REASON TO DOUBT Read online

  “Sorry. No can do. You’re too close to this case. I need you to hand it off to–”

  “Forget it, Tyler. No way am I’m passing this off. Not to anyone. If I uncover something to prove the police arrested Pete Pompidou by mistake, it’ll go a long way to healing my relationship with my daughter, which right now needs a lot of salvaging.”

  Tyler paused. “You sure you want to do this, Carol? Might not work out as well for your daughter as you think. I mean if you find he’s guilty.” My stomach knotted. “Just sayin’.”

  “I’ll do two weeks of traffic reports if you give it to me.”

  “Make it a month, and you got a deal.”

  I wasn’t surprised Tyler agreed. KTLK’s news department operated with a staff of five. Tyler, Eddie, a retired tower engineer, a part-time Sportscaster who filled in on the weekend, and me. Finding someone to sub in for a story I was already working on would be tough. Volunteering to do traffic reports virtually guaranteed Tyler would give me the story.

  “And don’t tell anyone what you’re up to. I mean no one. Not Chase. Not your family. No one. Close as you are to this case with your daughter dating the prime suspect, the cops are going to be watching and listening to everything you do and report on. If the cops learn you’re sitting on the confession of a suspected first-degree murderer, they’re going to want to talk to you. In fact, they’ll probably subpoena you and threaten to throw you in jail if you don’t reveal your source.”

  Tyler didn’t have to explain to me the importance of not revealing the name of a confidential informant. News operations, particularly those investigating stories behind the scenes, needed insider information. Without people willing to talk off the record, KTLK didn’t have leads on stories that were the station’s lifeblood. As a reporter, it was my job to take what a confidential informant gave me, verify that information with a second and third source, and report it. If word got out a reporter had rolled over and given up to the police what information had been given to us in confidence, that reporter would be burned and the station toast.

  CHAPTER 5

  The first thing I noticed when I got home Wednesday night was Cate’s car. I considered it a good sign since we’d argued the night before about her being grounded. The second thing I noticed was Chase. He was standing in the courtyard outside my front door when I came up the stairs from the parking garage.

  “I hope you’re not planning on making this a habit,” I said.

  “Nice to see you too, Blondie.” Chase took a sucker from inside his jacket and smiled. He hadn’t shaved and there was just enough of a shadowed beard to remind me of how it had tickled against my face. “Cate here?”

  I brushed the thought of our previous close encounter from my mind and placed the key in the lock. “Should be. Her car’s parked downstairs.”

  “Good, because I thought as a friend,” he emphasized the word, “this deserved a face-to-face.”

  “Friend, huh?” I glanced over my shoulder, the smell of his cologne distracting. “You talked to the police?”

  “I did. And I’ve got some news about Pete, I think the both of you should hear.”

  I shoved the front door open. Misty and Cate were seated at the kitchen table, a copy of the morning paper in front of them. The smell of homemade lasagna wafted from the oven.

  Cate looked up and, seeing Chase behind me, smiled. “He’s back.”

  “He is.” I dropped my bag on the counter and joined Misty and Cate at the table. “And he’s got news concerning Pete.”

  “You talked to Pete?” Cate sounded hopeful.

  “No. But I did talk to a couple of buddies of mine in Robbery-Homicide. They agreed to share with me a little of what they knew in exchange for my help on another case.” Chase pulled a chair up to the table. “Word around the unit is they started tracking Pete after Shana Walters was killed. They’re pretty sure they got their guy.”

  “Why?” Cate’s eyes narrowed, and she looked anxiously at Chase, then back at Misty.

  “They didn’t tell me everything, but when they found Shana’s car, they also found one of Pete’s business cards in the glove box. He mention anything to you about when they last worked together?”

  “No.” Cate shook her head.

  Chase locked eyes with me. I wasn’t going to like this.

