The Forgotten Man

by Robert Crais

  "That's a good idea, Starkey. That's a really good idea."

  "Of course it is, Cole. It's also a long shot and totally unlikely, but it'll give you something to do in your spare time."

  I thought about it. George probably wouldn't have abandoned his money unless David had done something so bad that George was afraid David would go to prison or be taken away from him. It would have to be something serious; arson, or a crime against persons, like rape, armed robbery, or homicide.

  I said, "If I wanted a list of the open major crimes that occurred in Temecula between certain dates thirty-five years ago, could I get it?"

  Starkey pouched out her lips, thinking, then opened her cell phone.

  "Lemme make a couple of calls. I can find out."

  Starkey's cell phone worked perfectly, which left me annoyed. You try to be big about these things, but still. I thought she was calling Gittamon, but she phoned her former boss at the Criminal Conspiracy Section, instead; a lieutenant named Barry Kelso. CCS detectives investigated bombs and bombings, which is what Starkey did after she left the Bomb Squad. She copied a number Kelso gave her, then called someone on the Sheriffs named Braun.

  "Barry Kelso told me you could help. This is Detective Carol Starkey, LAPD Bomb Squad."

  When I arched my eyebrows at her, Starkey covered the phone.

  "You say Bomb Squad, it gets people's attention."

  She asked Braun if he could provide a list of unsolved felony crimes that had occurred in and around the city of Temecula in the fourteen days prior to the Reinnikes' disappearance thirty-five years ago. Braun must have asked why she wanted the information. Starkey's voice grew frosty.

  "All I can tell you is it involves bomb components and national security. Don't ask any more than that."

  Braun must have been impressed. They spent another ten minutes on the phone, with Braun asking questions designed to narrow the search. When they finished, Starkey covered the phone again to ask my fax number, then passed it to Braun.

  She said, "Okay, I'm going to give you my home fax number. You can fax the information to me here."

  That was it. She closed her phone and looked at me.

  "We'll see. He isn't sure what he can come up with. It might take a couple of days."

  I said, "Thanks, Carol. Really."

  She nodded, but pursed her mouth again as if she still had something to say. She stared at the women in the next booth again, then glanced back at me. She laid her hand on Reinnike's file. She placed her palm carefully, as if she were touching something delicate. She shook her head.

  "You don't believe this clown is related to you, do you?"

  "No."

  "George isn't your father. That would be absurd, thinking George was your father. Everything you've told me says it doesn't add up. You see that, don't you?"

  "I realize that. I know."

  "I don't care what he thought or that he had those clippings with him; he was delusional."

  I wanted Starkey to stop talking about it. I glanced at the three women.

  "I know what you're saying."

  "Then why don't you stop this nonsense?"

  Starkey was hunched forward on the table, staring at me. She did not look away. I didn't look away, either.

  "George went into that alley with pictures of me. He went in thinking I was his son. Maybe he even went in thinking I would be there. I don't know why he had the pictures and did that, but I want to know. The only way I can find out is to find someone who can tell me. I don't want to just write him off as crazy because then I'll never really know; not really. I need someone to tell me. I need to see it for myself. Do you see that?"

  "I just don't want you to get hurt with this stuff."

  I nodded, and made a little smile. That was nice of her to say.

  She said, "In the alley, when Diaz told you and you saw the clippings—before you knew all this other stuff—did you hope it was true? Did you want him to be your father?"

  The answer to that one was easy.

  "Someone is. Somewhere."

  Starkey laid her hand on mine. She gave me a squeeze.

  "I gotta get back to work."

  She slid out of the booth, but I didn't get up. Starkey bent to kiss my cheek. When she leaned to kiss me, her hair fell forward. I had never seen Starkey from that angle. She was pretty.

  41

  When I left Starkey at the Musso & Frank Grill, I thought about swinging past my office, but didn't. My office was close to Musso, and dropping in would have been easy, but I didn't; I was anxious to hear from Braun and Chen, so I blew off the office and hurried back to my home. I should have gone to my office. Everything would have played out differently if only I had gone to my office.

