Murder of Innocence (Murder Is Forever) Read online

  Carey nods but isn’t sure where Detective Smith is going with this.

  “As for the drug he used,” Smith continues, “your symptoms—blacking out, grogginess, memory loss—it sounds like you were given gamma-hydroxybutyric acid.”

  “Gamma … what?”

  “GHB. Liquid X. It’s colorless, odorless, very easy to slip into a drink. And it’s completely flushed out of your system in about twelve hours, gone without a trace.”

  Carey’s eyebrows furrow. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Detective. So what if he’s rich? So what if GHB doesn’t stay in your body? You know his name. You know where he lives. He drugged me and raped me! Go arrest him! Unless … you don’t believe me?”

  Smith sighs. “I do believe you, Carey. But it’s not me you’ll have to convince. If this case goes to trial, Luster is going to hire a team of the best defense attorneys in the state. They’re going to rip you apart on the stand. They’re going to say Andrew didn’t drug you. That you’re making it up. That you went home with him willingly.”

  Carey absorbs Smith’s words. Her lower lip begins to quiver. “But … but that’s not true!”

  “I know. Listen, I’m on your side. I want to see this man rot in prison. But these kinds of crimes can be impossible to prove in court. I want you to understand the reality of the situation and what we’re up against here. Without evidence, it’s your word against his.”

  Carey sags, shocked and overwhelmed. She had come to the police station to feel whole again, to reclaim her power, but now she feels even smaller. Helpless.

  “What kind of proof would you need?” Carey asks.

  Smith stares at Carey like she’s sizing her up, weighing whether she’s got it in her. “The question is, what would you be willing to do to get it?”

  Without any hesitation, Carey exclaims, “Anything!”

  Smith has her answer. “In that case, I have an idea. But it won’t be easy.”

  That’s a massive understatement. What the detective tells Carey she wants her to do makes the poor girl’s stomach churn.

  What Smith wants is for Carey to telephone the man who assaulted her, and have a friendly chat.

  It’s a common investigative technique, Smith explains, known as a “cool call.” While the police listen in and record it, a victim phones a suspect, acts casual and cool like nothing happened, and gets him to admit—on tape—to having committed a crime.

  In this instance, Carey needs to make Andrew confirm both that they had sex and that he drugged her—without making him suspicious that the line is bugged.

  It’s a very tall order. But Carey nervously agrees to give it a try.

  Smith leads Carey into another, smaller conference room down the hall, this one filled with high-tech surveillance and audio-recording equipment. A second plainclothes detective, who introduces himself as Detective Dodd and tells her he’s a digital forensics specialist, is seated at a laptop connected to a wireless telephone and multiple pairs of headphones.

  Smith goes over some pointers and possible questions Carey might want to ask but says that where the conversation goes is up to her; she should just stay calm and act natural.

  Finally Smith asks, “Okay, are you ready to do this thing?”

  Carey swallows her fear and vigorously nods.

  Smith hands Carey the phone, and she and Dodd put on headphones. Dodd types, then gives them the signal. Carey puts the receiver to her ear. It’s ringing.

  “Hello?” says a male voice on the other end.

  The voice hits Carey like a punch to the gut. It’s him. The person she hates more than anyone in the world. She’s suddenly flooded with emotions—rage, doubt, fear.

  Smith gives Carey a reassuring look.

  “Uh … hi. Andrew? This is Carey. From Friday night? We met at O’Malley’s?”

  “Oh, hey! That was a fun night. How are you?”

  “Uh … I’m … good. So, I wanted to ask you … what did you put in my drink?”

  “Liquid X.”

  “Liquid X?”

  “Yeah.”

  Carey looks over at Smith, who gives her a thumbs-up. So far, so good.

  “Did you like it?” Andrew asks. “Makes you feel great, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, totally,” Carey answers. “I was wondering if maybe … um … I could … I mean, we could, like, hang out and, uh, do it again?”

  There’s a long pause. Shit. Does Andrew suspect something?

  “Why are you talking so weird?” he asks.

