by Robert Crais
I drove back to my house through a light rain, pretending my life was normal. When I reached home, I made scrambled-egg burritos, then turned on the early news. The lead story reported that the Red Light Assassin had struck again. The RLA had been killing traffic cameras for several weeks, and the camera death toll was now up to twelve, each camera snipered dead-center through the lens with a .22-caliber pellet gun. Web sites devoted to the Red Light Assassin had been set up; T-shirts bearing slogans like FREE THE RED LIGHT ASSASSIN sold on every freeway off-ramp; and all of it had come about because the city had installed traffic cameras to ticket rush-hour motorists who slid through the red. Which, in L.A.'s killer traffic, meant everyone. The news anchor tried to keep a straight face, but her co-anchor and the weather guy goofed on the rising "body count," and had themselves in spasms. No mention was made of the nameless man found murdered in a downtown alley. Murdered people were common; murdered cameras were news.
I turned off the television, then went out onto my deck, feeling listless and unfocused. The rain had shriveled to a heavy mist and the sky was beginning to lighten. Later, homicide detectives would be asking my neighbors if they had seen me entering or leaving my house last night. Pardy would probably flash a picture of the dead man, and ask if anyone had seen him in the area, and my neighbors would be left wondering what I had done. I thought I should call to warn them, but calling would look bad so I let it go. Mostly, I wanted to call Lucy, but I had wanted to call her every day since she left, so that wasn't new. I let that one go, too, and watched as the canyon slowly filled with light.
People who lived on the hillsides would soon emerge from their homes to inspect the slopes, searching for cracks and bulges. The world grew unstable when rain fell in Los Angeles. Soil held firm only moments before it could flow without warning like lava, sweeping away cars and houses like toys. The earth lost its certainty, and anchors failed.
A black cat hopped onto the deck by the corner of my house. He froze when he saw someone on the deck, all angry yellow eyes, but his fury passed when he recognized me.
I said, "Yes, I am standing in the rain."
He said, "Omp."
He walked along the side of the house keeping as far from the mist as he could, slipped into the dry warmth of the house, then licked his penis. Cats will do that. He probably thought I was stupid.
When my mother was twenty-two years old she disappeared for three weeks. She disappeared often, walking away without telling anyone where she was going, but always came back, and that time she came back pregnant with me. My mother never described my father in any meaningful way, and may not have known his name. I did not reveal these things to the reporters who mobbed me for interviews after the events with Ben Chenier, but somehow the information found its way into their stories. I regretted not having read the clippings Diaz found in the alley. One might have mentioned the situation with my father, which could have inspired the old man to fabricate his fantasy. That was probably it and I should probably forget it, but I wondered if he had tried to contact me. When I stopped going to my office, I turned off my answering machine and tossed the mail, but that was weeks ago. If the dead man had written to me since then, his letter might be waiting in my office.
I went inside, put out fresh food for the cat, then drove down through the canyon to the little office I keep on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Mail was scattered inside the door where the postman drops it through the slot. I gathered it together, put on a pot of coffee, then turned on my message machine. The Elvis Cole Detective Agency was officially back in business. Of course, since I had ignored everything offered to me for the past six weeks I didn't exactly have something to do.
I went through the mail. A lot of it was bills and junk, but seven pieces were what I thought of as fan mail: a handwritten marriage proposal from someone named Didi, four letters congratulating me for bringing three mass murderers to justice, an anonymous nude photo of a young man holding his penis, and a letter from someone named Loyal Anselmo who described Pike and me as "dangerous vigilantes no better than the monsters you murdered." Some people are never happy.
I kept four of the letters with the intention of sending thank-you notes and dumped the others. After thinking about it, I pulled Anselmo's letter from the trash and put it into a file I kept for death threats and lunatics. If someone murdered me in my sleep I wanted the cops to have clues.
I poured a cup of coffee and felt disappointed that nothing had led back to the dead man. It was possible he had written me and I had tossed his letter, but I could never know that. He could have called when my machine was turned off, but I would never know that, either.
I was trying to figure out a new avenue of detection when the phone rang.
"Elvis Cole Detective Agency. Back on your case, and just in time."
"It's me, Diaz. You at your office, or is this call being forwarded? I already tried your house."
"I'm at the office. Did you get an ID?"
"I'm sorry, we didn't. I thought for sure this dude would be in the system, but he's not. The coroner investigator ran him through the Live Scan as soon as they got to the morgue, but nothing came up."
The Live Scan was an inkless fingerprinting process that digitized fingerprints, and instantly compared them with files at the California Department of Justice in Sacramento. If nothing came up, then he had never served time or been arrested in California.
"Okay. What happens next?"
"Sacramento will roll the prints through NLETS. We still have a shot with the Feds, but it could take a few days. You said you got a lot of mail and calls you didn't answer—"
"I came in to check, Diaz. There's nothing. He could have sent something earlier, but I don't have anything now. I just went through the mail."
"I hate to ask this but I'm going to ask anyway. I'm going over to the morgue. Would you meet me there?"
"I thought Pardy had the case."
"Pardy does, and he's back from the medical examiner. He says the deceased is totally covered with these insane tattoos. I know you didn't recognize him, but maybe something in the ink will ring a bell."