  But my instinct to go directly home paid off in its way—a fax was waiting in my machine by the time I reached home. The cover letter was addressed to Starkey, recapping that Braun had limited the search to unresolved Crimes Against Persons occurring thirty miles or less from Temecula, resulting in twenty-seven entries. Braun had worked fast thanks to Starkey's magic words: Bomb Squad.

  I brought the pages to my couch, and read through them. The individual entries were each no more than a few lines written in an abbreviated shorthand that read like code—

  SDC#R4123; 05/12/70; rsp. 1120hrs; AGR. ASLT/RBY; 1255

  Park Dr/Murrieta/prv.res;VIC Ronald L. Peters, wht, 41; aslt w/entrg hm/weap.red brick.RAS/DNS aslnt;no wit;no arr; no sus. Ofc #664.

  The first entry described an aggravated assault and robbery that had taken place in Murrieta, California, which I knew to be five or six miles north of Temecula. The victim was a forty-one-year-old white male named Ronald Peters, who was assaulted while entering his home by an unknown assailant wielding a brick. The brick was recovered at the scene, but Peters did not see his assailant, no one else witnessed the crime, and the police had no suspects. The Reinnikes probably hadn't disappeared to flee assault and robbery charges. Peters had probably flashed too much cash in a bar, and been followed home in what amounted to a crime of opportunity.

  Most of the entries were assaults and armed robberies like the first, but I found two rapes that gave me pause. The rapes occurred on consecutive nights about a week before the Reinnikes disappeared. The first happened ten miles south of Temecula, the next twelve miles east. Both victims were abducted by two masked assailants driving a white van. I wondered how I could find out if George Reinnike had a white van at the time he lived in Temecula. I made a note about it and moved on.

  The next several entries were lightweight armed robberies and assaults, but then I reached a homicide. Kenneth Dupris had been murdered in Sun City, eight miles south of Temecula, and nine days before the Reinnikes disappeared. He had been murdered at home. The cause-of-death abbreviation was MLTP KNF/HD—an unknown subject had repeatedly stabbed Dupris in the head. The entry noted that Dupris's dog had also been stabbed. I made another note.

  When I read the eighth entry on the third page, the context of everything changed—

  SDC#H5009; 05/22/70; rsp. 1915hrs; HOM (MLP - 3); 625 Court

  Ln/Temecula/prv.res;VIC H. Diaz, m, mex, 36; VIC M. Diaz, f,

  mex, 32; VIC R. Diaz, m, mex, 12MC; COD BFT; aslt in hm/

  weap.bbbat/RAS;WIT K. Diaz, f, mex, 4MC;no arr; no sus. Ofc(s)

  #716, 952. DME#FG877-2.

  A family had been beaten to death with a baseball bat nine days before the Reinnikes disappeared. The ages and genders of the victims indicated they were a father, mother, and son. The only surviving member of their family was a four-year-old girl, who was also the only witness. The victims were named Diaz. The surviving child was K. Diaz.

  I went into the kitchen, drank a glass of water, then read the entry again. K. Diaz. I checked the dates, then did the math. K. Diaz would now be about the same age as Kelly Diaz, but the name Diaz was as common as Smith or Johnson. The L.A. general directory contained thousands of people named Diaz.

  I was still thinking about it when my p
hone rang. It was Chen.

  "That guy Pardy is a prick. He said I had to do for him like I do for you. He said if I don't help him out, he'll report me for doing outside work on LAPD time."

  "John, I will cover you, okay? Did you get a chance to look at the image?"

  "Yeah, yeah—I got all seven digits. The vehicle shows to a Payne L. Keller in Canyon Camino. That's by Magic Mountain."

  Canyon Camino was a small community north of the San Fernando Valley, twenty minutes away.

  "Is it stolen?"

  "Not even an outstanding ticket. Either Keller loaned Reinnike the car, or Keller was another alias like Herbert Faustina."

