Lost Hills

by Goldberg, Lee

“More old school than that.”

  “I like it already,” Duncan said.

  At the top of Topanga Canyon Boulevard, where it crested the hill, was an overlook that offered a spectacular view north over the smog-choked San Fernando Valley and beyond. A huge cloud of smoke from the Stevenson Ranch fire that Eve had passed that morning hung over the Santa Susana Mountains. A digital sign on a trailer, set up at the overlook by the forestry service, warned drivers on Topanga of the red flag warning in effect and the extreme fire danger. The Santa Anas were blowing hot and hard through the dry Santa Monica Mountains and one tossed cigarette could spark an inferno.

  Duncan parked the plain-wrap SUV beside the digital sign and Eve pulled her bike out of the back. They’d swung by her condo earlier and she’d changed into a blue short-sleeve biking jersey, black cycling shorts, and wraparound racing sunglasses.

  She placed her phone into a carrier on her handlebars, checked to make sure her Bluetooth earpiece was synced, and put on her helmet.

  Duncan spoke into his phone. “Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Are you sure he won’t recognize you if he steps out to water his roses?”

  “I’m wearing a helmet and sunglasses, which pretty much hides my face, and I won’t be stopping to give him a good look at me anyway.”

  “Stay in touch,” Duncan said.

  She nodded, got on her bike, and headed down the hill, something she’d done many times before. Biking in the Santa Monica Mountains was what she did whenever she had free time. In fact, it was how she’d ended up in Robbery-Homicide.

  Eve had been riding downhill on a remote, winding two-lane stretch of Mulholland Highway when a Lamborghini Aventador roared around a curve and nearly ran her off the cliff. She spotted the car later in the parking lot of the Rock Store, a popular hangout with bikers.

  Blake Largo was out of the car and wearing a ridiculous Bengal tiger polo shirt and velvet shorts and was berating a woman in a tight mini bandage dress who was teetering shakily on high stiletto heels. Eve later learned her name was Shirlee.

  “You puked all over my Lambo!” Largo yelled.

  “I’m sorry,” Shirlee said. “All those curves made me carsick.”

  Eve got off her bike and approached the guy. She didn’t know that Blake Largo was a celebrity and was unaware that a bunch of customers at the Rock Store were already capturing the scene on their cell phones.

  “It’ll cost me what you earn in a year to clean this up.”

  “I told you to slow down,” Shirlee said.

  Largo backhanded her across the face, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Nobody tells me anything.”

  Eve stepped between him and Shirlee. There was no way she was letting this asshole hit the woman again.

  “Back off,” she said and looked over her shoulder at Shirlee. “Are you okay?”

  The woman nodded, but her nose was bleeding. That was not okay as far as Eve was concerned.

  “Who gives a shit about her?” Largo said. “Look at my Lambo. There’s bitch puke all over the suede dash.”

  Eve turned back to Largo. “Shut up.”

  Largo took a swing at her. She dodged the blow, grabbed his arm, wrenched it behind his back, and forced him face-first to the ground, pinning him down.

  “Apologize,” Eve said.

  “Fuck you,” he said. Eve twisted his arm up until he winced. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  “Not to me,” Eve said. “To her. Say it like you mean it.”

  He looked up at Shirlee, who appeared stunned by the unexpected turn of events. His eyes became moist, his expression pleading.

  “I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for what I did. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “Wow,” Eve said. “You’re good. I almost believe it.”

  “You should.” Shirlee wiped her nose and sniffled. “He’s got an Oscar. He keeps it by his bed and stares at it while he’s fucking.”

  That was more than Eve wanted to know.

  “Let me up,” Largo said.

  “Nope,” Eve said. “I smell alcohol on your breath.”

  “So what? You gonna write me a ticket?”

  “I would but I’m off duty.” She turned to see the crowd of customers behind her, filming it all, and said to nobody in particular: “Someone please call the sheriff’s station. Let them know that Detective Eve Ronin is holding a man in custody for assault and possible DUI.”

  And that was how she ended up where she was now.