  “Pete’s name was on the cell phones for the other two models he’s suspected of killing. Each of them had called him prior to their deaths. And when homicide detectives learned Pete was in Venice and had a girl with him–alone in his apartment–they got nervous.” Chase paused and looked at me. “They were afraid Cate might be his next victim.”

  “What?” I put my hand to my heart and looked at Cate. “Did the cops say anything to you about that?”

  “No. And that’s ridiculous. They asked my name and if I was okay. Then they told me I should get out of there. Why would they think–”

  “Hold on,” Chase held his hand up. “The good news here is that because Cate’s okay and doesn’t appear to have been a victim, the cops may have overreached. I’ll get to that in a minute, but first, Cate, how well do you know Pete’s roommate, Billy Tyson?”

  “Billy?” Cate shook her head and gestured with her hands up. “I’ve never met him in person if that’s what you mean. Pete said he worked with him a couple times. He liked to tell people he was a photographer, but he’s not.”

  “I did a little checking around on my own. Pete’s roommate’s a registered sex offender. He was charged and convicted of having sex with a minor when he was eighteen. Turns out, Tyson had a rich daddy and paid some expensive defense attorney who advised him to plead guilty to avoid jail time. He was released on probation. But the registry jacket as a sex offender follows him the rest of his life. He’s required by law to notify the officials where he’s living, and if he moves or leaves the state, he has to let them know. The place at the beach belongs to his family, and it looks like he’s been there for at least ten years.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like Pete knew that.” Cate shook her head. “He didn’t even know Billy before he found an ad on Craig’s List. And they didn’t exactly hang out together. The beach house is a place for Pete to crash between jobs. He’s not there that often.”

  Chase rubbed his hands together.

  “Are you aware Pete never listed the Venice address on his driver’s license?”

  “So?” Cate shrugged. “Paperwork’s not Pete’s thing. Maybe he forgot.”

  “Maybe. But he also forgot the registration on his van. It’s past due, along with a couple outstanding traffic tickets. In fact, there was a bench warrant out for his arrest.”

  “Arrest?” I looked at Cate and shook my head.

  “And that’s not all. Pete’s last tax return was three years ago when he claimed moving expenses from Seattle to L.A. His real name’s not Pete Pompidou. It’s Peter Phillips. Born June first, 1989. Vancouver, Canada.”

  “Is he even legal?” My voice cracked.

  “Mom!” Cate snapped at me and crossed her arms.

  Chase continued. “He has a green card. But his tax return back then showed he worked briefly for Lenny Marx Photography. Maybe you heard of him?” Chase looked at me and raised a brow. I shook my head. The name meant nothing. “Big-time photographer. Does a lot of high-end celebrity portrait stuff. Mostly black and white. Museum quality. Like Annie Leibovitz. But according to his former employer, Pete didn’t last too long. Lenny said he used him mostly for setting lights and stuff, but thought the kid was getting antsy. Didn’t like putting in the time to learn the trade. After a couple months, Pete told Lenny he was moving on. If it hadn’t been for Pete’s website, my buddies in Robbery-Homicide might not be so interested.”

  “What about his website?” I asked.

  “PompidouPhotography.com. It was a virtual cash box of information for the cops.”


  “Why? Because he’s got photos of each of those girls on his website?” Cate’s tone was sarcastic. “It’s not exactly like he’s the only photographer in L.A.”

  “Cate!” I scolded.

  “Oh come on, Mom, you know how it is with actors and models in this town. They need new headshots and photos all the time. The photos Pete took were all the girl-next-door type of shots. The paper said all those girls were posed like centerfolds. Pete never took nude shots. That’s not his style.”

  I glanced over at Chase. It sounded reasonable.

  “Which, if Cate’s right,” Chase said, “might work in Pete’s favor. That and the fact the site didn’t have the best security. An amateur hack could have downloaded the models’ photos with their contact information right from the site.”

  “See. It could be anyone,” Cate said.

  “Maybe, but in addition to the photos on the website, the cops had a search warrant for his apartment.”

  Cate rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I was there. Remember?”

