by Robert Crais
John rested with his belly in the brush alongside the trail, and looked for the longest time where the man pointed. He was just about to admit that he couldn't see a goddamned thing when he finally saw it: Three-quarters of a print, partially obscured by a runner's shoe print, and so shallow on the hard edge of the trail that it couldn't have been more than three grains of dust deep. It appeared to have been made by a casual dress shoe of some kind, like that worn by a cop, but maybe not.
John said, “The shooter?”
“It's pointing in the right direction. It's where the shooter had to be.”
John glanced back toward the shell casing. “So you figured an automatic? That's why you looked over there?” An automatic would eject to the right, and would toss a .22 casing about four feet. Then John thought of something and squinted at the man. “But what if the guy had used a revolver? A revolver wouldn't leave anything behind.”
“Then I wouldn't have found anything.” The man cocked his head almost as if he was amused. “All the people around, and no one heard it. Can't silence a revolver, John.”
John felt a blush creeping up his face again. “I know that.”
The man moved along the trail, dropping into his push-up position every few feet before rising and moving on. John thought that now would be an ideal time to run for the two uniforms, but instead jammed a wire into the ground to mark the print, and followed the man to a stand of leafy scrub sumac at the edge of the little clearing just up the trail. The man circled the trees, first one way, then another, twice bending low to the ground.
“He waited here until he saw her.”
John moved closer, careful to stay behind the man, and, sure enough, there were three perfect prints in the hard dirt that appeared to match the partial by the shell casing. As before, the prints were slight, and damn near invisible even after the man pointed them out, but John was getting better at this.
By the time John had taken it all in, the man was moving again. John hurried to wire the site before hustling to catch up.
They came to the chain-link fence that paralleled the road, and stopped at the gate. John guessed that the paved road would be as far as they could go, but the man stared across the road as if the slope on the other side was speaking to him. The radio car was to their left at the curve, but judging by the way the two cops were wrestling around in the back seat, they wouldn't notice an atom bomb going off behind them. Sluts.
The man looked up at the ridge. Off to their left were houses; to their right, nothing. The man's gaze went to a little stand of jacaranda trees at the edge of the road to their right, and then he was crossing and John was following.
John said, “You think he crossed there?”
The man didn't answer. Okay. He wasn't talkative. John could live with that.
The man searched the slope in front of the jacarandas and found something that made his mouth twitch.
John said, “What? C'mon?”
The man pointed to a small fan of loose dirt that had tumbled onto the shoulder of the road. “Hid behind the trees until people passed, then went through the gate.”
“Cool.” John Chen was liking this. Big time.
They climbed the slope, the shooter's prints now pronounced in the loose soil of the side hill. They worked their way to the ridgeline, then went over the top to a fire road. John hadn't even known that a fire road was up here.
He said, “I'll be damned.”
The man followed the fire road about thirty yards before he stopped and stared at nothing again. John waited, biting the inside of his mouth rather than again asking what the man was looking at.
But finally he couldn't stand it and said, “What, for chrissake?”
“Car.” The man pointed. “Parked here.” Pointed again. “Coolant or oil drips here. Tire tread there.”
John was already marking the spots with wire.
The man said, “Off-road tread. Long wheelbase.”
“Off-road? Like a Jeep?”
“Like that.”
John wrote notes as fast as he could, thinking that he'd have to call his office for the things he'd need to take a tire impression.
“He parked here because he's been here before. He knew where he was going.”
“You think he knew her?”
The man looked at John Chen then, and Chen reflexively stepped back. He didn't know why.
“Looked to be about a size-ten shoe, didn't it, John?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Pretty deep on the hard pack, which makes him heavier than he should be.” Pretty deep. Three grains of dust. “You can use the shoe size and his weight to build a body type. An impression of the shoe print will give you the brand of shoe.”
“I know.” John was annoyed. Maybe John wouldn't have found any of this evidence on his own, but he wasn't an idiot.
“Take an impression of the tires. Identify the size and brand. From that, you get a list of makes.”
“I know.”
The man stared down at the lake now, and John wondered what could be going on behind those dark glasses.
“You one of the detectives from downtown?”
The man didn't answer.
“Well, you gotta tell me your name and badge number for the report.”
The man angled the glasses back at him. “If you tell them this came from me, they'll discount it.”
John Chen blinked at him. “But … what do I tell them about all this?”
“I was never here, John. What does that leave?”
“I turned the evidence?”
“If you'll play it that way.”
“Yeah. Well, sure. You bet.” His palms were damp with excitement. He felt his heart speed.
“Get the make of the tires and the list of cars. I'm going to call you. There won't be a problem with that, will there, John?”
“No, sir.” Automatic.
The man stared at him for a time, and then said something that John Chen would recall from time to time for the rest of his life, and wonder what the man had meant, and why he had said it. “Never turn your back on love, John.”
The man slipped downhill through the brush, gone almost before Chen knew he was leaving.
John Chen slowly broke into a huge white smile, and then he was running, crashing down through the brush, tripping, stumbling, rolling once, then coming to his feet as he ran past the radio car to his SID van as fast as he could, yelling for those horny fuckers to knock off the lip lock.
