The Last Detective

by Robert Crais

  “I happy to help.”

  “If you remember anything else, don't wait to hear from me. Talking the way we have might bring up a memory. You might remember something about the truck or the men that could help us. It might seem small, but I'll tell you something—nothing's too small. Whatever you remember could help us.”

  Starkey took out her phone and went to the edge of the shoulder, calling her office to start a wants-and-warrants search and BOLO on the van. The uniformed commander at Hollywood station would relay the information along to Central Dispatch at Parker Center, advising every Adam car in the city to be on the lookout for a van with Emilio's Plumbing written on its side.

  I told Mrs. Luna that I would drive her back, but she didn't respond. She watched Starkey with her brow furrowed, as if she were seeing more than Starkey at the edge of the slope.

  “She right about the memory. I remembering now. He have a cigar. He was standing like that—like the lady—and he take out a cigar.”

  The tobacco.

  “That's right. He have a cigar. He didn't smoke it, but he chewed it. He bite off little pieces, then spit them out.”

  I tried to encourage her. I wanted the memories to come and the picture to build. We walked out to join Starkey at the edge. I touched Starkey's arm, the touch saying listen.

  Mrs. Luna stared out at the canyon, then turned back toward the street as if she could see her catering truck pinched against the hill and the plumber's van driving away.

  “I got the truck away from the rocks an' I put it in gear. I look back at him, you know? He was looking down. He was doing something with his hands, and make me think, what? I wanted to get going 'cause we late, but I watch him to see. He unwrap the cigar and put it in his mouth and then he went down there.”

  She pointed downhill.

  “That's when I think he must be going to the bathroom. He have dark hair. It was short. He wear a green T-shirt. I remember that now. It dark green and look dirty.”

  Starkey glanced at me.

  “He unwrapped the cigar?”

  Mrs. Luna put her fingers together below her belly.

  “He do something with it, something down here, then he put it in his mouth. I don't know what he was doing, but what else?”

  I realized what Starkey was asking.

  I said, “The wrapper. If he tossed the wrapper, we might get a print.”

  I started searching the edge of the shoulder, but Starkey shouted at me.

  “Stop it, Cole! Get back! Do not disturb this scene!”

  “We might be able to find it.”

  “You're gonna step on it or kick dirt over it or push it under a leaf, so get the hell back! I know what I'm doing! Stand in the street.”

  Starkey took Mrs. Luna's arm. She was so focused now that I might not have been with them.

  “Don't think too hard, Mrs. Luna. Just let it come. Show me where he was when he did that. Where was he standing?”

  Mrs. Luna crossed the street to where her truck had been, then looked back at us. She moved one way and then the other, trying hard to remember. She pointed.

  “Go right a little bit. A little more. He was there.”

  Starkey looked down at the surrounding ground, then squatted to look more closely.

  Mrs. Luna said, “I sure he right there.”

  Starkey touched the ground for balance, and eyeballed a widening area.

  I spoke quietly to Mrs. Luna.

  “What time were you here, eight, nine?”

  “After nine. I think nine-thirty, maybe. We got to get the truck ready for lunch.”

  By nine-thirty the heat would have been climbing, and, with it, the air. A breeze would have been coming up the canyon just as it was now.

  “Starkey, look to your left. The breeze would have been blowing uphill to your left.”

  Starkey looked to her left. She crept forward a step, and then to her left. She touched aside rosemary sprigs and weeds, and then she crept again. Her movements were so slow that she might have been wading through honey. She dribbled a handful of dirt through her fingers and watched the dust float on the breeze. She followed its trail, more to the left and farther out on the shoulder, and then she slowly stood.

  I said, “What?”

  Mrs. Luna and I both hurried over. A clear plastic cigar wrapper was hooked in dead weeds. It was dusty and yellow with a red and gold band inside. It could have blown here from anywhere. It might have been here before him or come after, but maybe he left it behind.

