The morning broke clean and bright, filling the glass peak of my A-frame with an amber glow. I opened the doors to my deck, hoping for a breeze. The scent of the garlic and tomatoes Lucy and I cooked were still sweet. I liked it, even when I realized Lucy had not told me where she was staying. If I didn't know, I couldn't call. Maybe that was best.
I scrambled three eggs, drank the Community coffee, then got ready for Diaz and Pardy. I jotted a list of the people I interviewed in Anson and San Diego, then made copies of the newspaper clips and articles about the Reinnikes. When I finished with the copying, I called Diaz at her office.
She said, "So, World's Greatest, have you solved the case yet?"
"I have something that might help. Did you get a hit on the BOLO?"
"C'mon, nothing is ever that easy."
"I need to talk about something with you and Pardy. I have a digital picture of Reinnike and his car. You can see his license plate, but it's blurry-"
She interrupted me.
"What does that mean, blurry? Can you read the digits?"
"You can't read it, but we might He able to have it enhanced. It's a pretty good picture, but it doesn't come free-"
She interrupted me again.
"Waitaminute. Is anyone else in the picture?"
"One of Golden's outcall girls."
"Where was it taken? Can you recognize the location?"
She was looking for other witnesses.
"It's not like that, Diaz. It was taken outside the Home Away Suites three nights before his murder."
She fell silent, so I plowed ahead.
"Listen, that's what we have to talk about. Golden's operation isn't just outcall. He's running a blackmail scam, and you have to clear the field for the people who took the picture. They were involved in the blackmail."
"Bring it around and let's see what you have."
"They need the pass. Is Pardy going to go for it?"
"Pardy will go with whatever I say."
I picked up Golden's computer from the hall closet, then let myself out through the kitchen. When I opened the kitchen door, an unsealed manila envelope was propped against the door. I looked inside, then tipped out a thin stack of faxed pages. The cover page was addressed to Sgt. D. Gittamon regarding David Reinnike. The letterhead showed the pages had been faxed from the San Diego County Sheriffs Department, North County Station, Juvenile Intervention Bureau. No other note was enclosed.
I knew Starkey must have dropped it off earlier that morning, and probably hadn't left a note or knocked because she was pissed off about dinner. Realizing that Starkey was pissed off left me feeling badly. I went back inside, and got her voice mail when I called her cell.
"Starkey, it's me. Listen, I want to apologize about last night. I didn't know Lucy was in town and I guess I was abrupt with you. It was rude. I got the stuff you left. I'll read it now, and talk to you later."
I hung up, but I didn't feel any better.
David Reinnike's Juvenile arrest file was nine pages long. The first page was a form showing general information like the arrestee's name, address, date of birth, and description. Under that was a box containing the subject's record of arrests. The newspaper articles I read at the hospital indicated that the Reinnikes' neighbors had called the police about David at least twice and possibly three times, but only one arrest was listed. David had been taken into custody at the age of fifteen, a little more than ten months before he and his father disappeared. The charges were for threatening the life of another and animal cruelty, but the file was marked NF. The NF notation meant the case officer had decided not to forward the case to the Juvenile Division Court.
Two reports were attached to the cover. The first was the arresting officers' report. It was hand-typed, and only a page and a half.
Submitted by:
Ofc. Carl Belnap, #8681
Ofc. Gregory Silias, #11611
Arrest of David Reinnike, 15, minor male, 9/12
Chrg: Penal Code 16-7218a
Offers on routine patrol were dispatched to 1627 Adams, a residence, at 1640 hours on 9/12. Complainant (Mrs. Francine Winnant, 46, female) answered the door in an emotionally distraught condition. Present with Mrs. Winnant was Mrs. Jacki Sarkin, 42, female, who identified herself as a neighbor. Mrs. Winnant directed ofcs. to a side yard where an adult collie dog was observed dead with what appeared to be a wooden stake or spear in its chest.
Mrs. Winnant stated that David Reinnike, 15, a minor male, of 1612 Adams, had threatened to kill her dog. Mrs. Sarkin confirmed that Mrs. Winnant told her of this threat three days prior, when both agreed it occurred. Mrs. Winnant stated she had found David Reinnike urinating on her front lawn and told him to leave. She stated his response was the threat to her dog.
Mrs. Sarkin stated she witnessed the confrontation from her house, but could not hear the threat. She stated she later spoke with Mrs. Winnant, who told her of the threat.
Mrs. Winnant and Mrs. Sarkin both stated that David Reinnike had committed acts of vandalism and exhibited bizarre behavior in the past.
During these statements from Mrs. Winnant and Mrs. Sarkin, Mrs. Sarkin observed that David Reinnike was currently at his residence in the open garage.
Ofcs. proceeded on foot to the Reinnike residence. They identified selves as police officers, and asked the minor teenage male to identify himself. He stated, "David Reinnike."
It was ascertained that no adult was present, both by David Reinnike's statement and by knocking and ringing the bell. No vehicle was present in the garage or drive.
David Reinnike was questioned as to Mrs. Winnant's statements regarding the dog. David Reinnike denied her statements, then grew unresponsive. He appeared to have trouble concentrating. He denied being under the influence of drugs or medications.
Mrs. Winnant and Mrs. Sarkin came out of their house and approached. Ofc. Silias went to ask them to return to their home.
David Reinnike became agitated. Ofc. Belnap attempted to calm him, but Reinnike's agitation increased. He shouted foul language at Mrs. Winnant and Mrs. Sarkin and made as if to approach them. Ofc. Belnap restrained him in the garage. At this time, Reinnike shouted at Mrs. Winnant, "I'm going to kill you."
Reinnike was placed under arrest and taken into custody on the charge of threatening the life of another, pending investigation by Juvenile Division and Animal Control in the matter of the dog. Reinnike was delivered to Juvenile Division, North County Station. No guardian or adult parent was present at the time of arrest or at the writing of this report.
(signed)
Ofc. Carl Belnap, #8681
a/o/9/12/68
I put the first report aside. The second report was written by a Juvenile Division detective named Gil Ferrier. It opened with two pages describing Ferrier's investigation, then concluded with his summary and recommendation-
David appeared calm, but appropriately concerned regarding his situation. He expressed regret regarding his outburst toward Mrs. Winnant, but denied knowledge of the dog's death. He explained his outburst was provoked by her accusation, which he states is untrue and unfair, and by a series of similar accusations by the Winnant family. He stated he has been repeatedly blamed by Mrs. Winnant for acts done by her son, Charles. According to David, Charles, who David states is two years older, has bullied David since David moved to the neighborhood. David admits that in response to one such occasion several years ago he struck Charles Winnant with a baseball bat. David states that since that incident the Winnants have regularly harassed, accused, and threatened him.
David's father independently confirmed the antagonistic relationship between his son and the Winnants, and explained the baseball bat incident. Mr. Reinnike stated his son had a bed-wetting problem at that time. He stated that in an attempt to cure his son, he hung his son's soiled sheets on the clothesline in their backyard, and that the other children, instigated by Charles Winnant, ridiculed David for many months. He stated that on the day in question, Charles Winnant was once more ridiculing David for being a bed wetter when David struck the older boy with a baseball bat. Charles Winnant was not seriously injured and required no stitches or hospitalization. George Reinnike assumed full responsibility for creating the situation. He stated that he personally apologized to the Winnants, but that they had been frightened of his son and had spread stories about his son ever since.
David Reinnike appears bright, but is given to inappropriate behaviors and extreme swings of emotion. He is being raised by his single father, George Reinnike, who is disabled and unemployed. George Reinnike states that David's mother abandoned them soon after David's birth. She has no contact with her son, and her whereabouts are unknown.
Neighbors both involved and uninvolved with the charges at hand allege David Reinnike has demonstrated violence, vandalism, and bizarre behaviors. No record of these allegations exists in police files. David Reinnike has no prior arrests.
George Reinnike admitted that David has committed two acts of vandalism, but stated these incidents have not recurred. He denies the other incidents. The neighbors making the allegations were re-questioned as to when these incidents allegedly occurred, and admitted the incidents were not recent.
Though Mrs. Winnant's allegation that David Reinnike threatened to kill her dog is credible, no witnesses or evidence exists that David Reinnike did in fact kill the dog. It is clear that much hostility exists between several neighbors and the Reinnikes. This hostility is apparent in their statements.
It is my opinion that prosecution of David Reinnike in this matter would be unsuccessful. It is further my opinion that David Reinnike would benefit from appropriate counseling. George Reinnike stated he would submit David for such counseling.
My recommendation is that the charges against David Reinnike not be forwarded for prosecution.
(signed)
Gil Ferrier, Detective
#1212
9/14/68
JD/SDCSD
When I finished, I copied Ferrier's name and badge number, and the names and numbers of the two arresting officers. I didn't expect the A.O.s to remember, but it was clear that Ferrier was thorough and concerned, and might have stayed involved in David's case. Thirty-five years was a long time ago, but he might even know what happened to the Reinnikes after they left Temecula.
The image of the dead collie was hard to erase, and left me feeling unnerved. The incident with the dog happened almost a year before the Reinnikes disappeared, and the file contained no record that the police had rolled out again, but I believed the neighbors. David Reinnike had been a seriously troubled child, and troubles like that didn't vanish with leaving a house. Maybe George had gotten David into counseling, and David had straightened out, but I doubted that, too.
I went back to the phone, and got Starkey's voice mail again.
"Hey, I just read this stuff. I'm on my way to see Diaz, but I want to talk to you about it. I'll call you later."
I headed for Central Station.
Twenty minutes later I left my car in the same parking lot I had used before, checked in at the front desk, and waited another ten minutes before Diaz came down. I started to outline Golden's operation as we rode up in the elevator, but Diaz cut me off.
"Let's see if the picture helps us before we get into all that."
The squad room was busy. Almost every desk was occupied with detectives working their phones. Pardy was the only detective in the room who didn't look busy. He was slouched at his desk on the far wall, staring at nothing with his arms crossed. The dark blue murder book was open on his desk, but he didn't seem to be looking at it. Diaz called out to him, and waved toward her desk.
"Hey, Sherlock. Come see."
Pardy considered her for a long time before he got up. He was probably getting tired of her put-downs. He closed the murder book, checked his pager, then made his way over. He pulled up a chair as far from us as he could get.
I said, "You making any progress?"
"I'm working a few leads. You know."
"Got any ideas?"
"I'm not looking for ideas."
Diaz said, "Okay, Cole, let's see it. What do you have here?"
While the computer booted up, I gave them the page with Edelle Reinnike's and Marjorie Lawrence's names and numbers. I gave them the copies of the newspaper articles and told them what I had learned. Diaz glanced at each item, then passed them to Pardy. Pardy looked up when I told them about David Reinnike.
"I guess that leaves you out, Cole. Unless you were separated at birth."
Diaz flushed like she was pissed off.
"The one doesn't have anything to do with the other. How about you run the name and see if we get a hit?"
"I'm just saying. Why would Reinnike think Cole was his son if he already had a son? It doesn't make sense."
"Why would he tattoo crosses all over himself and pay hookers to pray? We'll find out when we find some people who really knew the guy."
I found the photo file, and opened the picture. Reinnike and Dana filled the little screen, standing beside Reinnike's brown Accord. The license plate was a blurry rectangle in the lower right corner of the screen. Pardy stood closer.
"She has the boyfriend, Thomas Monte."
"That's right."
Pardy looked disappointed.
"Not bad, but not great. It's blurry."
Diaz said, "SID might be able to pull it out. We could snatch the registration with just a couple of digits."
Pardy went back to his chair.
"I'm not getting my hopes up. That backlog is a bitch. If we have to wait months to get a gun checked, how long will it be before they get around to this?"
I interrupted them.
"I can help you with that, too."
Pardy said, "What, you have your own private Walk-in Wednesday?"
So much crime was committed in Los Angeles that the LAPD lab was backlogged for months. Priorities were given to hot cases and cases going to trial, but the backlog was still so great that LAPD set up an experimental program called Walk-in Wednesday. Every Wednesday, detectives could hand-carry evidence to the lab on a first-come first-served basis to cut through the red tape. But there were still so many cases that the waiting rooms were crowded with loitering detectives.
I said, "Something like that. I have a friend at SID who owes me a favor."
"The little creep who worked with the key card?"
"Yeah, Pardy, him."
The little creep. Chen would love it.
I explained how Thomas came to take the picture, and that a couple of hundred pictures just like it were in the computer. Diaz and Pardy listened as I went through the terms of the deal, then Diaz arched her eyebrows at Pardy.
