by Robert Crais
“This is Amber and Alec?”
“Tyson identified them as Amber and Alec. Carl doesn’t know their last names, or how Tyson met them, but Tyson admitted the burglaries.”
“And Carl didn’t tell?”
“Carl didn’t believe him. Carl thought Tyson was making it up to get even.”
“She looks cheap.”
“Have you seen them before? At his school?”
She hesitated.
“No. Neither.”
“Okay. What about his previous school?”
“Last year’s school was huge. His class had almost a thousand kids.”
“If you have a roster or yearbook, check. We might get lucky.”
“What are you doing?”
She recognized the flea market when I told her.
“Tyson and Carl used to buy old games there. You wouldn’t believe the junk they brought home.”
“The more junk the better. If he liked it as a buyer, maybe he went back as a seller.”
Carl’s directions led to a large, fenced parking lot on the wrong side of Main Street a few blocks from the beach in Venice. Giant hand-painted signs hung on the fence.
FLEA MARKET SATURDAY!
FARMER’S MARKET SUNDAY!
FOOD TRUCK FRENZY FRIDAY!
SEE MANAGER NEXT DOOR →
The arrow pointed to an aging storefront office next to the parking lot. Crenza Investment Properties.
The office was larger than it appeared from the street, with a high ceiling that made the room feel even bigger. A line of tired wooden desks stretched the length of the room, and the yellowed walls were stained. A young woman with braided black hair and nervous eyes sat at the desk near the door. An older woman with fleshy cheeks read a magazine at the second desk. The remaining desks were bare.
The younger woman smiled, but said nothing.
I said, “Hey.”
She said, “Hey.”
“I’d like to speak with someone about the flea market.”
The older woman shouted over her shoulder.
“Martin! Martin, come out here!”
Martin Crenza came through a door at the back of the office. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with a balding head, a pot belly, and thin arms. His arms were furred with wiry hair.
The older woman pointed at me.
“Flea market.”
Crenza smiled like a cruising shark, and came forward.
“A millionaire in the making! You want a table? Only two left. They’re going fast.”
I unfolded the screen-grab of Tyson and the selfie of Tyson with Amber and Alec.
“No, thanks. One or all three of these people might have rented a table from you. Anyone look familiar?”
He glanced at the pictures, and scowled.
“Is this them, the kids with the stolen goods?”
Crenza’s matter-of-fact question surprised me, and left me guessing how he knew.
I said, “The police were asking about them?”
“We’ve had so many cops, who can keep count? Marge, come look.”
The older woman was Martin’s wife, Marge. The young woman was their niece, Charlotte. Marge and Charlotte joined us, and Marge took the pictures. Tyson’s picture was on top.
“The green boy. Every cop comes here shows us this picture.”
She shuffled the pages, and studied the selfie.
“This is the green boy again.”
“Yes, ma’am. Have you seen him?”
Crenza said, “For the millionth time, no. How many times do we have to tell you people?”
“I’m not a policeman, Mr. Crenza. I’m private.”
“Private what?”
“A private investigator. I’m trying to find these people.”
“You and a million cops. We’ve never seen this kid, and I’m fed up with you people wasting our time.”
Marge glared at him.
“Shut up, Martin. You’re being a pain.”
She adjusted her glasses, and showed the selfie to Charlotte.
“Maybe these two, you think? This tall boy, the good-looking one. And this girl. They’re the kids Fiedler described, aren’t they?”
Charlotte studied the picture uneasily.
“I dunno. Could be.”
“What, could be? You’re useless. This is them.”
Marge snatched back the picture, and Charlotte stared at the floor. Useless.
Marge turned back to me.
“These two, I’ve seen. Was it them, sold Dr. Fiedler the camera?”
“I need some help here. Who’s Dr. Fiedler?”
Martin Crenza waved a hand. Angry.
“Fiedler’s an asshole. It was him, started all this.”
Five weeks earlier, a dentist named Warren Fiedler purchased a collectible Leica camera at their flea market. The following week, Dr. Fiedler took the camera to a dealer to have it refurbished, and, as with Richard Slauson’s Rolex, was told that the Leica was stolen. Fiedler immediately filed a complaint at the Pacific Division Police Station, and an army of police officers and detectives descended on the Crenzas.
When Crenza finished, Marge gave me the selfie.
“The police didn’t have a picture of these two. I can’t say it was them sold the camera, but I know they were here. They took a table.”
High five, Carl.
“Great. Can you give me their names?”
Crenza jumped in again. He was still angry.
“No, we can’t. This was what, five weeks ago? We got sixty-two tables, different people every week, how in hell you expect us to remember?”
“Don’t people fill out a form, or sign a release? Don’t you have records?”
Crenza glowered at Marge.
“This one sounds like the cops.”
He shifted the glower to me.
“It’s a flea market. People show up, wanna sell their old crap, what am I supposed to do, take a check might bounce? You want a table, it’s cash in advance, good for one Saturday. No credit cards, no checks. Greenbacks.”
