by Steve Gannon
“What did you do?”
“I did the right thing.”
“What happened to your partner?” Travis probed.
“Jerry left the force. His wife walked out on him before he finally got help from AA. Now he owns the biggest Chrysler/Plymouth dealership in El Monte. Got remarried a few years back, too.”
“Were you invited to the wedding?”
“Nope. Let’s get back to you. I take it from your question that there’s something you’re unsure about.”
Travis looked away.
By now I had mental alarms going off right and left. I stepped closer, deciding to voice a suspicion that had been plaguing me since Nate’s nightmare. “If you won’t talk about yourself, maybe you can tell me what’s going on with Nate. Allison, too. They have some secret, and you know what it is, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I immediately recognized the lie. “Yeah, you do. Are you going to tell me?”
Travis’s shoulders slumped. “No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t.”
“I’ll find out sooner or later, so it may as well be now. Talk to me, Trav.”
Travis shook his head. “Have you ever made a promise you’ve regretted?” he asked miserably.
“So that’s it. You promised to keep quiet. Now you’re thinking you made a mistake and there’s nothing you can do about it.” I considered a moment. “Okay,” I continued. “Right or wrong, you made a promise, and I’ll respect it. But here’s something I want you to think about: The world isn’t black and white. There are shades of gray, and as you get older you’ll run into times when it’s tough to know what to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The things you’ve learned at home and at church will help, but despite what you may have been told, there’s no all-purpose rule to live by,” I went on. “So what it boils down to is this: More important than anything else, you need to have your own inner sense of right and wrong. When all else fails, you fall back on that.”
Travis said nothing.
“I have to be in court before long, so let’s wind this up. Whatever’s between you and Allison and Nate has to come out. I know you promised, but there are responsibilities that go way past other considerations. Even a promise.”
“Like being part of a family. Mom thinks that, too.”
“Right. So with that in mind, do you have anything else to say?”
Travis shook his head.
I stared at him a moment more. “Okay, Trav,” I sighed. “Think about what I said. I know you’ll do the right thing. See you for Thanksgiving dinner?”
“I’ll be home around noon.”
“Good. Don’t be late.” Reluctantly, I turned and started down the hall.
“Dad?”
“What?”
“Ask Ali and Nate what actually happened the night of the break-in.”
I turned. “There’s something they haven’t told about that night?”
“Ask them, Dad.”
“They held back something about the break-in from Catheryn and me, but they told you?” I said incredulously.
“No. I… I found out on my own, kind of by accident. By then weeks had gone by, and I didn’t know what to-”
“Found out what?”
“Ask them, Dad,” Travis repeated. “They should tell you themselves.”
“Damn it, Travis-”
“Please, Dad.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll ask them.”
“I should have said something sooner. I could see things were getting worse, but I didn’t know what to do.”
“At least you’re doing the right thing now.”
“Dad?”
“What?”
“Are you disappointed in me?”
I saw the self-accusation in Travis’s eyes, and the response I had been about to utter died on my lips. “We all screw up, kid,” I said instead.
Travis lowered his gaze. “Not like this.”
I returned and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Look at me, Trav,” I said.
Slowly, Travis raised his eyes to mine. “Listen, kid,” I said gently. “When it comes to making decisions, I told you life doesn’t come with a universal yardstick, but there are some universal truths. One is that every father wants to see his son become a better man than he is. That’s true of every father, and I’m no exception. You’re asking whether I’m disappointed in you?”
“Yes, Dad, I am. Are you?”
I shook my head. “Not for a minute, Trav,” I said. “No way.”
27
Following my court appearance in West Los Angles, I returned to headquarters, still mulling over my discussion with Travis. More than anything, I missed Catheryn and for about the hundredth time since she’d left, I wished she were home.
Upon arriving at my desk, I found a message slip. Someone named Yolanda Blum had called. Thinking back, I recalled that she was the claims adjuster I had attempted to contact regarding the Larsons’ damaged Infiniti. For the moment postponing thoughts on how to deal with my children, I removed my jacket, hung it on the back of my chair, and dialed the number on the slip. A woman with a pronounced southern drawl answered. “Twentieth Century. Claims.”
“Yolanda Blum?”
“Yes. May I help you?”
“This is Daniel Kane, LAPD. I called some time back concerning a claim made by Susan Larson.”
“Oh, yes, through USAA. The Tenaka case. Give me a sec to pull it up.”
“Tenaka?”
“Our insured. Ah, here it is. By the way, I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. This flu that’s going around is awful.”
“As I understand it, your company refused payment on the Larsons’ claim,” I said, ignoring her excuse. “Why?”
“Under the circumstances, we felt completely justified,” Ms. Blum replied defensively. “It’s terrible what happened to them, though. I heard about it on the news.”
“Yes, ma’am. What circumstances?”
“For one thing, Mrs. Larson said in her claim that a man named Ron Phillips damaged her car.”
“You said your insured’s name is Tenaka.”