"You'd have to turn it over to Southwest Bunco, but it would still look good. I think we should go for it."
"Do whatever you want."
Diaz stared at him, and was clearly annoyed.
"Listen, Pardy, don't drop the ball here. This could turn into a major investigation with the Feds. You should get a piece of that. You should develop the case to see what you have before you hand it off. That way, you get more of the credit."
Pardy had resumed his slouch, and stared at her with sleepy eyes.
"I'm busy. You develop it if you want."
Diaz looked as if she was going to say something more, but turned back to the laptop and angled the screen for a closer look.
"Okay, fuck it. We get this cleaned up, it might be good for a registration. I want to get this over there right away."
"Are you good with the pass for Thomas and Dana?"
"We're good, but not if they had anything to do with the murder. Everything about this killing stinks like sex to me. If it turns out they had something to do with the murder, all bets are off."
Pardy said, "It wasn't about sex."
He was slouched back in the chair with his arms crossed and his legs out, looking like he was about to fall asleep. Diaz's mouth tightened with irritation.
"Okay, genius, what do you think it was?"
"A straight-up murder."
Diaz swiveled to face him, and Pardy went on.
"I haven't been sitting on my ass, Diaz. A witness ID'd Reinnike at Union Station about an hour before he was killed. Described the tats on his hands, and picked his face from a six-pack."
"What witness?"
"Homeless dude I know from Metro. Reinnike was hanging around, he said. My guy hit him up for a handout, and Reinnike came across. I'm thinking if Reinnike was at Union Station, he was meeting someone."
Maybe Pardy looked sleepy because he had been working the case all night.
Diaz said, "Then what? Someone picked him up, and they drove to an alley in the middle of nowhere? Why the alley? Why that alley?"
Pardy stared at her, and seemed absolutely confident in his answer.
"Because it was in the middle of nowhere. Because whoever brought him there intended to kill him. They might have even murdered him somewhere else, and the alley is just a body dump. We didn't find a shell casing. We didn't find the cell phone Cole said he had. A lot of things are missing."
Diaz frowned, but I was liking how Pardy was putting it together.
She said, "Beckett found no evidence the body was moved."
"If he wasn't moved far and he was moved right away, there wouldn't necessarily be anything to find."
I said, "How about the car? Did your guy see the car?"
"No, but it had to be nearby or someone gave Reinnike a ride. That alley is a long walk from the station. I walked it myself. Reinnike couldn't have made the walk in an hour."
Diaz studied Pardy as if she had never seen him before. A deep smile slowly split her face, but Pardy didn't smile back. Diaz fingered the little heart necklace.
"Well, now, that is outstanding police work, Detective. That is truly excellent work."
Pardy nodded, and Diaz went on.
"Have your wit bring you around to his friends. Talk to them, too."
"Already in the works."
Diaz smiled at him a little bit longer, but Pardy didn't return her smile.
"Okay, Cole, you're going to talk to your boy, Chen?"
"I'll bring it over now."
Pardy roused himself from the chair and picked up Stephen's computer.
"I'll bring it. I want to meet your pal, Chen. Maybe I can get my own private Walk-in Wednesday."
Diaz said, "Give Cole an evidence receipt."
"Sure. I can do that."
Pardy filled out a receipt for the computer, signed it, and then they told me to leave.
Frederick
Frederick did not open Payne's gas station that morning.
He had spent most of the night sick to his stomach with the growing certainty that he would not be able to escape.
The army of forces aligned against him was enormous, and might be anyone-Cole, a policeman, the priest, any random motorist who pulled to the pumps; everyone who crossed his path might be a tentacle employed by the beast that was trying to find him. Frederick imagined a dozen scenarios, all of them ending with his own terrible death, until finally he locked his trailer, brought the shotgun out to his truck, and drove back to Los Angeles to see if the police were still guarding Cole's house.
John Chen was out of the office that morning working a homicide near Chavez Ravine. I left word on his voice mail explaining about Golden's computer, and asked him to call. After I left word for Chen, I called Starkey.
"Detectives. This is Starkey."
"It's me."
"Oh. Hey."
She sounded uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable, too.
"I feel bad about last night. I didn't mean it to play that way."
"What are you talking about? I didn't think twice."
"I could've played it better, is all. I should've asked you to stay. Lucy was all for it."
"Cole, please, you're making too much out of this. You had to adjust your plans. I'm cool with that."
"Okay. Listen, I want to talk to you about David Reinnike. Can you meet me at Musso's? We could have a late breakfast."
"Look, Cole, what is this, a mercy meal? You don't have to feed me today to make up for last night. It's not like I don't have a life."
"I'm not trying to make it up. I still need a way to find Reinnike, and I want your opinion."
She hesitated.
"C'mon, Starkey. Please."
"Begging is good, Cole. Begging, I like. I'll meet you in twenty minutes."
She hung up before I could say something smart.
Musso Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard was a five-minute walk from the Hollywood station. It's been in the same location since 1938, hunkered down behind glass-paned doors that have kept the restaurant safe since Hollywood 's early beginnings when movie stars and studio heads filled the back tables. They've served pretty much the same menu since 1938, too. When other restaurants in L.A. went light with nouvelle cuisine, Musso's piled on butter and salt. Hollywood declined in the sixties when street people, prostitutes, and crime sprouted on the boulevard. The city decayed into a crime-ridden slum, but Musso's survived all that, and flourished. Maybe because of its history, or maybe because of the tough old men who served as the waiters and simply refused to let such a good thing die. It was and always has been one of my favorite restaurants. I liked it that they refused to change. The world caught up to them again. It was a good place to eat.
I parked in the back lot and made my way inside. Diners lined the counter, and most of the red-leather booths were already filled with the typical Musso cross-section of businessmen, studio flacks, musicians, and bookies. Starkey was already seated in a narrow booth in the center aisle, set up with water and a couple of menus. I put Reinnike's file and the news clips between us as I took the bench across from her.
"Hey. Thanks for meeting me."
Starkey looked uncharacteristically pleased with herself.
"Don't try to feel me up or anything, Cole. I don't put out on the first date."
Starkey's comment left me feeling awkward, especially when three women in the next booth glanced over.
"Look, I'm sorry if we had a misunderstanding. I didn't mean for last night to be a date date. It was just dinner."
"I was teasing you, Cole. You're so fricking easy to tease."
Starkey popped two antacid tablets when the waiter took our orders. I went with a Denver omelet; Starkey ordered a tongue sandwich. When the waiter left, Starkey glanced at the reports and articles.
"I don't know what I can tell you about this."
"If Chen can't pull the registration, I'm out of ways to find George. Finding David might be as good as finding George."
I tapped David Reinnike's file.
"Did you read it or just pass it along?"
"I read it. That kid had problems."
"Yeah, he did, but there was only this one arrest in his record. The newspapers said the neighbors called the police three or four times on this kid."
Starkey shrugged.
"It's newspapers, Cole. Newspapers get everything wrong. But even if it's true, the police roll out, somebody agrees to pay for somebody else's broken window, everyone calms down, and that's the end of it. The cops could have rolled out a dozen times-two dozen-and we wouldn't know."
"I'm not looking at it that way, Starkey. I'm coming at it from the other direction. The detective who covered this case, Ferrier, recommended counseling. I'm thinking the counseling helped- that's how this kid was able to stay out of trouble. Can I find out who the counselor was?"
"Not from the police records. What's here is here."
"Would Ferrier know?"
Starkey glanced at the three women, then shook her head.
"Ferrier retired in eighty-two and died in eighty-nine. I checked. I figured you might want to talk to him."
I didn't know what else to say. I drank some water, then looked at the three women, too. George Reinnike wasn't in the database, only this single file existed about David, and there didn't seem any way to go forward with it.
Starkey fingered the pages one by one.
She said, "Let me tell you something I learned on the Bomb Squad-you have a bomb, that bomb is going to explode."
"What does that mean?"
"Just because this kid wasn't arrested again doesn't mean he was a model citizen. This boy was acting out violence and aggression over a significant period of time. I see kids like this all the time. Let me tell you, man, their arrests are just the tip of the iceberg-they get popped for one thing, there could be thirty or forty other incidents they get away with."
"You don't think someone can change? You must see kids change all the time."
"Yeah, I see change. I just don't expect it."
She suddenly pushed the pages aside, and seemed embarrassed.
"Cole, look, I don't know why anyone does anything. I chased bomb cranks four years after I left the squad. These freaks were the sickest, most mentally fucked-up degenerates you can imagine. You know the difference between them and everyone else? Real people get the urge to do something weird, they don't do it. Assholes get the urge, they just do it."
"No impulse control."
"This kid had no impulse control. I see kids with no impulse control every day. That's why they have to deal with me; they get in trouble. But this isn't just some unhappy kid acting out a bad home life-"
She fingered through the report and articles, looking for examples.
"Assaulting this kid with a bat, pissing in this woman's yard- this is showing a lack of impulse control. But here where he throws the hammer at this car-she says he stood there laughing?-and here where he's in the middle of the street talking to himself? This is getting into psychosis."
Starkey glanced up, and her eyes were serious.
"I've been thinking about this, Cole. Here you have a kid with this history, and he and his father up and disappear, leaving behind all this money? All right, no evidence was found linking their disappearance to a crime, but the Sheriffs were investigating check fraud and forgery-they thought the Reinnikes were victims. They weren't investigating a kid who would spear a collie with a garden stake. I'm thinking you should check out the unsolved violent crimes in their area just before they left."
I nodded. It was a slow nod, but Starkey made sense. I could see it happening that way; George was protective of David, and defensive about him. He had gone to bat for David again and again, but had also made excuses for his son's behavior that bordered on denial. George might well have left to protect his son. He might have abandoned the money and never looked back.
"That's a good idea, Starkey. That's a really good idea."
"Of course it is, Cole. It's also a long shot and totally unlikely, but it'll give you something to do in your spare time."
I thought about it. George probably wouldn't have abandoned his money unless David had done something so bad that George was afraid David would go to prison or be taken away from him. It would have to be something serious; arson, or a crime against persons, like rape, armed robbery, or homicide.
I said, "If I wanted a list of the open major crimes that occurred in Temecula between certain dates thirty-five years ago, could I get it?"
Starkey pouched out her lips, thinking, then opened her cell phone.
"Lemme make a couple of calls. I can find out."
Starkey's cell phone worked perfectly, which left me annoyed. You try to be big about these things, but still. I thought she was calling Gittamon, but she phoned her former boss at the Criminal Conspiracy Section, instead; a lieutenant named Barry Kelso. CCS detectives investigated bombs and bombings, which is what Starkey did after she left the Bomb Squad. She copied a number Kelso gave her, then called someone on the Sheriffs named Braun.
"Barry Kelso told me you could help. This is Detective Carol Starkey, LAPD Bomb Squad."
When I arched my eyebrows at her, Starkey covered the phone.
"You say Bomb Squad, it gets people's attention."
She asked Braun if he could provide a list of unsolved felony crimes that had occurred in and around the city of Temecula in the fourteen days prior to the Reinnikes' disappearance thirty-five years ago. Braun must have asked why she wanted the information. Starkey's voice grew frosty.
"All I can tell you is it involves bomb components and national security. Don't ask any more than that."
Braun must have been impressed. They spent another ten minutes on the phone, with Braun asking questions designed to narrow the search. When they finished, Starkey covered the phone again to ask my fax number, then passed it to Braun.
She said, "Okay, I'm going to give you my home fax number. You can fax the information to me here."
That was it. She closed her phone and looked at me.
"We'll see. He isn't sure what he can come up with. It might take a couple of days."
I said, "Thanks, Carol. Really."
She nodded, but pursed her mouth again as if she still had something to say. She stared at the women in the next booth again, then glanced back at me. She laid her hand on Reinnike's file. She placed her palm carefully, as if she were touching something delicate. She shook her head.
"You don't believe this clown is related to you, do you?"
"No."
"George isn't your father. That would be absurd, thinking George was your father. Everything you've told me says it doesn't add up. You see that, don't you?"
"I realize that. I know."
"I don't care what he thought or that he had those clippings with him; he was delusional."
I wanted Starkey to stop talking about it. I glanced at the three women.
"I know what you're saying."
"Then why don't you stop this nonsense?"
Starkey was hunched forward on the table, staring at me. She did not look away. I didn't look away, either.
