No, it was a client who was neck-deep in trouble yet liked to keep me guessing. Never a good thing. Surprises meant distrust. They indicated vital information was being kept hidden. They meant Silva believed that as long as he was paying my bills, he got to call the shots and I just had to get on with the task of getting him off.

Clients mistook this kind of nonsense for control. To me, it meant the opposite. Lalo Silva didn’t strike me as being either arrogant or stupid. What was becoming clearer by the day, it seemed, was that he was a liar. And from there, it wasn’t a stretch to conclude he was guilty.

I never pictured Silva as a cold-blooded killer. But even mafia bosses and cartel kings kiss their kids goodnight, so maybe that was how I had to start looking at him.

It was time to talk to Silva about the merits of a plea deal, and the dangers of going to trial against a crack prosecutor who had all chambers loaded.

After a restless night, I slipped out of Eliza’s bed before she woke up. I sent her a good morning text, grabbed my things and shifted all my focus on Silva. His arraignment was tomorrow, but we needed to talk today. I called the sheriff’s station, telling them I was coming.

I checked Silva’s case file for any mention of the insurance policy change. Nothing. I fired off a quick email to the DA’s office, demanding the information.

Lester Vandermay’s revelation the night before ate at me, just like it was meant to. He didn’t drop that bombshell to help me—he wanted to drive a wedge between me and Silva. Classic DA move, and I hated that it was working.

As I pulled into the lot of the Edgewood Park station, my cell buzzed. It was a message from Jack about the witness Malik Freeman, AKA “Frosty.” He was the guy who said he saw Silva’s car leaving the gym shortly before the fire broke out. But he was proving hard to track down. Jack hit the streets and learned that Frosty was a low-level drug dealer whose turf was a stone’s throw from Silva’s gym.

Jack suggested we go pay Frosty a visit. I told him we’d have to leave it for after Silva’s arraignment.

A few minutes later I was back in the interview room. Silva was escorted in not long after. He gave me a big smile and a warm greeting. At least one of us was in good spirits.

“Guess who I had a drink with last night?” I said, as soon as we were alone.

Silva shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “No idea. That hot shrink you’re dating?”

How come everyone knows who I’m dating? What had Silva been fed, and who’d fed it to him? Had it come down the chain from the DA? Why that would be true, I had no idea. I was annoyed and curious, but now wasn’t the time to drill down into jailhouse scuttlebutt.

“Lester Vandermay,” I said.

“Who’s he?”

“The District Attorney. He knows exactly who you are, and that’s not a good thing. He told me a secret about you.”

“What kind of secret?”

“That you switched insurance policies just before the fire,” I said, watching for his reaction.

Silva’s face flinched with alarm. “How the hell did he find that out?”

“Do you think the cops are stupid, Lalo? Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No, no,” said Silva, scratching his chin and looking down, like he was trying to come up with something to say fast. “Look, Brad, I swear—”

“Don’t you dare feed me more BS,” I said, barely controlling my fury. I pointed a finger at him. “You need to be very careful about what you say next because I refuse to be played by you. Keep playing games, Silva, and I’ll drop you. Just try me.”

“Brad, look,” said Silva, fixing an earnest gaze on me. “You’re right. I should have told you about this. But, I swear, I didn’t think it mattered.”

“How could it not?”

“Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, they say, right? A few months before the fire, I reviewed all my finances. The property insurance was just one egg in the basket. I wanted to cut costs, so I got some advice and found a better deal. Better cover and smaller premiums. What’s not to like? Anyone would do the same.”

“You switched a month before the fire. The DA finds that fascinating. Suspicious, in other words.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“It looks bad, Lalo. They’re going to use it as probable cause. You actively changed things up to profit from the fire.”

“Brad, I’m a businessman,” Silva said. “I know they’ll never see me as anything other than a crook, but I’m successful for a reason. I make good decisions. Most people sit with their insurers for years. That’s what these companies rely on. You sign up once, and you never change it, while they jack the premiums up every six months. Me? I don’t sit still. Check with Hayden.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Because it wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t something I felt guilty about. It was smart business. That’s it.”

Once again, I was stuck between taking Lalo Silva at his word and doubting it. “You’d better be telling me the truth,” I said

“I am telling you the truth,” he said. “I swear.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Okay, now that you’re in such a candid frame of mind, why don’t you help me understand how those men got access to your gym?”

“I’ve told you. I’ve got no idea how or why they broke in.”

“In the report, there’s no evidence of a break in. So who let them in? What were they looking for? Or was some kind of drug deal going down?”

Silva was cuffed at the wrists, but he spread his palms out as best he could to appeal to my trust.

“Brad, I’m telling you, I don’t know,” he said. “With my background, I’m sure that’s hard to believe, but it’s the truth.”

He then leaned forward over the table, looked me square in the eyes, and said, “This whole deal is nothing but a set-up.”

If this guy was playing me, he was giving an Oscar-worthy performance.

“Who set you up?”

Silva shrugged.

“Why would they set you up?”

Silva’s eyelids narrowed. “Do you know how many people hate me for what I’ve achieved? The cops. The cons. The frickin’ cartel monkeys killing each other over square inches of drug turf. They hate the fact that I’ve done it by the book. They’ll never get it. But I thought you would. Still, I only ever needed one person to believe in me—Rosa, may her beautiful soul rest in peace.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything. Jailhouse racket seeped through the walls from beyond.

“We’ve got the hearing tomorrow,” I said, finally. “The arraignment.”

“Can you get me out of here?”

“I can’t promise you that, but the chances are good. I’ll contact Hayden about the insurance records.”

“Thanks,” Silva said. “They will prove to you that everything I’m telling you is true.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Listen, whatever happens tomorrow, you need to take this moment to rethink everything you’ve told me. If the DA didn’t tell me about your insurance history, I’d have turned up tomorrow with my pants down, and the chances of you getting bail would have been nil.”

“I get it,” said Silva. “I’m sorry.”

“No more secrets?”

“No more secrets.”

I’ll never forget Lalo Silva telling me this. When it was all too late.

Chapter 16

Iturned up at the magistrate’s court just before eight, joining the queue. Every day was a busy day for LA courts, and the first rule of arraignment was to be early. No magistrate likes to be kept waiting. I spotted Assistant District Attorney Clem Shepherd up near the front. He happened to turn around at that moment, and nodded. Round one was about to start.

First impressions matter at arraignments. A key part of my job was to counter the character assassination—I mean, assessment—Shepherd would provide the magistrate with. With a defense attorney, the only picture the magistrate gets will be the one painted by the police report. And the black-and-white picture of Lalo Silva was pretty damning.

Here, according to the State, was a convicted drug dealer who’d planned a wicked exit strategy from a failing business. Torch the gym, bank the insurance payout, and move on. He had not only sacrificed the drugs he’d stashed inside, but the lives of two innocent men to boot. Clem Shepherd was going to tell the story more eloquently, but that was the crux of it.

To ensure Judge Alison Nash got a more balanced and humane picture of Lalo Silva, I’d put together a very different story. Here was an exemplar of the reformed criminal. A success of the correctional service’s redemptive power. Silva had lived and learned. He’d served his time and straightened out his life. He was a Stoic widower, and a proud father of two beautiful daughters who idolized him. Here was a good story, a success story—a person to be valued and respected.

This was the report I’d filed with the DA’s office. Judge Nash would have read it before the hearing.

When Silva was brought into the courtroom, he looked calm, proud, and confident.

“I’ve got the best defense lawyer in LA,” he said. “Kiki promised as much.”

“I’m not a magician,” I said. “Forget what Kiki told you.”

Silva leaned in toward me. “This is all going to turn out okay.”

I didn’t share Silva’s optimism. It only added to that nagging feeling that he was still keeping cards close to his chest. There had to be a connection between him and Barkley and Infante. Clearly, he wasn’t going to tell me what it was. I could only hope that Jack might find a way to crack that nut open.

Silva cast his eyes around the room, taking in the grimy white walls, the crest, and flags that hung behind the imposing bench up front. He shuddered.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

“I’ve got this,” I said. “You’ll be back at home with your daughters before you know it.”

“You think so?”

I just nodded.

“All rise!”

The bailiff’s voice took sudden command of the room as he announced the arrival of Judge Alice Nash, and we all stood. Judge Nash was a slim woman with a narrow face. By reputation, she was tough but compassionate. My first impression, though, was that she was conservative and stern. With her dark hair pinned up, and her robes draped around her, she looked like a woman of the strictest principles.

“She’s not as mean as she looks,” I whispered to Silva, but as much to myself.

The court clerk stood up and read aloud to the court.

“Case number 48563, The People vs. Eduardo Silva. Mr. Silva, you are charged of felony arson, as specified in the complaint.”

With that, Judge Nash addressed my client, “Mr. Silva, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” I said on Silva’s behalf.

Judge Nash then opened the subject of bail to be discussed, inviting Shepherd to speak first. The prosecutor got to his feet, straightened his back, and grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket with both hands. I saw he wore a three-piece suit, replete with a slim gold chain leading from the center waistcoat buttonhole to the left-hand pocket. I couldn’t help but smile. This guy looked out of time, but in a way that showed he knew his place in the world exactly. He projected an unabashed reverence for the law, its history and the vital role it played in our democracy. I was all for that myself, I just didn’t feel like I had to dress up like a Mark Twain character to prove it.

“Your Honor,” Shepherd said. “The State has built a strong case of felony arson against the defendant. You will have seen in the case files evidence of his effort to maximize the financial return he would receive as an insurance payout in the event of a fire destroying his Edgewood Park premises.”

The timbre of Shepherd’s voice was deep and rich, and he spoke with a strong California accent. By that, I don’t mean he peppered his words with “like” or “dude.” His speech was smart and refined, his diction precise, but he afforded a lot of room to the letter “r.”

“Your Honor,” he said, “The activity of the defendant before the crime and the weeks leading up to it is, in our view, highly suspicious. This is a convicted drug dealer who was operating a struggling business. The documents before you indicate that his financial position was so dire, he sought a desperate way out. The police record shows the defendant was seen to leave the premises just prior to the fire. It also shows there was a significant amount of narcotics found among the ashes. Your Honor, the State believes the defendant never let go of his criminal past. He went back to his old ways. The cost to the community of his criminal, self-centered behavior was bad enough as a drug dealer, but the fire he lit killed two innocent men, and ruined the lives of the people who mourn them.”

Shepherd took a moment to consult his notes. I suspected he didn’t really need to, he just wanted to add a pause for dramatic effect.

“The State strongly opposes bail for the defendant, You Honor,” he continued. “For all the facts I’ve mentioned, but also for the fact that he is a serious flight risk. The defendant has family in Puerto Rico and connections in Caracas, Venezuela. It is our firm belief that he has every motive to flee, and could quickly position himself in a foreign country from which he cannot be extradited.”

I turned to Silva. “You have family in Caracas?” I asked quietly, unimpressed I was hearing this first from the prosecutor.

“No,” said Silva firmly. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

When Shepherd was done, it was my turn.

“Your Honor,” I said, “Mr. Shepherd is overstepping the mark here. What he claims to be facts are just circumstantial evidence and supposition. As you will have seen in the report I filed to the DA, my client has been nothing less than a model citizen since the day his incarceration ended. No one is denying what Lalo Silva did in his youth. He’s been candid about it in a very public way. Starting from nothing, he’s launched a successful fitness enterprise that has been widely and rightly celebrated. His business was not struggling, it was thriving. The fact that he changed insurers is evidence only of his due diligence, of him having the nous to pay less and get more. Any proven businessman will tell you this is the key to success—minimizing waste and maximizing profit. But what we’re talking about here is not how to run a company 101, it’s the merit and moral fabric of a valued citizen, a man who has not just helped himself get ahead but also others.”

I spent a moment on the testimonials provided by a couple of Silva’s employees. They declared that Silva had steered their lives onto a better path. They vouched for how hard it was to get work once you left prison. A criminal record that followed you for life could cripple you, unless someone gave you a chance. For them, Silva was that someone.

As I spoke, I saw Judge Nash regard Silva with something that looked like compassion.

“Your Honor,” I said. “We seek an immediate release for my client on his own recognizance. He has a young family who rely on him, and he poses no risk to the public. As I have said, Mr. Silva is a business owner and an upstanding member of his local community. The fire was not a financial windfall as the prosecution would have you believe. It was a disaster with tragic consequences. It has had the most severe impact on his business. As founder and sole manager, it rests on him to find a way through the fire’s aftermath and to manage the broader commercial operations of his company. He has staff to pay, to look after, and to reassure. As terrible as the consequences of the fire are, Mr. Silva must get back to work. Many people—staff and family—depend on him. The prosecution has no valid reason to keep him locked up. Again, I ask you to release Mr. Silva on bail.”

“Bail is set at five-hundred-thousand dollars,” said Judge Nash. Shepherd was quick to his feet. “Counselor, you wish to add something?”

“I do, Your Honor,” he said, this time jabbing his palms out in front of him. “This matter could not be more dire. I strongly object to bail being granted to the defendant. In fact—”

“With all due respect, Your Honor,” I said, cutting in. “Mr. Shepherd is simply beating the same drum. He’s taking his biased interpretations of my client and presenting them as facts. As I have stated, my client is not a flight risk.”

“If I could continue, Your Honor,” said Shepherd, addressing the judge but looking at me. He then picked up a leather binder and opened it out in front of him at arm’s length, focusing on it through his bifocal eyeglasses for a few seconds. “With your permission, Your Honor,” he said, his eyes returning to the judge. He now had papers in his hand that he wished to hand to the bailiff. With a nod from Judge Nash, the bailiff stepped forward, and delivered them to the judge. He then delivered a copy to me.

“Your Honor,” Shepherd continued. “As you would know, this case is being rigorously investigated. At present, the charge is felony arson, but as these documents show, the defendant had connections to the Sonora Cartel, a well-known criminal organization whose stock trade is black tar heroin, the very kind found on the defendant’s property. We believe our efforts will allow us to charge the defendant with first-degree murder. It is my understanding that we will soon have the evidence to assert that this fire was not just an insurance scam, but a specific intent to kill. I seek an extension of custody by a few days to allow us to formalize these charges.”

“I see,” said Judge Nash.

“With all due respect, Your Honor,” I said. “There is no evidence at hand to back up this outrageous claim. One of the deceased is an LASD deputy. At this very moment, my client is being held by the colleagues of that dead officer. I must speak plainly and declare that while he is in custody, he is not safe. Any extension of his time behind bars only increases the risk of him, by way of retribution, being severely harmed or even killed. I strongly request that we be—”

“Watch yourself, counselor,” snapped Judge Nash. “I will not allow you to question the integrity of the State’s correctional officers.”

“Your Honor,” I said, forced to backtrack. I couldn’t raise the matter of Silva already being bashed while in custody, as I had nothing to prove it was true. All I had now at my disposal was civility and reason. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I am obliged, though, to point out that given that a man accused of killing an LASD officer—”

“I know exactly what you’re saying,” said Judge Nash. “And by that I mean I know what you’re inferring. You’re saying that the LASD won’t let justice take its course and that they’ll exact some kind of vigilante justice for themselves.”

I guessed now wasn’t the time to bring up the documented—that is, proven—record of deputy gangs throughout LA and the broad range of their nefarious criminal activity. Then again, if ever there was a time and place to say this, it was now.

“Your Honor,” I said. “I don’t think I’m being unfair or slanderous to say that the reputation of the LASD is in serious—”

“Mr. Madison,” said Judge Nash, cutting me off yet again with a raised palm. “I don’t like where your argument is going, and I certainly don’t accept the insinuation you present.”

Her tone was enough to tell me that my attempt had fallen on deaf ears.

“Mr. Shepherd,” she said. “I give you seven days to file. Case adjourned.”

She picked up her gavel and struck it once, effectively ending my first attempt at gaining Silva’s freedom.

Round One to Shepherd. My client would remain in custody for another week.

Outwardly, Silva showed no signs of concern. He maintained that ex-con nonchalance that he could take another week being locked up standing on his head.

Me? I knew I’d spend each waking hour of the next seven days expecting a call to tell me Silva had found a way to “kill himself.”

Any LASD deputy who wanted to exterminate Silva knew how to make it look like suicide. Call me morbid, but I believed it was a matter of if, not when.

I could only hope I was wrong.

Chapter 17

Imade a point of seeing Silva every day. Twice if I could. If I ran into Dillon or Paredes, I made a point of engaging with them, letting them know I was keeping close tabs on Silva. Just in case they tried to pin a “depressed inmate” story on him, I recorded interviews, asking Silva to talk about everything he had to live for—his family, his name, his reputation. It was the least I could do, even if it didn’t feel like much.

After a morning visit, I headed into Edgewood Park to meet Jack. He’d track down Malik “Frosty” Freeman, the guy who claimed to have seen Silva leave the gym just before the fire.

I saw Jack’s Ford Ranger and parked about twenty yards ahead.

“How’d your fancy date go?” Jack asked as I slid into his passenger seat.

“Who’s asking? You or Claire?”

“Just happy for you, buddy.”

“Yeah, yeah. Why are you blabbing about me to my ex-wife?”

“It wasn’t me,” said Jack. “I swear. Maybe Chanel said something.”

Chanel was Jack’s wife.

I rolled my eyes. “Since when are they friends?”

“They’re not. We ran into Claire and Marty at a party. You know what it’s like, put two beautiful women in a room and the only thing they’re going to be talking about is who Brad Madison’s dating.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Abby Hatfield left some Hollywood stardust on you. No way your new flame didn’t know about that.”

“We need to change the subject before I sack you and get myself another investigator.”

“Okay. Okay,” Jack said. He lifted a finger to point ahead. “See that guy there?”

Three black guys were hanging out on the corner. One was seated on the steps of a boarded-up store. The other two were standing and chatting, casually running their eyes up and down the streets.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Tall, skinny one in the white shirt.”

“You sure?”

Jack gave me a spurious look. “Would I drag you out here if I wasn’t? That’s Malik Freeman, aka Frosty.”

I reached for the door handle. “Let’s go.”

The moment we got out of the car, the three men sized us up. The one on his butt got to his feet. They aimed grim expressions at us, making it clear we weren’t welcome.

When we continued, one of them, a stocky guy, lifted his chin and spoke.

“You fellas got off on the wrong stop. This ain’t Melrose Place.” I guess Jack’s sports jacket, my suit and tie, and our whiter than white glow suggested we were clueless. I guess I could take that as a compliment—they obviously didn’t think we were cops.

Ignoring the stocky guy, who was now making a point of rubbing his knuckles, I eyed the skinny one. “Frosty,” I said. “We need to talk.”

The mood shifted. I sensed we were a split second away from someone pulling a gun.

“Who the hell are you?” asked Frosty.

I put up my left hand as I reached for my wallet with my right. One of Frosty’s friends slid a hand behind his back. I took out a card and handed it to him.

“Brad Madison,” I said. “Attorney at law.”

I don’t know why I say that. Habit, really. Of course, I do know why lawyers add the “at law” bit. It makes clear that I’m qualified to represent someone in court, as opposed to representing someone who’s too old, young, or uninformed to make legally binding decisions for themselves, and hence being granted “power of attorney” over their affairs. Kind of what Silva hired me to do with his living trust. I wasn’t about to lay all this on Frosty. He looked confused enough as it was.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m Lalo Silva’s lawyer,” I said. “Defending him, to be exact. And this here’s my investigator, Jack Briggs.”

“You’re a hard man to track down, Malik,” said Jack. “But we got there.”

“Eventually,” I said, sending Jack a glance.

When Jack mentioned his first name, Frosty’s eyes flinched. I figured he wouldn’t want to discuss his cozy relationship with the LASD in front of his buddies, so I made it clear I wouldn’t out him.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“I just want to talk about Silva,” I said. “He says you knew some of the guys who worked for him. Well, Lalo needs a solid. He told me you could vouch for him. The cops want to put him away for a long, long time. You wouldn’t want to see that happen, would you?”

“Stay here,” he said to the others, and motioned for us to follow him across the street. The other two nodded and looked happy we were moving away. Two white guys hanging around wasn’t good for business.

Frosty led us into a small park. I took a seat on a bench with Frosty while Jack put some distance between us and kept an eye out.

“So,” I said. “Let’s talk about this statement you gave the deputies the night of the fire.”

“I told them what I saw.”

“Sure, you did. That statement reads like Alice in Wonderland,” I said. “You saw just enough to make those deputies smile.”

“I saw what I saw.”

“Why are you in their debt, Frosty? That’s what I want to know. And that’s what my investigator over there is going to find out. The guy’s a bloodhound.”

“There’s nothing to find.”

“We’ll see about that,” I said. “You’re going to make my job fun, Frosty. I can picture it already. You, prosecution witness, sitting up there in the stand, and it’s just me and you. You’ll have nowhere to hide. I’ll pick your story apart like a cheap sweater. Perjury’s going to break your probation and send you to prison for another five years, maybe ten.”

Frosty did his best to look cool, but his knees began to swing in and out. “I’m sticking to my story.”

“Sure, you are,” I said. “No jury’s going to take you seriously when I’m done with you. What did Dillon offer you to sweeten the deal?”

“There’s no deal,” insisted Frosty.

“Oh, yes, there is,” I said. “I can smell it on you. You know what else I can smell? Fear. Dillon’s offer is conditional on Silva being convicted, isn’t it?”

Frosty said nothing.

“Now, I know you want to save it all for court, so that you can put a smile on old Sergeant Dillon’s face, but I’d like to go over a couple of details that I find particularly interesting. Do your buddies over there know you’re singing for the LASD, Frosty?”

“What details?” Frosty asked, ignoring the question.

“Well, we can leave the part about you seeing Silva leave the gym just before the fire, because I can prove that’s a lie.”

I was bluffing. I couldn’t prove it was a lie, yet. Silva’s phone records would soon tell me where he was.

“And what about buying drugs off Silva?”

“I didn’t say I bought them off him directly, but everyone knows Silva used the gym to move gear.”

“Is that so?” I asked. “What kind of gear?”

“Arnolds,” Frosty said. “At first.”

“Arnolds? What are you talking about?”

“Arnolds, man,” said Frosty, always keeping his head and eyes ahead like we weren’t talking. “You know, gym candy, juice—whatever you want to call them.”

“Steroids?”

“Bingo. Special protein powders. Everyone knew the gear was being shifted out of that gym.”

“Is that right?”

I recalled Detective Medrano being particularly interested in Silva’s supplements side hustle. Admittedly, that was my first reaction too. But Siva had managed to dispel my suspicion, but now it was back and coming on strong. I just kept feeling played by this guy—drip-fed truths and half-lies in turn.

“Do you deal steroids?”

“I don’t shift anything,” said Frosty cagily. “What I’m saying is everyone knew Silva shifted them. And then they started on the smack.”

“They started selling heroin? What, was that all of a sudden?”

“Pretty much. After the raid.”

“What raid?”

Frosty refused to elaborate, but the pieces were falling into place.

I finished up with Frosty and went over to Jack.

“I need to know if Silva’s gym ever got raided,” I said.

“If it was, it never made the news,” said Jack. “I’d have picked that up.”

“Can you find out?”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

Jack reminded me of his contacts in the LASD. He then grabbed his phone and peeled off to make a call.

I walked back to Jack’s car. Frosty and his pals were ignoring me. A car pulled up, and the stocky one leaned into the window and took some money. The car then moved on to the next corner where there was another guy. A signal was given, and he went to the car and dropped his hand into the window. The car moved off. Back to business as usual.

Jack walked up, putting his phone back into his pocket.

“It’s true,” he said. “There was an LASD raid on Silva’s gym eight months ago. Nothing recorded in-house, and nothing fed to the press.”

“Why’d they want to keep it a secret?”

“Who knows? Maybe they just wanted to send Silva a message.”

“Did they find anything?”

Jack shook his head. “Nope, but guess who led the raid?”

“Sergeant Dillon?”

Jack shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “Dillon’s superior officer—Captain Don Auerbach.”

Chapter 18

After returning to my car, I let Myrna know I wouldn’t be coming straight back to the office. Change of plans. There was someone I needed to see.

About ninety minutes later, I was sitting in a cold, stark room filled with nothing but stale air. Harsh, heartless sounds echoed through the walls from all sides. Footsteps approached, then the heavy security door opened with a metallic clunk, and in walked Joaquin “Kiki” Tacito.

“Hello,” he muttered without moving his lips, the words barely audible. Kiki Tacito didn’t like surprises, especially from someone like me. If I had good news for him, he’d already have caught wind of it. But his sentence had no off-ramps, no legal moves left to pull. He had thirteen more years before he got a shot at parole. I’d checked.

“You look well, Kiki,” I said as he slumped into the chair opposite me. The guy was short but built like an ox. He was clearly putting the prison weights to good use. Outside, you’d say Tacito looked fit for his age—just over fifty. In here, he looked fit to kill.

Tacito nodded at my compliment and stared at me.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” I said, “but I’m defending Lalo Silva.”

Tacito didn’t flinch. Then he turned his head slowly, keeping his dark eyes pinned on me.

“There’s something I hope you can help me with,” I continued.

Nothing.

“He said you gave me quite the recommendation,” I said. “Called me a magician. That was kind, but if I was a magician, you wouldn’t be sitting here, would you?”

“I’ve got a chance to get out,” said Tacito. “You got me that ticket. Without you, I wouldn’t have a hope.”

“That’s generous.”

“No, it’s the truth. I told Lalo you weren’t just smart, you were noble. I put my life in your hands, and I never regretted it. And that’s what I told Lalo.”

“Okay,” I said. “Now that we’ve hugged it out, can I cut to it?”

“Please.”

I had to tread very carefully. As a member of the Sonora Cartel, one of Mexico’s most powerful criminal organizations, Tacito was only giving me the time of day as a nod of respect, a costless favor for helping him out. He wasn’t going to offer me anything. I’d have to be at my persuasive best.

“If you didn’t know already, two men were killed in a fire at one of Lalo’s gyms,” I said. “One of them was a cop. Lalo’s facing felony arson, but there’s a real chance he’ll get two homicide charges added.”

Tacito gave me a faint smile. What I said clearly amused him. “You sound like you think he's innocent.”

“You don’t?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea, counselor. All I could offer is what you’d call hearsay. Which doesn’t hold up, right?”

“We’re just talking, Kiki. I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say.”

“I could tell you his business was tanking, and he was looking for a way out.”

“Seems to me Lalo had a pretty good head for business,” I said.

“You could say that again. But what’s that they say about leopards, Mr. Madison? They don’t change their spots. And cons tend to stick to what they know. Chances are Lalo’s business was nothing more than a front for shifting drugs. Anyone running a gym not selling steroids is leaving money on the table.”

Tacito spoke like this was common business sense. In the criminal underworld, illegal trades were indistinguishable from honest ones. The end always justified the means.

I slid a list of names across the table. These were ex-cons who Silva had employed. “You know any of these guys?”

“Nope,” Tacito said a little too quickly after a cursory read. He slid the paper back to me.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You recommended me to Silva, Kiki. I thought you were friends.”

“He was a solid guy. He helped me out a couple of times when I got jumped. Guy knew how to throw down.”

“Yet, you’re telling me that he’s not who he says he is. That he didn’t go straight. That he just found another way to deal dope.”

Tacito’s eyes flared. “What are you asking me for? What do I know? The dude had a past dealing drugs. What he’s up to now, I haven’t got a clue.”

“Did you hook him up with the Sonora Cartel? Did you help your old cellmate get into heroin?”

For a second, Tacito just stared at me, then he broke into a hearty, exaggerated laugh.

“I think it’s time you went home, counselor.”

It was clear I wasn’t getting anything more.

“Guard!” he shouted, slapping his hands on the steel table so hard it sounded like a gunshot.

My ears were ringing, but I had one more thing to ask.

“Did Silva ever talk to you about his wife?”

Tacito’s expression changed. “What?”

“His wife. She died of cancer.”

Tacito raised his eyebrows. “Wow,” he said. “And I thought I knew the guy. He never told me he was married. He said he was single. Used to brag about his Tinder dates. Sounded wild, man. That’s the first thing I’ll be doing when I get out of here. Download that Tinder app and start making up for lost time. Know what I mean?”

I could hear the guard approaching outside. Tacito stood up. He shook his head. “Married, huh? That’s impressive. That guy sure knew how to keep a secret. Maybe he’s got others, counselor.”

“Did he ever get visitors?”

“Never,” said Tacito, stepping toward the door. “No one. I felt bad for the guy.”

“You sure about that?”

“When you share a cell in this place, you find out how a man truly lives his life.”

The guard held the door open and Tacito walked out, shaking his head and laughing. “Lalo Silva, married with kids, huh? Incredible. Thanks for stopping by, counselor.”

Chapter 19

Walking back to my car, my brain felt like it was being wrung dry. My client was a whack-a-mole. Each time I felt I got a grip on the guy, it slipped, and up would pop another version. Like a marriage, the lawyer-client relationship hinges on trust and honesty. Deep down, it didn’t matter to me whether Silva was guilty or not. But if he was deceiving me, then I was wasting a lot of time on the wrong things.

The head miles kept me up most of the night. A million different thoughts ran through my brain. The takes on Silva I got from Frosty and Kiki Tacito had me thinking I’d be a fool to swallow what Silva was feeding me.

Against this, though, was the powerful truth that he’d trusted me with the lives of his daughters. Not just for the present but for the future. As a father, I understood the depth of faith needed to make such a request. It was odd, though. Flattering, but odd. I was a stranger to Lalo Silva before the night of the fire. The next day I was practically his children’s godfather.

If Silva was guilty, the process would be simpler—I’d negotiate the best plea deal possible. But if he was guilty, why couldn’t he tell me? I believed he knew what went down in that gym. Was it a drug deal gone wrong? A double-cross? Was the fire a way to take out two co-conspirators and increase the cut for the others? Or did Infante walk in to make a bust?

If it was a drug deal, why would Silva allow a hundred grand’s worth of drugs to be destroyed? Maybe that was not meant to happen. Maybe the drugs weren’t meant to be there. And the fact that it was Mexican black tar heroin was deeply suspicious, given Silva’s connection with Tacito.

But what if Silva was telling me the truth? What if he was innocent? The short answer was he was dead out of luck. With each passing day, his chance of being free again was getting slimmer.

At six the next morning, I dragged myself into the shower. After a few minutes, I reached for the hot water tap and quickly turned it off. The sudden drop in temperature had me gasping for air. A few seconds later, I was used to it and moved under the shower head to get the cold water all over my body. I practically bounded out of the shower and reached for a towel, revived in body and mind.

As much as I wanted to go and press Silva for answers, I knew he’d only stick to the same story. I needed to get ahead of the game. I needed leverage. I needed to feel like I could see into the distance for miles, while Silva and the DA and Clem Shepherd and the LASD were all content with yards.

Arthur Jessop Barkley was the key. Money was at the heart of this mess, and Barkley was the only money man in the picture.

I reviewed everything I had on Barkley. When I was done, I felt like I needed to take another shower. This oily character had ruined so many lives. He looked decent enough in the photos—clear green eyes, friendly smile, and the clean-cut look of a successful black businessman. He grew up in a middle-class family in Chicago and was such a gifted student, he won a scholarship to study finance at Boston College, saving his parents about $70,000 a year in fees. But he dropped out to join an investment firm in New York, got busted for insider trading, then moved west to San Francisco before setting up his own business in Los Angeles six years ago. I could only wonder why such a gifted kid became a sophisticated con artist.

I pulled into a spot about a quarter of a block from Barkley’s office. Outside, a car was being hauled onto a flatbed truck. Not just any old car—it was an Aston Martin Vantage. I stopped and admired the emerald green beauty. The guy doing the recovery flicked the lever and the coupe inched up the tilted bed.

“Bet that’s not the first time that thing’s had to hitch a ride,” I said.

“I wouldn’t know,” said the guy over his shoulder.

“Hundred and fifty grand’s worth of looks, and a dime’s worth of reliability, am I right?”

The guy turned around and looked at me like I’d bothered him reading his morning paper. “I don’t know, mister. But it didn’t break down. It’s being repossessed.”

“Ah, got you. Have a good day,” I said and kept on walking.

Inside Colossus Wealth Management, the phones were ringing off the hook. Beyond the front desk, I saw an open-plan office with about ten desks, two chairs each. But every chair was empty. In fact, the whole place looked be empty save for one woman at the front desk who watched me approach. She was busy on a call and raised a finger to let me know she’d be with me in a moment.

The woman, a heavy-set African-American, was using all her powers of care, understanding, and patience to calm down the person on the other end of the line. I stepped up to the desk, not to stand over her, just to wait my turn. From where I stood, I could read her name tag: Henrietta. I could also hear an irate voice coming through the phone. That was because Henrietta had pulled it away from her ears to save her hearing.

Finally, she put the phone back in its cradle.

“He hung up,” she said. Immediately, her phone lit up again, and she dutifully lifted the receiver. As she did so, she gave me a sideways glance. She was no fool—she was keeping an eye on me. Henrietta cycled through two more calls, and although she kept her tone civil, her frustration was growing.

It was then that I noticed a bunch of flowers on her desk, still in their wrapping. Next to the bouquet was an empty vase. Feeling like I could make myself useful, I leaned over, grabbed the vase, and headed over to where a small dividing wall shielded a half-kitchen from the office. After filling the vase with some fresh water, I took it back to the desk, where I proceeded to unwrap the flowers.

Still busy with her calls, Henrietta didn’t miss a beat. As I placed the flowers neatly in the vase, she smiled and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

I heard her hang up again.

“That’s not how I’d expect a man to handle flowers,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously. “You know what you’re doing.”

“All thanks to my mother,” I said. “She taught me that there was an art to floral arrangements. I just remember the basics. Use the larger flowers as focal points. Try to create both harmony and contrast. Then there’s movement, which you get with layering and color.”

“A clever woman, your mother,” she said.

Seeing that I’d put Henrietta at ease somewhat, I held out a hand. “Brad Madison.”

“Henrietta Stubbs,” she said. She inspected the flowers with a satisfied smile, and then walked them over to a table positioned at the side of the reception area. “Thank you.”

“Looks like you’re being run off your feet,” I said.

“That’s an understatement,” she said, returning to her chair. “It’s impossible to keep up.”

“Since Mr. Barkley died?”

She looked at me surprised. “No, since the day I started this job. I only took it because I needed the money, and I wanted to help Arthur out. But every day has been frantic.”

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“No, no,” she said. “A friend who does deliveries heard that his receptionist quit. I interviewed for the job that day, and he charmed the socks off me. He was very charismatic, Arthur. Too charismatic. You might be a little charismatic yourself, Mr. Madison. I sure hope you’re not here to sell me something.”

“Henrietta, I’m a lawyer. I represent the man the police think killed your boss.”

“There’s only one person of interest? I could name a hundred people who wanted that man dead.”

Henrietta’s phone started ringing again, she looked down at it, leaned forward and pushed a button. “They’re just going to have to hold,” she said, looking at the phone. “And I just know they’ll wait all day until I answer. So, what is it you want, Mr. Madison?”

“You just said it yourself, actually.”

“I did?”

“Yes, I gather that all these calls you’re getting are from irate investors.”

A great sadness came over Henrietta. “I never thought he was a bad man,” she said. “I knew he was inclined to over-promise and underdeliver, but I never suspected he was so devious, so deeply troubled. He had to have been. I mean, to be so nice to decent people while knowing he was stealing their money. Makes me sick thinking about it.”

Tears came to Henrietta’s eyes. She placed a painted nail into the inner corner of each eye to stop the tears from smearing her eyeliner. She then took a Kleenex from off her desk and dabbed some more. “How could he do that to people? I feel so ashamed.”

“You are nothing like him, Henrietta,” I said. “You’re here holding the fort, taking all the flak and doing whatever you can to help.”

“They’ll never see their money again,” she said. “They’ve lost it all. Some of these people invested their whole retirement fund, and now there’s nothing. It’s so cruel, so devastating.”

“Was that his car being repossessed just now?” I asked.

“That car dealer’s probably the only person who’ll get back what they gave to Arthur. It’s not fair.”

“Henrietta, I’d like to take a look at Arthur’s clients. Is that possible?”

Such a direct question put Henrietta on the spot, and naturally she felt uncomfortable.

“I’m interested in seeing the records,” I said.

“I didn’t say anyone killed Arthur,” Henrietta said. “I just meant Arthur made a lot of enemies. I think the police are the best people to handle it. It doesn’t feel right letting you see the accounts.”

“I understand.”

“Besides, I could face charges if I was caught.”

Someone must have beaten me to the punch. Medrano, I bet.

“Did Detective Mike Medrano tell you that?”

“No,” Henrietta said. “Mr. Barkley’s files are private, and I know a thing or two about the law pertaining to confidential information. And I know that if they want his files, they’re going to need a search warrant.”

“Is that what you told him?”

“Yes,” she said. “But it was just a deputy who dropped by. Not a detective.”

“Today?”

Henrietta nodded. “About an hour ago.”

They were getting a search warrant. Whoever visited Henrietta probably figured there was no desperate rush. He no doubt believed she wasn’t inclined to start destroying files and tampering with evidence. I figured Henrietta would have told him what she told me. That her boss was a scoundrel.

I didn’t have much time before they came back with a warrant. They’d seize everything. I wasn’t about to walk away and wait for the DA to share with me what they found via discovery. Yes, there were rules about having to be prompt with sharing evidence with the opposing party. But in reality, the DA’s office stalled as long as they could. I often needed a judge’s order to pry something off them. I didn’t want an LASD filter on whatever evidence was in this building.

I had to push.

“Henrietta, I don’t want to get you into trouble, but the man I’m helping, his life stands to be ruined just as badly, and arguably worse than any of Arthur’s clients.”

“What could be worse than being taken for every cent you have?”

“Not a lot. But I’d say being sent to prison for a crime you didn’t commit is a contender. Imagine, going to jail for twenty years for a crime you didn’t commit.”

“I sympathize, Mr. Madison. But who says your client’s innocent?”

“I honestly cannot stand here and swear on my daughter’s life that he’s innocent,” I said. “But he swears he didn’t know Arthur.”

“What’s his name?”

“Eduardo Silva,” I said. “Most people call him Lalo. He runs fitness centers and sells exercise supplements. You know, protein powders.”

“He’s not a client here,” said Henrietta.

“Sounds like you’re sure about that.”

“I am. I know the names of all our clients. He’s not one of them.”

“Okay. You must know that an LASD deputy was killed in the fire along with Arthur.”

“Yes. I do. Deputy Chuck Infante.”

“Did he ever come here?”

“No. At least, not while I was here.”

“Okay,” I said. “Look, my point, Henrietta, is that the LASD are investigating the death of a fellow officer. My fear is that they’ll bend the rules to make Lalo guilty even if he’s not.”

“They want blood, you’re saying?”

“Yes. Now, if Lalo is convicted of this crime, the real killer will be free to walk this earth without a care in the world. That doesn’t sit well with me, Henrietta. And my hunch is that the real killer is one of Arthur’s clients. And if the LASD get their hands on those records before I get a look, then I might lose my best chance to clear Lalo Silva’s name.”

Henrietta pondered my words. After a moment, her demeanor turned resolute.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” she said. “The best way to do this is for me to make copies for you. That way, there’s no email trail for someone to find.”

“Thank you, Henrietta,” I said. “How long do you think that will take?”

“An hour, at least, so I’d better get to it.”

With that, Henrietta grabbed a large cardboard box and took it over to the photocopier. As she did, I spotted a security camera high up in the corner above the door and pointed it out to her.

“Any idea how much footage the camera holds?”

“About two weeks’ worth, from memory,” she said.

I pulled an SD card from my pocket. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

“I might try to erase the last hour or so while I’m at it, if that’s okay with you,” I said.

“No need. The battery ran flat. There was a notification on the app, but I’ve been so busy on the phones I haven’t got around to recharging it. And I didn’t think it mattered anymore. Who’d want to watch videos of me answering the damn phone all day?”

I laughed. “I think the LASD would not be happy to see me here.”

“I know. And what they don’t know can’t hurt them, right?”

Henrietta dumped a pile of documents next to the photocopier and began working through them all. “I sure hope we’ve got enough paper. We always ran out. Arthur liked to spend money on nothing but himself.”

An hour later, Henrietta was back taking calls. I left Colossus Wealth Management with a box so heavy I struggled to reach my car without stopping for a rest.

Chapter 20

The moment I was back in my car, I tore open my suitcase, pulled out my laptop, and fired it up. I inserted the thumb drive and uploaded everything to the cloud and shot the link to Jack. Then I turned my attention to the box of photocopies sitting in the passenger seat. I needed to make digital backups immediately.

I took a look around the interior of the Mustang. In no way, shape, or form could this function as a work space. I regretted not bringing the Silverado. To hell with it, I thought, I need to start.

Twisting behind the wheel, I looked into the box, picked up the first sheet and lowered it into the passenger foot well where there was less direct light, framed the shot with my phone camera and took the photo. I then laid the sheet face down on the floor. One scan down. By the look of the pile in the box, it was the first of a few hundred. I took a deep breath to prepare for the tedium ahead, and repeated the process. After twenty shots, I transferred the scans to my cloud account.

I was about to pick up the twenty-first sheet when I heard tires screeching to a halt. The sound was so close, I braced for impact. When I glanced out the rear window, I saw four LASD prowlers with their noses jammed into the curb outside Arthur Barkley’s building. At least eight officers were fanning out.

I thought of Henrietta and paid her quiet thanks for having the courage to help me. I turned back to face the steering wheel, dropped lower in my seat and scanned my mirrors.

My finger was hovering over the start button. I was about to press it, but then something made me freeze. A familiar figure appeared in my side mirror, standing tall, surveying the area. It was Deputy Craig Dillon, looking as joyful as ever. I saw his eyes latch onto my car. The same Kona blue Mustang he’d pulled over in the pouring rain not so long ago.

He couldn’t have looked more offended if someone had flung dog poop in his face. He started marching my way.

Before he’d taken a second step, I pushed the ignition. The V8 roared to life with a roar as I punched the gas. Then I shifted gear and burned some rubber of my own.

I didn’t look back at Dillon, but just thinking about that rancid look on his face made me smile.

Chapter 21

Iwas glad to leave Dillon in my dust, but I figured he’d send someone after me, if not pay me a visit himself. Right now, he was probably grilling Henrietta. If Henrietta was as smart as I thought, Dillon wouldn’t get anything out of her she wasn’t happy to share. I was sure she didn’t do me a favor just because I flashed her a smile—something told me she believed there was more to Arthur’s death.

Heading back to the office was out of the question. If Dillon was suspicious, he’d send someone to catch me red-handed. Even though I got the files legally, the LASD wouldn’t see the nuance. They’d just take what I had, and probably touch me up again in the process.

I needed to get somewhere safe to go through the files.

I called Jack to fill him in.

“Come over,” he said. “We can use my office. Once everything’s digitized and locked away in encrypted folders, we’re set. If they come with a warrant, we can just hand over the paperwork, act all grumpy, you can give them a rant about abuse of power, and they’ll think they cleaned us out.”

“I don't want to put you and your family in danger, Jack.”

“Trust me, it’ll be fine. Besides, Chanel would handle them better anyway.”

“Okay. See you in thirty.”

