Who Killed Jenny Schecter? Ch. 30

Chapter 30 The Longest Day

It was almost 8 p.m. when they got into the rental car to leave Carla's rehab center. Shane had been curled up in the back seat, looking at her cell phone when Lauren and Carmen came out. Carmen climbed into the passenger seat. "Drink. Food. Then drink," she said.

Behind the wheel, Lauren buckled her seat belt and started the car. "Roger that. Copy. Ten-four." No one said anything until they were almost in Portland. "Anybody got any preferences?" she asked. "Comfort food? Tex-Mex? Chinese? Thai? Steak house? Should we go to the motel and check in first?"

"Drink. Food. Drink. Sleep," Carmen said.

"Drink. Food. Drink. Sleep," Shane said from the back seat.

"I hate it when you guys are so wishy-washy and indecisive," Lauren said. "Carmen, get out your cell phone. Find drink, food, drink, sleep."

"Ten four, roger dodger, copy that, on it," Carmen said. She worked on it. "Okay, got something. Do we want a one-room suite, three beds, or two rooms, a single and a double, or three rooms?"

"Suite's okay by me," Lauren said. "You guys are the variables."

"Suite's okay by me," Shane said from the back.

"Me, too," Carmen said. She searched Google on her phone. "Okay, here we go. Cool hotel right downtown on the Willamette River, good prices, restaurant menu looks really good. Turn left up ahead onto southeast Tacoma Street, cross the river, then turn right as soon as you get on the other side, onto Macadam Avenue. Then it's on the right about a mile and a half, maybe two miles."

"Call them, see if there's a suite, or anything with three beds."

Carmen did, and called. "We're good to go," she said. She checked Google maps. "Coming up on your left turn in two miles."

They checked in on Lauren's credit card, parked their bags in the room, and went down to the restaurant.

"Fuck it, let's go pedal to the metal," Lauren said while they looked at the drinks menu. "LASD is paying." She ordered the Añejo Special: Añejo tequila, fresh lime, agave, absinthe bitters, Peychaud's bitters, egg white. Shane did, too. Carmen dialed up the Citron Presse: Volstead vodka, New Deal ginger liqueur, fresh lemon, mint, and prosecco.

Lauren looked at her watch and let out a big sigh. "I am officially off duty," she said.

They studied the menus until the drinks came.

"I'm thinking something light. The Mexican Shrimp Cocktail, and then bed," Carmen said.

"You know, that sounds good to me, too," Lauren said.

"Me, three," Shane said. The waiter took their menus and disappeared.

They tried their drinks.

"Oh, man, that's good," Lauren said. "I may need a repeater on this thing."

"Ten four," Carmen said.

They sipped their drinks.

After a while, Shane asked, "So. How bad was it?"

Nobody said anything.

"That bad, huh?" Shane said.

Lauren and Carmen looked at each other. "Want me to go?" Lauren asked.

"Yes, I do," Carmen said, "but it has to be me."

"Okay," Lauren said.

Carmen took a sip of her drink. "Carla told us about that last day, in Whistler. What happened. First you saw him and some bimbo named Patty in the bar. Then you went to their room, and talked to Carla. She said Gabe had run out on her. You walked with her to the bus station. She told you about scamming Helena out of the money. You told her about seeing him and Patty in the bar. She got on the bus. It was ninety minutes before the wedding was supposed to start."

Shane wouldn't look up.

"Carla told us what Gabe said to you, at the bar. He wasn't proud of what he'd done, but it was just who he was. And you should know, because you were just like that, too."

Carmen let a moment go by. "Until today, I never knew any of that. You never told anybody, Shane, because I know Alice and Jenny didn't know about it, or they'd have told me, sooner or later. But they never did, because they didn't know. You kept that locked up inside yourself, all these years."

Shane wouldn't look up. It was a terrible moment for the waiter to arrive, but he did, placing their shrimp cocktails in front of them. He could tell something was wrong at the table, and decided to skip the usual remark, "Enjoy!"

It was a full minute before Lauren picked up a shrimp, dipped it into the cocktail sauce, and took a bite.