  We didn't touch it or even go close. We stood over the wrapper as if even the weight of light might make it vanish, and then we shouted for John Chen.

  time missing: 43 hours, 56 minutes

  John Chen's Advice to the Lovelorn

  First thing Chen did was flag the shoe prints, the crushed bed of grass behind the oak tree, and the heavier concentrations of spitwad tobacco balls. Chen didn't think twice about some guy working up tobacco balls; two years before, Chen worked a series of burglaries by a jewel thief dubbed the Fred Astaire Burglar: Fred hot-prowled mansions in Hancock Park while wearing a top hat, spats, and tails. Hidden surveillance cameras in two of the houses showed Fred literally cutting the rug with the ol' soft shoe as he flitted from room to room. Fred was so colorful that the Times made him out to be a dashing cat burglar in the Cary Grant/It Takes a Thief tradition, but, in truth, Fred left calling cards that the Times neglected to report: In every house, Fred dropped trou and crapped on the floor. Hardly dashing. Hardly debonair. Chen had dutifully bagged, tagged, graphed, and analyzed Fred's fecal material at fourteen different crime scenes, so what were a few spitballs compared with cat-burglar shit?

  When the flags were set, Chen measured and graphed the scene. Each piece of evidence was assigned its own evidence number, then each number was located on the graph so that Chen, the police, and the prosecutors would have an accurate record of where each item was found. Everything had to be measured and the measurements recorded. It was tedious work, and Chen resented having to do it by himself. SID was sending out another criminalist—that skanky bitch Lorna Bronstein who thought she was better than everyone else—but it might be hours before she arrived.

  Starkey had been helping until Cole dragged her back up the hill. Starkey was okay. Chen had known her since her days on the Bomb Squad, and kinda liked her even though she was skinny and had a face like a horse.

  Chen was thinking about asking her out.

  John Chen thought about sex a lot, and not just with Starkey. In fact, he thought about it at home, at the labs, and while driving; he rated every woman he saw as to sexual desirability, immediately dismissing any who fell below his admittedly diminishing standards (beggars can't be choosers) as “hogs.” Didn't matter where he was, either: He thought about sex at homicides, suicides, shootings, stabbings, assaults, vehicular manslaughter investigations, and in the morgue; he woke every morning obsessing about sex, then added his log to the fire (so to speak) by watching that hot little number Katie Couric flashing her business on the Today show. Then he'd head off to work where armies of man-killer love muffins fanned the flames. The city was filled with them: Hard-bodied housewives and nymphomaniac actresses cruised the freeways in a never-ending search for man meat, and John Chen was the ONE guy in L.A. who missed out! Sure, his silver Boxster drew looks (he had bought it for just that reason and dubbed it his 'tangmobile), but every time some hottie looked past the sleek German lines of his Black Forest Love Rocket and saw his six foot three, hundred-thirty pound, four-eyed geeky ass, she quickly looked away. It was enough to give a guy issues.

  John spent so much time fantasizing about sex that he sometimes thought that he should see a shrink, but, you know, it was better than thinking about death.

  Starkey wasn't exactly in his top ten “Must Do” list, but she wasn't a hog. He once asked if she wanted to go for a ride in his Porsche, but Starkey said only if she could drive. Like that would ever happen.

  John was having second though
ts. Maybe letting her drive wouldn't be so bad.

  Chen was giving it serious consideration when Starkey shouted for him to haul his ass up right away.

  “Hurry,” she shouted. “C'mon, John, get up here!”

  Bitch. Always in the driver's seat.

  When Chen reached them, he found Starkey and Cole hovering over a clump of weeds like a couple of kids over buried treasure. A short squat Latina who had to be pushing retirement was with them. Chen immediately dismissed her. Hog.

  “What are you screaming about? I got a lot to do.”

  Starkey said, “Stop with the tone and look at this.”

  Cole squatted to show him something in the weeds.

  “Starkey found a cigar wrapper. We think it's his.”

  Chen took off his glasses for a closer inspection. Humiliating, but necessary: Chen looked like a world-class geek with his nose only inches from the ground, but he wanted to see the wrapper clearly. It appeared to have been folded twice, and still contained a red and gold cigar band. The plastic evidenced slight weathering, but the band had not yet lost its brilliance, indicating that it had been here no more than a few days; red dyes faded fast. The plastic appeared to be smudged under a light layer of dust.