I drove the Mustang they way it was bred for, weaving through traffic, slipping through gaps and punching forward whenever I so much as tapped my toe. I pulled into my investigator’s driveway with minutes to spare.

“Hey, Brad,” said Chanel with a big, beautiful smile. She looked at the box I had in my arms, hesitated for a second before maneuvering around to kiss my cheek.

“You’re looking good, Brad. You been hitting the gym? Or is something else giving you that glow?”

I knew exactly what she was talking about. “Shouldn’t I be getting the latest gossip about me from you guys?”

“Hope you’re not mad,” she laughed. “We’re all just happy for you.”

“I’m not mad,” I said lightly. “Now where’s that jackass husband of yours?”

“Back in his office,” said Chanel, leading me inside. “But you are looking good, Brad. I mean it. She’s a lucky girl. It’s Eliza, right?”

Chanel was grinning at me cheekily.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” I said.

“And she’s a psychiatrist,” Jack’s voice came from the deck outside. “Perfect woman for him.”

Jack walked in, staring at me blankly like he was waiting for a comeback. But I was too distracted.

“See?” Jack said. “She’s already working wonders on him. Normally, he’d take the bait and try to come up with something funny.”

Chanel laughed. “Quit fooling and take Brad to the office, so he can put that box down. It looks heavy”

Jack stepped forward and gave my tricep a squeeze. “I think I’ll give it another minute. He could use the workout.”

“You’ll be wearing this if you don’t get moving,” I said with a grin.

“Move.”

Jack laughed. “Let’s go, boss,” he said. “Time’s ticking.”

“I’ll bring some coffee,” said Chanel, as we headed to Jack’s office.

Some people toil at their jobs. Some demand peace and quiet around them. They need to find a zone to get focused. Jack was not like that in the least. When he gets into beast mode, nothing can distract him. He had that pro’s knack of making things look easy. And one thing he made look easy was making money. He’d parlayed his IT studies into a stock portfolio that went sky-high. After the murder of his sister Nora when he was young, he developed a deep sense of justice. Work for Jack had become optional. So, he kept himself busy as an investigator, helping the likes of me fight injustice.

Jack’s office reflected a blend of passions. There were large action photos of Chanel from her ski racing days, showing her moving at ridiculous speeds and getting air off rollers. There were photos of choppers and planes—Jack had licenses to fly both. Then there were the family photos, featuring his adorable kids. Above his desk was a photo of Nora.

“Grab a seat,” Jack said as he dropped into his chair. “You sounded a little desperate on the phone.”

“Not desperate,” I said, setting the box down at last. “Just need this stuff secure.”

I told Jack about Dillon spotting me.

“You think he’s covering something up? Maybe he was one of Barkley’s clients?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But Barkley would be a fool to rip off the LASD. Still, he doesn’t sound like the sort of guy who can help himself.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

My eyes turned to the photocopier on a side table. “Does that thing scan?”

“You bet.”

“Great,” I said, giving the box a kick. “All these need to be done.”

“I’ll handle that,” said Jack. “There’s an automatic feeder.”

“Save them as PDFs straight to that cloud link I sent, would you?”

“Too easy,” said Jack, taking the box over to the scanner.

I pulled out the SD card. “I’m going to start going through the security video. Can I use your desk?”

“Sure,” said Jack.

As I set my laptop on Jack’s desk and slotted the card in, I heard the scanner humming.

“How long does that thing take per page?”

“Fifteen pages a minute at three-hundred dpi, which is fine for this kind of stuff. Should be down in about forty minutes.”

“Great,” I said. “Hey, listen. Let’s swap. I think it’s better that you go through the footage.”

“Fine with me,” Jack said. “Who or what am I looking for?”

“Deputy Chuck Infante, for one. Anyone else from the LASD, for that matter. And keep an eye out for Lalo Silva. He said he didn’t know Barkley, but who knows with that guy.”

“So, we’re looking for anyone who had a good reason to kill Barkley?”

“Exactly. The guy destroyed a lot of people.” I handed Jack the SD card and took my laptop over to the scanner. “I’ll start on the accounts and see if a name sticks out. Just give me a heads-up if you see a visitor. We’ll ID them and cross-check with the accounts.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jack said.

I’d barely opened the first file when my phone rang. It was Dr. Gary Tuttle, the forensic pathologist.

“Gary,” I said. “Good to hear from you.”

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, Brad,” he said. “Had some family drama that took a few days to sort out. But I’ve got some interesting news. Bit of a shock, to be honest.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Neither Barkley nor Infante died in the fire.”

I froze. “Hang on—what?”

“They were either dead or dying long before the match was lit.”

This was not the feedback I was expecting. “The State medical examiner listed the cause of death as asphyxiation.”

“Well, he’s wrong.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He’s going purely off the evidence of smoke inhalation. But there’s other evidence.”

“So what killed them then?”

“They were shot,” Dr. Tuttle said grimly.

“What?” I stared at Jack and put the phone on speaker. “They were shot?”

“Yes.”

“Gary, I know the police report like the back of my hand,” I said. “There were no bullets in the bodies. And no shells at the crime scene.”

Jack walked over.

“I know,” said Tuttle. “But I pored over all the X-rays and photos. It’s not easy to spot but, in my opinion, there’s clear damage on the bones of both victims consistent with bullet impact. On one body it’s a rib, the other a vertebra.”

“So, where are the bullets?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but that’s a very good question.”

“Gary, Jack Briggs here,” said Jack. “Frangible bullets maybe? The kind that dissolve?”

“Nope,” Tuttle said. “They leave multiple traces in the bodies., and there are none.”

“The cops would have seized on that, and come after Silva to try to match his weapon with the bullets,” I said.

“So, we’ve got ourselves some magic bullets,” said Jack.

“I don’t believe in magic,” said Tuttle. “That’s why I scoured every inch of those images looking for clues. And I think I found a small nick adjacent to the bullet mark on the vertebra. That’s how those bullets disappeared, I believe.”

Tuttle paused, and my brow bunched up with confusion. “You’re going to have to spell it out for me, Doc,” I said.

“Someone removed those bullets with a knife.”

Chapter 22

“The DA’s going to love this,” I said to Jack. “Infante and Barkley shot? That’s a game changer.”

“Then why do you sound like it’s a bummer?” said Jack. “I thought it’d be good for Silva.”

I shook my head.

“It fits their version of the story perfectly. They’ve got a witness saying he saw Silva leaving the vicinity just before the fire broke out. The absence of bullets means they don’t have to bring ballistics forensics into it. They can just build on motive, and claim Silva planned and committed a double murder. At the arraignment, Shepherd told the judge that’s what he was gunning for. All he needed was more proof. They’ll argue Silva tried to cover his tracks—recovered the bullets, set fire to the gym and disposed of the weapon. They’ll paint him as some kind of criminal mastermind.”

“But they don’t have a motive,” said Jack. “We’ve yet to find any connection between your client and the victims.”

My gut was stirring with unease. “Yet is the operative word there, Jack. There’s a connection there, alright. Call it a hunch. Silva’s springs a surprise on me very other day, just about. And his old cellmate Tacito thinks I’m a fool to believe Silva’s innocent.”

“You think he’s been lying all along about not knowing these guys?”

“I could be wrong, but, yes, that’s what I’m thinking,” I said. “That’s why these accounts and security video are so vital. Somewhere in all this data we’re going to find out once and for all if Silva had ties to Arthur Barkley.”

“You mean had reason to kill him.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Before I started going through the accounts, I checked my email. Tuttle said he’d send through his findings for me to look at. At some point, I’d have to share it with the DA, but he could wait. I couldn’t count the number of times the prosecution has left me hanging pre-trial, dragging their feet on discovery, especially with exculpatory evidence. Two could play at that game. I’d only share Tuttle’s report once I had all the legal angles covered.

After reading through the report, I went back to the images. When I opened the first file, I had a certain resignation.

“Okay, Lalo,” I said to myself out loud. “Time to see if you’ve been lying.”

Reading through the accounts, all I could picture was the lives Arthur Barkley had destroyed. The bulk of Barkley’s victims were older retirees. Each name told a profoundly sad tale of trust being crushed by deceit. They took this sweet-talking shyster at his word, and he gutted them. Barkley hadn’t just stolen money. He’d stolen lives. I had no doubt that such scorched-earth ruin had driven good, honest people to suicide.

I had to set my compassion aside in order to keep moving. None of the names I came across meant anything to me. Nothing offered a fresh perspective. The longer I continued, the more it seemed like a waste of time.

I took a break and went over to see where Jack was at with the video files. He’d started from the earliest, which was two weeks back. I suggested that I work my way back from the most recent video.

The work day at Colossus Wealth Management didn’t make for gripping viewing. The bulk of it was Henrietta Stubbs holding fort at reception, answering the phones, signing for deliveries, and making regular trips to Barkley’s office. A few visitors came and went, and most were led by Henrietta to Barkley’s office.

I was almost a week out from the date of the fire, when something made me sit up. Make that someone. A man appeared at the front desk. He was tall, and dressed neatly in chinos, golf shirt and sneakers. He had his back to the camera while talking to Henrietta, but I recognized his frame and buzz cut. When he showed himself to Barkley’s office, the side view confirmed his identity. It was LASD Captain Don Auerbach.

“Jack,” I said. “I got something.”

Jack came over and I rewound the video.

“Who’s that?” he said.

“Don Auerbach. He’s an LASD captain. He worked Silva over when they first took him in.”

“Beat him up?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And he didn’t mind me knowing it. At the time, I assumed he was so upset about Infante that he couldn’t control himself. But his presence here at Barkley’s office puts a whole new spin on it.”

“So, what’s he doing here?” asked Jack.

“That’s what we need to find out,” I said, going back to the records. “Maybe there’s an account that will give us a clue.”

After a tedious half hour of scouring the scans of Barley’s paperwork, I sat back on the couch.

“Nothing?” Jack asked.

“No,” I said. “There’s no Auerbach anywhere in here.”

“Maybe he wasn’t a client,” Jack said. “Could be a silent investor. Or maybe he moonlighted for Barkley in some capacity.”

“You could be onto something,” I said. “If Barkley was a personal friend of Auerbach’s then that would give him even more reason to take his anger out on Silva. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he invested with Barkley under a different name. A company, even.”

“Makes sense,” said Jack, spinning back to his computer. “We’ll find out soon enough. Let me do a company search and see what comes up.”

Less than a minute later, Jack called out, “Bingo. Here it is. Auerbach, Donald M. He’s listed as principal of Viper Holdings LLC.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Named after the Edgewood Park deputy gang. Interesting. Not to mention subtle.”

I dug around the accounts once more and found something.

“Got it. He invested eighty grand with Barkley. And it looks like he lost the lot.”

Briggs whistled when he heard the number.

“That’s a sizable chunk of change for a cop,” he said. “Not something he could afford to lose, I bet.”

“He’s old enough to be thinking about retirement,” I said. “I wonder if Barkley screwed him like he did everyone else.”

“That would be a very dumb move,” Jack said.

“Maybe Barkley just couldn’t help himself. And if Auerbach realized his money was gone, what would he do?”

I wonder when he realized he’d been fleeced. There’s no telling what happened during his meeting with Barkley. I’m going to check the video again.”

“This is just a few days before the fire,” I said. “Auerbach doesn’t look happy.”

“If he knew he’d been swindled then,” Jack said. “Barkley would have been dead before that fire started.”

“You’d think. Or maybe he gave Barkley a little more time to deliver. Or else.”

“So, what the hell’s going on?” said Jack.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m sure as hell going to find out.”

Chapter 23

It was almost six-thirty, and I was trying to get Myrna out the door. We’d gone through everything that had happened in my absence. Yet again, she’d proven my business was safe in her hands. She brushed aside my thanks and went back to her desk, intending to stay as long as I did.

“Myrna, please,” I said. “You’ve done more than enough for one day. Head on home.”

She stopped at my door, about to offer a reason to stay, but then thought the better of it.

“As you wish, Mr. Madison,” she said. “I’ll just get you some coffee before I go. I know you’ll want some.”

She could read me like a book. I smiled and got to my feet. “Go, Myrna,” I said kindly. “I can get my own coffee.”

I heard her packing her things while I made for the kitchenette. By the time I returned with a mug of fresh coffee, Myrna was gone.

I’d just sat down at my desk when I heard the elevator ding.

“I hope you’ve only forgotten something, Myrna,” I called out. “Because if you’ve decided to stay and help, I’ll have to escort you out of the building.”

Myrna could be stubborn that way, always putting work above herself. The thought reminded me that at the lawyers’ ball I didn’t get around to thanking Roger for recommending her to me. She was determined to keep working after her husband died, and would have loved to have been a criminal lawyer herself, so working for me appealed to her. I’d told Roger this by email, but never face to face: Myrna was a godsend.

I heard footsteps, but there was no reply from Myrna. When I looked out through my door, I saw a figure appear. Not Myrna, but a young man in shabby street clothes. He had the gaunt features and facial sores of a drug addict.

“Can I help you?” I said, getting to my feet, instantly on guard. My office had played host to plenty of histrionics. I knew enough to know that when someone is loaded up on drugs, the situation can go sideways fast. Adding fuel to the fire, mental health issues went hand in hand with drug abuse. Before I hired Myrna, Roger advised me to get a gun. After I hired her, he joked that I didn’t need one anymore. All the same, I was glad she’d left.

I’d only ever had one or two “crayons-only” clients—men so vicious I’d never let them near a pen for fear they’d stab me with it. But most clients, no matter how thick the fog of drugs and craziness, know that I’m just about the only person on their side. Family law? That can be a mad circus of high-voltage, unpredictable rage. If I worked in that tent, I’d be keeping a .38 in my top draw, ready to use it on any aggrieved, unhinged spouse who might come bursting through the door looking to kill me.

My surprise visitor looked neither angry nor violent nor crazy. He looked humble and unsure. He shifted on the spot and put an arm across himself to grab the other.

“I’m looking for Brad Madison,” he said. Then he raised a dirty finger at the sign on my door. “That’s you, right?”

“Yes,” I said. Up close, the evidence of drug use was clearer. Meth, I’d say. A couple of sores on his face had been scratched raw. But he bore that certain hollow, worn-out spirit of an addict, the kind that tells you their soul’s done ten bare-knuckle rounds with the Devil.

“What brings you here? Are you in trouble?”

The guy shook his head. “No, sir.”

He was dressed in a sweater and jeans that were in good need of a wash, and his scuffed Nike high tops looked almost worn through. He looked every bit a kid from the wrong side of the tracks who, now that he’d presented himself to an older guy in a suit and nice office, felt overwhelmed.

“Are you okay? Come in and grab a seat.”

“I’m fine,” he said, taking my guest chair while I rounded my desk. “Well, I guess that’s kind of relative. But I was. Doing fine, I mean. Thanks to Lalo. But ever since he left, I’ve been through a rough patch.”

“You’re a friend of Lalo’s?” I asked.

“Not really a friend,” he said. “He gave me a job. I work for him. At least, I used to. He hired me to help out at the gym two years ago.”

“What’s your name?”

“George Spacelli,” he said.

I wrote it down. “You want some coffee, George? I’ve just made a fresh pot.”

He was about to refuse, but the aroma got the better of him. “It does smell good.”

“I’ll get you some,” I said, and walked out to the kitchenette. Leaving a total stranger in my office was not the best idea in the world, but what was he going to steal? My law books? My laptop? No, he needed my help, and he looked smart and humble enough not to blow that with a kleptomaniacal impulse.

I returned to see Spacelli had swung his chair to the side to look at the bookshelf towing over him.

“Have you read all those books?” he asked.

“No, they’re mostly used as reference,” I said. “They’re kind of the criminal law version of Encyclopedia Britannica.”

“Of what?”

It took a moment for me to understand what had confused him. “Encyclopedia Britannica. You’ve never heard of Encyclopedia Britannica?”

“No.”

Again, I needed a fraction of a second to appreciate that the digital age was already a generation old. The days of salesmen going door to door to get parents to pay up to twenty percent of their annual income on a hefty book set were long gone.

“Well then,” I said. “They’re like the Wikipedia of law, except they don’t come for free.”

I’d brought a small jug of milk with me. “Milk?”

He nodded. “Thanks. And two sugars, if you have it.”

“Of course,” I said. I figured the coffee was a meal for this kid. I went back to the kitchenette to grab a couple of sachets.

“So, you worked for Lalo?" I said when I sat down again. “Did you know him in prison?”

“No, but I guess you know his staff were ex-cons.”

I nodded. “Was he good to you?”

“Did he ever. He changed my life,” Spacelli said.

“What did you do time for, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I was good at stealing cars,” Spacelli said. “I was also pretty good at getting caught stealing cars.”

“That’s the kicker,” I said with a wry smile. “How long?”

“Five years. I’m twenty-seven now.”

Spacelli got a job at Silva’s gym through a friend of a friend. He was two months out of jail, broke, of no fixed address and couldn’t get a job to save himself. He was offered the chance to sell drugs but went and saw Lalo. He said, his life changed that very day. He got fit, he worked hard, and he got paid. For the first time in his adult life, George Spacelli felt like a contributing member of society.

“What was Lalo like to work for?”

“Great,” said Spacelli. “He was a mentor to me. And to others. He was smart, real smart, and he had a big heart. Lalo wanted things to change, so he became the change. He was one of those guys. Know what I mean?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do. He’s an impressive individual, that’s for sure. You obviously know I’m defending him. Why are you here, George?”

Spacelli hesitated before speaking. “I’ve been hearing things—guys from the gym talking. They’re telling everyone that Lalo was moving drugs.”

“That’s what the cops think, too.”

“He wasn’t running anything other than a legal business,” Spacelli said. “He had a good thing going. He was killing it. There’s no way he’d risk it all for dope.”

I reflected on what I knew of Silva, the straight operator, the changemaker. The hero in the eyes of people like Spacelli. I, too, found it hard to believe he’d risk everything by turning a blind eye to a few reprobates doing back-room deals. And then…

“I don’t buy it, George,” I said. “Lalo’s no fool. He knew what kind of staff he had. How could he not know they were dealing?”

Spacelli grinned wryly and leaned forward. “Never underestimate a con’s ability to adapt, Mr. Madison. They’ve got nothing but time to think on the inside, and they usually spend that time working out ways to screw someone else over. You’d be surprised at how resourceful they can get. That means getting away with stuff right under people’s noses.

“They started moving roids out of Lalo’s warehouse. He had no idea. But the thing was, he used to be around the place all the time. They had to be real crafty. And then he wasn’t around much at all. Some days he didn’t even come in. That’s when those guys really stepped it up, and the heroin started flowing.”

“Okay, so Lalo had no idea?”

“No.”

“What about you?”

Spacelli bowed his head. “I knew.”

“You knew? So why didn’t you say something?”

“Because they told me if I said anything they’d slit my throat.”

Chapter 24

During our talk, Spacelli told me he was trying hard to get clean. He’d been drug free for a few days. He agreed to be a witness, to tell a court what he told me about his former boss. I worried about him, though. Without the stability and purpose of a job, he was at risk of falling back into addiction and homelessness.

Spacelli struck me as a decent kid down on his luck. Before we parted, I took him down to the mall for a meal and bought him some new clothes. He said he could stay at a friend’s house for a few more weeks, on the proviso that he stayed clean. I put him in touch with a nonprofit that did a great job of finding paid work for the homeless.

This was part altruism and part pragmatism on my part. Obviously, I figured he might help convince a jury that Lalo Silva was a good man at heart. Him getting back on his feet was in both our interests. I didn’t feel noble about all this, but if helping Spacelli meant a win for us both, then so be it.

That was not the only thing that put a spring in my step. The next morning, Silva’s brother Hayden informed me that the living trust was up and running. There were no major decisions to make about the girls, as they were being homeschooled for the time being. But he said he’d be handling the applications to get them into the private school their mother had always wanted them to attend.

Although Silva had plenty of cash to support his daughters, the outcome of the case would have a major impact on the girls’ future. The gym was insured for almost four million dollars, but if Silva was convicted of arson, there’d be no payout whatsoever.

A couple of days later, it was time to go back to court for the second arraignment hearing. Shepherd had notified me he’d found new evidence and was adding a string of heavy charges to hang around Silva’s neck. Keeping me in suspense, he told me it had all been uploaded to the shared discovery file.

Using login details provided by the DA’s office, I accessed the files. It was not a happy experience. Once I’d read all the documentation, I printed it out. Going into court, my briefcase was heavy with all the new paperwork.

Silva had been initially charged with felony arson and intent to distribute. Now, as he had forewarned, Shepherd had added felony arson and two counts of first-degree murder.

I can’t say my spirits weren’t dampened by Shepherd’s news. But I kept George Spacelli’s words had convinced me Lalo Silva was a man any jury would warm to. I was even entertaining the idea of putting Silva on the stand, something I rarely if ever did. Only in the strongest of cases would it make sense to put a defendant on the stand and expose them to a withering cross-examination. Uncertainty was inherent in every trial. Things had a habit of not going the way you predicted. But with Silva, I had a growing sense that he might be the exception to the rule, capable of handling whatever Shepherd might throw at him. But I was getting ahead of myself. Today was about getting Silva out of custody.

The moment I saw Silva in court, I knew something was wrong. Led in by a deputy, his eyes latched onto me darkly. I had no idea what he was upset about. Maybe the guards had caught wind of the new charges and had taunted him.

We were not the first case of the day, and as Silva took a seat beside me, Judge Nash called a ten-minute recess. She mentioned something about an Indian meal she’d had flaring up a digestive problem.

When she had gone, I took the opportunity to open my briefcase and take out the documents I’d printed. Silva said nothing as I briefed him on the developments. He didn’t even look at me. I could see the muscles in his jawline clenching and releasing at regular intervals. There was no time for me to delve into what he was upset about. I needed to get some work done.

“We’ve finally got a clear picture of the prosecution’s case, I reckon,” I said, tapping the pile of documents. The front page, like the rest beneath it, was striped with blue highlighter. I shook my head ruefully. “Gotta say, they really want to take a piece out of you, Lalo. But don’t worry. There are some good developments I want to cover, if we’ve got time.”

Silva said nothing. Didn’t move a muscle. He just stared dead ahead.

“Okay then,” I said, recognizing he wasn’t in the mood to talk, before pressing on. “They’re charging you with felony arson, intent to distribute—you know that already—but they’ve slipped in felony murder, and first-degree murder times two. Not great, but it’s not like we didn’t see that coming.”

Still nothing.

“It’s pretty standard—piling on the charges to later whittle down.”

Silva kept his eyes front. I had to continue.

“The accelerant they found in the fire matched the accelerant found in your car,” I said. “Hey, Lalo, when they searched your house, were you watching them? Did you see them search your car? Was it in a garage or something?”

When I still got no reaction, I leaned closer to Silva.

“Earth to Lalo,” I said, keeping my voice to a whisper. “This stuff’s super important. And I haven’t had a chance to tell you. Those two guys? They didn’t die in the fire. They were shot. The fricking bullets were removed. That’s a major scoop for us.”

I stopped talking.

“Well, Lalo?” I said. “Haven’t you got anything to say?”

It was then that Silva flipped the script entirely. When he turned to face me, his eyes were burning with rage. And there was no doubt who he was angry with.

“Why did you visit Tacito?” he asked, his voice low, forced through clenched teeth.

“Tacito? Why does that matter right now? We need to go through these charges and—”

“I asked you a question,” he fumed. “Why did you go and see him?”

I dropped the report to the table, turned my body and leaned on my forearm.

“I needed another perspective,” I said. “You’ve been keeping stuff from me, Lalo. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You’ve always been selective about what you tell me, and I’m out there running around trying to fill in the blanks.”

Silva shook his head ruefully.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

That was when his body suddenly popped in his seat, like an inner explosion had been muffled.

“You told him about my wife and my daughters,” he snarled.

Silva slammed his cuffed hands up into the table. The whole courtroom heard the noise, and the bailiff snapped his eyes onto Silva. He began to approach, but I waved him off, signaling that it was under control.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Silva seethed. “Now they know about my family. You have no idea the danger you have put them in.”

I could see the pain in his eyes, the torture of not being able to go protect his loved ones. Through sheer naivety, I’d put his daughters at risk. I was gutted.

“Lalo, I’m sorry,” I said. “Why would they want to hurt you or your family? The Sonora Cartel? Nothing you’ve told me indicated that they were a threat. Nothing. But you don’t like to tell me everything. Do you, Lalo?”

Silva took a deep breath and turned to face the bench again. “I have my reasons,” he said calmly.

“I thought you were worried about reprisals from the LASD,” I said.

“I was,” he said. “I did not want or ask for a connection with the cartel. I just shared a cell with a cartel member. To allow these animals into your life, is to put everything you hold dear at risk. I led Tacito to believe I had no one because I never wanted my family to enter his thoughts.”

“I screwed up,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

A few moments of silence passed. There was one more thing I had to raise with him.

“Lalo, what if I told you I have it on good authority that someone was running narcotics through the gym without your knowledge?”

He looked at me dismissively. “Whoever told you that is lying.”

As he finished, the bailiff ordered the court to stand and Judge Nash resumed her seat on the bench.

The hearing lasted no more than ten minutes, and the result was the same as the first. The judge accepted Shepherd’s argument that Silva was a serious flight risk.

So, my client went back inside dejected and I walked out dispirited. All up, it was a brutal half hour.

Not for Clem Shepherd, though. He was on a roll. Round Two was his. It wasn’t even close. And didn’t he love it? As I pushed through the gate, I could hear him humming. Loud enough to know it was for my benefit. As I made my way to the back door, he broke into song.

“I fought the law and the law won,” he sang. “I fought the law and the law won.”

A few minutes later, I was in an interview room with Silva, who was doing a good job of appearing not to care about being denied bail. There was no need to tell him that being in jail made him a sitting duck for his enemies. But given his carefree act—it had to be an act—I couldn’t help spelling it out to him.

“I don’t know why, Lalo, but I seem to be more upset about you being denied bail than you are,” I said. “They’re transferring you to Men’s Central. You know that, right?”

“Been there, done that,” he said. “I’ve got friends there.”

“You’re a fish in a barrel, Silva. It’s almost too easy for the LASD or the cartel to get you.

Silva shrugged. “Not a lot I can do about that, is there? Anyway, wouldn’t it save everyone a whole lot of time and money if we didn’t go to trial?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can’t try a dead man.”

“What’s with this fatalistic drivel?” I said. “You’ve got everything to live for. Everything to fight for. It wasn’t so long ago that you got me up in the middle of the night as you watched your gym burn to the ground. You knew what was coming, and you wanted to take action. You stashed away your daughters. And now you’re ready to roll over?”

Silva shook his head and then covered his mouth to cough. The sound of it almost hurt my ears. Despite its strength, it was not enough, and a coughing fit followed. It was a good minute before Silva, red-faced and doubled over, started recovering.

“Are you okay?” I asked

“Prison flu,” said Silva, wiping his mouth. “Everyone’s got it. Hey, did Hayden get in touch with you about the trust?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “It’s all in place. The only question mark is the insurance payout, which is riding on the outcome of your case.”

“I know,” said Silva. “But if they can’t try a dead man, they can’t convict one. So, they’ll have no choice but to pay up.”

“That doesn’t make sense. But if you’re trying to look at the upside of you being killed, there isn’t one.”

“It’s one way to stay positive.”

I shook my head. I was tired of my client’s subterfuge. And now he was talking nonsense. “We’ve got a long way to go, Lalo. I’m trying to help you, but I know you’re not being straight with me. If you want to walk this earth as a free man ever again, you need to come clean.”

“No offense, counselor, but you sound scared.”

“Cut the crap,” I snapped.

“Don’t get me wrong, Brad,” said Silva. “You obviously care, and I appreciate that. You don’t have to worry about me on the inside. I’ve got plenty of connections. Given all that I’ve done to help cons on the outside, there are loads of brothers inside who’ve got my back.”

“Twenty-four-seven?” I asked. “And what are these brothers going to do when they’re locked up and the deputies, the guys with the keys, come for you?”

“Look, Brad. I’ve been totally straight with you,” he said, holding his palms out like he had nothing to hide.

“If you had a hand in this, Lalo, you have to come clean. We can work together on getting you the best possible deal.”

Silva held a hand up to stop me. I paused, and watched as he smiled his anger away. “I made a promise to my Rosa,” he said. “There’s no way I’d risk my family’s future for the sake of drugs. They can’t prove otherwise. They just can’t.”

“What if I told you one of a staff members told me that heroin was being run out of your warehouse. They managed to get away with it without you finding out.”

Lalo was unfazed. Then he smiled. “Whoever told you that is lying,” he said, shaking his head in denial.

He went to the door, banged a couple of times, then turned back to face me. When the guards came in, he held his hands behind him and watched me as they cuffed him. He didn’t say another word.

I left thinking I’d just witnessed a man who’d go whistling to the gallows, happy to take his secrets to the grave.

As I left, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I took it out and checked the screen.

“Hi, Myrna,” I said.

“Mr. Madison,” said Myrna. “Something’s come up. I believe it’s urgent.”

“What is it?”

“A woman just rang saying she wanted to talk to you. Something about her tone told me she needed to see you sooner rather than later.”

“Scared?”

“Yes,” said Myrna. “Very. I told her you’d call her right back.”

“Did she tell you her name?”

“Yes, it was Gillian. Gillian Infante. Her husband died in the fire.”

It took a half-second for the news to sink in. What in the world did Deputy Chuck Infante’s widow want with me?

Chapter 25

Iswung into a spot next to some tennis courts in Lincoln Park, and killed the rumbling V8 motor. Little Feet’s On Your Way Down died with the engine, leaving only Gillian Infante’s voice in my head—fearful, insistent. She refused to elaborate over the phone, only that we meet outdoors.

I had no idea why she’d called me. Nothing was clear, other than she knew I was defending the man accused of killing her husband, that the fire was no accident, and that her husband was most likely executed. Her voice sounded less like grief and more like someone being watched. Hunted.

She sent me the location of a skatepark via an encrypted app. I got there ten minutes before the agreed time, and circled the area.

I’d snapped into hypervigilance mode the second I heard her voice. I was meeting a stranger in the park on a sunny winter’s day in LA, yet it felt like I was entering a dark alley. A trap, maybe. Why this woman—a grieving widow—had reached out to me, I didn’t know. But I was ready for anything, including Deputy Craig Dillon appearing out of nowhere for some repeat lawyer-bashing business.

I saw a lone woman sitting at one of the tables. Assured that no one was paying me or the woman any attention, I approached. The helmet on the table, and the knee and elbow pads she was wearing, made me nervous. Did she come here often? If so, this was already a bad idea.

“Gillian?” I asked.

She gave me a slight nod of acknowledgement. She was an attractive woman, clearly of Japanese descent, and when she moved her hands I saw that she’s grazed her palm, likely from a fall.

“I forgot my gloves,” she said with a faint smile. Her face was still flushed from recent exercise and her light blue t-shirt marked with sweat.

“Seems like you’re a regular here,” I said.

“Skating keeps me sane.” She gestured for me to take a seat. I stood my ground.

“If you come here a lot, this is the wrong place to meet.”

She shook her head. “I don’t live anywhere near here, and I’ve never skated this park before. That’s why I chose it. Oh, and I know I wasn’t followed,” she said, squinting at me and brushing a long strand of dark hair back behind her ear. “I kind of assumed you’d make sure you weren’t.”

“You assumed correct,” I said, smiling and taking the seat opposite her. “You sounded like you’re in trouble.”

Gillian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she watched a kid in baggy pants and t-shirt drop into the bowl and get airborne on the opposite side, flipping the board with his feet before landing, smooth as can be.

“Nice,” she said to herself, putting our connection on hold for a moment. “You’re defending the man accused of murdering my husband.”

She wasn’t looking at me. Had I misread her tone? Did she just want to give me a piece of her mind? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had wanted to let me have it right in the face.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “Feel free to yell at me. I’ll understand.”

She shook her head. “I’m not here to give you hell, Mr. Madison. But I’ve got plenty of hell to share, let me tell you.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’ve looked into you,” said Gillian. When she stopped wringing her hands, I could see they were trembling. “I think you’re honest. You should defend Lalo Silva to the best of your ability.”

I was confused, but I kept my mouth shut and let her talk. She stopped and took some deep breaths.

“Gillian,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Deputies have been coming to see me every single day since the fire,” she said at last. Then she scoffed. “They want to make sure I’m okay, you know?”

She looked at me like I understood the sub-text. I didn’t, but I took a stab at it.

“You don’t think they’re sincere?”

She shook her head slowly, resolutely. She put one hand out to touch the strap of her helmet. “No. No I don’t. They’re not worried about me. They’re worried about themselves.”

“What makes you so sure?”

She lifted her eyes up from the helmet strap to meet mine. “Because I believe your client is a scapegoat.”

Her words came as a shock. The last thing I was expecting from Chuck Infante’s widow was the exoneration of my client. “A scapegoat? What makes you say that?”

“Those deputies who come to see me? They hated him,” she said. “They only come to fish for information.”

“Why would they hate him?”

“Because he was investigating their unit. Chuck wasn’t on regular duties. He was working for Internal Affairs.”

“That’s not public knowledge. All I knew was that he was based at the Lomita station,” I said.

“That’s true,” Gillian said. “But then he got tapped to join the Internal Affairs Bureau, so he transferred out of Lomita over to Commerce.”

Commerce was one of LA’s many unincorporated cites served by the LASD. “That’s IA headquarters, right?”

“Yes. They waited till he left Lomita before giving him more details. It was all very hush hush. Turns out they wanted Chuck to investigate deputy gang activity. And they wanted him to start with the Vipers in Edgewood Park. He had to try to gather evidence before they took serious action.”

“That would make him a marked man,” I said. “No wonder they kept it hush-hush within the organization.”

“Chuck reported to one superior, who in turn reported to someone else up the food chain. They wanted to clean house, but they didn’t know who to trust out in Edgewood Park until Chuck got some answers.”

A small dog came up, wagging its tail and looking for attention. Gillian bent down and petted the terrier, which sprang up to lean on her leg. The dog’s owner, a middle-aged woman wearing tight athletic gear, kept her distance and called the dog’s name sharply. It was clear she expected the dog to promptly obey, and it did so, pushing itself off Gillian and bounding away. When the woman was well beyond earshot, Gillian continued.

“You know what a green-on-green incident is, Mr. Madison?”

“I used to be in the military” I said. “It’s when a soldier is killed by friendly fire.”

“That’s what this was,” Gillian said. “Chuck’s death was green on green.”

“You believe his colleagues killed him?”

“I know they did,” said Gillian, her eyes scanning all around us. “I have proof.”

Chapter 26

All of a sudden, nowhere out in the open felt like a safe place. When I suggested we relocate, Gillian declined. Lincoln Park was far from where she lived. She continued to talk, telling me deputies from Edgewood Park came to her the day Chuck died and had “dropped by” every day since. None of them knew Chuck Infante from Adam.

“I got so sick of those guys coming around with their phony pity and sly questions,” she said. “They made small talk but wanted to know who I’d been speaking to and what I’d been talking about. They told me the investigation into Chuck’s death was going well. They told me I should be wary of talking to anyone about Chuck, for the sake of the investigation.”

“What bearing could your private conversations have on the case?”

“Exactly,” Gillian shrugged her shoulders. “But to them, this was like a state secret—if I said anything it might rock the boat.”

“You think they were scared you’d tell the press what you’ve told me?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” she said. “All reporters are scumbags, they said. Don’t trust them. Don’t trust anyone. Well, screw the lot of them. I’m not interested in going to the press right now. Those guys would paint me as some deranged widow.”

I kept my mouth shut, just nodded.

“Do you think I’m a deranged widow?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I think you’re sound of mind. But why come to me?”

“To begin with, I had no idea who you were,” Gillian said. “But I knew that whoever got charged wouldn’t be the culprit—he’d just be the fall guy. And then I found out you’re defending the fall guy. That makes you the enemy of my enemy.”

“I’m glad you trust me,” I said. “Everything you’ve said rings true. I smelled a rat about those deputies from day one. Tell me about Chuck.”

A warmth came over Gillian’s face and her eyes shone. “Chuck loved his job, he really did,” she said. “He was raised by a single mom, never knew his dad, but his favorite uncle was a cop. Ever since he was five years old, that’s all he wanted to be.”

As she spoke, Gillian scrolled through photos on her phone before showing me a picture of a beaming kid sitting in a patrol car.

“What about more recent times?” I asked.

Gillian’s expression turned serious and she shook her head. “He was finding it tough, but that only seemed to spur him on. He never lost faith in the role. I think he lost faith in other people.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No,” she said, turning away. “It’s just what I think. These past few months, he told me less and less about what he was doing. He didn’t want to worry me. We had a lot going on.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Gillian wiped them away with the back of her hands. Then she took a handkerchief from her backpack and wiped her nose. She sucked in a couple of deep breaths and paused for a moment. Again, her eyes fell on the skatepark. A group of kids had gathered and were taking turns on the grind rail. The clatter of the boards on concrete rang out across the park.

After a while, I spoke up. “What do you mean, you had a lot going on?”

“We were trying to conceive. Two miscarriages. I was getting very upset about it all. All the tests said we were both healthy, but for some reason, it just didn’t happen. We got good at staying positive, but in the end, we ran out of time.”

Gillian continued through a fresh flow of tears. “He was so proud to be picked for Internal Affairs. It was an honor because it meant he had a reputation as being a good, standout cop. He’d become the man that little boy had wanted to be.”

Gillian said that at the beginning, her husband told her little about the new role. Mostly following up minor complaints from members of the public, he said. But he became more and more tense and tight-lipped about his job. He was doing more nights but insisted this was just routine for his roll-out team. The last thing he wanted was for her to be fretting while they were trying to conceive.

“Did you know what he was working on?”

“At the time? No,” she said. “He kept telling me it was just routine stuff.”

“But you didn't believe him.”

“No,” she said with a shake of the head. “He changed. He always watched what he said around me.”

“Did you ever press him on it?”

“I did, but he assured me everything was okay,” she said. “And then he died. Just like that. One minute, he’s holding me in his arms, telling me he couldn’t wait to be a father. Next minute, he’s gone.”

Gillian’s stoicism broke as she allowed herself to sob. She dabbed at her face with her handkerchief and looked around the park forlornly.

“I’m truly sorry,” I said.

Gillian cleared her throat and straightened her back. She said not long after Chuck died, she got a visit from his lawyer. He came to her home to deliver a package Chuck had left with him.

“It was only when I opened the package that I found out he was investigating gang activity in Edgewood Park,” she said. “No one from the LASD told me that. Same with the Bureau. I guess they figured, Why tell his widow? You know?”

“What was in the package?”

“There were a few things,” Gillian said. “The key items, though, were a notebook, and something called a Raspberry Pi 5. I had no idea what it was at first but I do now. It’s spyware.”

As she spoke, Gillian removed the items from her handbag and lay them on the table between us. The notebook was a small, well-worn black Leatherman. The other thing looked like nothing I’d ever seen before. I asked if I could pick it up and Gillian nodded.

It was obviously a computer of some kind. But not consumer grade. This was all function, not form. In fact, it was all innards—no casing. The green motherboard was the size of a credit card, and fixed to one end were three ports—one was for Ethernet and the others were twin-USB plugs. Along one side were other small ports and on the other a row of pins. I flipped it over and saw something I recognized.

“Ah,” I said. “Here’s the memory card slot. Is there a card?”

Gillian slid a small clear plastic storage box with a microSD card inside. “Here,” she said. “There’s a part in the notebook where Chuck says he never leaves the card in the device.”

I put the device on the table. “Gillian, this kind of stuff is not my field of expertise. Do you mind if my private investigator Jack Briggs takes a look?”

“Not at all.”

“Did Chuck have a background in IT?”

“No. The device was supplied by the LASD’s Technical Services Detail. It’s there on the back.”

I turned the Raspberry Pi over to see “LASDTSD” stamped in white letters.

“I suppose they weren’t told what he was using it for. What’s on the card?”

The anger returned to Gillian’s eyes. “Video clips and other documents. Chuck suspected the Vipers were trafficking drugs. So, he set out to infiltrate their network. That’s how he met Arthur Barkley. And on the night of the fire, he got an anonymous tip that there was going to be a heroin drop at the gym. He went to investigate.”

Barkley. The money man. Chuck was onto something big.

“We were supposed to have dinner with my sister the night Chuck went to the gym,” Gillian said. “He said he had to work overtime. I had this horrible feeling something bad was going to happen.”

“Do you think Chuck knew who was behind the heroin deal?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Don Auerbach.”

Chapter 27

My outlook on the entire case shifted in a heartbeat. I still believed Silva had been selective with the truth, but now I had clarity. Chuck Infante wasn’t just collateral damage, he’d been executed by his fellow deputies, desperate to protect their criminal activities. That conversation with Gillian lit a fire inside me. Sergeant Craig Dillon’s thuggery didn’t stem from grief, it was fueled by wicked self-interest.

I had to go see Silva. After his bail was refused, he’d been moved to Men’s Central Jail. It was less than ten minutes away from Lincoln Park. I hoped that this fresh information would finally loosen him up.

When I called to book a visit, the receptionist put me through to a coordinator, who took down the prisoner’s name and booking number. The moment she keyed in those details, I knew something was wrong.

“Could you just wait a moment, please, Mr. Madison?” she said.

She didn’t wait for me to reply, and the line flipped to cheesy hold music. A few seconds later, she was back on.

“I’m sorry, sir, I just had to check something. Mr. Madison, I’m afraid Mr. Silva isn’t here.”

“Not there? What are you talking about? He was transferred from Edgewood Park station. He’s definitely there. Eduardo Silva. Booking number three-five-seven-five-four-two-eight.”

“Yes, sir. He was here, but he’s no longer here.”

“That doesn’t make sense, ma’am.”

“There was an incident,” she said. “A fight. And Mr. Silva was stabbed. He’s been taken to the hospital.”

“Stabbed?” I nearly dropped the phone. “How bad?”

“I’m not sure that I can—”

“For God’s sake, I’m his lawyer. Tell me what happened, tell me his condition, and tell me where they’ve taken him.”

The woman stammered a little, having lost all confidence in what she should or should not say. She relented.

“He was stabbed several times,” she said. “He’s been taken under guard to the Los Angeles General Medical Center. He’s in a critical condition. That’s all I can give you.”

“Thank you,” I said. The air I was sucking in had gone ice-cold. My mind was racing. I had to get moving. I was about to hang up when I had a quick change of mind. “When did this happen?”

“Let me see,” she said. “He was signed out about two hours ago.”

“Two hours ago?”

Disgust blended with my anger. Nobody had bothered to inform me. Typical.

LA General was even closer to me than the jail. Five minutes later, I was striding through the emergency entrance, asking for Silva. He’d just come out of surgery and was in a stable condition.

I headed to his ward and spotted two correctional officers posted outside a bed shrouded by curtains. Both men were young deputies. Careers with the LASD typically started with a couple of years as a correctional officer. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take a gang like the Vipers to get their hooks into them.

I flashed my card at the nearest guard. “Brad Madison, attorney for Lalo Silva. I need to see my client.”

“No one gets to see him without permission from his doctor,” the guard said, not even looking at my card.

“Who’s his doctor?”

The guard shrugged his shoulders and then looked away, dead ahead. End of conversation.