  Chase laid out what investigators had found. A pair of tan work boots. Size ten. The tread matching footprints from the sites where the girls had been murdered. “Forensics is checking soil samples now to see if there’s a connection. Plus, Cate, they found a silver lunchbox tucked away in the back of a closet at the house. Detectives think Pete may have been keeping souvenirs.”

  Cate bit her lips and looked up at the ceiling. I wasn’t sure if she were about to cry or scream. I reached for her hand, and she pulled away and crossed her arms .

  “Inside,” Chase said, “were a pair of earrings, a couple of barrettes and a hairbrush with long strands of dark hair in it. Investigators are pretty sure the hair may be that of Eilene Kim.”

  “Did they find a tube of lipstick as well? Gloss anyway. And don’t bother checking for DNA. I’m sure they’ll find it. That lunchbox was Pete’s toolkit. He wasn’t keeping souvenirs. The brush? The barrettes? The lip gloss? They were there if the girls needed something for a shoot.”

  “Detectives have also been talking to a friend of Shana Walters. She remembers the last time she saw Shana. She told her she was going on a photo shoot with Pete Pompidou.”

  “Look, I don’t care how much so-called ‘evidence’ the cops think they found or who says what about Shana Walters going to meet Pete for a photo shoot. Pete didn’t kill that girl or anyone else. And I can prove it.”

  “Wha–” I was ready to explode.

  Chase held his hand up to keep me quiet.

  “You may have to do that, Cate. The cops are going to want to talk to you. And, Carol, if I were you, I’d get Mr. King’s number on speed dial.”

  “If I need a lawyer,” Cate said, “I’ll call my dad. He’s an attorney.”

  “Cate,” I put my hand on her arm and held it firmly. “Your dad’s a corporate lawyer. He doesn’t handle criminal cases, not like this.”

  Cate shook my hand free. “Yeah, well it won’t matter. If the cops ask me, I was with Pete the day Shana Walters was murdered. I remember because I saw her picture in the paper the next day.”

  “Do you remember where you were when you saw it?” I asked.

  “Big Bear. We drove up for the weekend and stopped for gas and supplies at a convenience store.”

  “You remember the name?” Chase asked.

  “Big Bear something. I forget. But we were there twice. We went back the next day for some canned chili. It was cold and Pete loves chili. We cooked it over a small Bunsen burner because we couldn’t get a fire going.”

  “You get a receipt? Anything to prove you were there?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Pete paid for everything. If he got a receipt, it’s probably in the glove box in the van. And just so you know, since the cops have Pete’s van, there were shovels and ropes in the back because we were camping.”

  I raised my brows and looked back at Chase. If Cate could prove they had been there, if there had been cameras or if we could find the receipt, it might be enough to explain why Pete was in the same area where Shana was murdered. And if Cate could retrace their steps, we might be able to convince the cops they had the wrong guy.

  Misty stood up and brushed a section of Cate’s hair behind her ear. “It’s going to be okay, Catie.”

  “I hope you’re right, Misty. Pete doesn’t deserve any of this.” Cate pushed Misty’s hand away and stood up. “I’m sorry, I can’t listen to this anymore. I’m going upstairs.”

  Misty went back to the kitchen to check on dinner.

  I waited until Cate was out of earshot. “I don’t see any hard evidence here. If all the cops have on Pete is a pair of shoes that are maybe the same size and type worn by the killer and a–”

  “Not so fast,” Chase said. “Investigators don’t think Pete acted alone.”

  “They certainly don’t think Cate–”

  “No. But they do think someone else may have helped him. Kenneth Bianchi, the Hillside Strangler, didn’t act alone. He had his cousin, Angelo Buono. Together they killed ten women. It’s likely whoever’s killing these girls isn’t working alone either.”

  “And now that Pete’s roommate is missing, and has a record, you think there’re two of them? That they’re in on this together?”