“Right. According to Mrs. Larson’s claim, Mr. Phillips, who was driving a white van, told her he was covered by Twentieth Century Insurance.”
“A white van?” I said, my pulse quickening. “Did you get a make on it?”
“No.”
“How about a license number?”
“Yes, that was included on the claim. When I found we had no one named Ron Phillips as an insured, I ran a DMV trace.”
“And?”
“The owner of the plates proved to be a Mr. James Tenaka of El Monte, who is, coincidentally, covered by Twentieth. But his vehicle is a red ’99 Ford sedan, not a white van. Furthermore, Mr. Tenaka denied any involvement in an accident with Susan Larson. He said he had never heard of Ron Phillips, and that he hadn’t been in West Los Angeles during the past year. In her claim, Mrs. Larson clearly stated that the other party was driving a white van, and in the absence of a police accident report…”
“… you denied payment,” I finished. “Did you call Mrs. Larson?”
“Right after talking with Mr. Tenaka. She was upset. Said she was absolutely certain she had copied down the license number correctly. She couldn’t believe that the other driver had lied to her. Do you think this might have something to do with the murders?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. At this point we’re checking everything. Did Mrs. Larson say anything else?”
“Hold on. Let me get my notes.” A rustling of paper, then, “She said her car was dented while parked outside her health club. The other driver was waiting for her when she came out.”
“What club?”
“Hinds Health Center. Olympic and Bundy.”
“I know the place,” I said, realizing I had been less than a block away when visiting Hank Dexter’s e
lectronic shop. “Did she give a description of the man?”
“No. Mr. Phillips, or whatever his name is, told Mrs. Larson that he had forgotten his wallet. He didn’t have his driver’s license or proof of insurance with him, but he wanted to pay for the damage. They exchanged information. You know the rest.”
“Not all, but we’re getting there. I’ll need Mr. Tenaka’s phone number and a copy of the accident claim.”
“Of course.” Ms. Blum gave me Mr. Tenaka’s phone number, also promising to fax a copy of the insurance file.
Next I telephoned James Tenaka in El Monte. An elderly-sounding man answered. “Whatever it is, I’m not buying,” he grumbled.
“I’m not selling,” I said. “This is Detective Daniel Kane, LAPD. I’m calling about an accident involving your car.”
“What’s that? You’re gonna have to speak up.”
Raising my voice, I repeated myself without success, noticing Deluca grinning at me from an adjacent desk. Almost shouting, I tried again. The third go-around proved the charm.
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” asked Mr. Tenaka. “You’re talking about that lady in West LA? Damnation, I hardly drive anyplace anymore, let alone all the way over there.”
“So how do you explain your license number being on the claim report?”
“Funny thing about that,” Mr. Tenaka answered. “At first I figured somebody made a mistake. Transposed a couple digits or whatever. Then I went out and checked my plates.”
“On your car?”
“No, the one’s I chew with. Of course the ones on my car. What kind of cop are you, anyway?”
“A detective,” I answered. Looking up, I saw that besides Deluca, now a number of other task force members were following my conversation with amusement. “Can we get back to the plates?”
“Of course. And you don’t have to shout. I’m not deaf.”
“The plates?”
“Like I said, I went out and checked. They turned out to be the wrong ones. Didn’t match the numbers on my registration. Weren’t even close.”
“Somebody switched plates with you?”
“You’re the detective.”
“Did you report the substitution?”
“Hell, no. Have you been down to DMV lately? I figured I’d get around to it someday-like when I have four or five hours to kill standing in line.”
“Do me a favor, Mr. Tenaka. I need the number of the plates presently on your vehicle. Could you look for me?”
“Is this important?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on a minute.”
As I waited for Mr. Tenaka to return, I picked up a scratch pad. In small block letters I penciled “Killer hits victims’ cars” and “Why?” After a moment I made another notation, underlining it twice. “Can’t follow them home. Security gates.”
“You ready?” Mr. Tenaka asked, coming back on the line.
“Go ahead.”
Using alpha-bravo designations for each letter and pausing between digits, Mr. Tenaka carefully read the number of the plates now on his car.
“Do you have any idea where or when the switch took place?” I asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think that because you didn’t even know your plates were gone, you have absolutely no idea.”
“Bingo.”
“Thanks, Mr. Tenaka. You’ve been helpful.”
After hanging up, I ran a DMV trace to determine the owner of the plates presently on Mr. Tenaka’s Ford. The computer spit back the name of a Mrs. Eleanor Baumgarten in Huntington Beach. Upon calling her, I learned that Mrs. Baumgarten’s plates had been stolen two months earlier while she was shopping at a local mall. In the interim she’d reported the theft and received new ones.
I next talked with one of the Newport Beach detectives detailed to the task force. Although he didn’t have the information I requested, he referred me to his partner, Greg Sugita, who had been assigned the job of going through the Welshes’ bills and correspondence.
