L.A. Requiem

by Robert Crais

  The Santa Anas continued to pick up as we drove north to the second Jungle Juice. Palm trees, tall and vulnerable like the necks of giant dinosaurs, took the worst of it. The wind stripped the dead fronds that bunched beneath the crowns and tossed them into streets and yards and onto cars.

  It was a few minutes before noon when we reached the second Jungle Juice, just south of Universal Studios. It was set in a narrow strip mall that ran along Barham at the base of the mountains, and was crowded with Sunday shoppers and tourists trying to find the Universal City Walk, even with the wind.

  Pike and I stood in line until we reached the counter and showed them the picture of Karen. The girl behind the register, all of eighteen with a clean bright smile and chocolate tan, recognized Karen at once. “Oh, sure, she comes in all the time. She always gets a smoothie after her run.”

  Pike said, “Was she in yesterday?”

  The girl didn't know, and called over a tall African-American kid named Ronnie. Ronnie was a good-looking kid a couple of inches over six feet whose claim to fame was six seconds in a Charmin commercial. “Oh, yeah, she comes in here after her run. That's Karen.”

  “Did she come in yesterday?”

  Now Ronnie squinted at me. “Is she okay?”

  “I just want to know if she came in yesterday.”

  The squint turned into a frown, went to Pike, then grew suspicious. “What is this?”

  I showed him the license. He squinted at that, too.

  “Your name really Elvis?”

  Pike stepped past me until his hips pressed against the counter. Ronnie was maybe an inch taller than Joe, but Ronnie took a fast step back. Joe said, “Did she come in here or not?” Voice so soft you could barely hear him.

  Ronnie shook his head, eyes bugging. “Not yesterday. I worked from opening to six, and she didn't come in. I would've known because we always talk about her run. I jog, too.”

  “You know where she runs?”

  “Sure. She parks down here and runs up the hill there to the reservoir.” He gestured across Barham to the hill. Lake Hollywood Drive meandered up through a residential area to the reservoir.

  The girl said, “I'm pretty sure I saw her drive past yesterday. Well, it was a little red car. I didn't see her or anything. Just the car.”

  Ronnie said, “No way. Karen always comes in after the run, and she didn't come in.” Like he was disappointed that maybe she had come for the run and not stopped in to see him. “No way.”

  We thanked them, then went out to the parking lot.

  I said, “Well, that's something. She shows up for the run, but she doesn't go in for the smoothie, which is her habit.”

  Pike walked to the street, then looked back at the parking lot. It was small, and empty of red Mazdas.

  He said, “She runs, but maybe she remembers something and doesn't have time to get the smoothie, or she meets someone and they decide to do something else.”

  “Yeah. Like go to his place for a different kind of smoothie.”

  Pike looked at me.

  “Sorry.”

  He stared up the hill. “You're probably right. If she runs to the reservoir, she probably follows Lake Hollywood up. Let's drive it.”

  We followed Lake Hollywood Drive past upscale houses that were built in the thirties and forties, then remodeled heavily in the seventies and eighties into everything from homey ranch-styles to contemporary aeries to postmodern nightmares. Like most older Los Angeles neighborhoods (until the land boom went bust), the homes held the energy of change, as if what was here today might evolve into something else tomorrow. Often, that something else was worse, but just as often it was better. There is great audacity in the willingness to change, more than a little optimism, and a serious dose of courage. It was the courage that I admired most, even though the results often made me cringe. After all, the people who come to Los Angeles are looking for change. Everyone else just stays home.

  The road switchbacked up the hillside, meandering past houses and mature oaks that shuddered and swayed with the wind. The streets were littered with leaves and branches and old Gelson's Market bags. We crested the ridge, then drove down to the reservoir. It was choppy and muddy from the wind. We saw no red Mazdas, and no one who looked like Karen Garcia, but we didn't expect to. The hill was there, so you climbed it, and so far I wasn't too worried about things. Karen was probably just waking up at wherever she'd spent the night, and pretty soon she'd go home or collect her messages, and call her father to calm down the old man. The burden of being an only child.

