by Robert Crais
“Change it, more likely. You don’t destroy that many records—a couple of files, maybe, sure, anyone can lose a file—but you can’t explain it if that much stuff goes missing. So you change it. Take out the parts you don’t like. Retype the pages if you have to. Then you put everything back in the system and hope nobody notices.”
I was staring at her when she finished. She saw me staring, and shrugged.
“Just saying.”
Marx didn’t say much when they finished. They slipped into their cars, and pulled into the oncoming traffic. Starkey and I followed Marx.
He climbed onto the Pasadena Freeway almost right away and never once exceeded the speed limit. The traffic was heavy, but smooth—the lanes flowing with on-their-way-home-from-work freeway professionals who made this same drive at this same hour every day of the week. We crossed the river and cruised up through Montecito Heights, where the Pasadena officially becomes part of Route 66. Marx led us into South Pasadena, where the freeway ends, then along surface streets into the soft residential slopes of Altadena. We entered a neighborhood of neat, modest homes set among pepper trees that cast jagged shadows on the lawns. When his blinker came on, I cut the lights and pulled to the side.
Starkey said, “You think this is where he lives?”
“I don’t know. Looks like it.”
“Maybe he’s just dropping off the stuff.”
“Can you drive a stick?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to see. When I get out, get behind the wheel. Be ready to go.”
The Lexus turned past the dark shoulder of a camellia bush, then lights flashed across a lawn. I got out, and ran hard to the camellia at the head of the drive. A small ARMED RESPONSE security patrol sign stood beside the bush. The garage was open, and bright with interior light. His sedan shared the garage with a silver Lexus SUV. Marx was lifting the box from his backseat when I reached the camellia. An interior door from the garage into the house was open, and a woman wearing black pants and a loose T-shirt was waiting at the door. She was a nice-looking woman about Marx’s age, and interacted with him the way a wife would interact with her husband.
Marx placed the box on the trunk of his car, sat his briefcase on the box, then put the manila envelope on top of the briefcase. When the stack of goods was manageable, he carried the box into the house. The woman stepped to the side to let him pass, then touched a button on the wall. I wondered if she knew what was in the box. I wondered if she cared.
The light in the garage went off.
The door rumbled down.
Marx was home.
His secrets were with him.
I called Joe Pike.
32
I SLIPPED into the shadows beneath a pepper tree, then made my way alongside Marx’s house into his backyard. I took it slow, thinking there might be a dog or lights rigged to a motion sensor, but there was neither.
The backyard was lush and comfortable even at night, with a giant avocado tree spread over a patio. Fallen fruit littered the ground and filled the air with a pungent scent. The kitchen and what appeared to be a family room were on the garage side at the back of the house, and opened onto the patio. Marx had a very nice outdoor kitchen, with an enormous gas grill and a Big Green Egg smoker. The woman I took to be Marx’s wife was in the kitchen. Marx entered the family room from the opposite side of the house, then disappeared through a door. He wasn’t carrying the box or files or his briefcase, and no one else was visible inside the home.
Windows glowed with dim light on the far side of the house, so I moved past the patio. The first set of windows revealed a small bedroom that looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. A bathroom came next, then the corner room. Marx was using the corner room as an office. The light was on. I moved closer to see if the box and files were in his office, but Marx came in before I reached the window. He went to his desk, looked down at something, then abruptly stepped into a closet. I couldn’t see what was inside or what he did, but then he backed out, closed the door, and left his office. He turned out the light as he left.
I drifted back to the patio, saw that Marx was now in the kitchen with his wife, then returned to his office. I took out my penlight, cupped the lens with my hand, then turned it on, letting a sliver of light between my fingers. I examined the windows on both sides of his office, looking for alarm contacts. Most of the houses in the area had the ARMED RESPONSE sign like Marx, but most of them didn’t have wired alarms. Neither did Marx. Like most other people in upper-middle-class neighborhoods, Marx had subscribed to the patrol, but hadn’t popped for the hardware.
I shut the light, then continued around the house and made my way back to the street. When I reached the car, Starkey climbed over the console into the passenger seat.
“Jesus, what took you so long?”
“Marx brought the files inside. I wanted to look around.”
I started the engine, then one-eightied toward the freeway.
Starkey said, “Damn. I’d love to see what he took.”
I nodded, but didn’t respond.
She said, “What are we going to do?”
“Go home. I’m taking you back to your car.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you expect me to do, kick down the door and beat him until he confesses? I need to figure out what to do next.”
I made small talk as we drove back to Hollywood, and almost everything I said was a lie. I knew exactly what I was going to do, but I didn’t want Starkey to know and I didn’t want her to be part of it. She had already risked enough. And as with Pat Kyle, you have to protect your friends.
I dropped Starkey outside the Hollywood Station, let her believe I was heading home, then drove back to Altadena. Joe Pike had made good time. He was waiting at a mini-mart not far from Marx’s home, his spotless red Jeep glittering in the fluorescent light beside the gas pumps like a jewel.
I pulled up next to him. Headlights coming down from the hills approached, flickered on our faces in a momentary illumination, then passed.