I felt a little dig of anger, but maybe it was shame.
"He's not my father. There's no way."
"Just come look, Cole. One of his tats might give you a name or a place. What can it hurt?"
I didn't say anything, and Diaz pushed on.
"You know where the coroner is, down by the USC Medical Center?"
"I know."
"They have a parking lot in front. I'll meet you there in half an hour."
I put down the phone, then went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. The dead man had a head like a praying mantis and I had a head like a rutabaga. I didn't look anything like him. Nothing like him. Nothing.
I went down to my car and made my way to the morgue.
4
Invisible Men
Frederick Conrad, which was the name he now used, hustled through the trailer park toward his truck when Juanita Morse lurched from her double-wide like a brown recluse spider springing a trap.
"Frederick!"
She hooked his arm with a dried-out crone's hand, trapping him even though he was frantic to leave.
"Frederick, you were so nice last week when I was down with my legs, bringing my groceries like you did. Here, this is for you, a little something."
Frederick fell into character without missing a beat, hiding his fury with the lopsided Frederick Conrad grin everyone knew so well. He pressed the dollar back into her hands.
"Please, Juanita. You know better than that."
"Now you go on, Frederick, you were so nice to see after me like that."
So Frederick took the dollar, feigning appreciation, his furious rage arcing like downed power cables while his eyes remained calm. He wanted Payne to come home. He needed to find out what happened. He was terrified that Payne had confessed.
That traitorous prick, Payne. (Payne Keller being the
name he now used.)
"You really don't have to, Miz Morse, but thank you. Is your leg better?"
"It still burns, but at least I'm not down. I put the heating pad on this morning and took the Tylenol."
Frederick patted her hand as if he gave a shit about every burning pulse in her withered body.
"Well, if you need anything else, you let me know."
Pat-pat. Smile. You hideous hag.
Finally rid of her, Frederick hurried to his truck, wanting to crush her nasty throat just to grind the bones. He fired up the Dodge, then slowly drove the two-point-six miles to Keller's gas station, Payne's Gas & Car Care. Frederick was well known as the slowest driver in town.
He parked behind the service bays, hung the slow-witted grin on his face again like an Open For Business sign, and sauntered into the office.
"Hey, Elroy, I called three or four times this morning, but you didn't answer. You hear from Payne?"
Elroy Lewis was Payne's other full-time employee. He was a skinny man in his late forties with a roll of flab melting over his belt and yellow fingers from chaining Newport cigarettes. Lewis's dog, Coon, was sleeping in the middle of the floor. Coon, a lazy dog with bad hips, wagged his tail when he saw Frederick, but Frederick ignored him. Lewis put his elbows on the counter, and sulked.
"No, he didn't, and I gotta talk to you 'bout that. We got stuff to talk about."
Frederick stepped over the dog and made his way to Payne's office, doing a pretty good job of pretending everything was okay.
"Well, he called me last night, and said he was gonna give you a call. I guess he got busy with his sister."
"Goddamn, how long is it gonna take that bitch to die?"
"You should be ashamed of yourself, Elroy, sayin' something like that. She's his sister."
Payne Keller had disappeared eleven days ago without a word or note to anyone. When Payne turned up missing, Frederick fed Elroy a bullshit story about Payne's sister being T-boned by a drunk driver, but, truth was, Frederick had no idea. Payne's sudden disappearance terrified him. Payne could be anywhere and might say anything; Payne and his buddy, Jesus, confessing their sins.
I hope you're dead, you bastard. I hope your heart split open like a rotten grapefruit. I hope you put a gun to your head. I hope you're dead, and I hope to hell you didn't take me with you.
Frederick had decided to cover their tracks, and prepare for the worst. Elroy followed him into Payne's office.
"Well, I'm sorry about his sister, but it's goddamned rude, you ask me, him leaving without a word. The wife and I are going to her parents' next week. Payne knew I had that time off and said I could go."
Frederick rounded Payne's desk, took the keys from the top drawer, and flashed the big easy grin.
"Then go, Elroy. That's why Payne called last night, to ask if I'd cover for you. I said sure."
Elroy looked doubtful.
"You will?"
Frederick came back around the desk as a white Maxima pulled up to the self-service pumps. A teenage girl got out, looking confused by the pump. Frederick noted how Elroy stared at the girl.
"Heck, Elroy, I don't mind. You'd do it for me and we'd both do it for Payne. No problem."
Now Elroy looked guilty for being pissed off.
"Listen, when you talk to Payne again, tell him I wish the best for his sister."
"I'll tell him. You bet."
"I never knew Payne had a sister."
"You better see if that girl outside needs help. I gotta swing up by Payne's to feed his cats."
Elroy glanced at the girl again, and Frederick knew what he was thinking; the tight low-cut jeans, the cropped shirt showing a fine flat belly, the dangly thing in her navel.
Sure enough, Elroy said, "Yeah. I'd better get out there. C'mon, Coon."
