The Forgotten Man

by Robert Crais

  "I'll tell him you went home."

  "You going up to Payne's right now?"

  "That's right."

  "Look for the big dead sycamore right by the drive, otherwise you'll miss it."

  "All right. Thanks, Mr. Lewis."

  The dog lifted its head when he saw us approaching, and struggled to its feet. It wobbled sideways before it steadied itself. Lewis stared at the dog as if it were homeless.

  "I don't know what in hell we're gonna do now."

  He stared at me, then started blinking again.

  "Payne read the Bible all the time. He would read it sitting here in the station. He had these statues of Jesus. He went to Mass, I dunno, three times a week, and now he gets shot to death down in L.A. I'm not a religious man, but it doesn't seem right."

  Lewis walked away, and the dog gimped along after him. I climbed back into my car, but I didn't leave right away. I thought about Frederick Conrad. Payne Keller's house was close, and the sheriff was supposed to be there. I had Conrad's address, and could have gone to his home, but I decided to see the sheriff first. Like failing to return to my office, it was exactly the wrong decision.

  55

  Lewis warned me to look for a dying sycamore, and that's where I found it—an overgrown private lane little more than a break between the trees without even a mailbox to draw passing attention. It looked more like a trail than a road, with nasty potholes and cuts that would discourage the idly curious with a broken axle. It was a good place to be an invisible man and live an invisible life.

  I worked my way over the potholes and through the trees. Reinnike's house was a rustic cabin built of clapboard and river stones, with a covered porch in front. I had expected to see the sheriff's vehicle, but Kelly Diaz's Passat was parked alongside the porch. No other vehicles were present. I pulled up behind her, and shut off my car. The front door was open.

  Diaz would have heard me drive up, but she did not come to the door. I got out, and went to the porch.

  "Diaz?"

  I crossed the porch, and stepped inside.

  "Diaz, it's Cole."

  Furniture was upended, magazines were scattered over the floor, and books had been swept clean from a bookcase that was twisted away from the wall. Statues and portraits of Jesus were everywhere; watching from the walls and the television and the tables. More little statues were strewn over the floor.

  "Diaz, you in here?"

  Reinnike's house had been searched, but not by Diaz. Cops know you can't find something by throwing things in the air. Someone with a disordered mind had searched this house. An image of a collie with a garden stake through its chest flickered in my head. I was frightened of what I would find.

  "David?"

  I moved to the kitchen. Drawers had been emptied; the cupboards were open, and Tupperware raked to the floor. I didn't want to go into the back of the house. I wondered if Diaz had been here when David Reinnike came to call.

  I backed out of the kitchen, and turned toward the living room. Kelly Diaz was waiting in the mouth of the hall, holding her pistol loose down along her leg. She could have killed me; she could have shot me down from behind, but she didn't. Her face was strained as if she had caught up in time with her mother, and carried her mother's lost years, but she gave me a wicked bright smile.

  "Damn, Cole, you really are the World's Greatest Detective. You found the sonofabitch—Payne-fucking-Keller."

  "I found a suspect in his murder, too."

  Her shirt was taut over the swell of a bullet-resistant vest. Detectives never wore vests, but Diaz had come up here to do business. She waggled her gun at the room.

  "He's here, Cole. The sick freak is shitting his pants. We can get him."

  "Pardy knows. He's talking it over with O'Loughlin right now. They're going to issue a warrant."

  "Pardy doesn't know his ass."

  "He found the gun and put it with one of your cases. You had access. He has a witness who saw a woman matching your description with Reinnike the night of the murder. I found the murder book in your house—"

  She waggled the gun again, but a sheen of sweat slicked her face and her eyes were bright.

  "We'll see with the jury."

  "Your footprints are all over this, Kelly. You're wearing your mother's necklace, forchrissake."

  The tough smile wavered, but strengthened with anger.

  "Well, so fucking what? I made my choice, and I'm good with it. This bastard murdered my family. I am officially mentally ill. I snapped under the strain of being confronted by the man who murdered my family. I feared for my life, and reacted accordingly. I then proceeded with an investigation in preparation to come forward. We'll see what the jury does with it."

  She must have told herself those things a thousand times, convincing herself it would work.

  "There were better ways, Diaz. You could have made the case. You could have arrested him."

  Her gun came up.

  "Oh, fuck that, Cole—please. You don't know. You weren't there. Man, it was intense."

  "Look, I understand—"

  "You can't—"

  "You don't know me well enough to know what I can know— all you know is what you read in the papers."

  I was shouting, too, and maybe that's what made her smile, the two of us in that house, shouting.

  "The papers got a lot right, buddy. You stayed with it. You found him. Here we are in his house."

  "You led me. You planted the clippings and the key card. You baited me to the Medical Examiner's so I would see him again and you could set the hook even deeper. You didn't need me for any of this, Diaz—you could have found him without me."

  Her eyes glistened like black buttons, and she lowered her gun. She tipped back her head against the wall, and spoke without seeing me.

  "But then everyone would have known I was in on the kill. I wanted them to think it was just you, you see?"

  She laid it out and confirmed my guesses. She had me trace Reinnike to find David. She needed me to do the legwork to set me up for the murders, both George's and David's.