I marched over to the nurse’s station in the middle of the ward. A call was made and a few minutes later, a woman dressed in blue scrubs appeared. A nurse introduced her as Dr. Kelsey Austin, the trauma surgeon who operated on Silva. While the doctor wasn’t eager to discuss her patient with anyone but next of kin, I told her Silva’s closest relatives were in Puerto Rico. I explained my relationship to Silva and convinced her to let me see him.

“Follow me,” she said. “Let’s see how he’s doing. I don’t want any arguments. If he’s awake, you only get to speak to him on my say-so. The anesthetic should have worn off by now, so chances are he’s come to.”

“Is he lucky to be alive?” I asked as we walked.

“Very much so,” she said. “He was stabbed fifteen times. The shivs were made from whittled-down toothbrushes, apparently. It’s a miracle there was no damage to his vital organs. An inch deeper in some places, and he’d have never made it here alive.”

“Are you saying it was a warning?”

“Who knows? He was bleeding out internally. He only survived by the slimmest of margins.”

We reached Silva’s bed and I remained with the guards while Dr. Austin parted the curtains with one arm and slid through. After a few moments, she waved me in.

Silva lay on his back with both arms and his entire torso wrapped in bandages. There were a few nasty bruises on his face, and the one under his right brow threatened to close his eye completely. He was awake, and at the sight of me he forced a smile before wincing slightly in pain.

“Brad,” he croaked. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see I still have a client,” I said. “You nearly checked out for good.”

“I feel like a pin cushion.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Silva nodded gently. I put a finger to my lips to silence him. Then I stepped over to the surgeon and spoke quietly. “Dr. Austin, would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Silva alone? I think our talk is best conducted in confidence.”

The doctor nodded. “You’ve got five minutes,” she said. “Then he needs to rest.”

Once Dr. Austin had stepped out, I moved close to Silva, bent over and kept my voice down and out of earshot from the two guards.

“What happened, Lalo?”

“Two were waiting in my cell,” he said. “As I entered, a third came from behind and knocked me to the ground. They just jumped on me and started stabbing. I tried to fend them off, but didn’t do much good. I was screaming, though, and a couple of boys came in and got them off me.”

“Who were they?”

“Kiki’s people,” he said. “The Sonora cartel. They want me to take the fall on the fire.”

“Why would the cartel want you to do that? Are you sure those guys weren’t acting on orders from the guards?”

Silva nodded again, gingerly. “It was Kiki. I’m sure of it. They gave me a message as they stabbed me.”

“What message?”

“They said Kiki wants me to take a plea deal,” Silva said. “They said if I don’t, they’ll come back and finish the job. After they’ve raped and murdered my daughters.”

Chapter 28

Silva’s words stayed with me for days. I couldn’t shake the feeling the stabbing was my fault. I’d never forget his rage at learning I’d told Kiki Tacito he was married with kids. The will he’d shown, the pain he’d endured, to keep their existence a secret from the cartel, I could hardly imagine. Refusing to allow Rosa and the girls to visit him, not even once, for five years.

Lalo Silva was a man of uncommon fortitude. And then I go and spill the beans, thinking I was clever to go seek out Tacito for a fresh take on my tight-lipped client. Silva knew all along that if he ever fell foul of the cartel, they’d be Medieval in how they hurt him. And that’s exactly what happened. They filled him with holes and taunted him with their hideous designs on his two beautiful girls.

I felt like throwing up. But I couldn’t understand what Silva done to earn the cartel’s wrath? Why would they order him to take the fall for the fire and all the charges with it?

The attack all but confirmed that the black tar heroin in the fire was supplied by the Sonora cartel. A large amount of drugs had been destroyed, the deal fallen through, a big chunk of cash gone. Silva was the perfect scapegoat. It didn’t prove he was involved in the deal. Maybe they just thought he picked the wrong night to pull an insurance job.

Friday morning, Myrna buzzed me to say Lester Vandermay, the District Attorney himself, was on the line.

“Morning, Lester,” I said. “How are you?”

“Just fine, thanks, Brad,” he said. “Listen, I won’t keep you long. Just wanted to tell you how appalled I was to hear what happened to Eduardo Silva. I assure you it’ll be investigated thoroughly.”

“Well, that’s so nice of you, Lester,” I said. “A little late, don’t you think? I warned Shepherd this would happen. This attack was a direct consequence of him being unfairly refused bail.”

“That was not my decision, you know that,” said Vandermay. “Nor was it Clem’s. Judge Nash made the call. I assure you that we’ll investigate, but from what I hear, your client may have been the one who started the altercation.”

“He picked three guys with shivs unarmed, did he, Lester?”

“Is that what he told you? He didn’t tell you he launched a vicious attack on one inmate, only to be disarmed by two others who stepped in to help? It’s very interesting, isn’t it, how two perspectives of the exact same event can be so different? But that’s the very nature of our profession, is it not?”

“What do you want, Lester?” My ears were getting sore.

“There is something else,” he said. “Old Clem’s got some fresh evidence to add to the pile. It’s in the open file.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said.

“No problem,” he said. “Once you get across it, I’d like the three of us to get together to discuss our offer ASAP. What do you say?”

“I’d say, why would you sit in? Standard procedure is for me to negotiate plea deals one-on-one with the ADA. Have you got a personal interest in this case, Lester? If so, I think you ought to share it with me.”

“There’s nothing unusual about the DA keeping a close eye on the more prominent cases.”

“The ones that make front page news.”

The media had been glued to Silva’s case from the start, and him getting stabbed pretty much the second he got to Men’s Central only added fuel to the fire.

I couldn’t help wonder if there was more to it. Had Vandermay somehow gotten wind of Gillian Infante making contact with me? I doubted it, but the men who’d been keeping tabs on her would have noticed her absence.

“I’ve got to go, Brad,” said Vandermay. “Take a look at those files, and I’ll see you Monday.”

“Monday?” I said, but he’d already hung up.

Sure enough, an email from ADA Clem Shepherd sat at the top of my inbox. Above the link to the discovery share file, Shepherd hard copies were on their way over. At the very bottom, he added: “DA’s office Monday to receive our plea offer. 9:30 sharp.”

At that moment, Myrna walked in, pulling behind her a trolley stacked high with papers.

“This just came for you, Mr. Madison,” she said. “Where should I put it?”

I sighed. An evidence dump on Friday for a Monday meeting. An age-old tactic, to bury the defense in paperwork—maximize the chances of me missing something vital.

With that crucial meeting on the horizon, the plan to spend a good chunk of the weekend with Eliza was shot. Saturday was to be a hike rolling into a movie and sushi. Sunday was to be a lazy kind morning followed by the beach. Now I had to call Eliza to say I was grounded. As ever, she took it like a trooper. If I was on top of everything, she said, there was an open invitation to share a Sunday afternoon sundowner.

The urgent deadline got me amped. I had two days to absorb everything the prosecution had on Silva and how they were going to come at him. I had to anticipate what kind of deal they’d offer and how I’d counter it. This was a trophy case for them—the LASD would get their man, and the DA wouldn’t go light on him. They thought they already had one hand on the cup. Not so fast, boys.

I needed to throw a punch. Take some wind out of their sails. To that end, I decided late Friday afternoon was a good time to share Dr. Tuttle’s findings about the mystery bullets.

I still had more powerful cards in my hand. The items Gillian gave me were with Jack now. Only when I knew exactly what they contained would I share them with Shepherd. I would be leaving it until the last possible minute.

Along with the fact that Gillian Infante would be a witness for the defense.

There was no immediate response from either Vandermay or Shepherd after I shared Tuttle’s report. I’d have paid good money to see the look on their faces when they learned that someone had killed those two men and cut the bullets from the bodies. Then again, maybe they’d dismiss it as the spurious ramblings of a hired quack, and go spend their Saturday as planned—18 holes at Riviera or Hillcrest or wherever followed by some five-star meal washed down with vintage wine.

I stayed up till one in the morning, going through every piece of evidence from both parties. Then I got up early on Saturday morning, did a light workout and went back to the office.

I went over everything again, growing more and more confident that I could poke holes in the prosecution’s case.

Just as I started to settle into my strategy, a text message interrupted my thoughts. I checked the time, and was amazed how quickly the day had gone—it was almost seven o’clock. The message was from a withheld number.

“Nice to see you making new friends,” it read. For a moment, the message seemed cryptic but benign. Then its chilling irony hit me like a sledgehammer.

This was about Gillian Infante. Her life was in danger.

I called her immediately. She’d told me she was being watched by the likes of Sergeant Craig Dillon. If they knew she had evidence of what Chuck was investigating, God knows what they’d do. And if they learned that she was willing to testify against the LASD? They’d think of nothing to kill her.

“Brad?” she answered.

“Hi, Gillian,” I said. “Just a sec.”

I checked myself. How hard would it be for the Vipers to operate an illegal wiretap in order to know exactly what Chuck Infante’s wife was up to? Not hard at all.

“Hello?” Gillian said, sounding unsure.

“Yes, I’m here,” I said. “But I’m on the road and just realized I’m about to hit the Wiltshire Boulevard tunnel. Look, it can wait. I’ll be in touch. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, confused. “Bye.”

Now that I knew I had Gillian’s attention, I hung up and sent her a text message via Signal, an encrypted app. When she replied, I called her using the app.

“Brad, what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry about the spy games,” I said, now reassured that our exchange was encrypted and safe from prying eyes and ears, “but you’re not safe where you are. You have to move to a safe house.”

“What are you talking about? Why? What’s happened?”

“They know you met with me,” I said.

“How could they possibly know? I’m not an idiot. There was no way anyone followed me to the park.”

“I’m not saying you had a tail. And I didn’t either. But either they know or they’re taking a good guess. And if they’re tapping your phone, I just let them know that you and I are in touch.”

“Jesus,” she said. “Did someone contact you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I got a message. It was a veiled threat to your safety.”

“Okay, Brad,” Gillian said. “You’re officially scaring me. And where the hell am I supposed to go if I’m not safe here?”

I’d already grabbed my keys and was heading to the elevator.

“I’m coming to get you,” I said. “Send me your address.”

On my way to Gillian’s house, I made two calls. The first was to Jack. He was going to need to make up the spare bed. The second was to Hayden Silva.

Chapter 29

Sunday morning, I woke to my alarm at nine. After a late night crisscrossing LA, I crashed hard, out cold the second my head hit the pillow. A quick shower and a coffee, and I was back at the office.

Jack assured me Gillian was in good hands and that my plan was solid. No one was going to touch her until she was ready to take the stand, if it came to that.

But I knew we were headed for a trial. Vandermay and Shepherd were never going to offer a deal that Silva could stomach. They’d be asking him to accept a decade-long sentence minimum. Lalo Silva wasn’t pleading guilty. He wasn’t taking one more day in jail than he had to.

Back at my desk, I went through the prosecution witnesses again. Some employees claimed drugs were being sold from the gym with Silva’s complete approval. Shepherd had added a couple of new names to the list, but they said pretty much the same thing.

There was a fresh statement from none other than Captain Don Auerbach, offering his observations about the LASD’s sustained interest in what went on under Silva’s roof. Just seeing his name at the bottom turned the room cold. I’d experienced first-hand the brutality of his underling, Craig Dillon. What savagery was Auerbach capable of?

I could see the story Shepherd would try to sell—the savvy ex-con who pretended to go legit but never changed his ways.

Another new addition was “The Sonora Connection,” a report tying the black tar heroin found at the scene to the Sonora cartel. Shepherd had drug test results to show that the Phoenix Fitness heroin matched other samples seized from the cartel.

I made a few notes on how I’d dismantle this claim. There were holes to poke in the evidence chain, casting doubt over the its legitimacy.

What turned my stomach the most was how Shepherd spun the jail attack on Silva as a reprisal for him fumbling a significant heroin deal. This was exactly how such a gang deals with failure, he would say. He might even suggest that the hit was botched, leaving the implication that they might go back to finish the job.

The report also linked the cartel to Arthur Barkley. One account on Barkley’s books was a company called Masalto, which Shepherd claimed was connected to three cartel members.

An image kept coming to mind as I reviewed all the evidence—a pair of smug grins looking at me over the table, Vandermay and Shepherd. Good. Let them think this case is a slam dunk.

I stole a look at my watch. It was almost two o’clock. I had burned through five hours of work without barely noticing. Everything was on track.

I called Jack, and asked how things were going. He said it was all good and that he’d be able to brief me more fully later.

Standing up and stretching, I decided I’d earned a break. I picked up the phone and called Eliza. Her cheerful voice instantly lifted my spirits.

“I need to get out of here,” I said. “Feel like spending the rest of your Sunday with me?”

“I suppose my arm could be twisted,” she teased. “What do you have in mind?”

“I just want to kick back with a couple of beers and forget about the law for a while. I know it’s not the most elegant proposal but—”

“I know just the place,” Eliza cut in. “The Antler Tavern near the Hermosa Beach pier has a couple of nice tables.”

“Nice tables?”

“Pool tables,” Eliza said. “You do play pool, don’t you?”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “I could have just about paid my college fees by hustling. Okay, I might be exaggerating there.”

“Well, prepare to lose some cash, my friend, because I don’t like to lose.”

“Pick you up in half an hour.”

When I pulled into Eliza’s driveway, she bounded out of the house in jeans, t-shirt, heels, and a short black leather jacket. Only someone older would say this, but she made me feel younger. Not in a creepy way—she was only ten years younger than me—but in that carefree way you feel when all your responsibilities are far out of reach.

“You look amazing,” I said, as she slid into the car and kissed me hello.

“Thanks,” she said. “But don’t think flattery’s going to save you from an ass-whooping at pool.”

“Can’t blame me for trying.”

The bar was lined with red leather stools, less than half of which were occupied. Above the shelves of bottles was mounted a beautiful old wooden longboard decorated with the name of the bar. The opposite wall was lined with television screens, all showing hockey and basketball. At the back, two empty pool tables waited.

“What can I get you?” asked the barman, a skinny guy wearing an Oilers cap over a shaggy mop of bleached hair.

“I’m going to have a vodka, lime and soda,” said Eliza.

“You okay with Absolut?” asked the barman.

“I’m totally fine with Absolut.”

“What’s that you’ve got there?” I said, pointing at one of the beading taps. The front featured a round logo with a coyote on it. “That’s an American pilsner from a local brewery called Four Paws. It’s pretty damned good. You want a sample?”

“No, you sold me,” I said. “Give me a pint.”

We sat shoulder to shoulder in a booth, the conversation flowing easily. With her sitting close to me, I felt something light in the air. Something I could nail in one word—happiness.

“I'm glad I was able to coax you away for a few hours,” Eliza whispered into my ear before giving the lobe a quick bite. A shiver ran down my spine and I felt goosebumps breaking out across my arms.

“Me too.”

After a few minutes, Eliza slipped around so that she was now sitting opposite me.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” she said. “How about we take this drink to allow you to transition?”

“What?”

“I know you’ve had your head buried in some heavy material,” she said. “Believe me, I know what that’s like. It’s a tough ask to go from that to this. You can’t just flip a switch. So take this drink to shed whatever you need to. I’m all ears. Then we’ll play pool and forget about the world for a bit.”

She was right. It wasn’t just the case playing on my mind, there was Gillian’s safety, and how I’d almost screwed that up. And while I’m walking around a free man, my client is lying in an infirmary bed with fifteen stab wounds and Lord knows how many sutures in his body. My mind didn’t have an eject button.

“No one’s ever said anything remotely like that to me before,” I said.

Eliza took a sip. “Come on. Unload. But after this drink, that’s it. Okay?”

I laughed and told her what had happened with Gillian, and about the plan I’d put into place. Eliza was shocked by how ruthless these men were, targeting a widow so callously. I moved onto Silva, how even though he was barely alive, his secrecy was making my job extremely difficult. Didn’t he want me to win the case?

“I don’t get why he’s lying to me, other than the fact that he’s guilty,” I said. “How could he think that can play out well?”

“Maybe he looks up to you,” said Eliza. “Maybe he’s afraid of your judgement. It’s also possible he wants to avoid shame or embarrassment. You said he’s got two young daughters. There could be things he never wants them to know. And then there’s control.”

“Ah, yes,” I said, raising a finger. “Silva does like to think he’s running the show.”

Eliza swirled her glass. “In any case, you need to be prepared to be disappointed,” she said. “When the truth comes out, you may feel like you’ve been played. Criminals do look at the world differently. Regular people go about their lives, not even thinking about the civil and legal rules they play by. But crooks? They see that as a weakness. And they prey on it.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Decency is all too often our Achilles heel. That’s what that fraudster Arthur Barkley thrived on. He was a predator.”

I stopped to ponder how much I’d been dragged into Silva’s world, entrusted with so much more than his defense.

“Hey,” said Eliza, gently grabbing my attention. “You’ll figure it out. Now, why don’t you go get us another round? I’ll rack ’em up.”

I smiled and stood up. “You got it.”

Chapter 30

District Attorney Lester Vandermay stayed seated behind his oversized desk as I entered his office. Behind him hung the American flag on one side and the Bear Flag of California on the other. A huge book case took up most of the back wall, filled with thick, hardbound volumes, family photos, and a few awards. And what a desk. It was like a huge extension of the man himself, practically filling the room with his authority.

When I came to a stop, he rose slowly and then stepped around the bridge of his Starship Enterprise of Justice and gave me a tight handshake and officious smile. I was about to ask after Clem Shepherd, when I heard footsteps behind me.

“My apologies, sir,” said Shepherd, entering briskly. “Just taking care of that other matter we discussed earlier.”

This “other matter” may have been an actual thing, but I suspected it was purely a calculated display of unity between the DA and his lieutenant. I was up against a power couple. Message received.

“Good to see you, Brad,” Shepherd said. “Trust you had an enjoyable weekend.”

“A good balance of work and play,” I replied.

“How’s your client?” he asked indifferently, looking through some of the documents he’d brought in.

“He’s been better,” I said, turning to the DA. “Mr. Vandermay, we spoke about Lalo Silva’s vulnerability over the phone. He needs to be relocated to a more secure environment as soon as possible.”

“I can look into it,” Vandermay said while looking at Shepherd.

“You’re the DA,” I said. “You can move him with the stroke of a pen.”

Vandermay frowned, unimpressed, but maintained his calm.

“At this point in time, Lester, he’s an innocent man,” I said. “Will you let him be murdered before he gets his day in court?”

Shepherd shifted beside me, restraining the urge to leap to his boss’s defense. Vandermay cleared his throat.

“We’re not in court yet,” he said coolly. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. I said I’ll look into it, and I will. If you want to go and tell the press I’m heartless, go right ahead. The fact is, no one likes your client. He’s a convicted drug dealer who in all probability committed a vicious crime. If he’s provoked his fellow inmates, how am I to blame?”

“I’m not looking to fight this out in the media,” I said. “It’s in your best interest, as much as mine, that he lives to face those charges.”

“I can’t promise anything, but, as I said, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Speaking of charges,” I said, shifting gears. “What are your thoughts?”

Vandermay raised an eyebrow. “We’ll get to that, Brad. Before we do, I just want to be sure that you’re up-to-date with the provision of evidence under discovery.”

The question had weight. It was clear they suspected I was sitting on something new. It had to be the material Gillian Infante had given me. Or were they just fishing, suspecting that I’d met her?

“I’ve provided Clem with everything I have,” I said.

“Come on, Brad,” said Shepherd. “You know the discovery rules. You’re supposed to share your evidence in a timely manner.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

“Where’s Gillian Infante?” said Vandermay.

“Who?” I said, holding my gaze on the DA.

“Don’t get cute,” said Shepherd. “You know who she is.”

My God. They did bug her phone.

“Why are you asking me about Chuck Infante’s widow?”

“We’re investigating her husband’s death,” said Shepherd. “We need to keep her informed of every development.”

“So, call her,” I said.

“Come on, Brad,” said Shepherd.

“You’re asking the wrong person, Clem,” I said. “You should try the boys down at the Edgewood Park station. Aren’t they looking after her?”

I could have asked why they were so sure I’d had contact with Gillian, but they’d got my back up. I wanted to toy with then a little, feed their paranoia.

Vandermay cleared his throat again. “Do you want to be hauled over the coals for withholding evidence? I can have you disbarred.”

I stared at Vandermay. A few thoughts were racing through my mind at once. I was glad I’d wasted no time getting Gillian somewhere safe. If they had her phone bugged, they knew I’d called her, and that she’d disappeared soon after. But who were “they” exactly? And who, exactly, was aware that I’d been sent that nasty text message? Were Vandermay and Shepherd in cahoots with Auerbach, Dillon and Paredes? Or was Auerbach stirring them up with lies? It was too early to tell. One thing was crystal clear: they were pretty damn bothered by what Gillian might say.

If they could prove I deliberately dragged my feet on providing vital evidence, it could be ruled inadmissible. Screw them both. They could wait. There was no doubt in my mind she was in grave danger.

“Gentlemen,” I said. “You both seem genuinely worried about her. I really hope you find her soon. But I’m here, on your insistence, to discuss a plea offer. Let’s hear it.”

Shepherd flicked through his documents again. I raised a palm to call for a pause.

“Actually, before we get to that, I need to tell you that I know Chuck Infante was Internal Affairs,” I said, watching them both for reactions.

Shepherd didn’t flinch. “So?”

“You know as well as I do that it’s not public knowledge,” I said. “Otherwise, we’d have read it in the LA Times and everywhere else besides. But it hasn’t been reported, has it? The public has no idea that Chuck Infante was investigating the criminal activities of the Vipers. You know, the deputy gang operating out of Edgewood Park.”

There was nothing said between them, but they exchanged something by way of a brief glance. Shepherd let Vandermay take this one.

“Allegations of criminal activity with law enforcement departments is nothing new, Brad,” Vandermay said, leaning forward. “It’s meat and potatoes for the IA team. The vast majority of complaints are minor and unfounded. That’s what Deputy Infante was dealing with.”

“So nothing major” I asked.

Vandermay shook his head. “Nothing major.”

“So what’s he doing in the middle of a drug deal?” I pressed. “Who’d want to stop him interfering? Who’d want to silence him? That’s what I want to know.”

“Who said he was interfering?” said Shepherd. It was clear the words came out of his mouth before he’d chewed over them sufficiently. Vandermay was practically growling at him now.

I turned to Shepherd. “Is that where you’re going to take this? You’re ready to say Infante was dirty? Destroy a dead officer’s reputation to suit your needs?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” said Shepherd, trying to play it cool. “You and your client refuse to acknowledge any culpability in the deaths of these two men on his property. You’re the one—”

“You just implied Chuck Infante was in on it.”

“That’s not what I said,” Shepherd snapped. His blood was up, as was mine. “You’re desperate to find someone else to blame. My point was that you’ll probably start to round on Chuck Infante yourself.”

“Nice try, Shepherd,” I said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re a sly one, alright. I’ll have to watch your every step, won’t I?”

Vandermay, holding his hands out over his desk. “Gentlemen, let’s take it down a notch. Maybe keep some of that powder dry for trial, if it comes to that. But just for the record, Brad, my mission is to clean up the LASD.”

“That’s a good campaign slogan,” I said.

“Mark my words, Brad,” he said. “It’s much more than that, I can assure you. Now, how about we get down to whether or not this case actually goes to trial? If it does, part of me wishes I could sell tickets to see you two go at it. Levity aside, I believe Clem has something worthy of serious consideration.”

I eased back in my chair, appearing calm but ready to go to court in a second if that’s what we had to do. I could see that Shepherd and I were alike in that sense—he wanted a crack at me as much as I did at him.

Rather than hand it directly to me, Shepherd leaned forward and placed a file on his boss’s desk midway between us.

I grabbed it and began reading.

Silva had been charged under Penal Code 187 of two counts of first-degree murder with special circumstances and arson causing great bodily injury (Penal Code 451a). The reduced charges they wanted Silva to plead guilty to were voluntary manslaughter and arson. This reduced the prosecution’s recommended sentence from life to thirty-one years in state prison. I read the whole document before speaking.

“So you want him to accept eleven years consecutively for each voluntary manslaughter charge plus nine years for arson,” I said. “And you’re telling me that this is worthy of serious consideration.”

“He lit that fire, Madison,” said Shepherd. “Look at the evidence.”

“I’ve more than looked at the evidence, Clem,” I said. “I’ve studied it. Can you say the same?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I filed evidence to show those men were shot. Did you notice that, or was this plea offer already typed up, and you didn’t want to change a word.”

Shepherd scoffed. “That’s a paid-for opinion.”

“It’s expert testimony.”

“When I’m done with your Dr. Tuttle, no one on this planet will see it that way.”

“This is a reasonable offer, Brad,” said Vandermay. “Mr. Silva has two young daughters, am I correct?”

“I think you know you’re correct, Lester,” I said.

“If he wants to walk with them out in the open air again and spend quality time with his grandkids, this is his only chance.”

Vandermay’s tone had gone dry and flat.

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that, Lester,” I said. I took up my briefcase and placed the document inside. I shook my head. “Eleven years per count on the voluntary manslaughter charges. That’s the maximum you could call for. Yet you pitch it as a generous offer.”

“I didn’t say generous,” said Vandermay. “An officer of the law was murdered.”

I got to my feet.

“This is a death sentence,” I said. “He’s a marked man in the eyes of the Sonora cartel, and he’s a cop killer in the eyes of his guards. One way or the other, he’s a dead man walking.”

“Brad, if I could offer some parting advice,” said Vandermay, unmoved. “Pride has no place above pragmatism in these matters. You’re a fine defense attorney. Of course, you think you can beat these charges. But that’s pride talking. And pride’s not going to win you this case.”

“I’ll be in touch,” I said, turning for the door.

Vandermay called after me. “Remember, this is a negotiation,” he said, as I stopped to listen. “To a very limited degree, we do have some wriggle room.”

Vandermay looked at Shepherd for confirmation.

“We could take a look at probation, perhaps,” Shepherd said. “Maybe bring minimum time served down from eighty-five to seventy-five percent. But if we’re going to do that, he’d need to waive the right to appeal.”

“Gentlemen,” I said. “Your generosity takes my breath away.”

Chapter 31

Once you pass through the white-painted floor-to-ceiling prison bars, the Men’s Central Jail infirmary looks pretty much like any other hospital—a maze of bright, white corridors. A guard led me down the hall, through a heavy security door, and into a ward with six beds. At the far end, Lalo Silva lay awake with his upper body elevated. He smiled weakly when he saw me.

Since my meeting with Vandermay and Shepherd, I’d been turning the same questions over in my mind. How much did they know, or guess, about Gillian’s movements, associations, and intentions? I’d told her to stay off her phone and only use the burner Jack got for her, so I was sure they did not know her whereabouts.

The rogue deputies who’d been keeping tabs on Gillian could quickly figure out that Silva’s daughters weren’t attending their LA school.

It was only a matter of time before they started searching flights.

Straight after the plea meeting, I’d called Hayden. He confirmed our plan for Gillian was in place. Jack had booked her a ticket to San Juan under a fake name, using a fake driver’s license he’d procured and an untraceable bank account he’d set up. Hayden assured me that Gillian was now safely at his family’s Dorado compound.

My visit there had only been brief, but it was long enough for Hayden to give me some family history. In the 1930s, the conflict over Puerto Rico’s independence from the US boiled over into a series of violent events. Amid the unrest, Hayden and Lalo’s grandfather, a wealthy trader, took steps to keep his family safe. He secured the two properties bordering his home in Dorado, and walled the perimeter. Two of the smaller houses had underground shelters for use during hurricanes, so he fortified them into bunkers. Interconnecting tunnels were installed to allow covert movement from house to house. Hayden said that criminal gangs exploiting the civil turbulence had made direct threats to his grandfather.

“He was a very clever man,” Hayden said at the time. “Too smart for those crooks. If they ever tried to attack this place, they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

On the morning I left, I remember looking around as we walked to the car and asking, “So, where are the guard towers and guns?”

“No need,” said Hayden, and smiled as he got behind the wheel. “My grandfather was a pacifist. And he was a genius. I’ll tell you on the way. You won’t believe it.”

Hayden won more of my confidence and affection with every encounter I had with him. When he told me Gillian was safe, my mind was at ease. She was in very good hands.

Lalo Silva didn’t just look pale, he looked like the life had been drained from him. His only color was the deep bruising on his face and arms.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, dragging a chair closer to his bed. He looked at me with through a swollen right eye and grinned.

“Like I belly-flopped onto a bed of nails,” he said. “But, you know, I’ve been worse.”

“Really?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s a lie. This takes the cake. No infections, though—that’s something.”

“At least you’ll have the scars to prove your story if anyone doubts you,” I said. “Hey, I’ve got some news.”

He didn’t seem surprised. “What did they offer? I’m guessing anything less than life is a win, right?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

“What a surprise,” he said. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“They want you to plead to intent to distribute, two counts of voluntary manslaughter and arson. Eleven years each for the manslaughter, nine for the arson. All served consecutively.”

“Thirty-one years?”

It was a heavy blow. Silva shook his head in disbelief and turned his eyes to the ceiling. I could see him processing it, doing the math. How old would he be when he got out? How old would Rihanna and Bianca be? They’d have to visit him, a convicted murderer locked up like an animal, in prison for thirty-plus years. He sucked in air through his mouth, trying to come to grips with that awful image of his family’s future.

Finally, he spoke. “Hang on, what about intent to distribute?”

“They’re happy to run that concurrently.”

“That’s good of them,” said Silva sarcastically. He went back to staring and thinking.

“Look, Lalo, you don’t have to decide now.”

“My answer is no,” he said, firmly.

The words were like a starting gun. It was on—we were going to trial. Countering my instant adrenalin rush was the sobering reality that if I lost, Lalo Silva would never walk free again. He’d be locked up for life.

I reached over and gripped his shoulder. “Good. The DA says he’ll try to move you to a safer place, but I can’t promise anything.”

“I’ve got plenty of friends in here,” he said.

“Well, they need to do a better job of looking out for you,” I said, straightening and gathering my things. “I’ll let the DA know your answer.”

As I stood up, Silva slowly raised a hand. “Don’t go yet,” he said. He picked something off the laminate overbed table. “Could you please do me a big favor.”

He held out his hand, which now held two envelopes. With his other hand, he put a finger to his lips. “One of the nurses got me some stationary,” he whispered. “She was very kind. I want you to give them to Hayden.”

Now they were in my hand, I flipped them over to inspect them. “What are they?” I said, but what I read turned my blood cold.

“For Hayden’s eyes only,” the first stated. I then looked at the second. “For my precious little gems when I’m gone.”

I glanced back at Silva, whose eyes were locked on mine, conveying something unspoken but undeniable. I turned around, making sure we were unobserved, then I tucked both letters into the waistband of my pants. Silva looked satisfied. He knew the guards would tear the letters open if they found them on me.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said. “Get better.”

“I will,” he replied, offering a faint smile. “Thanks again.”

Chapter 32

“Mr. Madison,” said Myrna through the speakerphone. “Mr. Silva is here to see you.”

“Send him in,” I said, as I moved toward the door.

“Mr. Madison,” Hayden Silva greeted me warmly, wrapping my outstretched hand in both of his. “Good to see you again.”

“You too, Hayden. How are you?” I gestured to my guest chair. “Please.”

“I’m good, thank you,” he said, taking a seat and casting an impressed eye around my office. “I came as soon as I could. My first flight was cancelled. Then there was a chain of events that I won’t bore you with. Added another twelve hours to the trip.”

“You must be exhausted,” I said.

“Me? No,” he chuckled. “Fresh as a daisy.”

“Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?”

“No, I’m good. I’d like to have gotten here sooner, but I still have to fly back tonight.”

“Okay, well, let me get to it,” I said, handing him the two envelopes Lalo had given me.

Hayden read the inscriptions and slid the letters into his coat pocket.

“I did think of delivering them to you myself, but I’m sure I’d have been followed,” I said. “How’s everyone in Dorado.”

“Rest easy, my friend,” said Hayden. “They’re safe and sound.”

“How’s Gillian coping?”

“I think the change has been good for her. Rihanna and Bianca adore her. They’ve formed quite a bond. I don’t say this just to paint a pretty picture. The girls are surrounded by love, but Gillian adds something special. She’s teaching them Japanese, you know?”

“Is that right?”

A pause fell between us before I began to talk shop. Hayden already knew Lalo had rejected the plea offer. I told him the DA’s response was to make a token attempt to sweeten the deal.

“Vandermay ran as a tough-talking law-and-order candidate,” I said. “Now he’s got a headline-grabbing case. He can’t afford to look weak. He’s got a good prosecutor working for him, so he’s pretty confident. They both are.”

“So, my brother will stand trial as a double murderer,” Hayden said with a mix of dismay and defiance. “These men want to raise themselves up by tearing him down.”

“That’s pretty much it,” I said.

Hayden’s mood shifted. “And what about you, Mr. Madison. Do you think my brother’s guilty?”

“What I believe doesn’t matter,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “My job is to demonstrate that they can’t prove that he’s guilty.”

Hayden’s eyebrows lifted. “Wow, that’s a lawyer’s answer if ever I heard one. Your job is to defend my brother. I get that. But I asked what you think.”

I hesitated, and smiled. “No, I don’t think he killed those men, and I don’t think he lit that fire. But… there is something about your brother that makes me uneasy.”

“Uneasy, how?”

“I’m not sure. I just feel he hasn’t been open with me. When I’m defending someone facing life in prison, I don’t like secrets. They have a tendency to come out at the worst possible time. They could cost us the case.”

Hayden’s mood darkened as he turned things over in his mind.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Hayden?” I asked.

Hayden shook his head slowly. “No, Mr. Madison. My brother is an honest man. He has the highest respect for you.”

“I never said he wasn’t honest,” I clarified. “I think there’s something he’s not telling me. I just hope it doesn’t come back to bite us.”

“None of us want that,” Hayden said soberly. “But we have faith in you, Mr. Madison. You’re family now.”

After Hayden had left, his words stayed with me. Since Lalo Silva had persuaded me to help with the trust, I’d been uneasy about getting involved. Now, here I was, up to my neck in a position I’d told myself never to get into.

I wasn’t just Lalo Silva’s lawyer—I was part of his life. If I failed, I wasn’t just losing a case, I’d be losing something so much more. If I failed, and those dear girls ended up fatherless, I don’t think I could bring myself to look in the mirror.

PART II

Chapter 33

As a rule, I’m more than punctual on the first day of trial. If I could, I’d have the courtroom all to myself for a while. In reality, the best I could do was to be there when the bailiff opened up. This morning, Patty Sewell, a heavyset black guy who’d been a courtroom deputy for nearly ten years, was on duty. Patty knew me well enough to joke about my early ritual. Reminded him of a quarterback walking the field long before the stadium filled.

Courtroom 109 was like most of the other sixty courtrooms in the Criminal Justice Center. It was full of contrasts. Lofty and base, highbrow and lowlife, privileged and dirt-poor. Under the gravitas of dark wood paneling, flags, coat of arms, and judge’s bench space lay well-worn carpet, scuffed walls and chipped furniture. I loved it all—the imperfect temple of justice.

“Looks like you’ve got your hands full, sir,” Patty said, his keys jangling as he checked the room. There was nothing snide in Patty’s tone. It was just an observation. No axe to grind with a lawyer defending a man charged with killing a fellow deputy.

“You can say that again,” I said, setting out my files, notepad, and laptop on the counsel table. “No one ever said criminal defense was easy.”

“Something tells me you like it that way,” he grinned.

“You might be right, Patty,” I replied with a laugh. “You’re a good judge of character.”

Soon enough, people began filing into the courtroom. Clem Shepherd took his place at the prosecution table and began setting up. Or rather, his underlings set up while he stood with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. After a moment, he came over to me.

“Good morning, Brad,” he said and offered his hand. As we shook, he said, “May the best man win.”

“How about, may the truth prevail?”

He smiled. “Indeed. Well, good luck. You’re going to need it.”

I shook my head and returned to my notes.

The side door swung open and Patty led Lalo Silva into the room from the holding cell. Silva was dressed in loose blue jail clothes, his movement restricted by leg irons, waist chain and cuffs. He nodded as he shuffled to the defense table, smiling gently as he sat.

“Glad I’ve got you in my corner, Brad,” he said.

“Tell me that when we’ve won.”

“Okay, boss,” said Silva with a grin. He let out a small cough, which was followed by another. Then all of a sudden, Silva was doubled over in another coughing fit, drawing eyes from around the room. Patty came handed me a bottle of water, which I opened and passed to Silva.

“Almost brought up a lung,” he said after drinking.

I looked him over. His face was pale, his brow dotted with sweat. I’d seen Silva worse, much worse, but his stabbing was months ago, and he’d made a full recovery, albeit with fifteen new scars all over his body.

“Are you okay, Lalo? You don’t look good.”

Lalo shook his head. “Just jail flu.”

“You sure? How long’s this been going on?”

“It’s nothing,” he snapped. “Forget it.”

At that moment, Patty’s voice filled the room, calling for us to stand for the judge’s arrival. Judge Sonia Eskridge entered from a secure corridor, nodded to the room, and took her seat on the bench.

I had no complaints about Eskridge presiding—she was one of the better judges. Tough but fair, her decisions reflected an open mind and a compassionate heart. I’d recently read a profile on her rise through the Californian judiciary. Her parents were civil rights campaigners, and they inspired her to become a lawyer. For all her strengths, there was one thing that bothered me—her friendship with District Attorney Lester Vandermay.

Like all trials, Silva’s would begin with a blank slate. Over the next few weeks, a stream of testimony and evidence would flow through this courtroom, and it was up to Shepherd and me to shape the narrative. The same facts would yield two very different stories. As always, it came down to who told the better one.

After Judge Eskridge checked in with us, we spent the morning on jury selection. Once the twelve-member panel and four alternates had been settled, we were all ready to begin.

“The court will now hear opening statements,” Judge Eskridge announced. “We’ll hear from the prosecution first. Are you ready, Mr. Shepherd?”

“I most certainly am,” said Shepherd, who got to his feet, buttoned his suit jacket and gave his mustache a twist. He all but carried a hammer to the podium with him, such was his visible intent to drive the first of many nails into Lalo Silva’s coffin.

Chapter 34

Clem Shepherd allowed the silence awaiting his first words to linger. The jurors, their sense of duty fresh, were all ears and practically shone with regard for the man. Judge Eskridge told them earlier that they were just as important as she was in the process. But they were wide-eyed recruits in unknown territory. Shepherd was free to move and speak like the courtroom was no more imposing than his living room.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Shepherd began. “Thank you for your time. I promise you I don’t intend to waste it. Just as I wouldn’t waste the expense and resources that go into a trial.

“We are actually here precisely because your time is valuable. We’re here because a judge recognized that there is enough evidence to convict the defendant Eduardo Silva on every charge. Now we’re ready to present you with that evidence. Evidence that will convince you that that man, the defendant, murdered two men in cold blood.

“Two men burned to death,” he said solemnly. “Deputy Chuck Infante and Arthur Jessup Barkley. Two precious human lives lost, and an untold number of family members and friends whose lives have been brutally shattered. Changed forever. Today is where the pursuit of justice begins for those two men and the people who love them and miss them.

“My job is clear: I have to prove to you that the defendant committed those heinous crimes. That he planned and carried out the cold-blooded murder of two men. By the end of this trial, I have no doubt that you’ll find him guilty.

Shepherd had delivered his opening lines from behind the lectern. But now he paused, swept his fingers across that thick mustache, and directed his gaze at Judge Eskridge. He gestured to the open floor in front of him, known as the well.

“With permission, Your Honor?”

“Go ahead,” she replied with a nod.

Shepherd stepped away from the lectern, taking center stage. Several jurors shifted slightly, adjusting to his closer presence and sure-minded manner.

“Over the coming days, I will lay out how this man, Eduardo Silva, planned and carried out the murders of two men. I will show you that he had the motive, the means, and the will to these commit ruthless crimes. And let’s just be clear, the evidence will speak for itself.

Shepherd then turned storyteller, walking the jury though the chain of events. Emergency services responding to a structure fire. Silva’s fitness center burned to the ground. Two charred bodies discovered in the ashes. A kilogram of Mexican black tar heroin found nearby.

“Two dead men and a kilo of narcotics. What was going on inside the defendant’s closed premises that night when the flames hit? And just to get this out there right away, this was no accidental fire. It was deliberately lit. One-hundred percent certainty on that. No argument from either side.

Shepherd told of the con artist Arthur Barkley being lured to the gym in the dead of night. There was a bid drug deal going down, and he was the money man. Secretly following him in was Deputy Infante, who’d received an anonymous tip about the deal and acted. But it was a trap.

Then Shepherd dropped a bombshell.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it was the defendant who made that call,” he said. “He lured Deputy Infante to his death.”

What the hell did Shepherd just say? The defendant, Lalo Silva, my client, was the anonymous caller?

I couldn’t believe my ears. My instinct was to object instantly because that couldn’t be true. I had to stay calm and make sure the jury saw no alarm in my actions. It took all my self-control not to snap my head in Silva’s direction, and grill him about the veracity of this revelation. Another vital secret kept.

I leaned forward and turned to face my client. Silva ignored my rage and shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll tell you later,” he whispered calmly with his lips taut. “It’s not what you—”

Silva didn’t get to finish his sentence because I raised my voice to the judge. “Your Honor, I request a sidebar.”

Judge Eskridge nodded. “Counsel may approach the bench,” she said.

Shepherd and I arrived at the same time. His face bore an air of protest that his opening statement had been interrupted.

“Your Honor, this is the first time I’ve heard about my client being involved in a tip-off,” I said. “ADA Shepherd has either made a claim without foundation or he has withheld evidence. I’ve studied everything the prosecution has shared, and there is nothing to support the claim that my client tipped off the deputy. This is grounds for a mistrial.”

“If what you say is true, then I’m in agreement,” said Judge Eskridge. “Mr. Shepherd, what do you have to say about this?”

“Your Honor, the claim can be completely supported by the evidence, which has been added to the shared file that Mr. Madison has unrestricted access to. The evidence clearly shows that it was the defendant who tipped off Deputy Infante.”

“When was it filed?” said Judge Eskridge.

“This morning, Your Honor,” said Shepherd. “It was up almost as soon as we got it. So Mr. Madison had it almost as soon as we did.”

“What time was filed?” asked Judge Eskridge, her impatience showing.

“Your Honor, my assistant tells me it was filed just after we completed jury selection, before I began my opening statement,” said Shepherd. “If Mr. Madison had bothered to check his email, he’d know he’s been duly notified. Last time I checked, Your Honor, it’s not my job to make sure Mr. Madison’s up to speed with proceedings.”

“Just before your opening statement,” I said. “How convenient. Your Honor, this is a blindside play. Totally unfair, and I’m inclined to move for a mistrial.”

“Your Honor,” said Shepherd, cutting in. “This is crucial evidence and the jury needs to hear it. We can examine it at length during the trial, but I have done nothing wrong here. I’m literally putting my best case forward, just as the State of California expects me to.”

I saw Judge Eskridge was about to speak, but I too was eager to get a word in.

“Your Honor, this completely disrupts my case. My defense strategy is built on the evidence made available to me before this morning. I request a continuance to examine this evidence.”

Judge Eskridge gave a subtle shake of her head, which told me she was inclined to disagree. “I understand, Mr. Madison,” said Judge Eskridge. “But I’m taking Mr. Shepherd on his word that this evidence has just come to hand. The nature of the evidence leads me to believe that a continuance would unnecessarily delay proceedings.”

