Chapter 47. Grey, the Detective
Grey, 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 words stubborn and bulldog—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 the Times had given it, had sparked.
She’d wanted to find out what people thought about 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 screamed legal 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 a seat 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.”
Grey shifted in her seat.
Scout’s now-famous blue eyes, splashed everywhere from campus walls to newspaper pages, were earnest. “Emmy more or less confessed to working with someone to frame me for the murders. It’s a long story, which we’ll tell you in detail if you agree to this deal, but we have solid reasons to suspect that the person Emmy was working with is Luca Clearwater.
And we also have solid reasons to suspect that Luca convinced Juliet to bomb the Knox tower. Juliet had fallen under her sway.”
“Here’s proof of them together, talking about the protest,” Cybele added, sliding a thumb drive across the table. “Luca attended a movie premiere as Juliet’s plus-one. I can give you the name of the photographer who took this video of them.”
“But before we tell you,” Scout said, “we need you to agree in writing that you’ll release Juliet.” Scout’s lawyer pushed a sheaf of papers in Grey’s direction. “She’s eighteen,” Scout said softly. “She’s just a kid, Grey. She deserves to be saved.”
All of a sudden, Grey felt exhausted. She’d been prepared for Scout to be defensive, insulting, pull a tantrum, but this magnanimous attitude from her lead suspect, this calm laying-down of facts … Grey shook her head. “I can’t—”
Scout cut her off. “There’s one more thing we can offer you.
” She slipped a manila folder from under her attorney’s stack of papers.
“We have new information about a twelve-year-old cold case. Two women who disappeared after their shift at the Serpent Room. We discovered photographs taken on their last night of work.”
Time stopped. Grey stared at the folder.
The only sound was her heart beating. “That’s not possible.
” She cleared the gravel from her throat.
“The Serpent Room didn’t install security cameras until eight years ago.
The previous owner was a real estate magnate from Dubai who kept things as analog as possible.
We suspect he was using the place to launder money.
” Those last details were neither here nor there.
Grey had no idea why she’d said them, other than she couldn’t stop staring at the folder.
Whoever Alice’s last table had been, they’d paid in cash, leaving no credit card receipt. A bottle girl who’d worked that night had recalled that they were a group of heavy rollers, all men. But that was it—that, plus what she’d been able to squeeze from the dregs of Nico’s memory.
“Miraculously, in one of those twists of fate, it turns out there was a private investigator at the club that night, snapping photos.” Scout studied Grey with her canny eyes. “He said one of the missing women had the last name of Holloway.”
She didn’t phrase it as a question—she left it as bait. A lump formed in Grey’s throat. Her voice was ragged when she spoke. “Show me the pictures.”
Scout shook her head. “Give us Juliet.”
Grey wanted to scream. Years of grief and fury warred inside her.
“Please,” she gritted out, flattening her hands against the conference table.
She was no longer Detective Holloway—she was Grey, Alice’s little sister, begging for a glimpse of the woman she’d been searching for her entire adult life. “Show me.”
Scout looked at her for a long time, like she could see inside Grey’s heart and was taking measure of it.
“Don’t,” Cybele warned, but it was too late. To Grey’s shock, Scout opened the folder and slipped out a picture, setting it in front of her.
“Shit,” Isabel groaned. “Our leverage.”
But Grey didn’t hear what anyone said next.
There, right in front of her, was Alice.
Blond, too thin, wearing glitter on her face.
In that ridiculous Serpent Room uniform Grey knew so well, the one she put on every weekend.
Even though Alice was smiling in the photograph, the stiff way she held herself told Grey, who knew her, that she was uncomfortable.
And sitting across from her were three men Grey would know anywhere, even though the versions in the photo were years younger. Reese Griffin, Easton Banks, and Gabriel Knox. Three men whose names were everywhere she looked lately.
“Alice,” she whispered, touching her sister in the photo. “Alice, what did you do?”
“So you know her?” Isabel asked.
Grey forced her eyes from the photo. “She’s my sister.”
“Who’s the other girl?” Cybele pointed to the petite brunette, wearing a uniform that matched Alice’s.
“I only know her as Daisy Chapman.” Grey sighed. “She put fake details on her application, and they never did a background check. She could’ve been anyone.”
“Daisy,” Isabel murmured. “Small as a flower.”
Scout looked at Grey. “I have more photographs, and the name of the private investigator. I’ll give you everything if you just let Juliet go. Come on, Detective. I know your heart is with us. Stand on the right side of the fence.”
The strangest guilt washed through Grey. Was Scout right? Was her heart actually with her bombing suspect? She met the woman’s eyes. “Why are you doing all of this for Juliet Snodgrass?”
Scout didn’t even blink. “Because she has no sisters.”
Grey put her fingers on the photo of Alice, worried Scout might take it away.
“I’m sorry,” she admitted, shaking her head.
“I want your evidence on Luca, I really do. If you give it to me, I’ll take it seriously.
But the bombing is a huge national case involving multiple agencies.
It’s a massive story. Putting aside the fact that I genuinely believe your friend Juliet is guilty—”
Across the table, Isabel flinched.
“The public has seen the footage of a tall, black-clad bomber entering the building.” Grey pointed to the window.
From it, they could see city hall. “And the bomb went off at the same time Luca was on stage, in full view of thousands. She has an airtight alibi. There’s no way you’ll convince a jury she’s the one who set it off.
Not to mention we’ve got Knox’s presidential campaign breathing down our necks, pressuring us to bring swift charges.
I’m sorry, but your friend is going to have to pay for the part she played. Someone has to.”
Silence sat heavy in the room.
Scout nodded to her lawyer. The woman retracted the papers she’d slid toward Grey and replaced them with a different, thicker stack.
Grey looked down and saw a glossy photo of Scout, walking down a street in LA, probably shot by paparazzi.
In it, she wore a red wig and a nearly identical all-black outfit to the one the bomber had worn on tape.
Underneath the photo rested a pile of typewritten forms, Scout’s signature scrawled across the bottom of each.
Isabel began to cry.
“In that case,” Scout said, “I would like to formally confess to the bombing of Knox Aeronautics.”