The Forgotten Man

by Robert Crais

  Frederick didn't know what Cole looked like.

  Frederick stood frozen in place on the elevator, his heart hammering, seeing an entire room filled with men. How would he recognize Cole?

  Frederick stepped off the elevator and moved down the hall. He didn't decide what to do so much as know it—he would kill everyone he found in Cole's office.

  Frederick passed an open door, and heard a woman talking. The open door made him uncomfortable. He found Cole's office, and stood facing the closed door, breathing hard. He slid his right hand into the gun case and put his finger on the trigger. He made sure the safety was off. He gripped the knob with his left hand. It felt slick and wet.

  The woman said, "He's not there."

  Frederick clutched the knob and tried to turn it, but his wet palm slipped.

  "He doesn't come in anymore, not since all that mess."

  Frederick twisted and jerked the knob, pulling and pushing, but unable to open the door.

  She said, "Excuse me."

  Frederick realized someone was talking to him. A neatly dressed young woman with long fingernails stood in the open door across from Cole's. Frederick could see an older woman at a desk behind her. Frederick slipped his hand out of the case, and managed a smile.

  "Oh, hi. I'm supposed to deliver this to Mr. Cole."

  "He's hardly ever here anymore. You could leave it with us if you want."

  "Oh, thanks, that's really nice, but I couldn't. Will he be here later?"

  Frederick didn't like it that she glanced at the gun case, as if she was trying to figure out what was in the package.

  She said, "I haven't seen him in weeks. I know he's been here, but he doesn't keep regular hours."

  "Ah-huh, okay, well—he doesn't have a secretary or anything?"

  "No, there's just him. You can leave it with us, though. We've done that before."

  Frederick considered his options. He could probably find Cole's home address in Cole's office. He wanted to kick down the door, but couldn't very well do it with all these people across the hall. He would have shot Cole, but that would be that and he wouldn't mind if they saw; but if they saw him breaking into Cole's office, Cole would be tipped off.

  Frederick said, "Where does he live?"

  A frostiness rimed the woman's eyes.

  "I wouldn't know."

  Frederick said, "Well, I could just bring it up to his house. That would probably be okay."

  "I'm sorry. I can't help you."

  Frederick could see the stiffness as she turned away. Bitch. He tried Cole's door again, then returned to the elevator. He would come back later when everyone was gone. Then he would find out where Cole lived.

  24

  It was a quarter after seven by the time I got back to my house and searched the Triple-A map of California to find Anson. It was a tiny red dot on Highway 86, southeast of the Salton Sea. I called information, told the operator I wanted a listing in Anson, then asked if he had any Reinnikes. I spelled it for him.

  "No, sir, I don't show any listings for that name."

  The nearest two towns were Alamorio and Westmorland.

  "How about in Alamorio and Westmorland?"

  "Sorry, sir."

  I went to the next town.

  "Calipatria?"

  "Here you go, Alex Reinnike in Calipatria."

  He punched me off to the computer before I could ask for more, so I copied the number, then called information again. This time I told the operator I wanted to check several towns, and asked her not to hand me off to the machine.

  Three minutes later, we had covered six more outlying towns, and I had one more name, Edelle Reinnike, who was listed in Imperial.

  I looked at the two names and their numbers, then went into the kitchen for a glass of water. I drank it, then went back to the phone. At least it wasn't gin. My hands were shaking.

  I dialed Alex Reinnike first because Calipatria was closest to Anson. Alex Reinnike sounded as if he was in his thirties. He listened patiently while I explained about George Reinnike from Anson, and asked if he was related.

  When I finished, he said, "Dude, I wish I could help, but I only moved here last April when I got out of the navy. My people are from Baltimore. I never heard of this guy."

  I thanked him, then called Edelle Reinnike.

  Ms. Reinnike answered on the fourth ring with a phlegmy voice. Her television was so loud in the background that I could hear it clearly. Wheel of Fortune.

  She said, "What is it? Yes, who is this? Is someone there?"

  I shouted so she could hear me.

  "Let me turn this down. It's here somewhere. Where is it?"

  She made a little grunting sound like she was reaching for something or maybe getting up, and then the volume went down.

  She said, "Who is this?"

  "Edelle Reinnike?"

  "Yes, who is this?"

  "My name is Cole. I'm calling about George Reinnike from Anson."

  "I don't live in Anson. That's up by the lake."

  "Yes, ma'am, I know. I was wondering if you know George Reinnike."

  "No."

  "Are there other Reinnikes in the area?"

  "They're dead. We had some Reinnikes, but they're dead. I got two sons and five grandchildren, but they might as well be dead for all I see them. They live in Egypt. I never knew an American who lived in Egypt, but that's where they live."

  You hear amazing things when you talk with people.

  "The dead Reinnikes, did any of them live in Anson?"

  She didn't answer, so I figured she was thinking.

  "This goes back a while, Ms. Reinnike. George lived in Anson about sixty years ago. He was a child then, probably younger than ten. He had surgery on his legs."

