The Forgotten Man

by Robert Crais

  "We're clear."

  "They get your testimony about the prostitution, the blackmail, all of it. We clear?"

  Dana said, "Yes."

  They looked like rabbits caught in the headlights when Pike and I left.

  We walked back to Pike's Jeep, both of us silent until we reached the street.

  He said, "Close."

  "I'll find someone to sharpen the image. There has to be a way to do that. Maybe Chen."

  I left Pike at his Jeep and continued toward my car, thinking about it. Close, but still out of reach, like an imagined image of my father.

  When I got home that night, I put Stephen's laptop in my front closet, covered it with a raincoat, then drank a glass of milk. I ate a banana, took a shower, then tried to go to sleep, but I kept seeing the long line of names on the list. I was worried that Pardy wouldn't go along and I wouldn't be able to leverage the deal for Thomas and Dana even though I had given my word. I was worried that I would not be able to read Reinnike's license plate and would never know the truth. I stared into the darkness gathered at my ceiling thinking these things until I grew angry with myself, and got out of bed.

  I turned on all the lights in my house, then brought Stephen's laptop to my dining room table. The cat came in as I worked, and sat silently, watching me.

  I opened the files one by one as Thomas had done, until I found the long list of JPEGs. I scrolled down to the three pictures that were named VICTORIA, whose real name was Margaret Keyes. I deleted them.

  I still had Margaret's cell phone number. I called her, even though it was two in the morning. I did not expect her to answer, but she answered on the fifth ring. From the background, she was at a club or restaurant with other people. Or maybe it was just the TV.

  "Hello?"

  "This is Elvis Cole. You don't have to say anything. Just listen."

  She hesitated, and I wondered if she, too, was awake at this hour because of the anger and pictures in her head. She answered guardedly. Because of the other voices.

  "Yes. Oh, sure. I understand."

  She tried to make her voice light and conversational, as if she had gotten a call from a friend.

  "You told me Stephen had something on you. Were you talking about the pictures?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Yes or no, Margaret. You don't have to say anything more than that."

  "That's right."

  "He had pictures of you having sex that he used in a blackmail scam, and he threatened to implicate you unless you continued to work for him. Yes or no."

  "Yes."

  "Those pictures no longer exist. You're free."

  I hung up without waiting for her to respond. I put down the phone, then went back upstairs to bed.

  After a while, the darkness was not so foreboding. I slept.

  36

  Starkey

  Starkey suffered a miserable night after she woke from the dream; she sucked down a cigarette, then tried to go back to sleep, but every time the shadows took shape, she startled awake. Once, she glimpsed Sugar; another time, Jack Pell; but mostly it was Cole, the same terrible dream again and again. When Pell came to her, he smiled with bright bulging eyes and pointed at something behind her, but Starkey didn't turn fast enough and woke in the darkness before she could see. Finally, Starkey told herself to stop being stupid. She got out of bed.

  Starkey glugged down a hit of antacid that tasted like mint-flavored snot, then made a cup of hot chocolate. She hadn't been able to drink coffee since the bomb. She missed it, but coffee fired the scars in her stomach like alcohol poured on a fresh cut. Her stomach was a mess.

  Starkey sat at her kitchen table, smoking as she thought about Cole, up there right now with Little Miss Honey-dipped Southern Comfort. Starkey was in love with the goofy doofus, that's all there was to it, and hadn't been able to shake it off. It was so bad she thought up reasons to call him, cruised his house in the middle of the night, and even called Pike, thinking maybe she could get to Cole through Man's Best Friend. The whole damn mess left her feeling like a degenerate.

  Starkey made up her mind. She had to sit down with Cole, and lay it out: Look, Cole, I'm in love with you, okay? I want to be with you. What do you think?

  Starkey saw the scene in her head, playing it through, then jabbed her cigarette into the chocolate. She didn't have the guts. Here she was, the same woman who used to de-arm bombs, and she knew she wouldn't have the courage to risk his answer. What a frigging mess.

  Starkey lit a fresh smoke, pulled the heat deep, and coughed. Thank God she had cigarettes.