  The mobile home park where Coyle lived was tucked into a sharp curve of the two-lane road and was surrounded by trees and thick brush. She rode into the complex. There was a fountain at the entrance and, beyond that, a central clubhouse and pool.

  “I’m inside,” Eve said.

  “Ten-four,” Duncan responded.

  Several narrow roads branched off from the entrance, each lined with well-tended mobile homes packed tightly together. She went down the road that Coyle lived on. She coasted past Coyle’s place, a nicely tended mobile home with fake wooden siding and flower boxes filled with plastic flowers. He wouldn’t be coming out to water those. The carport was empty.

  “Nobody’s home,” Eve said and wondered if he’d fled for good.

  “Is there anywhere we can sit and keep our eyes on the place without attracting attention from the neighbors?”

  Eve rode to the end of the street, made a U-turn, and made another pass by the house. On her way down, she noticed a mobile home at the corner with a FOR SALE sign out front. One of the windows looked out at Coyle’s place.

  “Maybe,” Eve said and continued out of the mobile home park and on down Topanga Canyon. “I’ll meet you at Bristol Farms.”

  She turned left where Topanga hit Mulholland Drive, rode past the intersection with Mulholland Highway where the LAPD tried to scam them, and then past the Motion Picture and Television Country House and Hospital, where her father, Vince, lived in one of the bungalows on the forty-eight-acre property. Eve wasn’t the least bit tempted to ride in for a reunion.

  Instead, she entered the shopping center strip across the street and rode to Bristol Farms, a high-end grocery store, just as Duncan parked out front in the Explorer. She got off her bike and removed her helmet. He got out and opened the tailgate.

  “There’s a mobile home for sale on the corner of Coyle’s street,” Eve said. “If the Realtor will play along, maybe we can go in as a cleaning or painting crew and nobody will know we’re cops.”

  He helped her lift her bike into the SUV. “That’ll work.”

  “There’s only one way in and out of the mobile home park and it’s off Topanga Canyon, which is good. The bad news is we can’t stake out the entrance without being seen.”

  “No problem. We’ll plant unmarked units down at Mulholland Drive and more up on the overlook, so we’ll have both ends of Topanga Canyon covered. We’ll see him coming or going.”

  “If he’s not already gone for good,” Eve said.

  “You’ll feel more optimistic after you’ve had a couple apple fritters.” Duncan gestured to the grocery store, which sold gourmet donuts in their bakery. “I always do.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  She opted for Red Bull instead of an apple fritter and it definitely improved her mood and her alertness. It was a good thing, too, because Biddle and Garvey were in the squad room when Eve and Duncan came in at four thirty and she needed to be sharp and ready to respond quickly to whatever they had for her. They’d pounce on any sluggishness in her thinking as a sign she wasn’t fit for the job.

  “Isn’t that your crime-fighting costume?” Biddle said, giving her tight-fitting Lycra biking outfit a once-over. “It would look better with a cape and a logo on your chest.”

  “And maybe a mask to hide your real identity,” Garvey said.

  Biddle gave him a chiding look. “Deathfist doesn’t want to hide her real identity. She wants to be a YouTube star again.” />
  Eve ignored the digs. “What have you two come up with so far on Lionel Coyle?”

  Biddle answered. “He’s never served any time, but he was arrested once during his fifth year in high school for jerking off in the stands while watching cheerleader practice. It happened again during his one and only semester at Pierce College. Both times no charges were filed and he was sent into counseling.”

  “Did you say fifth year of high school?” Duncan said.

  “I did,” Biddle said.

  Garvey spoke up. “I checked with the credit reporting agencies and Social Security to find his current employer. He’s a plumber with Mr. Plunger in Canoga Park.”

  That struck a chord with Eve, who started swiping through the kitchen crime scene photos on her phone.

  “We had a patrol car roll past their office,” Garvey continued. “His Toyota Corolla is parked in the lot. But he’s probably out in the field in one of their vans. You know, the ones with the huge plunger mounted on the top.”

  “The ‘I’ll Never Get Laid’ mobile,” Biddle said.