  Chen gave me the address on the registration. I asked if he had told Pardy.

  "Yeah, he told me to call him first, that prick. I gotta call Beckett, too. Beckett has to notify the next of kin, so they'll be calling up there."

  "Thanks, John. Thanks for the good work. I appreciate it."

  "That isn't you, is it? His next of kin?"

  "No, it isn't me. I just got a little carried away."

  Chen sounded awkward.

  "Okay. Well. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be."

  I put down the phone, feeling torn between Keller's address and Braun's letter. Braun had included two phone numbers. I reached him at his office and tried to sound businesslike. Payne Keller would have to wait.

  "Mr. Braun, my name is Cole. I'm working with Detective Starkey on the matter you discussed."

  "That's right. Did she get those faxes?"

  "That's why I'm calling, sir. We have an interest in learning more about one of these cases. We'd like to see the file."

  "Those files would be in storage. What I sent were computer summaries."

  "We have an urgent interest in one of these files. Could you tell us where it is located?"

  "Are you with the Bomb Squad, too?"

  "I can't discuss my agency, sir, but our interest is urgent."

  "All right, well, okay. What's the file number? I have to get to my desk."

  I read off the file number while he went to his desk, and then he told me how to find the file. I could have taken five minutes longer before leaving my house. I could have used the bathroom or fed the cat or washed a few dishes. It all would have worked out better if I had killed a few minutes, but I didn't. I was in a hurry. I left.

  42

  Frederick

  Frederick returned to Cole's house. The carport was empty, and just as when he arrived the previous day, no one appeared home. Frederick left his truck around the curve at the same construction site, then sat in the same olive trees to watch Cole's house, but neither Cole nor the police officer who was guarding him appeared. After thirty minutes, Frederick didn't hesitate.

  He walked straight out of the trees, up the street, and knocked at Cole's front door. No one answered. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. He walked through the carport around the side of the house, and found a likely window.

  Frederick popped Cole's kitchen window, hoisted himself up with a grunt, and shimmied over the sill into Cole's kitchen. Once he was inside Cole's house, he took the shotgun from its case.

  Cole had to come home sooner or later. Frederick decided to wait.

  43

  The Sheriffs kept their records in a five-floor gray building south of the train yards at Union Station. A long train rumbled past the parking lot as I parked. The ground trembled with the strain of steel crushing into steel like a slow-motion earthquake. I waited for the caboose, but cars kept coming in a steady line. A low mist of dust was kicked up in the parking lot by the tremor. I trembled, too. I waited, but more cars came, and the line didn't end. I finally went inside.

  A middle-aged woman was seated behind a narrow counter like the service counter at an auto-parts store. They don't let people walk in off the street to search their files; a sworn officer had to provide a badge and case number, then wait while the clerk found the file. I had convinced Braun that time was crucial. He had been kind enough to call ahead.

  I said, "Long train."

  "You get used to it."

  "My name is Cole. Sergeant Braun called to request a file."

  She peered at me, then went to a wire shopping cart that was parked beside her desk. She took out a dingy black file box and brought it to the counter. The file number was handwritten on the box's spine.

  "That's right. I brought it up, but that file is not available. Someone checked it out, and didn't return it. That happens sometimes."

  I could tell the box was empty by the way she placed it on the counter and spun it toward me. She flipped open the lid to show me. Empty. The Diaz file was missing.

  I said, "Is there a sign-out log?"

  "Oh, sure, there should be."

  She took a yellowed card from a sleeve attached to the outside of the file box. Everyone who requested the files had to sign for them, like an old-fashioned library card. She glanced at it, then placed it on the counter.

  "These people must think they're all doctors, the way they write."

  Three people had requested the file since it turned cold. The first two names were Alvarez and Tolbert, both of whom had revisited the file on separate occasions more than twenty years ago. A third entry was scrawled and difficult to read, but I could make out enough of the letters. Det. K. Diaz. Diaz had taken the file almost eight years ago, and never returned it.