"That night, after everyone left," Carmen said quietly, "I sat in the tent. My mother came and sat beside me. She said I should go talk to you, find out what happened. I said no, I knew what happened. But I was wrong. I didn't know. I thought ... I thought you just didn't want to marry me. I thought you panicked, decided maybe you didn't love me. I guess it was kind of selfish, you know? That it was all about me. Or all about you and me. But it was my wedding night, what was I supposed to think? It was all about me, or me and you. And so, for nearly a whole fucking year, I never knew about Helena being scammed. Until today, I didn't know about Gabe and that woman in the bar. Running out on Carla. You walking Carla to the bus station. None of it. See, for a year, all I knew was, you left me at the altar. That's all. Nothing else. And then, slowly, over a couple months, they started to tell me a few small pieces about all the other stuff I never knew about, but by then it didn't matter, you know? Maybe that's why they started telling me, because it didn't matter anymore. For a long time, even Jenny and Alice, who told me everything else, they, too, just thought you panicked and ran. Just like everybody in our group of friends thought you would. Half of them were surprised you'd made it as far as Whistler in the first place. By then I was in San Francisco, I had started my life over. You were just a bump in the road in the highway behind me. Which you have to admit sounds like a really lousy lesbian country 'n' western song. So anyway, yeah, ninety minutes before you were supposed to get married you found out your father was a bastard as well as a criminal, and he had just taken one of your friends for ten thousand bucks and run out on his wife and son, the step-brother you hardly even knew you had. So yeah, I guess you had a few things on your mind that night I had no idea about. Alice was calling and texting you like crazy, and you didn't answer, you were at the bus station. Your father had just told you that you were a worthless piece of shit like he was, and you believed him. He as much as told you that you were going to cheat on me, just as he was cheating on Carla, and you believed him. And you had maybe two hours to process all that, and then show up at your wedding to make what you thought was the biggest mistake of your life. You were supposed to be all happy and smiley like a nervous groom, and make me the happiest woman in the world, and love, honor and cherish 'til death do us part, have a drink with our family and friends and then go fuck our brains out."

"Shane," Carmen said, "you couldn't possibly process all the shit Gabe dumped on you in a full calendar year, let alone during one single Happy Hour. Shane, there is no way on God's green earth you could do that. No one could. You hear me? Not even people ten times faster than you at processing stuff. A hundred times. Fuck, it's been six years and I'm still processing stuff. Shane, listen to me. Shane, there was just no way you could show up at the altar in your tux and marry me. For the first time, I understand that now. Okay? Shane?"

Shane's face was streaked with tears. She lowered her face into her hands, crying quietly. The waiter saw her and approached the table, concern on his face. Lauren raised her hand up a few inches, signaling everything was okay, and he went away.

"Shane, eat your shrimp," Carmen said quietly. "They're really good. And I know you'll like this cocktail sauce."

After a moment, Shane pulled herself together, mopped her face, and slowly began to eat. "He was right, you know. Sooner or later, I'd have cheated on you."

"I know," Carmen said. "Everybody knew that. You already had, once before. There were consequences. Then we got past it. And if you did cheat again, there would be consequences again. Maybe the same one, maybe different, I don't know. And then we'd get past it, again."

She paused, took a shrimp from the martini glass it was served in. "Look, there's something you're overlooking. You are NOT Gabe McCutcheon. You are nothing like him in any way, shape or form except you both like pussy, but so do a majority of people on the planet. No big deal. Yes, you'd probably cheat on me, but all it would be was you'd have a couple drinks and just go bang somebody you met at a party, and that would be the end of it. You wouldn't sneak home, pack all your stuff, move out, and loot the bank account. Gabe would and did. You, never in a million million years. Well, yes, you'd sneak home, but not the rest. Would I be pissed? Yes, absolutely. Would I make you pay? You bet your sweet ass I would. I'd make your life a living hell for a couple of weeks. Would we have had an open marriage, anybody fucks anybody whenever they please? No way, absolutely not. You know how I feel about monogamy. All I'm saying is, we'd have made it work. But Shane, you are NOT Gabriel Fucking McCutcheon. You are not 'no good,' like he said. And hey, how the fuck would he even know? He barely even knew you. You know what his opinion was worth? It wasn't worth shit. Then or now. Who the hell relies on Gabe McCutcheon for a character assessment? He took a shot in the dark, that's all, and it happened to hit home. But it was no fucking bull's eye, all right? I'm running out of metaphors here. You're sitting here in the presence of a badass Los Angeles County police officer and the world's hottest badass DJ helping to track down a murderer, so don't sit there and sulk about what some asshole said about you. If you don't eat that last shrimp in your glass I'm going to steal it from you. Lauren, flag down the waiter. I need another drink."

"Yes, ma'am, sir! I'm on it! Ten-four! Great pep talk, by the way. Now we have to take away Shane's belt and shoelaces."