  As Chen considered the smudges, Starkey related that Mrs. Luna had seen the suspect manipulate a cigar, though she had not seen him remove the wrapper or toss it away.

  Chen pretended to listen, but mostly he fumed at how Starkey kept smiling at Cole and punching him on the shoulder.

  Chen grumbled in his best sullen voice.

  “Okay, I'll log it. Lemme get the kit.”

  “Log it, yeah, but we're bringing this straight to Glendale. I want you to check it for prints.”

  Chen wondered if she was drinking again.

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, right now.”

  “Bronstein's on her way.”

  “I don't want to wait for fuckin' Bronstein. We've got something here, John. Let's run it to Glendale and fish for a hit!”

  Chen glanced at Cole for help, but Cole had the frayed eyes of a psychokiller. Maybe both of them were drunk.

  “You know we can't leave the scene. C'mon, Starkey—if we leave, we break the chain of custody with all the evidence down below. It won't be good in court.”

  “I'll take that chance.”

  “It's not worth taking. I mean, if she saw the guy drop a wrapper that might be one thing, but we don't even know this is his. It could belong to anyone.”

  Starkey pulled Chen aside so that Mrs. Luna couldn't hear. Cole tagged along like Starkey's lapdog. They were probably already doing each other.

  Starkey lowered her voice.

  “We won't know that until we run the prints.”

  “We might not find prints. All I see are smudges. Smudges aren't the same as prints.”

  Chen hated that he sounded so whiny, but she wouldn't let it go. Leaving the scene unattended was a direct violation of SID and LAPD policy.

  She said, “Nothing down that hill even comes close to this. It might not be his, John; maybe it isn't. But even if all you find is a few points, we might be able to name him, and that puts us closer to finding the boy.”

  “It puts me closer to getting fired, is what it does.”

  Chen was worried. Starkey had done her damnedest to destroy herself and her career after she was blown up in the trailer park; she had been dumped by the Bomb Squad and then by CCS, so now she was stuck in a dead-end Juvenile desk. Maybe she was trying to kill herself again. Maybe she wanted to be fired. Chen edged closer to sniff her breath. Starkey pushed him back.

  “Goddamnit, I'm not drinking.”

  Cole said, “John.”

  Chen scowled—here it came: Cole would probably threaten to kick his ass, him and his partner, Pike. Chen was certain that Cole was fucking her. Pike was probably fucking her, too.

  Chen said, “I'm not doing it.”

  Cole said, “If the wrapper helps us, we'll tell them that you found it.”

  Starkey glanced at Cole, then nodded.

  “Sure, if John wants the credit, it's his. This could be the breakthrough moment, man; guaranteed face-time on the evening news.”

  Chen thought about it. He had done pretty well with tips from Pike and Cole in the past. He had gotten a promotion and the 'tangmobile out of it, and had almost gotten laid. Almost. Chen glanced at Mrs. Luna to see if she could hear any of this, but she was safely away.

  He said, “You cool with losing the evidence down below?”

  Starkey's pager buzzed, but she ignored it.

  “All I care about is finding this boy. Nothing down there matters if it helps us too late.”

  Cole stared at her for the longest time, then turned back to Chen.

  He said, “Help us, John.”

  Chen thought it through: Yeah, it was a long shot, but nothing under the oak tree would or could give them an immediate ID on the perp, and this might. The odds weren't likely, but hope lived in possibilities. John, for instance, hoped to make the evening news. Helping to find the kid wouldn't be so bad, either.

  Starkey's pager buzzed again. She turned it off.

  Chen made up his mind.

  “I'll get my stuff.”

  Starkey smiled wider than Chen had ever seen, then put her hand on Cole's shoulder. She left it. Chen hurried down the hill for his evidence kit, thinking that if Starkey drooled on Cole any more, she'd drown him with spit.

