by Robert Crais
Three hours later I slipped between the trees along Mulholland Drive, heading for home. It had been a long day. The sky had grown smoky, and the dimming light purpled the trees.
I turned onto my street and saw a tan car parked outside my house. The last time I came home to a car, it was Pardy. I decided that if Pardy was waiting in my house again, I would scare the hell out of him.
I pulled into my carport, took out my gun, then let myself in through the kitchen. I didn't try to be quiet. I pushed open the door.
29
Starkey
Starkey put down the phone after Cole hung up, and kicked back in her chair with a wide nasty grin. She was pleased with herself for jamming Cole into dinner. It would have been nicer if the idiot had thought up the idea himself, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
"That must've been your boyfriend Cole on the phone."
Starkey's grin floundered. Ronnie Metcalf was watching her from his adjoining desk. Metcalf was a D-2 with Hollywood Robbery, which had to share office space with the Juvenile Division. Metcalf tapped his mouth.
"I can tell by the grin."
He pursed his lips and made puckered kissing sounds.
Starkey didn't flinch, flush, or turn away.
"You're an asshole."
Metcalf laughed, then got up and sauntered over to the coffee machine. Starkey turned back to her desk, but now her mood was soured. She didn't like Metcalf eavesdropping on her calls. She could get in trouble for using LAPD resources for an outside party, and a dickhead like Metcalf might use it against her. Starkey considered the repercussions, then realized her irritation had nothing to do with getting in trouble. She resented that her feelings were obvious. What she felt about Cole—or anything else—wasn't anyone else's business. She would have to remember not to smile so much when she thought about Cole.
Starkey swiveled around to her computer and entered David Reinnike's name into the State of California Criminal Information Center's search engine. If David Reinnike had been arrested as an adult, his listing would appear. A case number was required, so Starkey used a number from one of the sixteen cases she currently worked, and punched in her badge. Fuck Metcalf.
Starkey watched the little wheel spin for a few seconds, then the search was complete. David Reinnike had no adult criminal record.
Like it should be easy.
Starkey considered what Cole had told her. San Diego P.D. had responded at least once to a complaint about the boy, but that didn't mean he would have an accessible juvenile record. Cops and courts were usually lenient with minor offenders, and their records were often expunged or sealed. But juveniles with chronic behavior problems were sometimes assessed by officers with special training, especially if the child manifested bizarre or unusual behaviors, and those records were usually maintained in the files of the local police.
Starkey went to the large map of California that hung on the wall. She searched for Temecula, and found it on I-15, just north of Fallbrook.
"Hey, Starkey."
Metcalf was still by the coffee. He opened his mouth in an O, and pushed out his cheek with his tongue.
Starkey turned back to the map.
Temecula patrol officers had probably responded to the call, but Temecula would have been too small for its own Juvenile Division. They had probably laid off the case on the San Diego County Sheriffs, so the Sheriffs station would have the records, if they existed. Starkey had been on Juvie for only a few months, and had no clue in hell how she could get someone down there to look for thirty-year-old juvenile records. But Gittamon probably knew.
Starkey walked over to Gittamon's cubicle and rapped on his wall. Dave Gittamon, who was Starkey's sergeant-supervisor, had been on the Hollywood Station Juvenile desk for thirty-two years and had solid relationships with pretty much every senior juvenile officer throughout the southwest.
Gittamon glanced up at her over his reading glasses. He was a kindly man with a preacher's smile.
She said, "Dave? Do you have juice with anyone down in San Diego County?"
Gittamon answered in his calm, reassuring voice. He was the most understated man Starkey had ever met.
"Oh. I know a few folks."
Starkey described the situation with David Reinnike and told Gittamon she wanted to find out if a record existed. She did not mention Cole.
Gittamon cleared his throat.
"Well, you're talking about a minor child, Carol. You might need a court order. What are you going to do with this?"
Starkey noted his choice of the word: Might.
"If this kid was arrested, his file could show a person or persons who can give me a line on finding him. That's all I'm looking for here. They disappeared, Dave. They changed their names and vanished."
"But you don't know that he was arrested?"
"No."
"So you don't know that a file exists."
"No."
"In Temecula."
"That's right."
Gittamon grunted, thinking about it, so Starkey pressed on.
"I guess what I'm looking for here is a personal favor, Dave. Like if I had a file, and someone with a legitimate reason wanted to see it, I'd let them take a look, no harm, no foul, no paperwork. Cop to cop. You see? No court orders, nothing like that."
"How do you spell his name?"
Starkey knew she was in.
"The sooner the better, Dave."
Gittamon picked up his phone like it was the easiest thing in the world.
"Oh, I know a few people down there. Give Mr. Cole my best." Starkey felt herself flush as she walked away.
30
The kitchen was dim and silent, but a single lamp burned in the living room. The glass doors to the deck were open. I crept forward, feeling the muscles in my shoulders tighten, but then I smelled her scent, and knew who was waiting. The long day and hard miles were gone.
She must have heard me. She stepped in from the deck, and I felt my heart swell.
"I let myself in. I hope it's all right."
