by Robert Crais
“Have you lost your mind?”
Stemms patted Harvey’s leg.
“Not yet, but I will if I hear the Psycho piece again. Go with the Steppenwolf.”
Harvey stared out the window, and shook his head.
“He has my picture, and you’re talking about Steppenwolf.”
Harvey stared out the window for a while, but finally turned back.
“I wonder what happened to that kid, the one in Juárez. You ever think about him?”
“Thinking about him now.”
“Here’s this kid in a nowhere cantina, and he was amazing. A truly special person. Where do these people come from?”
“Same place as you and me.”
Harvey fell silent, and turned back to the window.
“You, maybe. I’m nothing special.”
Stemms looked at the back of Harvey’s head, wondering what he was thinking.
“You’re the most special person I know, Harvey.”
Harvey looked over with sorrowful, basset hound eyes, then suddenly grinned and wiggled his eyebrows.
“I know. I was screwing with you.”
Stemms burst out laughing. Harvey had always been able to make him laugh.
PART IV
THE GIRL WHO GOT WHAT SHE WANTED
39
ELVIS COLE
PIKE DROPPED US OFF, and went back to Devon’s. The rest of us worked on the living room floor, surrounded by power cords, pizza, and paper plates. Devon had taken Amber for takeout. Cassett called twice while we worked, but I let her calls go to voice mail.
Tyson lined the laptops against the wall, plugged them into a power strip, and powered them up. The ancient PowerBook took forever to load, and made clickety noises like a windup toy.
Devon eyed the laptops doubtfully, watching their screens fill with folders, photos and documents, and inexplicable icons. MOM’S WILL. CONTRACTREVISION2. KENNY. CONTEST RESULTS. LAKE ARROWHEAD.
“How are we going to figure out who these things belong to?”
“Open whatever you find on the desktop. Start with documents, letter files, whatever you think will show a person’s name. If you see the same name enough times, you’ll figure it out from the context.”
Devon seemed uncomfortable.
“This is like reading someone’s mail.”
Amber seemed fascinated by the PowerBook.
“OhmiGod, I want this one. What’s this little ball?”
Tyson showed her how the ball rolled in its socket.
“A trackball. Roll it with your finger, and the cursor moves.”
She moved the ball, and beamed.
“This is so cool! I love it!”
Identifying each laptop’s owner was surprisingly easy. We came up with likely names, and Devon checked the police reports for a match. The PC I searched belonged to an Emmy-winning costume designer named Clara Pearl Schiltzen. Tyson’s PC belonged to an eighth-grade student named Harrison Hardy Franks, whose parents owned a discount shoe store chain. An interior designer named Steven Joyce owned the laptop Devon checked. Joyce seemed as unlikely a suspect as the others, but I knew of a lighting dealer on La Brea who was a former KGB sniper.
Amber still hadn’t found a name, and looked unhappy as she twiddled the trackball.
“This sucks. There’s only one stupid folder, and nothing but pictures of some stupid kid.”
I sat beside her and studied the desktop.
A folder named DEREK contained the pictures. DEREK and a hard drive icon were alone on the otherwise empty desktop.
“Hey, Tyson. What’s the deal here? No files.”
Tyson wedged in beside me to study the screen.
“Might be something in the drive, but I dunno. It’s old. Maybe they were gonna get rid of it, so they erased their files.”
I reopened DEREK, and scrolled. The greenish, monotone photographs of boys, babies, and young men were all of the same person at different stages of his life, alone or with friends, at schools and ballparks and on ski slopes or at the beach. The pictures seemed to be arrayed in no particular order, and labeled with meaningless numbers.
Tyson said, “Okay. Why is this creepy?”
Amber said, “Self-love, much.”
Devon moved closer.
“It’s a photo album, all this one boy.”
A baby in this one, a young man sporting a tuxedo in the next, a teenager wearing the garish white face, scraggly hair, and bloody, maniacal leer of the Joker. Cassett called again, and another one went to voice mail.
Tyson suddenly touched the trackball.
“Let’s see something.”
A list of the picture files appeared, showing the date each image was scanned.
Tyson said, “Dude. This stuff has been here forever.”
Devon said, “As long as you. Seventeen years.”
We scrolled, and a second folder appeared. The new folder was labeled TRIAL.
Amber said, “I have to pee.”
The new folder contained PDF scans of nine news articles from the Los Angeles Times, the L.A. Daily News, and the LA Weekly. The first bore a simple headline: HOOP FREED.
Devon was suddenly excited.
“Hoop. That’s one of our names.”
She turned to her files.
Tyson and I read the article while Devon searched the police reports.
Derek Hoop, 23, convicted last year for the murder of Adele Silvani, 25, was freed yesterday after the District Attorney submitted a brief asking Judge Eloise Wallace to vacate Hoop’s conviction.
The District Attorney said, “Based on newly discovered evidence proving his factual innocence and directly supporting Mr. Hoop’s testimony, we believe him innocent of the charge, and we asked Judge Wallace to order his immediate release.”
Marquis Nelson, 25, has been charged with Silvani’s murder, and is currently in custody.
