by Robert Crais
Chen was immediately suspicious.
“Which connection are we talking about?”
“Rickey’s murder and the Sunset burglaries. Maybe additional murders. Maybe, eventually, to the person or persons who hired the men who killed Alec Rickey.”
I was laying it on thick, but I needed John’s help.
John said, “Who do they work for?”
“They’re looking for something the Sunset crew stole, so, my guess, it’s someone the Sunset crew robbed.”
“One of the victims?”
“Yes.”
“They’re important people.”
“They are.”
“Rich people.”
I heard the wheels turning, even over the phone. Chen was seeing the headlines. Seeing himself interviewed by smokin’ hot TV babes.
“Pike found shoe prints under a window where entry was made. They’ll likely match the prints from the Rickey killing, but only if someone compares the impressions. Another criminalist might not find the link.”
“But I would, if I compared them.”
“Yes. Unless the second-rater who comes out ruins the prints, and leaves you with nothing.”
I laid it on so thick I was using a bulldozer.
Chen said, “I like having my ass kissed, but you’re giving me butt-burn.”
Maybe too thick.
Chen said, “It’s a simple break-in, right? No one was hurt.”
“Right.”
“They won’t send anyone for a couple of days. I’ll go tomorrow morning. Early. Is anyone at the house?”
“Pike. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
I pulled into the carport, let myself into the house, and opened a beer. The only thing I knew was that two Anglo males, one big, one bigger, were searching for a laptop computer stolen by Tyson and his idiot friends. If Neff and Hensman were working for one of the eighteen homeowner victims, I needed to know who they were.
I found Cassett’s card, and gave her a call. I was surprised when she answered, and took this as a good sign.
“Elvis Cole again, Sergeant. Sorry to bother you.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“Can I get a list of the eighteen homes these kids hit? It’d be a big help.”
The line went dead. Guess the answer was no.
The cat wasn’t home. I set out a clean dish anyway, and traded the beer for a water. The veal chop I’d made for Hess was still in the fridge. I ate it leaning against the counter, holding it like a lollipop. Cold.
I washed my hands, tossed the water, and took up where I left off with the beer.
I had worked as a contract investigator for most of the major insurance companies and more than a few of the regional firms. I took out a list of company contacts and began making calls.
Many of my contacts were unavailable, and more were unable to help, but one company wrote policies on three of the homes, and another held policies on two. This gave me names for five of the eighteen burglary victims, six if I included the Slausons. Step aside Batman, make way for BatCole.
I spent almost two hours on the phone without learning more, and was about to call it a Batday when Matt Simms came through. Matt was the V.P.-Director of Operations for a regional company called Landale General Insurance. None of the eighteen victims were insured by Landale, but his company maintained a database of all burglaries occurring in L.A. County. Their data was sourced from police reports and customer claims, and included the eighteen burglaries committed by Tyson and his idiot friends.
Actuaries were awesome.
Matt promised to email the files as quickly as possible. I cracked another beer to celebrate and found an email from Devon. She had forwarded Tyson’s billing statement earlier that day. I printed the statement and swung into action. If I kept making this kind of progress, the case would be solved before Devon arrived.
Tyson had called and received calls from only three numbers on the night he left for the minimart. One was Devon’s. Another I knew to be Alec’s. It didn’t take a cape and a cowl to identify the third. I blocked my Caller ID and dialed.
A cheery female voice answered before the ring. Voice mail.
“It’s Amber. If you’re lucky, I’ll get back.”
If you’re lucky.
I hung up and called a friend named Carla Ellis. Carla worked for a major cell service provider and loved Dodger baseball. I gave her Amber’s number, and told her I needed the billing information. Cassett and Rivera would need a court order, but I had something better. A former client paid me with seats in the Dodgers Dugout Club. In the City of Angels, even angels bleed Dodger Blue. Unless they played for Anaheim.
Carla got straight to business.
“Dugout Club, two on an aisle, Bobblehead Night?”
“No problemo.”
“Great. Lemme check.”
The wait was longer than usual.
“Sorry, man. Different provider. I can get it, but I’ll have to trade favors and I may not hear back until tomorrow.”
I was more concerned about waiting than favors.
“What do you need?”
“Two on an aisle, any game. Two on an aisle, behind the net, Giants or Cards.”
The any-game tickets would be for the trade. The Giants or Cards she’d keep for herself and her husband.
“I need this yesterday, Carla.”
“If this was our account, you’d have it now. I’ll push for you, Elvis. Hard.”
“ASAP.”
“First thing tomorrow or sooner.”
As soon as possible. Tomorrow or sooner. Neff and Hensman probably weren’t waiting for tomorrow. They seemed more like ‘sooner’ people. They knew more than me, and I was stuck with ‘as soon as possible’ and ‘tomorrow or sooner.’