Suddenly, advancement seemed a lot closer.
Suddenly, the 'tang-mobile was already parked in his garage.
Coming out a second day had paid off after all.
8
• • •
Parker Center is an eight-story white building in downtown L.A., just a few blocks from the Los Angeles Times and two dozen bars. The bars are small, and see most of the cop business after the shift changes; their reporter business is steady throughout the day. Letters on the side of Parker Center say POLICE DEPARTMENT—CITY OF LOS ANGELES, but the letters are small, and the sign is obscured by three skinny palm trees like maybe they're embarrassed.
The lobby guard gave me a visitor pass to clip to my lapel, phoned up to Robbery-Homicide, and four minutes later the elevator doors opened. Stan Watts peered out at me like I was eye boogers.
“Hey, Stan. How's it going?”
Watts ignored me.
“Look, no reason for us to get off on the wrong foot.”
He pushed the button for the fifth floor.
When we got up there, he led me to a large, brightly lit room, centered on a long rectangle of cubicles occupied by men with at least fifteen years behind a gold shield. Most were on phones, some were typing, and damned near everyone looked at home in the job. Krantz was talking with an overweight guy by the Mr. Coffee. Williams was leaning against a desk, laughing about something. You'd never think that twelve hours ago they were swatting blowflies off a dead girl.
Krantz frowned when he
saw me, and yelled, “Dolan! Your boy is here.”
The only woman at the table was sitting by herself at the corner desk, scribbling on a yellow legal pad. She slid the pad into her desk when Krantz called, locked the drawer, and stood. She was tall, and looked strong, the way a woman who rowed crew or worked with horses might be strong. Other women worked the room, but you could tell from how they carried themselves that they weren't detectives. She was it. Guess if I were her, I'd lock my desk, too.
Dolan glared at Krantz as if he were a walking Pap smear, and glared at me even harder.
When she came over, Krantz said, “Dolan, this is Cole. Cole, this is Samantha Dolan. You're with her.”
Samantha Dolan was wearing a stylish gray pants suit with a cameo brooch and dark blond hair that was cut short without being mannish. I made her for her early forties, but she might've been younger. When Krantz said the name, I recognized her at once from the stories and interviews and dozens of times that I'd seen her on TV.
I said, “Pleased to meet you, Dolan. I enjoyed your series.”
Six years ago, CBS had made a television series about her based on a case in which she'd almost been killed apprehending a serial rapist. The series had lasted half a season and wasn't very good, but for a short period of time it had made her the most famous Los Angeles police officer since Joe Wambaugh. An article about her in the Times had focused on her case clearance rate, which was the highest ever by a woman, and the third highest in department history. I remembered being impressed. But then it dawned on me that I hadn't heard of her since.
Samantha Dolan's frown turned into a scowl. “You liked that TV series they made about me?”
I gave her the friendly smile. “Yeah.”
“It sucked.”
I can always tell when they like me.
Krantz checked his watch. “We'll brief you in the conference room so this doesn't waste anybody else's time. Think about that, Cole. Right now the murderer could be getting away because one of our detectives is thinking about you instead of following up a lead.”
“You're a pip, Krantz.”
“Yeah. Get him down there, Dolan. I'll be along in a minute.”
Dolan led me to a small conference room where Watts and Williams were waiting, along with a tall thin detective named Bruly and a Hispanic detective named Salerno. Bruly whispered something to Salerno when we walked in, and Salerno smiled. Dolan took a seat without introducing me, or saying anything to the others. Maybe she didn't like them, either.
Williams said, “This is Elvis Cole. He represents the family. He gets to keep an eye on us in case we fuck up.”
“I've already told'm about you, Williams.” I thought I might win them over with clever repartee.
Salerno grinned. “You catch a lot of grief with that name?”
“What, Cole?”
Salerno laughed. You see about the repartee?
Krantz steamed in with a mug of coffee and a clipboard. “You people want to keep wasting time, or you want to knock off the bullshit?”
Salerno stopped smiling.
Krantz had some of the coffee as he read over the clipboard, then said, “Here's what we have: Karen Garcia was murdered at approximately ten A.M. Saturday morning by an unknown assailant or assailants at the Lake Hollywood Reservoir. We have recovered and impounded her car, which was located in a parking lot on Barham Boulevard. We believe the perpetrator fired one shot from a small-bore pistol at close range. Her body was discovered by two hikers the following day. We have their initial interviews in hand. We are also questioning other people known to have been at the lake on Saturday, or who live nearby, as well as people associated with the victim. Detectives from Rampart, Hollywood, West L.A., and Wilshire divisions are assisting in this effort. We have no suspects at this time.” Krantz sounded like Jack Webb.
“Is that it?”
Krantz flexed his jaw, pissed. “The investigation's only twenty hours old. How much do you want?”
“I wasn't criticizing.”
I took out two sheets that I had typed, and slid them across the table. Krantz didn't touch them.