"George went into that alley with pictures of me. He went in thinking I was his son. Maybe he even went in thinking I would be there. I don't know why he had the pictures and did that, but I want to know. The only way I can find out is to find someone who can tell me. I don't want to just write him off as crazy because then I'll never really know; not really. I need someone to tell me. I need to see it for myself. Do you see that?"
"I just don't want you to get hurt with this stuff."
I nodded, and made a little smile. That was nice of her to say.
She said, "In the alley, when Diaz told you and you saw the clippings-before you knew all this other stuff-did you hope it was true? Did you want him to be your father?"
The answer to that one was easy.
"Someone is. Somewhere."
Starkey laid her hand on mine. She gave me a squeeze.
"I gotta get back to work."
She slid out of the booth, but I didn't get up. Starkey bent to kiss my cheek. When she leaned to kiss me, her hair fell forward. I had never seen Starkey from that angle. She was pretty.
When I left Starkey at the Musso Frank Grill, I thought about swinging past my office, but didn't. My office was close to Musso, and dropping in would have been easy, but I didn't; I was anxious to hear from Braun and Chen, so I blew off the office and hurried back to my home. I should have gone to my office. Everything would have played out differently if only I had gone to my office.
But my instinct to go directly home paid off in its way-a fax was waiting in my machine by the time I reached home. The cover letter was addressed to Starkey, recapping that Braun had limited the search to unresolved Crimes Against Persons occurring thirty miles or less from Temecula, resulting in twenty-seven entries. Braun had worked fast thanks to Starkey's magic words: Bomb Squad.
I brought the pages to my couch, and read through them. The individual entries were each no more than a few lines written in an abbreviated shorthand that read like code-
SDC#R4123; 05/12/70; rsp. 1120hrs; AGR. ASLT/RBY; 1255
Park Dr/Murrieta/prv.res;VIC Ronald L. Peters, wht, 41; aslt w/entrg hm/weap.red brick.RAS/DNS aslnt;no wit;no arr; no sus. Ofc #664.
The first entry described an aggravated assault and robbery that had taken place in Murrieta, California, which I knew to be five or six miles north of Temecula. The victim was a forty-one-year-old white male named Ronald Peters, who was assaulted while entering his home by an unknown assailant wielding a brick. The brick was recovered at the scene, but Peters did not see his assailant, no one else witnessed the crime, and the police had no suspects. The Reinnikes probably hadn't disappeared to flee assault and robbery charges. Peters had probably flashed too much cash in a bar, and been followed home in what amounted to a crime of opportunity.
Most of the entries were assaults and armed robberies like the first, but I found two rapes that gave me pause. The rapes occurred on consecutive nights about a week before the Reinnikes disappeared. The first happened ten miles south of Temecula, the next twelve miles east. Both victims were abducted by two masked assailants driving a white van. I wondered how I could find out if George Reinnike had a white van at the time he lived in Temecula. I made a note about it and moved on.
The next several entries were lightweight armed robberies and assaults, but then I reached a homicide. Kenneth Dupris had been murdered in Sun City, eight miles south of Temecula, and nine days before the Reinnikes disappeared. He had been murdered at home. The cause-of-death abbreviation was MLTP KNF/HD-an unknown subject had repeatedly stabbed Dupris in the head. The entry noted that Dupris's dog had also been stabbed. I made another note.
When I read the eighth entry on the third page, the context of everything changed-
SDC#H5009; 05/22/70; rsp. 1915hrs; HOM (MLP – 3); 625 Court
Ln/Temecula/prv.res;VIC H. Diaz, m, mex, 36; VIC M. Diaz, f,
mex, 32; VIC R. Diaz, m, mex, 12MC; COD BFT; aslt in hm/
weap.bbbat/RAS;WIT K. Diaz, f, mex, 4MC;no arr; no sus. Ofc(s)
#716, 952. DME#FG877-2.
A family had been beaten to death with a baseball bat nine days before the Reinnikes disappeared. The ages and genders of the victims indicated they were a father, mother, and son. The only surviving member of their family was a four-year-old girl, who was also the only witness. The victims were named Diaz. The surviving child was K. Diaz.
I went into the kitchen, drank a glass of water, then read the entry again. K. Diaz. I checked the dates, then did the math. K. Diaz would now be about the same age as Kelly Diaz, but the name Diaz was as common as Smith or Johnson. The L.A. general directory contained thousands of people named Diaz.
I was still thinking about it when my phone rang. It was Chen.
"That guy Pardy is a prick. He said I had to do for him like I do for you. He said if I don't help him out, he'll report me for doing outside work on LAPD time."
"John, I will cover you, okay? Did you get a chance to look at the image?"
"Yeah, yeah-I got all seven digits. The vehicle shows to a Payne L. Keller in Canyon Camino. That's by Magic Mountain."
Canyon Camino was a small community north of the San Fernando Valley, twenty minutes away.
"Is it stolen?"
"Not even an outstanding ticket. Either Keller loaned Reinnike the car, or Keller was another alias like Herbert Faustina."
Chen gave me the address on the registration. I asked if he had told Pardy.
"Yeah, he told me to call him first, that prick. I gotta call Beckett, too. Beckett has to notify the next of kin, so they'll be calling up there."
"Thanks, John. Thanks for the good work. I appreciate it."
"That isn't you, is it? His next of kin?"
"No, it isn't me. I just got a little carried away."
Chen sounded awkward.
"Okay. Well. I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
I put down the phone, feeling torn between Keller's address and Braun's letter. Braun had included two phone numbers. I reached him at his office and tried to sound businesslike. Payne Keller would have to wait.
"Mr. Braun, my name is Cole. I'm working with Detective Starkey on the matter you discussed."
"That's right. Did she get those faxes?"
"That's why I'm calling, sir. We have an interest in learning more about one of these cases. We'd like to see the file."
"Those files would be in storage. What I sent were computer summaries."
"We have an urgent interest in one of these files. Could you tell us where it is located?"
"Are you with the Bomb Squad, too?"
"I can't discuss my agency, sir, but our interest is urgent."
"All right, well, okay. What's the file number? I have to get to my desk."
I read off the file number while he went to his desk, and then he told me how to find the file. I could have taken five minutes longer before leaving my house. I could have used the bathroom or fed the cat or washed a few dishes. It all would have worked out better if I had killed a few minutes, but I didn't. I was in a hurry. I left.
Frederick
Frederick returned to Cole's house. The carport was empty, and just as when he arrived the previous day, no one appeared home. Frederick left his truck around the curve at the same construction site, then sat in the same olive trees to watch Cole's house, but neither Cole nor the police officer who was guarding him appeared. After thirty minutes, Frederick didn't hesitate.
He walked straight out of the trees, up the street, and knocked at Cole's front door. No one answered. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. He walked through the carport around the side of the house, and found a likely window.
Frederick popped Cole's kitchen window, hoisted himself up with a grunt, and shimmied over the sill into Cole's kitchen. Once he was inside Cole's house, he took the shotgun from its case.
Cole had to come home sooner or later. Frederick decided to wait.
The Sheriffs kept their records in a five-floor gray building south of the train yards at Union Station. A long train rumbled past the parking lot as I parked. The ground trembled with the strain of steel crushing into steel like a slow-motion earthquake. I waited for the caboose, but cars kept coming in a steady line. A low mist of dust was kicked up in the parking lot by the tremor. I trembled, too. I waited, but more cars came, and the line didn't end. I finally went inside.
A middle-aged woman was seated behind a narrow counter like the service counter at an auto-parts store. They don't let people walk in off the street to search their files; a sworn officer had to provide a badge and case number, then wait while the clerk found the file. I had convinced Braun that time was crucial. He had been kind enough to call ahead.
I said, "Long train."
"You get used to it."
"My name is Cole. Sergeant Braun called to request a file."
She peered at me, then went to a wire shopping cart that was parked beside her desk. She took out a dingy black file box and brought it to the counter. The file number was handwritten on the box's spine.
"That's right. I brought it up, but that file is not available. Someone checked it out, and didn't return it. That happens sometimes."
I could tell the box was empty by the way she placed it on the counter and spun it toward me. She flipped open the lid to show me. Empty. The Diaz file was missing.
I said, "Is there a sign-out log?"
"Oh, sure, there should be."
She took a yellowed card from a sleeve attached to the outside of the file box. Everyone who requested the files had to sign for them, like an old-fashioned library card. She glanced at it, then placed it on the counter.
"These people must think they're all doctors, the way they write."
Three people had requested the file since it turned cold. The first two names were Alvarez and Tolbert, both of whom had revisited the file on separate occasions more than twenty years ago. A third entry was scrawled and difficult to read, but I could make out enough of the letters. Det. K. Diaz. Diaz had taken the file almost eight years ago, and never returned it.
I thanked the clerk, then went back to my car. The train was gone. The earth no longer shook with its enormous rolling weight, but somehow the parking lot and train yard seemed smaller without it. I called Diaz on her cell, but her message picked up. I asked her to call, then phoned her office. A duty detective named Pier-son answered.
"She isn't here."
"When do you expect her?"
"Got no idea, man. You want to leave word?"
"How about Pardy?"
"Pardy isn't here, either."
I left word they should call, then hung up. Police officers never list themselves in the phone book. They stay unlisted so the criminal sociopaths they arrest can't shoot out their windows. But Diaz had given me her cell number, and cell accounts have billing addresses. I called a friend of mine at the phone company. She used the number to identify Diaz's cell provider, from whom she obtained the billing address. A cop would need a court order for something like this, but Dodgers tickets work even better.
I looked up the address on my Thomas Brothers, then went to see what I would find.
Diaz lived south of Sunset Boulevard in Silver Lake, on a winding street that had once been crowded with Central American refugees. The bottom half of her duplex had recently been painted a bright turquoise blue, but the tiny front lawn was nappy from poor care. I parked on the upslope, then went to her door. I knocked. The building was so small the pounding must have filled the little apartment.
"Diaz, it's Cole."
I tried the door, then stepped back and studied the upstairs apartment to see if anyone was home. I couldn't tell. I knocked again.
"Diaz?"
A horn honked behind me. I turned, and saw Pardy idling in the street. I wondered if he had been watching the house or following me. He tapped his horn again, and waved me over.
"What are you doing here, Cole?"
I hesitated. I wanted to tell him about the murder book, but I also wanted to see what was inside her house.
"I dropped by to see her. How about you?"
Pardy glanced toward the apartment like he knew I was lying, and ignored my question.
"Is she home?"
"She didn't answer."
"Didn't answer her phone, either. C'mon, get in."
"I'm okay."
"It's too hot to stand out there. C'mon, sit where it's cool."
I went around the tail of his car, and got in. He studied me, and I wondered what he was thinking.
He said, "Diaz never told me you were friends. How do you know where she lives?"
"She gave me her address."
"Was she expecting you?"
"I just dropped around. I wanted to talk about Reinnike."
Pardy nodded, but didn't comment, and I wondered again why he was here.
"How about you, Pardy? Are you close to making an arrest?"
"I'm working on it."
"So you came over to talk about it with Diaz."
"That's right."
"Why not just talk at the office?"
Pardy checked his rearview mirror, then studied her apartment as if he expected to see something new. He made no move to move the car.
"Let me ask you something, Cole. Did you find anything that explains why Reinnike had those clippings?"
"No."
"Nothing that connects you to him?"
"Nothing."
Pardy stared at me, and I stared back. He glanced at her apartment again, and I was sure we suspected the same things. He just couldn't bring himself to say it.
"Now I have a question for you, Pardy. What if I said a cop killed him? What would you say to that?"
"I'd say you'd better have your facts together and your ass covered. I'd say you better have a slam-dunk case with every i dotted and t crossed. If you don't, you'd damned well better keep your mouth shut until you do."
"Did you talk to Chen?"
"Yeah, about the registration. I spoke to the sheriff up in Canyon Camino a couple of hours ago. Keller owns a gas station up there. So far as the sheriff knew, Keller never said anything about a son. He said Keller lived alone."
"Do they know why he came to L.A.?"
"Didn't even know he was missing. They're going to try to locate a next of kin."
"Did you tell them about the arrest you're thinking about?"
Pardy put the dark eyes on me again.
"Why would I talk out my ass like that?"
"You not bring able to dot the i's and cross the t's."
"That's right. I'm going to work on it right now. I'm going to take off, and I won't be back, but I'll be nearby. Maybe you and I will talk later."
He stared at me steadily when he said it, and I knew he was giving me the green light to go into her house. We were both thinking that Kelly Diaz had something to do with Reinnike's death.
I got out of his car.
"Okay, Pardy. I'll see you."
He leaned across the seat and held out his card.