  We were halfway down the mountain and thinking about what to do next when a homeless guy with a backpack and bedroll strolled out of a side street and started down the mountain. He was in his mid-thirties, and burned dark by the sun.

  I said, “Pull over.”

  When Pike slowed, the man stopped and considered us. His eyes were red, and you could smell the body odor even with the wind. He said, “I am a master carpenter looking for work, but no job is too small. I will work for cash, or books.” He managed a little pride when he said it, but he probably wasn't a master carpenter and he probably wasn't looking for work.

  Pike held out Karen's photograph. “Have you seen this woman?”

  “No. I am sorry.” Every word like that. Without contractions.

  “She jogged through the neighborhood yesterday morning. Blue top. Gray shorts.”

  He leaned forward and examined the picture more closely. “Black ponytail.”

  Pike said, “Could be.”

  “She was running uphill, struggling mightily against the forces that would drag her down. A truck slowed beside her, then sped away. I was listening to Mr. Dave Matthews at the time.” He had a Sony Discman suspended from his belt, the earphones hanging loose at his neck.

  I said, “What kind of truck?”

  He stepped back and looked over Pike's Cherokee.

  “This truck.”

  “A red Jeep like this?”

  He shrugged. “I think it was this one, but it might've been another.”

  The corner of Pike's mouth twitched. In all the years I had known him, I have never seen Pike smile, but sometimes you'll get the twitch. For Pike, that's him busting a gut.

  I said, “You see the driver?”

  He pointed at Pike. “Him.”

  Pike looked away, and sighed.

  The homeless man peered at us hopefully. “Would you have a small job that needs a careful craftsman? I am available, don't you know?”

  I gave him ten bucks. “What's your name?”

  “Edward Deege, Master Carpenter.”

  “Okay, Edward. Thanks.”

  “No job too small.”

  “Hey, Edward. We want to talk to you again, you around?”

  “I am but a Dixie cup on the stream of life, but, yes, I enjoy the reservoir. I can often be found there.”

  “Okay, Edward. Thanks.”

  Edward Deege peered at Pike some more, then stepped back, as if troubled. “Release your rage, my friend. Rage kills.”

  Pike pulled away.

  I said, “You think he saw anything, or he was just scamming us?”

  “He was right about the ponytail. Maybe he saw a four-wheel-drive.”

  We followed Lake Hollywood Drive down to Barham, and when we turned left toward the freeway, Pike said, “Elvis.”

  Karen Garcia's red Mazda RX-7 was parked behind a flower shop on this side of Barham, opposite the Jungle Juice. We hadn't seen it when we were at the Jungle Juice because it was behind a building across the street. We couldn't see it until we were coming down, and I wished then that it wasn't there to see.

  Pike turned into the parking lot, and we got out. The Mazda's engine was cool, as if it had been parked here a very long time.

  “Been here all night.”

  Pike nodded.

  “If she went up to run, that means she never came down.” I looked back up the hill.

  Pike said, “Or she didn't leave by herself.
”

  “She's running, she meets some guy, and they use his car. She's probably on her way back to pick up the Mazda now.” I said it, but neither of us believed it.

  We asked the people at the flower shop if they had seen anything, but they hadn't. We asked every shopkeeper in the strip mall and most of the employees, but they all said no. I hoped they had seen something to indicate that Karen was safe, but deep down, where your blood runs cold, I knew they hadn't.

  3

  • • •

  With her father's money, Karen Garcia could've lived anywhere, yet she chose a modest apartment in a Latin-hip part of Silver Lake favored by families. The Gipsy Kings played on someone's stereo; the smells of chili and cilantro were fresh and strong. Children played on the lawns, and couples laughed about the heat storm. Around us, great palms and jacarandas slashed like the tails of nervous cats, but the area wasn't littered with fronds and limbs. I guess if you cared about your neighborhood you cleaned up the mess without waiting for the city to do it for you.