  “I’m not thinking anything at all. Not yet. All I know is your daughter’s no fool, Carol. I seriously doubt if Pete Pompidou was some serial killer she’d be running around with him. But the fact Pete’s roommate has a record and is missing doesn’t make things any easier for him.”

  I was tempted to say while I wasn’t wild about Pete, I didn’t fancy him a serial killer. Even harder, I had to resist the urge to tell Chase about Xstacy. How she had called the station and confessed to killing the Model Slayer. But I didn’t dare. I knew better. Tyler had warned me not to say a word to anyone, and I had promised Xstacy I’d leave her name out of it. If I broke my silence and told Chase, not only would I be violating a trust, but if things went south and I was later arrested for withholding evidence in a murder investigation and asked to reveal my source and refused, Chase might be called in to testify and asked what he knew as well. Not a good idea. Besides, I had no proof anything Xstacy had shared with me was true. I still had my research to do concerning the accident and a call to make to Xstacy’s friend, a dancer named Jewels. Whoever she was.

  Misty returned from the kitchen and placed a casserole dish down in front of us.

  “I made your favorite, Chase. Lasagna Bolognese with homemade pasta and some fresh herbs from the garden. Help yourself. I’ll take a plate upstairs for Cate and leave you two alone to figure things out.”

  I waited for Misty to leave, then asked Chase if he had told Misty he was coming over. How else would she have known to make his favorite dish from scratch? Given Misty’s age and speed at which she shuffled around the kitchen, it would have taken her several hours.

  “No. Absolutely not,” he said.

  “Then how did she know to make–”

  “What? Lasagna Bolognese? Carol, at some point you just have to give yourself over to the fact you’re living with a psychic, and like it or not, she knows about us.”

  “Us?” I got up from the table and took two dishes from the cabinet. “There is no us, Chase. There was just that once and it was a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” Chase took the dishes from my hands and put them on the table. “I’d like to make a few more mistakes like that in my life.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen.” I sat down and placed a napkin on my lap. If it weren’t for the fact Chase was already plugged into the investigation and had uncovered more information about Pete than I knew, I would have told him to go home right then. Instead, I said, “You need to understand, just because we’re working together doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen between us. I don’t care what Misty thinks. We’re not a
n item.”

  Chase scooped out a large portion of Misty’s lasagna onto his plate. Hot gooey stands of stringy cheese clung from the plate to the spoon. My taste buds began to salivate.

  “Come on, Carol, it’s not like I seduced you. If I recall you were very–”

  “Vulnerable,” I said. “Besides, I’ve told you, it’s complicated.”

  Chase broke a long stringy strand of cheese from the plate with his finger and licked it, then let it melt in his mouth. “Hot and messy. Just like I like it.”

  “I assume you’re talking about the lasagna and not our relationship,” I said.

  “I thought you said we didn’t have a relationship.”

  Chase scooped a smaller portion of lasagna onto my plate.

  “I did.”

  “Good, because I get it, Carol. We’re just friends.”

  I stared at my plate. “I want to make it perfectly clear since we’re going to be working together that I intend to keep this thing between us professional.”

  “Carol, I get it. We’re friends.”

  I sat back in my chair. The hot smell of melted cheese beckoned me.

  “But with benefits, right?” Chase winked.

  CHAPTER 6

  Thursday morning, Pete was arraigned, and I joined a chorus of reporters outside the County Courthouse. All of us were there for the filing of formal charges against Pete Pompidou. Like cattle we were shuttled through security scanners, our pocketbooks examined, and reporters’ bags searched. Once cleared, we were directed to the fifth floor. Not since the Night Stalker or the Hillside Strangler had a case raised so much fury and concern among Angelenos.

  Inside Judge Petrossian’s courtroom, I sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the visitor’s section with reporters on either side of me while we waited for this morning’s proceedings to begin.

  Arraignments are little more than an opportunity for the suspect to enter a plea and the judge to check his schedule with the defense and the prosecution and set a date for trial. Today’s proceeding was expected to take no more than ten to fifteen minutes.