"Take my cell. You might need to call me."
I watched Pardy drive away, then walked around the side of Diaz's apartment to a cracked cement courtyard overgrown with bougainvillea. A small balcony hung out from the second floor with wooden steps going up to a narrow door. A similar door was tucked beneath the balcony. It took eight minutes to pick the locks.
Diaz had a small place, with one bedroom and a bath sprouting off the kitchen and living room. The furniture was mismatched and spare, with the temporary quality of a resident hotel, as if Diaz was only passing through on the way to somewhere else.
The murder book was on her dining table. She hadn't hidden it, or even attempted to hide it. Like every other murder book, it was a dark three-ring binder. Her family name was written on the binder's spine. Diaz.
I walked through her apartment because you always have to walk through, looking for bodies or lurkers, then returned to the table. I sat with the murder book just as she must have sat. I opened it.
The pages felt thin, but weren't yellow or brittle. The first document was a standard form stating the facts of the crime. The lead detective was identified as Detective-Sergeant Max Alvarez., but the form was signed by Detective Korvin Tolbert. Leads often left the paperwork to their partners.
At 1915 hrs on 22 May 69, RO/s Padilla (#1344) and Bigelow (#6191) entered private residence at 625 Court Lane, Temecula, in response to summons by neighbors. Upon entering residence, RO/s observed three deceased (see below) and surviving minor child (see below). RO/s secured scene. Detectives M. Alvarez (#716) and K. Tolbert (#1952) arrived 2025 hrs. At that time, Coroner's Office pronounced victims dead of apparent homicide.
Photo ID (DL) found at scene and vis. ident. by neighbors (see below) provided prelim. identification of victims as Herman Eduardo Diaz, age 36; his wife, Maria Diaz, age 32; their son, Richard Raul Diaz, age 12. Confirmed ID pending Medical Examiner. Initial indications were the three suffered severe blunt-force trauma to the head. A 30-inch Louisville Slugger baseball bat was recovered at the scene, and has been submitted for tests. Bat evidenced blood, tissue, and hair. (See below.)
Neighbors identified unharmed female minor child as Kelly Louise Diaz, age 4, the daughter of Herman and Maria. No attempt was made to question child at scene. Child was taken into custody by Children's Services pending next of kin.
When I saw the little girl's full name, my breath hissed out in a soft low sigh. Kelly Diaz's family had been bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat twelve-point-two miles from the Reinnikes' house, nine days before the Reinnikes disappeared. Kenneth Dupris's dog had been stabbed to death two days earlier. David Reinnike had been accused of stabbing a collie, and had once attacked another child with a baseball bat. Thirty-five years later, LAPD Detective Kelly Diaz had been the only one present when David Reinnike's father, George, was murdered in an alley.
The first report was only three pages long. Tolbert had written it on the morning after the murder, so his initial facts were spare, but later that day he attached reports written by the responding officers, and statements from neighbors. The victims were discovered by a neighbor who had gone to ask if her children could stay with the Diaz family that night while she visited a hospitalized friend. She believed them to be home because their cars were in the drive. No one responded to her knocking, but the door was ajar, so she pushed it open and announced her presence. That's when she saw Maria Diaz lying on the blood-saturated carpet.
A sketch followed the initial statements, showing the location of the bodies and the baseball bat. Each body was a little stick figure with initials written beside it. Tolbert noted that the premises had not been vandalized, the vehicles had not been stolen, and nothing appeared to be missing. Robbery was not considered a motive, but would not be ruled out until further investigation.
The next pages contained photographs of the crime scene. The first showed Maria Diaz facedown behind a couch. Her head was a red mass of hair and tissue. She was wearing shorts and a black T-shirt emblazoned with MOTHERS OF INVENTION.
Herman Diaz was in the second picture. He was on his back, staring at a ceiling he could not see. The blood had pooled around his head, fanning from his face like red petals.
The third picture showed their twelve-year-old son, Richard. He was partially hidden under the kitchen table, but a thin smear of red trailed across the floor as if left by a mop. Her brother had been trying to escape.
I felt light-headed, and realized I had stopped breathing. I looked up and breathed deeply.
I flipped past pictures of splatter patterns and smudgy footprints. Sheriffs Department criminalists had isolated a partial thumbprint on the kitchen door and three print fragments on the baseball bat, but had been unable to establish an identity. They also found partial impressions on the kitchen floor consistent with a cleated, size-twelve work boot, suggesting an adult male assailant of average size and weight.
Most of the remaining reports, statements, and interviews were entered into the murder book during the three weeks following the crime. Tolbert entered the lab reports as they arrived, but their results-like the interviews and the rest of the investigation-offered nothing useful. No suspects had been identified, and after a time the investigation turned cold.
Tolbert's last report was dated sixteen weeks after the murders. Maria's sister, Teresa Evans, had gone through her sister's possessions, and reported that a heart-shaped necklace was missing. The necklace was described as a simple silver heart that had originally belonged to their grandmother. She told Tolbert that Maria wore it as her everyday necklace, but it was not among the items returned to the family by the coroner, and had not been found in the house. Teresa had sent Tolbert a picture of Maria Diaz wearing the necklace. Tolbert had entered the picture into the murder book. Maria Diaz was wearing a bright spring dress. Her shoulders were tanned and pretty, and she was standing on someone's patio at twilight. She could have been Kelly Diaz's sister. The necklace stood out plainly. Kelly Diaz had been wearing the necklace when I went to see her at Central Station, and on the morning I stood with her over George Reinnike's body.
I closed the murder book, then went to the kitchen. I turned on the tap, and cupped my hand under the cool stream to drink. When I finished, I wiped my hand on my pants, then returned to the dining room.
Alvarez and Tolbert hadn't tied the Reinnikes to the murders because their disappearance was never reported; they had simply paid their rent and vanished. Their landlord had no reason to suspect a crime, and was happy to be rid of them. Six years later when the police busted his then-current tenant for mail fraud, the murders were forgotten news. Nothing in the murder book identified the Reinnikes as suspects, but Kelly Diaz had ended up in an alley with George Reinnike. And clippings about me.
Diaz probably hadn't found Reinnike; George had probably found her. He paid them to pray. After a lifetime of guilt, George had probably sought out Diaz to beg her forgiveness, and brought her mother's necklace as proof that he was involved in the killings. Even his alias spoke to his guilt: Keller… Kelly. He had taken her name as he had desecrated his flesh-to suffer a daily reminder of his sin. Reinnike probably hadn't known of me, and had never heard of me; he had come to Los Angeles looking for Kelly Diaz.
The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Diaz planted the clippings about me. She planted the key card in the alley and more clippings in Reinnike's motel room to hook me into tracing Reinnike, and it had worked. Maybe Reinnike confessed everything to Diaz except for David's whereabouts, so she needed a way to find him that wouldn't put herself at the forefront of the search. Me. The World's Greatest Detective would find David, then she could kill him just as she had killed his father.
I dialed her cell again, but her message still answered. I called Pardy.
Starkey
Starkey walked from Musso back to her office, feeling sullen and antsy. The morning sun beat hard through the broken sky, making her sweat on the short walk back to Hollywood Station. Her collar itched, and so did her scars. She wanted to peel off her blazer, but the blazer hid her pistol, so she slogged on. Starkey wished it was still raining. She wanted to walk in the rain with limp dangling hair and smoke soggy cigarettes and show everyone she was perfectly purely pathetic.
She loved Cole more than ever.
She realized-the two of them sitting in Musso's with Starkey trying to keep her feelings in check like some kind of crash-test dummy-that Cole kept himself buried; he hid behind flashy shirts and funny banter not unlike how his friend Pike hid behind dark glasses and a stone face. But hidden is hidden; for a moment just now in Musso's, Cole had let Starkey see the hidden and hurting part of himself, and now she loved him even more deeply. For letting her see. For trusting her.
Goddamn it sucked being her.
Starkey stripped off the jacket as soon as she reached her desk. She forced Cole out of her head by organizing the reports on her desk. She had just closed a teenaged prostitution case. All that was left was correcting her report. She had just gotten her head into it when Metcalf strolled by with a fresh cup of coffee.
"How's it going, Starkey? Did Cole come across for the little favor you did?"
When she glanced up, Metcalf leered, and pushed out his cheek with his tongue. He laughed as he went to his desk.
Starkey stared at the report, but now the feelings for Cole filled her again, and-just like that-she made up her mind.
Starkey decided to lay it on the line. She would tell Cole exactly how she felt about him; no more biting her tongue, no more hoping the goofy doof would wake up to realize Starkey was the real deal and Lady Puffinstuff Southern Belle was yesterday's news. Some guys, you had to put it straight up their noses, and Cole-clearly-was one of them. If he freaked, then he freaked; if he chose Lady Macbeth, then-
Starkey pushed away that thought.
She ate two antacids, slugged down some water, then ate two more.
She squared the report again, then eyeballed Metcalf, muttering into his phone at his desk. He was either taking notes or talking to one of his girlfriends. His coffee was still steaming in its cup. He needed one of those cups with a slogan on the side: World's Biggest Asshole.
Starkey got up, slipped on her blazer, then walked over to Metcalf on her way out.
"Hey, Ronnie."
Metcalf looked up.
Starkey pushed her tongue into her cheek like she was giving a blow job, then tipped his steaming coffee into his lap. Metcalf shrieked as he stumbled out of his chair. He was still hopping and cursing when Starkey left.
She headed for Cole's house.
"It's Diaz. Diaz killed George Reinnike."
Pardy said, "I'm listening."
"Her family was murdered when she was four years old. Father, mother, and brother-she was the only survivor. Did you know that?"
Pardy made a soft whistle in the phone.
"No. I had no idea. I figured her for the shooting, but I had no idea. Jesus."
"The original murder book is here in her house. The Reinnikes disappeared eight days after the murders. They are not named in the investigation, but the silver heart she wears belonged to her mother. It was reported missing at the time of the crime. That's all in the book. The investigators believed the killer had taken it as a trophy. Now she's wearing it. I think Reinnike brought it to prove who he was."
"She could say she had a copy made."
"She can say anything she wants. I'm telling you she's good for it, and you know it, too-that's why you didn't care about Golden."
Pardy hesitated, like he still had trouble admitting what we both knew.
"I had her for it, I just didn't know why. I have the gun."
"The murder weapon?"
"One of my street people found it behind Union Station. A Browning.380. Your boy Chen just matched it to the bullet in Reinnike. It's not clean, but I can put the gun with her."
"Your own private Walk-in Wednesday."
"I couldn't have made the connection without that, Cole. This gun was used in a murder last year up at the top of Angels Flight. Wits saw the gun at the scene, but somehow that weapon wasn't recovered. Diaz worked that case, Cole. That gives her access."
"Thin."
"You're goddamned right it's thin, so I need the i's dotted. I have two wits who saw Reinnike with a dark-haired woman the night he was killed. I gotta have time to put that together. This business about her family gives me enough to go to O'Loughlin. Here I am, my first lead, and I'm making a case where it looks like the shooter is a senior detective in my own station. I need this thing stitched before I bring it forward."
"What are you going to do?"
"Leave everything like you found it and get out. I can put together a search warrant, and go to O'Loughlin. He's going to shit, but he'll do the right thing."
I thought about Chen calling Pardy and Beckett.
"Did she get the ID information about Payne Keller?"
Pardy hesitated, so I knew that she had. She could have gotten Keller's address from O'Loughlin, or she might have called Chen herself.
"Pardy, she's on her way up there. If she has Reinnike's address, she's going for his son."
"Just settle down, forchrissake. We don't even know David Reinnike is still alive, let alone whether he was with his old man. We need to get together our evidence, then bring her in nice and easy. This woman is an LAPD homicide detective."
"If she finds him, she'll kill him. That will make it even worse."
"And if she finds out we're onto her she'll take off or lawyer up, or maybe do something even more stupid. I've already spoken with the sheriff up there. Reinnike lived alone. As far as the sheriff knew, he didn't have any family, so there's probably nobody to find."
"Then where is she, Pardy?"
"Let's take it easy. Let me talk to O'Loughlin, and then we'll head up to take a look-I don't want this to get out about Diaz until we have her in custody."
"Take all the time you want, Pardy-I'm going."
I hung up, and went out to my car.
Frederick
Cole had a pretty nice place; it was small, with a tiny bedroom and bath on the ground floor and a loft bedroom and bath up above. The high pointy ceiling made it feel more like a cabin or a tree house than a real house. Frederick fantasized moving in after he killed Cole. He knew it was only a fantasy, but he liked the idea.