  We left Pike's Jeep by a fire hydrant and walked into a courtyard burgeoning with hand-painted clay pots that overflowed with gladiolas. Apartment number 3 belonged to Marisol Acuna, but Pike didn't come with me to the door. We knew from Mrs. Acuna that Karen's apartment was on the second floor.

  A heavy woman in her late fifties stepped out of a ground-floor apartment. “Are you Mr. Cole?”

  “Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Acuna?”

  She glanced at Pike. He was already climbing the stairs. “She hasn't come home. Let me get the key, and I'll let you inside.”

  “Frank gave us a key, ma'am. You should wait down here.”

  A line appeared between her brows, and she glanced at Pike again. “Why don't you want me up there? You think something bad is up there?”

  “No, ma'am. But if Karen comes home I'd hate to have her walk in on a couple of strange men. You keep an eye out. If she comes while we're up there you can tell her what's going on and bring her up.” What a fine and wonderful lie.

  Pike wasn't waiting for me. Karen's door opened.

  I gave Mrs. Acuna a final smile, then took the stairs three at a time, slipping into Karen's apartment behind Joe. He stood in the center of the living room, holding up a finger to stop me, his gun hanging loose in his right hand. Pike carries the Colt Python .357 magnum with a four-inch barrel. Firing a heavy bullet, it will generate almost six hundred foot-pounds of energy and can punch its way through an engine block. Pike uses the heavy bullet.

  He went through a short hall into the apartment's only bedroom, then reappeared almost instantly, the Python now gone.

  “Clear.”

  Sometimes you just have to shake your head.

  I said, “Can we spell ‘paranoid’?”

  Karen Garcia's apartment was furnished well beyond the rent she paid. An overstuffed leather couch with two matching chairs dominated the living room. A modern desk was positioned under two casement windows so that she had a view of the street; psychology texts were shelved on the desk, along with three Tami Hoag novels, a Nunzilla, and an AT&T telephone/answering machine combo. The red mesage light was blinking. A framed snapshot of Karen wearing a silly crown and holding a glass of wine was tacked beside the window. She was barefoot, and smiling.

  I said, “You want the messages or the rest of the place?”

  “Rest of the place.”

  All of Karen's messages were from her father except the one from me and one from a man named Martin, asking if she wanted to go to a quebradita. Martin had a Spanish accent, and a mellow voice. After the messages, I went through the drawers, and found a Rolodex. We would bring it to Frank to see whom he knew, and, if we had to, we would phone every name to see if we could find someone who knew where Karen was.

  Pike reappeared from the bedroom. “Jeans on the bed, sandals on the floor. Her toothbrush is still in the bathroom. Wherever she went, she wasn't planning on staying.” You take your toothbrush, you're thinking you'll stay the night. You leave it, you're coming home.

  “Okay. She changed into her running things and left the other stuff, figuring to change back later.”

  “That's my call.”

  “You see any notes, maybe a calendar that says her plans?”

  I thought he was about to answer when Pike held up his finger again, then took three fast steps toward the door. “Someone's coming.”

  “Mrs. Acuna.”

  “Someone bigger.”

  Pike and I set up on either side of the door as a large, ruddy-faced man in a gray suit made the landing and looked in at us. Two uniformed LAPD officers appeared behind him. The man's eyes widened when he saw us, and he pawed under his jacket. “Police officers! Step away from the door and move to the center of the room. Now!”

  The suit clawed out a standard LAPD-issue Beretta 9 as the uniformed cops drew their own weapons. Mrs. Acuna shouted something down in the courtyard, but no one listened to her.

  I said, “Take it easy. We're working for her father, Frank Garcia.”

  The detective had the gun on us now, and the two uniformed cops were aiming past his head. One of them was young, and looked like his eyes were about to do the Pekinese pop-out. If I was the detective, I would've been more scared of them than me.

  The detective shouted, “Step back from the door and move to the center. Hands from your bodies.”

  We did what he said. He toed open the door and stepped through, the two uniforms spreading to cover us from the sides.

  “My name's Cole. We're private investigators working for her father.”