  “Their bread and butter is handling residential service calls for warranty companies,” Garvey said. “He’s probably out on calls until the end of his shift.”

  Eve found what she was looking for. There was a Mr. Plunger magnet on Tanya’s refrigerator.

  “Okay,” Duncan said. “So we know where to find him and we can keep him under surveillance. That’s nice. But we don’t have anything on him. All we know is that he bought the same trash bags and cleansers at Walmart on Wednesday that we found in a Walmart bag in Tanya’s house . . . and that he drives a white Toyota Corolla just like one that was parked at the Topanga State Park trailhead on Thursday. Lots of people buy those same things at Walmart and drive Corollas. It’s all circumstantial and it doesn’t put him in the house. I’m not sure we have enough probable cause for a judge to grant us a search warrant.”

  “I am,” Eve said. She held up her phone to show them the picture of the plunger-shaped refrigerator magnet with a local phone number on it.

  “I got one of those on my fridge, too,” Duncan said. “It doesn’t mean Coyle has been in my house.”

  She lowered her phone and started dialing a number. “We can clear that up right now.”

  “Who are you calling?” Duncan asked.

  She held up her hand in a “hold on” gesture and put the call on speaker.

  “Hello, you’ve reached Mr. Plunger, what can I do for you?” a cheerful woman said.

  “I’m hoping you can help me out,” Eve said. “My neighbor is looking for a plumber and I wanted to recommend the nice young man you sent us a while back . . . but I’ve lost the invoice with his name on it.”

  “Sure, I can help you,” Cheerful said. “What’s your name and address?”

  “Tanya Kenworth, 728 Saddleback Trail Court. It’s down in Topanga.”

  “I love that area,” Cheerful said. “Here it is. The plumber was Lionel Coyle.”

  The jolt of adrenaline that hit Eve’s system was better than a six-pack of Red Bull. Eve shared looks with the three detectives, who were all smiling.

  “Thank you,” Eve said. “I’ll make sure my neighbor asks for him when she calls.”

  She hung up. Everybody high-fived each other. For a moment, whatever resentment Biddle and Garvey had toward her disappeared and they all enjoyed the satisfaction of making a connection between their suspect and the victims. It was an inevitable discovery. Biddle and Garvey would certainly have contacted Mr. Plumber in the course of their own investigation to see if Coyle had serviced Tanya’s home. But Eve jumped on it first and did so in a way that wouldn’t tip off the suspect that the detectives were onto him.

  “Let’s get a warrant,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Duncan said. “Can I have a word with you?”

  “Sure,” Eve said, wondering why he wanted to talk away from Biddle and Garvey.

  He led her back to his cubicle and spoke to her in a hushed tone. “You’re in charge, so I don’t want to say something that might further undermine your tenuous authority over Crockett and Tubbs.”

  “I appreciate that,” she said, wary now.

  “I should be the one to walk the warrant through,” Duncan said, meaning that he wanted to prepare the paperwork, present the case to the assistant district attorney, and then go with the prosecutor to see the judge.

  “I’m the lead detective on this and I’m capable of writing a warrant.”

  “I’m sure you are and can do a passable job.”

  “Passable?”

  “The fact is what we have on Coyle is bullshit.”

  “You just heard the call. Coyle was in her house.”

  “It feels great to establish a connection, but it doesn’t feel nearly as good as the connection,” Duncan said. “It’s like the difference between masturbation and sex.”

  “I’m not following,” Eve said.

  “Just because Coyle fixed a leaky faucet in Tanya’s house weeks ago doesn’t mean he went back Wednesday and butchered her.”

  “I don’t see how that applies to your masturbation and sex metaphor, but I get your point anyway. What does that have to do with you writing the warrant instead of me?”

  “There are ways of writing it so it sounds like what we have constitutes strong probable cause.”

  “Then why are you complaining about the evidence?” she said. “Tell me what to say and I’ll write it up.”

  “The problem is the ADA and the judge aren’t stupid and they won’t really be fooled by great writing. But I have proven credibility that’ll ease any doubts that they have. I’ll sell it just by having this wrinkled bulldog face,” Duncan said. “But if it’s you who walks it through, they will see all the holes and question every conclusion.”

