by Robert Crais
WHEN I reached my car, I shuffled through the papers Mr. Repko had given me. Among them was the receipt Darcy and Maddux provided when they returned the items they had taken to examine. A cell phone and a laptop were on the list, but not a PDA, and I didn’t recall seeing it at the Repkos’ home.
I found Darcy’s card, called him, and asked if they recovered a PDA with Debra’s body.
He said, “Sure. It was still in her purse. We gave it back to the family.”
“Not her cell phone. She also had a PDA.”
“Like a BlackBerry?”
“Yeah. Did you find one?”
“Hang on—”
He spoke to someone in the background, then came back.
“No, nothing like that. We had her cell. Maddux says it was a Samsung.”
“I just left Casey Stokes. Leverage gives out PDAs to their associates. Debra used hers that night at the dinner.”
“All we had was the Samsung. We ran the call log on the cell and the hard line in her apartment. If we had the PDA, we would’ve run that, too. Maybe her family has it.”
“They would have it only if you gave it to them. It should have been on her body, in her car, or in her apartment.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I know you’re thinking the killer nabbed it, but how can we know that or prove it? She might have lost the damn thing.”
“Hang on, Darcy. Think about this. If Leverage provided the PDA, they probably take care of the bills.”
“I know where you’re going, but there isn’t anything I can do. If this case was mine I’d subpoena their call records and hit up the provider for her email and text messages. But this isn’t my case. It’s Marx’s case, and he closed it.”
“Did you know Marx is a client at Leverage?”
Darcy was silent.
“Darcy?”
“You’re kidding.”
“When Leverage was freezing you guys out, they were talking with Marx behind the scenes. He walked them through the investigation to keep their clients out of the headlines.”
“That sonofabitch.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s why the pressure came down for us to back off. Nice of him to tell us.”
“Marx’s name never came up?”
“Not until now. Maddux is going to shit.”
I called Michael Repko next. Michael remembered that his sister had a PDA, but didn’t know where it was. He agreed to ask his parents and brothers. I was still talking to him when my phone beeped with a call from Pat Kyle. I finished with Michael, then switched over to Pat.
She said, “Am I the best or what?”
“I’ve been saying that for years, and not just to annoy your husband.”
“A little annoyance is good for him. You have something to write with?”
“I do. You find Tomaso?”
“He’s with a commercial agency called Figg-Harris. Figg tried to reach him to see if it would be okay to give out his contact info, but the kid hasn’t returned his calls. I had to pressure him.”
“I get it. Give me the stats.”
“Okay. This is his cell.”
She read off an 818 phone number and an address in North Hollywood. I thanked her, then called Angel’s number, but didn’t have any better luck than his agent. Angel’s phone rang five times before a message picked up.
“Hey, this is Andy, the next big thing. Leave the 411 and I’ll get back. Peace.”
Andy. The next big thing.
I left my 411, but didn’t wait for the next big thing to get back to me. I headed north toward the valley.
The breathtaking clarity we enjoyed during the Santa Anas had vanished when the winds died. The air, now sleeping, was heavy with haze. A misty shawl blurred the Hollywood Sign and the skyscrapers lining the Wilshire Corridor appeared to be in a fog.
It was almost one o’clock when I dropped off the freeway at Universal to hit Henry’s Tacos for lunch. Four tacos later, I turned onto a neat residential street wedged in the flats between Toluca Lake and Studio City. The main house was a small Craftsman with a large porch and a For Sale sign in the front yard. A narrow drive ran past the main house to a converted garage in the rear.
I parked on the street and walked down the drive.
The guesthouse had once been the garage. The double-wide garage door had been replaced by French doors with sun curtains pulled across the doors for privacy. A patio table and chairs sat on the driveway outside the doors, shielded from the sun by an overhead trellis matted with crimson bougainvillea. I rapped on the glass.
“Angel? It’s Elvis Cole.”
Angel didn’t answer.
I rapped again, then stepped off the patio into the yard. Two windows and a door were cut into the side of the guesthouse, and had probably been there before the garage was converted. The backyard was hidden from the neighbors by a chain-link fence overgrown with trumpet vines and more bougainvillea. Violet trumpets drooped from the vines and fought with the bougainvillea for attention.
The side door was locked, and more curtains covered the windows. I returned to the French doors, knocked again, then decided to talk to his landlords. If nothing else, I could ask them to let Angel know I had come by.
I went back along the drive, climbed onto the front porch, and rang the bell. No one answered at the main house, either. I cupped my face to the window, and was able to see the living room, dining room, and part of a hall. The furnishings were gone. The owners or tenants had already moved. Maybe Tomaso had moved out with them and hadn’t bothered to tell his agent, but the odds of that were small. Struggling actors would live in their agents’ pants if they could.
I went back to the guesthouse to leave a note, but after I wrote it I decided to call Angel again. He might be around the corner, but he could have gone to Vegas with friends and might not be back for weeks.