"Of course it is, Lucy."
George Reinnike vanished, and the world was at peace.
Lucy Chenier saw the gun, and looked away. When we were first together, she would have made a joke, but now the gun represented the violence that drove her away. I hadn't spoken to Lucy in weeks. I hadn't seen her in almost two months.
I unclipped the holster from beneath my shirt, seated the gun, then put it out of sight above the refrigerator.
"I've had a problem with mice."
Her lip curled in a forgiving smile. She wore a fall-orange turtle-neck sweater over jeans, the sweater perfect for her golden skin and auburn hair. The best color money could buy, she liked to joke.
She said, "Here, I brought you a Care package."
Two bricks of Community Coffee Dark Roast, two bags of Camellia red beans, and a six-pack of Abita beer were on the dining table. Baton Rouge staples. It couldn't have been easy, bringing all that from Louisiana. I took her effort as a good sign.
"CC Dark—this is great, Lucy. Thanks."
"I hope you don't mind my being here like this. Joe said you were on your way home, so I let myself in."
"C'mon, you know better than that. This is a great surprise. What are you doing in L.A.? How's Ben?"
Nothing in her body language warned me away, so I gave her a polite kiss, then stepped back to let her know I respected the boundaries she had imposed. Her lips smelled of raspberries.
"Ben's doing really really well. You're the class hero, you know—everyone at school has to hear about Elvis Cole."
I laughed, but only because she expected me to be pleased. Picturing Ben Chenier telling his ten-year-old buddies about me caused an ache in my chest. I wanted to tell her how much I missed them, but I didn't want to make either of us feel guilty. I changed the subject instead.
"Hey, would you like a drink? You want something to eat?"
"Yes to both, but let me see your hand. How is it healing?"
"It's fine. They put in bionic motors and steel cables—I'm like the Terminator now, me and the governor."
She studied the scar, then folded my fingers, and gave back my hand. She pushed out a smile we both knew was fake.
"How about that drink?"
"Coming up."
She had flown out to meet with the prosecutors about Ben's part in his father's trial. Though I had been cut, Richard had been shot, and almost died. He probably would have been happier if he had. Richard Chenier had hired three mercenaries to kidnap his son, and five people had died before it was over. Richard had not personally pulled a trigger, but because he had set the kidnapping in motion, he was an accessory before the fact and a de facto accomplice. Under California law, Richard could be and was charged with the murders. He currently resided at the County-USC Medical Center, where he awaited more surgeries and, eventually, the trial. Lucy told me as she sipped her drink.
"The judge agreed to hear Ben's testimony on videotape, but I wanted to be sure they understand that's as far as I'll go. I will not bring him to court, and I will not allow him to take the stand."
"Why doesn't Richard save everyone the trouble and plead out? That would be easier for Ben."
She had more of her drink.
"This is part of the process. He's facing two first-degree counts and three in the second, but his lawyers want a reduction to negligent homicide on the firsts and a pass on the rest."
Lucy stared at nothing for a moment, then sipped again and shrugged.
"They'll probably end up at two counts of manslaughter if they can agree on the sentence. Richard has to do time. I'm sorry he was hurt, but he has to pay for this."
She finished her drink with a tinkle of ice, then looked at the glass as if its being empty was just another of life's inevitable disappointments.
She said, "You know what? I'm tired of being nice. I'm only sorry for Ben and what this is doing to him. Richard deserved everything that happened to him."
I reached for the glass.
"Here. I'll make another."
She held out her glass, and our fingertips laced. Neither of us moved. We were locked together like two grappling wrestlers frozen by tensions neither could overcome or escape—
—then Lucy dropped her hand, and pretended nothing had happened. I should have pretended that, too.
"When are you going back?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. I have to see the D.A. again in the morning, then I'm flying out of LAX."
Tomorrow afternoon. I turned away to make the drink. I filled her glass with fresh ice, then cut a wedge of lime and sprayed it over the ice. I tried to pretend I was calm, but my hope was probably obvious. I stopped messing with the drink, and looked at her. Tomorrow left the night to be filled.
"Would you stay with me tonight?"
She shook her head without even considering it, but her voice was kind.
"Just make the drink, World's Greatest. And tell me what I can help cook."
We were both on uneasy ground. You take great care on the thin ice. Go slow, and you just might make it across. I smiled, sending word that we were okay again and I would not pressure her. I freshened her drink instead.
"How about spaghetti with a putanesca sauce?"
She waved her hand, looking pleased with my choice.
"Bring it."
"I've got Italian sausage in the freezer. We could grill it, chop it in the sauce."
Waved the fingers again.
"Bring it all."
31
The Watcher
Frederick worked his regular shift, opening the station as usual until he handed the pumps off to Elroy that afternoon. Elroy bitched about not having heard from Payne, and it was all Frederick could do not to string up the skinny bastard on the hydraulic lift and stab him in the eyes, but Frederick was too practiced for that—he pretended to be exactly the same Frederick that Elroy expected—unaware of Payne's fate, and unaware of the terrible vengeance that had been visited upon Payne by Elvis Cole, and the even more terrible vengeance that would soon be visited upon Cole in return. If Elroy suspected anything else, he gave no indication. Nor did Elroy see the pair of vise-grip pliers that Frederick lifted from the service bay as he was leaving. Frederick planned to torture Cole just as Cole had tortured Payne—by tearing away his skin with the pliers.