“You know what I’m going to do?”
“Sure. You’re going to break into his house. Anyone inside with him?”
“His wife. We’ll wait until tomorrow when the house is clear, then I’ll go in. You okay with it?”
Pike didn’t hesitate.
“Sure. Does Starkey know?”
“No. Better if she doesn’t.”
“Okay. Let’s scout the area, then figure out how we’re going to do this.”
We planned our action at three that morning, huddled together over all-night mini-mart coffee and white-bread sandwiches of processed cheese. Then we crept into position and waited.
33
MARX BACKED out of his garage at ten minutes after eight the next morning. I was across the street, sitting behind a stunted fig tree at the corner of his neighbor’s house. I had moved into position when the first grey fingers of morning pushed off the night. Pike was parked two blocks away beside a house that was being remodeled. Marx would drive past him if he headed for the freeway.
I hit the speed-dial for Joe.
“He’s getting into his Lexus. He’s wearing his uniform and he’s alone. His wife is still home.”
I shut my phone and waited. Pike called back two minutes later.
“I’m three cars behind him, southbound. Looks like he’s heading for the freeway.”
“Okay.”
Pike would follow him to the freeway before turning back. Marx might have loaded the files back into his car, but I couldn’t know that until I entered his house, so I sat in the fig tree and waited. I figured Marx would be gone for most of the day, but I was concerned about his wife. I wouldn’t enter the house as long as she was present, and she might be one of those women who never left home. A housekeeper or guest might arrive, which would be even worse.
I waited.
My cell phone vibrated a few minutes later, making a soft buzz against my thigh.
I thought it would be Pike, but it was Levy. He sounded excited and filled with interest.
“I think you’re right about Deputy Chief Marx, Elvis. He’s been virtually absent from his office this week. He’s turned his regular duties over to his assistants.”
“He’s been busy. Bastilla and Munson have been removing task force files and giving them to Marx. Marx has been bringing them home.”
Levy was quiet, then cleared his throat.
“Which files?”
“I’ll know when I see them. I’m outside his house.”
“Outside his home?”
“In a fig tree. I can’t speak any louder.”
Levy cleared his throat again.
“You shouldn’t be telling me this. I’m an officer of the court.”
“Did you talk to Ivy Casik?”
“I couldn’t find her. I went to her apartment twice yesterday, but she wasn’t home. Do you know if Marx or his people reached her?”
“Not yet. Maybe I’ll know when I see the files.”
“Right. Well. Good luck.”
Levy sounded uncomfortable.
I ended the call and went back to waiting. Pike called again almost two hours later, at five minutes after ten.
“Want to switch places? Let you stretch your legs.”
“I’m good. I kinda like it here in the tree.”
“Your call.”
The day wore on with glacial slowness. The mail was delivered, cars passed, and UPS dropped off a package. I was beginning to think I should have hijacked Marx’s car when the garage door shivered open at twenty-six minutes after two and Marx’s wife got into her SUV. I pressed the speed dial as the engine started.
“She’s coming out.”
I had described her car the night before, but now I read off the license plate. The SUV backed into the street, then drove away in the same direction as Marx.
“Heading your way.”
“You going in?”
“Soon as she’s clear.”
I waited for three cars to pass, then stepped from beneath the fig tree and crossed the street. Mrs. Marx might be leaving for the rest of the day or only running out for a bottle of milk, but either way I didn’t hurry. I walked down their drive as if I were an old family friend, continued along the side of their house, and went directly to the kitchen door. The locks didn’t take long, a Master deadbolt and the inset knob lock, six minutes top to bottom. I called Pike again when the tension bar slid home.
“I’m good. I’m going in.”
I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the door. I listened for a moment, then stepped inside. The house was cool and smelled of scented soap, but I didn’t like being there. I wanted to see what I needed to see, then get the hell out. I crossed through the kitchen, listened again, then hurried directly to the office.
A mahogany desk was angled in the corner, facing built-in cabinets, the closet, and a small TV. The unmistakable three-ring navy binder of a murder book sat on his desk. It hadn’t been on his desk last night, but now it was, as if he had looked at it this morning before leaving for work. The handwritten label on the spine read Trinh.
His desk and the area around the murder book were immaculate, with a desktop PC, a cordless phone, and a short stack of papers beside the keyboard. I fingered through the papers, but found nothing related to the case. Folders inside the desk drawers were labeled for personal things like insurance policies and utility bills. I went to the closet, and there was the rest of it. The box Munson gave to Marx was on the floor. Several thick folders held together by rubber bands were stacked on top, and two more murder books were on the floor beside the box. Repko and Frostokovich.
I felt a twinge of sadness when I saw them.
“Hello, Debra.”
I photographed the box and the murder books, then snapped a wider shot to establish the material was in the closet. I dragged the box into the room, put the murder books on top, then took more pictures from angles that included Marx’s desk and personal possessions, and the Trinh murder book on the desk. I wanted undeniable proof the missing files were in Marx’s home.