Hoop, the son of prominent businessman Ivar Hoop, served eight months of a fifteen-years-to-life sentence. He has maintained his innocence since the night of his girlfriend’s murder.
Hoop’s attorney, Carlos Philippe, has asked the court to expunge Mr. Hoop’s record once his conviction is vacated.
Hoop, speaking through a family representative, said he feels vindicated, and bears no ill will toward the police or prosecutors.
“The same people who convicted me are the people who freed me. I’m sad that it happened, but happy it’s over.”
Devon found the report.
“Here it is. Lillian Hoop, in Holmby Hills. Officers summoned to the residence by Ms. Lillian Hoop. I Googled her—”
She paraphrased as she read.
“Married to Ivar Hoop, president of Hoop Technologies. They own nine privately held companies valued at two-point-two billion dollars.”
Tyson said, “Wow.”
The next story was a Daily News piece about Derek’s arrest. I had just started to read when my phone sounded again. Devon, Tyson, and Amber jumped. I jumped with them. This time it wasn’t Cassett.
Nora Gurwick had finally returned my calls.
“It’s your mother.”
Amber’s mouth turned down at the corners.
I got up and went to the far side of the room. As if an extra twelve feet could shield Amber from what I would say.
Nora Gurwick said, “What are you, the new boyfriend?”
“I’m a private investigator. Thanks for returning my calls.”
“Rick called, and Rick never calls. What’s she done this time?”
I told her I was employed by the parent of one of Amber’s friends, and explained that Amber and her friends had been involved in a series of burglaries. I told her the police were closing in, and Amber would have to surrender, or she’d be arrested. I actually said ‘closing in.’ Nora
Gurwick cut me off.
“I get it. You want someone to take her off your hands.”
“Yes. And she needs an attorney.”
“Everything is always about her. Can’t I have five minutes for myself without something happening?”
Five minutes in Banff. Mother of the Year.
“Maybe her father can help.”
“Worthless. Where’s Jazzi?”
“Away. Amber shouldn’t be alone, Ms. Gurwick. She needs an attorney, and she needs someone to help her through this.”
Amber sat hunched across her legs, watching me like a lip-reader.
Nora heaved a dramatic sigh.
“All right, all right. I get it. I’ll come home. Rick might help with the lawyer. I’ll call him. Maybe she can stay with him.”
“The sooner the better.”
“You ever been to Banff? I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
“Give Rick my cell. He can call me directly.”
“Is she there?”
I walked back to the others, and handed my phone to Amber. She sounded six years old when she spoke.
“I’m in trouble.”
Her eyes lost their gleam, and her face seemed to empty, as if the parts that made her Amber were fading.
“I know, I’m sorry, I was stupid, I’m just—”
I wondered if Nora heard her, or ever had.
Amber began to rock.
“Rick’s fine. I don’t care. You don’t have to leave your retreat.”
Devon glanced at me, and edged closer to Amber.
Amber rocked faster.
“All right! I messed up, okay? I mess up everything. Oh, like you would know? Look at your shitty life!”
The rocking stopped, and Amber shouted.
“You’re a disaster, and you talk about me? I hate you. Jazzi hates you. You’re a disgusting JOKE, and everyone hates you!”
Devon touched her arm, and took the phone.
“This is Devon Connor. I wanted to introduce myself. My son is involved in this, too.”
Devon’s voice was low, and soothing. A few minutes later she ended the call.
I mouthed ‘Thank you.’
Devon nodded, and gave me the phone.
“She’ll book the first available, and let us know when she’s arriving.”
Devon turned to Amber.
“You okay?”
“That didn’t go so well, did it?”
Tyson reached out. His eyes were filled with a heartbreaking sadness. Amber took his hand, and squeezed before letting go.
I used the bathroom, then went outside, and listened to messages. Cassett had called five times since she’d seen me that morning.
“Cole, it’s Sergeant Cassett. Call me ASAP.”
“I talked to the Crenzas. They’re working with a sketch artist right now, and I have more questions. Call. This is important.”
“Cole, do you ever answer? These men are impersonating police officers. I need to talk to you, so call me. Let’s straighten this out.”
“All right, Cole, you want to play? If these people killed Louise August, you are aiding and abetting after the fact, and I will hang your ass on a hook.”
Cassett sounded calmer in her final message. Maybe I was wearing her out.
“I’m thinking you’re dead. Neff and Hensman killed you, which is the only possible reason you haven’t called. You know what the old lady told them. You know who these kids are, don’t you? You should’ve told me before you died, Cole. I’m the only chance they have.”
I deleted her messages, then checked in with Joe. The bug men had not returned. I wanted to think they’d quit, but I knew better.
The night was dark, and the air was crisp. A nearby hiss marked the freeway. I took deep breaths, and enjoyed the chill. I looked up. A starless black canopy. Being outside was good. The cold air was good. I enjoyed it for as long as I dared, then went back inside.
“Get to work. Someone is trying to kill you.”