  She didn't say anything for a while.

  "Ms. Reinnike?"

  "I had a cousin who had something with his legs. When we all got together, he had to sit with his parents and couldn't come play with the rest of us. That was my Aunt Lita's boy, George. I was older, but he had to sit."

  "So you did know a George Reinnike?"

  "Yes, the one with the legs. That was them up in Anson. I didn't remember before, but that was them."

  "Does George still live there?"

  "Lord, I haven't seen him since we were children. We weren't close, you know. We didn't get on with that side of the family."

  "Would you have an address or phone number for him?"

  "That was so long ago."

  "Maybe in an old phone book or a family album. Maybe an old Christmas card list. You know how people keep things like that, then forget they have them?"

  "I have some of Mother's old things, but I don't know what's there."

  "Would you look?"

  "I have some old pictures in one of those closets. There might be a picture of George, but I don't know."

  She didn't sound thrilled, but you take what you can get.

  "That would be great, Ms. Reinnike. Would it be all right if I come see you tomorrow?"

  "I guess that would be fine, but don't you try to sell me something. I know better than that."

  "No, ma'am, I'm not trying to sell anything. I'm just trying to find George."

  "Well, all right, then. Let me tell you where I live."

  I copied her address, then hung up. I was still standing by the table. My hands were still shaking, but not so badly.

  I studied the map of Southern California. Anson was in the middle of nowhere. What would have been the odds? My mother had vanished for days and sometimes weeks when I was a child. I never knew where she went, but Southern California was so far from where we lived it was unlikely she had gone so far. Still, I didn't know. She had vanished again and again. More than once, my grandfather hired someone to find her.

  Ken Wilson

  Miami, Florida

  Wilson sat in the dark on his porch, feeling old and disgusted as he listened to the frogs squirming along the banks of the Banana River. Moths the size of a child's
hand scraped against the screen that was the only thing saving him from the clouds of mosquitoes and gnats that filled the night with a homicidal whine. Wilson figured all he had to do was punch one finger through the screen and so many goddamned monsters would swarm in they could suck him dry before sunrise. He thought about doing it. He thought it would be pretty damned nice to be done with the whole awful mess of his life.

  He took a sip of watered Scotch instead, and spoke to his dead wife.

  "You should've never left me. That was damned lousy, leaving me like this, just damned awful of you. Look at me, sitting out here by myself, just look at me."

  He had more of the Scotch, but didn't move, alone with himself on the porch of his little bungalow that felt so different now with her gone.

  Wilson had buried his wife three weeks ago. Edie Wilson had been his third wife. It took three times for him to get it right, but once he found her they had stayed together for twenty-eight years and he had never once, not once, well, not in any meaningful way, regretted their marriage. They didn't have children because they were too old by the time they hooked up, which was a shame. Wilson's first wife hadn't wanted children, and his second marriage hadn't lasted long enough, thank God. Such things hadn't seemed important back then, him having the concerns of a younger man, but a man's regrets changed as he grew older. Especially when he got into the Scotch.

  Wilson drained his glass, spit back a couple of wilted ice cubes, then set the glass on the floor at his feet.

  He said, "Come to Papa."

  He took the .32-caliber Smith & Wesson from the wicker table and held it in his lap. It had been his gun since just after Korea, purchased for five dollars at a pawnshop in Kansas City, Kansas; silver, with a shrouded hammer and white Bakelite grips that had always felt a little too small for his hand, though he hadn't minded.

  He put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  Snap.

  Sixteen years ago, Wilson sold his investigation business and retired. He and Edie had packed up, moved to south Florida, and bought the little place on the river, her liking it more than him, but there you go. The day they packed, he unloaded the gun, and had never seen a need to reload it; those days being gone, him needing "a little something" on his hip in case events grew rowdy, long gone and done. The gun had been unloaded for sixteen years.

  But that was then.

  Wilson had a nice new box of bullets. He opened the box just enough, shook out some bullets, then put the box down by his glass. Those .32s were small, but they had gotten the job done. He pushed the cylinder out of the frame, carefully placed a bullet into each tube, then folded the cylinder home until the axle clicked into place. He grinned at the sound.

  He said, "Well, that calls for a drink, don't you think?"

  He put the gun down on the wicker table, went inside for another one-and-one Scotch, and was heading back outside when the phone rang. He thought about not answering, then figured what the hell, it was late and might be important, though later he would think it was Edie, taking care of him.

  He answered as he always had even though Edie had hated how he answered, complaining, "Goddamnit, Kenny, this is our home, not an office, can't you say hello like a real person?"

  But, no, Wilson answered like always.

  "Ken Wilson."

  "Mr. Wilson, this is Elvis Cole. You remember?"

  Of course he remembered, though it had been a few years since they last spoke. The boy's voice cut clear and bright through the years, riding the backs of memories like a pack of greyhounds exploding after the rabbit.

  "Why, hell, how are you doing, young man? Jesus, how long has it been, eight or nine years, something like that? We got a good connection. You sound like you're across the street."