Frederick returned to Los Angeles that afternoon. Cole's house was a vicious crouched spider clinging to the edge of a cliff, all mean angles and shadows. The carport was empty, and two women were walking a dog past Cole's house, so Frederick continued on. He parked at a nearby construction site, then hunkered down behind an olive tree to keep an eye on Cole's house.
A few minutes before six that evening, a car parked outside Cole's front door, and a woman got out. She didn't knock or ring the bell; she let herself into Cole's house with her own key, which gave Frederick pause. A woman might be named Elvis as easily as a man. Maybe Elvis Cole was a woman. Then he remembered that James Kramer had spoken of Cole as a man, so Frederick decided she was probably Cole's wife. He was deciding whether or not to murder her, too, when a dirty yellow Corvette came around the curve and turned into Cole's carport. It was one of the old Corvettes from the sixties, what they called a Sting Ray. Frederick sensed this was Elvis Cole; more than sensed it, he knew it, and knew that Cole was wearing a disguise as perfect as Frederick's own; the dirty car, the jeans and knockaround running shoes, and the stupid Hawaiian shirt with its tail hanging out were a pretense. Cole was pretending to be a regular man to hide his true self—a relentless killer-for-hire with a heart of hot ice.
Frederick's suspicions were confirmed in the next moment when Cole reached under his shirt, pulled out a pistol, and let himself into the house. Frederick tipped forward, expecting gunfire, but no shots rang out.
Now Frederick didn't know what to do. He had planned on killing Cole as soon as Cole arrived, but Cole was armed and expecting trouble. If Frederick went to the door, Cole might shoot him on sight.
A little while later, a third car appeared, this one also driven by a woman. She parked across Cole's driveway. When she got out of her car, Frederick saw a badge clipped to her waist. Frederick wondered if she had come to arrest Cole, but when Cole answered the door, he let her in with a beaming smile.
32
I was searching the freezer for sausage when I remembered about Starkey. Starkey was coming over. She was probably on her way.
"Hey, you remember Carol Starkey? I forgot. She's coming over tonight."
Something like interest flickered in Lucy's eyes, but then she smiled.
"I guess you forgot, all right."
"It's nothing like that, Lucille. Starkey's tracking a juvie file on someone I'm trying to find. I have to get these articles to her, so I invited her for dinner. No big deal."
The articles were still on the counter.
"I'm serious. Is it better if I leave?"
"Absolutely not. If I'd known you were going to be here, I wouldn't have asked Starkey. She'll understand."
Lucy and I were thawing the sausage when Starkey knocked.
I said, "That's Starkey."
"Ask her to stay. I mean it."
I called out that I was coming and went to the door. When I opened it, Starkey flipped away a cigarette, blew a geyser of smoke toward the trees, and came in with a square pink bakery box.
She said, "Whose car is that?"
Lucy stepped out of the kitchen as Starkey came inside. Lucy was holding the package of sausage and a knife. She smiled nicely.
"Hello, Detective. It's good to see you again."
Starkey stared at Lucy as if she couldn't put a name to her face.
I said, "Ben's mom
."
"I know who she is, Cole. Ms. Chenier. How's your little boy?"
"He's well, thank you. He's doing very well."
Lucy gestured with the sausage, and went back to the kitchen.
"I have to get back. I'm dripping."
When Lucy was gone, I lowered my voice.
"Lucy was here when I got back. I didn't know she was in town."
Lucy called from the kitchen.
"Ask her to stay."
I lowered my voice even more.
"Starkey, look, you mind taking a rain check? She's only here for—"
Starkey pushed the box into my hands.
"Fruit tarts. Don't worry about it, Cole. Give me the stuff and I'm gone."
I brought the dessert box into the kitchen, and told Lucy that Starkey was leaving. When I scooped up the articles, Lucy followed me back to the living room. Starkey was still fidgeting by the door. She hadn't come three steps into my house.
Lucy said, "Please, Detective, have dinner with us. At least have a drink."
"I don't drink—I smoke."
Starkey snatched the articles from me, folded them, then tried to slip them into her outer pocket.
"I ran Reinnike's name, Cole. He doesn't have an adult record, so you're shit out of luck with that. I'll let you know if I find something in Juvenile."
Lucy said, "Please—stay for a while. We can visit."
"I gotta get going."
Starkey kept pushing the articles at her pocket, but they wouldn't go in. The paper had folded outside her pocket.
I said, "The paper's bent."
Starkey pushed harder.
"Jesus fucking Christ."
I said, "You're making it worse."
Starkey gave up on the pocket and turned for the door.
Lucy said, "It was good seeing you, Detective."
"Tell the little boy I asked after him."
Lucy smiled nicely, clearly touched.
"I will. Thank you."
