The Forgotten Man

by Robert Crais

  He stared at me steadily when he said it, and I knew he was giving me the green light to go into her house. We were both thinking that Kelly Diaz had something to do with Reinnike's death.

  I got out of his car.

  "Okay, Pardy. I'll see you."

  He leaned across the seat and held out his card.

  "Take my cell. You might need to call me."

  44

  I watched Pardy drive away, then walked around the side of Diaz's apartment to a cracked cement courtyard overgrown with bougainvillea. A small balcony hung out from the second floor with wooden steps going up to a narrow door. A similar door was tucked beneath the balcony. It took eight minutes to pick the locks.

  Diaz had a small place, with one bedroom and a bath sprouting off the kitchen and living room. The furniture was mismatched and spare, with the temporary quality of a resident hotel, as if Diaz was only passing through on the way to somewhere else.

  The murder book was on her dining table. She hadn't hidden it, or even attempted to hide it. Like every other murder book, it was a dark three-ring binder. Her family name was written on the binder's spine. Diaz.

  I walked through her apartment because you always have to walk through, looking for bodies or lurkers, then returned to the table. I sat with the murder book just as she must have sat. I opened it.

  The pages felt thin, but weren't yellow or brittle. The first document was a standard form stating the facts of the crime. The lead detective was identified as Detective-Sergeant Max Alvarez., but the form was signed by Detective Korvin Tolbert. Leads often left the paperwork to their partners.

  At 1915 hrs on 22 May 69, RO/s Padilla (#1344) and Bigelow (#6191) entered private residence at 625 Court Lane, Temecula, in response to summons by neighbors. Upon entering residence, RO/s observed three deceased (see below) and surviving minor child (see below). RO/s secured scene. Detectives M. Alvarez (#716) and K. Tolbert (#1952) arrived 2025 hrs. At that time, Coroner's Office pronounced victims dead of apparent homicide.

  Photo ID (DL) found at scene and vis. ident. by neighbors (see below) provided prelim. identification of victims as Herman Eduardo Diaz, age 36; his wife, Maria Diaz, age 32; their son, Richard Raul Diaz, age 12. Confirmed ID pending Medical Examiner. Initial indications were the three suffered severe blunt-force trauma to the head. A 30-inch Louisville Slugger baseball bat was recovered at the scene, and has been submitted for tests. Bat evidenced blood, tissue, and hair. (See below.)

  Neighbors identified unharmed female minor child as Kelly Louise Diaz, age 4, the daughter of Herman and Maria. No attempt was made to question child at scene. Child was taken into custody by Children's Services pending next of kin.

  When I saw the little girl's full name, my breath hissed out in a soft low sigh. Kelly Diaz's family had been bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat twelve-point-two miles from the Reinnikes' house, nine days before the Reinnikes disappeared. Kenneth Dupris's dog had been stabbed to death two days earlier. David Reinnike had been accused of stabbing a collie, and had once attacked another child with a baseball bat. Thirty-five years later, LAPD Detective Kelly Diaz had been the only one present when David Reinnike's father, George, was murdered in an alley.

  The first report was only three pages long. Tolbert had written it on the morning after the murder, so his initial facts were spare, but later that day he attached reports written by the responding officers, and statements from neighbors. The victims were discovered by a neighbor who had gone to ask if her children could stay with the Diaz family that night while she visited a hospitalized friend. She believed them to be home because their cars were in the drive. No one responded to her knocking, but the door was ajar, so she pushed it open and announced her presence. That's when she saw Maria Diaz lying on the blood-saturated carpet.

  A sketch followed the initial statements, showing the location of the bodies and the baseball bat. Each body was a little stick figure with initials written beside it. Tolbert noted that the premises had not been vandalized, the vehicles had not been stolen, and nothing appeared to be missing. Robbery was not considered a motive, but would not be ruled out until further investigation.

  The next pages contained photographs of the crime scene. The first showed Maria Diaz facedown behind a couch. Her head was a red mass of hair and tissue. She was wearing shorts and a black T-shirt emblazoned with MOTHERS OF INVENTION.