  Carol Starkey sat at the table, smoking, and did not sleep again that night. Here she was, scared to death by a dream.

  The Fencing Master

  In Starkey's dream, she hides in darkness beneath the stairs in a great stone tower that belongs to a beautiful princess. Starkey has never described the dream to her shrink because the players are embarrassingly obvious. The first time she woke from the dream, she thought, jesus, you don't have to be Sigmund to understand that. Starkey is ashamed by what she believes the dream reveals.

  In her dream, he is the fencing master. He never arrives nor leaves nor has a story to tell, but is forever trapped in the moment of her dream. She has never seen his face, but he has the build and grace of a dancer, clad in leather tunic and tights. He carries himself with the pride of his past as he was once the King's Hero, known for his bravery and valor. Now, he visits the tower each day to teach the fencer's art to a beautiful princess. The princess deserves no less than the King's Hero. He deserves no less than a princess.

  Starkey hates this fucking princess.

  The princess, too, has no face, but Starkey—glumly—knows the fucking bitch is hot. Honey-colored hair cascades over flawless golden shoulders, and a rich velvet gown drapes a body that is strong, athletic, and perfect.

  Starkey, meanwhile, wears burlap rags, has dirty feet, and has smudges on her checks. She has somehow made her way into the tower, somehow hidden herself beneath the stair, somehow watched their endless lessons from her secret place, and through it all has fallen hopelessly in love with him.

  Every time, the dream begins the same:

  Starkey, hidden, watches as:

  Great stone walls rise high around them, lit by the copper flickers of torches and candles. Tapestries hang on the walls; a fine rug muffles the stone floor. To one side, a heavy oaken door leads to the princess's chambers; to the other, a similar door leads to the outside. The room is empty, like a ballroom; its details missing, like a dream. The fencing master and the princess thrust and parry in perfect unison, back and forth, eyes locked in total concentration on the other. Their foils gleam with bursts of light, the steel tinkling like chimes. He thrusts, she parries, she counters, he denies, back and forth until sweat runs from their brows and their breath is quick—

  Starkey, after she wakes, will roll her eyes and think, "I get it! They're FUCKING!"

  But not now—

  Now, in the dream, her breath quickens with his. She wants to be the one on the floor with him; she wants his eyes on her, seeing only her. She wants to rush from the shadows to take her rightful place—

  —but she does not.

  She wears burlap, not velvet.

  She is flawed, not a princess.

  Then the moment shifts as moments will in a dream:

  Darkness presses down on her. Starkey is suddenly aware that all has changed beyond the tower walls. An invading army swarms the city. The cry of cleaved men rides the clang of battle-axes and the scream of dying horses. Demons are coming. Starkey can't see any of this, but, hell, it's a dream—she knows it's happening just out of view.

  The fencing master stands alone in the round fortress room. The princess peers from her door, frightened. He tells her to escape down the back stairs. She flees—

  Starkey, trapped in her hiding place, silently screams, "CHICKEN-SHIT BITCH!"

  Something heavy booms at the far door. The fencing master
turns.

  Starkey screams silently—

  "FUCK THE STUPID BITCH! SAVE YOURSELF! RUN!"

  But, like Starkey, he is trapped in the dream, too.

  The heavy door shatters. Monstrous warriors spill forward, giants with heavy muscles and broadswords, each bigger than the last.

  "RUN, YOU STUPID NOBLE MORON!! RUN!!!!"

  Starkey cannot know that he wants to run. She cannot know that he is scared. But he is all that stands between them and the princess, so he calmly raises his foil. Like Starkey, he has no choice. It is his place in the dream, to give his life for the princess.

  "RUN!"

  He glances in slow motion over his shoulder at the empty doorway where once the princess stood. A tear fills his eye. His lips move. Starkey sees the words.

  I love you.

  He once more faces the enemy, and his blade flicks like lightning. He dodges, weaves, and darts among them. Their bodies mount before his skill and rage. He is the fencing master, the King's Hero, known for his bravery and valor.

  But finally they are too many.