  “Shut up.”

  “My license is in the wallet. Her father hired us a couple of hours ago. Call him. Ask the woman who lives downstairs.”

  “Shut the fuck up and keep those hands where I can see them!”

  The detective told one of the uniforms to see the woman, then edged forward, slipped out my wallet, and glanced at the license. He was more tense than he should've been, and I wondered why. Maybe he didn't like my shirt, either.

  He brought my wallet to the phone, punched in a number without taking his eyes off me, then mumbled something I couldn't understand.

  “We entered the apartment with a key the father provided and at his request. Would you lighten up?”

  The uniform reappeared. “Hey, Holstein, they're cool. She says the father called her and told her to expect'm.”

  Holstein nodded, but the tension stayed.

  “Can we put our hands down, or you like the view of our pits?”

  “Sure, smart guy. Might as well relax. We're gonna be here a while.”

  Pike and I dropped our hands. I guess Frank had raised so much hell that Hollywood Division had finally rolled out.

  “I'm surprised you guys are on this. She's only been missing since yesterday.”

  Holstein painted me with empty cop eyes, then took a seat on the edge of Karen Garcia's desk.

  “Not anymore. Karen Garcia's body was found up at Lake Hollywood about an hour ago.”

  I felt my breath catch. Joe Pike might've stiffened. He might've leaned forward just a hair, but if he did I could not tell.

  I said, “Holstein? Are you sure?”

  More voices filled the courtyard, speaking with the distinct cadence of police officers. Down below, Mrs. Acuna wailed.

  I sat on Karen Garcia's leather couch and stared at the picture of her in the paper crown.

  “Joe?”

  He did not answer.

  “Joe?”

  April, three months prior to the Islander Palms Motel

  Karen Garcia said, “I'm a freshman at UCLA. I study child development there, and work with the day care part-time.” She was almost a foot shorter than Pike, and he had to remind himself to step back. He had been warned that he tended to stand too close to people, and it made them uncomfortable. He stepped away. She said to one of the little boys, “Daniel, stay with the others, please. I have to speak with this police officer.”

  Daniel blurped h
is tongue like an airplane engine and flew back to the group. LAPD patrol officer Joe Pike had already jotted in his notebook that there were eleven children, ages three through five, in the care of Ms. Garcia and her children's group co-teacher, a slim young man with round spectacles and curly hair named Joshua. Joshua appeared nervous, but Officer Pike had learned that people often tensed when dealing with the police. It usually meant nothing.

  They were surrounded by children in MacArthur Park, south of Wilshire by the lake in LAPD's Rampart Division. The day was warm and the sky overhead almost white from the smog. Pike's navy-blue uniform soaked up the heat and made the sun seem hotter than it was. The park was filled with women pushing carriages or playing with their preschoolers on the swings and slides. Homeless men were asleep on the grass, and some younger guys who were probably harmless but out of work had drifted away when the radio car had turned into the parking lot, responding to a see-the-woman call regarding a possible child molester. The woman was Karen Garcia, who had phoned 911 with the complaint.

  Pike said, “Do you see the man now?”

  “No, not now.” She pointed to the brick rest rooms at the edge of the parking lot. “He saw us watching him and went behind the rest rooms over there before you got here. I haven't seen him since. He had a camera with a long lens, and I'm sure he was taking pictures of the children. Not just mine, but other kids, too.”

  Pike took notes. If the suspect saw her go to the phone, he'd be long gone. Pike would look, but the man was gone.

  “Joshua asked him what he was doing, and he walked away the first time, but he came back. That's when I called you.”

  Pike glanced at Joshua, who nodded.

  Pike said, “Description?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “What did the man look like?”

  Karen said. “Oh. He was shorter than you. How tall are you?”

  “Six-one.”

  “A lot shorter. I'd say five-eight or nine, but very wide and heavy. Fat, but he didn't look fat, just fleshy, with stubby fingers.”

  Pike wrote. “Hair, eyes, clothes, distinguishing character istics.”