  Herman Diaz was in the second picture. He was on his back, staring at a ceiling he could not see. The blood had pooled around his head, fanning from his face like red petals.

  The third picture showed their twelve-year-old son, Richard. He was partially hidden under the kitchen table, but a thin smear of red trailed across the floor as if left by a mop. Her brother had been trying to escape.

  I felt light-headed, and realized I had stopped breathing. I looked up and breathed deeply.

  I flipped past pictures of splatter patterns and smudgy footprints. Sheriffs Department criminalists had isolated a partial thumbprint on the kitchen door and three print fragments on the baseball bat, but had been unable to establish an identity. They also found partial impressions on the kitchen floor consistent with a cleated, size-twelve work boot, suggesting an adult male assailant of average size and weight.

  Most of the remaining reports, statements, and interviews were entered into the murder book during the three weeks following the crime. Tolbert entered the lab reports as they arrived, but their results—like the interviews and the rest of the investigation—offered nothing useful. No suspects had been identified, and after a time the investigation turned cold.

  Tolbert's last report was dated sixteen weeks after the murders. Maria's sister, Teresa Evans, had gone through her sister's possessions, and reported that a heart-shaped necklace was missing. The necklace was described as a simple silver heart that had originally belonged to their grandmother. She told Tolbert that Maria wore it as her everyday necklace, but it was not among the items returned to the family by the coroner, and had not been found in the house. Teresa had sent Tolbert a picture of Maria Diaz wearing the necklace. Tolbert had entered the picture into the murder book. Maria Diaz was wearing a bright spring dress. Her shoulders were tanned and pretty, and she was standing on someone's patio at twilight. She could have been Kelly Diaz's sister. The necklace stood out plainly. Kelly Diaz had been wearing the necklace when I went to see her at Central Station, and on the morning I stood with her over George Reinnike's body.

  I closed the murder book, then went to the kitchen. I turned on the tap, and cupped my hand under the cool stream to drink. When I finished, I wiped my hand on my pants, then returned to the dining room.

  Alvarez and Tolbert hadn't tied the Reinnikes to the murders because their disappearance was never reported; they had simply paid their rent and vanished. Their landlord had no reason to suspect a crime, and was happy to be rid of them. Six years later when the police busted his then-current tenant for mail fraud, the murders were forgotten news. Nothing in the murder book identified the Reinnikes as suspects, but Kelly Diaz had ended up in an alley with George Reinnike. And clippings about me.

  Diaz probably hadn't found Reinnike; George had probably found her. He paid them to pray. After a lifetime of guilt, George had probably sought out Diaz to beg her forgiveness, and brought her mother's necklace as proof that he was involved in the killings. Even his alias spoke to his guilt: Keller ... Kelly. He had taken her name as he had desecrated his flesh—to suffer a daily reminder of his sin. Reinnike probably hadn't known of me, and had never heard of me; he had come to Los Angeles looking for Kelly Diaz.

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Diaz planted the clippings about me. She planted the key card in the alley and more clippings in Reinnike's motel room to hook me into tracing Reinnike, and it had worked. Maybe Reinnike confessed everything to Diaz except for David's whereabouts, so she needed a way to find him that wouldn't put herself at the forefront of the search. Me. The World's Greatest Detect
ive would find David, then she could kill him just as she had killed his father.

  I dialed her cell again, but her message still answered. I called Pardy.

  45

  Starkey

  Starkey walked from Musso back to her office, feeling sullen and antsy. The morning sun beat hard through the broken sky, making her sweat on the short walk back to Hollywood Station. Her collar itched, and so did her scars. She wanted to peel off her blazer, but the blazer hid her pistol, so she slogged on. Starkey wished it was still raining. She wanted to walk in the rain with limp dangling hair and smoke soggy cigarettes and show everyone she was perfectly purely pathetic.

  She loved Cole more than ever.