Frederick quickly checked the rooms, then returned to Cole's kitchen. He searched through the drawers, and selected a chopping knife with a heavy blade. He thought he might try to stab Cole instead of shooting him-less noise. Then he could go to work with the vise-grip pliers.
Frederick peeked out the curtained kitchen door into the empty carport, then went into the living room. He was getting used to being in the house, and feeling more relaxed. He saw the papers spread over Cole's table. The top page was a newspaper article about the disappearance of George and David Reinnike.
Coldness swept over Frederick, and the house swelled around him, growing huge and cavernous.
He pushed through the other papers, finding more newspaper accounts and what appeared to be official-looking police documents. A bill from the Home Away Suites was part of Cole's file. Then he saw Payne's name and address scrawled in the margin of one of the documents.
Frederick 's eyes burned, and he trembled.
Cole had everything.
The voices whispered as Frederick searched the papers and documents for his own name. Cole had Payne's name and address, but not Frederick 's. Cole was probably up at Payne's right now. Frederick wouldn't find him here at his house; he would find him at Payne's. Frederick saw Cole's path in an intuitive flash: Cole would search Payne's house, then go to the station. Elroy would tell Cole about Frederick, and Cole would go to his home. Frederick saw it unfolding with a pure bright clarity, and knew what to do. He would find Cole in Canyon Camino, and that's where he would kill him.
Frederick decided to go. He decided to let himself out through the kitchen door. He had left the table and was crossing the kitchen when a car pulled into the carport.
Cold
Frederick 's face split into a wide jagged grin, and he ran to the door, but when he peeked past the edge of the curtain he saw it was a woman.
Starkey
Starkey frowned when she saw that Cole's car was gone. Just her goddamned luck, having to put off the big scene after she worked up her nut. She turned into his empty carport and shut off her car.
"Damnit."
Starkey lit a cigarette. She fumed as she smoked, then decided to call him. She fished her cell phone from her purse, but when she tried to speed-dial his number, her phone couldn't lock on to a signal.
Starkey said, "SonofaBITCH!"
She thought it might be her battery, so she plugged the phone into the power cord trailing from the cigarette lighter. She still couldn't get a signal.
Starkey thought, well, shit, she'd use Cole's phone. She got out of her car, and went to the spare key she once saw him use. He kept it on the side of his house. She retrieved the key, returned to the carport, and let herself into the kitchen.
She crossed to the cordless phone cradled on the counter between the kitchen and dining room, and pressed in the number for Cole's cell. She stood with her back to the living room, impatiently listening to the ring.
Frederick
Frederick watched the woman getting out of her car, and realized she was the police officer who was guarding Cole's house. His pulse sped with horrific images of his capture and torture. He was caught in a panicked indecision between killing her or hiding, and he didn't know which to do. Secret cameras might be letting them watch his every move RIGHT NOW1. More police might be surrounding Cole's house RIGHT NOW!
Yet, she wasn't hurrying. Her gun wasn't out. He didn't hear the sound of approaching sirens.
Frederick backed out of the kitchen, ran across the living room, and ducked into the entry closet. He clutched the shotgun across his chest, and gripped the knife tight. He heard her enter the house just as he pulled the door closed.
Starkey
Starkey was about to hang up when Cole answered.
"Hello?"
Mr. Witty. She wanted to make a wisecrack, but didn't.
Cole wasn't smarting off the way he usually did because he was hurting.
"Hey, it's me, Starkey. I'm standing in your house."
She was about to launch into it when Cole cut her off.
"Starkey, it's Diaz. Diaz killed him."
He went off into this blur of a story about the Reinnikes and Diaz, and Pardy building the case, and Diaz probably being on her way to Canyon Camino to find and kill David Reinnike. When Cole said he was going to stop her, Starkey flashed on her dream.
… his inevitable death.
"Cole, don't. Wait for Pardy."
She felt it so deep a taste like cold nickels coated her tongue- the medicinal taste of his death.
He said, "It'll be fine."
It was the last thing he said, and then the signal was gone.
"Cole?"
Dead air.
"Goddamnit, Cole."
Starkey punched the redial on his phone, but this time his voice mail picked up right away. No signal.
"SHIT!"
Carol Starkey had been dead, and then risen; she had been drunk, then sober; she had been a cop for thirteen years and had seen every imaginable human depravity; she did not believe in God; she did not believe in premonitions, telepathy, channeling, ESP, clairvoyance, remote viewing, fortune-telling, astrology, or the afterlife. She believed that Cole would be killed.
"SHIT!! SHITSHITSHIT!"
She punched in the number and waited out the ring. His personal number. The one he gave her.
"Yes."
"Pike. Pike, it's me."
Starkey told him where to meet her, and told him why.
Frederick
Frederick heard the door slam when she left. He listened to her engine roar, and the rubber shriek as she shredded away. Then he opened the door.
There in Cole's closet, he made peace with his own death, which was preordained and certain. They were too many against him, Cole and all these others. They were tightening their net, they would find him, and they would kill him. It was the punishment Payne had predicted. It had finally come to pass, and in a swell of emotion that filled his eyes with tears, Frederick realized now the truth of why Payne had gone to Los Angeles without telling him-Payne had gone to protect him. Payne had sacrificed himself in the final demonstration of his love.
Frederick could do no less.
Cole was going to Payne's, and that's where Frederick would find him. Frederick went back to his car, and drove hard toward Payne's home.
The I-5 curved across the eastern edge of the San Fernando Valley and through the Newhall Pass. Hundreds of thousands of commuters followed that route every day, traveling to and from the bedroom communities that sprout from the freeways like budding flowers. Most everyone turns east when they reach Newhall, where the rolling hills and desert flats are covered with housing developments. The land wasn't flat to the west. The mountains grew steep overlooking Magic Mountain, and the little towns tucked in the pine-filled ridges felt isolated even though they were only twenty minutes from the city. Canyon Camino was a good place to hide.
The Sheriffs Substation was a small brown building located between a convenience store and a video store. I parked at the video store, and walked to the Sheriffs.
A slender deputy in a khaki uniform was leaning back with his feet up, talking on the phone when I walked in. He dropped his feet when he saw me, and hung up.
"Can I help you?"
His name tag read Biggins. I identified myself, showed him my license, then put Pardy's card on the counter.
"I'm here about a local named Payne Keller. Detective Pardy at LAPD spoke with someone."
"I was here. What a bunch of crap, getting killed like that. The sheriff's out now, letting people know. He had to secure Payne's house. What a bunch of crap."
"When is the sheriff getting back?"
"All I can tell you is he'll get back when he gets back. We been real busy this morning."
"It's going to get even busier. Pardy is coming up, and a couple of other homicide cops are going to meet us here. Has Detective Diaz checked in?"
"You're the first."
"Maybe she called."
"A woman?"
"Yeah."
"Someone from Sheriffs Homicide called-Mullen, I think she said. Then there was Pardy and someone named Beckett-"
Diaz had probably posed as Mullen.
"Okay. I need directions to Keller's house, and I'm also interested in talking to his friends. Maybe you could give me a few names."
Biggins was looking nervous.
"Tell me again-what's your involvement in this?"
"I'm working for the family."
I tapped Pardy's card.
"Call Pardy. He knows I'm working the case, and he's good with it. Give him a call."
Biggins frowned at the card, then pushed it aside.
"I didn't know Payne that well, just to trade a cup of coffee when I rolled by his station. I lived in Riverside before we moved up here."
"He had a gas station?"
"Yeah, a little bit out of town-Payne's Car Care."
"Did he have a family?"
"Listen, why don't you talk to one of those guys at the station. He has two guys out there."
Biggins gave me directions to Keller's home, and said I would pass Keller's gas station on the way. He told me that Keller's employees were Elroy Lewis and Frederick Conrad, and that either one of them might be able to answer my questions. Biggins was helpful. After I copied the directions, I wrote out my cell number, tore off the page, and put it beside Pardy's card.
"If I miss the sheriff and he gets back, tell him I need to talk to him. It's important."
Biggins glanced at the number.
"Cell phones don't work up here. You can't get a signal with the mountains."
"I live in the middle of Los Angeles, and I can't get a signal."
Biggins laughed.
"It was like that in Riverside, too."
I turned to leave, then stopped.
"If Diaz or Mullen check in, tell them I'm here. Tell Diaz I asked after her parents, and she should talk to me before she does anything."
"Okay. Sure."
"There's something else you and the sheriff should know. Pardy didn't know this earlier, or he would have told you. Payne Keller and his son are suspects in a multiple homicide. If Keller's son is up here, he will be dangerous."
Biggins stared at me without comprehension.
I nodded toward the transceiver.
"You should tell the sheriff."
Frederick
Payne's cabin was as lonely as yesterday, but that was good.
The air still carried the smoky scent of the fires he had used. It wasn't so bad. It smelled like a cold fireplace.
Frederick unlocked the front door, then stepped into Payne's living room. He was trying to decide where best to wait for Cole when a car pulled up the drive. Frederick jumped at the sound, and hurried to the window, thinking-
"You bastard! This is what you're going to get for Payne, you bastard!"
But when he looked, it wasn't Cole; it was the Canyon Camino sheriff, Guy Rossi.
Frederick stood back from the window, watching as Rossi parked alongside his truck. The sheriff eyed Frederick 's truck, probably wondering who it belonged to. The sheriff walked along the length of the truck, and that's when Frederick saw the shovel. Here he had been driving all over Los Angeles, here he had worked so hard at cleaning up Payne's place to get rid of the evidence, and the shovel he used to dig up the stuff was still in his truck. The shovel, with evidence on its blade.
Sonofamotherfuckingbitch.
He had forgotten to clean the shovel.
The sheriff started toward the house.
Frederick set the shotgun behind Payne's couch, then put on the face and stepped out. Maybe Cole had already spoken with the sheriff. No, not likely-a murderer wouldn't talk to the cops.
Frederick said, "Boy, this sure is a sad day."
Rossi stared when Frederick appeared on the porch. In that moment, out of context, it was obvious the sheriff didn't recognize him.
Frederick said, "It's me, Frederick Conrad. I work for Payne."
The sheriff finally placed him.
"I didn't expect anyone to be here. You heard the bad news?"
"Oh, yeah. I've been feeding Payne's cats. Payne has three cats around here somewhere. I don't know what's going to happen to them now."
Frederick ambled over as he gave the sheriff the business about the cats, and stood so the sheriff had to face away from the shovel. Frederick shook his head sadly.
"I guess we can put up a sign at the station, try to find them a home. I could take one, maybe, but three-"
Frederick sighed heavily, as if the unfairness of what was about to happen to Payne's cats was crushing.
The sheriff seemed to consider Payne's house, then put his hands on his gun belt like he wasn't sure what to do next.
"Did Payne ask you to take care of'm before he went away?"
"Not before, no, sir. My understanding is it was some kinda family emergency. He called later and asked me to come out."
The sheriff grunted like he wasn't really thinking about the cats.
"He tell you what happened?"
Frederick assumed the sheriff had already spoken with Elroy, so he fed out the same line.
"His sister was hurt in some kinda car wreck. They didn't think she was gonna make it."
"He call you from Los Angeles?"
"He was in Sacramento."
The sheriff grunted, and Frederick was suddenly worried the L.A. police had told the sheriff a lot more than he was letting on.
"He leave a number up there?"
"No, sir, he just said he would call back when he knew what he was going to do. That was the last time I heard from him."
The sheriff drifted in a slow arc around Frederick toward the house. Rossi studied Payne's roof like he expected something to be up there. Then he studied the trees, then Payne's garage. Frederick didn't like the slow way the sheriff was moving and the way he studied everything. Frederick 's palms grew clammy and a pulse started in his ears. What did the sheriff know?
Frederick said, "You want me to leave the door open, or should I lock it?"
"You have a key?"
"Payne keeps one under the pot there."
"Better give it to me. I'm gonna take a look around before the L.A. people get here."
Frederick gave him the key, wanting to move away from the truck but scared to do anything out of the ordinary.
The sheriff dropped the key into his pocket. He studied Frederick.
"I've been up at the Catholic church all morning. I understand Payne spent a lot of time up there."
"Payne was a devout man. Me, I don't go so much, but Payne was very religious. You'll see when you go inside. Jesus is everywhere."
"Was Payne close with the priest, Father Willie?"
"I really don't know. I guess he must've been."