“Your Honor, I must object,” I said. “This greatly impairs my ability to represent my client.”

“Your objection is noted, counselor, but I’m ruling that we continue with proceedings,” said Judge Eskridge firmly. “Mr. Shepherd, you may resume your opening statement. Mr. Madison, you’ll have ample opportunity to challenge this new evidence during trial.”

I returned to the defense table without giving Silva a second glance. I was more furious with him than Shepherd. Was this what he’d been hiding from me? Was there anything else? I sat back in my chair and looked over at the jury, ruing the day I’d ever agreed to be this idiot’s lawyer.

Meanwhile, Shepherd waited for the slight commotion of the courtroom to settle.

“That’s right,” he said. “The defendant Eduardo Silva called Deputy Infante anonymously to tell him there was a drug deal going down. The deputy arrives, and he sets the place on fire.

“He placed that call, he was seen at the premises shortly before the fire broke out, and traces of the accelerant used to start the fire were found in the trunk of his car. I told you: the evidence speaks for itself.

“Now, when investigators began looking into this deadly act of arson, they did so with an open mind. As they accrued more and more evidence, it all pointed to one man, who became their main suspect. Eduardo Silva. They weren’t following preconceptions, they were led by hard evidence.

“Why would preconceptions come into it? Well, the defendant had a past, a criminal past. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be able to mention this because it could form a prejudicial image in the minds of you, the jury. But the defendant, Eduardo Silva, made a point of telling the media all about his past. He served five years in prison for dealing drugs. Then, supposedly, he got out and embarked on establishing a legit business that hired, and helped reform, men just like him—criminals who’d served their time. You can just imagine the good news stories the media told about Eduardo Silva, can’t you?

“The bad news story, I’m afraid, is that it was all a lie. He put those men right back in the thick of crime, selling drugs out of his gym and through his website under the guise of fitness supplements. Eduardo Silva’s staff will come here testify to you that dealt in illegal performance enhancing drugs and narcotics directly under his watch.

“As for Eduardo Silva’s motive, the evidence provides an emphatic answer. Profit. He stood to gain a lot from these crimes.

“In the months leading up to the fire, Eduardo Silva went shopping for a new insurance policy to cover that business of his. He settled on one that promised a much richer payout if his property was destroyed by fire. Isn’t that a coincidence? Not.

“Now, you might wonder how stupid must he be to think that he could get away with these crimes. But the evidence serves as clear hindsight. He just thought he was so smart that he could get away with it.

“Greed can be a powerfully corrosive when it comes to a man’s character and his mind. It can cloud his better judgement, annihilate his virtues.

“But, ladies and gentleman, you must now be vigilant against having your own judgement clouded. You’ll hear a lot of things from my colleague over there, the lawyer defending Eduardo Silva. He’ll try to blur that evidence, put a spin on things. Beware these feats of mental gymnastics—it’s all supposition and speculation. I, however, will be sticking to the evidence. And I ask you to do the same.

“When the time comes for you reach your decision, I ask that you stick to your rod-straight intelligence. Come back again and again to the evidence. And then I ask that you deliver on that burden of justice you’ve been honored to shoulder, and find this man guilty on all counts.

“Only by finding Eduardo Silva guilty can justice be served. It would be a small but gratefully received mitigation of all the pain and suffering that has come from this man’s selfish hands.”

With that, Shepherd resumed his seat. His shock revelation was the first thing that came to mind. I was now sitting between two adversaries. Not only was the prosecutor working against me, my own client was.

This was perhaps the worst start to a trial in my career. I hadn’t spoken a word, and I’d lost the first round comprehensively. Via a blow I never saw coming. A blow dealt by Lalo Silva.

Chapter 35

Walking to the lectern to deliver my opening statement, I felt relieved to put distance between me and my client. Defending clients was like babysitting—you often felt like the only grown-up in the room, besides the other courtroom professionals, of course. That’s okay. I do what I’m paid for, and that’s to get the jury focused on what matters. And what mattered here was that motive, means, and intent, do not mean guilt. Only one thing means guilt, and that’s cold, hard proof.

Before I started, I’d had a quick word with Silva. He skirted around the call to Deputy Infante, but there was a lot more to this story than we could unpack there and then. I decided to ignore the tip-off in my opening. My focus was all on the jury, knowing I had to snap them out of their reverence for Shepherd and whatever came out of his mouth.

“Members of the jury,” I began, “thank you for taking time out from your busy lives to serve the call of justice. Your sacrifice is appreciated. You have jobs and responsibilities and people who depend on you. But we need you here.

“The prosecutor wants you to punish Eduardo Silva,” I said. “He wants you to make him pay for what happened to those two men and those who mourn them. He wants you to believe him when he says there’s no doubt that the defendant is guilty.

“I urge you to keep two clear concepts in mind throughout this trial. The first is burden of proof, and in a homicide case like this, the burden of proof is a high bar to clear. You have to be absolutely sure in your mind that the defendant is guilty. And that’s where reasonable doubt comes in. Because right now, Eduardo Silva is an innocent man. He’s guilty of nothing. If, by the end of all this, you have any reservation, however small, that he’s innocent, then you cannot find him guilty. It’s a simple as that.”

With a nod from Judge Eskridge, I stepped into the well, and faced the jury.

“The prosecutor wants you to punish Mr. Silva. He wants you to make him responsible for the deaths of those men and the grief of their families. But you are going to hear from someone who has lost more than anyone else in this crime. Gillian Infante. She’s the widow of Deputy Chuck Infante, whose death is central to this case. Here’s the thing, though, Gillian Infante doesn’t want you to punish Eduardo Silva. She is sure he’s not the man who killed her husband.”

The jury was watching me closely and listening intently. Good. They were switched on. They now knew this was not a one-sided case.

“Gillian Infante is outraged that Mr. Silva is being blamed for the death of her husband. The prosecutor, Mr. Shepherd, knows this, but he will persist in demonizing Mr. Silva.

“But remember, you must be guided by facts, not feelings. Mr. Shepherd, has already taken good aim at your feelings. And he will continue to do so, casting Mr. Silva as a criminal who is sly, wicked, greedy, evil to the bone.

“It’s almost like, what’s the point of us doing all this? Why waste everyone’s time and money if the conclusion is so clear we should just call it now? The point, members of the jury, is true justice.

“Consider what’s going on here. That man sitting there—my client Mr. Silva—is an innocent man. Just like you and me. Except he’s in custody. You and I can go home and watch TV and feed the dog. He can’t. He’d give anything to go home and sit with his arms around his two young daughters. But he can’t. He has to sit in jail until all this is over.

“When I say he’s innocent in the eyes of the law, it’s a pure, untainted statement of fact. There’s no half-innocent. But Mr. Shepherd said he’d skip the country if we let him lose until the trial. And the judge agreed. So Eduardo Silva is an innocent man who has already been prejudged.

“Do not allow yourselves that same prejudice. Because, look at him. Look at him. He doesn’t look innocent, does he? Sitting there in his prison clothes, chained like a slave in case he might make a run for it. This man has already spent the better part of half of a year behind bars. Not because he’s guilty, but because the justice system just didn’t want to let him go.

I cast a quick glance back at Silva, who was watching me intently.

“Mr. Silva is a businessman, an entrepreneur,” said. “He built a thriving fitness business from the ground up, opened multiple locations, and launched an online store. He built a thriving business out of nothing. His business provided for his family, his two daughters, and his employees. And that’s what brings us to the heart of the case.

“Now, Mr. Shepherd wants you to believe Mr. Silva went and burned all that down to the ground, because of some unpaid debts. Does that sound like the actions of a rational man?

“Yes, Eduardo Silva spent time in prison, ladies and gentlemen,” I said. “And if you are convinced leopards can’t change their spots, then you’ve never met someone like Mr. Silva.

“Eduardo Silva learned from his time in prison. The first thing he learned was that he had to find a way to never go back. That was a promise he made to his wife, Rosa. He worked out a lot in prison. He stayed optimistic. He was a model prisoner, and he already knew what he’d do when he got out—help people get into shape.

“He found success. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted to help others like him, so he made a point of hiring men who had gotten out of prison. Ex-cons, we call them. The kind of men who never get a first look at a job interview because their record is permanently stained. He gave them a chance.

“Mr. Shepherd says Mr. Silva simply went back to selling drugs. He says Mr. Silva used his gym to run a drug trafficking network, hiring felons to deal narcotics out of his basement. Arthur Barkley was killed for an unpaid debt. Deputy Infante was killed for sticking his nose in.

“The prosecutor wants you to believe that is the only story the evidence tells. I’m here to tell you he’s wrong. You will see that the true story is so very different. Mr. Silva is a role model, an entrepreneur, a devoted family man, who can’t be free until you understand that there is no evidence that proves he did any of these terrible things.

“When you are finished hearing all the evidence, and you leave this courtroom to consider a verdict, you must never forget the promise you’ve made to this court and to Mr. Silva.

“If you have the smallest doubt that the proof failed the test, then you must return a not guilty verdict.

“Stick to the facts, not the feelings. Do that, and you’ll see exactly where the truth lies, and where Mr. Shepherd’s so-called story fails.

“Lalo Silva is innocent. He shouldn’t even be here in this room. If there is any justice in this world, you will find him not guilty. Thank you.”

Chapter 36

After I resumed my place next to Silva, he thanked me quietly and coughed again. I wasn’t in the mood for his praise.

“Did you make that call or not?”

“Look—” he said, evasively.

I turned my back to the jury, and leaned forward, shielding Silva from their gaze.

“Yes or no?”

“No.” he said, his eyes fixed on the table.

I took out my phone, brought up Silva email and the link to the discovery files. I showed it to Silva.

“They’ve triangulated the call to your gym,” I said. “They’ve got your phone records. There’s a call from your phone matching the time and duration of that tip-off call. There’s no way the jury’s going to believe it wasn’t you.”

Silva turned to the front of the courtroom. “I didn’t make that call.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did anyone else have access to your phone?”

“Look, this is total BS,” Silva said with a shrug. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

“It sure as hell does prove something.”

“What?”

“That you lied to me,” I said, my voice low but my tone stern. “You’ve been lying to me all along. God knows what else you’re not telling me. I’m fighting this thing with one hand tied behind my back.”

“If you say so,” he said, sounding more worn out than combative.

I leaned back in the chair, trying to quell my anger. The frustration, the constant skepticism about Silva’s words, the battle between what he told me and what I believed, had become far too familiar. I thought of his two beautiful girls Rihanna and Bianca, I thought of the pictures I’d seen of Rosa, and of Lalo and Rosa. I had to believe there was a damned good reason for Lalo not to come clean. I wanted to believe he was still a man of honor. But deep down, I knew what I’d said in my opening statement was true: a leopard rarely changes its spots. I had to wonder if Lalo was no better than the crooks he employed.

Did I truly believe that? No. Not yet. But I’d be a fool to rule it out.

“Mr. Shepherd,” said Judge Eskridge, interrupting through my thoughts. “Are you ready to call your first witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Shepherd, standing. “The State calls Sergeant Craig Dillon.”

Over the muffled silence of the courtroom came the dull rustle of a big body moving. The boots thudding onto the floor, the audible breaths he took, the clicking of something in his pocket, the rustle of his shirtsleeves against his tactical vest. There was something ominous in it all. Maybe it was just me, remembering that time I took one of those boots to the chest.

I smiled to myself, and got ready to listen with acute ears. I’d looked forward to this day where I could show everyone in this courtroom and beyond just what a rogue cop looked like.

Dillon settled into the witness box, casting his eyes around the room. His big, broad face was expressionless but his small, sharp eyes missed nothing. When the bailiff approached, the big oaf engaged with him, trying to show everyone what an amenable man he was. After swearing in, he turned to Clem Shepherd and waited patiently and alert, like a trained bear ready for a treat.

Shepherd first asked Dillon to cover the basics. This was not his first rodeo. He rattled off his rank, credentials and experience in a loud voice, enjoying how the hard walls amplified it. The courtroom mic seemed redundant.

Dillon’s responses came out prompt and neat, like the recollections of an avid note taker. Shepherd guided him from one memorable career highlight to the next. Finally, the prosecutor came to the night of the crime and the radio transmission that sent Dillon and his partner Deputy Enrique Paredes to the scene.

He explained how they’d been questioning a burglary suspect when the call came in. By the time they arrived, the fire trucks were being positioned to tackle the towering flames. Dillon and Paredes secured the perimeter while the firefighters went to work.

“How long did it take them to bring the flames under control?” Shepherd asked.

“About three hours,” Dillon said. “They needed four units to contain it.”

"By four units, you mean fire trucks?"

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice anyone or anything suspicious in the vicinity?”

“No, sir.”

“Sergeant Dillon, let’s move forward to your first inspection of the fire’s aftermath.”

Dillon proceeded to explain in detail how he and Paredes were given the all clear to enter the scene. Two fire investigators had already started combing the wreckage and taking photos.

“I looked down and saw a dead body,” Dillon said stoically. “Beside the body was a deputy’s badge. That was when I knew I’d lost a brother.”

“What did you do?”

“The first thing I told that lawyer over there”—Dillon stabbed a big finger at me—“to get out of the crime scene.”

For the first time since he’d taken the stand, Dillon turned his full attention to me. His eyes narrowed as if he wanted to reduce me to ashes on the spot. The jury followed Dillon’s gaze. I could sense they were wondering if I was one of those lawyers. A pushy, yappy-mouthed, no-win-no-fee huckster.

“You’re telling me the defense attorney was at the crime scene?”

“Yes,” said Dillon. “I ordered him to leave, and he went and got in the defendant’s car.”

“Let me get this straight,” Shepherd said abruptly, lowering his head and raising a hand as though to halt time itself. “You’re telling me that even before a body was discovered, the defendant had already called his lawyer to the scene?”

“Yes. Earlier that morning, after we identified him, my partner got a statement off him.”

“Why did you do that?”

“We thought the business owner might have some information to help us figure out what had happened,” said Dillon. “But later that morning, after we found the bodies, we asked the defendant to come down to the station to assist us.”

“You didn’t arrest him at that point?”

“Not at that point, no. It was very early in the investigation. We weren’t jumping to any conclusions.”

Shepherd pressed further. “And what did the defendant tell you during that initial questioning?”

“He said the fire had triggered an alarm on his phone,” said Dillon. “He said he had called 911 from his car on his way there.”

“Was that true?”

“No,” Dillon shook his head. “We found no evidence of him calling 911. We checked thoroughly, and the only call that came in was from an unidentified person.”

“So, the fire was reported by anonymous caller, not the defendant?”

“That’s right,” said Dillon.

“Do you believe the defendant lied about making that 911 call?”

“Yes, I most certainly do,” said Dillon. “He lied to us from the start.”

“No further questions, Your Honor,” said Shepherd, stepping away from the lectern.

“Your witness, Mr. Madison,” said Judge Eskridge.

Once positioned at the lectern, I felt a certain relish for this moment. Sergeant Craig Dillon on the stand and me in the driver’s seat.

“Sergeant Dillon, you asked my client to accompany you to the station. Correct?”

“Yes. I’ve already said that.”

“But let’s be clear about this. Did you arrest him?”

“No, I did not. I already said that too.”

“So, technically, if Mr. Silva had wanted to, he could have refused your request. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get a good look at Mr. Silva when you spoke to him at the scene?”

Dillon hesitated. “What? What do you mean?”

“Not a complicated question, Sergeant Dillon. Let me put it another way. If he had turned and fled, and you had to go find him, would you have been able to recognize him?”

“Yes.”

“Were there any injuries to his face? Bruises, cuts, swelling. That type of thing.”

Dillon’s eyes narrowed. I could almost hear his brain ticking as it tried to predict where I was leading him.

“I don’t recall.”

“Okay, do you recall questioning Mr. Silva at the station?”

“Yes.”

“Who else was in the interview room with you?”

“My partner, Deputy Paredes,”

“Was your commanding officer, Captain Auerbach, there at any point during the interview?”

“No,” said Dillon, appearing cool, completely in control.

“Are you sure about that?”

Dillon’s jaw tightened. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“I see,” I said, keeping my voice even. “And we can verify this by checking the video of that interview. Correct?”

Dillon’s eyes darkened. “There’s no video.”

“Really?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Why’s that?”

“Because it wasn’t a custodial interrogation,” Dillon said. “Routine questioning doesn’t require recording.”

“That’s a shame,” I said, before turning back to the jury. “Because, there is one video I’d like the jury to see. It was taken with your bodycam, Sergeant Dillon.”

Dylan grinded his teeth as I plugged my laptop into the courtroom monitor. I brought up a video file. I hit play and the footage showed Dillon approaching Silva and me at the car. I let it run long enough for the jury to get a good look at Silva. They saw him being calm, and cooperative. I froze the video on a frame that showed Lalo Silva’s face clearly.

“Sergeant Dillon,” I said, pointing at the image. “Do you see any injuries on Mr. Silva?”

“It’s hard to tell,” said Dillon.

“Do you want to get out of your seat and take a closer look? Or how about I zoom in for you. Or do you need your glasses?”

“I don’t need glasses,” Dillon snapped. “I can see fine.”

“Do you see any injuries?”

“Nothing I can see looks like an injury, but that’s—”

I brought up another photo of Silva.

“Please take a look at this photo, Sergeant Dillon,” I said. “Note the time stamp there in the bottom right corner. Note the sign at the back that reads, ‘Edgewood Park Sheriff Station.’ This photo was taken immediately after Mr. Silva was released from your routine questioning.”

I zoomed in on the second photo and then positioned it next to framegrab. I heard some intakes of breath as the jury saw the swelling on Silva’s upper lip and cheek, and his bleeding right eyebrow.

“How did Mr. Silva acquire these injuries, Sergeant Dillon?”

“There was an unfortunate incident,” said Dillon. “We were showing him out. We go down a hall and then there are these steps. It was pretty dark and those steps can be hard to see. I was in front. I was about to warn him when I heard someone fall. I turned around to see Mr. Silva lying on the ground. He’d fallen flat on his face.”

“Just like that?” I said. “So, it was you, followed by Captain Auerbach then Mr. Silva and then Deputy Paredes? Was that the order?”

“No,” Dillon said, glaring at me. “I told you Captain Auerbach wasn’t involved in the questioning.”

“I know that’s what you said, but he was with you when you walked Mr. Silva out. Correct?”

“I don’t recall.”

“I was there, Sergeant Dillon,” I said. “Didn’t you open the door for Captain Auerbach when you guys entered the foyer? I can get the security footage up on the monitor, if you like. That’s been filed and admitted as evidence too, just like your bodycam video.”

“No, I remember now,” said Dillon. “Captain Auerbach entered the hall as we were taking the defendant out. That’s why we came out together.”

I fiddled with my laptop for a moment before the security footage from the station foyer filled the screen. From above, it showed Dillon holding the door for Auerbach, Silva and Paredes.

“See that?” I asked.

“What?”

“Captain Auerbach,” I said. “He’s rubbing his fist. Right there. Why is he rubbing his fist, Sergeant Dillon?”

“Objection,” called Shepherd. “Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Eskridge.

“You can see him rubbing his fist there, can’t you, Sergeant Dillon? Did Captain Auerbach have some kind of mishap in the hall?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said Shepherd again. “Calls for speculation.”

“It does not, Your Honor,” I said., “The witness just said he was with Captain Auerbach in the hall.

“Overruled,” said the judge. “The witness will answer the question.”

Dillon’s eyes were staring cold and hard at me. “I have no idea.”

“You didn’t hear a noise? You didn’t hear the captain say, ‘Ouch?’”

“No.”

“I wonder what happened to his hand, then? I guess it’s one of those mysteries that goes on behind closed doors at your station, right. Sergeant?”

“Why, you piece of—”

“Objection,” said Shepherd. “Badgering the witness.”

“Your Honor,” I said. “I asked a straightforward question related to something that happened, as the court heard, in the witness’s vicinity.”

As I spoke, I kept a dispassionate stare on Dillon. His face was on fire.

“Sustained,” said Judge Eskridge, glaring at me. “You’re not fooling anyone, counselor. You don’t get to take cheap shots like that in my court. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “May I proceed?”

“Yes, but stay in your lane.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “Now, Sergeant Dillon, I just want to be clear. You didn’t see or hear anything in that hall, after Captain Auerbach joined you there, that could explain how he hurt his wrist, is that right?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Was he rubbing his fist before he joined you in the hall or after?”

“I don’t know,” said Dillon through gritted teeth. “You’re going to have to ask him.”

“Oh, I will, Sergeant Dillon. I will.”

With that, Sergeant Dillon began to rise from his seat. I was busying myself at my laptop and didn’t look up as I spoke. “Your Honor, I’m not done with the witness.”

“The witness will remain in his seat,” said Judge Eskridge, and by her stern tone I could tell she wasn’t impressed by Dillon’s impudence. He seemed to forget who he took his orders from. “I’ll tell you when you’re excused.”

I flicked my eyes up at Dillon, who bowed his head at the judge and sat back down. Finally, I found the image I was after and put it up on the monitor. It was a photo of Silva’s swollen and bruised face. I then stepped away from the lectern. I wanted the jury to get a long, hard look at that photo.

“Now, Sergeant Dillon, let’s move to another point. You and your partner conducted a search of Mr. Silva’s residential property, right?”

“Yes.”

“Who searched Mr. Silva’s vehicle?”

“I did,” Dillon said.

“And you found something incriminating in the car, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Dillon. “There was a strong smell of accelerant in the trunk.”

“By accelerant you mean gas. Right?”

“Yes. Forensics got a positive for accelerant in the defendant’s trunk.”

I picked up a document from the top of the lectern. “According to the records, you spent ten minutes searching the trunk of the car. Is that normal?”

“I was being thorough,” said Dillon.

“But ten minutes, though,” I said. “And let’s be clear, you were not conducting any tests, were you. You were just looking, right?”

“The forensics team does the testing,” said Dillon.

“You told Mr. Silva to wait in the house while you checked the car. Is that right?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Do you recall Mr. Silva asking why you were taking so long in his garage, Sergeant Dillon?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying, Madison,” snarled Dillon.

“I don’t really care what you do or don’t like, Sergeant Dillon. I asked you a question.”

Dillon’s mouth was shut flat and firm like a trap. He could just about have reached out, collared me and flung me around the room with that searing glare of his.

“Do you want me to repeat the question, Sergeant Dillon. Is that it?”

“I heard you. My answer is I can’t recall.”

Dillon sat with his head tilted, a rueful grin etched across his face. He seemed to be saying that this little one-on-one thing we’ve got going is not over.

“No more questions, Your Honor.”

I returned to the defense table. The air was thick with tension. Dillon took a moment to realize it was over. He marched straight up the aisle and out the door. I could still hear his boots landing in the hall. Hopefully, I’d shifted the momentum our way a little.

Chapter 37

Next up, Shepherd called the case’s lead investigator—Detective Mike Medrano from the LASD Homicide Bureau. He walked his stocky frame to the stand with quick steps, like he was ducking up to accept an award. He wore a gray suit over a blue and white checked shirt and a dark tie with white diagonal stripes. The tie was just loose enough to reveal the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked like a guy who had other stuff on hold while he dealt with this testimony business.

Medrano got through the swearing-in like a pro, took a sip of water and looked ready to take anything anyone cared to throw at him. It was like he’d been sat at a restaurant table and, knowing the menu like the back of his hand, was now looking to catch a waiter’s eye to move things along. Assistant District Attorney Clem Shepherd obliged, getting straight to it.

Medrano answered Shepherd’s get-to-know-you questions without fuss, giving just enough detail to impress the jury. They were left in no doubt that here was a man of high competence who considered his job to be its own reward. He couldn’t contain his pride when Shepherd asked about the unit he worked for, the LASD Homicide Bureau.

“I’m a member of the Bulldogs and proud of it,” Medrano said, turning from Shepherd to the jury. “That’s the nickname the other law enforcement agencies gave us. That’s how tenacious and relentless we are when it comes to solving homicide cases. We’re the best of the best. But don’t take my word for it. Ask them yourselves. Once your jury duties are completed here, I mean. Go ahead. Ask.”

Medrano was smiling as he eyed the jurors, and they were all smiles too. He had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

“So the LASD Homicide Bureau has an admirable record of solving cases?” Shepherd asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Medrano. “Uncommon resolve is in the woodwork of the place.”

“Detective,” Shepherd said. “I’d like you to share the key points you found early in the case. How did Mr. Silva come onto your radar?”

Given the open-ended question, Medrano was free to talk at length about the investigation. His energy shifted. This was what he was born to do—take on bad guys.

“Right from the initial report given to us by forensics, we knew the fire was deliberately lit,” Medrano said. “That immediately put those with access to the building in our spotlight. We checked the defendant. We checked his employees. All had security cards, but the fire destroyed the system, so any number of cards could have been used that night. We had to look at motive—who stood to gain from this fire? The employees needed those jobs. They were ex-cons. If that business went down, they’d have no paycheck. There was only one person who stood to gain.”

“And who was that?” Shepherd asked.

Medrano looked over in my direction and pointed at Silva. “That guy right there,” he said. “Eduardo Silva.”

“What roused your suspicion?” Shepherd continued.

“We went through his finances,” said Medrano. “The gym—or fitness center, as he called it—was bleeding money. You didn’t have to be Warren Buffett to see it was tanking.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our finance expert estimated the business had less than a year before it went under,” said Medrano.

Shepherd began slowly pacing the well, going back and forth in front of Medrano, studying the floor as though it was feeding him ideas. Then he stopped and looked straight at the witness.

“Detective, what’s the connection here? The business failing doesn’t make a man want to kill, does it? Was there more to go on?"

“Plenty more,” Medrano continued. “We don’t make arrests on flimsy evidence. We had a forensics report that the bodies were doused with an accelerant, the same accelerant found in the defendant’s trunk. And then there was the drugs—the heroin we found in the ashes of the fire. We were able to confirm with almost absolute certainty that it came from the Sonora cartel in Mexico.”

“Really?” said Shepherd. “How can you be so sure?”

“Various ways,” said Medrano. “The first giveaway was that it was what’s called ‘black tar heroin’, which is dark and sticky and only comes from Mexico. We don’t just eyeball it, though. We do chemical analysis to determine the geographical region it came from. Then the cartels mark their product with specific packaging. It tells a buyer what they’re getting.”

“Branding, you mean?” Shepherd asked. “Like any other business?”

Medrano nodded. “That’s right. But these guys operate in a very competitive, ruthless and violent market. They literally live and die by the reputation of their product. So they go out of their way to provide every visual reassurance that the buyer is getting what he pays for. It’s all about repeat business.”

“I see,” said Shepherd pensively. “But how do you know it came from the Sonora cartel?”

“Couple of ways. The first is the color of the cellophane wrapping. The Sonora cartel always uses red for their highest quality heroin. Then there’s the serial number.”

“Serial number?” said Shepherd. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No, I’m most certainly not,” said Medrano. “The bottom face of that block of heroin we found in the fire was undamaged because it was on the concrete floor. That’s where we found a clear serial number. The number matched records we have on file—it was definitely Sonora cartel heroin.”

“Isn’t that a bit like leaving your fingerprint at the scene of a crime?” Shepherd asked.

“They’re not worried about us, Mr. Shepherd,” said Medrano. “All they’re worried about is maintaining or growing their market share. A bust like this is nothing to these guys. And if we put someone behind bars for dealing their drugs, they’ve just got more runners to replace them.”

“Speaking of runners, did Mr. Silva employees tell you they were selling drugs on his premises with his consent?”

“Yes,” Medrano said. “We interviewed the lot of them. Many told us the defendant green-lit it to keep his business afloat.”

“What were the defendant’s financial difficulties?”

“Well, as I mentioned before, the gym was tanking,” said Medrano. “Then there was the death of his wife. She had breast cancer and that brought with mounting medical costs. The defendant borrowed against his business to pay for it. I take no pleasure in relating this, as I also lost my wife to breast cancer. But the staff told us the defendant struggled to stay on top of things. He was under a lot of pressure financially and emotionally.”

“And you contend that this desperation pushed the defendant to take drastic action?”

“Yes,” said Medrano. “Having gotten a higher insurance value of the property he decided to cash in. Now, we can’t say for sure that he knew Barkley and Infante were in the building at the time but their deaths were beneficial to him.”

“In what way?”

“The defendant has strong links to the Sonora cartel,” said Medrano.

“He did?”

“Yes, he shared a cell with a cartel member.”

“But the drugs were destroyed by the fire,” Shepherd pointed. “How does that serve the defendant’s interests?”

“We believe what we recovered in the fire was left there deliberately,” said Medrano. “As I said before, it’s a drop in the ocean for the Sonora cartel. The deaths of those two men served the cartel’s interests. They eliminated a man who has cost them money—Arthur Barkley. And they eliminated a man who was a threat to their operations—Deputy Chuck Infante. I hate to use an expression like this but we believe the defendant killed two birds with one stone. He stood to gain financially and he helped the cartel immeasurably while costing them next to nothing.”

Shepherd gave Medrano an approving nod, and returned to the lectern. “No further questions, Your Honor,” he said, gathering up his things.

I wasted no time replacing Shepherd at the lectern. I greeted Medrano and thanked him for his time. I had no beef with Mike Medrano, personally or professionally. He was, as far as I could tell, a top-notch investigator and a man of integrity. That said, I was surprised to find aspects of his investigation were far from bulletproof. Whether this was by design or oversight, I had no idea. But it did make me wonder if he secretly served, or had been co-opted by, the Vipers.

First up, though, I needed to undermine a couple of points that he’d fed the jury.

“Detective, you seem to put a lot of trust in the testimony of ex-criminals.”

Medrano smiled. “The defendant put a more trust in them than me, counselor. He hired them.”

“Yes, he gave them jobs,” I said. “An opportunity few others would. Isn’t that right?”

“Maybe he hired men he could count on to move his drugs,” Medrano countered.

I didn’t take the bait. “Do you have any proof that Mr. Silva played a role in that drug deal?”

Medrano shook his head. “The drugs trade is all cash. There are no bank statements or receipts to check.”

“So that’s another way of saying you have no proof. Right, Detective?”

The smile went from Medrano’s face. “We have lots of information and testimony—”

“Yes or no, Detective. Do you have any hard evidence that the defendant purchased heroin?”

Medrano smiled. “The drugs were found on his property, counselor. He was charged under California Health and Safety Code 11351—possession with intent to sell. I would have thought you’d know the law, being a criminal defense attorney. The drugs were the evidence.”

The was a murmur in the gallery. They were wowed that Medrano had apparently slam dunked on me.

“I asked if you had evidence of purchase. You’ve just told us your experts went through his finances. You went into some detail about medical bills, and borrowed money. Whether he was in debt or not, his financial records were intact. Isn’t that right?”

“I believe so.”

“Every cent was accounted for. All his tax returns done by the book. Completely above board. Correct?”

“I’m not an accountant, counselor.”

“Okay, well let me put it in a way that’s in your wheelhouse. You financial experts, who combed through Mr. Silva’s records looking wrongdoing, found nothing untoward, did they?”

“No.”

“They didn’t flag anything that was unaccounted for. Isn’t that right?

“Yes.”

“So after giving his books a thorough examination, they found nothing suspicious at all. Nothing. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“A kilo of black tar heroin costs about fifty grand wholesale. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“So where there’s the fifty grand hole in his accounts, Detective?”

“He had an illegal drug racket already up and running, selling steroids, and then heroin.”

“Yes, I think we are going to hear that again and again and again in this trail. But the source of the statement you just made is not hard evidence, it’s hearsay. Isn’t that right?”

“You say hearsay, I say testimony,” Medrano smiled. “I guess we’ll have to let the jury decide.”

I nodded. “Indeed, we will, Detective. But this testimony you just mentioned that incriminates my client comes from the ex-cons he employed. Correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Did they all just sing for you, Detective? Or did you offer them something in exchange?”

Medrano smiled and sat on his answer for a moment. “We weren’t dealing with choirboys.”

“But you did deals with them. Isn’t that right?”

“There were one or two that offered more favorable probation terms if they told us what was going on.”

“So you bartered for accusations,” I said. “And you can’t actually back them up with solid proof, can you?”

Medrano shook his head. “We don’t need hard evidence for everything. But their testimony was consistent with the dire situation the defendant was in. He was a sinking man reaching out for a life raft.”

I turned and looked at the jury. They were buying Medrano’s story, and I needed to turn the tide.

“Detective,” I said. “The fact that the defendant changed his insurance. This was a big red flag for you, wasn’t it?”

“It was very suspicious,” said Medrano.

“Do you have insurance, Detective?”

Medrano looked at me, then over at Shepherd before focusing on me again.

“Yes, I do.”

“House? Car?”

“Both.”

“And when your policy nears renewal, do you ever wonder whether there might be a better deal on offer?” He didn’t answer immediately, instead looking puzzled.

“You have renewed your policy before, have you not?” I asked.

"Yes, of course."

"Detective, you checked the expiry date for Mr. Silva’s previous policy, didn’t you?” The smile faded quickly from Medrano’s face. He paused to think. “From memory, is was at or about the actual time of the fire.”

“You have a good memory,” I said. At the lectern I looked through my pile of documents and pulled a sheet out and handed it to the bailiff who showed it to the judge. Once I got it back, I held it out to the detective.

“Detective Medrano, could you please read out the expiration date of the policy please?” He hesitated but did as asked.

“February twelfth” he said.

“February twelfth,” I repeated. “Two weeks before the fire. Right?”

“Yes.”

“So my client was simply doing his homework, as you would. Right? His policy was coming up for renewal and he took that opportunity to try and get a better deal? Do you agree?”

“No,” said Medrano. “For everyone else, yeah that’s a fairly common move to try and save a few dollars. But most of us don’t bother. What makes it different here, counselor, is that the defendant made sure he got a much bigger payout for fire damage. And no sooner was he covered by that policy than his place goes up in flames.”

“If what you say is true, surely Mr. Silva would know the policy would be void if he was convicted of lighting that fire himself.”

“Yes he would have. People do stupid things. Desperate people do even stupider things.”

“You can’t have it both ways, Detective.”

“Excuse me?”

“Does a stupid man do due diligence on his finances?”

“That’s hard to say. It’s possible.”

“Sounds like you’re having a bet both ways, Detective. Either Mr. Silva planned this crime with cunning ingenuity, leaving you no proof. Or he planned this crime recklessly, and still leaving you no proof. Either way, you’re in the same position. You’re expecting the jury just to take your word for it and forget about actual hard evidence. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

“If this case doesn’t stick, and that man gets to walk out of here a free man after killing two innocent people, it will be on your head. But something tells me you won’t lose any sleep over that, am I right?”

“My job is to put your claims to the test, Detective,” I said. “I have one last question for you.”

“What is it?”

“How did those two men die?”

This question took Medrano by surprise. “Asphyxiation by smoke. Smoke inhalation. It’s in the report.”

“Right,” I said. “So, you’ve seen nothing to suggest otherwise?”

Medrano shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”

There was no way he hadn’t seen Dr. Tuttle’s report that concluded both men were shot. I was going to bring this out more fully later. Right now, I just wanted to get Medrano on record. And by the look in his eyes, he knew exactly what I was doing, and he didn’t like it.

Chapter 38

Ihadn’t seen Eliza for well over a month. We’d both been consumed by work, and then she’d flown to the UK for a project she was collaborating on. After that, there was a psychiatry conference in Vienna, followed by another in Davos, nestled in the Swiss Alps, a week later. Determined to make the most of her trip, she was heading back to England for a writing retreat in the Cotswolds. She was excited about letting her imagination loose on an idea she thought might make a good novel. Naturally, I asked if I’d be in it, or at least a character loosely—or not so loosely—based on a devilishly handsome, brilliant, and successful defense attorney. Her answer was a firm no.

I still had time to change her mind.

Meantime, as Eliza crisscrossed Europe, she made sure I knew she was thinking of me.

“You’re an amazing lawyer,” she wrote in a text. “Whatever happens in the trial, you’ve done the best you can. No one could do better. Call you from Davos. x”

“Whoever you’re talking about would make a great character in your novel,” I replied.

“No.”

After a brief pause, another message came through.

“Break a leg. x”

It was nice to think of Eliza smiling as I drove to court. The morning was clear and warm. And the traffic? What is there to say about it other than that Angelino drivers sure love company? A half-hour drive to Downtown was okay with me. I slipped into a reverie of the night I spent with Eliza before she flew out. It didn’t take long for my blood to stir, but I pulled my focus back to work. My mind flipped from making love to Eliza to ADA Clem Shepherd. Now that was a hard turn—a mental cold shower if ever there was one.

Today, Shepherd was calling up the lead fire investigator. It was a major card in his hand, and I needed to be ready.

Shepherd and I greeted each other as we set up our laptops at our respective tables. I had nothing against the man personally. I respected him. I had no doubt he’d test me to the limits.

The real surprise for me was Lalo Silva. He was just about the coolest customer I’d ever known. He had been emotional at times but overall he’d kept himself exceptionally calm.

When Shepherd called Captain Larry Brewster, an investigator with the LA County Fire Department, Silva turned around to watch him walk up to the stand. His face was blank as he did so. I couldn’t tell if it was indifference or insolence. What it actually was didn’t matter.

It was Silva’s detachment that struck me, like all this was happening to someone else and he was a spectator.

Brewster was the image of mild-mannered authority. He wore a khaki bomber jacket over a light yellow shirt, paired with gray slacks, and well-worn black loafers. His every movement seemed measured, deliberate, like a man avoiding surprises. Once sworn in, he began answering Shepherd’s questions calmly. This guy was a big danger to Silva. Juries love a quiet, methodically minded expert. They reek of credibility.

Nothing personal but I was going to have to find a way to bring Captain Larry Brewster down.

Brewster’s eleven years as an arson investigator translated to a wealth of experience. Again, not great for my side of the ledger. But that was not the worst of it. Brewster didn’t work alone.

“Now, Captain Brewster, you work with a partner, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Brewster replied, smiling. “That’s right. Her name’s Roxy.”

“Roxy? Just Roxy?” Shepherd was smiling too. “What rank is Roxy?”

Brewster broke into a mild laugh and shook his head. “No rank, sir. She’s an accelerant detection canine.”

“She’s a dog?” Shepherd asked, playing up the charm.

Now the jury was all smiles. Brewster shook his head.

“She’s not just a dog, sir. At least to me, she’s not. Roxy’s a Goldador. That’s a cross between a Labrador and a Golden Retriever. She’s eight years old and has been in our K9 unit for five years. You could say she’s a veteran.”

The jury melted at this.

“I bet she’s one hell of an investigator,” said Shepherd, milking the moment.

“She’s one of our finest,” Brewster confirmed with a warm smile.

Fortunately, Shepherd resisted the urge to get a picture of Roxy up on the monitor. He didn’t need to. I could almost see the thought bubbles above the jurors’ heads, featuring a golden furball sniffing out clues with its tirelessly wagging tail.

“Is Roxy trained in anything particular, Captain Brewster?”

“She’s trained to detect accelerants, drugs, gunpowder, and human remains,” Brewster said. “But I’d have to say accelerants are her major. She can go into a pile of rubble and sniff out the exact location where an accelerant had been used to light a fire.”

“Did she find accelerant in the ruins of the defendant’s gym?”

“Yes, in several locations, including the two bodies and leading to the rear entrance.”

“I see,” said Shepherd. “So were you able, with Roxy’s help, to reconstruct the sequence of this fire?”

“Yes.”

“In your expert opinion, how did those two men die?”

“They were trapped,” said Brewster. “They entered a room that had been prepped to burn. Once they were inside, the fire was lit. The flames would have reached them in seconds, and the room would have exploded.”

“They couldn’t escape?”

“No. They didn’t have time.”

“They didn’t notice the smell of gasoline?”

“They probably did, but that would not necessarily prompt them to immediately run away.”

“Objection,” I said. “Calls for speculation. Your Honor, the witness is no doubt an expert when it comes to fires, but he’s not a reader of people’s minds. He is creating a fictional scene to illustrate his theory.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Eskridge. “Captain Brewster, please limit your testimony to the facts and your field of expertise.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Brewster. “I apologize.”

“That’s quite all right, Captain Brewster. Mr. Shepherd, you may continue.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Shepherd with a quick bow of the head. He then turned back to Brewster.

“Captain Brewster, did you find accelerant anywhere else?”

“Yes, we did,” said Brewster. “By that I mean, we ran tests on the gasoline that was found in the trunk of the defendant’s car.”

“What kind of tests?”

“We use gas chromatography and mass spectrometry to analyze samples.”

“Gas chromo what now?” said Shepherd.

Brewster laughed before explaining the process of gas chromatography and mass spectrometry. He laid it out in terms that made it sound both scientific and infallible. Shepherd played along, asking seemingly naive questions to keep the jury engaged.

“How accurate is it?”

“For detecting the presence of a substance? It’s one hundred percent accurate,” Brewster said. “With this technology, we can basically get a chemical fingerprint of a substance. And when it comes to gasoline, there are ways to tell which oil company a sample of gas comes from. Because each of the oil companies that provide our gas refine their fuel differently and use different chemicals in the process. Most of us don’t know it but they are actually different brands. Extremely similar brands but different nonetheless.”

“Are you saying you can actually tell which oil company a sample of gasoline comes from?”

“Yes.”

“What about the actual gas station?”

“Yes. We can tell if two samples came from the same batch.”

“And did the gas that was detected in the trunk of the defendant’s car—his trunk, not the gas flap—match the gas station we have evidence of him using just prior to the fire?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure of that, Captain Brewster?”

“I’m certain of it. And if Roxy could talk, she’d tell you the same.”

I was about to object on the grounds of hearsay but I didn’t want to come across as a spoil sport. The jury liked Captain Brewster. And they loved Roxy. If I was going to slice and dice him before their very eyes, I needed to slice and dice him nicely.

Shepherd ended his direct examination there.

“Your witness, Mr. Madison,” Judge Eskridge said.

“Captain Brewster,” I said. “You said earlier that the two victims of this fire were drawn into a trap, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“They enter a room in the middle of the night that stinks of gas and just like that the fire starts and they die where they stood. Correct?”

“Pretty much. That’s my belief given the results of my own study and the medical examiner’s report,” said Brewster.

“Ah, the medical examiner’s report,” I said. “What, specifically, did you use from that report to form your theory?”

Brewster looked somewhat baffled. “If you’d read it, you’d know that the two men died of asphyxiation. Smoke residue was detected in both tracheas.”

“Yes, I see. It would be an agonizing way to die, wouldn’t it, Captain Brewster?”

“It would be a horrible way too die, but the suffering would be fairly brief.”

“Agonizing but brief, did you say?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

I pulled up a photograph of charred human remains. With the judge’s permission, I walked into the well to stand in front of the monitor.

“Captain, Brewster, did you take this photo?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Now, I realize that most of the body has gone but I was wondering how you would describe the final position of this victim.”

“Ah, I’d say lying on his back.”

I went back to the lectern and brought up another photo. “And this one, Captain Brewster?”

“Same. Lying on his back.”

I resumed my place at the lectern. “Captain Brewster, you said the death by smoke inhalation would be an agonizing way to go.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Yet, these two men were found lying on their backs.”

Brewster looked baffled.