  "I'm in Los Angeles, Mr. Wilson. I know it's late there. I'm sorry."

  "I wasn't sleeping. Hell, I was talking to myself and drinking Scotch. You get to be my age, you don't have a helluva lot else to do. How you doin', boy? How can I help you?"

  Wilson decided he wasn't going to tell Cole about Edie, not unless the boy came right out and asked after her, and even then Wilson thought he might lie, might ladle out some bullshit like, oh, she's sleeping right now, something like that. If he explained about Edie, Wilson would start crying, and he didn't want to cry any more, not any more, not ever again.

  Elvis said, "I want to ask something about my mother."

  Well, there they were, right back where they started.

  "Okay, sure, go ahead."

  "You know where the Salton Sea is out here?"

  "Out by San Diego, but inland, just up from Mexico, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir, pretty much dead center between the ocean and Arizona."

  "All right. Sure."

  "Does the name George Reinnike ring a bell, George Llewelyn Reinnike?"

  Wilson mouthed the name to cast a bait for his memory, but it settled in the dark waters of his past without a stir. Many names swam in that dark pool, but most swam too deep to rise.

  "Nope, nothing springs to mind. Who's that?"

  "George Reinnike was from a small town near the lake called Anson. He came to L.A. a few days ago to find me. Two nights ago, he was shot to death, but before he died, he made a deathbed statement. He told a police officer he was my father."

  Ken Wilson didn't answer right away. The boy's tone was as matter-of-fact as a cop reciting case notes, but a familiar hopeful energy pushed the boy's words out. Wilson hadn't heard the boy sound that way in years.

  Wilson answered slowly.

  "Why are you calling, son?"

  "You knew my mother."

  "Uh-huh."

  Wilson didn't want to commit himself.

  "You knew her better than I ever did."

  "I wouldn't say that."

  "I would, Mr. Wilson. I knew some of her, but you knew the parts I couldn't have known. So I want to know if it's possible. Could my mother have come to Southern California? Is it possible they met?"

  Wilson thought how much he admired the boy. All these years later, and the boy was still chasing his father.

  "Mr. Wilson?"

  "Lemme think."

  Wilson had been hired to find the boy on five occasions. Each time, the boy had chased after a carnival featuring a human cannonball because the boy's loony mother—that bitch was crazy as a bedbug on Friday night—filled his head with nonsense about Cole's father being a human cannonball. But on seven other occasions—four even before the boy was born—Elvis's grandfather had hired Wilson to find the boy's mother. Each time, she had run off without telling anyone where she was going or why, just up and disappeared, and they'd wake to find her gone without so much as a note. Most times, she'd return when she was ready, acting as if she had never been away, except for those times when Wilson found her. Then, per her father's instructions, Wilson would make sure she was safe, call the old man to report her whereabouts, then wait for the old man to come fetch her. There never seemed any plan or motive in her journeys; she'd feel the urge to go, so she'd go—like a dog that slips under a fence for a chance to run free. She'd hitchhike in whatever direction the cars were going, back and forth across her own path on misshapen loops that went nowhere, living with beatniks or hippies one night, or with coworkers another if she'd gotten herself a waitress job and promoted a place to stay. Her wanderings had always seemed aimless, but she had gone pretty far a couple of times, not so far as California, but close. Who was to say she hadn't been there and back before Wilson found her, or took a trip Wilson knew nothing about? Wilson had been involved only when the old man hired him.

  He said, "I don't remember so good anymore, so you can take this for what it's worth—I don't have a recollection of that name or that little town. Your mother never mentioned them to me, and I never tracked her out that way, but all of that was a long time ago."

  "I understand."

  "She went pretty far a couple of times, so she could have gotten out there if she set her mind. I'm not s
aying she did. I don't know if she got out there, but you asked if it's possible, and I guess I have to tell you it is."

  "I understand. I need to ask one more thing—"

  "Ask as much as you like."

  "I always thought she didn't know who he was, my father I mean. I guess I figured he didn't even know I existed—"

  Wilson knew where the boy was going, but let him get there in his own way.

  "I guess what I'm wondering is, could they have been in touch with each other after I was born? That's the only way Reinnike could have known my name."

  Wilson thought about it, and thought it through hard because he was wondering the same. He answered slowly.

  "Your grandfather, he used to go through your mother's things all the time. He had to, you know—don't think poorly of him for that—he was always scared she'd up and disappear one day and get herself murdered, so he used to look—"

  "You don't have to apologize for him, Mr. Wilson. I know what he went through. I went through it, too."

  "He would have told me if he found letters from anyone. Your aunt, too—she always had an eye out—but they never told me about finding anything like that. I think they would have told, especially when you started running off, but—"

  Cole interrupted.

  "It's possible."

  "When two people want to get hold of each other, I guess they can do damn near anything. I don't think it's likely, her being the way she was, but—"

  Wilson wanted to say more, but anything else would be a lie. God knows, the boy had enough of those.