When his cell phone rang I heard it inside his house. I lowered my phone and listened. The ringing went on for five rings, and then the ringing stopped. Angel’s message was playing in my phone.
I said, “Angel?”
Nothing.
I put away my phone, then knocked again. After I knocked I tried the handles. The first set of French doors was locked, but the second set opened when I pulled the lever.
The guesthouse was set up like a studio apartment with a cheap dining table, a TV, and a pull-out couch. A cell phone, wallet, and keys were on the table. Books on acting and directing were stacked on the floor, and unframed posters of modern crime films like The Big Lebowski and Gone Baby Gone were tacked to the wall. The furnishings were spare, but Angel had filled his apartment with the stuff of an aspiring actor, only now he would never see it again.
Angel Tomaso was facedown on the couch with the side of his head so dark with crusted blood it was black in the bad light. He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. His bare arms and legs were purple where the blood had settled. Someone had written on the wall in uneven red letters. The message read: I LOVED U.
I listened, but knew Angel was alone. The tiny apartment was still, with only a single fly circling the body. In the time I stood in the door, more flies joined the first.
I stepped inside and went to his body. The couch beneath his head was rich with dark blood, and the ceiling above the body showed a thin splatter trail from the rise of the weapon. The side of his head behind his right ear had been struck with something heavy more than one time. Whatever had been used to kill him was no longer present.
The message appeared to have been written in blood, but when I examined it more closely I realized it had been written in lipstick.
The windows and doors showed no sign of forced entry. His apartment appeared in order, and did not look as if it had been searched. I was careful not to leave fingerprints or disturb the scene. His wallet contained sixty-two dollars, a Visa card, and a MasterCard. A letter from his aunt was unopened on the kitchenette counter. I felt sad when I saw it, thinking he should have opened it when he had the chance.
I was still sitting there when two uniformed officers came through the picket gate, walked up the drive, and saw me. Then they saw Angel’s body through the open doors and told me to raise my hands.
23
“TAKE IT easy. I was just calling you guys.”
The older officer said, “I’ve heard that a thousand times.”
Their names were Giardi and Silbermann, Giardi being a senior P-III training officer. Silbermann was a first-year boot, still on probation, and was big on shouting instructions. Giardi told him to settle down. Both of them eyed my face, but neither asked about the bruises.
I identified myself, told them I was armed and why I was present. They didn’t handcuff or arrest me, but they checked my ID, took my pistol, and the three of us went to the French doors without entering.
Silbermann said, “Yikes.”
“His name was Angel Tomaso, also known as Andy Thom. He was a witness in a murder case three years ago.”
Giardi said, “You shouldn’t talk without a lawyer.”
“I’m not admitting to anything, Giardi, I’m just telling you. I’ve been trying to find him. Connie Bastilla down at Robbery-Homicide knows about it.”
“She knows about him being dead?”
“She knows I’ve been trying to find him. As of last week, she was trying to find him, too.”
Silbermann checked out my face again.
“You get in a fight with him before you killed him?”
Giardi told him to stop. He called in the situation, then walked me out to the radio car to wait for the roll-outs. Silbermann stayed at the guesthouse, guarding the scene in case anyone shot their way past me and Giardi.
I said, “How did you guys know to come here?”
“Anonymous male caller reported a DB. Was that you?”
“Not me. Like I said, I was about to call when you guys arrived.”
“Save it for the detectives. They’re on the way.”
Two more radio cars arrived, one with a sergeant-supervisor who ordered the street blocked off, and then the detectives arrived. One of the detectives was Crimmens.
Giardi met them on the drive, then pointed my way. Crimmens never took his eyes off me as Giardi gave his report. When Giardi finished, he took Crimmens’s partner back to the guesthouse, but Crimmens came to me. He grinned when he saw my face.
“What happened, Cole, you mouth off to the wrong guy?”
“I thought you were downtown.”
“No more task force. They sent me back to North Hollywood. Is that really Tomaso back there?”
“See for yourself.”
“You kill him?”
“He was dead when I got here.”
“When did you get here?”
“Five minutes before Giardi and Silbermann.”
“We’ll see.”
“Too bad I didn’t get here last week when you and Bastilla couldn’t find him. He might still be alive.”
“Sit tight, shitbird. You’re going to be here a while.”
Crimmens left to see the body as Silbermann returned and slid in beside me.
Silbermann said, “Did you kill that guy?”
“Of course not.”
“I think you killed him.”
“Let me ask you a question. When was the body reported?”
“Forget it, murderer. I’m not telling you anything.”
Silbermann didn’t speak to me again for twenty minutes. During that time, Crimmens and his partner returned to their car. Crimmens spent most of that time on his phone until the coroner investigator arrived, then the three of them went back to the body. Crimmens almost immediately reappeared as a command-level black-and-white arrived and parked at the mouth of the drive. When the command car opened, Bastilla and Marx got out.