  She realized—the two of them sitting in Musso's with Starkey trying to keep her feelings in check like some kind of crash-test dummy—that Cole kept himself buried; he hid behind flashy shirts and funny banter not unlike how his friend Pike hid behind dark glasses and a stone face. But hidden is hidden; for a moment just now in Musso's, Cole had let Starkey see the hidden and hurting part of himself, and now she loved him even more deeply. For letting her see. For trusting her.

  Goddamn it sucked being her.

  Starkey stripped off the jacket as soon as she reached her desk. She forced Cole out of her head by organizing the reports on her desk. She had just closed a teenaged prostitution case. All that was left was correcting her report. She had just gotten her head into it when Metcalf strolled by with a fresh cup of coffee.

  "How's it going, Starkey? Did Cole come across for the little favor you did?"

  When she glanced up, Metcalf leered, and pushed out his cheek with his tongue. He laughed as he went to his desk.

  Starkey stared at the report, but now the feelings for Cole filled her again, and—just like that—she made up her mind.

  Starkey decided to lay it on the line. She would tell Cole exactly how she felt about him; no more biting her tongue, no more hoping the goofy doof would wake up to realize Starkey was the real deal and Lady Puffinstuff Southern Belle was yesterday's news. Some guys, you had to put it straight up their noses, and Cole—clearly—was one of them. If he freaked, then he freaked; if he chose Lady Macbeth, then—

  Starkey pushed away that thought.

  She ate two antacids, slugged down some water, then ate two more.

  She squared the report again, then eyeballed Metcalf, muttering into his phone at his desk. He was either taking notes or talking to one of his girlfriends. His coffee was still steaming in its cup. He needed one of those cups with a slogan on the side: World's Biggest Asshole.

  Starkey got up, slipped on her blazer, then walked over to Metcalf on her way out.

  "Hey, Ronnie."

  Metcalf looked up.

  Starkey pushed her tongue into her cheek like she was giving a blow job, then tipped his steaming coffee into his lap. Metcalf shrieked as he stumbled out of his chair. He was still hopping and cursing when Starkey left.

  She headed for Cole's house.

  46

  "It's Diaz. Diaz killed George Reinnike."

  Pardy said, "I'm listening."

  "Her family was murdered when she was four years old. Father, mother, and brother—she was the only survivor. Did you know that?"

  Pardy made a soft whistle in the phone.

  "No. I had no idea. I figured her for the shooting, but I had no idea. Jesus."

  "The original murder book is here in her house. The Reinnikes disappeared eight days after the murders. They are not named in the investigation, but the silver heart she wears belonged to her mother. It was reported missing at the time of the crime. That's all in the book. The investigators believed the killer had taken it as a trophy. Now she's wearing it. I think Reinnike brought it to prove who he was."

  "She could say she had a copy made."

  "She can say anything she wants. I'm telling you she's good for it, and you know it, too—that's why you didn't care about Golden."

  Pardy hesitated, like he still had trouble admitting what we both knew.

  "I had her for it, I just didn't know why. I have the gun."

  "The murder weapon?"

  "One of my street people found it behind Union Station. A Browning .380. Your boy Chen just matched it to the bullet in Reinnike. It's not clean, but I can put the gun with her."

  "Your own private Walk-in Wednesday."

  "I couldn't have made the connection without that, Cole. This gun was used in a murder last year up at the top of Angels Flight. Wits saw the gun at the scene, but somehow that weapon wasn't recovered. Diaz worked that case, Cole. That gives her access."

  "Thin."

  "You're goddamned right it's thin, so I need the i's dotted. I have two wits who saw Reinnike with a dark-haired woman the night he was killed. I gotta have time to put that together. This business about her family gives me enough to go to O'Loughlin. Here I am, my first lead, and I'm making a case where it looks like the shooter is a senior detective in my own station. I need this thing stitched before I bring it forward."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Leave everything like you found it and get out. I can put together a search warrant, and go to O'Loughlin. He's going to shit, but he'll do the right thing."