  “I’m not!” Carey blurts out. “I just … really want to see you again. I had fun. And you don’t have to drug me to have sex with me this time, okay?”

  Andrew laughs like what he did was no big deal. Like it was all a big joke. “Okay. You got it. How about Saturday?”

  Carey, tears in her eyes, looks over at Smith, who pumps her fist in victory.

  They got the bastard. He’s going down.

  CHAPTER 17

  July 18, 2000

  ANDREW LUSTER SLIDES out of bed and reaches for the sky. He bends over and touches his toes. He squats, stands, extends his arms, and arches his back.

  Outside his bedroom window, the bloodred morning sun is just starting to rise over the gently churning waves. The perfect time and conditions for a surf.

  His body nice and limber, Andrew heads into the living room. He slips into his wetsuit, grabs his board, starts to head out—and stops dead in his tracks.

  He hears the sound of approaching sirens.

  Looking through his front windows, Andrew sees a fleet of police cruisers and SUVs screeching to a halt. Over a dozen uniformed deputies and plainclothes detectives get out and approach his front door.

  One of them—a stern African-American woman in glasses—pounds on it. “Ventura County Sheriff’s Office! Search warrant!”

  Andrew doesn’t panic. He doesn’t even break a sweat. He makes an irritated noise. They got the wrong house, he thinks. Idiots.

  He saunters over to the door and opens it.

  “Andrew Stuart Luster?” says the woman. She holds up a badge and a typed document. “We’re here to execute a search warrant on your home and premises. Please step outside.”

  “Hang on,” Andrew says. “What’s this all about? What gives you the right—”

  “If you refuse, Mr. Luster, or attempt to interfere with our work in any way, you will be detained.”

  Now Andrew starts to stew. But what choice does he have?

  Forced to wait in the back of a squad car parked in his driveway, he watches as the cops tear his home apart like a pack of vermin.

  “What the hell are you guys even looking for?” Andrew asks the stone-faced deputy assigned to keep an eye on him. Infuriatingly, the cop just shrugs.

  Meanwhile, inside, Detective Melissa Smith is overseeing the search, which is quickly turning into one of the most fruitful—and shocking—she’s ever been part of.

  The cops rifle through every drawer and cabinet. They flip through the pages of every book and magazine. They check under his couch cushions, then rip out the stuffing in them. They pull up the rug. Go through the trash. They even take apart and drain his toilet.

  In the living room, latex-gloved detectives are photographing and testing a trove of pills, powders, and potions, including about twenty small vials containing a clear liquid.

  So far, investigators have identified marijuana, cocaine, quaaludes, and psychedelic mushrooms. Smith stares intently as a detective places a GHB testing strip into one of the vials. It immediately turns from white to purple. Bingo.

  In Andrew’s bedroom, detectives make an unexpected discovery.

  Smith watches her team photograph and place into plastic evidence bags two butterfly knives, a switchblade, a set of brass knuckles, and a pair of nunchakus. She’s aware that Andrew makes movies, so there’s a chance they might be props.

  But they’re not. They’re all highly dangerous, illegal weapons.

  “Hang o
n, got one more back here,” says one of the investigators. “It’s a doozy.” He pushes aside a pile of clothes and shines his flashlight on an AK-47 assault rifle.

  “Please tell me that’s not real.”

  With his gloved hands, the detective carefully inspects the massive weapon. “Sorry, ma’am. Not loaded. But definitely not a fake.”

  Smith wanders back into the living room, feeling a little shaken. She knew Andrew Luster was a twisted sexual predator. But what else is he capable of?

  “Detective Smith?” says a voice nearby. “You need to see this.”

  There’s more? Smith thinks with dread as she steps into a small, cluttered storage closet being searched by her colleague Detective Galvez.

  Her eyes widen when she sees it: a wall covered with photographs of beautiful young women, almost all wearing tight dresses, bikinis, or only their underwear. It’s a chilling kaleidoscope of female flesh, especially in light of the accusations against Andrew. “Unbelievable,” Smith says. “Could all these women be other victims?”