  I thanked the clerk, then went back to my car. The train was gone. The earth no longer shook with its enormous rolling weight, but somehow the parking lot and train yard seemed smaller without it. I called Diaz on her cell, but her message picked up. I asked her to call, then phoned her office. A duty detective named Pier-son answered.

  "She isn't here."

  "When do you expect her?"

  "Got no idea, man. You want to leave word?"

  "How about Pardy?"

  "Pardy isn't here, either."

  I left word they should call, then hung up. Police officers never list themselves in the phone book. They stay unlisted so the criminal sociopaths they arrest can't shoot out their windows. But Diaz had given me her cell number, and cell accounts have billing addresses. I called a friend of mine at the phone company. She used the number to identify Diaz's cell provider, from whom she obtained the billing address. A cop would need a court order for something like this, but Dodgers tickets work even better.

  I looked up the address on my Thomas Brothers, then went to see what I would find.

  Diaz lived south of Sunset Boulevard in Silver Lake, on a winding street that had once been crowded with Central American refugees. The bottom half of her duplex had recently been painted a bright turquoise blue, but the tiny front lawn was nappy from poor care. I parked on the upslope, then went to her door. I knocked. The building was so small the pounding must have filled the little apartment.

  "Diaz, it's Cole."

  I tried the door, then stepped back and studied the upstairs apartment to see if anyone was home. I couldn't tell. I knocked again.

  "Diaz?"

  A horn honked behind me. I turned, and saw Pardy idling in the street. I wondered if he had been watching the house or following me. He tapped his horn again, and waved me over.

  "What are you doing here, Cole?"

  I hesitated. I wanted to tell him about the murder book, but I also wanted to see what was inside her house.

  "I dropped by to see her. How about you?"

  Pardy glanced toward the apartment like he knew I was lying, and ignored my question.

  "Is she home?"

  "She didn't answer."

  "Didn't answer her phone, either. C'mon, get in."

  "I'm okay."

  "It's too hot to stand out there. C'mon, sit where it's cool."

  I went around the tail of his car, and got in. He studied me, and I wondered what he was thinking.

  He said, "Diaz never told me you were friends. How do you know where she lives?"

  "She gave me her address."
/>   "Was she expecting you?"

  "I just dropped around. I wanted to talk about Reinnike."

  Pardy nodded, but didn't comment, and I wondered again why he was here.

  "How about you, Pardy? Are you close to making an arrest?"

  "I'm working on it."

  "So you came over to talk about it with Diaz."

  "That's right."

  "Why not just talk at the office?"

  Pardy checked his rearview mirror, then studied her apartment as if he expected to see something new. He made no move to move the car.

  "Let me ask you something, Cole. Did you find anything that explains why Reinnike had those clippings?"

  "No."

  "Nothing that connects you to him?"

  "Nothing."

  Pardy stared at me, and I stared back. He glanced at her apartment again, and I was sure we suspected the same things. He just couldn't bring himself to say it.

  "Now I have a question for you, Pardy. What if I said a cop killed him? What would you say to that?"

  "I'd say you'd better have your facts together and your ass covered. I'd say you better have a slam-dunk case with every i dotted and t crossed. If you don't, you'd damned well better keep your mouth shut until you do."

  "Did you talk to Chen?"

  "Yeah, about the registration. I spoke to the sheriff up in Canyon Camino a couple of hours ago. Keller owns a gas station up there. So far as the sheriff knew, Keller never said anything about a son. He said Keller lived alone."

  "Do they know why he came to L.A.?"

  "Didn't even know he was missing. They're going to try to locate a next of kin."

  "Did you tell them about the arrest you're thinking about?"

  Pardy put the dark eyes on me again.

  "Why would I talk out my ass like that?"

  "You not bring able to dot the i's and cross the t's."

  "That's right. I'm going to work on it right now. I'm going to take off, and I won't be back, but I'll be nearby. Maybe you and I will talk later."