by Robert Crais
Starkey nodded, but she was still thinking it through.
“So you just want to see.”
“The murder book Marx started on Frostokovich should contain statements by the girls she had dinner with on the night she died. They would have mentioned bumping into Wilts, and Marx should have followed up by asking Wilts if he saw anything that night. I also want to see what these blind tests they’re running through SID are about, and what happened to the DVD from the Repko case.”
“All right, listen—here’s what I can do. That’s very specific. That’s just looking in some boxes to see what’s what, right?”
“It won’t take long.”
“I’ll have Lindo do it. He’ll bitch, but he’ll do it. He can go in early and take a look when no one’s around.”
“They keep the room locked.”
“Cole, wake the fuck up—the department uses these offices every time someone squirts a new task force out their ass. They don’t change the locks. I know five different people down there who have keys to that room. I used to have them myself.”
“Lindo can’t be involved. If Lindo looks, I’ll have to tell him what to look for, and he’ll figure it out. The more people who know, the greater the chance Marx will find out.”
“There are ways to do this, man. There are people we can talk to.”
Starkey wasn’t liking it, and I couldn’t blame her. I twisted sideways, the better to face her.
“I know what I’m asking. You tell me you can’t get involved, that’s fine. I mean it.”
“Oh, that’s big of you, Cole. That is amazingly generous. If I decline to help you commit a crime against my employer, which just happens to be the Los Angeles Police Department, me being a sworn officer and all, you won’t hold it against me. How did I become so lucky?”
I felt myself flush.
“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m talking about a city councilman and a deputy chief who might be abetting the deaths of seven women. I can’t bring something like this forward until it’s tied up so tight Marx and Wilts can’t use their influence to duck it.”
Starkey rubbed at the sides of her face again.
“God, I’m hungry. A real date would’ve fed me before he fucked me.”
I straightened behind the wheel, even more embarrassed.
“Let’s forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, you shouldn’t have asked. Jesus Christ.”
“It’s my play. I didn’t want you involved.”
Starkey glanced at me, then studied her watch. She reached into her purse, took out a cigarette, and lit up even though I don’t let people smoke in my car.
“Looks like I’m involved whether you like it or not. I’ll get you in there myself.”
She waved her cigarette to fan the smoke.
“Don’t just stare at me, Cole. Buy us a couple of falafels and let’s get going. Traffic’s gonna be a bitch.”
30
THE CRIMINAL Conspiracy Section’s primary task was investigating bomb events. Most of the time when the bomb squad investigated a suspicious package, the package turned out to be someone’s abandoned laundry or a forgotten briefcase. But if the bomb squad determined the package to be an improvised explosive device, the CCS was tasked with identifying and investigating the person or persons who built the bomb. Such events could happen at any time, which meant CCS detectives might be working at any hour.
As we made our way through prime rush-hour traffic, Starkey sketched out her plan.
“Everyone bags it around four except for the duty officer. The D.O. hangs around doing paperwork, but that works for us. As long as the D.O.’s on duty the squad room is open. We just need to give everyone else time to leave.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“I am going to get us into the building. Then I’ll show you the file room and keep the duty officer busy while you see what you can find out about their investigation. How easy is that?”
“Okay. But what if they had a call-out and everyone’s working?”
Starkey made an irritated grin.
“Then I guess we don’t do this tonight, do we?”
“Guess not.”
“They don’t grow’m for brains where you come from, do they?”
“Guess not.”
“See the drugstore ahead on the right? Pull over and give me twenty bucks.”
Starkey returned a few minutes later with a two-pound box of chocolates and a fresh pack of cigarettes. We continued downtown, though neither of us said very much after we bought the candy.
When we reached the Spring Street building, Starkey directed me to a public parking lot across the street where an attendant made me pay in advance, but let me park it myself. Parking was easy at the end of the day, offering plenty of spots with a view of the building’s entrance. We watched as the detectives and plainclothes officers who worked in the building left. After a while Starkey checked the time, then glanced at me.
“Get rid of your gun.”
“It’s under the seat.”
“You have a camera?”
“Yeah.”
I had a small Sony digital in case something was in the files I wanted to record.
Starkey said, “Leave it. We don’t need attention at the security station. Leave any pens, coins, anything like that.”
I left it all, then walked with her across the street toward the entrance. A trickle of plainclothes officers were still leaving, but most were already gone.
Starkey said, “Looks good. Let’s do it.”
She took my hand, twined her fingers through mine, and gave me a beaming smile.
“Make a dimple for Mama. That’s it, Cole—look like you’re pleased with yourself.”
Starkey pulled me into the lobby and focused her attention on a muscular uniformed officer seated at the security station. A metal detector was set up beside him, but Starkey stepped around it without hesitating, and headed straight for the elevators.
“Yo, Manuel! You better wake up back there. They might make you start working for a living.”
Manuel gave her an easy smile.
“Yo, Bombs. Where you been, girl?”
Starkey raised our hands to show him how our fingers were wrapped together.