  “Maybe,” Galvez answers. “But that’s not what I wanted to show you. I know our guy’s a filmmaker but …” He gestures to a large plastic storage crate crammed with old VHS tapes. He picks up a few and shows Smith. “Each one is labeled with a different woman’s name. Look—Helen, Stacey, Amy, Nadine, Megan, Katie, Tonja. We need to get these to the AV lab. Find out what’s on them.”

  Smith looks down at the ground, fighting a sudden wave of nausea.

  She has a terrible feeling she already knows what’s on them.

  CHAPTER 18

  CAN I GET YOU anything before we start? Coffee? Tea? A glass of water?”

  “How about you get me out of these goddamn cuffs!” Andrew Luster slams his shackled wrists down on the interrogation table. But Detective Melissa Smith doesn’t flinch. In fact, she smirks. Which only makes Andrew angrier.

  “You think this is funny?” he demands. “Barging into my house, harassing a private citizen, arresting me on a bunch of made-up charges?”

  “Our search of your residence resulted in the seizure of numerous controlled substances and illegal weapons. Are you saying we made that up?”

  “I’m saying that bitch is a liar! I didn’t do any of the stuff she said.”

  “Walk me through your version of last Friday night’s events, then. And I know you love being in front of the camera, but still, I’d like to remind you that this interview is being filmed, and you’re entitled to remain silent or have a lawyer present.”

  “I don’t need one. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Smith leans back in her chair. Folds her arms. Gives him a look that says, I’m all ears.

  “I was out at a bar. Struck up a conversation with a pretty girl. We went back to my place and had a great time. She even called me a couple days ago to hang out again. Now she’s changing her story. It’s bullshit. You see what’s happening here, right?”

  “No, Mr. Luster. Why don’t you tell me.”

  “Extortion! A broke young college girl. A rich older guy. She’s after my money. Wants me to pay her off. Simple as that.” Andrew shakes his head in disgust.

  So does Detective Smith—on the inside. “I’d like to talk now about the seventeen videotapes we found in your closet.”

  “Sure. Have you watched them?”

  Smith’s jaw tightens. “We’ve started to.”

  “Relax. Those movies are all just harmless fun.”

  “You’re confident, Mr. Luster, that each of those women fully consented to being—”

  “A hundred percent. They loved it!”

  Smith can feel her blood pressure rising. Andrew’s cavalier attitude about what she’s seen on those tapes is, in a word, appalling. But Smith stays cool. Continues laying her trap. “So you never gave any of them, say, GHB?”

  “Liquid X? We’d take it sometimes before a shoot. But only if they wanted to.”

  “Did you film a video with Carey on Friday?”

  Andrew shakes his head. “We made love off camera. In the shower. Not that it’s any of your damn business.”

  “Did you give her any liquid X that night? Slip anything in her drink?”

  “No way.”

  “Did you tell her that you put liquid X in her drink?”

  Andrew chuckles. What a weird question. “I never told her that, no.”

  It takes all of Smith’s years of professional training to keep from leaping out of her seat in celebration. Andrew has no idea the police recorded Carey’s cool call to him, the one in which he did tell her that. Now Smith has him on video lying about it. Any shred of credibility Andrew might have had just went up in flames. “That’s all for now, Mr. Luster. Excuse me.”

  Smith exits the interrogation room and steps into the hallway.

  Detective Galvez is waiting outside. “How’d it go?”

  Smith answers with a dismissive nod. There are more important things to discuss. “Luster’s address book, the one we recovered in the search—”

  “The one filled with the first names and numbers of over a hundred women?”

  Smith’s expression turns grim. “Yes. We need to start going through it. Right away. We have to identify and contact every single woman in there. I want to get the word out to the local press too. Newspapers, TV, all of it. Luster isn’t just a serial rapist. He’s something a whole lot worse.”

  CHAPTER 19

  A Week Later

  BABE? ARE YOU HOME?”

  Tonja, her arms laden with shopping bags, shuffles in through the front door.