"Fucking A," Carmen said. It finally made Shane laugh, and everything was okay.

"I liked 'running out of metaphors.'" Lauren said.

"I was educated by nuns," Carmen said.

"Ahh, that explains it. Honor roll?"

"You mean... you weren't?" Carmen asked, feigning astonishment.

That made Lauren and Shane laugh.

"National Honor Society, three years. Second place, Science Fair. I was robbed," Lauren said.

"I never doubted it," Carmen said. "So what's tougher, being a genius, a lesbian, or a bad-ass LA cop?"

"Lesbian," Lauren said. "Some people like cops and teacher's pets."

"Good one," said Shane, who had fucked at least one of each kind. Much more than one, truth be told. Neither Lauren nor Carmen ever had.

They laughed, and ordered another round.

***

Carmen had two motives for suggesting a suite for the three of them, and Lauren had instantly understood and agreed. The first was it would keep Shane from wondering if Carmen and Lauren were going to sleep together that night, "sleep" being the euphemism for fuck. The second was they could keep an eye on Shane. Shane would figure that out, but not for three or four days, and by then it wouldn't matter.

"Traveling on business or pleasure?" the guy at the registration desk in the hotel lobby asked.

Lauren gave him a stern look and flashed her badge and handed him her LASD travel credit card. "I'm Detective Hancock. This is Detective Morales and Detective McCutcheon. Our car's a rental, I don't remember the plate number. Do you care?"

"No, that's fine, Detective," he said, running her card. Message received: Don't fuck with cops.

"Can we have twin beds in our suite instead of a double?" she asked.

"Yes, of course. The third bed is the sofa, which is actually quite comfortable when it pulls out. But if there's any problem don't hesitate to call the front desk. I'm here to midnight, and I'll tell the overnight people to keep an eye out for you.

"We'll be asleep long before that," Lauren said. "We've had a long, hard day, and we fly out in the morning."

"I understand. Can we help you with your luggage?"

"No, we only have these overnight bags. We can manage, thank you."

"Great. And by the way, there's sodas and beer in the mini-fridge, and a mini-bar. Help yourselves, it's on the house."

Sometimes it's good to be a law enforcement professional.

"Ten-four," Lauren said. Carmen froze her face, trying not to laugh.

***

It was nearly one o'clock in the afternoon by the time they got to Marybeth's office.

"You guys have lunch yet?" Marybeth asked. "I've had a hellacious morning and I'm starved."

"We just got in from Burbank airport," Lauren said.

"Good. Let's all get lunch and you can brief me."

When they got to Marybeth's favorite luncheonette, three lawyers were in her favorite booth, but they were just waiting for the waitress to return with their credit cards, so they waited until the lawyers were gone.

"Productive?" Marybeth asked as they stood up front, waiting.

"Yes, very. That's what I think. Carmen?"

"Yes, I agree."

Marybeth noticed Shane had nothing to add, but that wasn't unusual. She let it go.

After they ordered, Lauren briefed Marybeth on everything they learned, but she left out the part about what Shane had done and learned right before the wedding. It had nothing to do with the investigation, and Shane didn't need to hear it repeated all over again.

"Okay," Marybeth said, "you've got your work cut out for you this afternoon."

"I know," Lauren said. "We have something more than 25 million licensed drivers in California, but only about 135,000 drivers with truck driver licenses. If I have to, I'll search the entire DMV driver database, but I want to try to shortcut it by searching just the CDL licenses first. If what Carla told is right, he has a CDL license and is driving a truck somewhere, probably in wine country. I'll run a lot of variations on Gabe and Gabriel, and anything with Mc or Mac in the last name, see what pops. We'll have faces, and Shane and Carmen can buzz through them real fast, see if anything hits. We can cut the list down a good bit by eliminating anybody under 40 or 45, any non-white, any females, and so on. Even if we wind up with a big list, if we cut it in half, Carmen can look at one half and Shane can look at the other."

"That's what I was thinking," Marybeth said. "Carmen, Shane, you on board with that?"

"Yes, sure," Carmen said. Shane nodded.

"Shane, I want to say something," Marybeth said, "and I don't want you to take it the wrong way. First, you've already done a lot of work on this. You initiated the whole thing. But if you want to bail out, I'll understand, and I'm sure Lauren and Carmen will, too. We all know the emotional toll this is taking on you. Thanks to you, we now have plenty to go on, without your further help. What I'm saying is, if you want to stay, and take part, that's great. But if you need to back off, for your own emotional protection, please just let us know. Now, I don't want you to think for a second I'm trying to get you to drop out. I'm not. But we're looking to find, capture, and arrest your own father for four counts of murder. That cannot be easy for you, I don't care how estranged you are from him. Just say the word, at any time. Shane, I'm thinking of your own mental well-being, and that's all I'm saying. You don't even have to respond right now. There's no deadline on this. Just think it over."

