A/N1: I doubt ownership of Chuck is domiciled in a mansion in Beverly Hills.
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As they drove northwest on North Alpine Avenue in Beverly Hills the gates protecting the driveways grew larger, the driveways themselves grew longer, and the homes at the end of the driveways grew bigger and more expensive. Both Booker and Chen knew that with the bigger homes came luxury swimming pools and multi-car garages full of high-end cars and SUVs.
Arriving at the correct house, Chen announced them through the intercom and, with a buzz, the gate opened automatically in slow motion. They drove up the long driveway admiring the green manicured lawn to either side, up to the entrance of the Spanish-style mansion with the circular driveway.
Leaving their car in front the two detectives rang the doorbell next to the large front door. Less than a minute later the door was opened by a big man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair with a hard expression on his face. He was probably in his early fifties and looked like he'd been a physically powerful man earlier in his life, but had softened with spent time behind a desk. He was wearing suit pants and a white dress shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up over his meaty forearms.
Chen said, "Good morning, Sir. We're here to see Elizabeth Wilson."
"Right," said the man, unsmiling. "Detectives Booker and Chen. Been expecting you. Come on in." He made a welcoming gesture with one hand. "I'm Justin Wilson, her dad."
He led them through the tiled entryway, under a chandelier the size of a church bell, and deeper into the house. They arrived at a long well-polished table in what must have been the dining room. The sunlit swimming pool was visible through the windows along one side of the vast room.
Wilson bellowed, "Liz. The cops are here. Come on down. We're in the dining room."
While they were waiting for her, Wilson took some business cards from his pocket and gave them to the policemen. According to the cards, he was the Managing Partner of Fogerty, Wilson & Shapiro, which the men recognized as a prominent Los Angeles law firm. Booker and Chen shared their cards in return.
They could hear the sounds of someone coming down the stairs before Liz came into the room, moving slowly. She was physically somewhat short and had bright blonde hair, cut in a short bob, blue eyes and a cute face with dimples on each cheek. She looked like an adorable pixie, who also happened to be five or six months pregnant. She wore gray sweat pants and a long-sleeved tee shirt with slippers on her feet.
With her red-rimmed eyes, she looked very unhappy and might have been crying on her way down the stairs. She just seemed generally mussed, as if she hadn't been taking care of herself recently.
Although they were maintaining their neutral expressions, both detectives were thinking hard about the implications of the girl's pregnancy. Booker said, "Good morning, Ms. Wilson. I'm Detective Booker and my partner is Detective Chen. Thank you for speaking with us this morning." He extended his hand to shake hers, which she did with both men without particular enthusiasm.
"Sure. I figured you'd be here eventually," she said. She had a small voice, sounding like a little girl.
As they were about to sit, Chen said to Justin, "If you wouldn't mind, Sir. We'd like to speak to your daughter alone."
"No. I'm going to sit in on the interview in my role as her attorney," said Justin.
The detectives sighed inwardly. While they couldn't really exclude him if he chose to wear the attorney hat, they were concerned that his presence might affect his daughter's statements. She might be more forthright with her dad absent.
As if sensing their concern, Justin turned to his daughter and said, "Sweetie, answer their questions as completely and as honestly as you can, please. Don't let me being here make you censor yourself. I won't be upset with you. Ok? I promise."
"Ok, daddy," she said, without quite looking at him.
Chen said, "Would you mind if we recorded this conversation?"
Justin said, "Not at all." He took a phone from his pocket and said, "In fact, I will as well."
With both phones on the table recording the conversation, the detectives went through the initial introductions and contact information and the permission to record, and then the discussion was ready to start in earnest.
"Ms. Wilson, we are here investigating the murder of Vincent Peralta." At the sound of his name, the girl gave a quick sob, but managed to stifle it.
She said, "I thought you caught the guy."
"The man we had was released about an hour ago. His alibi turned out to be solid. Took us a while to confirm it, but it was solid. So, the investigation continues," said Booker.
"It's our understanding that you worked with Mr. Peralta last summer at the newspaper. Is that right?" asked Chen, his voice very gentle with the girl, who he sensed was fragile.
"Yes, that's right. I'm studying journalism at UCLA. Well, actually, I'm studying film and TV, but I'm taking journalism classes at the Extension."
"I'm sorry," said Chen. "I don't understand."
She said, "UCLA doesn't have a journalism major, so the closest I could get was film and TV, but the UCLA Extension, which is the continuing education arm of UCLA, they offer journalism classes. So, that's what I'm doing."
