by Robert Crais
"—I don't know."
A silence filled the empty space as the boy mulled that over.
"Okay, Mr. Wilson, I understand. I just needed your opinion. Like always."
Wilson felt warm, hearing the boy say that.
"I wish I could be more help."
"You help. You always have."
"This guy, Reinnike, he have any proof, anything that links him to your mother or you?"
"No."
"Was he a human cannonball?"
Elvis Cole laughed, but it was strained at the edges.
"I don't know. I'll find out."
"Well, I guess you could have one of those tests, the DNA."
"I've been thinking about it. They have to locate the next of kin first. You have to get permission."
"Well, we both know there are ways around that. Old as I am, I could get around that one."
"I'd better get going here, Mr. Wilson. Give Mrs. Wilson my love."
Ken Wilson's heart squeezed tight in his chest. He felt the tears come and looked at the little .32.
He said, "Call more often, goddamnit. I miss talking with you."
"I will."
Wilson fell silent; here he was, on the Banana River, talking to a man he had known from a boy, and this man was as close to a son as Wilson would ever have.
"I've always been proud of you, the way you turned yourself around—you rose above yourself, son. Every man should, but most folks don't even try. You did, and I'm proud of you. Whatever that's worth."
"I'd better go."
"It's time for me to go, too. You take care."
He was putting down the phone when he remembered one last thing.
"Elvis?"
"Sir?"
He'd caught the boy just in time.
"It doesn't matter who your father was. You're still you. You hear what I'm saying? There's no such thing as a dead end—not in this game. You keep looking. You'll find what you need to find."
"Thanks, Mr. Wilson."
"Goodnight."
'"Night."
The line clicked, then Wilson put down his phone. The frogs and moths were suddenly loud again, and his screened porch was once more a dark cage. His little shack on the Banana River had seemed brighter while he spoke with the boy, but now the brightness was gone.
"Why in hell did you have to go?"
He had a last sip of the Scotch, then picked up his pistol, pushed open the cylinder, and shook out the bullets. He left all of it on the little wicker table, and went inside to his bed. He fell asleep thinking of Edie, and of the ways he had failed her, and of all the ways he had failed himself, but with a final dim hope that he had done right by the boy.
25
Invasion
Frederick loitered outside Cole's building until cars bled from the parking garage, then hustled up to the fifth floor, where he hid in the men's bathroom until almost eight o'clock. When Frederick sensed everyone was likely gone, he crept down to the fourth floor and back to Cole's office. He worried that a security guard or cleaning crew might find him, so he used the direct approach—he pried open Cole's door with a jack handle. Cole would immediately know that someone had broken into his office (as would a passing security guard), but Frederick moved quickly. He scooped up Cole's Rolodex and blew through the desk for bills, letters, and other correspondence. He grabbed anything that could even possibly contain Cole's home address, then ran back down the stairs, and out to his car. He had worn gloves. He didn't take the time to go through the things he stole until he was safely at home. It had been a helluva bad day, so he was relieved to be home. He enjoyed sleeping in his own bed. He felt safe. Best of all, the third bill he inspected was addressed to Cole's home. He dreamed about Cole that night. He dreamed about what he would do. He dreamed about Cole's screams.
26
At three-thirty that morning the traffic moved with professional grace. That time of day, big-rig truckers who knew the rules of freeway driving moved cleanly, content to let me drift among them. The city thinned and the eastern sky lightened as I reached the Coachella Valley and curved south between the jagged shoulders of the mountains.
The Salton Sea was the largest, lowest lake in California, filling the broad, flat basin of the Salton Sink like a mirror laid on the desert floor. It was shallow because the land was flat, and surrounded by barren desert and scorched rocks like some forgotten puddle in Hell. When the periodic algal blooms died, it smelled like Hell, too. During the worst of summer, the temperature could reach one-thirty on the lake's shore, but now the air rushing over me felt cool and good, and the smell was clean.
I dropped down the west side of the lake past pelicans and fishermen lining the rocks for tilapia and corvina. The valley floor rose quickly when I passed the lake, cut by irrigation canals and small farming roads without many signs, and dotted with small towns that all looked the same. At six-fifty that morning I entered Anson. Imperial was another twenty miles south, but I wanted to find George Reinnike's original homo first. A neighbor might have maintained contact with his family.
Anson was a sleepy collection of hardware stores, video rental shops, and small businesses. Eighteen-wheelers laden with tomatoes and artichokes lumbered through town, kicking up enormous clouds of dust that covered buildings and cars with a fine white powder. No one seemed to mind.
I stopped at a gas station where an overweight man behind the counter nodded past a burrito bulging with beans and eggs and cheese.
I said, "'Morning. I need a local map. You have something like that?"
He shoved the burrito toward a tattered map taped to the glass. He didn't put down the burrito. Once you get a grip on something like that, you can't set it down.
"Right up there. Help yourself."
The map was from the Bureau of Land Management, and had been taped to the glass so long its colors were bleached.
"Do you have one I can take with me?"
"Nope. You can try the Chamber of Commerce. They might have something."
"Okay. Where's that?"