Silbermann’s eyes widened and he craned around for a better look.
“Wow, that’s a deputy chief.”
“He puts on his pants just like you.”
“You’re retarded.”
Marx glanced at me only once, then turned away as another unmarked D-ride pulled up. A tall, thin detective in his mid-fifties got out of the new car and joined Marx in the drive. They traded a few words, both of them glancing at me, then hooked up with Bastilla and Crimmens. The new guy was probably Munson. I wanted to wave and smile, but common sense got the best of me.
Marx and Munson eventually disappeared down the drive, but Bastilla and Crimmens came over to me.
I said, “For a task force that no longer exists, you people spend a lot of time together.”
Bastilla stopped on the sidewalk and crossed her arms.
“How did you find him?”
“Aren’t you going to smart off about my face? Everyone else does.”
“Everyone else probably cares. How did you find him?”
“His former roommate gave me a number for Tomaso’s family in Texas. The family told me he moved back here to resume acting. His talent agent gave me the address.”
I left Pat Kyle out of it and would not involve her without her permission.
“Did you speak with him?”
“He was dead when I got here.”
“Before he was dead, Cole. Did you have a conversation with him before he was murdered?”
“I only learned he was here a couple of hours ago. I called, but all I got was his message, so I came over. I didn’t know he was dead. I had no reason to believe he was in danger.”
“You remove anything from his apartment?”
“C’mon, Bastilla. You think I was looking for souvenirs?”
Silbermann jumped in.
“The door was open when we arrived. He was right there by the door and all by himself. It’s a solid burglary collar.”
Bastilla said, “You’re Silbermann?”
“Yes, ma’am. Giardi and I arrived on the scene at—”
Bastilla held up her hand.
“You can leave now, Officer. Thanks for your assistance.”
Silbermann looked crestfallen, but slid out of the car.
I said, “Why are you and Marx here? I thought the case was cleared.”
“What makes you think this poor kid has anything to do with the case?”
I stared at her, but her face had been composed to show nothing. “Because you and Crimmens were looking for him and now he’s dead. Because he was a principal in the Bennett case, and now we can’t talk to him.”
“Did you see what was written on his wall?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“The evidence indicates a lovers’ quarrel. Did you enter his apartment?”
“So a man we were all looking for last week turns up dead, and you’re good with a lovers’ quarrel?”
“Did you go in or not?”
“No. I could see he was dead from the door.”
If I admitted entering the apartment, she would have a green light to book me.
“Did you disturb the evidence in any way?”
“How could I disturb the evidence if I didn’t go in?”
“Do you know or suspect who did this?”
“Probably the same person who killed those seven women. What happened with Ivy Casik? Did you follow up on the man she saw visiting Byrd?”
Bastilla pursed her lips, then shook her head as if she felt sorry for me.
“You’re a screwup all the way around, Cole.”
“What does that mean?”
Bastilla stepped away and nodded at Crimmens. Crimmens made a little finger wave, telling me to get out of the car.
“C’mon, let’s go.”
Crimmens turned me around and pushed me against the car.
“Assume the position.”
“What in hell are you doing?”
Bastilla said, “Making sure you didn’t remove anything from the crime scene. If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll be placed under arrest for unlawful entry, burglary, and suspicion of murder.”
Crimmens said, “Don’t be slow, Mr. Thirty. Just go along.”
Crimmens went through my pockets, placing my wallet, cell phone, thirty cents, and a handkerchief on the trunk of the patrol car. He also took my notepad and a black uni-ball pen. While Crimmens searched me, Bastilla slid into the backseat where I had been sitting. She ran her hand along the seam in the seat, then searched the floorboards and under the front seat. She inspected anyplace I could have hidden something if I had something I wanted to hide, then backed out of the car. I wondered what she was looking for.
“Check his socks and shoes. Make sure he didn’t put anything in his shorts.”
“Why don’t you check me yourself, Bastilla? Crimmens might miss my crotch pocket.”
Bastilla turned red, but didn’t respond.
Marx and Munson returned and stood with Bastilla on the sidewalk while Crimmens searched me. The three of them spoke quietly, then Munson went to his car, making a call on his cell. Marx and Bastilla turned back to us as Crimmens finished.
“He’s clean, boss.”
“Have you questioned him yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Leave us for now, but don’t go far. You can have him when I’m finished.”
Crimmens immediately joined his partner and the CI on the driveway. Silbermann and Giardi stood with them, too.
I said, “So much for your case being closed, Marx.”
Marx studied me with his mouth folded into a hard crease, then put his hands on his hips.
“You’re a pathetic excuse, Cole. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“For doing your job?”
His jaw clenched, but he kept going.
“For destroying what little peace of mind the Repkos have. Mrs. Repko told me you assaulted her sons. What in hell is wrong with you?”
“Speak to Mr. Repko. He might tell a different story.”
“What’s your endgame here? You trying to drum up a fee by getting the families to hire you?”