  Their steel finds him.

  His body parts.

  Starkey is his witness.

  His tear-filled eyes.

  His glance toward the princess.

  His undying love.

  His inevitable death.

  PART FOUR

  His Inevitable

  Death

  37

  The morning broke clean and bright, filling the glass peak of my A-frame with an amber glow. I opened the doors to my deck, hoping for a breeze. The scent of the garlic and tomatoes Lucy and I cooked were still sweet. I liked it, even when I realized Lucy had not told me where she was staying. If I didn't know, I couldn't call. Maybe that was best.

  I scrambled three eggs, drank the Community coffee, then got ready for Diaz and Pardy. I jotted a list of the people I interviewed in Anson and San Diego, then made copies of the newspaper clips and articles about the Reinnikes. When I finished with the copying, I called Diaz at her office.

  She said, "So, World's Greatest, have you solved the case yet?"

  "I have something that might help. Did you get a hit on the BOLO?"

  "C'mon, nothing is ever that easy."

  "I need to talk about something with you and Pardy. I have a digital picture of Reinnike and his car. You can see his license plate, but it's blurry—"

  She interrupted me.

  "What does that mean, blurry? Can you read the digits?"

  "You can't read it, but we might He able to have it enhanced. It's a pretty good picture, but it doesn't come free—"

  She interrupted me again.

  "Waitaminute. Is anyone else in the picture?"

  "One of Golden's outcall girls."

  "Where was it taken? Can you recognize the location?"

  She was looking for other witnesses.

  "It's not like that, Diaz. It was taken outside the Home Away Suites three nights before his murder."

  She fell silent, so I plowed ahead.

  "Listen, that's what we have to talk about. Golden's operation isn't just outcall. He's running a blackmail scam, and you have to clear the field for the people who took the picture. They were involved in the blackmail."

  "Bring it around and let's see what you have."

  "They need the pass. Is Pardy going to go for it?"

  "Pardy will go with whatever I say."

  I picked up Golden's computer from the hall closet, then let myself out through the kitchen. When I opened the kitchen door, an unsealed manila envelope was propped against the door. I looked inside, then tipped out a thin stack of faxed pages. The cover page was addressed to Sgt. D. Gittamon regarding David Reinnike. The letterhead showed the pages had been faxed from the San Diego County Sheriffs Department, North County Station, Juvenile Intervention Bureau. No other note was enclosed.

  I knew Starkey must have dropped it off earlier that morning, and probably hadn't left a note or knocked because she was pissed off about dinner. Realizing that Starkey was pissed off left me feeling badly. I went back inside, and got her voice mail when I called her cell.

  "Starkey, it's me. Listen, I want to apologize about last night. I didn't know Lucy was in town and I guess I was abrupt with you. It was rude. I got the stuff you left. I'll read it now, and talk to you later."

  I hung up, but I didn't feel any better.

  David Reinnike's Juvenile arrest file was nine pages long. The first page was a form showing general information like the arrestee's name, address, date of birth, and description. Under that was a box containing the subject's record of arrests. The newspaper articles I read at the hospital indicated that the Reinnikes' neighbors had called the police about David at least twice and possibly three times, but only one arrest was listed. David had been taken into custody at the age of fifteen, a little more than ten months before he and his father disappeared. The charges were for threatening the life of another and animal cruelty, but the file was marked NF. The NF notation meant the case officer had decided not to forward the case to the Juvenile Division Court.

  Two reports were attached to the cover. The first was the arresting officers' report. It was hand-typed, and only a page and a half.

  Submitted by:

  Ofc. Carl Belnap, #8681

  Ofc. Gregory Silias, #11611

  Arrest of David Reinnike, 15, minor male, 9/12

  Chrg: Penal Code 16-7218a

  Offers on routine patrol were dispatched to 1627 Adams, a residence, at 1640 hours on 9/12. Complainant (Mrs. Francine Winnant, 46, female) answered the door in an emotionally distraught condition. Present with Mrs. Winnant was Mrs. Jacki Sarkin, 42, female, who identified herself as a neighbor. Mrs. Winnant directed ofcs. to a side yard where an adult collie dog was observed dead with what appeared to be a wooden stake or spear in its chest.