I pressed on. “If these men died in agony, wouldn’t this be evident?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, if these two men died agonizing deaths, where’s the sign of struggle?”

Brewster swallowed before answering. “Well, there’s no obvious sign of struggle.”

“Their bodies were found in the middle of the room, weren’t they?”

“Yes, that’s not in dispute. Where they were found is recorded accurately in the—”

“My point is, they weren’t found near a window or a door, were they?”

“No.”

“So, they made absolutely no attempt to reach a door or window. Correct?”

“That’s right.”

“One of them was a trained law enforcement offer. He just lay down and died, did he, Captain Brewster?”

“I said they would have been overcome quickly by the smoke.”

“Yes, I know that’s what you said. And yet they didn’t even lift a finger to save themselves, did they?”

“What are you talking about? Of course, they—”

“Where are their hands, Captain Brewster?”

“By their sides.”

“Yes, that’s right. By their sides. According to you they were choking to death and yet they didn’t bring a hand up to their face in an effort to cover their mouths. Isn’t that right, Captain Brewster?”

“Look, that’s what I think happened. It happened so fast.”

“But don’t you think it’s extraordinary that these two men made no discernable effort to save themselves?”

“It is unusual but we don’t know the whole picture,” said Brewster. “There could be some reason they didn’t move or couldn’t.”

Brewster’s body had become animated. It was like he was emerging from a deep, dark tunnel and now saw the light. I paused for a moment, looking at him.

“Some reason? Like what, Captain Brewster?”

“I don’t know,” he said, a little smugly, like he’d pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “Maybe they had a gun on them?”

“What did you say, Captain Brewster?”

Now Brewster spoke with conviction, “I said perhaps the victims couldn’t move because someone was pointing a gun at them.”

I turned and looked at the jury. “What an interesting thing to say. I just want to make sure that sinks in. You suggested the victims didn’t move because they were at the end of a gun.”

“Just an idea,” he said.

“Thank you, Captain Brewster,” I said. “Your testimony has been most illuminating.”

I told the judge I had no more questions and gathered up my things. Shepherd was scowling. He had no idea what I was up to and he sure didn’t like it. But I did. The gun had been planted in the jury’s mind.

Chapter 39

Igot a few minutes to sit with Silva in the holding cell before court started the next morning. I was shocked by his appearance.

“You look like crap,” I said. “You can’t shake this prison flu, huh? Maybe you’re better off not coming in.”

Silva looked pale and weak. I remembered the guy I met the morning of the fire. He radiated with fitness and wellbeing. But now he was even more pale and gaunt than when he told me he had the “prison flu.”

“I’ll feel better when I’m out of there,” said Silva. “Besides, I don’t want to miss anything. I wouldn’t look good for me not to show up.”

“Believe me, the optics of you looking all sunken eyed and ghost-white. No offense but to the jury you look like a junkie going through withdrawal.”

Silva eyes fired up. “I don’t give a damn,” he snapped. “I don’t want to miss a minute. It’s my trial.”

“Hey, of course, Lalo. Easy, brother. Of course, you should be there. All I’m saying is that the weaker you look the easier it is for a jury to think you’re guilty. It’s a herd mentality thing. The weak fall to the wolves, and it gives all the survivors a new lease on life. It will help them feel justified in condemning you.”

“You’re giving me hakuna matada? Thanks, Brad. That really cheered me up.”

“Just making a point here, Lalo,” I said, my tone softening. “The jury aren’t your friends. You can’t expect them to see you sick and feel sorry for you. Sure, it would be the right and humane reaction. But you won’t get it from them. Make no mistake, they’re looking for a chance to distance themselves from you. This trial is about you, but in the back of their minds they’re thinking about those two dead men and their families. They want to do what’s right by them. If convicting you gets them there, they’ll feel better about themselves. That’s a mental process that can be hard to counter.”

“I’m not missing court,” said Silva.

“Fine,” I said. I got up and patted him on the shoulder. “See you in there.”

Twenty minutes later, Shepherd’s first witness of the day was settling himself into the witness box. It was the medical examiner, Doctor Quentin Myers, who surveyed the court through a pair of black-framed face glasses. He was dressed neatly in a dark gray suit with a crimson tie that had small golden shields on it. After being sworn in he sat back and crossed his legs. Myers was mid-forties, dark short hair and clean-shaved. He looked calm and confident. Maybe a touch overconfident.

Shepherd’s mind wasn’t yet on Myers. He was busy setting out his paperwork on the lectern. He was after something in particular and his witness was barely an afterthought. He padded at his coat pockets again and then swung his eyes back to the prosecution table.

“Ah,” he said, and went back and picked up his pen. “Good morning, Dr. Myers,” he said as he looked at the pen while he clicked away at it before placing it on the lectern. “Thank you for coming. Let’s begin, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s,” said Myers dryly.

Who does this guy think he is? I thought to myself.

Shepherd took ages going through Myers’ work history. It was twenty minutes before they got to the case proper.

“Dr. Myers, did you perform autopsies on Deputy Chuck Infante and Arthur Barkley?”

“Yes, I did,” Myers replied. “The main task was to determine the manner of death. But there were many other tasks. Because the bodies were so badly burned, we had to assist with identifying them via DNA tests and dental record checks. Also, we make a note of tattoos, piercings and scars, that kind of thing. We also, as a matter of routine, examine the bodies for signs of trauma or injury. Oh, and we provide an estimate of the time of death. We record all of our findings in a detailed report.”

Shepherd delved into Myers’ process. And, to their credit, they kept the jury engaged.

“Now, Dr. Myers, I’d like to focus on something crucial,” said Shepherd. “Cause of death.”

“Yes, of course,” said Myers. “Both victims showed indisputable evidence of significant smoke inhalation.”

“In both men?” said Shepherd.

“Yes. There was a significant amount of soot in their mouths and windpipes, or trachea. Also, blood analysis revealed high levels of carboxyhemoglobin. These findings indicated that both men were alive and trying to breathe during the fire.”

“Carboxyhemoglobin,” said Shepherd. “What’s that, exactly?”

“It’s something that’s formed in red blood cells when carbon monoxide binds with hemoglobin.”

“So, Dr. Myers,” said Shepherd. “You’re convinced that’s how they died?”

Myers nodded. “Yes. What I haven’t mentioned already is that there were burns to the respiratory tract. The carbon monoxide levels in the blood were high enough to be fatal. Those men were overcome by smoke and died as a result of having to try and breathe clean air when there is none. That’s how they died.”

“Thank you, Dr. Myers,” said Shepherd. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

“Your witness, Mr. Madison,” said Judge Eskridge.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said as I reached the lectern. “Dr. Myers, you said there’s no doubt in your mind that the men died from smoke inhalation. Is that correct?”

“Yes, I believe I made that clear,” said Myers with a quick look at the jury.

“Have you seen the report prepared by the forensic pathology expert, Dr. Gary Tuttle?”

“I’m aware that it exists,” said Myers.

“Good, but have you read it?” I asked.

“I’m aware that his findings are very different to mine, which doesn’t surprise me.”

“Have you read it?”

“I carried out my own thorough analysis,” said Myers. “I don’t need to get into the weeds of someone else’s theory.”

“Yes or no, Dr. Myers. Have you read it.”

“No. Dr. Tuttle was paid to produce findings that conflict with mine to serve your purpose, Mr. Madison.”

“You are aware that’s how the legal system works. So, it has to be unfair or unscrupulous for me to seek independent analysis. Is that how you see it, Dr. Myers?”

“No.”

“My job is to test all the evidence against my client,” I said. “I have to make sure theories such as yours hold up. You could, in fact, say that in this way we’re following the scientific method. Is that okay with you, Dr. Myers, or should we all just accept that you’re the one and only authority here?”

“Objection,” Shepherd called out. “He’s badgering the witness, Your Honor.”

That’s exactly what I was doing. I couldn’t help myself. So, it came as no surprise when Judge Eskridge sustained the objection with a curt warning for me to watch my step.

“Dr. Myers, you had so little time for Dr. Tuttle’s report that you didn’t even read it. Is that right?”

“His conclusions were ridiculous,” said Myers. “He claims the men were shot to death. Yet there were no external wounds that would back such an argument up.”

“So you did read it?”

“I skimmed it.”

“That’s not what you said earlier, but let’s move on,” I said. “Dr. Tuttle didn’t base his findings on external wounds because, as you pointed out, the fire was so intense it destroyed most of the bodies. What Dr. Tuttle found was bone damage that was consistent with bullet damage. Isn’t that right, Dr, Myers?”

“The bone damage is evident but there’s no indication that it was caused by bullets,” said Myers. “And even if it were true, there’s no way of knowing when that damage occurred. These men died from smoke inhalation and nothing more."

“I put it to you, Dr. Myers, that there is evidence to suggest that Deputy Infante and Arthur Barkley were both shot at the scene of the fire."

Dr. Myers paused for a moment and gave me a slight smile.

“If they were shot,” he said, “then where are the bullets?”

“If you’d actually bothered to read Dr. Tuttle’s report in its entirety, you’d know he contends that the bullets were removed from the bodies and the casings gathered up. There are tiny cut marks on the bone. Dr. Tuttle believes someone took a knife to them to remove evidence.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said shepherd. “Counsel is testifying.”

“Your Honor, I am discussing the contents of a report that has been submitted as evidence and am questioning the prosecution’s expert on his opinion of that report. I could ask the witness to read the report to the court.”

“Just question him about it, Mr. Madison,” said Judge Eskridge. “It’s not for you to summarize that report or distill it or argue its merits. Are we clear? Sustained.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said with deference. I knew I was pushing the boundaries, but I needed to get Myers out of his comfort zone.

“Dr. Myers, did you—”

From my left came a loud thud that stopped me in my tracks. As I spun around to see what on earth had happened, the crowd in the gallery gasped in shock, some of them were on their feet. I saw the bailiff Patty Sewell rushing over to Lalo Silva.

My client had collapsed and was now writhing on the floor.

“Help him,” Judge Eskridge called out from the bench.

When I got to Silva, he was conscious but weak and struggling for breath.

“Well, well, well,” said a voice. It was the voice of Clem Shepherd speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “Looks like someone’s got a bad case of guilty conscience.”

The comment drew a few chuckles from the gallery but Judge Eskridge wasn’t so amused.

“Mr. Shepherd,” she said. “Hold your tongue. I will not allow such callousness in my courtroom. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Shepherd. “I apologize.”

“How is the defendant, Mr. Madison?”

Patty and I rolled Silva onto his back into. He was recovering but still dazed and weak. “Your Honor, I think we need a recess, if you’ll allow it.”

“Of course,” said the judge. “Has he got water? Deputy Sewell, do you need the EMT?’

There were a couple of emergency medical technicians based in the Criminal Justice Center. Patty Sewell, who had basic first aid training, knew Silva needed urgent attention.

“I’ve buzzed for them already, Your Honor,” he said.

Judge Eskridge called a sixty-minute recess and departed. The jury and the rest of the people in court followed.

As we waited for the EMT, I wondered what on earth was going on with Silva. Patty was holding his head back with a palm on his forehead.

“It’s okay, buddy,” said Patty kindly. “We got you. Don’t you worry. We’ll get you sorted out. That’s right. We’ll get you better so you can come back and stand up to these gentlemen. You hear me?”

Something of what Patty said, if not all of it, struck deep in Silva’s brain. He lifted his head up and smiled.

The EMT came rushing in and within minutes there was a stretcher to take Silva back the Los Angeles Medical Center.

As the paramedics wheeled him out of the courtroom, I tapped the bailiff on the he arm. His words had struck me as odd.

“Hey, Patty,” I said. “That was kind of you to speak to my client like that. I’m glad the prosecutor didn’t hear you, it’s sound like you’re rooting for him.”

Patty’s expression went deadpan. He looked like he didn’t know what to tell me.

I tried to reassure him. “There’s nothing wrong with what you did, Patty. What intrigued me, though, is that you seem to know something about my client. That was quite a pep talk you gave him. Thank you.”

“No problem, Mr. Madison. It was the least I could do.”

Patty’s tone indicated that I should be able to read the subtext he’d weaved into his words.

“I’m sorry, Patty,” I said. “You lost me.”

“That man’s dying, Mr. Madison,” he said quietly. “I was just trying to keep his head in the game. The way I saw it, he needed someone to tell him what to live for. But to be honest with you, I doubt we’ll see him back here again. You might have to finish this defending a dead man’s name.”

Chapter 40

The sounds of shuffling footsteps, voices, soft wheels, beeping machines, and low-volume TV all echoed in the hall as I headed for Silva’s ward. I’d been told he was in a private room and when I reached the door two men were standing outside it. One was a correctional services officer, the other was Lalo’s brother, Hayden.

I greeted Hayden and showed the guard my credentials. I poked my head through the door, half-expecting to see Silva sitting up in bed looking ten times better thanks to proper medical care. But he wasn’t conscious. And he wasn’t just resting. There was an oxygen mask over his face, an IV drip in his arm, and a machine monitoring his vitals.

I stepped inside and Hayden followed. Standing over Silva’s bed, rage began to rise inside me. Patty was right. This wasn’t the flu. My client was gravely ill, and I’d missed it. And, that’s when it hit me.

Silva must have known about this for a long time. And, for some stupid reason, he hadn’t told me. I almost cursed out loud. Patty had seen it, but I hadn’t. Was that why I was so mad—because I missed it?

Feeling foolish, I joined Hayden at the back of the room, and suggested we find a quiet place to talk. Outside, we ambled down the hall and out of earshot of the guard.

“Two questions, Hayden,” I said. “What the hell’s going on and why did you not tell me?”

Hayden looked at me compassionately and put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted answers.

Hayden looked kind and sympathetic but reluctant to speak.

I put a finger up to his face. “Don’t you dare spin me some BS, Hayden. I swear, I will drop you and your brother like a stone if you don’t tell me everything right now.”

“I will,” he promised. “You deserve an explanation. We were planning to tell you, Mr. Madison.”

“No, you weren’t,” I said. “If Lalo hadn’t collapsed, I’d still be none the wiser.”

Hayden stepped back to let a couple of nurses pass. “Not here, Mr. Madison,” he said after they’d gone. “Let’s talk outside.”

My car was the closest place we could talk freely. We walked in silence, and my temper cooled. We got to my Mustang and climbed in. Hayden waved a packet of Mentos at me. I shook my head.

Hayden packed the mints away and stared ahead, avoiding eye contact.

“Lalo has cancer, Mr. Madison” he said. “Prostate cancer.”

Even though I’d expected to hear something to that effect, it hit me harder than expected. The shock punched the wind out of my lungs.

“How long has he known?” I asked quietly.

“He was diagnosed a couple of months before the fire.”

Hayden took out a packet of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“You want to smoke while we talk about cancer?” I asked dryly. “Be my guest.”

I tapped the start button without pressing the gas so I could roll the windows down. Hayden lit up, inhaled and savored the draw before he spoke.

“I know you’re upset we didn’t tell you, but we didn’t have a choice.”

Hayden told me how it had all played out. Months after Rosa had died, Lalo began experiencing lower back pain. He was keeping extra fit to help cope with the grief, so at first, he thought it was just a strain. He did stretching, saw a physiotherapist, a chiropractor. The pain came and went but no one could pin-point the cause. Then, one day, the pain became unbearable. Lalo was sent for scans. That’s when they saw white spots on his pelvis—osteoblastic lesions. They were areas where the bone was being prompted to grow abnormally. It wasn’t long before Lalo was told he had prostate cancer and that it had already spread. He was told he had one to three years left.

Hayden’s voice wavered. He bit down on his grief with stoic determination.

“Of course, Lalo didn’t sit around feeling sorry for himself,” Hayden said. “He started planning. Foremost in his mind were his precious girls and the people who depended on him. It troubled him to know that with him gone his business would fold, or some other company might take over, and sacking all the ex-cons would be top of their to-do list. Those men would be back on the street. He kept going, working like nothing was wrong, trying to set everything up so it could run without him.”

I remembered the first time I met him, while we were sitting in the Lincoln, how he’d felt sudden pain in his back and had then swallowed painkillers. I was thinking he was in prime health, when in fact he was ill and knew his days were numbered.

My heart and soul felt drained, and a heavy remorse came over me. How would I feel if I was given such grim news? What I would do? Part of me would want to cling to my daughter Bella and never let go. My mind drifted to the memories we’d made, the unspoken bond we shared. And I knew Lalo loved his girls as wholly as I did mine. My heart ached for little Rihanna and Bianca. They’d already suffered the cruel blow of losing their mother, and now their father would soon follow. I couldn’t bear to think of their grief.

“So that’s why he wanted my help,” I said at last. “What about his business?”

“That’s why he changed insurers,” said Hayden. “But that was just a small piece of the plan. He was setting things up for George Spacelli to take over the running of the place. Lalo trusted him and thought he not only had the aptitude for the job but the conviction to keep the prisoner program running. But he never got to tell George about the plan, because the fire happened.”

I remembered when Spacelli came to see me, warning me that some of Lalo’s staff were deceiving him, taking advantage of Lalo’s absence. I understood why Lalo would consider him a worthy successor.

“It wasn’t just about business with Lalo, was it?” I asked.

“No, it wasn’t,” said Hayden. “Don’t get me wrong. Lalo had big plans. He wanted to build a fitness empire that was a beacon of hope for guys who society had given up on. And he wanted to make his family proud. But mostly, it was all for Rosa. To make her proud. She had stood by him during prison, and he was determined to honor her love.”

“What he’s achieved is remarkable,” I said. “But to be dealt such a double blow in life… I can’t even imagine.”

Hayden nodded pensively, blowing smoke out the window. “I don’t think anyone can.”

I leaned back, processing everything. “What about chemo? Has he had any treatment?”

Hayden shook his head. “Lalo looked into all the options. All chemo would have done was slow him down. He didn’t have time to be lying around in hospital. He was on a mission. He kept on working, while also spending as much time with the girls as he could, eating healthy. Fighting.”

I thought of the stabbing incident. I’d wondered how hospital staff couldn’t notice he had cancer.

“How would they know?” Hayden said. “They were emergency specialists trying desperately to keep a stabbing victim alive. And before he got too comfortable, he was transferred to the jail infirmary.”

I couldn’t believe how much Silva had been through. “The stabbing must have taken its toll,” I said.

“It did,” said Hayden. “The wounds healed but he’s been going downhill since then.”

A sudden burst of rage sprang up inside me. I smacked my hand hard against the wheel. The sound made Hayden jump.

“Dammit, Hayden. Why didn’t he tell me? I could’ve delayed the trial.”

“That’s exactly what Lalo didn’t want,” said Hayden firmly. “He was never going to accept a plea offer and plead guilty to those dreadful charges. He wanted to clear his name before he dies. He wants to leave this world knowing not there’ll be no impediment to Rihanna and Bianca benefitting from the insurance payout. But more importantly, he doesn’t want his daughters to bear the shame of having a convicted murderer for a father.”

I nodded, thinking over all my interactions with Silva. Everything he did was for someone else. His entire life had become a sacrifice to help those he loved go on without him.

“How long does he have?” I asked.

Hayden shrugged. “Who knows, my friend? What I do know is that he’s counting on you to win this case.”

“You’re telling me I shouldn’t request any more delays? That I keep going, no matter what?

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” said Hayden. “And I know I speak for my brother”

“Fine,” I said, taking a deep breath. “We’ll go on. Let him know when he wakes up.”

Hayden smiled. “I will. Just don’t let those people write ‘cold-blooded murderer’ on Lalo’s headstone. Promise me that.”

As a defense attorney, I’d learned to resist even the most heartfelt pleas for guaranteed success. This time, I couldn’t help myself.

“I promise.”

The words still felt hollow. How could I guarantee anything? I might as well have told Hayden I could make Lalo’s cancer disappear. But if there was one thing I could guarantee, it was that I was ready to die trying.

Hayden got out of the car, and I headed back to the Criminal Justice Center. On the way, I called the clerk of the court and requested an urgent meeting in chambers with Judge Eskridge. I said Assistant District Attorney Clem Shepherd needed to be in attendance.

Chapter 41

“No continuance?” Judge Eskridge’s voice held a tone of surprise. For the past five minutes, she’d listened to me relate what I knew of Lalo Silva’s deteriorating health. Though her compassion was evident, she was, above all, a judge committed to the unwavering administration of the law.

“I’d have thought a continuance would be best for all concerned,” she said. “But you do not wish me to grant you even a twenty-four-hour recess to see if Mr. Silva might recover sufficiently to attend?”

“No, Your Honor,” I replied. “My instructions are clear. Mr. Silva has requested that we resume proceedings immediately. I ask that Mr. Shepherd call his next witness.”

Shepherd nodded. He seemed rather amused by these events, no doubt believing they played to his advantage.

“We’re ready to go when you are, Your Honor,” he said.

Judge Eskridge checked her watch. “It’s three o’clock now. We’ll resume at three fifteen. I’ll have Deputy Sewell assemble the jury.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

On the stroke of three-fifteen, Judge Eskridge reentered the courtroom. Once the jury had settled in, she addressed them.

“Members of the jury, as you know, the defendant Eduardo Silva took a turn for the worse and I was compelled to call a recess. Mr. Silva remains in the hospital in a serious but stable condition. He is conscious and well cared for. Through his lawyer, he has asked that we continue without delay. I must stress that his absence should not affect your view of his guilt or innocence in any way. And finally, Mr. Silva’s absence does not indicate any waiver of his rights, nor does it mean that he is not being given a fair trial. Is that clear?”

All the jurors said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Do any of you have any questions?”

They all shook their heads.

“Very well. Mr. Shepherd, please call your next witness.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Shepherd rose and buttoned his jacket. “The State of California calls Malik Freeman.”

The tall, skinny street dude known as Frosty moved up to the stand so smoothly he didn’t make a sound. As he sat waiting for Shepherd, he scanned the room and his eyes landed on me. His memory of our conversation in the park was clear. He didn’t look pleased to see me.

Under Shepherd’s guidance, Frosty painted himself as a young man who had made a few mistakes in life but had learn from them. Shepherd kept his criminal record vague. All the jury needed to know, according to the prosecutor, was that Frosty Freeman bore witness to something crucial.

“Mr. Freeman, please tell the court why you in the vicinity of Phoenix Fitness the night of the fire?”

“I was out walking my dog,” said Frosty. “It was about—”

“It’s, okay, Mr. Freeman,” interrupted Shepherd. “You are free to talk about what you were really doing. You were not out walking your dog.”

“Yeah, I was,” said Frosty. “I always have my dog with me at night.”

“Okay, but what was the main reason you were out that night?” said Shepherd, doing well to hide his exasperation at seeing his pre-trial coaching efforts go to waste. “Did you have business to attend to?’

“Ok, yeah,” said Frosty. “I had to shift some gear. I went to my usual corner, and unloaded the lot. So, I had to call for a re-up. And it came.”

“Do you mean a driver arrived to resupply you?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“And where did that driver and drugs come from?”

“The gym—Phoenix Fitness.”

Shepherd touched his chin as though struck by an interesting thought. “The drugs you were selling came from Mr. Silva’s gym?”

“That’s where the negra comes from.”

“What did you say? Negra?”

“Yeah, negra,” said Frosty. “Black tar heroin. Used to be steroids and stuff, but after the gym got raided it was all about the black.”

Shepherd pressed Freeman on the change. “Are you saying the gym switched from selling steroids to selling heroin?”

“Yes.”

“And that switch to heroin came after the gym was raided?”

“Yeah, they cops stormed the place looking for steroids. That’s what they guys told me, anyway.”

I didn’t object on grounds of hearsay. I was happy Freeman mentioned the raid.

Shepherd asked what everyone was thinking. “Are we talking college kids going from steroids to heroin?”

Frosty shook his head. “Nah, two different markets. Different clientele. You could say Phoenix Fitness was just expanding its business. I heard they shifted the roids online—you know, mail order only—and kept heroin for the street.”

“Business must have been booming,” said Shepherd.

“You bet it was.”

Shepherd bowed his head and rounded the lectern and leaned an elbow on it. “So you were out on the street, conducting business, Mr. Freeman. What time was this?’

“I’m at my corner one to four most nights.”

“That’s one o’clock to four o’clock in the morning, right?”

“Yes.”

“And your corner,” said Shepherd, “is that near the defendant’s gym?”

“Kind of. I walk right past it on my way there and back.”

“On the night of the fire, did you pass the defendant’s gym?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anything unusual?”

“Well, I know the guys who supply me go in and out that back door, so I’m always watching out. But that night I only saw one person.”

“And who was that?”

“The guy who owns the gym. Lalo Silva.”

Shepherd began fiddling with his laptop. “Since Mr. Silva can’t be with us in court today, I’ve taken the liberty to display his image on the courtroom monitor. Now, Mr. Freeman, this man you see here on the monitor, is that the man you saw that night?”

“Yes.”

“And what time was this?”

“About one.”

“What did you see him do?”

“I saw him at the trunk of his car,” said Freeman. “He looked around like he was checking no one was watching. But I was kind of in the shadows, so he couldn’t see me.”

“What did you see him do?”

“He took something out of his trunk and then carried it to the door of the gym.”

“What was he carrying?”

“I couldn’t see exactly but I heard a sound when he put them on the ground to unlock the door.”

“What was that sound?”

“It was a metal sound. The sound of a can full of something.”

“Like the sound of metal containers full of gas?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” I said. “Counsel is leading the witness.”

“Sustained.”

“I know what I heard,” said Freeman. “I’ve mowed plenty of lawns in my time and fuel containers all sound alike.”

The gallery, and half the jury, snickered at the thought of Frosty Freeman mowing lawns.

“You don’t believe me?” Frosty said to the jury, a big grin on his face.

Before Judge Eskridge got to caution Frosty from engaging with the jury, Shepherd cut in with a question.

“So, Mr. Freeman, you’re quite sure you heard the defendant place two cans down on the ground outside his gym.”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” said Freeman. “Then later he drove off.”

“What car was he driving?”

“A white Lincoln.”

“No further questions, Your Honor,” said Shepherd.

I stood, facing Frosty. “Good morning, Mr. Freeman. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Now, Mr. Freeman, something you just told the court intrigued me. You said there was a raid on Mr. Silva’s gym. Right?”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

“What kind of raid was it?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said Shepherd. “Relevance. Counsel is asking for hearsay and speculation of a past event that has no relation to the case at hand.”

“Your Honor,” I said. “The relevance will be all too apparent soon, I assure you.”

“And if not, you’ll drop it like a hot stone. Right, counselor?”

“That’s right, Your Honor.”

“Objection overruled,” Judge Eskridge said.

“Mr. Freeman,” I continued, “you know people who worked for Mr. Silva at the gym, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered hesitantly.

“You told the court that that’s where you got your drugs—both the sports performance variety and the heroin. This is on the record.”

“Okay.”

“So you knew guys who worked there?”

“Yeah,” Freeman said, deliberately making it sound less than certain.

“Guys like Nando Guzman. Is that right?”

“Nando Guzman?”

“Yeah, he’s your cousin, Frosty. Did you forget that?”

“No, no,” said Freeman. “That’s true. He’s my cousin.”

“Glad we got that sorted out,” I said. “Now, this raid. What kind of raid was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nando didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s move on. You said you started off selling steroids that were sourced from the gym. Then you started dealing heroin. Right?”

“Right.”

“And you just sell what Nando tells you to sell, right?”

Freeman’s forehead knitted up as he tried to figure out whether he’d just fallen into a trap.

“Mr. Freeman. Say you just wanted to keep selling steroids. You didn’t want to start dealing smack. You could have told them, No. You had a choice, right?”

“Ah, not really. It was just what was available.”

“What? One day its roids, the next they tell you all they’ve got is heroin?”

“Pretty much.”

“And this raid, was it to do with any specific kind of drug? What were they looking for?”

Freeman smiled. “It was a beat-up,” he said. “They reckoned there were selling roids. They went and busted the place, and they found nothing. And you know what? Because no one was moving anything out of there then.”

I saw Freeman look at Shepherd. I did too, and saw with my own eyes the prosecutor tell his witness to stick to the damned script. How many times did he tell Freeman not to freestyle on the stand? Both of them, I was sure, felt certain that Freeman’s loose lips offered me a good shot at their flank.

“Okay, so let me get this right,” I said. “There were no drugs being sold out of the gym, then a raid happens, and then you get tapped to move some roids. And then later it’s smack. Do I have that sequence of events right, Mr. Freeman?”

“Ah, yes. You do.”

“But that contradicts what you told the court earlier,” I said. “You told Mr. Shepherd that the gym was selling steroids, then it was raided and the heroin came later.”

“That’s not what I said,” Freeman said. “What does it matter, anyway?”

“The details matter a great deal, Mr. Freeman,” I said. “And it’s exactly what you told Mr. Shepherd. We need to know if you’re telling the truth. How can you expect us to believe you when your story changes in a matter of minutes?”

“The steroids came after the raid,” said Freeman, trying to sound emphatic but not convincing anyone.

“Thanks for straightening that out, Mr. Freeman,” I said. “But there’s something else that troubles me. In your police statement, which you gave at the scene of the crime, you told Deputy Paredes that you were simply walking past and happened to see the defendant near the building. There was no mention of tins of gas. That detail came later, did it?”

“Yes,” said Freeman. “I got questioned more than once. I just filled in the blanks.”

“How very honest of you,” I said. “Mr. Freeman, you were offered an incentive to help Sergeant Dillon and Deputy Paredes, weren’t you?”

“No,” he said nervously. “There was no deal.”

“I see,” I said. “So that means once you’re done here, you’re off to jail, right?”

Freeman shook his head, confused. “What’s that? No way.”

“But you’re currently facing a burglary charge, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh.”

“And if convicted, that will be your third strike, won’t it, Mr. Freeman?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true that in exchange for your testimony today, the LASD and the prosecutor promised one of your strikes would be removed?”

Freeman looked at Shepherd, who gave him an impatient wave, as if to tell him that stalling would only work against them. “Yes,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I made this stuff up.”

“I’m not saying you did,” I said. “But your story did change significantly. It took a hard turn after you spoke with Officers Dillon and Paredes. You’re not just here to tell us what they want you to say, are you, Mr. Freeman?”

“No, sir,” Freeman said with hollow dignity. “I ain’t no puppet.”

I glanced over at the jury box and all the members were all staring at Freeman skeptically. That was my cue to release the witness and stand down.

Undeterred, Shepherd stood up and called his next witness. It was Freeman’s cousin Nando Guzman, one of Silva’s gym employees. He confidently detailed the gym’s drugs operations, how they took steroid orders via the dark-web and sent them all over the United States and Canada. There was also the conventional operation supplying street dealers like Freeman with steroids at first and then heroin.

Shepherd went to the heart of it. “Did the defendant know all this illegal activity was going on under his roof?”

“Did he know? It was all is idea,” said Guzman. “He did time for dealing coke, his gym wasn’t working out so good, so he went back to what he knew best.”

With that clear image planted in the jury’s mind, Shepherd stepped down. Judge Eskridge invited me to cross-examine Guzman.

“Mr. Guzman,” I said, when I took my place at the lectern. “What exactly was your job at the gym?”

“A bit of everything,” said Guzman. “Mostly it was packing and sending out orders that came in from the website.”

“So you weren’t front of house, as in someone who deals with the gym members face to face?”

“No,” said Guzman. “I was down on the first floor, which was where everything was stored.”

“You mean you worked in the warehouse. Right?”

Guzman looked a little offended. “It was both an office and a warehouse.”

“Do you know what was stored in the warehouse, Mr. Freeman?”

“Yes, of course I do,” he said, with a mischievous smile and eyes wide open. “Powders. Lots of powders. They came in all shapes and sizes.”

I ignored his acting. “You didn’t by any chance notice if there was a generator there, did you, Mr. Guzman?”

“You bet I did,” he said. “That thing made a racket. It was only turned on a couple of times for testing, because it was new. But it was loud and it stank. I knew that much.”

“It was loud and it stank,” I repeated. “You mean it stank of gas fumes and exhaust, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Who did the testing of the generator?”

“Lalo,” said Guzman. “It was the back-up power supply. There were a couple of blackouts during that heatwave last summer when the grid got overloaded. That’s when Lalo brought the generator in. He didn’t want to lose any sales on account of an outage.”

“So he did the testing?”

“Yes.”

“He put the fuel in the generator?”

Guzman looked a bit confused. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Did you ever see Mr. Silva put fuel in his generator?”

“Yes. I did.”

“He didn’t happen to use two metal tins to do this, did he?”

“That’s exactly what he used.”

I took a moment to let the jury to reflect on this. Then it was time to change tack.

“Thank you, Mr. Guzman. Now, you said Mr. Silva ran the drugs operation. So, he told you how it all worked and what he expected you to do, did he?”

“No, that was left to one of the other guys.”

“You mean a fellow worker?”

“Yeah.”

“I see,” I said. “Now, you’ve told us you saw Mr. Silva testing the generator. How often did you see him in the warehouse where you worked?”

“I hardly ever saw him,” said Guzman. “He didn’t show his face much down on the floor.”

“Is that right?”

“Did he ever talk to you?”

“Sometimes,” said Guzman, who was starting to look far less comfortable.

“What did you talk about?”

“Not much.”

“How about the generator?”

“Oh, yes,” Guzman smiled. “He did talk about the generator. It was like a new toy.”

“Did he ever discuss the drugs operation you claim he was running? Did you ever hear him discuss it with anyone else?”

“Not really,” said Guzman.

“Might it be true, Mr. Guzman, that this drug operation was never condoned by Mr. Silva at all?”

“No,” said Guzman. “He had to know.”

“Okay,” I said. “So this boss of yours, talks to you about a generator but never says a word to you about your role in this supposed drugs operation, which had to be worth millions of dollars?”

“There were other guys he talked to,” Guzman said sheepishly.

“Mr. Silva knew nothing about the illicit activity going on under his roof, did he, Mr. Guzman?”

“He’s not stupid,” Guzman blurted. “He had to know.”

I decided to stop there. Shepherd’s case had taken on some water. I could only hope I had the ammo to finish the job and sent it to the bottom.

No sooner had I sat down than the prosecutor was back up on his feet. “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

Judge Eskridge checked the time and called it a day. She said the court would resume in the morning to begin hearing witnesses from the defense.

The half-time buzzer had rung. Tomorrow morning, the ball would be well and truly in my court.

Chapter 42

On the way home from court, I stopped by to see Lalo. He was conscious but groggy, so I didn’t want to tax his energy too much. I reassured him that the trial was going well. His smile was weak and his “thank-you” barely a whisper, but he lifted both arms off the bed to give me two thumbs up.

Hayden was waiting by the door as I left. He pulled me aside to tell me the doctors had been trying to persuade Lalo to undergo chemotherapy. With no business to run and Lalo’s plans for the girls in place, Hayden had hoped his brother would accept treatment.

“He’s Stage Four,” said Hayden solemnly. “He knows it’s not going to make a difference.”

“I don’t mean to be blunt, but how long’s he got?”

“Who knows?” Hayden shrugged. “Could be weeks. Could be a year. All he wants now is to be with his daughters as a free man. He’d rather die than let them see him like this, a prisoner, or branded a murderer. He’s a good man, Mr. Madison. You believe that, right?”

“Yes, Hayden, I do,” I said, meaning every word. “But as I told your brother when I met him, I’m not a magician. I can only promise you I’m doing my absolute best.”

“We are grateful, Mr. Madison,” said Hayden, nodding. “Thank you.”

Hayden’s phone rang, and he fetched it from his pocket.

“Ah, it’s the girls,” he said, smiling at the screen, and backing away to duck his head into Lalo’s room. “Lalo, tus preciosas gemas.” His Spanish was clear enough even for me to understand. “Your precious gems.”

I went to the door and saw Lalo, weak but smiling, wave Hayden in. I waved goodbye to them as Hayden approached the bed telling me, “He wants to speak with them on FaceTime. Muchas gracias otra vez, Mr. Madison.” Thanks again.

As I walked down the hall, I heard Lalo laugh and give his daughters a cheerful greeting. I could only imagine the pain and discomfort he suppressed in order to deceive his daughters so wonderfully well.

I went home, poured myself a large scotch, and was soon distracted by a call from Eliza. She was in England now for her writing retreat, and she was loving it. The scenic walks and old towns set in rolling green fields were straight out of a postcard.

I longed to hold her, to breathe in her scent, but I knew she’d be home soon and there would be plenty of time for that later.

After we hung up, my thoughts drifted back to Lalo and his daughters. Time was fast running out for them. It was heartbreaking to even dwell on it for a moment. I didn’t know how Lalo managed to hold himself together. Inspired by Lalo’s fortitude, I worked for a few hours before hitting the sack after midnight.

In the morning, still inspired, I went off to work full of zeal. Except for a brief call with Myrna, I drove in silence, my mind already in the courtroom, ready to rumble.

“Your Honor, I’d like to call Dr. Gary Tuttle to the stand,” I said.

Tuttle exuded a lot of fit energy. His physique showing through his modern slim suit as he sprang up onto the stand. I had no idea what he did to keep himself fit—I could picture him, though, having an enthusiasm for anything from Frisbee golf to the Hawaiian Ironman. His features—strong brow and nose, and wide-set mouth—gave him the look of an earnest thinker. Despite his grim line of work, his demeanor was practically puppy-light.

“Thank you for joining us today, Dr. Tuttle,” I began and spent a while breaking him in. This allowed the jury to get a sense of his energy, openness, and the intellectual curiosity that drew him into forensic pathology. Before long, the jury would have been happy for Tuttle to read them the phone book. With the healthy rapport set, I moved to the crux of his testimony.

“Dr. Tuttle, you and I have discussed your findings in detail, but I’d like you to share them with the court. Earlier in the trial, we heard about your report on the deaths of Arthur Barkley and Deputy Chuck Infante. In my cross-examination of the medical examiner, Dr. Myers, I said that you disagreed with his conclusion. You do not believe those men died from smoke asphyxiation, do you?”

“No, I certainly do not.”

“How do you believe they died?”

“Look, I understand why Dr. Myers reached that conclusion, but I disagree with him absolutely. Those men were executed. They were shot, and the fire was lit in order to cover up the crime.”

The courtroom buzzed at hearing Tuttle’s stunning theory. I used my laptop to get some photos up on the courtroom monitor.

“Your Honor,” I said to Judge Eskridge. “If I could approach the witness, I’d like him to use this laser pointer.”

“Granted,” Judge Eskridge replied with a nod.

“Dr. Tuttle,” I said, after I’d handed over the pointer. “The floor is yours. Please tell us why you think these men were shot.”

Tuttle nodded and looked over at the monitor. He found his target in no time.

“This image is an X-ray of Deputy Infante’s rib cage,” said Tuttle. “Right here, you can see a small mark. It’s subtle, but that’s exactly what you get when a bullet grazes a bone.”

I asked him to clarify. “Couldn’t it be something else?”

“Unlikely,” said Tuttle. “There’s no sign of osteogenesis. That’s the process by which bone heals itself. That wound is fresh.”

As Tuttle continued his explanation, I brought up an X-ray of Barkley’s spine.

“There was a similar mark on Mr. Barkley’s T7 vertebra,” Tuttle said, using the pointer to draw the jury’s attention to the right spot. “Only a nick, just like the other one.”

“And no sign of fracture healing on that one either?” I asked

“None,” said Tuttle. “But that’s not the only thing they have in common.”

He pointed to a small, straight line near each nick. “That is a cut. Hard to see, I’ll grant you, but it’s there.”

“What are you saying, Dr. Tuttle? I think you need to unpack this for us.”

Tuttle turned away from the monitor and leveled his gaze at the jury.

“Someone shot these two men in the heart area,” he said. “And then they took a knife and extracted those bullets from the bodies.”

There were audible gasps from the gallery behind, and I saw a couple of jurors put a hand to their mouths.

“Are you sure about this, Dr. Tuttle?”

“I’m certain,” he said. “And since no casings were found at the crime scene, then they were collected as well. The killer made sure those bullets and casings could never be used to track down the gun’s owner.”

“But the medical examiner Dr. Quentin Myers mentions nothing about bullets and shootings,” I said.

“I know,” said Tuttle. “I’ve read his report thoroughly. He takes the soot found in the airways and the carboxyhemoglobin levels in the blood as clear proof that both men died from asphyxiation.”

“And you see things differently?”

“Dr. Myers says they died in the fire. I’m saying they were left to die in the fire. It’s a slight but very significant difference.”

“So they were alive when the building was set alight?”

“Or they themselves were set on fire,” said Tuttle. “Whoever did this was heartless to the extreme.”

“Why do you say that, Dr. Tuttle?’

“Because, Mr. Madison, they cut the bullets out of those men while they were still alive.”

Again, the gallery erupted. Several jury members reeled in shock.

“Are you sure about that?” I asked.

“I’m certain of it,” he said. “These men were shot, then cut open while still alive, and then finally set alight to die in the flames.”

The noise from the gallery was almost rowdy now, and I heard a mournful cry from a woman. Judge Eskridge called for calm twice before the sharp rap of her gavel rang brought the court to order.

In the silence that followed, I stepped away from the lectern, handing Tuttle over to Shepherd. The prosecutor was deep in thought as I passed him. No doubt he was prepared for this. If anyone could wrest the jury back away from the thrall of Dr. Gary Tuttle, it was Assistant District Attorney Clem Shepherd.

“Dr. Tuttle, I find your take on this tragic event interesting,” said Shepherd, once he’d positioned himself behind the lectern. “You’ve put quite a twist on the story here, haven’t you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, you’ve thrown the considered opinion of the LA County Coroner’s office not just into doubt. You’ve made him sound foolish. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Tuttle. “I’m not surprised that you, for instance, would take offense to his theory being challenged.”

“Challenged, or ridiculed, Dr. Tuttle? Which one?”

“It’s a difference of professional opinion, Mr. Shepherd. That’s all. I intend no offense, and I find nothing about this matter to be funny.”

I was pleased Tuttle had taken the time to learn the prosecutor’s name. Most witnesses don’t.

Shepherd began his probe in earnest. “I think the court should be clear about the realms of expertise we’ve got here—vis-à-vis you and Dr. Myers—if that’s okay with you, Dr. Tuttle?”

Tuttle shrugged with good nature, like he was happy to stack his qualifications up against Myers’ any day of the week.

“Dr. Quentin Myers is employed by the county government,” Shepherd said. “Been there twenty years. He’s one of the most experienced and highly regarded medical examiners we’ve ever had. Each and every day, we count on him to determine exactly what happened to our loved ones when they died. He’s a forensic pathologist, which means he’s a medical doctor who’s done extra specialized training in forensics. And he conducts autopsies, which is the medical examination of the body and internal organs after a person has died. And from such efforts, he then determines the cause of death. Isn’t that about right, Dr. Tuttle?”

“Yes,” said Tuttle. “Very much so. And I know that because, as a medical examiner, I do exactly the same thing.”

“Yes,” said Shepherd. “I expected you would say that. Let me ask, you, Dr. Tuttle—how many autopsies have you done in your career?”

Tuttle gave the question a few seconds’ thought.

“It would have to be in the thirties,” he said finally.

“In the thirties?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Do you know how many autopsies Dr. Myers has performed?”

“I dare say it’s a lot more than that,” said Tuttle.