“Puttin’ this smile on my man’s face. Did Beth get back yet?”
Beth Marzik had been Starkey’s partner at CCS.
“No idea, babe. She might’ve come in through parking.”
Manuel glanced at me but didn’t seem overly concerned.
Starkey pulled me steadily toward the elevator as if the building belonged to her, walking backwards to keep up the patter with Manuel. She waved the candy at him with her free hand.
“Her birthday’s next week. Make her share, man. Don’t let her keep it all for herself.”
“I’m on it, Starkey. You be good.”
“Not in this life.”
Starkey backed me into the elevator as the doors closed. We stood silently for a moment, breathing.
I said, “You’re something.”
“Aren’t I?”
I realized we were still holding hands, and let go.
“Sorry.”
We rode in silence to the fifth floor, then Starkey took my hand again as the doors opened onto a short hall.
“Just follow my lead. If we walk into something I can’t handle, all we have to do is walk out.”
“I’m good.”
“Your hand is sweating.”
“That’s called fear.”
“Jesus, dude. Chill.”
Starkey’s hand was cool and dry. I guess if you de-armed bombs for a living, sneaking into the police department wasn’t impressive.
I followed her past a placard that read CRIMINAL CONSPIRACY SECTION into a large modern room divided into cubicles. The cubicles appeared deserted. Starkey raised her voice.
“Knock, knock, knock! I knew this place would fall apart when I left!”
A balding man stepped f
rom a doorway at the far end of the room. He was short and neat with a tie on his short-sleeve shirt, and appeared to be holding a napkin.
“Carol?”
Starkey hit him with the smile and tugged me toward him.
“Hiya, Jorge. How’d you get stuck with the duty?”
The man seemed awkward and surprised, but he was probably always awkward around Starkey. He wiped his hands as we approached.
“My turn in the rotation, is all. What brings you by, Carol? Everyone’s gone.”
Starkey waved the box of candy.
“Marzik’s birthday next week. I’m going to leave it on her desk so she’ll be surprised in the morning. Hey—I want you to meet someone. This is my boyfriend, Axel. Ax, this is Jorge Santos. Everyone calls him Hooker.”
Axel.
I smiled politely and shook Jorge’s hand. He had been eating in a small interview room where two open Tupperware containers and a cup of coffee were still on the table. A copy of the LAPD union newspaper, the Blue Line, was open beside the food. Enchiladas.
Starkey glanced at his food.
“Oh, hey, man, we didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”
“That’s all right. I heard you got onto Homicide. How do you like it?”
Starkey shrugged, and glanced back at the squad room.
“It’s okay, I guess. Anything shaking tonight?”
“Same old same old. You know how it is—weeks of boredom, seconds of terror.”
“Yeah. Listen, Ax here needs to use the head, so I’m going to show him, okay? Is Beth at the same desk?”
“Oh, sure, right next to your old desk.”
Starkey slipped her arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze.
“Now you get to see where I used to work, honey. Isn’t that exciting?”
“Exciting.”
She showed him the candy again.
“I’ll drop this on her desk and get Ax squared away. Can I bring you a fresh coffee?”
He visibly brightened.
“That would be nice, Carol. Thanks.”
“Right back. Keep eating, Hook. Really. Don’t let your enchiladas get cold.”
Starkey quickly found the desk she was looking for, put the chocolates beside the phone, then quietly opened a ceramic cookie jar with a unicorn on the lid.
She made sure Santos was back in the interview room, then lowered her voice.
“Marzik’s kept her keys in here for years.”
She fished inside, took out a ring of keys, then led me past a coffee room into an adjoining hall. The hall opened into another large room. This room was smaller than the CCS squad room, with half the number of cubicles, and was also deserted. The lights were on, which surprised me, but we were moving too fast to think about it.
“The task force guys were in here. C’mon, I’ll let you in—”
Starkey checked again to make sure Santos wasn’t watching, then trotted across the room with me behind her. Unlike the CCS cubicles, which were marked by clutter and family photographs, these cubicles were stripped and lifeless. The men and women who had sat at these desks cleaned out their possessions when the task force disbanded, and now the cubicles seemed desolate.
Starkey unlocked a door behind the cubicles, pulled it open, and stepped away.
“I’ll put the keys back and keep Hooker busy as long as I can, but don’t dawdle, okay? Look fast and get the hell out.”
I stepped inside as she hurried away.
The file room was small and cramped, with three rows of metal Ikea shelves the CCS detectives had probably put up on their own time. Cardboard file boxes were lined on the shelves, along with a vinyl log used to keep track of who had which reports. The boxes on the middle shelf were labeled with the names of the victims, and should have contained everything I wanted to check. I pulled down Frostokovich first, and knew it was bad even before I took off the top. Yellow hanging folders held a few scattered files and documents, but most of the folders were empty and the murder book was missing. I pushed the box back onto the shelf, then opened the Evansfield box to see if it had been cleaned out, too, but it was heavy with files and the murder book was wedged in behind the folders.