  Mrs. Winnant stated that David Reinnike, 15, a minor male, of 1612 Adams, had threatened to kill her dog. Mrs. Sarkin confirmed that Mrs. Winnant told her of this threat three days prior, when both agreed it occurred. Mrs. Winnant stated she had found David Reinnike urinating on her front lawn and told him to leave. She stated his response was the threat to her dog.

  Mrs. Sarkin stated she witnessed the confrontation from her house, but could not hear the threat. She stated she later spoke with Mrs. Winnant, who told her of the threat.

  Mrs. Winnant and Mrs. Sarkin both stated that David Reinnike had committed acts of vandalism and exhibited bizarre behavior in the past.

  During these statements from Mrs. Winnant and Mrs. Sarkin, Mrs. Sarkin observed that David Reinnike was currently at his residence in the open garage.

  Ofcs. proceeded on foot to the Reinnike residence. They identified selves as police officers, and asked the minor teenage male to identify himself. He stated, "David Reinnike."

  It was ascertained that no adult was present, both by David Reinnike's statement and by knocking and ringing the bell. No vehicle was present in the garage or drive.

  David Reinnike was questioned as to Mrs. Winnant's statements regarding the dog. David Reinnike denied her statements, then grew unresponsive. He appeared to have trouble concentrating. He denied being under the influence of drugs or medications.

  Mrs. Winnant and Mrs. Sarkin came out of their house and approached. Ofc. Silias went to ask them to return to their home.

  David Reinnike became agitated. Ofc. Belnap attempted to calm him, but Reinnike's agitation increased. He shouted foul language at Mrs. Winnant and Mrs. Sarkin and made as if to approach them. Ofc. Belnap restrained him in the garage. At this time, Reinnike shouted at Mrs. Winnant, "I'm going to kill you."

  Reinnike was placed under arrest and taken into custody on the charge of threatening the life of another, pending investigation by Juvenile Division and Animal Control in the matter of the dog. Reinnike was delivered to Juvenile Division, North County Station. No guardian or adult parent was present at the time of arrest or at the writing of this report.

  (signed)<
br />
  Ofc. Carl Belnap, #8681

  a/o/9/12/68

  I put the first report aside. The second report was written by a Juvenile Division detective named Gil Ferrier. It opened with two pages describing Ferrier's investigation, then concluded with his summary and recommendation—

  David appeared calm, but appropriately concerned regarding his situation. He expressed regret regarding his outburst toward Mrs. Winnant, but denied knowledge of the dog's death. He explained his outburst was provoked by her accusation, which he states is untrue and unfair, and by a series of similar accusations by the Winnant family. He stated he has been repeatedly blamed by Mrs. Winnant for acts done by her son, Charles. According to David, Charles, who David states is two years older, has bullied David since David moved to the neighborhood. David admits that in response to one such occasion several years ago he struck Charles Winnant with a baseball bat. David states that since that incident the Winnants have regularly harassed, accused, and threatened him.

  David's father independently confirmed the antagonistic relationship between his son and the Winnants, and explained the baseball bat incident. Mr. Reinnike stated his son had a bed-wetting problem at that time. He stated that in an attempt to cure his son, he hung his son's soiled sheets on the clothesline in their backyard, and that the other children, instigated by Charles Winnant, ridiculed David for many months. He stated that on the day in question, Charles Winnant was once more ridiculing David for being a bed wetter when David struck the older boy with a baseball bat. Charles Winnant was not seriously injured and required no stitches or hospitalization. George Reinnike assumed full responsibility for creating the situation. He stated that he personally apologized to the Winnants, but that they had been frightened of his son and had spread stories about his son ever since.

  David Reinnike appears bright, but is given to inappropriate behaviors and extreme swings of emotion. He is being raised by his single father, George Reinnike, who is disabled and unemployed. George Reinnike states that David's mother abandoned them soon after David's birth. She has no contact with her son, and her whereabouts are unknown.