He tapped his palm like I should fill it with greenbacks.
I thought for a moment, and noticed the plans on the walls. Large, framed layouts for the Flea Market, the Farmer’s Market, and Food Truck Frenzy hung on the walls. The layouts were professionally drawn, and designed to maximize the parking lot’s available space for each event. I moved to the Flea Market plan. Sixty-two numbered tables were laid out in a rectangular maze.
“Any chance you remember the table they used?”
Crenza came over, and joined me.
“No, but Fiedler remembered. The police brought him. What a prick that guy was.”
Margie said, “Condescending. Who died and made him king?”
Crenza tapped a rectangle. The table was labeled with a thirty-seven, and sat at a corner between thirty-six and forty-two.
Crenza said, “Here, not that it did any good. We’ve been through this with the cops. That lady detective—”
He glanced at Marge for help.
Marge said, “Cassett.”
“Yeah, she asked us to scare up people around thirty-seven here, and we busted our humps. We got a couple security guards. We got a guy, sells fruit juice and popsicles. We got regulars.”
Margie said, “You have the list, right? Give him the list.”
“Charlotte had it.”
Charlotte hurried to her desk as Crenza went on.
“We dug up some regulars, but, believe me, they weren’t easy to come by.”
Marge sniffed. Resentful.
“Like we don’t have enough to do, running a business.”
Crenza shrugged.
“Whatever. So the other one, what’s his name, the one looks like
a bowling ball?”
He waved at Marge for the answer.
“Rivera.”
Bowling ball. Rivera would love it.
“That’s it. So we give them the names, and Rivera comes back. The people we gave them didn’t know squat, so he wants us to come up with more names, which we did, and you know what happened?”
He arched his eyebrows. Waiting.
“Rivera came back again.”
“Nah, not Rivera. Rivera sent a couple of asshats. I guess he couldn’t be bothered. All this work we’ve done, all the names, they tell us we’re wasting their time. I told’m, maybe you guys are asking bad questions. Can we help it nobody remembers?”
Marge said, “Terrible people, those two. Rude.”
Charlotte found the list, and handed it to her uncle. He frowned.
“There’s supposed to be two sheets. This is the first. What’d’ja do with the second?”
Marge glared at Charlotte again.
“I guess I have to do everything.”
Marge stalked to the desk, and returned with a second page. I felt bad for Charlotte.
Six names were on the first list, and four names were on the second. Three of the names had phone numbers and addresses, and a fourth name had only a phone number. The remaining six names had no contact information.
“You don’t have phone numbers for these people?”
“What am I, psychic? These people are strangers. If someone said they saw someone here that Saturday, their name went on the list.”
I glanced at the first list.
“So Rivera talked to these people, and no one could help?”
“So said the bowling ball.”
I glanced at the second list. The first three names were typed. The fourth name was written. Louise August, along with an address.
“He struck out with these people, too?”
Crenza smirked.
“The first three, I guess. The last name here, Ms. August, we dug up for the asshats. We had to drop everything. They threatened to close us.”
He glanced at Marge.
“What were their names, those nasty pricks?”
Marge frowned as she tried to remember.
“Neff? Ness? I’m drawing a blank. What were their names, Charlotte?”
Charlotte cringed, and looked miserable.
“I’m sorry.”
“Useless.”
Martin ignored them, and pointed out Ms. August’s name.
“She’s a regular. One of my security guys saw her yakking with a couple of young people, but they coulda been anyone. We get three or four thousand people through here, every Saturday. That old lady, she yaks with everyone.”
“Could I get a copy of this list, Mr. Crenza?”
Crenza shrugged.
“The cops already talked to them.”
“I know. Maybe I’ll ask better questions.”
Crenza stared for a moment, and laughed.
“Yeah, you might. You’re not an asshat.”
Marge pushed the lists at Charlotte.
“Make him a copy, or do I have to do that, too?”
Charlotte made the copies quickly, and proved herself useful.
I let myself out, and walked along the fence at the edge of the parking lot. The names without an address or phone number were worthless. Louise August showed an address, but no phone. I mapped her address on my phone, and saw she was only eight blocks away. I left my car by the Crenzas, and walked.
15
LOUISE AUGUST LIVED six blocks from the beach, in an area filled with turn-of-the-century bungalows built as weekend getaway homes for affluent Angelenos fleeing the inland heat. Back then, the drive from the mansions of Bunker Hill or West Adams to the milder clime of the beach was a two-hour trek through orange groves, palm orchards, and stretches of undeveloped land. A hundred years later, we had freeways and electric cars, but little had changed. The drive from downtown L.A. to Venice at rush hour took just as long, but passing through scenic orange groves had been replaced by creeping bumper-to-bumper traffic and vengeful drivers. This was called progress.
