the hills and on their way home they could see the fire and all the emergency crews from the road. And, by the time they got home — at three in the morning — they did have to sleep with the windows closed because the smoke had made its way down the hill. He was never at the crime scene because he and his old lady were up in the hills at a swinger party. Seems his wife liked to get gang banged and he liked to watch. Truth was, this good old Catholic boy felt guilty and didn’t want anyone — especially his mother — to ever find out where he really was that night. And by the time the witness picked him from the line-up, it was too late, everyone was convinced he was guilty.”
Jendrek looked me in the eye and reached for his fresh beer. “The moral of the story? Always assume people are lying — but never assume you know why.”
8
Always talk to people in person because it’s easier to tell if they’re lying. A few afternoons later, Jendrek’s words ran through my head as I drove the streets of Hollywood, looking for Carole Bishop’s apartment. When I finally found the run-down building, with its cracked outer walls and sagging gutters, I parked along the curb behind a black Ford Taurus. I could see the back of the bald head of the guy sitting in it talking on a cell phone.
I sat in my car and flipped through the police report. Twelve years earlier, Detective Wilson summarized the essential facts on a single page. Carole Bishop was a hairdresser. She lived with her son, Matt, and her daughter, Jessica. She generally got off work about six and was home by six-thirty. Such was the case on the night in question. When she arrived, Matt and Jessica were already home. She made dinner. They ate in front of the TV like they usually did. Carole Bishop went to bed after the news at eleven-thirty. Both of her kids were home the whole time. Later, when the police spoke to Matt and Jessica, they told the same story.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor, wondering if she still lived there. I kept asking myself why I was even there. I shouldn’t have even been the one doing this, but Reilly was too busy and too disengaged to help out. “Do what you need to do,” he’d said. So here I was, wasting my time with Carole Bishop. It wasn’t like she was going to admit her son was a murderer. I found the apartment and stood outside the door, hesitating before knocking. Finally, I just knocked.
I heard movement inside and then the sound of the deadbolt turning. A haggard face appeared in the doorway and the smell of cigarettes came from the dark apartment behind her. The birth date in the police report made her forty-eight, but she didn’t look a day under sixty. With her hoarse smoker’s voice, she asked, “Can I help you?”
“Ms. Bishop?” She nodded. Her eyes darted around. “My name is Oliver Olson, I’m an investigator for the LA Times. I’d like to talk to you about your son.” An investigator? It just came out. I was impressed by the smoothness of my own lie.
“Oh Christ. What the hell has he done now? I would have thought there wouldn’t be anything he could do, being in jail and all. Are you with the prison?” I wasn’t sure what to say. Apparently my lie hadn’t registered with her.
“No, I’m an investigator.” I could hear myself making my voice deeper, as though that would somehow make the lie more believable.
“An investigator?” She seemed taken aback. Then she opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. “Do you work for Ray?”
“Who?”
“Ray Gee? Do you work for him? I told him not to bother us, that we didn’t want anything to do with that goddamned Steele.”
There it was again, Ray Gee, the second time that week. Detective Wilson had mentioned that he’d asked about Matt Bishop. Whoever it was certainly had an interest in the case.
I asked, “Did Mr. Gee come here to see you?” I was trying to play along, but it only seemed to upset her.
“So you do know him.” She started shaking her head. “Nope, goddamn it, all you sons of bitches are the same. Trying to get my Matty to take the fall for that no good Steele. You’re all in on