Sweat crawled down Frederick 's sides like bugs. He was certain that Cole would drive up at any second, and he didn't like the way the sheriff was looking at him. Now the sheriff was wondering how Payne and Father Willie were connected. Maybe Payne had confessed to Father Willie, and Father Willie had told someone else. The sheriff just kept staring at him, and Frederick 's breath came faster and faster.
"Let me ask you something."
"What's that, Sheriff?"
The sheriff walked to the truck. He glanced into the truck's bed, studied the shovel, then draped his arm over the side panel. Frederick 's heart thundered.
"How long have you known Payne?"
"I dunno," Frederick mumbled. "Must be ten, twelve years."
The sheriff seemed to study him even more closely.
"You know he once went by another name?"
"I didn't know that."
"He never mentioned another name to you?"
"No, sir."
"George Reinnike?"
"No."
"He tell you about his son?"
Frederick 's vision blurred, and his lungs couldn't get enough air. He barely managed to speak.
"He didn't tell me anything."
Frederick was certain the sheriff was watching him. The sheriff's head floated up and down in a slow-motion nod. His head tilted ponderously as he considered the shovel again. He studied the shovel forever before his eyes returned to Frederick. They rested on Frederick. They crushed him.
The sheriff smiled. Not a happy smile, but wise. Knowing. As if he could see the connections between Frederick and Payne.
"Looks like Payne had a few secrets."
The sheriff moved past Frederick toward the house.
"Looks like they're about to come out."
Frederick said, "Sheriff?"
As the sheriff was turning, Frederick picked up the shovel. The blade bit deep, and then it was done.
Biggins's directions led me to a small independent service station with a single pump island and a tow truck parked at the rear. Large yellow signs at the edge of the turnoff announced WE HAVE PROPANE and DIESEL. A thin man in a blue windbreaker came around the side of the building as I pulled up. A yellow lab gimped along behind him, then flopped to the ground by the station's front door. When the man saw me, he waved like he was waving good-bye. He was too young to be David Reinnike.
"Sorry, partner, I just turned off the pumps. We're closed."
"Are you Lewis or Conrad? I just left the Sheriffs Substation. The deputy said I would find Lewis or Conrad here. I'm from Los Angeles, about Payne Keller."
"I'm Lewis. This is the goddamnedest thing, isn't it? The god-damnedest thing. I'm supposed to take the wife up to Cambria tomorrow, and now this. I gotta get this place closed."
Lewis was looking around the station, with his lips silently moving as if he was making a list of everything he needed to do. I pointed up the road.
"Mr. Lewis, is this the right way to Payne's house?"
"Yeah, right up there. It's not much farther. The sheriff's up there."
"Okay, good."
I felt a little better thinking the sheriff was at Keller's house. Diaz would probably avoid him.
"Have any other officers come by?"
He stared at me like he was having a hard time concentrating.
"Yeah, another one from Los Angeles. She might be up there with the sheriff. She asked about it."
"Was that before or after the sheriff?"
"After. Listen, I gotta get this place closed. We got a gas truck coming up here, and I gotta get that gas canceled. Payne's dead, and we got a whole damn truck of gas on its way."
His eyes suddenly filled, and he hurried past me into the service bays. I helped him pull down the overhead doors, and talked to him as he shut the power to the hydraulic lifts.
"I know this is a bad time, Mr. Lewis. I'm sorry."
"I know. I understand. They said Payne was using a fake name. What in hell is that all about? I never knew Payne had another name."
"George Reinnike."
"I didn't know. I been here for eight years; all I knew was Payne."
"Payne had a son. Did you know about his son?"
"Jesus Christ, no. That's what the sheriff said. I didn't know anything about a son."
"His name was David."
"Jesus, next you're gonna tell me Payne was Elvis-fucking-Presley."
We moved into the office. If Lewis had worked with Reinnike for eight years, he could probably name Reinnike's closest friends. I asked him. Lewis hesitated, and I could see he was bothered by how little he knew about the man with whom he had worked so closely.
"Payne didn't have friends. He kinda stayed to himself."
"Everybody has someone."
"Maybe up at the church. Payne was big on the Bible. He was up at the church a lot."
"Anyone else?"
"Just me and Frederick, that's all I know. We helped him here at the station, then up at the house when he needed it. Frederick 's been here longer than me."
"How long has Frederick been here?"
"I don't know-ten, twelve years, something like that. You want his number?"
"What does Frederick look like?"
"Little younger than you, maybe. About your height, but heavy. I dunno. Why you asking about Frederick? What does that have to do with Payne?"
"Did Payne tell you why he was going to Los Angeles?"
"I thought he was in Sacramento."
"He told you he was going to Sacramento?"
"He called Frederick. His sister got T-boned in a bad wreck, he said. I thought he was in Sacramento taking care of her, not down in L.A. getting himself shot."
"He called Frederick."
"Yeah. Frederick talked to him."
"Payne didn't have a sister."
Elroy Lewis muttered under his breath, and we were both wondering why Frederick had gotten all the calls and not Elroy Lewis. Lewis turned off the last lights, then locked the door behind us.
He said, "If you see the sheriff up there, you tell him I went home. He said he was gonna call."
"I'll tell him you went home."
"You going up to Payne's right now?"
"That's right."
"Look for the big dead sycamore right by the drive, otherwise you'll miss it."
"All right. Thanks, Mr. Lewis."
The dog lifted its head when he saw us approaching, and struggled to its feet. It wobbled sideways before it steadied itself. Lewis stared at the dog as if it were homeless.
"I don't know what in hell we're gonna do now."
He stared at me, then started blinking again.
"Payne read the Bible all the time. He would read it sitting here in the station. He had these statues of Jesus. He went to Mass, I dunno, three times a week, and now he gets shot to death down in L.A. I'm not a religious man, but it doesn't seem right."
Lewis walked away, and the dog gimped along after him. I climbed back into my car, but I didn't leave right away. I thought about Frederick Conrad. Payne Keller's house was close, and the sheriff was supposed to be there. I had Conrad's address, and could have gone to his home, but I decided to see the sheriff first. Like failing to return to my office, it was exactly the wrong decision.
Lewis warned me to look for a dying sycamore, and that's where I found it-an overgrown private lane little more than a break between the trees without even a mailbox to draw passing attention. It looked more like a trail than a road, with nasty potholes and cuts that would discourage the idly curious with a broken axle. It was a good place to be an invisible man and live an invisible life.
I worked my way over the potholes and through the trees. Reinnike's house was a rustic cabin built of clapboard and river stones, with a covered porch in front. I had expected to see the sheriff's vehicle, but Kelly Diaz's Passat was parked alongside the porch. No other vehicles were present. I pulled up behind her, and shut off my car. The front door was open.
Diaz would have heard me drive up, but she did not come to the door. I got out, and went to the porch.
"Diaz?"
I crossed the porch, and stepped inside.
"Diaz, it's Cole."
Furniture was upended, magazines were scattered over the floor, and books had been swept clean from a bookcase that was twisted away from the wall. Statues and portraits of Jesus were everywhere; watching from the walls and the television and the tables. More little statues were strewn over the floor.
"Diaz, you in here?"
Reinnike's house had been searched, but not by Diaz. Cops know you can't find something by throwing things in the air. Someone with a disordered mind had searched this house. An image of a collie with a garden stake through its chest flickered in my head. I was frightened of what I would find.
"David?"
I moved to the kitchen. Drawers had been emptied; the cupboards were open, and Tupperware raked to the floor. I didn't want to go into the back of the house. I wondered if Diaz had been here when David Reinnike came to call.
I backed out of the kitchen, and turned toward the living room. Kelly Diaz was waiting in the mouth of the hall, holding her pistol loose down along her leg. She could have killed me; she could have shot me down from behind, but she didn't. Her face was strained as if she had caught up in time with her mother, and carried her mother's lost years, but she gave me a wicked bright smile.
"Damn, Cole, you really are the World's Greatest Detective. You found the sonofabitch-Payne-fucking-Keller."
"I found a suspect in his murder, too."
Her shirt was taut over the swell of a bullet-resistant vest. Detectives never wore vests, but Diaz had come up here to do business. She waggled her gun at the room.
"He's here, Cole. The sick freak is shitting his pants. We can get him."
"Pardy knows. He's talking it over with O'Loughlin right now. They're going to issue a warrant."
"Pardy doesn't know his ass."
"He found the gun and put it with one of your cases. You had access. He has a witness who saw a woman matching your description with Reinnike the night of the murder. I found the murder book in your house-"
She waggled the gun again, but a sheen of sweat slicked her face and her eyes were bright.
"We'll see with the jury."
"Your footprints are all over this, Kelly. You're wearing your mother's necklace, forchrissake."
The tough smile wavered, but strengthened with anger.
"Well, so fucking what? I made my choice, and I'm good with it. This bastard murdered my family. I am officially mentally ill. I snapped under the strain of being confronted by the man who murdered my family. I feared for my life, and reacted accordingly. I then proceeded with an investigation in preparation to come forward. We'll see what the jury does with it."
She must have told herself those things a thousand times, convincing herself it would work.
"There were better ways, Diaz. You could have made the case. You could have arrested him."
Her gun came up.
"Oh, fuck that, Cole-please. You don't know. You weren't there. Man, it was intense."
"Look, I understand-"
"You can't-"
"You don't know me well enough to know what I can know- all you know is what you read in the papers."
I was shouting, too, and maybe that's what made her smile, the two of us in that house, shouting.
"The papers got a lot right, buddy. You stayed with it. You found him. Here we are in his house."
"You led me. You planted the clippings and the key card. You baited me to the Medical Examiner's so I would see him again and you could set the hook even deeper. You didn't need me for any of this, Diaz-you could have found him without me."
Her eyes glistened like black buttons, and she lowered her gun. She tipped back her head against the wall, and spoke without seeing me.
"But then everyone would have known I was in on the kill. I wanted them to think it was just you, you see?"
She laid it out and confirmed my guesses. She had me trace Reinnike to find David. She needed me to do the legwork to set me up for the murders, both George's and David's.
I said, "But it didn't work out that way."
She tipped forward again, and the sad smile returned.
"It was so intense, Cole; everything happened so fast, and I was making it up as it happened."
"Did you find George or did he find you?"
Now she drew herself up, and straightened.
"When I finished the Academy and came on the job, the Daily News ran a little piece about what happened to my family. He saw it, and kept it. Man, that was years ago-years. I guess it took him all these years to work up his nut. He called last week. Out of the blue, he just called. He said he had information about the death of my family."
She touched the necklace, and I knew my guess about it was right, too-he had brought it as proof. She was still in that awful moment when he called. I have information about the death of your family.
"What did he tell you?"
Her fingers caressed the silver, and her eyes were lost. I moved slowly, and took her gun. She did not resist.
"Did he tell you what happened, Kelly? Was it just David or was George part of it?"
Her fingers fell away from the necklace as if their weight was too great. Her eyes filled, and she clenched them shut. Her chin quivered. She fought hard to stop it.
She said, "Shit."
I put my arms around her. She shuddered, and cried for a while, and I cried along with her, for everything she had lost and for all the things I never had. And when we wore ourselves out with it, she told me how her family had come to die: Her father and brother were driving, and saw David Reinnike hitchhiking. David Reinnike would have been three or four years older than her brother, but the two kids got along, so her father probably brought the hitchhiker home to play or have a little dinner or whatever. Diaz only knew what she had been told by George Reinnike, and George only knew what he had been told by David. David hadn't been at their home for more than fifteen or twenty minutes when something set him off. Her brother showed his baseball bat to David. David probably tested it out with a few warm-up swings, but her brother probably wanted it back. Then David started swinging for real. He hadn't been in their home long enough to know a little girl was playing in her closet. Between what George provided and the information available in the murder book, David Reinnike beat them to death, and then he just walked away and hitchhiked home, and not one goddamned person saw him. Not one person in a neighborhood filled with people saw or heard the murders, or David leave the scene. When he reached home, covered in blood-he had to be covered in blood, wouldn't you think?-George cleaned him up, took him away, and never told a soul. His son had problems, he said. His son needed care.
I said, "He contacted you because he had to get it off his chest, but he wouldn't tell anything about David."
"The sonofabitch wouldn't tell me where David was or even if he was alive, but I know he's up here. George would have to keep him close to control him. That sonofabitch cried like a baby, saying it was eating him alive. Well, fuck him."
I nodded.
"So you killed him."
Diaz cleared her throat, then pulled herself together and stepped away from me. She seemed angry again, and ready for hell.