Upon questioning, Sugita gazed at me curiously. “Now that you mention it, I did find something in the wife’s address book that might relate to the scrape on their car,” he said, his Asian features furrowing thoughtfully. He fumbled through a stack of papers. “Got it somewhere. Here we go.” He handed me a scrap of paper.
I inspected it. In fine Palmer penmanship someone had written the name “Jeff Millford,” followed by the words “Continental Insurance,” “blue Toyota,” and a license plate number, address, and telephone number.
“Is this Mrs. Welsh’s handwriting?” I asked.
Sugita nodded. “I’m no expert, but it looks like the other entries in her phone book to me. Think it’s important?” As had others in the room, he’d heard most of my half-shouted conversation with Mr. Tenaka.
“Maybe. Did Mrs. Welsh belong to a health club?”
Sugita referred to his notes. “Family Fitness,” he replied after a quick search. “Over in the Fashion Island area.”
Two quick phone calls confirmed my suspicions. Neither the address nor the phone number on the slip of paper belonged to anyone named Jeff Millford, and the automobile license number turned out to be registered to a schoolteacher in Tarzana, who owned a Volkswagen, not a Toyota. Another call established that the teacher was unaware someone had taken her plates, for whoever had done so had gone to the trouble of replacing them with another set. I smiled grimly as the woman returned from her garage and read me the number.
Mr. Tenaka’s stolen plates had finally resurfaced.
“You have something, don’t you?” asked Deluca, who had stood beside my desk to listen to my last few telephone conversations.
“Yeah. Let’s go talk to Snead.”
“He’s in a meeting with the chief up on the tenth floor.”
I grinned. “What a shame. Guess we’ll have to talk to Huff.”
We found Lieutenant Huff at his desk reviewing the Welsh lab report, which had come in earlier that day. He glanced up. “Kane, Deluca,” he said.
“Anything of interest?” asked Deluca.
“Not much,” sighed Huff, flipping through the pages. “No sperm, the saliva swabs tested negative for blood typing, and none of the print unknowns matches those from the other scenes. Tissue from the fingernail clippings are all from the victims. Same with blood and urine. On the positive side, a found hair was a ninety-percent match with one taken from the Pratt house-including the black dye. The rope and candles are identical too, as are the bites.
“That’s it?”
Huff nodded. “The coroner’s report isn’t back yet, but I don’t expect it to add much.”
“Kane thinks he may have a lead.”
Huff looked at me hopefully. “You come up with something, Detective?”
“Yes, sir.” Succinctly, I related what I had learned in my phone conversation with Yolanda Blum, also describing the trail of switched license plates that began with Eleanor Baumgarten and ended with the schoolteacher in Tarzana.
“So the common thread isn’t the auto repair shops,” mused Huff. “It’s that the victims’ cars are damaged in the first place.”
“Right. Looks like our guy sees an attractive woman at a health club or wherever, then bumps her car to find out were she lives. He uses stolen plates to keep from getting traced, changing to a fresh set for each victim.”
“Why bother hitting the cars?” asked Deluca. “Why not just follow them home?”
“I wondered that, too,” I said. “Then I recalled that all three murdered families lived in security complexes. Maybe on the first attempt the guy got stopped at a gate, so he went to plan B. Or maybe he just enjoys a little contact before the main event.”
“You say Mr. Tenaka’s plates turned up in Tarzana?” asked Huff.
“Right. It appears the killer is leaving the last stolen set whenever he takes new ones, probably to give himself time before the switch is noticed.”
“Cute,” said Delu
ca. “But if he’s as smart as we think, he must’ve known his game of musical plates would eventually be discovered.”
“He knows,” I said.
“Still think he’s screwing with us?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then let’s use it,” suggested Huff. “Put out an APB on the last set we know he stole, the teacher’s from Tarzana.”
“It’s a shot,” I said. “Unfortunately, if we’re lucky enough to find her plates, by then they’ll probably be on somebody else’s car.”
“Then we search for the most recent set. It’s better that nothing.”
“How about notifying insurance companies to be on the lookout for accident claims in which an incorrect license number is reported?” offered Deluca.
“Good idea,” said Huff.
“Along those lines, the guy’s been seen driving a white van and a blue Toyota,” I added. “He might have rented them. We could canvass auto rental agencies and cross-check accident dates reported by the victims. We should check to see whether we can get a paint scraping from the Welshes’ damaged fender, too. Could come in handy if we find the Toyota. We might be able to get a year and model from the paint analysis, too.”
“Worth a try. What about checking vehicle ownerships with DMV?”
“At this point, with what little we have on the Toyota, and without a year or even a make on the van-no way.”
“Right. Anything else?”
I thought a moment. “Mrs. Larson and Mrs. Welsh both belonged to health clubs. I’ll bet we’ll find that the first woman did, too.”
“So we search for a member or employee who’s connected to all three clubs,” said Deluca, picking up the thread.
“Plus, we check for anyone who might have witnessed the accidents. Maybe we can get a description of the guy,” I said. “Putting female vice officers in the involved clubs might be worthwhile, too.”