“This is everything that Frank Garcia told me about his daughter's activities on that Saturday, as well as everything I learned when I was trying to find her. I thought it might help. Pike and I spoke to some kids at a Jungle Juice stand who knew Karen's pattern. Their names are here, too.”
“We've already talked to them, Cole. We're mobilized. Tell that to the vic's father.” Like he couldn't be any more annoyed.
“We found a homeless man named Edward Deege below the lake. Deege claims he saw a female runner approached by a red or brown SUV. He's flaky, but you might want to question him.”
Krantz glanced irritably at his watch, like we were wasting more time than he'd allowed. Three minutes. “Pike told us about this stuff last night, Cole. We're on it. Now, is there anything else?”
“Yeah. I need to attend the autopsy.”
Krantz and Watts traded raised eyebrows, then Krantz smiled at me. “You're kidding me, right? Does her father want pictures?”
“It's like me going up to the lake. He just wants someone there.”
“My God.”
Watts had never stopped looking at Krantz. He cleared his throat. “County's got a backlog down there. They got bodies stacked up, waiting two, three weeks. We're trying to get a rush, but I don't know.”
Krantz and Watts stared at each other some more, and then Krantz shrugged. “I don't know when the autopsy's going to happen. I don't know if you can be there. I have to find out.”
“Okay. I want to see copies of any witness statements and the criminalist's report.”
“The criminalist's report isn't in yet. He's still working the scene. So far there aren't any witness statements except for the two guys who found the body.”
“If you have transcripts, I'd like to have copies.”
Krantz crossed his arms, and tipped back in the chair. “You want to read the stuff, you can read it, but you're not making copies and you're not taking anything out of this building.”
“I'm supposed to be copied. If you've got a problem with that, we're going to have to call the A-chief, and ask him.”
Krantz sighed. “Then we'll have to ask him. I hear you want the reports, Cole, but we don't have any reports to show you yet. As for getting copies, I'm going to have to talk that over with Bishop. If he says fine, then okay.”
I could live with that. “Who's keeping the book, you or Watts?”
Watts said, “Me. Why?”
“I'd like to see it.”
“No way.”
“What's the big deal? It'll save everybody time.” The murder book was a chronological record of all the facts of the investigation. It would include notes from participating officers, witness lists, forensic evidence, everything. It would also be the easiest way for me to stay up to date with their casework.
Watts said, “Forget it. We get to trial, we'll have to explain to a defense attorney why a civilian was screwing around with our notes. We can't find something, he'll argue that you screwed with our evidence and we're so incompetent that we didn't know any better.”
“C'mon, Watts. I'm not going to take it home. You can even turn the pages, if you want. It'll be easier on everybody.”
Krantz checked his watch again and pushed up out of the chair.
“No book. We got a couple hundred people to interview, so this briefing is officially over. Here are the rules, Cole. As long as you're in this building, you're with Dolan. Anything you want, ask her. Any questions, ask her. If you gotta take a leak, she waits outside the door. You do anything without her, it violates the agreement we have with Montoya and you're history. You got it?”
“I still want to read the transcripts.”
Krantz waved at Dolan. “Dolan will take care of that.”
Dolan glanced at Watts. “I'm supposed to talk to the two uniforms who rolled out when her body was found.”
Kran
tz said, “Salerno can talk to the uniforms. You stay with Cole. You can handle that, can't you?”
“I'd rather work the case, Harvey.” She said his name like it was another word for “turd.”
“Your job is to do what I say.”
I cleared my throat. “What about the autopsy?”
“I said I'd find out about it, and I will. Jesus Christ, we're trying to catch a killer and I've got to babysit you.”
Krantz walked out without another word. Except for Dolan, his detectives went with him. Dolan stayed in her seat, looking angry and sullen.
I said, “Who'd you piss off to get stuck with me?”
Dolan walked away, leaving the door open for me to follow or not. Krantz didn't want me wandering around on my own, but I guess she didn't mind.
No one had touched the two typed pages with the information I'd brought, or even looked at them. I gathered them together, and caught up with her in the hall. “It won't be so bad, Dolan. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”
“Don't be an asshole.”
I spread my hands and followed, trying not to be an asshole.
When Dolan and I got back to the squad room, Krantz and Watts were talking with three men who looked like Cadillac salesmen after a bad month. One of the men was older, with a snow-white crew cut and sun-scorched skin. The other two gave me eye burn, then turned away, but the Buzz Cut stared like a worm was in my nose.
Dolan said, “Take this chair and put it over there.”
She shoved a little secretarial chair at me and pointed at the wall near her desk. Sitting against the wall, I would look like the class dunce.
“Can't I use a desk?”
“People work at their desks. You don't want to sit there, go home.”
She stalked the length of the squad room, taking hard fast strides saying that if you didn't get out of her way, she'd knock you on your ass. She stalked back with two files, and slapped them down onto the little chair. “The guys who found the vic are named Eugene Dersh and Riley Ward. We interviewed them last night. You want to read them, sit here and read them. Don't write on the pages.”
Dolan dropped into the seat behind her desk, unlocked the drawer, and took out her yellow pad. She was putting on quite a show.