“You are absolutely right on that front, Dr. Tuttle,” said Shepherd, stabbing his pen at the air. “It’s a number between three and five thousand. Why don’t we just say three thousand and leave it at that? That’s a hell of a lot more than you’ve racked up. Isn’t that right, Dr. Tuttle?”

“There’s nothing to argue on that point. The answer’s yes. But what you have to remember—”

“I’m just after your answers, your direct answers, Dr. Tuttle. It’s not appropriate for witnesses to pursue tangents of thought out aloud. So, your answer is yes. Right?”

“Yes.”

I could see exactly what Shepherd was doing. He was effectively lifting his leg on four corners of the courtroom. To see Dr. Tuttle have the jury, and the room beyond, eating out of the palm of his hand would have put a shot through him. It was one of those things about trial law—you could easily forget it wasn’t just you up on the stage. And what you read about an opposing witness on paper didn’t tell you two important things: it didn’t tell you that they might like being up on the stand, that they might like the attention, and it sure as hell didn’t tell you anything about the witness having stage presence. And that’s what happened to Shepherd. Tuttle was a star he hadn’t seen coming. But he knew exactly how to flex his courtroom muscles and put an interloper in his place.

“Why the discrepancy, Dr. Tuttle? I mean, I understand there’s an age difference. Myers must have had at least a decade’s head start on you. Even so, you guys aren’t in the same league. And I don’t mean that only in terms of the numbers. Right?”

“I’m sorry,” said Tuttle. “You’ve lost me.”

“I’ll break it down for you then, Dr. Tuttle,” Shepherd said. “For every autopsy you’ve done, Myers has done at least thirty, probably forty, and maybe as many as fifty. Would that be correct?”

“I don’t know the numbers as well as you,” said Tuttle. “But if you’re trying to find a way of saying I’m far less experienced, then why don’t you just say it?”

Shepherd stopped and made a face that made it clear Tuttle was about to get a lecture.

“Dr. Tuttle, I’m the prosecutor, you’re the witness,” he said. “The way it works is I ask you questions, and you answer them, by the oath you’ve taken. It doesn’t work the other way round. Are we clear on that, Dr. Tuttle? Your Honor?”

Shepherd looked to Judge Eskridge, inviting her to correct him if he was somehow out of line.

“Clear,” said Tuttle.

“Good,” said Shepherd with some reassurance. “Now, you’ve read Dr. Myers’ findings on the deaths of these two men, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“If we were to boil it down, you and he differ only in the opinion of what caused a couple of blemishes on the bones, is that right?”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” said Tuttle, who saw no harm in agreeing.

“Isn’t it a fact, Dr. Tuttle, that in both the police investigation and the medical investigation, nothing whatsoever was found to indicate that these two men were shot?”

“The evidence was easy to miss.”

“Please answer the question. Your Honor?”

Judge Eskridge turned down to Tuttle. “Please limit your responses to answering the questions directly.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Tuttle. “The answer’s yes.”

“Thank you,” said Shepherd. “And isn’t it a fact that you were hired by the defendant’s lawyer as soon as the defendant was charged?”

“Yes,” said Tuttle, falling into line.

“And you went and performed an autopsy on the bodies, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“How much time had passed between their deaths and your autopsies?”

Tuttle had to think. “I’d have to check the dates, but it would have been a few days.”

“A few days?” said Shepherd, rummaging through some documents on top of the lectern. He then held up a sheet of paper. “This is the form you completed and signed before you did the autopsies. Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

“You may,” said Judge Eskridge.

Shepherd stepped forward and asked Tuttle to verify the document and then to confirm the date with the court.

“Eight says after the men died, and seven after Dr. Myers had completed his autopsies. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And could I ask you to read out to the court the part that states how long you spent on each autopsy?”

“It was about four hours each. That’s just with the bodies, there’s paperwork on top of that.”

“Four hours,” said Shepherd. “And you can see from that other document I gave you that Dr. Myers spent twice as much time conducting his autopsies as you did.”

“There’s nothing unusual in that.”

“Please wait until I ask you a question, Dr. Tuttle,” said Shepherd. “The fact is, you did yours in half the time, right?”

“Yes.”

“Now, these marks on the bone you found. You told us there wasn’t enough time for the bones to start healing themselves. Osteogenesis you called it, right?”

“Right.”

“But isn’t it a fact that, if these were fresh wounds to the bone, there should have been a sign that the regenerative process had begun?”

“Yes.”

“So you’d see evidence of blot clotting at the site of this wound. Is that right?”

“Yes. There was evidence of hematomas, that is, blood clots. Most definitely.”

“I see,” said Shepherd. “And isn’t it true that, because the victims were burned alive—and I apologize for the graphic horror my words might elicit–there’d be hematomas forming all over their bodies. Am I right, Dr. Tuttle?”

“Yes.”

“Can you actually tell the difference between a hematoma that arose in response to the body being burned and one that arose from it being shot?”

Tuttle hesitated, giving the question serious thought. He knew, though, that the longer he took, the worse he looked.

“I can’t say that I can,” he said flatly. “I’d have to say no.”

Shepherd’s work had been effective. A few minutes ago, a display of smarts from Tuttle would have entertained the jury. Now it would put them off. And that’s exactly the way Shepherd wanted to leave it.

“I thought not,” he said, concluding his cross-examination. “Nothing further.”

He stood there staring at Tuttle until the witness made a move to vacate the stand.

“Stay put, please, Dr. Tuttle,” said Judge Eskridge. Then she looked at me. “Mr. Madison, would you care to re-direct?”

“Yes, I would, Your Honor.”

I went up and did my best to rebuilt the vestiges of Tuttle’s credibility. I got him to spell out his argument again. He was clear and convincing, just as he had been first time around. But there were no gasps. No one was hanging off his every word now.

Shepherd had won. He’d wiped the gloss clean off my expert witness. He’d taken that energetic, charismatic man that the jury was eager to trust and reduced him to someone with all the worldly clout of a science undergrad.

Thanks to Shepherd’s deft spadework, I was now deep in a hole.

Chapter 43

My next witness was Theo Farrington, the man Lalo Silva turned to when he decided to run a fine-toothed comb through his finances. After I stood up and called the witness, I took a look at the empty chair where Lalo should be sitting. The image of him in that hospital bed steeled my resolve. Shepherd may have taken the last round, but this fight was far from over.

Farrington was a highly respected financial advisor, and he sure looked the part on the stand. The blue pinstripe suit wasn’t new, but was of good quality and well looked after. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy, but whoever cut it had severed his sideburns at temple height, eighties style. Farrington straightened his maroon silk tie as he got comfortable, and his shirt was so white I could almost smell the detergent. All up, he presented as a good, solid, respectful witness before he’d even answered a question. I set about building on that base.

I ran Farrington briefly through his background and focused on his career. He’d been in the finance game for almost twenty years, and his reputation drew high-net-worth individuals and Fortune 500 companies to his door.

“These people hire you to do what, exactly?” I said.

“Well, being a financial advisor is a bit like being a car mechanic,” Farrington said. “In Los Angeles, everyone has a car, but they don’t have the knowhow to fix it themselves. Same with money. Everyone has it, but few know how to make it work for them.”

“Right,” I said. “People’s eyes glaze over when you say finance. It’s a big, confusing maze.”

“That’s right,” said Farrington. “But I’m at home in this world, so I serve as an advisor, a guide, for my clients. I give recommendations on things like portfolio management, tax, investment, and risk management.”

“You’re actually ranked as one of the best in the United States, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Farrington.

“So, how did you come to have Lalo Silva as a client?”

“I’ve been friends with his brother Hayden since college days,” said Farrington. “You could say I was a good friend of Hayden’s family, too. And one day, he explained to me that his younger brother, who had a criminal past but was making great strides by lawful means in the fitness industry, needed some expert guidance.”

“He asked you to look at Silva’s books?”

“Lalo wanted me to go through everything,” Farrington said. “He wanted to be one-hundred percent sure that his daughters would be okay if something ever happened to him.”

“I see,” I said. “And you tried to find areas that could be improved?”

“Yes,” said Farrington. “Wherever you’ve got money, you’ve got someone trying to take it off you. There are fees, there are commissions, there are excesses, conditions, limitations, clauses. Everyone knows that these are part of agreements and contracts. But you have to get down into the fine print to really see what’s going on.”

“So you saw some room for improvement?”

“Yes, I did,” Farrington said. “I looked at the fitness centers and the online store. They were all strong, particularly the online business. But I could see where improvements could be made. Better strategies for pricing and cost reduction, and ways to get better deals from suppliers.”

Farrington continued, detailing other ways he helped reshape Lalo’s business—everything from developing a Phoenix Fitness brand of supplements to digital marketing strategies.

“The court has heard claims that Mr. Silva’s business was in trouble.”

“That’s not what I saw. He’d run up some rather large debts, with the new gym and then the medical bills. But his revenue was strong and only growing stronger. He’d have ridden out the rough patch within a year.”

“I see,” I said. “That’s very interesting. Now, what about insurance? The court has also heard that Mr. Silva changed his insurance policy just prior to the fire. It was seen as highly suspicious.”

“It was no such thing,” said Farrington dismissively. “I looked at all Mr. Silva’s policies—life insurance, his will, everything. This is a vital part of risk management. I can go into it in as much depth as you like, but the fact is, I went shopping on Mr. Silva’s behalf. I got quotes, I haggled on terms and on rates and on coverage limits and deductibles. So it’s no surprise to me that he stands to get an impressive payout because of this fire. And so he should. His business is ruined.”

“The prosecution believes Mr. Silva destroyed his business to get his hands on that payout.”

“That’s absurd,” Farrington said. “He put so much blood, sweat, and tears into that place.”

“No further questions, Your Honor,” I said, and thanked Farrington.

I was barely at the defense desk when Shepherd go up and went straight for the jugular.

“Boy,” he said. “I bet the original insurer is glad they didn’t get caught up in this mess. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Farrington?”

“Excuse me?” Farrington asked with a creased brow.

“I said, it looks like they dodged a bullet,” said Shepherd. “They owe you one, Mr. Farrington. You getting Mr. Silva off their books saved them a fortune. Didn’t it?”

“I’m not interested in what’s good for them, I’m interested in what’s good for my client.”

Shepherd stiffened his back sharply, as though he’d been prodded by some posture Nazi. He raised his eyebrows and turned his attention to his pile of documents on the lectern. He then made a show of running through them, like he was trying to find a thing that suddenly mattered. He stopped when he had one sheet of paper in one hand and then one in the other.

“Your Honor,” he said, holding up the documents. “May I approach the witness?”

“You may,” said Judge Eskridge.

Permission granted, Shepherd stepped forward and gave the documents to Farrington.

“Now, Mr. Farrington,” said Shepherd, having resumed his position behind the lectern. “What are the two documents I have given to you?”

“They are the completed forms for the old property insurance policy and the new one,” said Farrington.

“Yes,” said Shepherd. “Now a policy is a statement of mutual trust, is it not, Mr. Farrington? By that, I mean, you are asked to be honest about what you write in response to the questions of the form. Am I right?”

“Of course,” said Farrington.

“Now, the insurance companies specifically ask that you do not misrepresent yourself when making your application. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“And on the old property insurance policy that Mr. Silva completed himself, he withheld some important information, did he not?”

“I know what you’re referring to,” Farrington said, refusing to be flustered.

“What would that be, Mr. Farrington?” probed Shepherd. “The fact that Mr. Silva lied about his criminal history? The fact that he made no mention that he’d been jailed for serious drug offenses?”

“Non-disclosure is different from misrepresentation,” Farrington explained calmly. “Insurers don’t always ask for applicants to reveal their criminal history. For the most part, they want to know about crimes that would be relevant to the risk being insured. And under Mr. Silva’s current policy—”

“Let’s first focus on Mr. Silva’s previous policy, shall we?” said Shepherd. “The one he completed himself. The one he signed before you came along. They asked him to tell them about any felony or criminal history, didn’t they?”

“I don’t know,” said Farrington.

“Oh, I think you do,” said Shepherd. “Why don’t you just have another look at that policy you’re holding? Now answer the question, please. Did Mr. Silva misrepresent himself in that application?”

“Yes.”

“Because even though the risk being insured is for fire, that company would have taken Mr. Silva’s drug offense as a sign that he wasn’t financially stable and that he was a proven risk-taker. Correct?”

“I can’t speak for the company.”

“But you must have seen the fine print. Didn’t you say that was a routine part of your job? So if you’d read that fine print you’d have known that if Mr. Silva’s building had burned down under any circumstances the insurance company would have investigated the matter, discovered his criminal history and promptly voided the policy. Isn’t that right, Mr. Farrington?”

“Yes, that’s a likely scenario.”

“Did you advise him to change policies. Mr. Farrington?”

“Yes, I did, but not because—”

“Now, Mr. Farrington,” said Shepherd. “Can I ask where on this new policy did you and Mr. Silva come clean on his criminal past? Please point to the page where you told the new insurer all about Mr. Silva’s record.”

“There was no need to do that,” said Farrington. “His insurer only wanted to be made aware of any crimes specifically related to the risk being covered.”

“Oh, I see,” said Shepherd. “Did you ask them on Mr. Silva’s behalf?”

“Not verbally,” said Farrington. “I made sure I knew all the details of the policy.”

“All the terms and conditions,” said Shepherd. “The Ts and Cs, as they say? The fine print?”

“Yes.”

“So you made a judgement call that him being a drug offender would be okay with them?”

“In a word, yes,” said Shepherd.

“And you’re confident that they’ll pay out millions to a man who lied, to a man who lied on your advice, to a man whose criminal history pointed to a predisposition of fraud and risk-taking behavior? You think they’ll just hand that money over, do you, Mr. Farrington?”

“That’s their decision, and it will of course be subject to the outcome of this trial,” said Farrington.

“Well, thanks to you, Mr. Silva has gone from having no chance of getting a payout, to some chance, isn’t that right, Mr. Farrington?”

“It’s not fair that you phrase it in such a biased and unkind way, Mr. Shepherd. What a jaundiced view of the world you have,” said Farrington. “I pity you. I honestly do.”

“Save your sermons for your clients, Mr. Farrington,” said Shepherd, packing up his documents. “I’d suggest honesty is not your best policy.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” I said. “Argumentative.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Eskridge. “The jury will disregard Mr. Shepherd’s statement regarding the witness’s honesty. That was a highly prejudicial remark. As for you, Mr. Shepherd, stick to the evidence.”

“Your Honor,” said Shepherd. “With all due respect, Mr. Farrington admitted to deliberately concealing the defendant’s criminal history for the insurer.”

“Mr. Shepherd,” said Judge Eskridge. “I’ve made my ruling. Please move on to your next question.”

“I have no more questions for the witness, Your Honor,” said Shepherd. With that, he tucked his stash of paperwork under his arm and marched back to his table.

Watching a Clem Shepherd cross-examination was not for the faint-hearted. He had me feeling apprehensive about every witness I exposed to him. That dread was reaching its peak as I got ready to call my next witness. But there was no turning back now. I got to my feet.

“Your Honor, the defense calls Gillian Infante.”

Chapter 44

The stir that arose in the gallery when I called Gillian Infante’s name was a mix of sympathy and morbid curiosity. Perhaps they thought I must be heartless or desperate to expose her to my adversary. At the same time, they salivated at the thought.

I’d spoken to Gillian several times since we’d moved her to Puerto Rico. We’d FaceTimed regularly. She was humbled by the Silva family’s kindness, but still she was homesick. The coming of the trial daunted her, but she wanted to have her say and set the record straight. She hated the thought of Chuck’s death being mythologized in a plume of lies. Members of the LASD were furious to learn she was testifying against them. They’d expected her to be part of their parade. She told me she didn’t care what happened to her after the trial. She was sure they’d come after her, and part of her was willing them to try. She hated those men more with each passing day.

I offered Gillian the option of submitting a written statement, but she was determined to take the stand. When I turned to look at her now, I saw apprehension in her eyes. She’d seen Shepherd at work. How could you not fear taking the stand with a man-eater like that in the waters below?

Every eye in the room followed Gillian as she made her way to the witness box. She was impeccably dress: a gray skirt suit, white blouse, her black hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Both her makeup and her jewelry were understated. She understood the golden rule of court presentation—you want the jury to focus on what you say, not what you’re wearing.

After she was sworn in, I asked Gillian to introduce herself.

“My name is Gillian Infante,” she said, her voice steady. “Chuck Infante was my husband. We were married for three years, and we were hoping to start a family. I knew that when I married Chuck, there’d always be a third presence in our relationship. And that extra presence was his job. He was so committed to his work that he had a hard time switching off at home. But he learned to manage it better. He became so Zen he could walk in the door as a Deputy Sheriff, let go of it all, and then hold me like nothing else mattered.”

“It sounds like Chuck was a man who took responsibility for fixing things,” I said.

“That was him to a T,” said Gillian. “When we couldn’t conceive, he did everything in his power to make it happen. He changed his diet, took cold baths, yoga, and even digital detox. But it just didn’t happen for us. I miscarried twice before he died.”

Gillian’s voice faltered as painful memories surfaced.

“I know this is difficult,” I said gently. “But what made you decide to come forward and testify for the man accused of murdering your husband?”

Gillian cleared her throat. “It’s not right that Eduardo Silva is being accused of killing my husband,” she said. “He is innocent.”

“Do you know who killed your husband?”

“Not exactly,” said Gillian. “But I could take a very accurate calculated guess.”

I heard the shuffle of Shepherd moving in his chair, getting ready to object the moment I asked Gillian to elaborate. But I wasn’t going to do that.

“What makes you so sure Mr. Silva is innocent?”

“When Chuck died, I received some of his belongings, including a notebook that he kept for work.”

I wanted to wait a little before I got to the notebook. “What was the nature of Chuck’s work, Mrs. Infante?”

“Well, he was assigned in Internal Affairs,” she said. “He was investigating corruption in the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. Specifically, the Edgewood Park station.”

“Did he talk to you about his work?”

“He said he was looking into complaints about certain officers. You know, from members of the public. But after a while, I knew things had gotten more serious. This was when we were trying to conceive, so he never wanted to worry me. But I saw the news, and I knew that Edgewood Park had an issue with corrupt deputies. I saw the DA on TV saying he was going to do something about it. The senior ranks of the LASD said there was no such problem. So I knew Chuck had to tread very carefully.”

“Objection,” said Shepherd. “Hearsay. The witness is recounting things she heard from a third party.

“Your Honor,” I said. “The witness has merely relayed information that’s on the public record.”

“Overruled,” said Judge Eskridge.

Shepherd let out an audible sigh of frustration. Loud enough for everyone to hear, but not quite insolent enough for Judge Eskridge to take a piece out of him.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, before turning back to the witness. “Mrs. Infante, did Chuck ever talk to you about the gang activity?”

“No,” she said. “But I had a hunch that’s what he was looking into. I told him I was worried about him being targeted, but he smiled and said he wasn’t the only good guy in the joint. And that was all he said. He always came home with a smile on his face, but I knew things were getting serious.”

“How did you know?”

“He was very stressed,” Gillian said. “I’d see him sucking in deep breaths to calm himself before coming out of the bathroom or kitchen. He was trying really hard to keep it together.”

“Did you ever find out exactly what Chuck was investigating?”

Gillian nodded tearfully. “Only after he died. He was investigating a deputy gang made up of officers at the Edgewood Park station. They’re called the Vipers.”

“Objection,” said Shepherd. “Lack of foundation.”

I’d seen this coming. The items Chuck left for Gillian were work documents and were department property. After Jack and I had made copies, I asked Gillian to hand them back to the LASD. I waited and waited for their contents to be added to the discovery files, but they didn’t want to do that. I made a formal discovery request for the evidence, but nothing happened. It was only after I filed a motion to compel that the evidence was finally filed.

“Your Honor,” I said. “Mr. Shepherd is fully aware that Deputy Infante’s notebook and digital data is in evidence. Deputy Infante made notes about an active deputy gang at Edgewood Park that called the Vipers. So I ask, Your Honor, where’s the lack of foundation?

“Overruled,” said Judge Eskridge, glaring at Shepherd. “You may proceed, counselor.”

I brought up a scan of two pages from Chuck Infante’s notebook. I zoomed in at the top of the first page.”

“Mrs. Infante,” I said. “Do you recognize that handwriting?”

“Yes, that’s my husband’s handwriting.”

From there, I took the court, via Gillian, through everything in Chuck’s notebook. In it, he detailed several accusations of criminal activity laid against his LASD colleagues. But I wanted to focus on a section Deputy Infante had headed: Potential Narcotics Activity. The pages that followed showed that Infante was making observations of one deputy in particular, a subject he calls David Adam.

“Mrs. Infante,” I said. “Do you know who your husband is referring to there?”

“Yes, I believe I do,” she said. “And it’s not someone called David Adam.”

“Could you please explain?’

“Law enforcement units use the same phonetic alphabet for spelling things out over the radio. So Chuck’s notes don’t tell us the name of the suspect, they give us his initials. That’s D and A.”

“Someone with the initials DA,” I said. I knew Shepherd was itching to jump in and object. I wanted to string him out some more. “Okay, let’s park that for a minute, Mrs. Infante.”

We then continued through the notes, which detailed that this “DA” character was observed engaging in unscheduled meetings with known members of the Sonora cartel. An informant had told Infante that DA was planning a big heroin deal. Infante had listed locations. He also observed DA meeting with the shifty financier Arthur Barkley. He noted that he had begun surveillance of DA, and noted that he’d initiated an undercover operation to make contact with Barkley. This involved Infante making a fake drug deal and asking Barkley to launder the dirty money. Infante wrote he was proceeding with extreme caution, and that only his direct superior was abreast of everything he was doing.

“Let’s turn our attention to Arthur Barkley,” I said, changing the image on the monitor to show the relevant section of Infante’s notebook. I had Gillian walk the jury through it. Chuck patiently went about winning Barkley’s trust. But when Chuck asked him to launder some drug money, Barkley refused and said he never touched drug money. After that, Chuck followed him. Later that night, Barkley was in a bar talking with DA.

“Mrs. Infante,” I said. “Do you know who this DA character is?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Shepherd cried. “Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Eskridge.

“Very well then, Your Honor,” I said. “I would like to show the jury a video. It is Exhibit 407, a video gathered by Deputy Infante. He used a covert surveillance device called a Raspberry Pi to access Arthur Barkley’s computer network.”

I hit play. The camera showed a man exiting Arthur Barkley’s office. I froze the frame on the man’s face.

“Mrs. Infante, do you recognize this man?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Who is it?”

“That’s Captain Don Auerbach,” she replied firmly. “He’s a veteran LASD officer. He was the man my husband was investigating. He’s the one Chuck referred to as David Adam in his notebook.” With tears in her eyes, she turned to Judge Eskridge. “That’s the man who should be on trial, Your Honor,” she cried. “He killed my husband!”

“Objection!” Shepherd called out. He was on his feet, his face red with outrage. “Speculation, hearsay, and total lack of foundation. The witness cannot just use the court to make scurrilous accusations.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Eskridge firmly but calmly. She turned from Shepherd to Gillian. “Mrs. Infante, I understand that you are upset, but you must compose yourself and restrict your responses to things that you know to be factual.” Judge Eskridge turned to the jury box. “The jury will disregard the witness’ last remark.”

The courtroom took a little while to go quiet again. All Judge Eskridge had to do was cast her eyes over the room, and they all piped down fast.

“Mrs. Infante, just a couple more questions,” I said. “Did you receive any support from your husband’s former colleagues after he died?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “A day wouldn’t pass without them visiting me, sending me nice text messages, telling me they were at my service.”

“What about after you agreed to testify for the defense?”

“Their text messages stopped,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Just like that. And that’s when the hate started.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got hammered with a stream of vile, abusive messages. All sent anonymously, of course. They were threats, plain and simple, telling me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Who’s they?”

Gillian looked at the judge. “I think I know, but I can’t say,” she said, showing she’d taken on board Judge Eskridge’s warning about accusations. But she had said plenty. The jury could link the dots. I thanked Gillian and returned to the defense table.

“Your witness, Mr. Shepherd,” said Judge Eskridge.

Shepherd tried not to look too eager, but he was clearly taut on the chain. He had some major discrediting to do, and he couldn’t wait to get to it.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” he said, before stopping for a moment at the lectern to cast a discerning eye over the witness. “Mrs. Infante, I think it’s clear for all to see that you loved your late husband very much, and that his death has been an appalling and utterly tragic experience for you. Is that right?”

Shepherd held his poise with a polite smile, while Gillian glared at him, stunned that he had the gall to open with such a phony gesture of sympathy.

“Don’t pretend to care,” she said.

Shepherd lifted his palms in appeal to Judge Eskridge. “Should I rephrase, Your Honor? I sincerely did not mean to cause the witness offense.”

“If you could rephrase, then do so, please, counselor,” said Judge Eskridge flatly.

“Fine,” Shepherd said. “Let me rephrase. “Mrs. Infante, you said that your late husband’s death caused you tremendous emotional pain and distress, which is perfect understandable. But are you angry about your late husband’s death?”

“What do you think?”

“Mrs. Infante,” Shepherd said, with a brief bow of the head. “You have been afforded some grace in light of your grief, but I must remind you that you are a witness sworn in under oath in a court of law. It is for me to ask you questions and for you to reply with the honesty. I’m not being provocative, I’m merely doing my rightful job, which is to cross-examine. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “Now would you mind answering my question? Would you like me to repeat it for you?”

“There’s no need for you to repeat it. Yes, I’m angry. Of course, I’m angry.”

“Is it possible that your rage is clouding your judgement about what happened to your late husband?”

“No. My emotions have not clouded my judgement.”

“Mrs. Infante,” said Shepherd. “Your late husband never spoke to you about the specifics of his investigations, did he?”

“No.”

“So what you are telling the court about what he was doing is your interpretation of his notebook. Correct?”

“A lot of his notes are specific. They don’t require interpretation.”

“But not all, I take it?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you agree that it’s possible that you may have misread your late husband’s notes?”

“No.”

“Is it possible that you’ve drawn a conclusion about his death that’s built entirely on your own speculations?”

“I’m not indulging in make believe, Mr. Shepherd,” Gillian fumed. “Whatever I’ve said here came directly from the evidence Chuck gathered and recorded.”

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Infante. Do you want the court to simply accept your word that your late husband’s diary notes constitute evidence?”

“How dare you call them diary notes,” she glared. “He was an officer of the law. He made those notes on duty. That notebook is evidence of record. So the short answer is, yes, his notes constitute evidence.”

“Actually, that’s not true because your late husband’s actual role was unofficial,” said Shepherd. “But according to you, diary entries stand as objective facts. Correct?”

Gillian took a breath, doing her best to regain her composure. She looked determined not to let Shepherd get under her skin again.

“My husband made specific, detailed notes about an investigation into corruption. He named names.”

“But that’s open to interpretation, is it not, Mrs. Infante? Doesn’t the use of a code, if that’s what it is, indicate a lack of certainty. Correct?’

“No, it indicates discretion.”

“I see,” said Shepherd. “You testified earlier that your late husband—”

“Stop calling him my late husband!” shouted Gillian. Her voice brought the court to a stunned silence.

Mr. Shepherd made a gesture of appeasement with his hands and turned to Judge Eskridge, knowing he could claim he’d done nothing to provoke the witness. “My apologies, Mrs. Infante,” he said. “How about I call him Deputy Infante? Is that better?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, lowering her head with chagrin. “Thank you.”

“Now, as I was about to say, you testified earlier that Deputy Infante was under duress, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“You said he was visibly stressed at home, even though he made admirable efforts to keep this distress from you because you were having trouble conceiving. Is that an accurate summary?”

“Yes.”

“He was having a hard time dealing with the stress of his job and the emotions it roused in him?”

“Yes.”

Shepherd dialed his voice down to a tone of pure serenity. “Now would you agree, Mrs. Infante that none of us are at our best when we are in a state of emotional duress?”

Gillian’s eyes locked onto Shepherd’s. Hers were on fire. His were cool and calm. It was like he’d asked her the time of day and she’d heard the Devil himself make a lewd pass at her. She took a moment to bring herself down, and when she did, she knew he had cornered her. With some shame, she knew only too well that she’d just given the court a prime example of emotional dysfunction.

“That’s true for most people,” she said quietly. “But Chuck wasn’t like most people.”

“Sorry, are you saying the stress didn’t bother him?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“So these notes were written by a man under severe stress, isn’t that right?”

“He was a good, strong man and a damned fine officer.”

“No one’s doubting that, Mrs. Infante,” said Shepherd. “But we are trying to get to the truth here. Are you saying that we should take your interpretation of a stress man’s diary as the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“I’ve told you my truth.”

“Ah, I see,” said Shepherd. “I hear a lot of this ‘my truth’ and ‘your truth’ these days. Call me old-fashioned, but I think the truth is the truth, it doesn’t belong to you or me or anyone. But I won’t get into that. I’ll just ask you this. Do you expect the court to accept your truth, as you call it, as objective fact?”

“I’ve said what I came to say,” said Gillian, her voice faltering. The fight had all but gone out of her.

“That’s all well and good, Mrs. Infante, but in the process a series of wild allegations has been made. Now, I’ll ask you again, do you expect us all, when seeking to find the truth about the death of Deputy Infante, that we accept your truth as objective fact?”

“It’s my opinion.”

“Okay,” said Shepherd. “But you do know that opinions differ, and so it would not be right for us to accept your opinion to the exclusion of all others. Would that be fair and reasonable in a court of law, Mrs. Infante?”

“Yes,” said Gillian quietly, looking like she just wanted to disappear.

“Nothing further, Your Honor,” said Shepherd lightly, like he’d dined well and was now asking most kindly for the check.

Chapter 45

After a brief recess, we were back at it, and I called George Spacelli to the stand. Watching him stand up in the gallery and make his way forward, I couldn't help but admire the young man’s loyalty to his former boss. Sticking his neck out for Silva meant ratting on a bunch of former cons. And as an ex-con himself, he knew there would be hell to pay. But there was no hesitation in his stride as he took the stand in a borrowed suit, a tie knotted so tightly it pushed up his collar wings, and scuffed leather shoes. I’d earlier offered to help him out with his court clothes, but he said his brother would sort him out. I could only hope the jury got to see the integrity I saw in George Spacelli. But to give them that opportunity, I had to risk Shepherd ripping him to shreds.

Spacelli looked much healthier than when I first met him. He was still rail thin and pasty skinned, but there was a bit of wholesome verve about his bearing. He wasn’t twitchy, the sores on his face were gone, and his eyes were rooted in the present, not scooting off here and there looking for things beyond. Spacelli had told me proudly he’d been clean for six months, and it showed.

The background questions brought out Spacelli’s gratitude to Silva for offering him a lifeline. He spoke about other employers he’d approached who weren’t so understanding. Spacelli’s cards were marked, in their eyes. He was, and would always be, a criminal.

I got Spacelli’s crime and time out in the open—six years for car theft and robbery. In at eighteen, out at twenty-six.

“When you were in jail,” I said, “did you ever think it possible that someone with your background could find a normal job?”

Spacelli shook his head and grinned. “No way.”

“Yet Lalo Silva hired you?”

“He hired me on the spot,” said Spacelli. “A lot of guys inside knew that he was hiring guys who just got out. I thought he’d be full up when I got released. But I don’t think a lot of guys actually went to see him—they just went back to what they knew.”

“You mean they backslid.”

“Yeah,” said Spacelli. “But I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to be a mechanic, but at twenty-seven with a chunk of jail time around my neck, not many shops were hiring.”

“Do you have a job now?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“What’s the job?”

“I’m an apprentice mechanic.”

“So someone did hire you?”

“Yes. Two months ago. Thanks to Mr. Silva’s recommendation letter.”

“What did Mr. Silva hire you to do at Phoenix Fitness?”

“To help in the warehouse,” said Spacelli. “We’d package up the online orders and send them out. After a few weeks, he put me in charge of inventory.”

“What did that entail?”

“I had to make sure we had enough stock to meet demand,” said Spacelli. “There was a bit more to it, but that was basically it.”

“Mr. Spacelli, was this set-up merely a front to sell drugs?” I asked.

“No way,” said Spacelli, shaking his head. “Mr. Silva was very clear about that. He’d fire anyone on the spot if he found them doing something illegal. He was proud of what he’d built, and he wanted us to be proud of our work. The past was the past, he said. We had new, good lives to lead, and he was showing us the way.”

“But wasn’t he just asking for trouble, hiring criminals?”

“You could say that,” said Spacelli. “But after he sacked a few guys, we all knew where we stood. It was his way or the highway.”

“But did anyone sell illegal drugs through Mr. Silva’s gym?”

“Yes.”

“Hang on, you just said Mr. Silva kept a close eye on everything. You said he sacked anyone who didn’t play by the rules.”

“And that’s true,” said Spacelli. “But in the months before the fire, he wasn’t around as much. You know, with his wife’s illness and then her dying. Some of the guys took advantage of that.”

“You saw this with your own eyes? Guys dealing drugs out of Phoenix Fitness?”

“Yeah,” said Spacelli. “They were getting stuff shipped in. They had a separate dark web account to market the drugs, and they’d ship them with other Phoenix Fitness orders. Also, they got stuff out onto the street.”

“To street dealers like Frosty Freeman?”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Spacelli, if you knew this was going on, if you saw this criminal activity with your own eyes, if you knew Mr. Silva would not stand for it, why didn’t you tell him?”

Spacelli bowed his head. “I wanted to, but they said they’d kill me if I squealed.”

“Aren’t you taking the same risk by coming here to tell us this, Mr. Spacelli?”

He nodded and looked me right in the eye. “Yes, I am. But I owe Mr. Silva everything. It’s the least I can do to help him. There’s no way he’d have allowed drugs to be sold through his gym, and there’s no way he’d burn it down. That place was everything to him.”

I thanked Spacelli and told the judge I was done. Now Shepherd got his turn.

“Mr. Spacelli, are you sure you never backslid yourself?”

“No,” said Spacelli. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it true that two months before Phoenix Fitness burned down, you were found in possession of illegal performance enhancing drugs, commonly known as steroids?”

Spacelli’s face looked both shocked and confused. He perfectly reflected my own feelings because I’d been through Spacelli’s record, thoroughly. It was totally clean from the minute he walked out of prison. Nothing about a drug bust and I knew it. Someone must have fed it to Shepherd. Someone from the LASD.

Before I could raise an objection, Spacelli spoke. “How did you know about that?”

“So it’s true?” said Shepherd, trying to hide his relish at successfully tricking the witness. “You were found in possession of steroids, and you were let off with a warning. Is that true, Mr. Spacelli?”

“It’s true,” said Spacelli. “But those drugs were planted.”

Shepherd nodded. “Of course, you’d say that, Mr. Spacelli. Would you say pretty much anything to try to save Mr. Silva?”

“That’s not true,” Spacelli said.

“Which part, Mr. Spacelli. The fact that you lied about not returning to your criminal ways or that you’d sing any tune to keep you in favor with your former boss Mr. Silva, a convicted drug dealer?”

Spacelli answered in the negative, but Shepherd wasn’t listening. He was packing up and heading back to his desk, calling out to Judge Eskridge as he went, “No more questions, thank you, Your Honor.”

Spacelli was the last witness of the day, and Judge Eskridge adjourned proceedings until the morning. After the court stood down, and I watched her return to her chambers, I fell back into my chair and closed my eyes. I was beat and could have murdered a beer.

“Wearing you out, are we?” Shepherd called from across the way.

I opened my eyes and saw him packing his briefcase as he stole another glance my way.

“I get it, Madison,” said Shepherd with a smile. “It’s got to be tough fighting a losing battle. It must really sap the spirit. See you tomorrow, bright and early.”

Someone behind Shepherd snickered, but I didn't see who. Before I had a chance to respond, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket and when I pulled it out, I saw that I’d already missed four calls from Lalo Silva.

“Hey, Lalo,” I said when he answered. “I’m just about to come see you. How are you?

“Never better,” he said cheerfully. “How’s George?”

“He did great,” I said. “The prosecutor roughed him up a little, but overall he did great.”

There was a pause in which I just heard Silva’s breath. He was either distracted or reticent.

“What’s going on, Lalo?”

“A little birdie told me you're planning to call Don Auerbach to the witness stand tomorrow,” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. “But as far as I recall, I never sent you the witness list, you being seriously ill in hospital. I’d wanted to spare you any extra worry. How’d you know about Auerbach?”

He must have had a call. Or a visitor.

“Don’t bust your brain trying to figure it out,” Silva said. “But we need to talk.”

The subdued tone of his voice made me uneasy. Was there some other bombshell secret he wanted to share with me? “What about?” I said, cautiously.

“Things have changed,” said Silva cryptically.

“Since when?”

“Since someone came to see me,” said Silva. “I’ve got a problem. A big problem.”

“Yes, you’ve got a very big problem, Lalo,” I said. “It’s called a double-murder charge. Candor is what I’ve been trying to drum into you for ages. You’d better not be telling me you’ve got a nasty surprise for me.”

Silva didn’t answer.

When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with despair.

“Brad,” he said. “It’s all gone south.”

Chapter 46

Sitting up in his hospital bed, Silva looked better than the last time I saw him. Some color had returned to his cheeks, and he was alert enough to be tapping away on a laptop as I entered. Given his condition, the authorities had allowed him limited access to devices.

Silva was so absorbed in whatever he was doing that he didn’t notice me at first. When he did, he closed the laptop and smiled faintly. He motioned to an empty chair against the wall. “Please, come and sit,” he said.

I felt nauseous as I pulled the chair to his bed. This could only be bad news. Maybe Silva had been given days to live, not even weeks. Maybe the compound in Puerto Rico had been attacked. Then there was the same old story—he’s got something to tell me he should have told me months ago. Something that could have made my job, and my life, a whole lot easier.

“I’ve got a feeling somebody’s got a secret,” I said, dropping onto the chair.

“You’re right,” Silva said solemnly. “And you’re not going to be happy to hear it.”

“Okay,” I said, crossing my arms. “Do you want me to listen, or do we need to play the twenty questions game?”

Silva took in a deep breath and exhaled.

“Brad, I’m sorry, man, but I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

There was a sadness in Silva’s eyes that made my stomach sink. Suddenly I sensed this ship I was on—the mission to help this man—was heading full steam into an iceberg.

“Sorry about what, Lalo?” I said slowly, trying to keep calm.

“I’ve had my balls in a vice all this time,” he said. “I wanted to tell you the truth, but I just couldn’t, and you need to understand why. I’m sorry, and I hate to say this, but… you’ve been trying to save a guilty man.”

His words sent my head numb, like someone had jabbed me in the jaw. “What?” I said through gritted teeth. “Explain yourself.”

Silva couldn’t look me in the eye. He bowed his head and looked at his bedsheets instead. He was shaking his head from side to side slightly, like he was ashamed of his thoughts.

“Are you saying you killed those men?”

His eyes flashed back to me desperately. “No, no,” he said. “At least, not intentionally. But I feel responsible for their deaths. It’s because of me that they’re dead.”

“Did you start that fire?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

Silva nodded. “Yes. It was Don Auerbach.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“Because he forced me into helping him,” Silva said, and now I could see he was shaking. With fear or anger or nerves, I didn’t know. Maybe a mix of all three. “He saw me in the papers and found out I shared a cell with Kiki Tacito. And then he came to me, he got his hooks into me, and he never let go.”

Silva explained that Auerbach, bitter and nearing retirement, didn’t like the size of his nest egg. He figured he was owed more. After seeing Silva in the news, he asked around and found out a lot about Silva’s past. He decided to use Silva to secure himself a golden pension. And Silva was going to be given no choice but to help.

“He came to me and said he wanted me to introduce him to the Sonora cartel,” Silva said. “I told him to go to hell. But he wouldn’t back off. I kept refusing. So he raided my gym. Total BS. He got a warrant and stormed the place looking for steroids. They came in, kicked out all the patrons, and then turned the place upside down. Trashed everything. Fifty grand’s worth of damage. They found nothing. But that wasn’t the point. The whole raid was Auerbach showing me what he could do. He told me could have planted stuff, had me arrested, and locked up. Next time, he’d do exactly that. The raid was him just leaving his card, and a clear message. Help him or else.”

“When was this?”

“Right after Rosa died,” said Silva, his voice drained. “Auerbach knew that, too. I told him what I’d promised Rosa about going straight and staying straight. It meant nothing to him. He said now that she was dead, I had no excuses. I could have killed him there and then, but I was trapped. I couldn’t go back to jail and leave my girls. And Auerbach made it very clear that if I didn’t play ball, I’d have no family left to live for.”

Silva continued, how he went through Kiki Tacito to connect with a cartel member. I brought Auerbach in, and the next thing I knew they’d set up a heroin deal.”

Silva shook his head and looked down at his right hand, his fingers clenching his thumb down hard.

“He insisted on using my gym as the drop-off,” Silva said. “Now, this all took months of planning, and sometimes I didn’t see Auerbach for weeks. But then because I got sick, I wasn’t around as much, and that’s when those guys started moving drugs through the place. I think Auerbach gave them the idea. It was like he got them started before the big shipment arrived.”

“I could ask why you didn’t go to the cops, but I guess that’s a dumb question,” I said.

“I know what goes on, Brad,” said Silva. “I know what the Vipers get away with. I know what they’re capable of. They’re ruthless. There are guys I know in prison who’ll never get out because they crossed the Vipers and got framed. If I wasn’t going to end up like them, I had to keep my mouth shut and make like I was going along with the plan.”

“And all this while you’re grieving your wife, trying to run your business, deal with the news that you’ve got cancer, raise two young girls, and plan for their future without you?”

Silva looked at me. “Yeah. That’s about it in a nutshell. I don’t know what I did to God, but he was testing my outer limits.”

A thought struck my mind and I sprang forward in my chair. “Hang on, Lalo. You said ‘make like’ you were going along with the plan? What do you mean exactly?”

Silva shook his head. “He was going to kill my girls if I crossed him,” he said. “But I couldn’t just comply and let him get away with it. I had to find a way to stop him. I thought of trying to record one of our meetings, but he had that big ape Dillon pat me down every time. He always made sure there were no cameras anywhere near us when we met. But then at one point he mentioned that he had to lie low for a while because some internal investigator was sniffing around. So, I had to try to find out who this guy was.”

“Chuck Infante?”

“Yeah,” Silva said, shaking his head ruefully.

“How did you find him?”

“I used a burner phone to place a call with Internal Affairs. I told them it was about a senior LASD deputy who was involved in drug trafficking. Then I waited, and the next day I got a call from Chuck. I strung him out for a long time. I had to make sure he was legit. It took a while, but I was convinced he was one of the good guys.”

“Did he find out who you were?”

“No,” said Silva, shaking his head. “Never. I could not risk it. But I gave him information about Auerbach that proved my word, and so he knew I was for real.”

“And Auerbach suspected you were betraying him?”

“No. But as the drop got closer, he got more and more paranoid. He thought everyone was working against him. He got crazy and vicious, his eyes all wide, spit flying from his lips, screaming at Dillon and that other deputy, Paredes.”

Silva said Auerbach had Arthur Barkley over a barrel. The cop was fit to kill after Barkley lost some of his money. Silva said Auerbach ordered Barkley to stump up two hundred thousand dollars’ cash for the deal. Barkley was terrified of Auerbach, so he found a way to get the money.