The cat door clacked in the kitchen. The hard food crunched. I was glad he was home and went to the door and watched him.
“Hey cat.”
He didn’t look up. He ate.
I finished the beer and stared at the hills across the canyon. They flattened into a band of gray haze in the distance. Hollywood lay beyond the haze, but the haze covered the city like a shawl. I couldn’t see it.
I didn’t know what to tell Devon, but I had to tell her what I could, and she would have to make a decision she wouldn’t like. I didn’t know whether Tyson was alive. Neff and Hensman had murdered Alec, and searched his apartment the following day. Maybe they’d found Tyson, and Tyson told them the laptop was at his home, so they murdered him just like they murdered Alec and tore apart his house to find it. Maybe his body would never be found and Devon would never see him again or know what happened, and Neff and Hensman or whoever they were would vanish and no one would know what they had done except them and the person who sent them to do it.
Something bumped my leg. I looked down, and the cat looked up.
I said, “We can’t let it happen, can we?”
He did not look away.
22
THE FIRST KISS OF PURPLE had deepened the sky when Devon arrived. I heard her park, and opened the door to greet her. An overnight bag with bright yellow daisies hung from her shoulder.
She said, “Do I really have to stay here?”
First words out of her mouth as I showed her inside.
“No, not at all. Stay with a friend, or at a hotel, or wherever you want. Just not at home. The men who broke in could come back.”
She stopped at the edge of the living room, and frowned at the view.
“Your friend, Joe? You didn’t tell me you have a partner.”
“It didn’t come up. Sorry.”
“He doesn’t say much.”
“Words aren’t his strong point. Can I take your bag?”
I touched the strap, but she held tight to the bag.
&n
bsp; “If he’s staying at my house, I don’t see why I couldn’t stay.”
“He’s staying in case they come back. If they come back, you shouldn’t be there.”
The cat came out of the kitchen. He stopped when he saw her, and made a low growl.
Devon said, “You have a kitty.”
He spit, jumped sideways, and scrambled into the kitchen. The cat door rattled.
I said, “He’s never been right.”
She held the bag even more tightly, and blinked as if I were a stranger. Her eyes were too bright, and finally showing the strain.
“Two men. Men with guns. Now there’s a man with a gun spending the night in my house. What does this have to do with my son? Where’s Tyson?”
I touched the bag again, and this time she slipped the strap off her shoulder. I guided her to the couch.
“I’ve learned a lot since this morning, and we have to discuss it. I found Alec.”
“What about Tyson?”
“I don’t know, but he wasn’t with Alec. Something happened to Alec, but Tyson wasn’t with him. I don’t know where he is, but he wasn’t with Alec, okay?”
“He wasn’t with Alec. I heard you. Stop saying it.”
“Alec is dead. He was murdered last night, but Tyson and Amber weren’t with him. Alec was alone when the police found his body.”
She wet her lips and started to say something. She stopped herself.
“I understand.”
“The police found shoe prints left by two men. The men who killed Alec are probably the same men who ransacked your house.”
“What does this have to do with Tyson?”
“Tyson and his friends stole a laptop computer. Whoever they stole it from wants it back.”
I started with Carl and the flea market, and walked her through everything. I told her about the two detectives who pressed the Crenzas about a laptop, and how Charlotte knew Alec, and that Claudia described two similar detectives who knew Tyson and Amber by name. I was telling her about Louise August when she interrupted.
“I thought the police didn’t know about Tyson.”
“They didn’t, and I’m not sure they do. The head of the task force claims Tyson and his friends haven’t been identified.”
She squinted and shook her head.
“Then how did they know his name?”
“I don’t know if these men are police officers. They say they are, and they know things only cops inside the investigation should know, but badges are easy to come by. Whatever they are, they’re running their own investigation. They’re two steps ahead of the task force, and they’re killing people. We need to decide what to do.”
“What about the voluntary surrender?”
“Finding Tyson before a warrant drops isn’t important now. We have to find him before the men who found Alec.”
“Yes. Of course we do.”
“The police can help. Not the task force cops, but ranked officers who aren’t part of the task force. If we share what we know, they’ll help us.”
Devon said, “No.”
“Think about it. They can help.”
“I’m not going to risk it.”
“Devon—”
“You explained. They know everything the police know. They might be real policemen. Maybe they’re working for one of these rich people to get this computer back, and taking money on the side. Have you thought of that, Mr. Detective?”
“Devon—”
“We’re talking about my son. I want you to find him. You.”
“I might be able to find him faster if we bring in the cops.”
“Don’t quit. I’m begging you.”
“I’m not quitting.”
“Then it’s settled. If I have to stay here, I’ll stay, but it’s settled.”
It was settled.
Devon wanted to freshen up, so I showed her to the guest room and put out fresh towels. Having a client browbeat me into settling an issue called for a reward. I helped myself to another beer, and scrounged through the fridge.