When I had enough pictures, I opened Sondra Frostokovich’s murder book. I was reading the first page, all good to go and work my way through the entire thing, when my cell phone vibrated.
Pike said, “Marx and Munson just passed, inbound. Thirty seconds.”
He didn’t waste time with more words. I had been in the house less than eight minutes, and now I was done. I had wanted to read through the material, photograph those things I found incriminating, and leave the files undisturbed to buy myself more time, but now I couldn’t play it that way. It was a lot of paper but I took it. The box was only half full, so I shoved in the loose folders and murder books, and carried it into the bathroom adjoining Marx’s office.
The garage door rumbled on the far side of the house as I stepped into the hall. I carried the box into the bathroom, set it on the toilet, and pushed open the window. The front door opened as I climbed out. Marx said something I didn’t understand as I reached back inside for the box.
I closed the window, slipped into the thick bushes between Marx’s house and the next, and hit the speed-dial for Pike. He answered like this:
“I’m here.”
“Never a doubt.”
I pushed through the hedges into the neighbors’ yard and saw Pike’s Jeep in the street. I probably should have walked, but I ran as hard as I could without looking back and without caring who saw me.
I jammed into Pike’s Jeep with the box in my lap, and Pike gunned away, the door snapping shut so hard it hammered my elbow.
Pike said, “Close.”
My eyes burned as I laughed. It was a stupid laugh, like a barking dog. I couldn’t stop until Pike gripped my arm.
34
THE CANYON behind my house was pleasant during the midday hours, with a slight breeze that brought out the hawks to search for rabbits and mice. Somewhere below, a power saw whined in the trees, punctuated by the faint tapping of a nail gun. Someone was always building something, and the sounds of it were encouraging. They sounded like life.
We put the file box and murder books on the dining table, then drank bottles of water. We ate muffins slathered with strawberry jam, standing over the murder books as if we were stealing time to eat like we had stolen the files.
We split the material between us. I skimmed the Frostokovich murder book first, and immediately saw that pages had been removed. Every murder book begins with an initial report by the original detectives who caught the case, identifying the victim and describing the crime scene. Marx and Munson had signed off on the opening crime scene report. Reports relating interviews with the workmen who discovered her body came next, followed by their initial interview with Sondra’s parents, Ron L. and Ida Frostokovich. If Marx and Munson interviewed Sondra’s girlfriends about the dinner they shared, the report of that interview was now missing. A twelve-page gap in the page-numbering sequence followed the interview with Sondra’s parents. The medical examiner’s six-page autopsy protocol was intact, but another three pages after it were missing. I didn’t bother to flip through the rest of the book.
“They gutted this thing. We’ve got missing pages all through here.”
Pike was fingering through the files in the box. He grunted, then lifted a ziplock bag containing a silver DVD. The name REPKO was written directly onto the DVD and clearly visible through the transparent plastic bag.
Pike said, “Your missing disk.”
A folded letter was stapled to the bag. Pike read it, then passed it to me.
“They sent it to the FBI. SID had it right. The Feds couldn’t get anything off the disk, either.”
The letter was from the FBI’s lab in San Francisco and was addressed to Deputy Chief Thomas Marx. It confirmed what Pike had just told me.
“But why send it at all? If Marx thought it would clear Byrd or implicate Wilts, why not just destroy it?”
P
ike grunted again, and we went on with the files.
The Trinh murder book was also missing material, though not as much as Frostokovich, but the Repko book had been looted. Most of the documents and large sections of each report were missing.
I put the murder books aside and picked out a thin file marked REPKO-PDA/PHONE LOG. The first page was a letter from the president of a cellular service provider addressed to Marx regarding Debra Repko’s missing PDA.
Dear Chief Marx,
Per your personal request today and with the understanding that this communication is off the record until such time as our attorneys receive the proper court instruction, please find the call record covering the prior sixty-day period for the above referenced cell number, which is held in contract by Leverage Associates. As discussed, I am trusting in your good word and discretion that our cooperation will remain undisclosed.
If I can be of further assistance in this matter, please do not hesitate to call my personal line.
Sincerely.
Paulette Brennert, President
The date indicated that Marx had requested the call log almost a week before Byrd’s body was found.
I said, “Get this—Marx knew about Debra Repko’s PDA. Darcy and Maddux didn’t even know about it, but Marx knew and requested the call history.”
“Didn’t you ask Bastilla about it?”
“This is from before that. Bastilla must have been pretending.”
Pike moved closer and turned the page.
The next five sheets were the call logs listing the numbers to and from Debra’s PDA during the period prior to her death. Handwritten notes in blue or black ink were by each call and most of the calls were identified as being to or from Leverage employees. A few of the calls were simply marked as family, but six of the calls were highlighted in yellow marker. The six highlighted calls had all been made in the ten days prior to her death, and all were to or from the same number. The highlighted number had not been identified. I kept reading.
The next page was a spec sheet showing a picture of a simple basic cell phone manufactured by Kyoto Electronics. It was an inexpensive model that did not fold or take pictures, and likely offered very few features. An accompanying letter was attached to the spec sheet.