Elroy nudged Coon to his feet as Frederick went back through the service bay to the storage shed in back of the station. He used Payne's keys to unlock the three padlocks and the steel security bar that kept the shed safe. He found the shovel and a two-gallon can Payne used to bring gas to stranded motorists, then searched behind the boxes of air filters, brake fluid, and Valvoline for the old Tri-Call vending machine Payne used to have out front for peanuts and Snickers. Payne and Frederick had better hiding places for their secret things, but Payne kept the shed to stash their goods.
Frederick checked to see that Elroy was busy with the girl. As if on command, Coon planted his face square into the girl's kibble. Elroy made a big deal of scolding the dog as the girl laughed, then grabbed Coon's face so he could sneak a cheap rub on the girl's privates. Frederick had seen Elroy run that trick a hundred times. Elroy trained his mutt to head straight for the cush bush, and Coon never let him down.
Frederick unlocked the vending machine, and fished out a leather case about three feet long. It was heavy, but the weight was comforting. He tucked the case under his arm, relocked the shed, then brought everything to his truck. Elroy was still pretending that he was trying to keep Coon off the girl's goodies, and here was the girl, red-faced and laughing, but not getting into her car. Frederick pumped two gallons of premium into the can (figuring the premium would burn hotter), loaded two cans of propane into his truck, then tooled away. Elroy never even glanced over to see.
A couple of miles along the road, Frederick pulled over and opened the case. A cut-down Remington 12-gauge pump gun was inside, already stoked with six rounds of number-four buck. Jammed in with the shotgun was a plain white envelope holding a thousand dollars in twenties and matching Illinois driver's licenses—both now out of date—but showing Frederick Conrad and Payne Keller with different names. Frederick jacked a shell into the chamber, tucked the shotgun under the front seat, then pulled back onto the road.
It crossed Frederick's mind to stomp on the accelerator and rip out of town, but that would be like waving a red neon flag. If Payne hadn't ratted him out, running would be a major mistake—their mutual disappearances would be obvious to even the dumbest cops. Frederick had to find out what happened to Payne, and he had to get rid of the evidence.
Payne's place was only another mile ahead, all by itself and hidden by trees so no one could see what they did.
5
The Department of Coroner was split between two modern cement buildings at the edge of the County-USC Medical Center, across the river from the main jail. The north building housed administrative offices for thirty-five or so coroner investigators, and the south building housed the labs. The medical examiners parked their vehicles at the front of the buildings, but the bodies were delivered at the rear. Probably so the patients at the Women's and Children's Hospital wouldn't see the stiffs.
I parked across the street and met Diaz outside the main entrance. She had changed into jeans and a blazer, and was holding what looked like a gas mask with two purple cylinders jutting from its face.
I said, "What's that?"
"It's a particle filter. We have to wear them when we go down to the service floor with the bodies."
"Why do we have to wear something like that?"
"TB, SARS, Ebola—you wouldn't believe what these stiffs are carrying. This one's mine. We'll get something for you downstairs."
"Ebola?"
Ebola was the African virus that dissolved your cells so you molted into a puddle of goo.
Diaz shrugged as she turned away.
"They say wear it, I wear it. Let's get this done so I can get some sleep."
The receptionist gave us visitor passes, then we took the elevator down to the service floor. The smells of disinfectant and cavity blood hit me when the doors opened, and we stepped out into a lavender hall. An ultraviolet light burned high on one wall, and a bug zapper hissed as it cooked a fly. Germ control.
Diaz led me around the corner into another long hall where two steel gurneys were parked, each bearing a body wrapped in heavy translucent plastic. Red liquid pooled within the plastic.
"I thought we needed masks when we were with the bodies."
"You're not going to catch anything. Don't be a sissy."
I tried not to breathe.
The coroner investigator was a tall man with framed glasses and bushy hair named Dino Beckett. I had seen him at the crime scene, but didn't meet him until he emerged at the end of the hall and Diaz introduced us. He was wearing a cloth mask like doctors wear in an operating room, and handed a similar mask to me.
"Here, pull the elastic band over your ears and squeeze the metal strip across your nose."
I did like he said while Diaz pulled on her larger mask.
"How come her mask is bigger?"
"Her mask filters one hundred percent of the air, which is what you're required to wear if you go in the autopsy room like the homicide detectives. The mask we're wearing only filters ninety-five percent of the air."
"What about the other five percent?"
Diaz said, "Jesus Christ, Cole, don't think about it. Where is he, Dino?"
We followed him into a long narrow room where the air was cold. A rash of goose bumps sprouted over me, but not from the chill. Racks on the walls were stacked from the floor to the ceiling like bunks in a submarine, with each rack holding two bodies. The bodies were wrapped with murky plastic, but not so murky that you couldn't see nude bodies within. Feet poked through gaps in the plastic, some with tags wired to the big toe. I tried not to look, but bodies filled the wall.
Beckett said, "This is nothing. We have three rooms like this."
"Are all these people waiting to be autopsied?"
"Oh, no. Most of the bodies you see here are waiting to be claimed by their next of kin, or identified."
"You get many you can't identify?"
"We bag around three hundred John Does a year, but we put a name to most of them. Doesn't matter where they come from, either. We've had illegals from Mexico, Central America, even China, and we've run'm down. We'll name your guy, too."