"Second light down next to the State Farm office, but they don't open for another two hours. I could probably tell you how to get wherever it is you want to go."
I gave him Reinnike's address. He studied the map, then tapped L Street with his knuckle.
"Well, this here's northwest L Street, but there ain't nothing out there but fields. No one lives out there."
"Is there another L Street?"
"Not that I know of, and I've lived here all my life. You passed it on the way in."
I used his rest room, bought a cup of coffee, then followed his directions back out of town. L Street was at the three-mile marker, just as he told me. I turned left onto the northwest side and drove until I reached a county sign that said END. Two silver tanks stood quietly near the horizon, but they were the only structures I saw. Fields planted with brussels sprouts extended to the horizon in every direction. Mechanical irrigators rolled along on spindly wheels, mindlessly squirting water and chemicals on individual plants so as not to waste money on unused soil. No one lived there, and no one had likely been there for a very long time. The Burrito Man was right—the houses that once stood on L Street had long since been razed for agribusiness.
I worked my way back to the highway, and headed south to Imperial.
Edelle Reinnike lived in a simple stucco house just off the main highway at the southern edge of Imperial. The houses were white or beige, with white-rock roofs to reflect the heat. Most had trailers or trucks parked in their yards. Mrs. Reinnike opened her door as I got out of my car. It was eight-thirty that morning; still early, but hot.
"Mrs. Reinnike, I'm Elvis Cole. Thanks for seeing me."
"I know who you are. Don't mind this dog. She won't bite unless you get fancy."
Edelle Reinnike was eighty-six years old, with the dry desert skin of a golden raisin. Her dog was a fireplug-shaped pug with enormous eyes bulging on either side of its head. It looked like a goldfish. I couldn'
t tell what the dog was looking at, but it growled when I approached. Maybe it had radar.
Mrs. Reinnike said, "Margo, shush! You don't fool anyone."
She invited me in, showed me to her couch, then went into her kitchen for coffee. I didn't want more coffee, but it always pays to be friendly. Margo planted herself in front of me. Mrs. Reinnike called from the kitchen.
"She likes you."
"Did you have a chance to look through your mother's things?"
"I did. I found an old picture of George, but only the one. Mama couldn't stand Aunt Lita, and they had an awful falling-out. Lita was George's mother. She said Lita was loud. If Mama thought you were loud, well, that meant you were trash."
Mrs. Reinnike came back with two cups of coffee, and sat in a recliner at the end of the couch. She put on a pair of reading glasses, picked up a crumbling photo album from beside the chair, and opened the album to a page marked with a strip of tissue. She turned it so I could see.
"Here, this is Lita and Ray—Ray was Daddy's younger brother—and this is George. Look at the way Lita was carrying on even when her picture was being taken. They were nasty people."
Great. Just what you want to hear about people who might be your family.
The picture showed a man, a woman, and a boy with a triangular head in front of a Christmas tree. It was George. He was propped on crutches, and looking past the camera as if he was not expecting the picture to be taken. His father was a soft man with uncertain eyes, and his mother had close-set features that made her look irritated. I could see George's features in Ray. Like father, like son.
"This was before George had the operation. Lita wouldn't have sent a picture after. Ray asked Daddy for money to help with the operation, but Mama said we had our own family to feed. Well, Lita wrote the most awful letter you can imagine, and that was the last we saw of them."
I gave back the album.
"So you didn't stay in touch after that?"
"Lord, no. Mama would have had a fit. I haven't seen nor heard from George since, oh I had a family, so he would've been in high school. You never told me why you're looking for George."
"George is dead. He was murdered four days ago."
She stared at me with no expression for a moment, then dropped a hand down alongside the chair. Margo hobbled over and snuffled her fingers.
"Well, that's just terrible. What a terrible thing."
"How about your brothers and sisters? You think they stayed in touch with George?"
"Well, I can't know, but I doubt it. Both my sisters and my brother are gone. I was the youngest on my side."
"How about your children?"
She made a little snort, and Margo stopped snuffling.
"They don't even come to see me—they wouldn't bother with George. George had run off by the time they were old enough to give a damn."
"What do you mean, run oft?"
"George got some gal pregnant, and dropped out of school. Mama said the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Lita being loud the way she was and Ray a drinker. Mama said that boy would come to no good, gettin' some girl pregnant, and now here he is murdered. I guess Mama was right."
I sipped the coffee and made a tiny scratch on my pad. A tiny black line that disrupted the perfect order of the blank yellow page.
"Pregnant."
"Low-class people will do that."
She arched her eyebrows and made a nasty smile. I made another mark on the pad.
"This girl, do you know who she was?"
My hands were damp when I asked. I rubbed them on my thighs, and tried not to be obvious.
"No. That all might have been just talk, anyway. If George had a girl, I sure never saw her and don't know anyone who did."
"That year when George ran off, did any of the local girls move away?"
Mrs. Reinnike laughed.
"Not for anything like that. That was 1953, son. When a girl had a problem like that, she bee-lined it down to Mexicali and was back the next day. We called it the one-night-stand shuttle."