Silva said Auerbach screwed the conman. “Barkley thought that money was a loan, but he was never going to see it again.”

When the drop was finally scheduled, Silva called Infante on the night to tell him it was going down.

“Honestly, Brad, I never thought Chuck would go it alone,” Silva said. “This was a big drop. Auerbach and Barkley went to the gym to set up, and the cartel guys were due an hour later. I don’t know what happened, but I guess somehow Auerbach caught Chuck snooping.”

I told Silva that Tuttle’s report provided some clues to what happened. Auerbach may have shot Barkley before Infante even got there. And, being paranoid, he may have just waited and waited in the dark… and then in came Chuck. He knew the deal was screwed, so he did everything he could to cover his tracks.

“So it was you who tipped off Chuck?”

“Yes,” Silva said. “I’m sorry I lied to you when it came up on the first day of the trail. I wanted to tell you the truth but I couldn’t. Not then.”

There was no mistaking the remorse on Silva’s face. “Brad, I swear, I had no idea Chuck would walk straight into that psycho’s web. I know I played a role in putting that heroin deal together—I can’t deny that—but I didn’t do it for profit, I did it for survival.”

I needed a moment to try to process everything.

“It’s okay, Lalo,” I said, putting a reassuring hand on his arm. “I believe you. Jesus, I believe you. I’m just trying to figure out where that leaves us.”

“I can’t testify, Brad,” said Silva. “Not in my condition, for one, but even if I could make it back to court, the moment I opened my mouth I’d be putting a death sentence on my two girls.”

“No one would believe you, anyway,” I said. “The chances of anyone buying your story this late in the game is next to none. You would just sound like an ex-con spinning some BS in a last-ditch attempt to save his neck.”

“What I’ve told you is the truth, the complete and utter truth,” said Silva.

“In court, you don’t get truth without proof. You with me?”

A heavy silence fell between us. It was like I’d just gotten close to completing a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle only for a big gust to spring up and send every piece flying.

“Brad,” said Silva finally. “I need to ask a favor of you.”

“It had better be a small one.”

Silva smiled, then grabbed my hand in earnest. “Could you please tell Gillian Infante I’m so deeply sorry about what happened to her brave husband?” Silva said. “I’ve wanted to reach out to her for so long, but I couldn’t because I had a gun to my head. I had to keep on lying and lying and lying. But now that you know the truth, the first thing I want to do is offer her an apology from the depths of my soul. Her husband was a champion. I never, never meant for him to get hurt.”

“I’ll tell her, Lalo,” I said. “But what did you think would happen when you made that call?”

“I honestly thought Chuck would be leading a team,” said Silva. “The fact that he had to tackle this alone makes me sick. I thought Auerbach would be busted, and I could get on with my life. But I was wrong. God, you don’t know how hard I prayed for that bastard to get what he deserved. But it looks like he might just get away with it all.”

“No, Lalo,” I said. “Auerbach’s going to get exactly what he deserves. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Chapter 47

That night I had a powerful nightmare. I found myself in a hospital bed, feeling sharp pain all over my body. I looked down and saw stab wounds everywhere. They were left open, no bandages, and the room was white and empty but full of noise that had no visible source. I grabbed at the bedsheets, and they turned into some kind of massive snake, entangling me in them, growing tighter and tighter.

Then suddenly I was on a boat with Don Auerbach and Craig Dillon, and my hands were tied behind my back, and I was stuck in a chair. Standing on the rocking deck, Auerbach bent over and wrenched something off the ground. It was a person with a white hood over their head. Auerbach ripped the hood off and to my horror I saw that it was Bella, looking so utterly terrified that I exploded with rage. I tried to wrench my hands free, but it was impossible. I was reduced to a powerless spectator. Auerbach laughed and pulled Bella to the side of the boat. She was screaming hysterically and crying for me to help her, for me to do something, but I was paralyzed. All I could was watch.

“You like fishing, Madison?” Auerbach shouted. “Let’s catch something big.” Bella’s eyes were wide and white, and she looked stunned that I could stand by and watch this happen to her. Then, cackling with laughter, Auerbach tossed Bella over the side. Dillon was at the wheel. He eased the throttle and began steering the boat in a circle. I saw Bella disappear in the wash, and then she came to the surface, kicking desperately to keep her head above the water. As soon as she got air, she screamed. Again and again and again.

Auerbach pressed his sun-browned face into mine. Angry white teeth, manically piercing eyes and a temple vein fit to burst was all I could see. “These waters are full of sharks. Nice big ones. White pointers. Tiger sharks bigger than this boat.”

“Let her go!” I screamed over and over again.

“Should’ve taken the deal, Brad,” said Auerbach. “We could all be living like kings.”

Then Dillon said something, and Auerbach looked out to sea. He laughed and then leaned into me again, pointing out to the water. “See that fin. That’s a monster, buddy. He’s come to join us for lunch. And you’re next.”

Something hit me hard on the side of the head, and I struggled to free my arms that were now pinned under my body. I woke up a sweaty, frantic mess on the floor. It took me a moment to realize where I was, as the remnants of the dream kept flashing in and out of my mind, each time only a little less vivid.

As I came to my senses, the relief was so immense I almost cried. It had felt so real, the terror so expertly crafted to torture me, it was as though Auerbach actually had the power to enter my dreams at will. I stood up and went to the bathroom and got under the shower, repeatedly grateful to have been released from such torture.

I shifted into the workday routine. Get dressed, coffee, toast and off to court. I could hardly wait to see Captain Don Auerbach again, this time in the flesh.

When I called his name, Auerbach marched to the stand with his head held high and his chin out. His crisp captain’s uniform fit snug over his broad shoulders and paunch. He may have dressed well for the occasion—even polished his brass buttons—but resentment seeped off him. I would love to have seen his face when he got served with the subpoena to appear.

As he settled in and took the oath, he caught Judge Eskridge’s eye and gave her a nod and a smile. Then he turned and looked at me, and his face dropped and his eyes narrowed. He was raring to go.

I looked down at my notes briefly before addressing him. “Captain Auerbach,” I said. “You’ve spent thirty years in the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, is that right?”

Auerbach cracked a half-smile. “Yes. Seems like yesterday that I got my badge.”

“You’re proud of your record at the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, I take it?”

“Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Please, Captain Auerbach,” I said. “Leave the questions to me. I’m sure you’re accustomed to situations in which you ask the questions and expect answers. Well, in here, the questions go one way.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me.”

“Just covering the basics. Let’s move on, shall we?”

“Is that a question?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“More of a rhetorical one,” I said with a grin. “My bad. From now on, I’ll leave you in no doubt about when an answer is expected of you. Now, let’s take a look at some standouts on your record, just to dial the jury in on your accomplishments. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” I said and proceeded to read out Auerbach’s career highlights and have him confirm them, with a little extra detail if he wished. There was a medal of valor, a silver meritorious conduct medal, a Purple Heart after being shot on duty, plus a distinguished service award. “That looks like a very impressive record, Captain Auerbach.”

Auerbach lifted his chin a little higher.

“Now, on the flip side,” I continued, “there were a few demerits. Isn’t that right?”

“Officers of my tenure tend to have one or two. That’s nothing unusual.”

“I don’t doubt that, Captain,” I said, “But I’d like to ask you about something that happened quite early in your career. A member of the public claimed you threatened and intimidated him. Is that right?”

“No, that’s not right,” sad Auerbach. “The person in question wasn’t happy that I arrested his son. It was him who threatened me.”

“Is that so?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then why did Internal Affairs see fit to issue you a formal reprimand?”

“You’d have to ask Internal Affairs,” Auerbach replied.

“Well, I don’t really have to ask them. The record shows the man said you pulled your gun on him and jammed it in his face.”

“I did no such thing,”

“If you didn’t, why was it recorded in your formal reprimand?”

“It was written that way because that’s what the other person claimed to be true. He lied. Him saying it happened doesn’t make it true.”

“I understand, Captain Auerbach,” I said. “But I did ask you if a member of the public had claimed that you threatened and intimidated him. And you said no. But that’s exactly what he did claim, wasn’t it?’

“Yes,” said Auerbach with barely concealed contempt.

I let his reply hang for a moment before moving on. “Captain Auerbach, could you please tell the court how long it took you to be promoted to the rank of sergeant?”

“About ten years,” said Auerbach with clear diction, as though this was nothing to be ashamed about.

“Wasn’t it almost twelve years?” I asked.

“Like I said, about ten years.”

“Doesn’t it usually take five to seven years to go from recruit to sergeant?”

“There’s no set timeframe.”

“I’m just asking if you could tell the court what’s typical?”

“I have no idea.”

“No idea at all?” I said. “So you didn’t see guys who started with you get promoted faster?”

“Some did.”

“I can’t help thinking this reprimand from Internal Affairs set you back while your career was still in its infancy. Am I right, Captain Auerbach?”

“Objection,” Shepherd shouted. “Relevance. What does this have to do with the crime we are focused on, Your Honor? And it seems to me like the counselor is trying to provoke the witness.”

“I’m getting the same feeling,” said Judge Eskridge sternly, before turning to direct her gaze at me. “Get back on track fast, Mr. Madison.”

“Your Honor,” I said. “This information has a direct bearing on the case. It will soon be apparent with further questioning, I assure you.”

“It had better be,” said Judge Eskridge. “Overruled. All the same, Mr. Madison, I meant what I said. Back on track.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “Captain Auerbach, looking at your record, I see two instances where you were issued demerits by Internal Affairs. One formal warning, which we just discussed, one verbal warning, which was not quite as serious. Did these marks against you, made by Internal Affairs, slow your progress up the ranks of the LASD?”

“I have no idea,” Auerbach said. “But I earned my stripes doing my duty. And I did well enough to make Captain.”

I looked down at the page. “In your fifties, right?”

“What are you trying to say, Madison?” Auerbach’s eyes were on fire.

I lifted my head and stared back at Auerbach. “I’ll ask the questions, thank you, Captain. Do I need to go over the rules of the court again for your benefit?”

“I know the damned rules.”

“So, unless Mr. Shepherd has any objections, I’ll repeat the question,” I said. “Were you in your fifties when you made Captain?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” I said. “Now, Captain Auerbach, do you know the defendant Eduardo ‘Lalo’ Silva?”

“Yes,” said Auerbach. “We raided his gym for illegal performance enhancing drugs.”

“Did you find any such drugs during that raid?”

“No. I believe they were tipped off.”

“I see,” I said. “So you raided Mr. Silva’s establishment because you suspected he was dealing in steroids, but you found nothing. Did a staff member who you’d cultivated a relationship with betray you? Someone like Nando Guzman?”

“I have my suspicions, but I don’t know for sure,” said Auerbach. “I’m not proud to say we came up empty-handed, but that’s the nature of the business.”

“It’s a bit hit-and-miss, is it?”

“No,” snapped Auerbach. “It only takes a small breach of trust for things to go wrong. I count on my men one-hundred percent. I can’t account for the honor of individuals outside the force.”

“I see,” I said. “Speaking of the force in general—the LASD—there is factual evidence to suggest that there are several deputy gangs operating throughout Los Angeles.”

“Deputy gangs?”

“Come on, Captain Auerbach,” I said. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about law enforcement officers going rogue, forming LASD-officer-only gangs to carry out criminal activities ranging from murder to drug trafficking.”

“It’s all a media beat-up. They take a couple of incidents and make out like it’s rife. If there is such activity going on, it’s in a minority of city precincts.”

“There are allegations that members of your station belong to a gang called the Vipers. Is that a media beat-up too?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware of any member of the Edgewood Park station belonging to the Vipers?”

“If I knew officers involved in such a thing, I’d say so,” said Auerbach. “But it’s not true. It’s just another urban myth spread by people who want to make the LASD look bad. Next thing I suppose you want me to talk about is fairies and unicorns.”

Auerbach turned to the jury, trying to show them his lighter side. But, I was pleased to see, he seemed to only make them uneasy.

“Let’s be clear,” I said. “You’re saying the deputy gang known as the Vipers does not exist?”

“I thought I was clear,” Auerbach said. “I take offense to this kind of make-believe nonsense.”

“I see,” I said. I waited for a short while before speaking. “Thanks for that, Captain Auerbach. That’s very interesting. Now, one of the victims who died in the Phoenix Fitness fire was a man called Arthur Barkley. Did you know Mr. Barkley?”

“Not personally,” said Auerbach, shaking his head and raising his silver eyebrows.

“What does that mean?”

“It means Mr. Barkley was the subject of an investigation, and I questioned him about a particular complaint that he had defrauded an elderly couple.”

“And what was the outcome of this questioning?” I asked.

“He denied it. He showed me a file that indicated he’d invested the money the couple had given him as promised. He showed me the statement and emailed it to the couple. I took some details and passed it over to one of our financial experts down at the station. In the end, nothing came of it.”

“So the video we saw earlier in court was you leaving Mr. Barkley’s office after that meeting, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you were not in uniform?”

Auerbach’s clamped his jaw so hard he just about cracked a molar. “I’d have to see the video,” he said.

“Never mind,” I said. “Captain Auerbach, if that was the only time you visited Mr. Barkley, why did you have an account with him?”

Auerbach’s eyes flared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Didn’t you form a company called Viper Holdings? You gave him eighty thousand dollars to invest. Correct?”

I worked the laptop to bring two images onto the screen. Both were documents I’d found in the files I’d retrieved from Arthur Barkley’s office with the help of Barkley’s fabulous receptionist Henrietta Stubbs.

“For the benefit of the court,” I said, “these exhibits are statements found in the files of Arthur Barkley. Now, this is an account for a company called Viper Holdings LLC.”

I turned my eyes from the monitor to the witness stand and found Captain Auerbach staring at me with barely contained fury. “Do you recognize that company, Captain Auerbach?”

“I invoke my Fifth Amendment right,” said Auerbach with a voice that could sour milk.

“Really?” I said. “You see, if we look here at the California business registry, a Don Auerbach is listed as the principal of Viper Holdings. I’m pretty sure that’s you, Captain Auerbach. Tell me if I’m wrong, won’t you?”

“I never said that was my company,” said Auerbach. “I invoked the Fifth.”

“Okay, let’s talk about Arthur Barkley, then.”

Auerbach sighed. “He was a con artist,” he said. “I was tasked with investigating complaints from people who said he ripped them off.”

“That’s the only reason you visited him?”

“Yes.”

“Not because he lost eighty grand you gave him to invest?”

“Who says he owed me eighty grand?”

“He owed Viper Holdings eighty grand.”

“I think I’ve been clear in how I want to respond to questions about that company.”

Silence fell across the courtroom. Everyone was gripped by Auerbach’s every word. It was no secret he was getting trapped and that he didn’t like it, but he had a feral survival spirit about him. Everyone knew I had him cornered, and they were eager to see how he might leave me swinging at air.

“Captain Auerbach, let’s talk about the fire,” I said. “The day after you visited Barkley’s office, Arthur Barkley was dead, along with LASD Internal Affairs investigator Chuck Infante. Did you know Deputy Infante?”

“No.”

“Were you aware that your unit was being investigated by Internal Affairs?”

“I had no idea,” he sneered. “I thought the LASD was trying to cut costs, not waste lots of money on dead-end projects.”

I moved away from the lectern, a little closer to the jury. “That’s an interesting choice of words, Captain Auerbach. But I guess it doesn’t surprise me that you’re not too fond of Internal Affairs.”

“You mean about that stuff years ago? Come on, counselor. That’s water under the bridge. I have nothing to hide.”

“Nothing to hide?” I said. “You’ve just invoked your Fifth Amendment right to not discuss Viper Holdings for fear of incriminating yourself.”

“Is that a question?”

Auerbach’s eyes remained dead still, but various areas of his face twitched incrementally—an eyebrow raised and lowered, nostrils flaring and easing, and lips that looked unsure of what to do next. If there was nothing between me and this man, then that nothing would be crossed in a flash, and he’d be on me like a panther.

Good. I needed to turn up the heat. I looked up to Judge Eskridge.

“Your Honor,” I said. “I think we’ve reached the point where I’d like to treat the witness as hostile.”

By the time I got my words out, I was back looking calmly at Auerbach. I was not on his menu. He was on mine.

“On what grounds, counselor?” Judge Eskridge asked.

I returned my attention to the judge. “Your Honor, the witness is being evasive. The court has heard that there is a history between Captain Auerbach’s unit and Internal Affairs. I feel that cross-examination offers the court the best chance of getting truthful testimony from the witness.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Auerbach. “Are you calling me a liar, Madison?”

I looked at Auerbach without replying, then turned back to Judge Eskridge. Auerbach had just proved my point.

“I’ll allow,” said Judge Eskridge. “You may proceed as requested.”

Chapter 48

Switching a witness to “hostile” was a tactical move. It meant I could ask Auerbach leading questions, something I’m normally not allowed to do on direct examination—that is, questioning a witness I’ve called to the stand. With leading questions, I could put words in the witness’ mouth. By that, I mean I make an assertion and then ask them to confirm or deny it—yes or no. If done well, it’s like chess. One question at a time, you box them in. It’s a more aggressive approach that gave Auerbach less room to move.

“Captain Auerbach,” I said. “I’d like to focus on Deputy Infante, a highly respected officer, whose integrity was so exceptional he was hand-picked to work in Internal Affairs. You may not have known Deputy Infante personally, but you knew of him, didn’t you?”

“I said I didn’t know him.”

“At some point in time, you found out that Internal Affairs was looking into your unit. Isn’t that true?”

“No, it’s not.”

I went to the lectern and picked out a sheet of paper and held it aloft. “Captain Auerbach, printed here is a text message exchange between you and a lower ranked member of your unit, Sergeant Craig Dillon. In this exchange, Dillon specifically refers to his fear that Internal Affairs are snooping around.”

“That was nothing,” Auerbach said. “The fact that those nerds from Internal Affairs are hanging around gives everyone the jitters. It’s just like I told you earlier. You never know which story they’re going to buy. They’re just thinking of themselves.”

“Thanks, Captain Auerbach,” I said. “I think it’s abundantly clear what you think of the LASD integrity unit. They’re just nosy little nerds, aren’t they?”

“You’re getting it wrong. Just like them.”

“You’re misunderstood,” I said. “Is that it?”

“Nope,” said Auerbach. “I’m crystal clear about my duty. The problems start when everyone wants to add their own interpretation.”

“So we should all just shut up and let you go about your business?”

“I’m just a cop, Madison,” said Auerbach. “You seem to find that distasteful for some reason. I know your job is to keep the scum on the streets. Mine’s the opposite.”

“Sounds like something out of The Dark Knight,” I said. “You swore an oath to serve the community, not to make it serve you. You get that, don’t you?”

Auerbach’s jaw tightened again, but he didn’t respond. His face was a mask of restraint, holding back the words he was dying to spit at me.

“Your text exchange with Dillon indicates that you knew Internal Affairs were investigating your unit, doesn’t it?”

“Who knows what they were looking for. Maybe someone stole a pen.”

Auerbach looked pleased with himself, hearing a few snickers in the gallery.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny, because we know what they were looking for. They thought you were drug trafficking, using your badge to force others to help you. That’s why they got Internal Affairs onto you. You’d left the reservation. Hadn’t you?”

“That’s a lie, and you know it.”

“Chuck Infante was assigned to investigate you and your unit. Are you saying that’s a lie, too?”

“All we heard was there might be an IA sniffing around. That was it.”

“Captain Don Auerbach, the court has seen Deputy Infante’s notes. And under a heading ‘Potential Narcotics Activity’ he makes it clear that he had his eyes on not just on your unit, but on you specifically. At least, he referred to someone in your unit by the initials DA. Did you know that?

“No.”

“So no one relayed anything to you about Gillian Infante’s testimony here in this courtroom?”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t get the scuttlebutt. I was out doing my job, Madison.”

“I checked. No one else in your unit has the initials DA. Isn’t that right, Captain Auerbach?”

“I can’t recall,” he replied.

“You don’t know the names of the men and women in your unit?”

“DA could mean anything,” he said. “Quit keep making out like it’s fact. You leapt to a conclusion. What I don’t understand is why the prosecutor isn’t objecting for speculation? That’s what I want to know.” His fierce eyes were now aimed directly at Shepherd. “Or am I supposed to do that for him?”

I did think it odd Shepherd hadn’t raised an objection. He was just looking at Auerbach with calm, impassive silence.

I shook my head a little, decided to ignore the fact that Auerbach was again asking the questions, and continued. “So this DA character in the Internal Affairs investigator’s notes couldn’t be you. Is that what you’re telling us?”

“That’s what I’m telling you. It could mean anything—Drug Addict, Drug Associate, Drug Asset, Dodge Avenger. Hell, it could even be the District Attorney, for all we know.”

Auerbach had tried to be flip, but the disrespect seeded in the reference to Vandermay hit a bum note with the room. I just had to see Shepherd’s reaction, so I turned to look. He hadn’t moved a muscle since last time. He made no effect to signal to Auerbach to stick the script. Again, I detected a detachment that struck me as very, very odd. I never felt sure I could read Shepherd, so maybe he was just confidently biding his time, waiting his turn for when he’d step up and wipe the floor with me. Maybe he was calmly reflecting on just how many more nails he needed to seal the lid on this case once and for all.

I pushed Shepherd out of my head and continued.

“That was a joke. Right?”

“You know it was,” said Auerbach with disdain.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “But let’s get back on track. Deputy Infante saw great value in watching what this DA character was doing. By that I mean he followed this person and made notes. DA was observed taking unscheduled meetings with known members of the Sonora cartel. You do know members of that cartel, don’t you, Captain Auerbach?”

“No,” he replied. “I’ve busted a few, if that’s what you mean. But that doesn’t mean I know them.”

“I see, just like you claim not to have ever heard of Deputy Chuck Infante, the IA sticking his nose into your unit. Right?”

“Are we back to this again? I never heard of Infante and I don’t associate with drugs dealers.”

“Thanks for clearing that up,” I said. “But let’s be clear. Have you ever met with members of the Sonora cartel?”

“What kind of a question is that? No”

“So, who would be the person Deputy Infante saw meeting with drug traffickers? Remember, it had to be a person in your unit with the initials DA, didn’t it?”

“Like I said, I disagree with your conclusion. Those initials could have meant anything.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe Deputy Infante, who was putting his life in grave danger to expose the criminal activities of the Vipers gang, decided that the best way to make notes on what he observed was to make them vague and ambiguous. Does that sound reasonable, Captain Auerbach?”

“How should I know what his process was? I’m saying there’s ambiguity.”

“The notes describe how Deputy Infante used his skill to win the trust of the conman Arthur Barkley. You know Mr. Barkley, don’t you, Captain Auerbach?”

“Yes. We’ve been through that.”

“Yes, but there’s a point in which it all seems to come together—Lalo Silva, the Sonora cartel, Arthur Barkley, and you. The point I’m talking about is when an informer contacted Deputy Infante to tell him a sizeable heroin deal was being put together. Does any of this ring true, Captain Auerbach?”

“None of it,” he replied flatly. “Am I here to listen to you tell me stories? Is this really why I’m here?”

He checked his watch again, and made his impatience clear to everyone. He didn’t realize he had changed in the courtroom’s eyes. Before, they could understand he was being kept from duty. Now, they didn’t want him to go anywhere.

“After surveilling your unit and the person referred to as DA closely, Deputy Infante had to wait,” I said. “Then one night he got the call that it was on. The deal that DA seemed to have played a leading role in was about to go down in Lalo Silva’s gym. But that DA was not you was it, Captain Don Auerbach?”

“No, it wasn’t? And stop—”

I cut him off. “And Deputy Infante responded to that call and went straight to the gym, to observe or make a bust, we don’t know for sure, do we, Captain Auerbach.”

“I certainly don’t.”

“So let’s go over it again, shall we? You never threatened Lalo Silva to get him to connect you with the Sonora cartel, right?”

“Never.”

“It wasn’t a phony raid that you came up with as an excuse to lean on Mr. Silva, was it?”

“No.”

“You didn’t regard Mr. Silva, a convicted drug dealer trying to make an honest living, as your meal ticket to a comfortable retirement?”

“No. The raid was legit. Check the books. His past was not irrelevant. We had information he’d lapsed back into his old ways.”

“You didn’t see him as someone you could coerce into helping you connect with the Sonora cartel?”

“No. He was just a lying con telling everyone he was getting rich with clean hands.”

“Sounds like you were jealous of Mr. Silva’s success. Is that right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Auerbach spat.

“Okay, now, did you pay a visit to Kiki Tacito in Avenal after you raided Mr. Silva’s property?”

“No.”

I picked up a piece of paper. “This record here says you did. It’s a visitor list from Avenal State Prison. I can give it to you to read, if you like.” Auerbach shook his head grimly. “According to the date here, you went and saw Tacito a few weeks after you raided Mr. Silva’s gym. Do you remember now, Captain Auerbach?”

“Nothing to do with the cartel,” Auerbach said. “It was about a street problem. I sought his help to get some of his hotheads to cool down.”

“Okay,” I said. “But it’s a fact that you visited a Sonora cartel member in jail soon after you raided Mr. Silva’s gym, isn’t it?”

“I’d have to check my calendar.”

“It was a couple of weeks later. Does that sound about right?”

“I guess.”

“And, remind me again, you never threatened Mr. Silva? You never ordered him to connect you with the Sonora cartel. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“And when he refused—and this was a man who’d just buried his wife—you never told him to play ball or his daughters would be murdered?”

“That’s absurd. I never said that. You’re weaving fairy tales here,” Auerbach said, rounding on Shepherd. “Isn’t that hearsay, prosecutor?”

I had a very strange feeling that maybe Shepherd wasn’t silently plotting the finale of my downfall. He was sitting on his hands, unwilling to lift a finger to help Auerbach.

I was about to ask my next question when a ruckus came from the back of the courtroom. I turned around to see people on their feet, some of them trying to stop a man from rushing to the front.

I marched back to stand in front of Judge Eskridge, thinking there was an attacker in the room. Then I saw it was Hayden. He was reassuring the gallery he intended no harm. He had come because he had an urgent message to deliver. He got to the defense table at the same time as I did.

“What on earth is going on here?” demanded Judge Eskridge. “I will not allow my court to be interrupted like this.”

I spun around. “Your Honor,” I said. “This man is Hayden Silva. He is the defendant’s brother. I can only assume there’s been a serious development in Mr. Silva’s health.”

I was right. Between breaths, Hayden told me he had tried to call, but my phone had gone unanswered, so he’d raced over to the court from the hospital. Lalo had had a bad turn. The end might be coming faster than anyone had expected. He needed to see me, perhaps for the last time.

I spun around to address Judge Eskridge. “Your Honor, I must apologize for this disturbance, but I’ve just been given a deeply concerning message about my client, the defendant Lalo Silva. As you know, he’s in the hospital with cancer, but he’s taken a serious turn for the worse. I respectfully ask for a recess.”

“Your Honor,” said Shepherd. “I don’t mean to sound callous, but we’ve done without him okay so far.” Shepherd was on his feet. He took a breath and continued to speak, holding his right hand out in front of him to chop the air with every point. “This trial is poised on a razor’s edge. And we have just seen Mr. Madison indulge in a rather desperate attempt to sully the reputation of a respected deputy—Captain Don Auerbach—and even go as far as to declare that he is to blame for the crimes of this trial. I’d argue that more than the defendant’s state of health, we have a higher duty, and that is to exercise fair and equal justice. I ask that no recess be granted until I have the opportunity to cross-examine the witness.

“Your Honor, Mr. Madison has crafted in the minds of the jury such an unsavory impression of Captain Auerbach that I feel I must be afforded the earliest opportunity to challenge it comprehensively. I promise you, Your Honor, it will not take me long to convince them that they have been deceived.”

Judge Eskridge sat and listened to Shepherd’s plea with interest at first.

“Very noble of you, counselor,” said Judge Eskridge flatly. “I’m granting a recess. Under the circumstances, I think it’s best we resume proceedings in the morning.”

Judge was about to tap her gave when I spoke up. “Your Honor, before you do, I request a sidebar.”

“You may approach,” she said.

The courtroom fell silent as Shepherd and I approached the bench.

“Your Honor,” I said in a low voice, “I have grave fears for my client if the witness is allowed to leave.”

“Captain Auerbach is not in custody, Your Honor,” said Shepherd. “To hold him would be an absurd abuse of the court’s authority.”

The images of the nightmare I’d had before coming to court that day suddenly came to mind with vivid potency.

“Your Honor,” I said. “This man and his underlings have threatened me and my client’s family. The hostile nature of his testimony just now, I fear, could provoke him and the men who work for him to undertake violent retribution.”

“Where’s your evidence, Madison?” said Shepherd, seething. “This is just pure theatrics, Your Honor. I can’t believe—”

“That’s enough,” said Judge Eskridge. “Mr. Madison, I will not detain the witness. That is out of the question.”

“Your Honor,” said Shepherd. “I must ask that you delay the recess until I conduct my cross-examination. It’s the only fair and just thing to do. Like I said, it will not take long.”

I could not allow Shepherd to have his way.

“Who says I’m finished?” I said, thinking on my feet. “I’m not done with this witness, Your Honor. Not by a long shot.”

That came straight off the top of my head, but it pulled the rug out from under Shepherd’s urgency argument.

“My decision stands,” said Judge Eskridge. “I’m calling a recess until tomorrow. The witness will be free to leave court and return in the morning under his own volition. After that, I want to see you both in my chambers.”

We returned to our tables and Judge Eskridge called the recess. As the courtroom emptied, I watched Auerbach step down from the stand and walk manfully to the gate. Every step of the way, he glared at me with a look of pure hatred. I turned to Hayden.

“Get back to Lalo,” I said. “I have to go see the judge, so I’ll be held up for a few minutes. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“I’ll tell Lalo you’re on your way,” Hayden said.

“You do that.”

As Hayden rushed for the exit, I packed up my things and walked up to the bailiff. Shepherd was already there.

“Ready when you are, Patty,” I said.

Judge Eskridge was seated in a high-backed Chesterfield chair. We stood waiting for her to invite us to sit, but she didn’t.

“What’s going on here, Madison?” she said. “You can’t stand there in my court and demand that I treat a witness like a criminal. Your client is the defendant in this case, not the witness.”

“Your Honor,” I said. “I’m serious about the threat that man poses to my client and to myself. I didn’t make such a request lightly. It’s him that should be facing charges, not my client.”

“On what evidence?” said Shepherd. “Your Honor, Madison here is letting his emotions get the better of him. He wants this trial to suddenly stop, for us to drop the charges against his client, book a respected deputy for double murder, and say, ‘Gee thanks, Brad. We couldn’t have done it without you.’” It’s a desperate ploy from a man who knows he’s going to lose.”

“Your Honor, that’s a lie,” I said. “I’ve exposed to the court how Auerbach had reason to kill those men and how he used my client to do it.”

“You’ve done nothing but create a work of fiction,” said Shepherd. “Again. Where’s the evidence?”

“Enough,” said Judge Eskridge. She then looked at me and spoke quietly. “Look, Madison. I’m noting your concern. And while I disagree with Mr. Shepherd about your theories being pure fantasy, he’s right on a couple of important points. We are not here to try Captain Auerbach, we’re here to evaluate the evidence against your client. You know that we can’t just turn one trial into another.”

“Of course, I do, Your Honor,” I said. “And I believe the jury will see the weight of evidence against my client is simply not enough.”

“Wow, what a fascinating insight, Brad,” said Shepherd sarcastically. “And not at all biased.”

“We’re done here,” said Judge Eskridge. “I’m not holding any witness on the strength of unproven allegations. That’s my final word. Now, please leave. Both of you. I’ll see you in court tomorrow morning.”

After we stepped outside, Shepherd put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a wink. “Nice try, Brad. Ever get the feeling you’re fighting a lost cause?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Never.”

Shepherd walked off.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on with you? You didn’t lift a finger to help Auerbach in my direct, and now you claim restoring his dignity is the most important job in the land? What are you up to, Shepherd?”

“Nothing,” he said quietly, with a smile that looked all the world like it was genuine. “You’re doing a great job, Brad. No one could have done better. But I think you know it’s over. There’s not going to be a not guilty verdict.”

Chapter 49

Less than thirty minutes later, I reached Silva’s bedside. He looked awful—his cheeks were sunken and his mouth was agape. But when he saw me, his eyes widened, and he drummed his hands onto the bed with alarm.

“Brad,” he rasped, his voice was surprisingly strong. “Brad.”

Lalo’s strength came entirely from panic.

“What is it, Lalo? Where’s Hayden?”

I’d expected his loyal brother to be there well before me.

“He was here,” said Lalo, his head flopping back onto his pillow. He then shook his head from side to side. “He was just here. You’ve got to stop him.”

“Stop Hayden? Why? I don’t understand.”

It was all too much for him. He was at once struggling for energy, air, and words. I bent over him and gripped his shoulder.

“Auerbach,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “He was here. He’s going to kill the girls.”

“What?” I said, shocked and baffled.

I turned to see the guard who was on duty watching us through the small window in the door. He met my stare with cold indifference and pulled his face out of frame.

“Lalo,” I said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

His sentences came out in fragments between ragged breaths. Writhing as he spoke, he told me Auerbach had stormed in breathing fire. He was furious Lalo had double-crossed him, and ratted him out to Chuck Infante. Auerbach said he was going to make Lalo pay. He said he was going to find his daughters and he was going to rape and torture them, before slitting their throats. And he was going to record it all and come back and make sure Lalo heard it before he died.

I was staggered. It was impossible to conceive of a more savage retribution, but I knew this was not an empty threat. His psychopathic streak was evident in his mutilation of Infante and Barkley’s still-living bodies. I was sure the guard on duty would do as he was told when Auerbach returned with the heinous recordings he’d force Lalo to hear.

“I’ll never forget his words,” said Lalo. “‘You’ll die hearing their screams. They’ll be begging for daddy to help them when I cut their throats.’”

My blood was ice-cold, my body numb. I struggled to process this news and what was to be done in response. How could Auerbach have the audacity to come here and do this? How could he possibly know where the girls are? Hayden was always confident that the girls’ location was both secret and secure. Even if someone could deduce that they were being kept in the Silva family compound at Dorado, the place was built to defend against an attack.

I checked my watch. Judge Eskridge had called the recess almost an hour ago. “Lalo,” I said. “Where’s Hayden?”

“I don’t know,” said Lalo. He spoke softly, and each word was slower in coming. “He went to get you… you weren’t answering your phone.”

I grabbed Lalo’s hand and gripped it tightly. “Lalo? Did Hayden come back?”

“No,” he said. He’d fought the drowsiness of his medication to tell me what had happened, but now could barely keep his eyes open.

“Lalo, where’s Hayden?” I said, speaking louder to try to reach him.

“Brad, please don’t let Auerbach hurt my daughters,” he said. “Please.”

With his next breath, Lalo lost consciousness, and his hand went limp in mine. There was a brief moment of panic where I thought he’d died, but a glance at his monitor assured me he’d only fallen asleep.

I stepped out into the hallway, moved out of earshot from the guard, and called Myrna. I told her to book me on the next flight to Puerto Rico. Quickly, I corrected myself. I then told her to make it two. Jack had to be on that plane with me, armed with whatever he was licensed to carry, plus something for me. There was no need to explain. Myrna just hung up and got to work, but not before telling me she’d update me by text.

Next, I called Hayden’s number. His phone rang out before cutting to his voicemail. I left an urgent message for him to call me, all the while thinking only something bad could have stopped Hayden from returning straight to the hospital from court.

I rushed over to the nurses’ station desk. The duty nurse was on the phone. Another nurse was in the alcove behind her, measuring out doses of medicine. I tried to catch the eye of the nurse behind, but she was too focused.

“Excuse me,” I called over the first nurse’s head. Still on the call, she looked up at me disapprovingly. I stepped to one side and called out again to the nurse in the back. “Ma’am. This is an emergency.”

Without taking her eyes off her task, she replied, “Sir, this is a hospital. But if you could just give me ten seconds to finish what I’m doing here, that’d be great. I really don’t want to kill my patient with a lethal dose of digoxin.”

“Of course,” I said, before thanking her. I found it hard to keep my trap shut, and my body still. I began pacing. My mind racing, wondering where the hell Hayden was and whether Auerbach had contacts in Puerto Rico who could lead him to Rihanna and Bianca.

“Sir?” said a woman’s voice from my side. I turned to see the first nurse standing beside me. Her face had looked concerned when she was on the phone. Now both her face and voice were apologetic.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Sir, you’re Eduardo Silva’s lawyer, aren’t you? I’ve seen you in here before.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s right. I am. He hasn’t gone, has he?”

There was a brief flinch of surprise. “No, no,” she said. “He’s resting. His monitor will go off if anything in his vitals goes astray. The thing is, though, I just got off the phone with a nurse down in emergency.”

“Yes?”

“She said a man had been found in the parking lot bleeding badly. Some passers-by tried to revive him, and by the time our staff arrived, he was barely alive. He’s been identified, and I recognized the name from the visitor’s register.”

“Hayden Silva’s dead?”

“No, sir,” she said. “He’s in theater now, but they’re not sure if he’ll make it.”

“Oh my God,” I said, thinking of how much suffering the Silva family had experienced and how little they deserved it. “You said he was bleeding. What happened?”

“He was stabbed, sir. Somebody stabbed him in the parking lot.”

I drifted into thinking of everything I liked about Hayden Silva. The way he’d helped me carry out his brother’s wishes. He was such a big-hearted, devoted family man. A pain in my fingers alerted me to the fact that my fists were clenched to breaking point.

I had no doubt it was Auerbach who’d stabbed Hayden. Lalo’s daughters were next. And there was nothing in his way.

I bolted for the elevator and pushed the button repeatedly. Simultaneously, I had my phone out, flicking through my contacts. I found the number I wanted just as the bell rang to announce the elevator’s arrival. Someone answered just as the doors closed. Several people were in the elevator with me. Although the voice on the other end came through, it broke up before dropping out. The reception bars on my phone disappeared.

“Damn it,” I said.

I’d driven my car from court to the hospital, and I’d been there often enough to remember exactly where I’d parked. I ran to my car, got in, hooked my phone, then started the engine. After three rings, a woman answered.

“District Attorney’s office,” she said.

I swore in my head. This was the number on the card Lester Vandermay had given me at the ball. He said it was his personal phone, so I’d expected him to answer. But it sounded like I’d come through to the main desk of the Criminal Justice Center.

“I need to speak to District Attorney Vandermay,” I said. “It’s Brad Madison speaking, and it’s an emergency.”

“Hold, please,” the voice said before I could get another word in. I was shifting gears in the parking lot now, hitting the down ramps with a little too much speed, and making the tires screech out three octaves of hell. As I straightened for the boom gate, the muzak started.

I stopped and punched my ticket, which was refused because I hadn’t paid. So I backed up a little, put the Mustang in gear and floored it. As the car slammed through the yellow and black boom gate, the reinforced plastic arm resisted and scraped the whole side with an awful sound. As I passed, I heard something pop, and in the rearview I saw that the gate had been sheared off its mounting mechanism. I dreaded to think of what it had done to the duco.

Suddenly, Lester Vandermay’s voice came through the car speakers.

“Brad? How are you? What’s the emergency? How’s your client doing?”

“I’m not calling about Silva, Lester,” I said grimly. “I’m calling about Don Auerbach.”

“What about him?” asked Vandermay. I could hear he was walking. “Forgive me, I’ve been a little preoccupied with an urgent matter involving the Governor. I just need to change rooms.” I heard a door close, and more body-in-motion sounds.

Finally, Vandermay spoke again. “Brad, I’ve got Clem in here with me now. Just give me a sec.”

Great, I thought. To my annoyance, Vandermay put me back on hold while, I imagined, Shepherd gave Vandermay a quickfire rundown of what just happened in court.

“You still there, Brad?” said Vandermay, his confidence tank full again. “You said you wanted to discuss Captain Auerbach. What about him?”

“Sir, I need you to issue a warrant for his arrest.”

“Come on, Brad,” said Vandermay. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Lester, I don’t know what Clem’s told you, but Auerbach knows he’s going down, and he means to take as many people with him as he can.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m pretty sure he just stabbed my client’s brother at the hospital.”

“What?”

“Hayden Silva, my client’s brother, is in theater, hanging onto life by a thread. He was stabbed in the parking lot not long ago. Lester, Auerbach was at the hospital. He went there straight from court to threaten and torment my client. He told Silva he was going after his daughters. Lester, you need to bring him in.”

“On what grounds, Brad?” said Vandermay. “I can’t just take a deputy off the street because he said something nasty to your client.”“It wasn’t an empty threat, Lester,” I said. “Look,” I said but thought better of it. “Is Shepherd in there with you?”

“Yes he is,” Vandermay said. “You’re on speakerphone.”

“That’s just great,” I said sarcastically. “Lester, can you ask Clem to leave? I need to speak with you in private, if that’s okay.”

“Brad, I trust Clem with my life,” Vandermay said.

“Good for you, sir,” I said. “But I don’t. Please, can he vacate the room?”

A few moments of silence passed before Vandermay spoke again. “He’s gone,” he said. “It’s just you and me.”

“Lester,” I said, “you campaigned to become DA on the promise that you’d go after deputy gangs. I’ve just had a man who’s suspected of heading up the Vipers gang up on the witness stand. I showed he had the connections and motive to put that heroin deal together and to kill Chuck Infante—the man who was investigating his unit for the activity you swore you’d stamp out.”

I heard Vandermay take a deep breath. “Look, Brad, you may not believe it, but I’m hearing you. Clem briefed me on how you pummeled Auerbach on the stand. There are things I want to tell you now that I just can’t say. But right here and now, you know I need probable cause to haul Auerbach in. Whatever came out in court today is not enough to hang a charge on him.”

“So you accept that he set fire to that building, that he killed Infante and Barkley?”

“Not yet.”

“So you believe my client’s innocent?”

“If I remember what Clem said just now correctly, your client appears willing to admit he helped put together the whole deal. That’s not innocent. That’s a felony.”

I had to think of something they could hold Auerbach on. “Check the security video of the hospital parking lot,” I said. “It might prove Auerbach was in the vicinity of the stabbing. It may even have captured it.”

There was a pause as Vandermay cupped his phone and spoke to someone. “Brad,” he said, finally. “I’ve called Clem back in. He said he’ll get someone out to the hospital pronto.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Brad,” said Vandermay. “I’m not flattering you. I couldn’t be taking this more seriously. But if Auerbach is everything you say he is, we need to handle this right. There’s nothing to hang an arrest on. For now, at least.”

“What? So we just wait and see what happens? Lester, this guy called his company Viper Holdings. The fricking temerity of the guy. But it says everything about him. He’s a law unto himself. And right now, he’s hunting down two young girls. Are you just going to stand by and wait until he follows through? Maybe I should start recording this call.”

I heard Vandermay release a soft growl. “Cut the BS, Madison. We’re not running a tabloid website here. I told you. I need grounds.”

“I understand,” I said. “Look, just hold him for questioning. You don’t have to charge him. Just grab him and hold him. Please. It would buy me some time.”

“For what?”

“I need to get to somewhere I’m needed.”

Vandermay accepted that I couldn’t share with him the specifics. He knew I intended to put myself between Auerbach and the girls. “Okay, Brad,” said Vandermay. “I’ll get a warrant.”