I called the people with phone numbers as I searched for Ms. August’s address. Nancy Hummell’s voice mail answered. I left a message asking her to call back, and dialed Carlos Gomez next. His phone rang, and kept ringing. Strike two. Victor Pitchess answered on the first ring, but Victor was annoyed. He didn’t remember a young couple at the flea market, didn’t like being harassed by strangers, and threatened to sue if I called him again. No wonder Cassett and Rivera had come up with nothing.
I found her street, turned, and saw a homeless man with a skinny brown dog sitting on the curb across from a blue Craftsman house. The man was watching a workman lower a FOR SALE sign into the house’s front yard. A woman in a purple pants suit was directing him. The Craftsman had a peaked roof, a covered porch, and a blue picket fence with a blue picket gate. The address belonged to Louise August.
The dog saw me approaching, and whined. Its eyes were fearful. The man saw me, and his eyes were fearful, too. He struggled to his feet, and ducked his head.
“This poor dog is hungry. Spare a dollar for kibble? I swear to God and Jesus Above I will not buy alcohol.”
I gave him five dollars, and crossed the street.
The woman said, “To the left. No, it’s leaning to the right, bring it more left.”
The workman straightened the post.
The woman said, “Better. That’s good. Plant it.”
BURGESS REALTY. FOR SALE.
The woman was blocking the gate, and didn’t move.
I said, “Excuse me.”
She glanced at the homeless man, and arched her eyebrows.
“If you give them money, they won’t leave. I’m trying to sell this place.”
“Sorry. I’m looking for Louise August. Is she home?”
The woman faced me, and hesitated.
“I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
“When will she be back?”
“Not that kind of gone. Amy Burgess, Burgess Realty. Are you a friend of the family?”
She gave me a card.
“No, ma’am. I need to see her about something. Business.”
Amy Burgess hesitated again, and shrugged.
“Okay, well, I should tell you. Louise is dead. One of these addicts murdered her.”
She waved toward the homeless man. He put his arm around the dog, and averted his eyes.
I flexed her card, and studied the house. The front yard was tangled with overgrown rubber trees and banana plants. A concrete walk from the gate to the porch was lined with garden gnomes, terra cotta pots, and quirky, sun-bleached signs. The signs said things like UNICORNS WELCOME, I BRAKE FOR RAINBOWS, and PLEASE BE KIND. I slipped the card into my pocket.
“I’m sorry. When did it happen?”
“Last week. They wanted drugs. Broke in through a window there, and killed her with a steam iron. Blunt force trauma, the police said. It must have been awful.”
The homeless man bellowed.
“FORGIVE ME, FATHER, I DID NOT SIN.”
Amy Burgess ignored him.
“I told her daughter, you’re going to take a hit on the price. I have to disclose. It’s a murder house.”
She frowned at the murder house, then considered me.
“Interested? Her daughter wants a fast sale.”
The workman interrupted.
“What do you think, straight?”
Amy Burgess studied the sign.
“Perfect. Thanks, Armando.”
The workman gathered his tools and let himself through the gate. Amy Burgess smiled, and gave me a second card.
“If you change your mind, you’ll get a great buy. Believe me, she’s over a barrel.”
; “Will do. Thanks.”
So much for Louise August. All I had left were names with no way to reach them. I turned, and headed back for my car.
The homeless man stared at the ground as I approached, and spoke with a very soft voice.
“The lady was kind.”
I knew he meant Louise August.
“She left water for thirsty dogs. The occasional treat. Kind.”
He petted the dog. I glanced at the sign in the little front yard. PLEASE BE KIND.
“Good to know. Kindness is in short supply.”
He nodded.
“Two men.”
He glanced up, met my eyes, and looked away.
“We told the police. Her kindness, avenged.”
“What about two men?”
“Well dressed, ties. Young men with authority. One large, one larger. We saw them open the gate.”
“The day she was killed?”
He stared at the ground, and stroked the dog.
“We cannot be sure. Forgive us.”
The two men he saw could have been detectives, come to see what she knew after leaving the Crenzas.
“Were they policemen, you think? Detectives?”
“Government men. Clandestine agents. Obvious.”
Obvious.
“Did you see them leave?”
“We did not. Forgive us. Urgent business required us elsewhere.”
He stroked the dog.
“But you told the police?”
“We did, and now you. Her kindness, avenged. Your kindness, repaid. Could you spare a dollar for kibble? This poor dog is hungry.”
I gave him ten dollars, and walked back to the Crenzas. Charlotte was at her desk, but I didn’t see Martin or Marge. Charlotte lurched to her feet when I opened the door. She probably thought I was Marge.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Are your aunt and uncle here?”
She touched the base of her neck, and closed her collar.
“They went to lunch.”
“Okay. Maybe you can help.”
“I’ll try.”
“The detectives your uncle called asshats. Were you here when they talked to him?”
“Yeah, me and my aunt and uncle. I don’t remember their names, though. I told you.”