thinking I was Williamsâs killer. Even after the detectives had cleared me, the look of suspicion that I was somehow responsible for Williamsâs death accompanied every glance my way. In LAPD minds I was an amateur, a woman who had gotten one of their own killed.
The chief of Pasadena police, Ed Chavez, and Harrison were waiting for me as I stepped out of the paramedicsâ truck. EMT had done their best to wash Detective Williamsâs blood off me with saline, but it still clung to my pants and stained the skin on my legs. The bandage around my ribs where Hector Lopez had hit me with the baseball bat had softened the searing pain, but each breath was still accompanied by a dull, lingering ache.
Lacyâs big Latino godfather, the tough ex-marine, took one look at me and began to fume.
âGoddamn LAPD,â Chavez said.
I looked into his big brown eyes and shook my head. He had spent much of his career protecting me, even when I didnât need it. The thought that LAPD would have put me in cuffs for even a second was enough to ignite his fuse.
âI really need a bath,â I said.
He softened, if just a little.
âThey wouldnât even let me take a look at the scene,â Chavez said.
The image of Williamsâs dark glistening wound and the severed pearl-white windpipe flashed in my mind.
âI could have done without seeing it,â I said.
They each took an arm and began walking me to my car. There were more than two dozen LAPD units, a SWAT truck, crime-scene investigators, and a mobile command center surrounding the apartment building now. A secure perimeter had been set up in a two-block square. Most of the residents of the building were still out on the street awaiting questioning or because they were afraid to go back inside, thinking a madman was loose in the building.
We crossed the street and stopped at my car. The smell of smoke was stronger now. Tiny flakes of ash were drifting on the wind, covering windshields like a dusting of snow.
âWhat do I need to know that canât wait until tomorrow?â Chavez asked.
I took a careful breath, easing the air past my damaged ribs.
âHe didnât do this,â I said.
Chavez looked at me, not understanding.
âI think the wrong man has a target on his back right now,â I said.
âLopez?â
I nodded. âHe told me he didnât do it.â
âRight after he whacked you with a baseball bat,â Chavez said. âInnocent people donât whack cops with baseball bats.â
I glanced at Harrison and saw in his eyes that he understood.
âThere was no reason for him to let you live if he killed Williams,â Harrison said. âHe had nothing to gain, not the way Williams died.â
Chavez chewed on that for a second, then looked over toward the members of SWAT walking by dressed in tactical black and carrying Mac-10 machine guns.
âLAPD has a different opinion,â he said. âWe would be doing the same thing if we lost one of our own.â
âThat doesnât change the fact that Lopez isnât a killer,â I said.
âSo what is he?â
âHeâs the only person who can ID the man who took the surveillance tape,â Harrison said.
I started to nod, then realized that might not be entirely accurate.
âThere may be someone else. Dana Courson, my . . . Manningâs girlfriend may have seen him.â
âIf so, she could be in danger,â Harrison said.
âShe said she sensed something was wrong and told him she lived down the hall. He may not know who she is.â
âHe found Lopez,â Harrison said.
âAnd he killed Williams by mistake.â
Chavez looked at me for a moment. âYou think the killer thought he was murdering Lopez?â
I nodded. âAt least until it was already over, then it was too late.â
âAnd Lopez walked in and found a dead cop on his floor,â Chavez