  I said, "But it didn't work out that way."

  She tipped forward again, and the sad smile returned.

  "It was so intense, Cole; everything happened so fast, and I was making it up as it happened."

  "Did you find George or did he find you?"

  Now she drew herself up, and straightened.

  "When I finished the Academy and came on the job, the Daily News ran a little piece about what happened to my family. He saw it, and kept it. Man, that was years ago—years. I guess it took him all these years to work up his nut. He called last week. Out of the blue, he just called. He said he had information about the death of my family."

  She touched the necklace, and I knew my guess about it was right, too—he had brought it as proof. She was still in that awful moment when he called. I have information about the death of your family.

  "What did he tell you?"

  Her fingers caressed the silver, and her eyes were lost. I moved slowly, and took her gun. She did not resist.

  "Did he tell you what happened, Kelly? Was it just David or was George part of it?"

  Her fingers fell away from the necklace as if their weight was too great. Her eyes filled, and she clenched them shut. Her chin quivered. She fought hard to stop it.

  She said, "Shit."

  I put my arms around her. She shuddered, and cried for a while, and I cried along with her, for everything she had lost and for all the things I never had. And when we wore ourselves out with it, she told me how her family had come to die: Her father and brother were driving, and saw David Reinnike hitchhiking. David Reinnike would have been three or four years older than her brother, but the two kids got along, so her father probably brought the hitchhiker home to play or have a little dinner or whatever. Diaz only knew what she had been told by George Reinnike, and George only knew what he had been told by David. David hadn't been at their home for more than fifteen or twent
y minutes when something set him off. Her brother showed his baseball bat to David. David probably tested it out with a few warm-up swings, but her brother probably wanted it back. Then David started swinging for real. He hadn't been in their home long enough to know a little girl was playing in her closet. Between what George provided and the information available in the murder book, David Reinnike beat them to death, and then he just walked away and hitchhiked home, and not one goddamned person saw him. Not one person in a neighborhood filled with people saw or heard the murders, or David leave the scene. When he reached home, covered in blood—he had to be covered in blood, wouldn't you think?—George cleaned him up, took him away, and never told a soul. His son had problems, he said. His son needed care.

  I said, "He contacted you because he had to get it off his chest, but he wouldn't tell anything about David."

  "The sonofabitch wouldn't tell me where David was or even if he was alive, but I know he's up here. George would have to keep him close to control him. That sonofabitch cried like a baby, saying it was eating him alive. Well, fuck him."

  I nodded.

  "So you killed him."

  Diaz cleared her throat, then pulled herself together and stepped away from me. She seemed angry again, and ready for hell.

  "That's right, Cole. So what are you going to do? You going to slap the cuffs on me and wait here for Pardy and my lawyer, and let this bastard get away? Look at this place—he knows we're coming. Daddy's been keeping him out of jail all these years, and now Daddy's gone. You think he's going to wait?"

  "I'm not going to let you kill him. If you kill him, you're just killing yourself."

  "Then what?"

  "We're going to identify David, and you're going to take him into custody. You're going to arrest him, and bring him in to show you did the right thing. You're going to show them you didn't let what happened destroy you."

  Diaz sighed deep, pushing out air like she was trying to get rid of something that was trapped inside her. She tipped back her head again and stared at the ceiling.

  "What a goddamned mess."

  "Pardy's coming. We don't have all day."

  She squared herself, and nodded.

  "My gun."

  I gave her the gun. She put it into her holster.

  "Do you know who it is?"

  "Probably the other guy who worked at the station. That's what it sounds like from talking with Lewis. I can't be sure, but that's what it sounds like. Lewis told me how to get to his house."

  Diaz stepped past me and went to the door.

  56

  Starkey

  Starkey picked up Pike where the 405 crossed Mulholland. If Pike wondered why she was frantic, he didn't ask, and he didn't quibble over which car they would take. Her car had the lights and a radio. They would make better time. Starkey flipped on her grille lights, and blasted out of the parking lot. When they were rolling north on the freeway, she keyed her radio, surprised that the damn thing worked. "Six-whiskey-twelve." "Six-whiskey-twelve, go."

  The "three" identified her as being from Hollywood. "Whiskey" told them she was a detective. The "twelve" was her car number.

  "Ah, I need a patch to the Sheriffs Department Substation in Canyon Camino."

  "Stand by, six-whiskey-twelve."

  While Starkey was busy with the radio, Pike called Cole's cell number. Pike phoned it three times, but never once got through. By the time Starkey had the patch, they were passing Van Nuys Airport, twenty-six minutes away from George Reinnike's home.

  57

  Frederick

  The sheriff changed everything. He could have radioed that Frederick's truck was at Payne's, or told Biggins he was stopping at the house, or called in more police. Frederick's mind raced with the changing plans. He felt certain that Cole wouldn't approach with a patrol car out front, and Frederick wanted to get quickly away. Also, if the police found Rossi's vehicle, they might roadblock the area and stop Frederick's escape. He fought the urge to run. He loaded Rossi's body into the back seat, then drove the patrol car behind Payne's cabin and into the trees. He drove as far as he could, then huffed back to the house. He piled into his truck.