Shane took a sip of her iced tea. "Okay, I've thought it over," she said. "I'm staying. He killed Jenny. Alice is in jail. Those are the only two things that matter. To me, anyway. Let's get the motherfucker."

Good for you, Carmen thought to herself.

Marybeth nodded. "Understood," she said.

***

Lauren got one of the computer techs to help her set up the search profile on the CDL database of people with truck licenses. "The first thing I want you to do is run every male above the age of 35 whose last name starts with M," Lauren said.

"About nine and a half percent of all last names start with M," the tech said. "It's the most common letter, followed by S, which is nearly as many. B, C, H and R comes next. M, that's going to produce about 13,000 names."

"Cut out women, non-Caucasians, and under 35s," Lauren said. The tech tapped his keyboard. A moment later he said, "Nine thousand four hundred thirty-seven."

"Whatever," said. "Find the midpoint. Set up one half for on one laptop for Lauren to look at, one half on another laptop for Shane. Ladies, you're each going to look at 4,700 faces, more or less. Less, if you find Gabe. Go. I'll be in my cubby."

Twenty-seven minutes later Shane paused her "next" button finger and sat frozen. She was looking at the CDL license photo of one McKenzie, Gabriel J.

Her father.

***

"Got him," Carmen said. She and Shane stood at the entrance of Lauren's cubicle. She handed Lauren a sheet of paper, a printout of the CDL license information for Gabriel J. McKenzie, 6 feet 1 inch, brown eyes, gray-brown hair, weight 195 pounds, age 59, address on Shurtleff Avenue, Imola, California, a small town just south of the town of Napa in Napa Valley.

"Jesus," Lauren whispered, reading the paper. "Come on."

They walked to Marybeth's office, but she wasn't there. Lauren left the paper on Marybeth's chair. They went back to Lauren's cubby. "Pull up some chairs." They did, as Lauren started punching in information on her computer. Every minute or two, the printer by her computer shot out a sheet of paper as Lauren printed out everything law enforcement and other agencies of the State of California knew about one McKenzie, Gabriel J., wants and warrants (none), traffic tickets (running a red light in Stockton a year ago), employment (two companies that looked like vineyards), anything and everything that popped up. It wasn't much ... but it wasn't nothing, either.

"Here's something interesting," Lauren said, staring at her screen. "Gabriel J. McKenzie with this Social Security number died in a car crash in Modesto in 1991."

"He stole somebody's identity," Carmen said.

"Yes," Lauren said.

"This was way too easy," Carmen said.

"I was thinking that, too, but sometimes it happens," Lauren said.

"Do you have his Oregon driver's license or CDL license?"

"Yes, why?"

"Can you pull them up? I'm curious about something."

"Okay, give me a minute."

Lauren typed information into her computer, and found the file she wanted. "Here you go."

Gabe McCutcheon's Oregon license came up on the screen.

"Holy shit," Lauren whispered.

"Shane, can you come here a second?" Carmen asked. Shane was sitting on the other side of the conference table, typing an e-mail into her phone.

"I don't want to look at the son-of-a-bitch," she said.

"I know. But please come here anyway."

Shane looked at her. She knew something was wrong. "What?"

"Just come here."

Shane came around the table and looked at Lauren's screen. "I don't understand," she said.

The Oregon driver's license said Gabriel McCutcheon, height, weight, same address as the one Shane had visited. The photograph, though was of someone Shane had never seen before.

"I pulled this up a couple weeks ago, when we first started looking for him," Lauren said. "Thing is, I'd never seen Gabe McCutcheon, so I had no way of knowing the photo was wrong. And it gets worse. This is the photo I sent out on the BOLO."

"Oh, shit," Carmen whispered.

"Who is that?" Shane asked.

"Hell if I know," Lauren said. "Maybe we can run it through facial recognition, see if something pops. But if I had to guess, it's somebody who is dead. Because if this guy ever showed up at an airport where facial recognition was used, it would say it was Gabriel McCutcheon and the guy is standing there with John Doe on his airline ticket. And if good old Gabe McKenzie wanted to fly somewhere or got pulled over for doing 35 in a school zone the Oregon photo wouldn't betray him.