She cackled again, as if she had known more than one or two who had taken the shuttle.
"Do you recall what people were saying about her? If she wasn't a local, was she a stranger? Maybe from out of town?"
"You sound like you know who she was."
"Just trying to help you remember."
She made a shrug like she couldn't be sure either way.
"What's all this have to do with finding his next of kin?"
So much for not being obvious.
"The child would be his next of kin, and the child's mother might know where George was living."
"Well, that's true. I wish I could help you with that, but I don't know, and I can't imagine anyone still living who might. George wasn't a likable boy. He took after Lita that way. I guess it might have been his legs, leaving him bitter and angry, but I don't remember anyone having anything good to say about him. He got in fights and was always in trouble and lorded his money. No one wanted to be around someone like that."
Lording money didn't jibe with the cheap furnishings in the Christmas picture, and Ray and Lita asking Edelle's parents for help to pay for George's operation. I asked her about it.
"Oh, George had plenty of money. That hospital botched up his operation, and had to do it again. Ray and Lita got some kind of fancy settlement. Well, they didn't get the money, but George did. He got a check every month, right on the dot."
"He got monthly payments?"
Mrs. Reinnike looked smug.
"That was the judge. The judge took one look at Ray and Lita, and gave the money straight to George. I guess he figured if George got the money little by little, Ray and Lita wouldn't be able to spend it."
"This was the hospital in San Diego?"
"Well, I guess. I don't really remember, but I guess it had to be."
If George had been getting a monthly payout, the hospital or their insurance company would have a record of his addresses. I checked the time. It was still before noon, and I could probably make it to San Diego in less than two hours.
I thanked Edelle Reinnike, and the two of us walked to the door. I wanted to ask another question, but had to work up my nerve. I stepped out into the heat, then turned back to face her.
"Mrs. Reinnike, do I look familiar to you?"
"Nope. Should you?"
The sun burned bright in the clean desert sky, and bounced off the white dust as if it were snow.
27
The Andrew Watts Children's Hospital looked like a grim Iberian citadel perched in the El Cajon foothills, one of those imposing stone and cast-cement fortresses that architects built when they hoped their buildings would last forever. I paid five dollars for visitor parking, then entered the main lobby and wandered around for ten minutes trying to find the reception desk. If the outside looked like a citadel, the inside looked like Grand Central Station.
A nursing aide gave me directions, but I got lost and had to ask someone else. On my third try, I found the right hall, and stepped through double glass doors to another receptionist.
I said, "Hi. Elvis Cole to see Mr. Brasher. He's expecting me."
"You can have a seat if you like. I'll let him know."
After two hours in the car I didn't want to sit. I drifted back to the glass doors and stared out into the hall. Chairs and padded benches lined the wall, but no one was sitting in them. Two women walked by, laughing. One of them glanced at me, and I smiled, but she went about her business without smiling back. I imagined a little boy on crutches hobbling into the building. The boy's father smelled of whiskey and his mother was loud. I wondered if he had been scared. I would have been scared.
Behind me, a man said, "Mr. Cole, I'm Ken Brasher. C'mon back to my office and I'll show you what we have."
Ken Brasher was a neat, balding man in his midthirties with dark-framed glasses and a businesslike handshake. I had phoned ahead from the car, figuring it would be a smart use of the two-hour drive. I had been
in the middle of nowhere just a few miles north of the Mexican border, but my cell reception was flawless. Maybe I should move to the desert.
After we shook hands, Brasher glanced at the receptionist.
"Would you tell Marjorie he's here and ask her to come down, please."
The receptionist touched her phone as I followed Brasher into another hall.
"Our legal-affairs people want to be in on this. I hope you don't mind."
"Not a problem. Were you able to reach the medical examiner?"
"Yes. He faxed down the death certificate."
"Is there going to be a problem with me getting the addresses?"
"I don't think so, no, but I'll let Marjorie handle that. Marjorie is our legal-affairs officer."
When we spoke on the phone, Brasher confirmed that the hospital had a legal agreement with Reinnike, but wouldn't divulge the details until he had confirmation of Reinnike's death and discussed it with their attorneys. I gave him Beckett's number at the coroner's office, and asked that he call. Apparently, he called. Apparently, Beckett told him that I was for real.
Brasher made an abrupt right turn into a small, windowless office and went behind the desk. A small square of construction paper was pushpinned to the wall facing me. The paper was filled with yellow and blue lines that might have been a cat or a tree, and a red message written in a child's hand: I LUV U DADY.
He smiled at me nicely.
"Do you mind if I make a copy of your identification? Marjorie will want it for our records."
I gave him my DL and investigator's license. He placed them on a copy machine behind his desk, and pushed a button. He smiled at me some more as the machine made its copies. The smile made him look like a guy who wanted to sell me aluminum siding. I didn't like all the smiling.
I said, "Is everything all right, Mr. Brasher?"
"Marjorie will be right down."
That wasn't the answer I wanted to hear, and I suddenly had the feeling Marjorie wasn't anxious to share her information.
"You spoke with Beckett. I'm sure he told you he's trying to locate the next of kin."