Dinner was coming. Bacon, a wedge of romano, a link of andouille a friend sent from Louisiana. I turned up a package of frozen peas, two stalks of asparagus, and a lemon. Inspired. I filled a pot with water, threw in some salt, and kicked up the heat. I took out a skillet and started a sauce. Devon returned a few minutes later wearing jeans, a loose sweatshirt, and pink sneakers. She stood in the door with her hands in her pockets.
“Penne or spaghetti?”
“Whatever you like.”
I went with the penne.
She said, “If I was rude before, I’m sorry.”
“He’s your son. I get it.”
She pulled her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms.
“This is awkward, me being here at your house.”
“Clients have stayed before. Would you like a beer?”
“No, thank you.”
I pointed at the fridge with an elbow.
“Water? I have Diet Coke and tangerine juice. Dinner in five.”
She opened the fridge, and studied the contents.
“A beer sounds good.”
I drained the pasta, dumped it back in the pot, and added the sauce. We plated the food in the kitchen, and ate in the dining room. The conversation was pleasant, and superficial, as if we needed a break from the reasons we were together.
She said, “How old is your son?”
Her question caught me off guard and surprised me.
“I don’t have a son.”
She looked just as surprised.
“I’m sorry. I saw the pictures of you and the little boy. I thought he was your son.”
I ate more pasta. I sipped the beer.
“A friend’s son. Ben. When he visits, he stays in the guest room.”
“That’s nice.”
“Very.”
“He looks like a sweet boy. You must be close.”
I sipped more beer. This was the part of the evening where she wanted to share.
“We were. Ben and his mom moved here from Louisiana. They lived here for a while, but they didn’t stay. They went home.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Were you married?”
“I thought we might, but no. She wanted something else.”
She nodded and drank some beer.
“Tyson’s father wanted something else.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I changed the subject.
“I’m getting a list of the people who were robbed. Maybe something will suggest who’s behind this. We’re getting Amber’s cell account information, too. If we find Amber, we’ll probably find Tyson.”
She studied the pasta on her plate.
“Do you think he’s dead?”
I glanced up, and found her watching.
“No.”
“Maybe they found him. Like Alec. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t answer.”
“He’s alive.”
She stared, and her eyes glistened, and she blinked hard, but she couldn’t stop the tears that dripped down her face. I reached across the table and rested my hand on her arm.
“Keep texting. Warn him. Tell him about Alec and what happened to your house and about the men who are looking for him. He might not know.”
“He changed phones. He doesn’t answer. I don’t know if he gets my messages.”
I squeezed her arm. Harder.
“Don’t stop, and don’t give up. Warn him.”
She lifted her phone and held it and the tears fell.
I left her with the phone and took the plates into the kitchen. I put away the leftover pasta, loaded the dishwasher, and opened another beer. I drank it, and put away the bottle, and went back to the living room wondering if I was a drunkard. Devon was by the
bookcase. The shelves were unfinished redwood planks, and lined with books I’ve read many times, and pictures, and personal things.
She said, “I warned him. Would you like to see what I sent?”
“I’m sure it’s fine. Text again later. Text early and often.”
She smiled, but it was sad. She drank a little beer and tipped the bottle at a picture.
“She was stupid.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Your girlfriend. The girl who wanted something else.”
I moved closer, and saw the picture. I had rented a cabin in Lake Arrowhead and taken Lucy and Ben. The three of us had walked to the lake to feed ducks, and Ben and I jumped in the water. When we surfaced, I lifted him over my head. In the picture, I stood waist deep in the lake, holding Ben Chenier over my head like a barbell, our faces silly with laughter. Lucy had taken the picture.
The bottle tipped to the picture again.
“Look at your face. You loved him. Look at his. He adored you. You would have been a wonderful father.”
She tapped her bottle against the shelf.
“Stupid. What more could she want?”
She stared at the picture a few moments longer, then glanced at me. Embarrassed.
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not used to drinking.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m drunk.”
“It’s okay.”
She apologized some more, and then she went to her room. I climbed the steps to the loft, showered, and put on fresh clothes. When I went down, the guest room door was closed, but light beneath told me Devon was awake. Texting. Sending her son an endless stream of texts, one after another fired into an empty void, only to be unanswered.
I shut off all the lights but one, opened another beer, and called Joe Pike. First ring, he answered.
I said, “Need anything?”
“Uh-uh. How’s she doing?”
His voice was low, a whisper from a hidden place.
“Hanging in. Scared. Chen’s coming out first thing.”
“Tell her I fed the fish.”
Took me a beat, but I remembered.
“The aquarium.”
“She asked me to feed her fish.”
“I’ll tell her.”
I put the phone aside and studied the calls Tyson had made and received on the night he disappeared.