"I see," said Chen. "You must really want to be a journalist to accept a complicated arrangement like that."
"More than anything," she said, but touched her belly and amended, "Almost anything."
"And you accepted a job at the paper for the summer?" asked Booker.
"Accepted? It was a dream come true. It was the opportunity of my lifetime. The reporters there were my heroes ever since I was a little girl," she said, starry-eyed.
"And Mr. Peralta?" asked Booker.
"Oh, Vinnie most of all," she started to cry. Her dad left the table and snagged a box of tissues from somewhere for her. She smiled at him in thanks and wiped her eyes. "He was a real hero. If he hadn't been killed he'd have become legendary."
"And when you were at the paper, you worked with Mr. Peralta," asked Chen.
"Yes. And it was the greatest experience of my life. But then it got even better," she said.
"How so?" asked Chen.
"We fell in love. But it was a secret. Vinnie didn't want anyone to know. He thought he'd get in trouble because he was my supervisor," she said.
"So, no one else knew at the paper? Not Rusty? Not Frank?" asked Booker
"Oh, God, I hope not. We were so careful. We didn't want Vinnie to get into trouble. You know... like he was exerting too much influence on me or something. But he wasn't, you know. He didn't pressure me or anything. I loved him and he loved me. Everyone loved him. He was so charming and handsome. But he picked me. He picked me. And now I'm carrying our baby, but I'll have to raise it alone without a daddy."
Although both men had assumed that was coming, the announcement still held the power to shock them. The detectives flicked their gaze to the girl's dad who was staring back at them with very hard eyes. They could sense the fury in him, restrained by an act of will.
Booker said, "Ms. Wilson, may I ask how old you are?"
"I'll be twenty in March," she said.
"And how far along is your pregnancy?" asked Chen.
"I'm five months along. I'll be having a springtime baby," she said.
"I see. And your studies?" asked Chen.
"I've taken the year off once I realized Vinnie and I would be starting a family," she said,
"Ms. Wilson, you know he was married," said Booker gently.
"I know. I feel so bad for his wife. They were going to get a divorce so he could marry me. And then we both lose him like this. It's so horrible. I wanted to give her a hug. You know, to tell her I understood her heartbreak. But I couldn't. I couldn't go in."
"Go in where?" asked Chen.
"Into the funeral home. For his wake. I stood outside in the cold bundled in a heavy coat, but I didn't have the courage to go inside and tell her how sorry I was for our loss," she said.
"Do you know if she was aware of your plans? I mean, the plans you made with Mr. Peralta to divorce her and marry you?" asked Booker.
That gave the girl pause. "I think so. I mean, he never actually told me about their discussion, you know? But we talked about it and it was definitely going to happen. I think he told her. I think she knew what was coming...yeah, I'm sure of it," she said, but she sounded like she was convincing herself.
"Did you have any plans for the wedding? A date picked or anything?" asked Booker.
"No. Nothing like that. He said we don't know how long a divorce will take. California has a complicated process for that."
"How did you manage to keep your relationship secret from everyone else at the paper?" asked Chen. "That must have been hard."
"We were very careful. We didn't touch each other at work or anything like that. I'd try really hard not to stare at him with a goofy girl-in-love smile. But he had a lot of work outside the office, you know, meeting people and stuff. And he could take me, as an intern. So, it was no biggie for us to sneak away while we were out. Go to a motel or someplace and make love. Neither of us mentioned it to anyone else at the paper. I didn't tell anyone. Didn't brag. I didn't even tell my parents until I realized I was having a baby."
Chen said, "Once the internship ended, when it was time to go back to school, did you still see him?"
"Yeah, but not as often. There wasn't a good excuse for us to be together in public. But I would..." She glanced at her dad, "...sneak out sometimes and see him."
"Sneak?" asked Booker.
"Yeah. My folks weren't too happy with me or my situation. They still aren't. I guess you can tell by the look on my dad's face. But, you see, they didn't know Vinnie. They'd never met him. I know if they had, they'd have loved him. Everybody loved him. They just never got the chance. So, I had to sneak out to see him."
"I see," said Chen. "But you spoke to him on the phone?"
"Oh, sure. Every day," she said. "As often as we could."
"Did Mr. Peralta ever talk to you about some of the investigations he was working on?" asked Booker.
"Of course," she said, visibly puffing with pride. "I was a colleague. He talked to me about everything."
"Did you know anything about an investigation into the Acosta family?" asked Booker.
"Acosta? No. No, that name doesn't mean anything to me," she said, shaking her head.