  15

  Witness to an Incident

  When they brought Ben inside after they caught him on the side of the house the night before, Mike took a cell phone from a green duffel bag, then went into another part of the house. Eric and Mazi made Ben sit on the floor in the living room. When Mike came back, he held the phone a few inches from Ben's mouth. Ben sensed that someone was probably on the other end of the line, listening.

  Mike said, “Say your name and address.”

  Ben shouted as loud as he could.

  “HELP! HELP ME—!”

  Eric clamped a hand over his mouth. Ben was terrified that they would hurt him because he had called for help, but Mike only turned off the phone and laughed.

  “Man, that was perfect.”

  Eric squeezed Ben's face hard. Eric was still pissed off because Ben got him in trouble by almost getting away, so his face was flushed as red as his hair.

  “Stop shouting or I'll cut off your fucking head.”

  Mike said, “You with the heads. He did great, yelling for help like that. Stop squeezing his face.”

  “You want the fuckin' neighbors to hear?”

  Mike tucked the phone back into the duffel, then took out a cigar. He peeled off the wrapper as he considered Ben.

  “He won't yell anymore, will you, Ben?”

  Ben stopped squirming. He was scared, but he shook his head, no. Eric let go.

  Ben said, “Who was that on the phone?”

  Mike glanced at Eric, ignoring him.

  “Put him in the room. If he starts screaming, put him back in the box.”

  Ben said, “I won't scream. Who was that? Was that my mama?”

  Mike didn't tell him or answer any of his other questions. Eric locked him in an empty bedroom with giant sheets of plywood nailed over the windows, and told him to get some sleep, but Ben couldn't. He tried to pull the plywood off the windows, but it was nailed too tight. He spent the rest of the night huddled at the door, trying to hear them through the crack. Sometime during the middle of the night he heard Eric and Mazi laughing. He listened harder, hoping to find out what they were going to do with him, but they never once mentioned him. They talked about Africa and Afghanistan, and how they had chopped off some guy's legs. Ben stopped listening and hid in the closet the rest of the night.

  Late the next morning, Eric opened the door.

  “Let's go. We're bringing you home.”

  Just like that, they were letting him go. Ben didn't trust that Eric was telling the truth, but he wanted to go hom
e so badly that he pretended it was real. Eric made him go to the bathroom, then marched him through the house to the garage. Eric was wearing a baggy plaid shirt with its tail hanging out. When he reached to open the door to the garage, his shirt pulled tight and Ben saw a pistol outlined at the small of his back. Eric hadn't been wearing the gun yesterday.

  The garage was heavy with the smell of paint. They had painted the van brown and covered the writing on its sides. Mazi was waiting behind the wheel. Mike was already gone. Eric led Ben to the rear of the van.

  Eric said, “Me and you are gonna ride in back. Here's the deal on that: I won't tie you up if you sit still and keep your mouth shut. If we stop at a red light or somethin' and you start screaming, I'll shut you up good, then it's the bag. We clear on that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I'm not fuckin' with you. Somethin' happens like we get pulled over by the cops, you smile and pretend like you're having a great time. You come through on that, we'll bring you home. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben would have said anything; he just wanted to go home.

  Eric lifted him into the back of the van, then pulled the door. The garage door clambered open as Mazi started the engine. Eric spoke into a cell phone.

  “We're go.”

  They backed out into the street, then drove down the hill. The van was a big windowless cavern with two seats up front and nothing in back except a spare tire, a roll of duct tape, and some rags. Eric sat on the tire with the phone in his lap, and made Ben sit next to him. Ben could see the street past Mazi and Eric, but not much else. Ben wondered if what they had said last night was true, about cutting off legs.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We're taking you home. We gotta see a man, first, but then you'll go home.”

  Ben sensed that Eric was telling him that he was going home so that he would behave. Ben glanced at the van's doors, deciding that he would run if he got the chance. When he turned forward again, Mazi was watching him through the mirror. Mazi's eyes went to Eric.

  “He go-eeng tu run.”

  “Fuckit. He's cool.”

  “Ewe fuhk up ah-gain, Mike weel keel ewe.”