  I thought about Chen calling Pardy and Beckett.

  "Did she get the ID information about Payne Keller?"

  Pardy hesitated, so I knew that she had. She could have gotten Keller's address from O'Loughlin, or she might have called Chen herself.

  "Pardy, she's on her way up there. If she has Reinnike's address, she's going for his son."

  "Just settle down, forchrissake. We don't even know David Reinnike is still alive, let alone whether he was with his old man. We need to get together our evidence, then bring her in nice and easy. This woman is an LAPD homicide detective."

  "If she finds him, she'll kill him. That will make it even worse."

  "And if she finds out we're onto her she'll take off or lawyer up, or maybe do something even more stupid. I've already spoken with the sheriff up there. Reinnike lived alone. As far as the sheriff knew, he didn't have any family, so there's probably nobody to find."

  "Then where is she, Pardy?"

  "Let's take it easy. Let me talk to O'Loughlin, and then we'll head up to take a look—I don't want this to get out about Diaz until we have her in custody."

  "Take all the time you want, Pardy—I'm going."

  I hung up, and went out to my car.

  47

  Frederick

  Cole had a pretty nice place; it was small, with a tiny bedroom and bath on the ground floor and a loft bedroom and bath up above. The high pointy ceiling made it feel more like a cabin or a tree house than a real house. Frederick fantasized moving in after he killed Cole. He knew it was only a fantasy, but he liked the idea.

  Frederick quickly checked the rooms, then returned to Cole's kitchen. He searched through the drawers, and selected a chopping knife with a heavy blade. He thought he might try to stab Cole instead of shooting him—less noise. Then he could go to work with the vise-grip pliers.

  Frederick peeked out the curtained kitchen door into the empty carport, then went into the living room. He was getting used to being in the house, and feeling more relaxed. He saw the papers spread over Cole's table. The top page was a newspaper article about the disappearance of George and David Reinnike.

  Coldness swept over Frederick, and the house swelled around him, growing huge and cavernous.

  He pushed through the other papers, finding more newspaper accounts and what appeared to be official-looking police documents. A bill from the Home Away Suites was part of Cole's file. Then he saw Payne's name and address scrawled in the margin of one of the documents.

  Frederick's eyes burned, and he trembled.

  Cole had everything.

  The voices whispered as Frederick searched the papers and documents for his own name. Cole had Payne's name and address, but not Frederick's. Cole was probably up at Payne's right now. Fre
derick wouldn't find him here at his house; he would find him at Payne's. Frederick saw Cole's path in an intuitive flash: Cole would search Payne's house, then go to the station. Elroy would tell Cole about Frederick, and Cole would go to his home. Frederick saw it unfolding with a pure bright clarity, and knew what to do. He would find Cole in Canyon Camino, and that's where he would kill him.

  Frederick decided to go. He decided to let himself out through the kitchen door. He had left the table and was crossing the kitchen when a car pulled into the carport.

  Cold

  Frederick's face split into a wide jagged grin, and he ran to the door, but when he peeked past the edge of the curtain he saw it was a woman.

  48

  Starkey

  Starkey frowned when she saw that Cole's car was gone. Just her goddamned luck, having to put off the big scene after she worked up her nut. She turned into his empty carport and shut off her car.

  "Damnit."

  Starkey lit a cigarette. She fumed as she smoked, then decided to call him. She fished her cell phone from her purse, but when she tried to speed-dial his number, her phone couldn't lock on to a signal.

  Starkey said, "SonofaBITCH!"

  She thought it might be her battery, so she plugged the phone into the power cord trailing from the cigarette lighter. She still couldn't get a signal.

  Starkey thought, well, shit, she'd use Cole's phone. She got out of her car, and went to the spare key she once saw him use. He kept it on the side of his house. She retrieved the key, returned to the carport, and let herself into the kitchen.

  She crossed to the cordless phone cradled on the counter between the kitchen and dining room, and pressed in the number for Cole's cell. She stood with her back to the living room, impatiently listening to the ring.