Free The Competition by Marcia Clark

p.m. The autumn air had a bite that made me pull my peacoat closer and wish I’d brought my cashmere scarf. When we got back to Bailey’s car I reached for the heater.
    “It’s not that cold,” she said.
    “It is for me.”
    Bailey closed the vents on her side. “Maybe you should transfer to the DA’s office in Dubai.” We rode in silence as she steered us toward the Tampa Avenue freeway on-ramp.
    “Those posters were pretty strange,” I said. “But we didn’t find anything else. Maybe his parents are right. Maybe he isn’t one of the shooters.”
    “And maybe his parents are in denial about who their son is. They wouldn’t be the first. But I don’t blame them for being pissed off at us. It’s a hell of a thing to hear your kid accused of mass murder.”
    “Yeah.” I sighed. It was hard to even imagine how that must feel. I pictured Otis’s room again. Those posters. And something I hadn’t seen. “I didn’t notice a computer,” I said. “He must have one.”
    “Yeah, probably a laptop. But I didn’t want to bring it up and give them any ideas. If Otis does have one, I’m hoping they won’t think to wipe it before we can get a warrant.” Which meant we had to dig up some probable cause for a search warrant, and fast. “Home?” she asked.
    “May as well. Can’t get anything more done tonight.” I put my hands next to the vents to warm them. “We need to have the unis ask around about Otis. Talk to students, teachers, and counselors and find out if he was into guns or made any threats, that kind of thing. But they can’t make it sound like—”
    “He’s our guy. One of ’em, anyway. I know.”
    Traffic was light, and before I knew it, we were heading into downtown Los Angeles. Bailey cleared her throat. “Feel like a drink?”
    I was tired and depressed and in no mood to hang out, but Bailey’s voice was uncharacteristically strained. I looked at her closely. She had a death grip on the steering wheel, and her jaw was clenched so hard the cords in her neck stood out. She needed company—and a stiff drink…or seven. Come to think of it, so did I. “Sure. And why don’t you crash with me?”
    Bailey gave me a tight smile. “Sounds good.”
    Twenty minutes later, Bailey pulled up in front of the Biltmore and parked next to a fire hydrant. Bailey believes illegal parking is one of the few perks of being a cop. But it’s not just a matter of convenience. She’ll pick the red zone over a closer space every time. It’s a religion with her. “You know, eventually, someone’s going to bust you for this shit.”
    “Good thing I know a lawyer then, huh?”
    “Please. I’ll be the first to testify against you. You want to know who’ll be second?” I pointed to Rafi, the Biltmore valet, who was shooting daggers at Bailey.
    Bailey threw him a smile as we walked past the valet stand. “Catch ya next time, partner.”
    Rafi nodded sullenly.
    “That’s what you always say,” I said, as we reached the front entrance.
    Angel, the doorman, opened the door and chuckled. “I believe she’s right about that, Detective,” he said.
    “Good idea, Angel, side with her,” Bailey said. “You don’t care about getting that Christmas bottle of scotch anyway, right?”
    Angel put on an earnest expression. “On second thought, I believe you have let him park your car on many prior occasions,” he said.
    “Shameless,” I said.
    “Nicely played,” Bailey said.
    Angel smiled. “Marriage has taught me many things.” We stepped inside. “Have a nice evening, ladies.”
    The familiar faces of home. It was the best I’d felt all day. And I knew it was comforting to Bailey too. Even so, as we crossed the lobby and headed for the bar I noticed her steps were heavy. We had to lighten up. There was no way of knowing how long it would take us to wrap up this case. If we didn’t find some emotional balance we’d wind up wearing jumpsuits with very long arms. I grabbed the large brass handle