  Frederick wept as he drove. He missed Payne, and he wanted to punish Cole, but now he realized he had to leave and vengeance would never be his. Maybe if he got away. Maybe in a few years. He knew where Cole lived. He knew where he worked. Maybe in a few years.

  Frederick heard a voice as he entered his trailer, but it was Elroy, leaving a message.

  "—call me back, goddamnit. The L.A. police are coming up to talk to us, and I don't know what in hell's—"

  Frederick scooped up the phone.

  "Elroy, it's me. Why do they want to talk to us?"

  "Goddamnit, why haven't you called me back? I got—"

  "I been so upset about Payne I didn't know what to say."

  Elroy calmed down. Even Elroy could understand grief.

  He said, "Payne ever say anything to you about going to Los Angeles?"

  "Not me."

  "Well, that's what they're asking about. The sheriff was here. He said some police are coming up from Los Angeles, and they want to know why he went down there. He said Payne's name wasn't really Payne. Did he get over there to talk to you?"

  "He called. I just got off the phone."

  "I'm closing this damned station. I don't know what else to do."

  "Okay."

  "That private detective get over there yet?"

  "Good-bye, Elroy."

  Frederick put the phone softly in its cradle. His eyes felt like they were swelling. They filled with a tremendous pressure and felt like they would explode. Cole knew who he was. Cole was coming right here to his house. Frederick felt trapped. They were being punished just like Payne always said. Frederick sobbed, then remembered Juanita. He wasn't done yet. He might be able to get the jump on Cole, and still get away.

  Frederick got together the cash he had taken from the station, then locked his trailer and took the shotgun from his truck. He hurried across the courtyard to Juanita's double-wide. It was midafternoon, so Frederick knew she was taking her nap. Juanita woke at three or four every morning with the night terrors, then nodded out again after lunch. That's the way it was with old people. Sad.

  The two little girls were playing on the far side of the motor court. He called out to them, and waved. They ran as soon as they saw him, which is exactly what he wanted.

  Frederick went to Juanita's door, but didn't knock—he twisted her door handle and shoved through the cheap aluminum frame. Juanita woke with a start, but Frederick shut the door fast, and smiled.

  Juanita, still foggy with sleep, said, "Frederick?"

  Frederick took care of her, then settled into the shadows just as two cars turned in from the road.

  58

  High Mountain Communities was an older mobile home park with single- and double-wide mobile homes set among the trees. It had probably been a nice place to live at one time, but now it had the feel of an outdated summer camp with declining enrollment. Some of the mobile homes were well maintained, but others were grimy with stains. Frederick Conrad lived in Number 14, at the rear of the park.

  Diaz followed me in her Passat. We crunched past the central motor court, watching the numbers until I found #14. Conrad's mobile home was clean, nicely maintained, and quiet. The entire mobile-home park was quiet.

  I parked beside an F-150 pickup truck, and Diaz pulled up beside me. We got out of our cars at the same time, glancing over the surroundings. Her eyes were dark, like two polished black stones.

  She said, "His son's going to be up here. If he isn't here now, he was. He was never far from his son."

  "Let's take it easy. We don't know this guy is him."

  Two little girls appeared across the motor court. They bubbled out of a pale green mobile home, the smaller of the two trying to keep up with her older sister. The older girl said something I could not understand, and the younger one loudly told her to wait. The
older girl ran around the far end of their home, laughing. Her younger sister laughed as she followed. Diaz stared after them.

  I said, "Diaz?"

  She turned back, and touched the locket that swung in the hollow of her neck.

  "I'm good. Let's see what he has to say."

  We approached Frederick Conrad's door. Diaz walked with her hand on her gun under her jacket.

  I knocked on the door, then knocked harder, and called out.

  "Mr. Conrad?"

  No one answered.

  Diaz slammed her palm on the trailer.

  "Fucking prick."

  "Take it easy."

  The truck was parked like it belonged with his trailer. I went over to the truck. The engine ticked, but the ticking was slow, as if it had been parked for a while. The two little girls had disappeared. Everything was so quiet it left me feeling creepy.

  Diaz said, "Let's talk to his neighbors."

  An older Dodge sedan was parked in front of the mobile home closest to Conrad's, suggesting the mobile home might be occupied. The mobile home's door was closed and drapes covered the windows, but all the other mobile homes were closed the same way. I followed Diaz across the gravel, wondering if these people were vampires.

  All you can do is knock.

  Frederick

  Juanita liked it dark. She kept the lights off and the drapes pulled so prowlers and rapists couldn't spy on her. Frederick always told her, oh, Juanita, that's silly, there aren't any prowlers around here, but Juanita would wave her hand like he was foolish, telling him she saw it on the news every night—murderers were everywhere! Now Frederick thought, thank you, Juanita.

  Frederick stood in the broad daylight darkness within her mobile home, watching Cole and the woman pound on his trailer. This wasn't the same woman who had come to Cole's house, but she carried herself like a cop. She strutted.

  They knew. It was clear to Frederick that they had identified him. He watched them stand on either side of his door as they knocked, and knew they intended to kill him.