  Her husband appears at the top of the stairs. “Let me take those for you,” Jon Balden says, hurrying down to help. “You shouldn’t be carrying that much anyway. What did you get?”

  “Some pork chops for dinner. Some cereal. Eggs. Toilet paper. And, okay, I might have picked up a few more little things for the nursery.”

  Jon laughs as he takes the bags from Tonja, revealing her bulging pregnant belly. “We have so much baby stuff, we’re going to need to have a second kid!” He leans in and gives his wife a kiss, then brings the bags into the kitchen.

  Tonja waddles into the living room. After a long day, all she wants to do is kick off her heels and plop down on the sofa. Being pregnant and working full-time as a real estate agent is exhausting.

  As she makes a beeline for the sofa, she notices that the little red light on their answering machine is blinking. “Hon?” she calls to Jon. “Who’s the new message from?”

  “I don’t know,” he answers, joining her in the living room. “I didn’t check it yet.”

  Tonja presses Play. It’s from Lisa.

  “Hey, guys, just seeing how you’re doing. I’m sure you saw that awful thing in the paper today about … you know who. Crazy, right? Anyway, call me.”

  Tonja and Jon share a quizzical look. What’s Lisa talking about?

  Jon heads back into the kitchen and grabs the latest issue of the Ventura County Star, sitting unopened next to the day’s mail. He flips through it until he sees the article—and gasps.

  “Babe?” Tonja calls from the other room. “What is it?”

  Jon heads back into the living room and shows her.

  The headline reads “Cosmetics Heir Facing Rape, Poisoning, Drug and Weapons Charges.”

  Printed beside it is the mug shot of a scowling Andrew Luster.

  Now it’s Tonja’s turn to gasp. In shock, she reads about Andrew’s arrest and alleged crimes. She experiences the same toxic slurry of rage, betrayal, and fear she felt four years ago, back when he was still stalking and harassing her.

  “Did you see this last part?” she asks Jon. “It says the police think there may be more victims. They’re asking people who have information about Andrew or any connection to him to give them a call. Do you think I should?”

  Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Honestly? I don’t know. Do you really want to reopen this can of worms?”

  “But if the
re are other women out there who he hurt that I can help in any way, I can’t just sit back and do nothing.”

  Jon urges his wife to take some time to think. But Tonja’s mind is already made up.

  The next morning, before she goes to work, she pays a visit to the Ventura County Sheriff’s Office. Once past the building’s sliding glass doors, she informs the desk sergeant why she’s there, then takes a seat in the lobby and waits. Not long after, a female detective comes out to greet her.

  “Mrs. Balden? I’m Detective Smith. Thanks for …” As the detective shakes Tonja’s hand, her words trail off and an odd expression crosses her face. “I—I’m sorry,” Smith stutters. “Thank you for coming down.”

  “Is everything all right?” Tonja asks. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  Smith gives an evasive smile. “I pulled the complaint you and your husband filed about Mr. Luster four years ago. I’d like to ask you some additional questions about that. But first … would you be willing to watch a video-tape, Mrs. Balden, and … identify yourself in it?”

  Tonja laughs uncertainly. “God, Andrew was obsessed with videotaping everything back then. He filmed me all the time when we were together. It drove me nuts,” she says.

  Detective Smith doesn’t laugh along with her, and Tonja suddenly feels a pang of dread. She wishes she could turn to Jon for support right now, wishes he were by her side. “What kind of videos did you find?” she asks.

  “It’s probably best if you see for yourself,” Detective Smith says.

  “I … I think I’d like to call my husband first. I want him to be with me when I—”

  “Mrs. Balden?” Smith interrupts. “You don’t ever want your husband to see this.”

  CHAPTER 20

  INSIDE THE SMALL, WINDOWLESS conference room, Tonja Balden nervously lowers herself into a desk chair facing a television monitor. The screen is blank, but it’s connected by a tangle of cords to a laptop. A plainclothes deputy named Detective Dodd is typing away at it. Another officer, Detective Galvez, is also present.