"That's right, Cole. So what are you going to do? You going to slap the cuffs on me and wait here for Pardy and my lawyer, and let this bastard get away? Look at this place-he knows we're coming. Daddy's been keeping him out of jail all these years, and now Daddy's gone. You think he's going to wait?"
"I'm not going to let you kill him. If you kill him, you're just killing yourself."
"Then what?"
"We're going to identify David, and you're going to take him into custody. You're going to arrest him, and bring him in to show you did the right thing. You're going to show them you didn't let what happened destroy you."
Diaz sighed deep, pushing out air like she was trying to get rid of something that was trapped inside her. She tipped back her head again and stared at the ceiling.
"What a goddamned mess."
"Pardy's coming. We don't have all day."
She squared herself, and nodded.
"My gun."
I gave her the gun. She put it into her holster.
"Do you know who it is?"
"Probably the other guy who worked at the station. That's what it sounds like from talking with Lewis. I can't be sure, but that's what it sounds like. Lewis told me how to get to his house."
Diaz stepped past me and went to the door.
Starkey
Starkey picked up Pike where the 405 crossed Mulholland. If Pike wondered why she was frantic, he didn't ask, and he didn't quibble over which car they would take. Her car had the lights and a radio. They would make better time. Starkey flipped on her grille lights, and blasted out of the parking lot. When they were rolling north on the freeway, she keyed her radio, surprised that the damn thing worked. "Six-whiskey-twelve." "Six-whiskey-twelve, go."
The "three" identified her as being from Hollywood. "Whiskey" told them she was a detective. The "twelve" was her car number.
"Ah, I need a patch to the Sheriffs Department Substation in Canyon Camino."
"Stand by, six-whiskey-twelve."
While Starkey was busy with the radio, Pike called Cole's cell number. Pike phoned it three times, but never once got through. By the time Starkey had the patch, they were passing Van Nuys Airport, twenty-six minutes away from George Reinnike's home.
Frederick
The sheriff changed everything. He could have radioed that Frederick 's truck was at Payne's, or told Biggins he was stopping at the house, or called in more police. Frederick 's mind raced with the changing plans. He felt certain that Cole wouldn't approach with a patrol car out front, and Frederick wanted to get quickly away. Also, if the police found Rossi's vehicle, they might roadblock the area and stop Frederick 's escape. He fought the urge to run. He loaded Rossi's body into the back seat, then drove the patrol car behind Payne's cabin and into the trees. He drove as far as he could, then huffed back to the house. He piled into his truck.
Frederick wept as he drove. He missed Payne, and he wanted to punish Cole, but now he realized he had to leave and vengeance would never be his. Maybe if he got away. Maybe in a few years. He knew where Cole lived. He knew where he worked. Maybe in a few years.
Frederick heard a voice as he entered his trailer, but it was Elroy, leaving a message.
"-call me back, goddamnit. The L.A. police are coming up to talk to us, and I don't know what in hell's-"
Frederick scooped up the phone.
"Elroy, it's me. Why do they want to talk to us?"
"Goddamnit, why haven't you called me back? I got-"
"I been so upset about Payne I didn't know what to say."
Elroy calmed down. Even Elroy could understand grief.
He said, "Payne ever say anything to you about going to Los Angeles?"
"Not me."
"Well, that's what they're asking about. The sheriff was here. He said some police are coming up from Los Angeles, and they want to know why he went down there. He said Payne's name wasn't really Payne. Did he get over there to talk to you?"
"He called. I just got off the phone."
"I'm closing this damned station. I don't know what else to do."
"Okay."
"That private detective get over there yet?"
"Good-bye, Elroy."
Frederick put the phone softly in its cradle. His eyes felt like they were swelling. They filled with a tremendous pressure and felt like they would explode. Cole knew who he was. Cole was coming right here to his house. Frederick felt trapped. They were being punished just like Payne always said. Frederick sobbed, then remembered Juanita. He wasn't done yet. He might be able to get the jump on Cole, and still get away.
Frederick got together the cash he had taken from the station, then locked his trailer and took the shotgun from his truck. He hurried across the courtyard to Juanita's double-wide. It was midafternoon, so Frederick knew she was taking her nap. Juanita woke at three or four every morning with the night terrors, then nodded out again after lunch. That's the way it was with old people. Sad.
The two little girls were playing on the far side of the motor court. He called out to them, and waved. They ran as soon as they saw him, which is exactly what he wanted.
Frederick went to Juanita's door, but didn't knock-he twisted her door handle and shoved through the cheap aluminum frame. Juanita woke with a start, but Frederick shut the door fast, and smiled.
Juanita, still foggy with sleep, said, " Frederick?"
Frederick took care of her, then settled into the shadows just as two cars turned in from the road.
High Mountain Communities was an older mobile home park with single- and double-wide mobile homes set among the trees. It had probably been a nice place to live at one time, but now it had the feel of an outdated summer camp with declining enrollment. Some of the mobile homes were well maintained, but others were grimy with stains. Frederick Conrad lived in Number 14, at the rear of the park.
Diaz followed me in her Passat. We crunched past the central motor court, watching the numbers until I found #14. Conrad's mobile home was clean, nicely maintained, and quiet. The entire mobile-home park was quiet.
I parked beside an F-150 pickup truck, and Diaz pulled up beside me. We got out of our cars at the same time, glancing over the surroundings. Her eyes were dark, like two polished black stones.
She said, "His son's going to be up here. If he isn't here now, he was. He was never far from his son."
"Let's take it easy. We don't know this guy is him."
Two little girls appeared across the motor court. They bubbled out of a pale green mobile home, the smaller of the two trying to keep up with her older sister. The older girl said something I could not understand, and the younger one loudly told her to wait. The older girl ran around the far end of their home, laughing. Her younger sister laughed as she followed. Diaz stared after them.
I said, "Diaz?"
She turned back, and touched the locket that swung in the hollow of her neck.
"I'm good. Let's see what he has to say."
We approached Frederick Conrad's door. Diaz walked with her hand on her gun under her jacket.
I knocked on the door, then knocked harder, and called out.
"Mr. Conrad?"
No one answered.
Diaz slammed her palm on the trailer.
"Fucking prick."
"Take it easy."
The truck was parked like it belonged with his trailer. I went over to the truck. The engine ticked, but the ticking was slow, as if it had been parked for a while. The two little girls had disappeared. Everything was so quiet it left me feeling creepy.
Diaz said, "Let's talk to his neighbors."
An older Dodge sedan was parked in front of the mobile home closest to Conrad's, suggesting the mobile home might be occupied. The mobile home's door was closed and drapes covered the windows, but all the other mobile homes were closed the same way. I followed Diaz across the gravel, wondering if these people were vampires.
All you can do is knock.
Frederick
Juanita liked it dark. She kept the lights off and the drapes pulled so prowlers and rapists couldn't spy on her. Frederick always told her, oh, Juanita, that's silly, there aren't any prowlers around here, but Juanita would wave her hand like he was foolish, telling him she saw it on the news every night-murderers were everywhere! Now Frederick thought, thank you, Juanita.
Frederick stood in the broad daylight darkness within her mobile home, watching Cole and the woman pound on his trailer. This wasn't the same woman who had come to Cole's house, but she carried herself like a cop. She strutted.
They knew. It was clear to Frederick that they had identified him. He watched them stand on either side of his door as they knocked, and knew they intended to kill him.
If Cole had come alone, Frederick would have thrown open the door and cut loose with the shotgun. At this range, it would have been easy. But now Frederick hesitated. Taking two of them would be more difficult. He could get one for sure, but two…
As much as Frederick wanted to kill Cole, he hoped they would get into their cars and leave. If they left, he might still get away in Juanita's old Dodge, just get in that baby and ease down the hill, and head up to Bakersfield. Live to fight another day. Live to hunt down Cole on a better day.
Frederick heard Payne said, "That's my boy."
Payne had been a good father.
Cole and the woman turned away from Frederick 's mobile home, and Frederick thought he was home free, but then they started toward Juanita's. Frederick held the shotgun so tightly that his forearms cramped.
Cole stepped around Juanita's Dodge and came toward the broken door.
Cole
The Dodge sedan was silted with a thin layer of undisturbed dust. It probably hadn't been driven in at least a week, but for all I knew it hadn't been driven in years. If Conrad's neighbors used a second vehicle, they probably weren't even home.
I went up to the door and knocked.
"Hello?"
Diaz stood well to the side.
I knocked again, then turned to see if anyone had come out of the other trailers. I turned back to the door, and knocked again.
Diaz said, "I'll check the next trailer."
She moved away, and I knocked again at the door.
"I'm giving away money."
Humor.
Diaz said, "Hey, Cole."
I glanced over. She pursed her lips, then wet them, and I thought she was sad.
"I'm sorry."
I nodded.
The door's handle was bent and wilted. The entire mobile home looked wilted.
"Last chance."
I knocked for the last time.
Frederick
A thin edge of light lay across Frederick 's face like a scar as he held his breath. He stood to the side of the door, watching Cole and the woman through a break in the drapes. He heard Cole say her name. Diaz?
Her name rang a bell, but Frederick didn't have time to think about it; she told Cole she was going to check the next trailer, and then she turned away. They were separating, and now he could kill Cole!
Frederick flicked off the shotgun's safety, then eased forward, reaching for the handle.
She was walking away as Cole hammered at the door.
Thank you, Juanita.
Frederick touched the bent and broken handle with his fingertips, then heard the approaching sirens-
Cole
Diaz and I heard the sirens at the same time. I turned away from the mobile home and took eight steps toward my car so that I could better see the street. Exactly eight; then I stopped.
Diaz said, "Goddamnit-that must be Pardy."
"I told you he was taking it to O'Loughlin."
Her face was creased with disgust when she turned back toward me, and I saw the moment when her eyes focused on something behind and beyond me.
I wish I could have been everything the articles made me out to be, and leaped into action to save us, but true crime and true cops are never that good. I didn't hear anything. I didn't see it coming. The blast kicked me down as if I had been broadsided by a car. I went down, and looked up, and saw Diaz with a perfect clarity as if my eyesight had grown inhumanly sharp. Her hand was under her jacket, reaching for her gun when she suddenly snapped backward against the old Dodge. A cluster of black grapes appeared below her breasts. Diaz staggered, but the vest had saved her and the Dodge held her up. She was still on her feet.
A man I did not know ran forward from the open door of the trailer. He was heavily built, but he moved quickly. He ran past me with a short black shotgun to his shoulder. Diaz brought up her gun, but the shotgun went off as she fired, and Diaz was knocked away.
The heavy man staggered sideways, looked down at himself, then looked at me. A red heart grew on his chest. He lifted the shotgun again, but now he wasn't moving so fast.
He screamed, "You killer!"
I was flat on my back, but I had my gun by then. I squeezed the trigger, and kept squeezing, pointing the gun up at him. He staggered in a circle as I shot him. I shot him until he fell, and kept shooting into the air up where he had been because I was too scared to do anything else, and never gave a thought where the bullets would hit or whom they might hurt. I kept shooting even after he fell.
"Diaz?"
I could see her feet, but she didn't answer me. She had fallen behind the Dodge.
"Diaz, answer me."
I tried to get up, but couldn't. I tried to roll over, but my body flared with an outrageous heat that made me scream. I touched myself, and my hand came away gloved in bright red.
I heard a little girl screaming, and thought it must be Kelly Diaz.
I said, "It's okay. I'm not your daddy."
Blood pulsed out over my fingers, and the trailer park dimmed. The last thing I saw was David Reinnike climb to his feet. He raised up from the dead, climbed to his feet, and picked up the shotgun. I tried to raise my gun again, but it was too heavy. I pulled the trigger anyway, but it only made clicking sounds. David Reinnike stood over me, weaving unsteadily from side to side. His red shirt glistened brightly in the pure California sun. He lifted the shotgun, and pointed it at my head. He was crying.
He said, "You took my father."
All the world fell, and then I was gone.
Starkey
Starkey knew her nightmare was real when she got Biggins on the patch, midway between Van Nuys and Newhall. Biggins had checked out a tag number registered to one Frederick Conrad, a former employee of Payne Keller's, after the substation sheriff reported the vehicle at Keller's home. When the sheriff did not respond to Biggins's return call, Biggins had gone to Keller's home and discovered the body.
Starkey got directions to Conrad's mobile-home park on the fly, and called in the State Sheriffs herself. She didn't trust Biggins to do it. He seemed too upset.
Pike said, "Faster."
"Shut up."
"Push."