  “So you’re saying we’ll get the warrant because of your skill at smoke and mirrors and your established relationships with the ADA and the judge,” she said. “It’s not about my age, sex, inexperience, or notoriety.”

  “It’s totally about your age, sex, inexperience, and notoriety.”

  “They can go fuck themselves,” she said.

  “Yes, they can and so can you. What’s more important to you right now? Getting the search warrant or taking a stand on sexism, ageism, cronyism, and all the nasty isms in this big, cruel world?”

  The answer was obvious.

  “Get the warrant,” Eve said. “I’ll start the surveillance on Coyle.”

  “Good call,” Duncan said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was five forty-five and dark out, so it felt a lot later than it actually was. It didn’t help that Eve had only taken a short nap over the past two days.

  She was parked in the Explorer on Deering Avenue in Canoga Park, facing the Mr. Plunger offices, a low-lying cinderblock box in the center of a cracked asphalt parking lot. The narrow street was in the center of an industrial neighborhood in the northwestern edge of the San Fernando Valley that had blossomed around a railroad line that was now long gone, replaced by a dedicated high-speed bus lane. The businesses on Deering included an electrical supply store, several collision repair shops, a roofing company, and a hardwood floor showroom.

  A few Mr. Plunger trucks, impossible to miss with their giant plungers on top, had come and gone during her watch but Coyle’s Corolla was still parked in the lot, so if he’d come back, he was still in the building.

  Biddle was parked farther south, at the intersection of Deering and Saticoy, ready to trade off with Eve in tailing Coyle.

  Garvey was already staked out in the empty for-sale mobile home across from Coyle’s place. Eve had gotten the lockbox code for it from the Realtor before she left the station.

  Now all that was left for Eve to do was wait for Coyle and drink more Red Bull to fight the creeping fatigue that was threatening to knock her out. She was wearing her cycling gear and her bike was loaded in the back, all of which helped her look like a civilian if anyone happened to not
ice her sitting there.

  Eve used the time to ponder the case. The evidence suggested that Coyle was already in the house on Wednesday morning when Tanya arrived. How did he get in? Perhaps with a stolen key. Or he’d unlocked or disabled a door or window when he was there doing a plumbing repair.

  Why was he in the house? Perhaps it was a burglary and Tanya walked in on him. So he killed her . . . and while he was cutting her up, the kids came home, and he was forced to kill them, too.

  But that scenario didn’t explain why he brought a knife with him. Was it simply for protection in case someone was inside? Or perhaps it wasn’t a burglary at all. Maybe he was waiting in the house for Tanya to come home so he could rape her. But if that was his intention, why did he stab her in the kitchen? Was it to guarantee that she wouldn’t be physically able to fight him off when he dragged her to the bedroom? Did she put up a fight anyway? Was that why he was so furious when he stabbed her to death?

  Maybe Tanya wasn’t his target. Maybe it was Caitlin. But Eve thought there had to be easier ways to rape Caitlin than by murdering and dismembering her mother and killing her brother first. And if raping Caitlin was his goal, why did he slit her throat in the bedroom as she tried to escape?

  Or perhaps it wasn’t about burglary or rape. Maybe it was always about murder. He came to kill Tanya and then it all went to hell when the kids came back. Or maybe he’d always intended to kill them all, one by one, when they came home.

  Or did Jared hire Coyle to get rid of the family that wouldn’t leave his house?

  There were too many possible scenarios, too many maybes.

  What they were missing was a key piece of the puzzle, something that would make the picture start to emerge. If they already had that key piece, Eve was too tired to see it or reason it out now.

  At the same moment Eve came to that conclusion, Lionel Coyle emerged from the building and got into his Corolla. She got on the radio and alerted Biddle that Coyle was on the move.

  Coyle pulled out, turned right leaving the parking lot, and headed south on Deering. Eve pulled out behind him. There was no other traffic on the street, so she stayed two car lengths behind him.