40
THE SAFE HOUSE WAS QUIET. Tyson and Amber worked at laptops in the dining room, searching for reasons someone would kill for them. Devon combed through her victim files, and I skimmed the PDFs. The LA Weekly provided the most detailed coverage of Derek Hoop’s trial with a three-part feature capped by a potboiler headline: LESS THAN HERO: HOW WEALTH, DOPE, AND ENTITLEMENT LED TO MURDER.
Lurid.
Hoop was described as a bad-boy scion of wealth, trailing a history of private-school expulsions, DUI arrests, and multiple stints in rehab. Adele Silvani was presented as a drug-dealing party girl who bragged her billionaire boy toy wiped himself with hundred-dollar bills.
Classy.
On the night Silvani was murdered, Hoop ran into an all-night convenience store, covered in blood and screaming that he and his girlfriend had been attacked.
Amber said, “I miss television.”
I told her to keep searching.
Hoop led responding officers to Silvani’s body in nearby Elysian Park, telling police an unknown black male had robbed them at knife point, taking Hoop’s watch, wallet, and cell phone, as well as Silvani’s purse, which contained several packets of heroin. When Silvani resisted, their assailant stabbed her, and fled.
Amber piped up again.
“Can we play music, at least?”
“No.”
Officers began to question Hoop’s story when they learned Silvani had been supplying drugs to Hoop, who ran up a tab he never paid. On the night she was murdered, Silvani and Hoop were seen arguing about the money he owed at a nearby bar. Silvani threatened to collect from his parents unless he paid, and announced she would do so that night. Hoop followed her out, and the couple was seen departing in Hoop’s black-on-black Porsche. The knife used to murder Silvani was not recovered. No evidence of a third person was found at the scene, on Silvani’s clothes, or on her person, and the only DNA found on Silvani other than her own was Derek’s. The ending felt anticlimactic. I knew from earlier stories that Hoop had been convicted, only to be released eight months later and cleared of all charges. Spoilers ruined everything.
Amber sighed loudly.
“I’m bored.”
I grabbed waters for everyone from the kitchen. On my way back to the living room, Tyson closed his laptop.
“I’m hungry. Can we go for sushi?”
I dropped a bottle into his lap.
“Eat some water.”
Devon and Amber laughed.
The next article caught me off guard. Three years after his release from prison, Derek Hoop once again checked into rehab. Ten weeks later, he was found on Mulholland Drive above the Hollywood Bowl, dead in his car from a heroin overdose.
I sat back and rolled my neck. Tyson wanted sushi. I wanted a beer. I wanted to strip down, work out, and run hard for miles.
I studied Devon, swiping and tapping her phone, then her son and the girl beside him. They looked like everyday teenagers living everyday lives. They weren’t, but they might be when this was behind them. I didn’t want them to die in a car above the Hollywood Bowl.
“He’s dead.”
Devon was making notes, and didn’t stop.
“Who?”
“Derek. He died of an overdose.”
She glanced up.
“That’s so sad.”
She went back to work, but suddenly tensed. She studied her phone, reread the page, then glanced at her phone.
“It’s him. It has to be Ivar Hoop.”
She held out her phone.
“Look at number five. This is the downtown address. Those men went to this address!”
Tyson heard her excitement.
“What’d you find? Mom?”
Tyson and Amber hurried into the living room.
Devon h
ad found the nine companies Ivar Hoop owned on a business networking site. The fifth company on the list was called Hoop Security Group, whose offices were located at the DTLA address.
Tyson said, “What’s going on?”
Devon flipped more pages.
“I have a tenant list. Here! Hoop Security Group, floors thirty-six and thirty-seven. This is the building! It’s him!”
Tyson dropped to the floor beside me, and peered at the PowerBook like he expected something dramatic.
“What’d you find?”
I stared at the same dull screen with the same dull pictures.
“Pictures of Derek. Stories about what happened. Nothing.”
Devon said, “There has to be something.”
Amber sat cross-legged behind Tyson and looked over his shoulder.
“Maybe these pictures are all he has left of his son.”
Tyson rolled the trackball and studied the drive.
“They’re scans. People scan pictures, and have all the copies they want. These aren’t the last pictures on earth of this kid.”
Amber shrugged.
“We don’t know. Maybe they are. Maybe his parents are heartbroken.”
Devon tossed the tenant list aside, and pushed to her feet.
“Nobody murders people for an old memory book. Something’s here. It’s right in front of our noses, and we just haven’t found it.”
She glared at the old PowerBook, and gave me an idea.
“Maybe they don’t want the pictures, but something inside the pictures.”
Tyson sat back and looked at me. Surprised.
“Encrypted?”
“Encrypted, embedded, however you hide something. Can you tell?”
Tyson pushed back from the keyboard.
“We’d need special software. I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t have the skills.”
“Does Carl have the skills?”
Tyson glanced away, probably flashing on the scene he’d made, bragging to Carl about his smoking-hot porno freak girlfriend.
“Carl’s really smart.”
Devon said, “You’re smart, too, honey.”
Tyson flushed, and Amber bumped his back.
“Ty, that’s so sweet! Don’t make a face.”