They came around the curve and screamed into the turnoff, and reached the trailer park first through clouds of dust and spraying gravel that rimed her soul with ice. Starkey had died in a trailer park. She had lost Sugar Boudreaux in a place exactly like this, and the echoes from that explosion now rippled through her, and she thought, Oh God, not again.
When she saw Cole, she knew he was dead. Dead people have that look. She didn't know what Pike saw. She wasn't thinking about Pike.
Diaz was down near the front end of an old car. Cole was down, too, halfway between the car and a trailer. A thick squat man was standing over Cole with a shotgun, and looked up at her as if he was peering through the wall of an aquarium. All of them were red. All of them glistened in the brilliant hot sun, and Starkey knew Cole was dead.
Pike made a sound, a kind of sharp grunt, and after that Starkey wasn't sure what happened. The steering wheel snapped out of her hands; Pike's foot crushed hers into the accelerator; the car surged forward, crushing over low shrubs and rocks and a wrought-iron bench. The squat man raised the shotgun. The windshield burst into lace, and then Pike stomped the brake pedal as he yanked the hand brake, and they were sideways. Pike was out of the car before they stopped sliding, and she heard the booms, two fast booms so close she thought they were one-BOOMBOOM-and the shotgun went up, twirling into the sky as David Reinnike windmilled backwards and fell.
Pike reached Cole as Starkey fell out of her car.
"Nine-one-one. Clear the perp and check Diaz."
Pike never even gave the others a thought, but that seemed right to Starkey, so very very right. Her eyes filled and snot blew from her nose as she radioed emergency services. She stumbled forward to Cole and threw up as Pike worked. The side of Cole's chest was red pulp. It bubbled as Pike pushed on his chest.
"You gotta plug him. We gotta-"
Starkey, crying and shaking, pulled off her shirt and bundled it and pressed it into Cole's wound. She pressed and held hard.
Pike was shaking. She would never mention it to him, but she felt him shaking. Pike tipped back Cole's head, then blew hard and deep into Cole's mouth, once, twice, again.
Starkey said, "Hang on. Hang on."
She pressed harder on his wound, trying to hold the blood inside.
"Don't you die."
Pike blew. He blew deep and hard into Cole's mouth, and kept blowing, and did not look up even as the sirens arrived.
Elvis Cole's Dream
Death brought me home. Cool air came through the windows, carrying faraway calliope music and the scent of grilled hot dogs. The hour could not have been more pleasant in that perfect little house.
My mother called from downstairs.
"Wake up, you! Don't stay up there all day!"
My father's mellow voice followed.
"C'mon, son. We're waiting."
Our house was small and white, with a tiny front porch and velvety lawns. Lavender hedges snuggled beneath our windows, and a wall of towering cypress, each identical in height and width, trimmed the drive. The cypress stood like immaculate soldiers; protecting us from a light that was bright, but never harsh.
I rolled out of bed and pulled on some clothes. My room was upstairs, with windows looking out to the street. It was a terrific room, really just the best, but it was a mess-Spider-Man comics, toys, and clothes were scattered all over the floor, my shoulder holster hung from the bedpost, and my pistol was on the dresser. The bullets had fallen out, but I didn't take time to find them. I wouldn't need the gun for breakfast.
The shirt I wore yesterday was patchy with blood. I didn't want my mother to find it, so I balled it up, shoved it under the bed, and hit the stairs at a sprint. Man, I don't know how my folks stood it; I sounded like a herd of stampeding buffalo-BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! They were saints, those two; really just the best.
"Elvis!"
"COMING!"
We had this family tradition. Every Saturday, my Mom, my Dad, and I had a late breakfast together before starting our day. It was the best. We would share the good things that happened the past week and pick a movie we could see together on Sunday. After that, we would sit around, just being a family and enjoying each other.
Now, you have to understand, we had never done this before, but that day was the day. Before I died, my room was in a cheap apartment or a mobile home or at my grandpa's, conversations with my mother were always disturbing, and I had never met my father.
But that day was the day. I was finally going to meet the man, my mother would come to her senses, and we were going to be a real live All-American nuclear family, normal in every way. So, me, all anxious as hell, Mr. Anticipation, I crashed down the stairs, through the house, and skidded into the kitchen.
Mom was at the sink and Dad had his head in the refrigerator.
Dad, not looking up, said, "Milk or Schlitz, partner?"
"Milk."
"Good choice."
Mom, her back to me, said, "Did you wash off the blood?"
"Clean as a whistle."
"It looks so bad at the table."
"I know."
Me, rolling my eyes because that's what normal mid-American kids in normal mid-American towns always do; television said so, and television doesn't lie.
Neither of them turned.
My mother stayed at the sink, and my father stayed in the fridge. The kitchen drapes swayed, but their slight movement made the house feel still.
"Hey, I'm hungry. I thought we were going to eat."
Water burbled in the sink. Eggs fried in bacon grease on the stove. Outside, boys and girls chased the ice-cream man, and fathers and mothers laughed. Outside, the day was so beautiful you could hear sunlight and taste its joy.
My perfect house felt hollow.
"Dad? Daddy, look at me. You have to look at me. I'm supposed to know you! Hey, that's why we're here. That's why I made this place. I took it in the chest to know you1."
The man in the fridge grew milky and pale, and faded as he stood.
"Daddy!"
He stood, but it was too late. I told myself he tried. I told myself he wanted to know me, and would have if he could.
"Mama, don't let him go!"
He thinned until he vanished, and then she faded, too. The refrigerator swung open. The door bounced once, and was still. Cool air came through the windows, carrying faraway voices. The hour could not have been more pleasant in that perfect little house.
It isn't so bad, not knowing who you are. You get to make up whatever you want.
I walked back through the house. The hall was long. My footsteps echoed. The living room was smaller than you might think, but comfortable with Early American furniture, framed pictures on the mantel, and a grandfather clock. It ticked like a dying heart.
The voices I heard earlier grew louder, riding in on the breeze. They sounded familiar. I ran back to the kitchen.
"Mom?"
The voices came even louder, a man and a woman, all jumbled and mixed, and I got the crazy notion she was bringing him back. I didn't see anyone out the kitchen window, so I ran back to the living room.
"Is that you? Where are you?"
Footsteps came from the ceiling; someone was moving. I ran to the stairs, and took the steps three at a time. We could still do it. I could still find them.
"Where are you?"
I ran upstairs, following the voices.
The Intensive Care people weren't big on chairs, though they said visitors were good so long as they didn't stay too long. Because lengthy visits were discouraged, they provided only the one chair. Pike had been at Cole's side since the beginning, and had not left the hospital. He slept in the chair when the others had gone, or stood in the room or the hall. He washed in the lavatory, and Starkey or the guys from his gun shop brought fresh clothes and food. Pike was particular about what he ate. He was a vegetarian.
Visitors came and went throughout the days and evenings, and Pike felt them move around him with barely a word or nod exchanged. Lou Poitras and his family came by almost every evening. Starkey visited twice a day, usually once for a few minutes during the day shift, then again in the evening. The first time, she stood quietly in the corner, arms tightly crossed, bunched together, eyes red, mumbling, I knew this was going to happen, goddamnit, I knew it. The second time, she came in blowing gin, and sat in the chair with her face in her hands.
Pike gently pulled her to her feet. He removed his dark glasses, then held her. He smoothed her hair, and made his voice soft.
"Don't do this. Be stronger than this."
Starkey told him to fuck himself, but the next time she came she didn't smell of gin. She left every five minutes to cheat a cigarette in the bathroom, and often smelled of Binaca.
Detective Jeff Pardy showed up on the third night. He eyed Pike like he was embarrassed by the scene he had made in Cole's home, and then he apologized. Pike respected him for the apology, and told him so.
Pardy said, "Well, listen, I'm going to go. We're having a service for Diaz."
Pike nodded.
"If Cole wakes up, tell him we found Reinnike's Accord in a long-term parking lot at LAX. We found Diaz's prints on the seat. It looks like she put it there, but we can't be sure."
"I'll tell him."
"We wouldn't have found it if you guys hadn't gotten the tag. That was good work."
"I'll let him know."
One of their former clients, a film director named Peter Alan Nelsen, came by late one evening. He came alone, wearing a fishing cap and a high-collared shirt, hoping he wouldn't be recognized. Pike and Nelsen stood in the hall outside Cole's ICU bed for a long time, talking about what happened. Nelsen sat by Cole's side for a while, praying, and didn't leave until much later. The next day, one thousand roses were delivered, so many roses that the floor staff put roses in every room on the floor, and spread them throughout the hospital.
The following day, another former client arrived, but he did not come alone. Frank Garcia had once been a White Fence gang-banger, but he built a billion-dollar food empire that included salsas, chips, Mexican food products, and his legendary Monsterito tortillas. When Frank's daughter was murdered, Pike and Cole found the killer. Now, Frank arrived with his attorney, Abbot Montoya, a city councilman named Henry Maldenado, and an army of hospital directors in tow. Frank Garcia had built the hospital's children's wing.
Frank wasn't as strong as he used to be, and latched on to Joe's arm for support.
"How is he?"
Pike glanced at the bed.
Frank made the sign of the cross, then waved angrily toward Montoya.
"The best. Put him in the same room they put the fucking president. Is this the best these bastards can do? This man avenged Karen. He carries my heart!"
Pike said, "Frank."
"The best doctors, the best nurses-take care of it, Abbot. Para siempre."
Frank stood clutching Pike's arm, weeping like a child as he stared at the bed.
On the fifth day, Pike was standing beside Cole's bed at one-sixteen that afternoon. Starkey had just left. Earlier, Ellen Lang and Jodi Taylor had dropped by, but at one-sixteen, Pike was the only one.
Cole appeared to be dreaming. His eyes, though closed, fluttered in REM sleep.
Pike took his hand.
Cole's eyes opened, just little slits, squinting at the light.
Pike said, "Welcome home."
Cole wet his lips and tried to speak.
Pike said, "Don't talk."
Cole went back to sleep. Pike held his friend's hand, and never once moved as he held on, and held, waiting.
That evening, Pike stood at the foot of Cole's bed, and it was Starkey who held Cole's hand.
"Hey, buddy. Cole, can you hear me?"
Throughout the afternoon, his eyes opened a little more each time. The nurses told Pike that talking to Cole was good, and would help him come back.
When Pike told Starkey that Cole was waking, her strained miserable expression blossomed into a sunburst smile, and she stormed straight to Cole's bed.
"That's great, man! That's fantastic! Hey, buddy, you with us? You hear me?"
They took turns talking to Cole, and holding his hand, and Pike was pleased to see Starkey in such good spirits. She seemed like her old self again, saying funny outrageous things, and bouncing around the room.
– "Cole, check this out-I'm flashing my boobies."
– "Guess what, Cole? I moved into your house. You're not using it, so I figured what the hell. I shot your cat."
– "You know, Cole, this is a really stupid way to avoid buying me dinner."
At seven-thirty that night, Pike left Starkey with Cole, and stepped into the hall. He stretched deeply, bending far forward to ease the stiffness in his back. When he stood, Lucy Chenier was rushing toward him. She slowed to a fast walk. Her face was gray with fatigue and strain, and sagging with worry.
She said, "Where is he?"
Pike nodded toward the door.
Lucy blew past him into the room. Pike watched Starkey as Lucy went to the bed. The edgy light in Starkey's face dulled, and her energy, it seemed to Pike, faded. Starkey stepped away from the bed to make room for Lucy, and Pike resumed his place at the foot of the bed.
Lucy took Cole's hand in hers. Her eyes filled, and the tears showered onto the sheets.
She said, "You better not die on me. You better not. Do you hear me, Elvis Cole? You-"
Lucy heaved with a terrible sob, and she gasped as she cried.
Cole's eyes fluttered. His left eye opened more than his right.
"Luce?"
Lucy cried harder, but now her face broke into a smile.
Cole's rolling eyes focused.
"Luce-"
"Yes, baby. I'm here. I'm here. You come back to me now. You come back."
Starkey hacked away. Pike saw her watch Lucy, then turn her eyes to the floor. After a while, Starkey left to stand in the hall. Pike considered the meaning, but would not leave Cole's side. He patted Cole's leg.
"Elvis."
Cole looked at him.
Pike said, "I'm the one who's supposed to get shot."
Cole managed a smile, then slipped back into sleep.
Pike stayed. Every day visitors came and left, but Pike remained at the hospital. He stayed at the hospital nonstop for twelve days before taking a break, and, then, he left only because they were sure his friend was past the worst of it; Elvis Cole was with them, again; he would live.