“Thanks, Lester,” I said. “You mean you’ll get it right now, as in this very second, don’t you?”

“As soon as I hang up.”

“Thank you, Lester.”

Jack Briggs was ringing all the time I was speaking to Vandermay. I called back as soon as I’d hung up.

“Who’s throwing a party in sunny Puerto Rico, baby?” Jack was doing a great job of sounding like Ken, the male Barbie doll. “And don’t worry, I’ll be packing you a towel. Just like Myrna asked me to.”

I smiled. Jack was letting me know we’d be landing in San Juan well-armed. “Thanks, buddy.”

“It’s totally you,” he said. “The towel, I mean. It’s gray. Matches the color of your personality.”

I hung up.

A second later, a stark idea suddenly came to mind. I kept driving as I opened my briefcase and fumbled through the paperwork. Glancing down sporadically, I could tell what kind of document I had picked up. I was looking for a witness statement, an affidavit, that included not just what the witness had said but his or her personal details and contacts. Finally, I found it. I held it over the steering wheel to read and memorize the address.

“Siri, call Jackass Briggs,” I said.

“Calling Jackass Briggs,” Siri said.

“Can’t wait to see you too, buddy,” Jack said when he answered. “But let’s keep our hugs at the airport above the belt, alright? Chanel’s already a little susp—”

“Listen, numb nuts,” I said. “Are you en route?”

“I’m almost at LAX now.”

“You need to take a detour.”

“What the—?”

“The flight doesn’t leave for another couple of hours,” I said.

“I hate being late.”

“Listen, you’ll have plenty of time to get yourself some duty-free Ariana Grande spray or whatever it is you go for. I need you to go to this address. Like, right now.”

“You’re the boss,” Jack said. Suddenly, through the speakers came an eruption of screeching tires and blaring horns. Jack must have pulled some kind of jackknife maneuver. Then there was silence, save for the strains of Steely Dan’s Do it Again on his stereo. “What am I doing there, exactly?”

“Nothing. Just sit and watch.”

“What if I miss the flight?”

“You won’t miss the flight,” I said. “But if you do, you’ll just have to get the next one.”

There was a moment’s pause before Jack spoke up. “You know there is no duty free, right? Puerto Rico is a US territory. Don’t know how much flying you’ve done, Madison, but duty-free shopping is only a thing when you take an international flight. You know, when you cross an international border and custom duties apply. You did know—”

That was me hanging up. Again.

Chapter 50

I’d just taken the LAX turnoff when Vandermay called to say the warrant had been issued, and LAPD officers were on their way to bring Auerbach in for questioning. What I’d have given to see the look on his face when he answered the door. I enjoyed that thought for a moment, but then something hit me.

I called Vandermay.

“It’s okay, Madison,” said Vandermay. “The cops are bringing him in, they’ll grill him about the stabbing, and they’re going to go through the hospital security camera footage.”

“That’s great. Thanks, Lester.”

“You should thank Clem, too,” Vandermay said. “He helped push the warrant through.”

“Give Clem a kiss for me,” I said dryly.

I got straight on the line to Jack.

“Are you there yet?”

“Been here five minutes already,” said Jack. “Just in time to see them take Auerbach away.

“Already? You saw it?”

“I did, with these two things in my head I like to call eyes. Why?”

“Was he in uniform?”

“No. He was dressed casual.”

“Jeans and t-shirt, kind of casual?”

“Who is this? Vanity Fair’s fashion editor? You want to know what fragrance the dude’s wearing?”

“I’m serious, Jack,” I said. “Just the clothes.”

“What can I tell you? It was sports-bar casual, bowling-alley casual, just popping down to the local DMV kind of causal. Hell, Madison, what the actual—?”

“That’ll do,” I said. “Head to the airport. I’ll meet you at the terminal. You’ve got plenty of time to make the flight.”

I was now certain Auerbach had gone home to change. He was going to the airport. He’d probably had a bag packed already when the LAPD showed up. Somehow, he knew where the girls were. At least, he would know they were in Puerto Rico. He and his goons had known that for a while, if they’d thought to look into Hayden Silva’s movements. The location of the compound was hopefully still an unknown. Anyway, Auerbach’s next move had to be a flight to San Juan. I was grateful Vandermay and Shepherd had bought me some time. It was good to know I was a step ahead of Auerbach.

There seemed to be a hundred ways to fly from Los Angeles to San Juan. Myrna had booked us on the most direct flight. Most flights made two or more stops. We had just one in Newark.

Vandermay had promised to keep me posted via text messages. I’d heard nothing by the time we boarded in LA, and still nothing when we landed in Newark. I had to sit tight. It was still only about 3am California time, and I wasn’t about to start pinging the DA for updates. There was still nothing from Vandermay before we boarded again. Finally, as we touched down in San Juan at midday, a message came through. It wasn’t good.

I called Vandermay as I disembarked. To my surprise, he answered. First ring.

“What do you mean you let him go?” I demanded. Jack was walking ahead, leading the way to the exit. As we waited at LAX, I’d bought a day pack along with toiletries and underwear, sneakers, jeans, and a couple of t-shirts. I changed out of my suit and stashed it in a locker. Now, feeling soaked in the muggy heat of the tropics, I was glad I thought ahead. But it wasn’t the climate that had me hot under the collar.

“Calm down, Brad,” Vandermay said. “The State of California doesn’t work for you, let me make that perfectly clear.”

“I’m sorry, Lester,” I said. “It’s just—”

“We held him as long as we could,” said Vandermay. “He was questioned about the hospital stabbing, and his movements after he left the court. He shut his trap and lawyered up. No definitive security camera footage at this point. Nothing that puts him in the same location as Hayden Silva. It doesn’t mean we won’t find it. He said he went to the hospital to speak with the guard, not to Silva.”

“That’s a lie,” I said.

“If it is, it’s a lie we can’t prove,” said Vandermay. “At least, not right now.”

“When was he released?”

“I don’t know exactly,” said Vandermay. “Sometime after midnight. I got word this morning.”

I held my tongue at the lack of urgency.

“Lester, you know he’s coming here, don’t you?”

“Where’s here?”

“Never mind.”

I was about to spell it out to Vandermay, but I thought better of it. I knew if I asked Vandermay to put travel restrictions on Auerbach, he’d tell me he couldn’t. No grounds. Auerbach had not been charged with anything, and any threat he’d made to Lalo Silva was hearsay. Right now, in the eyes of the law, Captain Auerbach had committed no crime. He was free to go where he pleased.

“Thanks for your help, Lester,” I said.

Silence fell between us for a few seconds. I heard Vandermay take a deep breath.

“I’ve got to go, Madison,” said Vandermay. “Good luck.”

Vandermay was no fool. He must have pieced together what was going on. He knew that this deranged deputy sheriff was intent on punishing a dying man in the most horrific way. Yet he could not lift a finger to stop him. I understood.

If Vandermay ordered Auerbach to be tailed, if he’d made a move to prevent him from leaving LA, he’d stir up a hornet’s nest. The LASD would go loud and hard at him for overreach.

I placed a quick call to the hospital to check on Hayden. Luckily, I got the same nurse who first informed me of the attack. She said he was recovering in a serious but stable condition. The relief was a wonderful respite from the high-tension state I’d been operating on for a day now. I didn’t know if Hayden’s wife Elena knew what had happened. I was just so glad that when I arrived, I had good news to follow the bad. He was alive.

“What time is it here?” I said to Jack.

“Twelve forty-three,” said Jack, flashing his smartwatch face at me while looking at his phone. “Same as Newark.”

When we’d arrived at Newark, Jack boasted how his Garmin GPS watch had updated to the new time zone—not by itself, mind; he’d had to open the app on his phone to synch the device. I made a point of showing him it took me less time to pull out the crown of my Tudor Black Bay and spin the hour hand ahead three hours. I added that both our phones had adjusted all by themselves. Jack muttered something about how phones and automatic watches couldn’t give you a detailed reading of your sleep quality on a flight. He said a lot more than that about his watch, but I didn’t hear it. I’d wandered out of earshot by then.

Jack caught up a minute later. “How about we grab some lunch, then go wait for this SOB to show?”

We were now at the exit, with a rank of taxis parked a few yards away. I looked all around, scanning the area. “You read my mind,” I said. “Now, with any luck, Myrna’s got us a car. I’ll check my emails.”

“I’m guessing it’s over there,” said Jack. He was nodding at a building across the road that had a huge “Car Rental Center” sign spanning its face. Above that sign were another seven signs of all the familiar car rental companies.

Jack flashed his phone at me while still looking over the road. “There’s a Durango waiting for us at Enterprise,” he said. “Myrna emailed us the booking. I guess you didn’t read it.”

Ten minutes later, I was behind the wheel of a black Durango R/T. As we drove through San Juan, Jack was rubbernecking at every food joint we passed.

“So where are we going to eat?”

“Don’t know,” I said. Not for the first time since we left LA, my mind had turned to Elena and the girls. I seethed at was Auerbach had done to this family. I couldn’t wait for him to show his face at Dorado.

“Easy, Tiger,” said Jack.

Without realizing it, I’d put my foot down and was white-knuckling the steering wheel. I was doing almost twice the limit. I eased up, came back down to earth, and soon spotted a BBQ restaurant. I wasn’t hungry when we walked in, but the smell got me, and we were back in the car with two pulled pork sandwiches to go.

On the way, Jack and I mapped out our plan. Once we’d checked in with Elena and made sure the girls were safe, Jack would return to the airport to keep tabs on all arrivals from mainland USA. He’d have to be vigilant because there were more than a dozen flights Auerbach could be on. Gut instinct told me he’d waste no time carrying out his threat. Given what had been exposed in court, his world was crashing down around him. And, if it was the last thing he’d ever do, he was going to drag Lalo Silva into hell with him.

I stopped at the gate outside the compound, got out, and entered the code Hayden had shared with me. I didn’t have Elena’s number, so I was unable to give her the heads-up about my arrival. I drove up the long, winding driveway, and brought the car to a halt outside the house. As we approached, Elena appeared at the front door. She stood cautiously in the door with her right hand hidden behind the frame. When she saw it was me, her expression lightened, her arm dropped to her side and she came down the steps.

I noticed her legs grew a little more unsteady with each step. I ran towards her, and she collapsed in my arms, and began to cry. A moment later, I felt her body regain its strength. She pulled away from me, and wiped her tears away.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Madison,” she said. “But you know Hayden. He is a good man.”

“You know he’s recovering, don’t you?” I asked. “He’s going to be okay.”

“No,” she said, her sadness giving way to joy. “We had a storm last night, and we lost power and phone coverage. It’s only just come back on.”

“Well, I just spoke to the hospital,” I said. “Once they’re happy he’s out of danger, they’re taking him up to Lalo’s room. They’ll be together.”

Elena took my hand with one hand and patted it with the other.

“Hayden and Lalo are very fond of you, you know that?” she said.

“I’m flattered.”

Jack interrupted with a cough.

“Elena,” I said. “This is Jack. Jack Briggs. He’s a private investigator.”

Elena smiled politely and they shook hands. I told her we needed to talk.

“Come inside, and I’ll get you some food,” she said. “How rude of me. You must be hungry.”

We followed Elena inside, walling through the old colonial home into the kitchen.

“Please, sit,” she said, pointing to the large dining table, it’s wood so dark and old it had probably been in their family for decades.

“Elena,” I said. “Please don’t go to any trouble. We actually ate back in San Juan. I didn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense,” she said, emerging with a plate of empanadillas, placing it between us. She returned with dishes of chimichurri, cloth napkins and a jug of water. “I made these this morning. They are still warm. Eat.”

Neither Jack nor I was rude enough to decline, so we each took an empanadilla. As I took a delicious bite, I regretted we’d made that BBQ pit stop. As Elena joined us at the table, I heard splashing and laughter from outside.

Elena smiled. “The girls love the pool. They are like little mermaids.”

I put my empanadilla down. “Who’s here, exactly?”

“Just me and the girls and Antonella,” she said. “Our caretaker Manual isn’t here today. His wife is sick, so he’s at home. Why? Your expression frightens me.”

“Just you, Antonella and the girls? No one else?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“What’s going on, Brad?”

I wasn’t about to sugarcoat it. “Elena, the girls are in grave danger,” I said. “The man who stabbed Hayden is coming here to kill them. He preyed on Lalo, he forced him to help organize a drug deal.”

“Lalo wouldn’t do that,” she said. “He’s changed. He’d never go back on his promise to Rosa.”

“You knew about that?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t think I was supposed to know such a thing, but Hayden told me.”

“He only helped because he had to,” I said. “This man knows Lalo betrayed him. And his vengeance is so deep, so dark and twisted, that he wants Lalo to know his daughters are dead before the cancer takes him.

Elena’s face was pale with shock, her eyes wide, and her hand pressed over her mouth. “This is the same man who attacked Hayden, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Who is this man?”

I hesitated before answering. “Don Auerbach. He’s a cop, Elena. A deputy sheriff. He’s corrupt to the core. He’s abused his power for years. But now he is desperate and more dangerous than ever.”

“If you know what he intends to do, how can he be allowed to come here?”

“I tried everything to stop him, Elena,” I said. “I truly did. But what it boils down to is that he hasn’t broken the law.”

“He stabbed Hayden, Mr. Madison,” she exclaimed. “How can that not be breaking the law?”

“The truth is, there’s no proof—yet—that he stabbed Hayden. I just know from the chain of events that it was him. The police questioned him about it but with no hard evidence to make a charge they had to let him go.”

“This is madness, what you are telling me,” she said. “This man is a lunatic.”

“He’s definitely unhinged,” I said. “That’s why we came here. We’re not going to let that psychopath lay a finger on the girls. I promise.”

Elena then sprang into action.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Madison,” she said confidently, “we have the perfect place for the girls to hide. And they will do what I ask them to do. They are clever girls, and they’re brave. They’ve seen enough of the world to know it’s not all unicorns and rainbows. I will be as honest with them as I can. I will tell them someone is coming to take them away. They will be good. Antonella can remain with them. My God, I haven’t even told them about Hayden. That will have to wait, of course.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I need to stay with you,” said Elena. “For your own good.”

I narrowed my eyes a little. I never doubted Elena was a force to be reckoned with, but the subtext of her words was that she would soon have everything under control.

The three of us walked out to the pool. Antonella and the girls welcomed me with big smiles. As they dried themselves they chatted excitedly, asking about their father, telling me they’d only just spoken to him this morning. They asked after Gillian, and spoke of her with touching fondness. They said they missed LA and were desperate to hug their father. Trying to be positive, I told them they’d be doing just that sooner that they’d think.

“We’ve been begging Aunt Elena and Uncle Hayden to take us to see daddy,” said Rihanna, the eldest of the pair. “But they said we had to wait until his trial was over. How is the trial going, Mr. Madison?”

“I’m doing my absolute best,” I said. “But listen, I came here with some important news, and I’m going to let Aunt Elena tell you all about it. Okay?”

Elena stepped forward and put her arms around the girls and led them to a nearby table setting. I turned my back on them and when I heard their cries, I guessed Elena had told them about Hayden. I turned around to see the three of them hugging tightly. Antonella rushed over to throw her arms around them.

A few minutes passed before Elena walked over to me. “Look,” she said. “As you can imagine, the girls are very worried about their uncle now. He’s so good to them.”

As Elena spoke, her voice never wavered, but tears began to stream from her eyes. She wiped them away indifferently like they were dust. She beckoned us to follow her back into the kitchen.

“I suppose Hayden told you that this compound is just about impregnable.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I didn’t believe him at first. I asked him where the gun towers were. I asked where the guards were. That’s when he told me about his grandfather, and what he’d done to protect his family. He didn’t give me much detail, he basically said his grandfather was crafty like a fox.”

“You can’t always rely on guns, Mr. Madison,” Elena said, opening a draw. She took something out an held it up to show us. It was a small white plastic object with buttons, like a remote control. “Hayden’s grandfather was very clever about what he built here. But we’ve modernized things a little.

“Come,” she said, dropping the clicker into a pocket in her dress. “We need to prepare. Don’t worry about the girls. Antonella knows what to do. Does this man know where we are? As in, our address?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t see how, though. Hayden was always super cautious about being tailed.”

“The problem is,” said Elena, “if this man waves ten dollars in the air asking where we live, he’ll have the address in five minutes. So we must assume he knows where we are. That’s good.”

“Good? How can that be good?”

Elena stopped. “What is your plan?” she said. “Tell me your plan.”

I told Elena that Jack had to go straight back to the airport to screen arrivals from mainland USA. He’d call me as soon Auerbach had landed.

“So when Jack sees this man, he’ll follow him?” Elena asked.

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said again.

“You seem to like saying that.”

She turned to me with a glint in her eye like I’d questioned her wits.

“This way,” she said with a wry smile. “Before Jack leaves, I’ve got a job for you both.”

Chapter 51

The first flight Auerbach could have made arrived at four o’clock. Jack was there to check, but Auerbach didn’t show. Jack was confident Auerbach could not elude him. On the flight over, he’d gotten busy on his laptop, taking the best headshots of Auerbach we could find and using Photoshop to rework them into various disguises. He made dozens of Auerbachs, each a unique combination of hairstyle, hair color, glasses, sunglasses, and facial hair.

“Something tells me this’ll be the look he goes for,” said Jack in the air somewhere between Newark and San Juan. He spun his laptop on the tray table to show me. On the screen was an image of Auerbach with a Hitler mustache and greasy combover.

“Hilarious,” I said dryly. “Now, swallow that gum and finish your homework.”

Commencing Auerbach watch at the airport, Jack knew he could identify his target, whatever his disguise, from a mile away.

At six, I got a message from Jack saying Auerbach had landed and was now waiting at baggage claim.

I told Elena, and then Antonella took the girls to the bunker underneath one of the rear bungalows, just as we’d planned. The girls were very calm. Antonella had told them government people from the mainland were coming. Education department. They had questions about why the girls weren’t at their old school in Los Angeles. They had refused to listen to their father, who said his daughters were being properly homeschooled in Puerto Rico until his trial was over. If these government people saw the girls, Antonella lied, they might be tempted to take them away for questioning. Lying to the girls was tough on both women, but it was for the best.

“Just got into a cab,” Jack texted. “Will let you know which way he’s headed.”

Fifteen minutes passed with no follow-up. I resisted the urge to contact him—we’d agreed the texts would be one-way traffic, from him to me. Maybe Auerbach was getting finding accommodation, or getting something to eat, or asking cab drivers if they knew where Hayden Silva lived. The thought of Auerbach doing that, asking some good-natured local to help him find his “friend” Hayden Silva sickened me.

As the minutes passed, I wondered if something had gone wrong. But I had to sit tight. He’d message me only when it was safe to do so. Because I knew how well Jack can handle himself, and that our plan was so straightforward, I found it hard to believe he’d been compromised somehow.

Forty minutes Elena and I were having coffee at the kitchen table when my phone pinged. “Subject booked into hotel near airport,” the message read. “Now by the pool with a beer. He looks set for a while. Heading back to base.”

I read the text over and over. Why would Auerbach go to a hotel and chill? The idea that he could be so relaxed about this mission was deeply disturbing to me. Maybe he wasn’t planning to go it alone. Maybe he was waiting for back-up. A hotel near the airport made strategic sense. Easy to access, easy to exit. What was that snake was up to?

Jack had obviously broken off surveillance, so I called him. He answered after two rings.

“Bradley,” he said. “I’m just coming up to the gate. We can talk face to face in a sec.”

With that, he hung up. I sprang to my feet.

“Something’s wrong,” I told Elena.

I reached for my backpack, took out the gun Jack had brought for me, flipped the safety off, checked the rounds and chamber and tucked it into my jeans at the back.

“How do you know?”

I didn’t answer.

I raced to the security video screen that was fed by the gate camera. All I saw was the Durango passing by. Jack had already punched in the code and was winding up the dark window.

“Jack never calls me Bradley,” I said. “I think Auerbach’s in the car with him.”

Elena’s eyes widened for the briefest moment before she swung into action. She swept into the kitchen, grabbed an apron, and, while tying it on, marched over to the front door, and flipped a switch.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She turned to me, smiling and patting her apron down. “I’m turning on the outside lights for the guests, Mr. Madison. Come on. You know what to do.”

I went and joined Elena as she opened the front door and stepped out onto the veranda. I was not expecting a pleasant surprise, but what I saw shocked me.

Auerbach had somehow managed to get the upper hand on Jack and forced him to be the Trojan horse that delivered him inside the compound. Jack exited the car from behind the wheel. He had blood running down his face and his hands were cuffed. From the rear driver’s side, someone stepped out, but it wasn’t Don Auerbach. It was Craig Dillon. Then, over the roof of the car, two more heads appeared. One was Auerbach, the other Enrique Paredes.

All three came into full view and approached us, with guns raised. Dillon’s was dug into the back of Jack’s head. Auerbach and Paredes were aiming at me.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” I said with a big grin. “What a wonderful surprise.”

No one smiled back.

“Paredes,” said Auerbach. “Frisk him.”

As Paredes came up the steps, I raised both hands. As he patted me down, I realized what must have happened, and I kicked myself for not seeing it coming.

I’d only ever figured that Auerbach’s hateful mission was a DIY job. It was so deeply personal, I just expected he’d handle it himself, like he’d demonstrated at the hospital. But now it was all too obvious that Auerbach had enlisted the services of his two favorite henchmen as backup. They were all in it together—Vipers, one and all. Jack had never seen Dillon or Paredes, so they may have hung back and caught him following their leader.

Paredes took my gun, signaled I was unarmed and stepped back to keep his weapon on me.

“Who’s this bitch?” said Auerbach as he reached the bottom of the steps.

“Aren’t you the charmer?” I said.

“Me llamo Valentina, Señores,” said Elena in a nervous voice that caught my attention immediately.

“Is that right?” said Auerbach, getting up close to her. “Valentina?”

She turned her face away. “Solo soy la sirvienta. Solo soy la sirvienta,” she cried. “Por favor, señor. No me haga daño.”

Before my eyes, Elena had transformed herself into a woman I didn’t recognize. Gone was the feminine steel. Her whole body was now trembling—her shoes shuffling erratically, her weak knees threatening to buckle. I heard her whimper.

“What the hell’s she saying, Paredes?” Auerbach yelled.

“Hang on a minute, Don,” I said. “She’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Shut your mouth,” Auerbach barked at me.

A sudden burst of acute pain erupted in my back. Paredes had punched me in the liver, and it felt like he managed to get all his weight behind it. My legs gave way and I fell to the ground. I could do nothing else but roll around on the floorboards, moaning in agony.

“Paredes,” yelled Auerbach. “What’s she saying?”

“She said she’s the maid, and she asked you not to hurt her.”

Auerbach looked around.

“¿Qué quieres él?” said Elena, looking at Paredes.

“She wants to know what you want.”

Elena rattled off a few more sentences, talking fast as if her life depended on it.

“She said Mr. and Mrs. Silva are not here. They’re both in LA. She said the wife flew out yesterday. Something bad happened. Gee, I wonder what that was, Captain? She said if we’ve come to rob the place, she won’t stand in our way. Then she asked if you could let her go.”

Auerbach laughed. “Really? She won’t stand in our way? That’s a relief. I was just wondering how the three of us could take her.” Then he laughed wickedly. “But come to think of it, I know a way.”

Grinning menacingly, Auerbach grabbed hold of Elena’s jaw. “Quite pretty for a spic, isn’t she? No offense, Paredes.”

“None taken, sir.”

He let her go. He looked around the compound, looking confident the situation was well in hand.

“Tell her we’re not robbers, we’re here for the girls. What are their names again?”

“Rihanna and Bianca,” Paredes said.

Auerbach produced a knife and flipped the blade out. This was not so much a boy scout tool as a military grade weapon—a Hogue EX-01 with a four-inch drop point blade.

“Tell washer woman here I want to know where the girls are. If she doesn’t show me, I’m going to decapitate these men right in front of her, and then I’ll find a place to put this blade inside her.”

Paredes translated Auerbach’s demand.

“Valentina,” I said through gritted teeth. “He will kill them.”

“Shut your trap, lawyer boy,” sneered Auerbach. “Man, am I going to enjoy watching you die. You thought you were in the driver’s seat back there in court, didn’t you? All high and mighty with your fancy suit and slick words. Weren’t you clever? Well, dumbass, who’s got the wheel now? Just you wait, you’re going to be begging me for mercy. And I can tell you right now, I’m never going to give it to you.”

Auerbach scraped his throat long and loudly. Then he launched a spit at me and I felt it hit my thigh.

“Now, Valentina,” said Auerbach, turning back to Elena and leaning his face into hers. “The girls. Where are they?”

Elena said something in Spanish and Paredes translate immediately. “She asked why do you want them?”

The question took Auerbach a little by surprise. Elena’s tone made clear that her question was not a reprimand but a query. If it was the former, he’d have slapped her face.

“That’s none of your business,” Auerbach sneered.

Elena let fly again, looking panicked as she spoke, but at the same time curious. “You want to kill them,” Paredes said. “Why do you want to kill them? What did they do?”

“What is this nonsense?” said Auerbach before turning around to Dillon. “Do believe the balls on this woman?” He swung his gaze back onto Elena. “I don’t need your help to find them. I could just burn down every building on this property.”

When Elena spoke again, her bearing was gaining in strength. Again, Paredes stepped in to translate. “She said they’d survive, and we’d be arrested. There’s a police station nearby. If a smoke alarm goes off, the cops will be here in a minute.”

“How would they survive?” said Auerbach, putting his thinking cap on. “They’re underground. Is that it, lady?”

Paredes translated for Auerbach then absorbed Elena’s response before passing it on to Auerbach. “She said we can do what we like with these two, she doesn’t care. But without her, we’ll never find the girls. They’re in a bunker with their grandmother. She said the staff are never allowed in there. The rumor is the Silva family keeps cash or drugs in there.”

“Is that right?” asked Auerbach skeptically. “What do you think, Sergeant? Sound too good to be true?”

Dillon looked at Elena with nothing but contempt. “I say she’s lying.”

Elena asked Paredes what “fat face” said, sending a scornful gaze Dillon’s way. Paredes laughed and told her. She then fired some words that matched the way she was looking at the big sergeant. “The Silva family are selfish pigs,” Paredes translated. “They are wealthy because they work us like slaves. Oh, and she called Sarge here fat face.”

Auerbach gave a thin smile. “So, she’s no fan of the Silva family?”

Paredes and Elena conversed, and as the exchange progressed, she made like she was free at last to speak openly. With open disdain, she told Auerbach, via Paredes, that the two girls lived like princesses while her children and her entire family lived in poverty. They think they are aristocrats, but everyone knows Eduardo Silva is nothing but a drug dealer. That he has cancer is a shame, because it means he won’t rot in prison.

Auerbach found the woman’s story to his liking. I was stunned at Elena’s performance.

“What the hell, Valentina?” said Jack. “Remind me to never give you a reference.”

Auerbach swung around to Jack. Then he turned and nodded at Dillon to shoot. Dillon smiled and raised his gun to Jack’s head.

Elena made a noise of protest, and addressed Auerbach.

“She said it’s not a good idea to shoot him just yet,” Paredes said.

“Why not?” said Auerbach.

Elena took a breath and then relayed a big chunk of advice that she could only hope Auerbach took. She told him that right now he had two slaves at his disposal and he was going to need them. She said the girls were in a bunker underneath the house at the back of the property. A large bookcase hides the entrance. She said Jack and I had been left in charge after Mrs. Silva left for Los Angeles. She said we spent half the day putting a massive bookcase into place and filling it up. We’d acted like we owned the place, telling everyone what to do.

“Quizás ellos pusieron una trampa allí. ¿Quién sabe?” she said.

“They were expecting you,” Paredes translated. “Maybe they set a trap. Who knows?”

Auerbach thought about this for a moment, and the idea seemed to have merit.

“Where are the men?”

“What men?” Elena replied via Paredes.

“Family. Staff. I see no men. Where are they?”

I couldn’t believe how perfectly Elena was playing the role of abused servant, finally having license to say what she really thought of her masters. I was amazed, but not entirely surprised, to see Auerbach buy into it. She was seducing him with distrust and disdain—qualities I guess he found irresistible. He liked what he saw in this woman. In a perfect stranger, he’d found a kindred spirit.

Elena scoffed and released a rapid-fire string of scorn that I didn’t need translated to catch its drift. Paredes, again, did the honors, telling Auerbach that the so-called men of the house, Ricardo and Gregorio, were at a bar getting drunk. Their pompous cousin, Hayden, had been stabbed. He was alive, but those two monkeys would use it as an excuse to get drunk for days.

Jack and I weren’t going to do anything other than keeping our mouths shut. We both knew who was in control here, and it wasn’t Don Auerbach.

Elena’s words put Auerbach at ease. He suddenly felt bulletproof in his new surrounds. “On your feet, Madison,” he growled, before addressing Elena again. “You. Lead the way.”

“Lidera el camino,” Paredes said to her.

Elena nodded, before making her way down the steps. She took the group around the side of the main house and onto a red brick path leading to a small white adobe dwelling fifty yards ahead. Another path veered to the left toward a large bungalow. A warm, gentle sea breeze passed over us, carrying the sound of small waves breaking on a beach nearby. The sun was low, and torchlight was not quite needed, but I willed the night to come on fast. Outnumbered and out gunned, we’d need its cover if things went sideways.

When Elena reached the building, she stopped and pointed without speaking. It was clear the girls were hiding within. Auerbach told Dillon to go inside and check it out while he and Paredes held their guns on Jack and me. Dillon reappeared in less than a minute. He’d turned the lights on inside and scoured the small house that Elena had shown us the day before. He described what he saw to Auerbach, mentioning the bookcase. Then the two of them got closer and talked things through in whispers. Then Auerbach broke away, waved his gun at us.

“Get inside,” he said.

The front door opened to a living area with two white couches facing each other separated by a six-by-eight seagrass rug. On the opposite wall there was a large heavy bookcase that Jack and I had, as Elena said, spent a lot of time putting into place.

“Move it,” said Auerbach. “The pair you.”

Jack stepped forward and held out his cuffed hands. Auerbach stared at him blankly and told him he’d either make himself useful with his hands like that, or else his brains would be splattered over those nice, white couches. Jack quickly joined me at the bookcase, took one end and grabbed it with both hands. I leaned into my side and we both grunted with effort, but the bookcase didn’t move.

“Might be best to take the books out,” said Paredes, standing between the couches. “Make it lighter.” The cold stares, when he turned around to see what Auerbach and Dillon thought of his suggestion made Paredes regret opening his mouth.

Elena held up her hands and stepped back towards the door, saying something to Paredes, and suggesting it was good advice for them all.

“She said she doesn’t want to be anywhere near that thing if that falls,” he said. The other three men in the room ignored her. They were too busy watching us and sensing Auerbach’s rising impatience.

Both of us tried again, straining to put some momentum into the bookcase to get it sliding sideways. After a few attempts made in vain, we stopped to catch our breath.

“I think it would be better if we swapped sides and tried to move it this way,” said Jack. “That way, I can push instead of pulling.”

The insolence of Jack even opening his mouth was too much for Dillon who marched forward with his gun raised. He fired a round that struck the wall six inches from Jack’s head.

“One more word, wise ass, and the next bullet goes into your temple,” he said. “Now move!”

I cast a quick glance at Elena who blinked slowly. That was the signal.

Suddenly, a loud metallic crack emanated from below, sending a shudder through the entire house. The floor opened up, swallowing Dillon whole, taking the seagrass rug with him. In the same moment, my hand grabbed the pistol we’d strapped into a recess behind the bookcase, and I turned it on Paredes and fired. His feet must have been on the edge of the rug, because as it fell through the trapdoor Paredes was yanked off balance. The shot that I meant to put in his chest instead struck his head as he fell. As for Auerbach, he hadn’t moved an inch because he was now staring down the barrel of a revolver held by the wife of the man he’d tried to kill just hours before. She’d grabbed it from the front pocket of her dress that was concealed by the apron. She had it trained on Auerbach before he’d even raised his weapon.

The trapdoor had shut quickly after swallowing Dillon, but I didn’t trust it to walk on. Instead, I stepped around it to join Elena, all the while keeping my gun on Auerbach, who still had his knife in his left hand and his gun in his right.

“Don,” I said. “This Elena, the wife of that man you stabbed at the hospital.”

Try as he might, Auerbach couldn’t hide the regrettable awe of being so masterfully played.

“You are not only an evil man,” said Elena, in perfect English. “You are a stupid man. You didn’t think a woman might be armed? You swallowed that disgruntled housekeeper rubbish like a hungry little bird.”

Auerbach went to speak, but couldn’t find the words. His surprise at the sudden change he saw in this woman was obvious. If his brain was struggling to find an upside, it came up short. His eyes shifted around the room as he weighed up his options.

I checked Paredes. Blood was streaming from a gash on the side of his head. He was out cold, but his chest was moving. Lying next to him was his gun. Too close to his hand for my liking.

“I think you’ve got two choices, Auerbach,” I said. “Drop your weapons, and you get to live. Or make a dumb move, and you get to do suicide by cop in reverse—suicide by citizen.”

Auerbach muttered something under his breath as he glared at us with hatred.

I bent down on my haunches to take Paredes’ gun, trusting Elena to keep Auerbach honest. I picked up it and offered it to Jack, who was now standing beside me.

As I began to straighten from the crouch, I heard a faint rustle of movement that I knew instantly had come from Auerbach. I didn’t get to see whether he’d opted for knife or gun, but no sooner had that sound betrayed his purpose than a thunderous shot deadened the room. I looked up to see Don Auerbach falling down toward me with no life in him to arrest his fall. His weapons hit the floor before he did, landing with a clatter and thud. On his way down, I saw the neat hole that Elena Silva had put in his forehead, and the bright red splatter his last thoughts had left on the wall behind.

Elena kept her aim on Auerbach as he landed. No second bullet was needed.

I looked up at her, and saw the intensity of her focus ease.

“He chose suicide,” she said.

Chapter 52

“Brad, so good to see you,” Hayden Silva said, having chatted with Myrna before she showed him in. He accepted Myrna’s offer of coffee and came in for a hug before sitting himself down, everything done with that cheerful energy of his.

The ordeals of the past year had taken a visible toll on Hayden. He’d aged noticeably. He’d made a full recovery from his attack but the terrible burden of grief and sadness of everything he’d endured showed in new wrinkles and grayer hair. His spirit, though, remained as fiercely buoyant as ever. The special quality Hayden Silva had of shining even in life’s darkest moments would never ever be doused. Much like the memory of his courageous brother Lalo.

“How are the girls?” I asked. They were back in Los Angeles, at a good school, and living in a new house. Elena and Antonella had relocated to LA to take care of them. Hayden was flipping between two places, running his business in San Juan while looking after his brother’s interests here.

“They are doing well,” he said. “They’re enjoying school, they’ve both made great new friend, and they are just wonderful, wonderful little humans. They miss their father so badly but they carry their sorrow with a wisdom far beyond their years. Everything is for the memory of their dear mother and father. They know the letter by heart. It’s beautifully sad, in the way that loss educates us about what’s precious in life. Love, family and time.”

The mention of “the letter” threw us both into a moment’s silence as we reflected on the man who had brought us together. That fire on Normandie Avenue seemed like years ago when it was still more aptly measured in months. I don’t know about Hayden, but I for one couldn’t think of Lalo without thinking of the end. How he’d managed to outlive his nemesis Don Auerbach for two long, precious months. How the girls came straight back to Los Angeles and visited their father every day, right up until the last day came. How he died with the two of them huddled in his arms.

Ultimately, everything fell Lalo’s way, except for time. A few days after I returned to LA in the aftermath of Auerbach’s death, and the arrests of Dillon (after he’d been retrieved from the doorless bunker he’d fallen into) and Paredes, I went to meet with Vandermay and Shepherd.

At that point, the State was unwilling to dropped the charges. Shepherd was proving stubborn—not in a pig-headed way, it was just professional pragmatism. He was a prosecutor, and an outstanding one at that, not a therapist. My all-out effort to corner Auerbach on the stand had revealed that Lalo did play a role in the drug deal. We’d gone to trial at great expense to the State because he denied his guilt. From Shepherd’s viewpoint, the fact that he may have been coerced into helping Auerbach was certainly a mitigating factor, but not an exonerating one.

I’d returned to Vandermay’s grand office that day to try and convince them to drop all the charges against Lalo. I told Shepherd I completely understood his resistance. It was then that I knew I had to play my strongest card.

At this time, Hayden was in the bed next to his brother, still in the early days of his recovery. But I’d stopped by to visit the brothers on my way to the DA’s office. When I told Hayden this could be the last roll of the dice to clear Lalo’s name, Hayden thought for a moment and the leaned over to one side and took something out of his bedside draw.

“My brother doesn’t want to be remembered as a recidivist. Not by his daughters, not by his family, and not by his country. He was proud of what he achieved and he was placed in an impossible position. I know he wouldn’t approve of me doing this, but we are human, and I have no shame in appealing to the humanity of powerful men. I think sometimes they’re in desperate need of it.

“I think you should read this to them,” Hayden said extending his hand out, insisting I take the letter that Lalo had written for his daughters to read after he died. “You must never tell him I opened it. That’s our little secret. But his voice, his heart, his spirit, his goodness is in this letter. They will truly know the kind of man he is when they read it.”

So that’s what I did. When I believed Shepherd would never agree to dropping the charges against Lalo, I offered him the letter.

“What’s this?” Shepherd asked.

“It’s something very private that I’m compelled to show you now. Lalo Silva doesn’t know I’m doing this. He doesn’t know I’ve read it. As you can see from the inscription, it was meant for his brother Hayden to open and read to his daughters when he died. Lalo would be mortified if he knew I had this letter. More so that I’m offering it for you to read. Hayden himself feels ashamed that he’s betrayed Lalo’s trust. But he wanted me to show you. And this is where we are.”

Shepherd took the envelope, removed the letter and began reading.

To my dearest Rihanna and Bianca,

I know I haven’t made the best of choices in my life and for a man who ended up in the worst of places, I can’t believe how lucky I was to end up with such a beautiful, loving family. If only I had known about you ahead of time, my sweet girls, then maybe I could have prepared a better life for us, one far away from the mess I got tangled up in.

Know that I tried everything possible to avoid this situation, but someone threatened to harm those closest to me if I did not help him carry out a serious crime. I tried to warn the authorities, but it backfired and people died because of me.

I once made a promise to your mother, one I tried so hard to keep by turning my back on crime for good. Unfortunately, crime followed me and refused to let go, forcing me to break my promise, and for that I am eternally sorry. If only I had more time to make it up to you but unfortunately God has other plans for me.

Know that I am with your mother now and that together we will watch over both of you. We will never leave your side, my angels.

Your ever-loving father

Papa

Clem’s face softened as he read Lalo’s words. He then sniffed and straightened himself while folding the letter and returning it to the envelope. With a gesture, he asked if he was meant to show it to Vandermay.

The District Attorney, seeing how powerfully the letter had affected Shepherd, refused, saying that out of respect for its author, the next eyes that should read those words should be his daughters.

“I think that’s the right call, sir,” said Shepherd, composing himself. He then looked at me. “Brad, you have my word that this letter goes no further than this room. Out of respect for Mr. Silva’s daughters, I will never utter a word of it to a soul.

“And you can tell your client that in the eyes of the people of California he is a free and innocent man. The minute I leave Lester’s office, I will move to drop all charges against him.”

With that he handed me the letter and we shook hands.

“Much appreciated, Clem,” I said. “That’s very good of you.”

Vandermay coughed. “How about I speed things up a little?” he said. He then made a call to Sheriff Keith Henderson, the boss of the entire LASD. In a pleasant, business-like manner, Vandermay told Henderson what ADA Clem Shepherd was about to do in regards to the charges against Lalo Silva. It sounded like Henderson offered some resistance but it was out of his hands. Keeping it brief and to the point, Vandermay said the point of his call was to request that the deputies guarding Lalo’s room stand down. After a brief moment, he hung up.

“Sheriff Henderson will order his men to leave the hospital immediately,” Vandermay said. “The girls will no longer have to pass a guard to see their father.”

He will never know this, but with his own words, Lalo Silva set himself free.

Hayden gratefully took the coffee Myrna had offered him. By now she knew exactly how he took it—white and one. We then proceeded to get on with some paperwork to do with the trust.

That done, Hayden smiled and got out his laptop. “There’s something I want to show you,” he said. “It’s very exciting.”

He brought his laptop to my desk and turned it around to face me. On the screen were the plans and drawings of the new building that would literally rise from the ashes of Phoenix Fitness. This was the project that had been keeping Hayden busy in LA. The plans and the design were impressive but what caught my eye was the name.

“The Silva Phoenix,” I said pensively. This was both a tribute to Lalo’s legacy and salute to his vision. “He’d love it.”

Hayden mentioned in passing that George Spacelli was managing the online supplements business under the tutelage of Theo Farrington and making a great fist of it. There was a bigger role waiting for him at the new gym.

Finally, our business was done. Hayden and I chatted for a while. As we wrapped things up, Hayden leaned forward in his seat.

“Brad, Lalo gave you two letters to pass on to me. Remember?”

“Of course,” I said. “The other one was addressed to you.”

“That’s right,” said Hayden. “And I’d like to discuss it with you now. I’d like to know your thoughts.”

“Okay,” I said with slight hesitation.

“It’s about Gillian Infante.”

“Really? The letter’s about her? I was not expecting that. Lalo did ask me to apologize to her on his behalf, but he did that himself when the girls brought her in for a visit.”

“He wrote this letter before then,” Hayden said. “Gillian had only just arrived at Dorado. But he was so touched to hear how Gillian and the girls hit it off, I think it planted a seed that he watered with his imagination. And so, he dreamed up a vision of the future, and he wrote down it down in this letter. It is essentially his hope that something beautiful that might rise out of the ashes of this tragedy.”

“I take it we’re not about a gym?”

Hayden shook his head. He then said someone had once told him that we don’t get to choose our family, we only get to choose our friends.

“But he was wrong,” Hayden said, reaching into his coat pocket and producing the second envelope. “We do get to choose who we call family and you, my brother, are part of ours.”

I was moved by Hayden’s words, and repeated what I’d told him many times before–how honored and grateful I was for Lalo Silva bringing me into his life.

“Brad, in this letter Lalo wonders if there might ever come a day when Gillian would love to be his daughters’ godmother.”

I raised my eyebrows. “One thing you can say about Lalo is that when he asks for something he asks big,” I smiled, remembering how surprised I was that he placed so much faith in me so quickly. “Are you asking me whether you should show Gillian the letter? Or are you asking me what I think her response would be.”

“What her response would be.”

“I’m certain that she would consider it an honor and a privilege,” I said. I’d seen first-hand the wonderful relationship Gillian had with Lalo’s daughters. It was certainly not a tonic to make the pain of losing Chuck go away. She would always love him but he’d want her to love again, and one day her heart would be open to that. But in many ways, she was already the girls’ godmother. Lalo’s request would just make it official.

“I wonder if this is asking too much,” Hayden said. “I wonder if she’d consider it to be a burden.”

“Never,” I said. “She’d only be too happy be Rihanna and Bianca’s godmother, Hayden. But I would like to make a suggestion.”

“What’s that?”

“It would be better coming from Lalo himself,” I said. “Show her the letter.”

THE END