I was overruled.
Chapter 47Grey, the Detective
PRESENT DAY
Grey looked down at the fingernail clippings in the evidence bag, then at the report from the forensics lab, and knew the biggest case of her career was fucked.
Yardley, that handsome FBI bastard, had been throwing roadblocks for weeks, swearing he had a new lead, new evidence, and he would be ready to show her soon—FBI protocols must be observed, blah blah blah. Grey knew a stall when she saw one. But even after Rosie had been found dead, she’d agreed to wait on arresting Scout for the good of interagency cooperation, and because Captain Xie had insisted she not step a toe out of line or else the entire LAPD would face a level of public scrutiny that would make the post–Rodney King era look mild—his words, not hers.
And now Xie was going to have a heart attack when she told him that, based on what she now held in her hands, the case against Scout was toast. Since Grey was who she was—tenacious, she liked to think, though others had used the wordsstubbornandbulldog—she’d continued quietly working on Scout’s case without the FBI. Ever since the forensics team recovered Scout’s hair from Drake’s bathroom sink, Grey had felt confident that the physical evidence was on her side, and it was only a matter of time before the rest of the pieces fell together.
And then, two weeks ago, she’d spent a late night scrolling that blog Ellis had introduced her to,Hollywood Anonymous, which seemed to have gotten a second wind covering the cultural firestorm that Scout’s “Hot Girl Murder Club,” or whatever name theTimeshad given it, had sparked. She’d wanted to find out what people thoughtabout Scout’s guilt, wondering if someone would leave a tip or a clue, when she’d spotted an ad for Timothy Fraser Collectibles, a website for “authentic celebrity mementos.” On a whim, she’d clicked the link. And what she’d found made her heart drop. In large text, on the homepage:At Timothy Fraser Collectibles, you can find unique and intimate collectors’ items—everything you need to bring you closer to your idols. Bid on locks of Justin Bieber’s hair; Fidel Castro’s anti-assassination snuffbox; Elvis Presley’s baby tooth; a piece of John Lennon’s clothing, worn when he died (bloodstain authentic); and much more!
The site purported to sell artifacts from hundreds of celebrities, everything from autographed photographs to used towels to rare records, and Scout was among the stars featured. Grey had imagined there was a market for celebrity autographs, but locks of hair, bloody clothing, fingernail clippings? It was prurient, ghoulish.
She’d wanted to confirm the site was bogus, otherwise Scout’s legal team could claim that anyone could’ve gotten their hands on Scout’s DNA with a simple online purchase, thus blowing a hole in Grey’s claim to physical evidence. So she’d used LAPD funds to bid on Scout’s fingernails, and after paying a whopping $3,200—a line item that was going to look terrible in the LAPD’s next audit—the fingernails arrived in the mail.
She’d promptly sent them off to the lab for comparison against Scout’s DNA from the crime scene. While she waited, she’d reached out to the website owner himself, who’d confirmed that a year ago, he’d mailed a lock of “Scout’s hair” to a PO box in Malibu—the same kind they’d found in Drake’s bathroom sink. Grey tracked the registrant of that PO box to a company owned by Easton and Emerson Banks, the couple that was now half dead and half in FBI custody.
The final blow had arrived today: a report from the lab, confirming that while Timothy Fraser might be purveyor to the world’s creeps, he was no fraud. The fingernails belonged to Scout—odds were, so did that hair. Grey’s crucial evidence against Scout could’ve been purchased and planted.
“Shit,” she spat, expecting the expletive to get lost in the noise of the bustling floor. Then the hairs on her arms rose, her body understanding something before her mind caught up. There was no noise. The office was eerily quiet.
Grey looked up from her desk. Every detective and uniformed cop on the floor had frozen, their eyes locked on a group of women striding down the linoleum hallway like it was a runway in Paris. Scout Sage, Cybele Laurent, Isabel Cruz, and a scowling woman in a suit that screamedlegal representation. You could’ve heard a pin drop. From behind them, Captain Xie’s assistant came scurrying, beating them to Grey’s desk.
“Scout Sage is here to see you,” gushed the assistant, out of breath.
Grey shoved the fingernails into a drawer as calmly as possible. “I can see that.”
“They want to talk to you alone. She brought her lawyer.”
Grey cut her eyes to the woman. “And the captain is okay with that?”
“He’s allowing it.” Xie’s assistant was actually sweating at her hairline. Grey had seen her withstand hours of the captain’s yelling, but apparently witnessing the mighty Scout Sage in person was where her nervous system drew the line. “He says you can use his private conference room.”
Grey took aseat at the head of the table. Her heart raced, but it was important to maintain an aura of control. The last time she’d been in a room with Scout, it had been an interrogation room, and Grey had the upper hand. Did Scout and her lawyer somehow know about the fingernails? Were they here because they could feel the case unraveling and wanted to throw their weight around? She forced herself to run through her calming ritual, taking stock of her senses. The subtle scent of perfume from the lawyer, mixed with a cleaning agent wafting from the conference table. The hum of white noise from the air conditioner. Four interlopers divided evenly, two women on either side of the table, all of them watching her.
There, that was better. Grey was her father’s daughter. She would not be pushed around.
“Before we get started,” Grey said, “you should remember that everything you say to me can be used against you.”
Scout actually smiled. “We’re aware. Though it’s nice of you to remind me.” She nodded at her attorney. “Clea is here to make sure I don’t step in it.”
Grey raised an eyebrow. “All right, then. What can I do for you?”
Scout leaned in. “We’re here to ask you to release Juliet Stone—or Snodgrass—in exchange for proof that Luca Clearwater is behind the bombing.”
Grey almost laughed. She looked at Cybele and Isabel, trying to grasp whether these women were having a go. But they looked as serious as Scout. “Well, that’s bold of you. I didn’t realize your friendship circle included domestic terrorists, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“And furthermore,” Scout continued, “we have proof that Luca is behind the murders of Elizabeth Drake, Simon Markham, and Rosie Wright.”
Grey rocked back in her chair. This was no longer funny. “If you have evidence in those cases, your legal team is required to present it to me.”
It looked like Scout’s lawyer was opening her mouth to say something, but Scout laid a hand on her arm. “Grey,” she said. A gentle reprimand.
Grey’s eyebrows hit her hairline.
“As I’m sure you know, right now, a woman named Emerson Banks is sitting in FBI custody for the murder of her husband, Easton, and my little sister, Georgia.”