I checked each of the other boxes and worked my way to Repko, but, like Frostokovich, most of its files and murder book were missing. I looked through the remaining files for information about the video disk, but if the disk had ever been in the box all signs of it and Debra Repko’s employment at Leverage Associates were missing.
I was checking the log when I heard Starkey call from far away.
“Hey, Ax! Did you get lost, honey? Where are you?”
I straightened the boxes, snapped off the light, and stepped out of the closet as Starkey appeared in the hall. She waved frantically for me to join her and lowered her voice as she pulled me down the hall.
“Munson’s coming. Hooker told me he was just up here, and he’s coming back—”
“The murder books are missing.”
“Whatever. We’re out of here, Cole.”
We made sure the squad room was clear, then hurried toward the elevators. I hit the button, but Starkey moved past, pulling me with her.
“Forget it. We’re taking the stairs.”
She pushed through a stairwell door, and we hurried down the stairs, neither of us speaking. Every time we turned a corner I expected to see Munson on his way up, but we made it to the bottom without passing anyone.
Starkey stopped when we reached the lobby landing and took several deep breaths, calming herself. I touched her arm.
“We’re okay. It’s going to be fine.”
“I’m not scared, Cole. I smoke.”
She sucked a last deep breath, then took my hand and we stepped into the lobby. A man and a woman were waiting at the elevator, and Manuel was still looking bored at the security station. We held hands as we crossed the lobby as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Manuel said, “Take care, Bombs. Be seein’ you.”
“You, too, Manny. I’ll try to stop by more often.”
I didn’t realize her hand was damp until we were on the sidewalk.
31
WE KEPT our faces down as we walked to the corner, then crossed with the light to the parking lot and got into my car. When I put the key in the ignition, Starkey touched my hand.
“The murder books are missing?”
“Pretty much everything they had on Repko and Frostokovich is missing. The file on Trinh seemed light, but I don’t know enough about that case to be sure. The log says everything should still be in the files, but it isn’t.”
“Hooker told me Munson carried out a box just before we got there. He said Bastilla took something yesterday.”
“The last date in the log was the day Marx closed the case. Nothing has been signed out since.”
“So they’re just taking it.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I reached for the key again, but Starkey stopped me.
“Let’s wait.”
“I’ll take you back.”
“I don’t need to go back. If these bastards are covering for a murderer, I want their asses on a string. Let’s see where he goes.”
“He’ll probably go home.”
“Then let’s follow him home and figure out what to do later. Maybe we can break into his car.”
“Are you serious?”
“Roll down your window, Cole. I’m going to smoke.”
Munson pulled out of the building two cigarettes later in a red Mustang GT. He stayed on the surface streets in no apparent hurry, passing under the freeway and away from the skyscrapers. We had followed him less than a mile when his blinker came on.
“You see it?”
“I got it.”
The Mustang turned into the parking lot of one of the oldest steak houses in Los Angeles, Pacific Dining Car. Built in the twenties, the restaurant was housed in a railroad dining car. I pulled to the curb so we could watch.
; Munson got out of his car with what appeared to be several loose files, left his car with the valet, and entered the restaurant. A crowd waiting to be seated was huddled around the door, but Munson wound through them as if he already had a place waiting. The restaurant had preserved the dining car’s ambience by maintaining the big touring windows through which dining passengers had enjoyed passing scenery, so it was easy to watch Munson make his way through the restaurant. He went the length of the car, then slipped into a booth where two people were seated. Marx and Bastilla had been waiting.
Starkey and I got out of my car for a better view. The valets glanced over at us, but probably thought we were deciding whether to try out the restaurant.
Marx glanced at the files as Munson said something, then Marx brought a briefcase from under the table. He put the files into it, then put it away and motioned a waiter over.
The head valet was openly watching us now, and growing suspicious. It wouldn’t be long before he alerted someone in the restaurant.
“Keep an eye on them. I’m going to pull around the corner for a better spot.”
I moved my car into the shadows beneath a sycamore tree, then got out with my camera. The telephoto images would be grainy in the dim light, but the identities of the three people in the restaurant would be clear. The head valet didn’t like seeing me with the camera, but couldn’t do anything about it. Maybe he thought I was a paparazzo.
Starkey and I settled into my car and watched Marx and his inner circle share red wine and steaks for one hour and ten minutes. Then Marx paid the tab. The valets brought Munson’s Mustang first, then a light-colored Toyota, then a dark Lexus sedan. When the cars were lined up nice and neat, Marx put his briefcase into the Lexus. Bastilla took a manila envelope from her car and gave it to Marx, who tossed it in with the briefcase. Munson took a cardboard file box from the Mustang’s trunk, and put it into the back of Marx’s Lexus. I photographed all of it. Everything was going with Marx.
Starkey said, “What do you think he’s going to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. We still don’t know what they have.”
Her stare was languid and thoughtful through vines of smoke.