"Did he talk to you about any of the investigations he began after you left the paper?" asked Booker.
"No. That wouldn't be right," she said.
"Please don't take this the wrong way, Ms. Wilson, but where were you the night he was killed?" asked Booker.
She gasped in surprise, "You think I killed him?"
"No," he said, "No, we don't. But we do have to ask that question."
"Well, I guess I was here at home. Watching TV with my mom," she said.
"Thank you," said Booker. "What are your plans now, Ms. Wilson?"
"I'm going to have his baby and be a single mom. I'm going to go back to school and get my degree and I'm going to try my damnedest to get a job at the paper. And I'm going to be the best damn investigative reporter I can be. And the best mom to our child. I'm going to make Vinnie proud of me." She was crying again at the end of her bold statement.
"Thank you for speaking with us, Ms. Wilson," said Booker, standing.
They all stood and shook hands. She said, "You're very welcome. I hope you find the man who did this to Vinnie."
"We intend to. If anything else occurs to you, please reach out to us," said Booker.
"I will," she said.
Behind her back, her dad made a gesture indicating that the detectives should stay.
Ms. Wilson left the dining room and went back upstairs.
The three men sat back down at the table.
Rubbing his face with one large hand, Wilson let out a long sigh and said, "Ok, let me get this part out of the way right away. The night Peralta was killed I was at dinner at the Jamieson Steakhouse with nine or ten of my law partners. It was the year-end meeting where we decide on the amount of bonuses for this year, salaries for next year, and who makes partner. Started at six PM and lasted til around midnight. As the managing partner I was there the whole time to herd the cats. Any one of them can vouch for me. Hell, so can the waiters and busboys."
"Thank you, Mr. Wilson," said Booker.
"She's a smart girl," he said, shaking his head. "She really is. She just has this huge gap in her understanding. Like a blind spot. Nineteen years old and seduced by this fucking predator. Knocked up, for chrissakes. And she doesn't see it. She's gone beyond respect to hero worship and is still hopelessly in love with him, even now. She doesn't see what she doesn't see. Her mom and I tried, but she's stubbornly irrational on the subject. We knew it would end in disaster when he'd dump her, and we just promised ourselves to be there for her. To support her any way we could when the worst inevitably happened. Of course, we didn't see this happening. Someone taking him out, I mean."
"You're pretty angry with him, Mr. Wilson," observed Booker.
"Oh, for sure. Furious. Do you blame me? She's just nineteen, for fuck's sake. If I'd met him when he was alive you guys would probably have me up on assault charges. I'd have beaten the fuck out of that asshole. But I didn't want him dead. Not at all. I'm a damn good lawyer and I had every intention of making his life as miserable as I could for the next few decades. Once my grandchild was born I was going to publicly sue him for child support for the baby, including college funds. I was going to sue the paper for allowing it to happen. And anything else I could think of. Fuck him," said Wilson, his voice harsh.
"And now? Go after his estate?" asked Booker.
"Naw. No fun in it if he's gone. I'd just end up taking away assets from the widow and she's a nice lady. I don't want to do that to her," he said.
"How do you know she's a nice lady?" asked Chen.
"Don't tell Lizzie, but I talked to her, of course. I talked to her when I gave her the DNA report proving that her husband was the father of Lizzie's baby."
Booker and Chen looked at one another quickly, but quite a bit passed between them in that brief exchange.
Wilson didn't notice the effect his last statement had on the policemen and continued, "But the fact that I didn't want him dead doesn't mean I'm ungrateful. When you guys catch the guy who did it, I'm going to send a carton of cigarettes to his prison account every week for his entire stay in San Quentin or wherever. Just to make life a bit easier for him on the inside."
"I understand," said Chen. "Mr. Wilson, when did you have that conversation with Mrs. Peralta? When did you give her the report?"
"Last month, maybe. Eh, more like six weeks ago or so, I guess," he said.
Chen said, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilson. If anything else occurs to you, please reach out to us."
"I will do that," said Wilson, standing.
"Thank you, Sir," said Booker.
The men shook hands and the detectives left the Wilson home.
In Chen's car, they were silent for almost five minutes until Chen said, heavily, "Daphne Peralta lied to us."
"Yeah. Yeah, she sure did," said Booker, deadpan, his face hard.
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A/N2: What? No way. Daphne Peralta lied to the cops? No way. She's such an upstanding citizen in canon. What do you guys think? At least we now know the identity of the bulky figure in the shadows outside the funeral home.