by Kirk Russell
He called the LA car dealership that sold the BMW to Stoltz and talked with the salesman who closed the deal. Somewhere between the LA dealership and where they took him down, Stoltz switched from a BMW into a Toyota Prius and Raveneau was looking for the salesman’s help. He wanted the mileage on the car as it left the lot. He got that, 39,334.
After thanking the salesman and hanging up he used Google Maps to get the distance from the dealership to Stoltz’s mother’s house. Stoltz was a mile short of there when he was taken down. Now he called the Department of Motor Vehicles and got a list of other vehicles, cars and boats in the name of Steven Pullman. He sat back, thought about it, and then made another call and got the answer he expected.
‘If he’s paying his bills as Steven Pullman no judge is going to hold him on an illegal social security number and an alias on a credit card. In this state, if we started locking up people with illegal social security numbers we’d have to build a jail every fifteen minutes.’
As he hung up, he thought more about Heilbron and the case they were building against him, and then what was already starting to click suddenly made even more sense. It fit. It was too much to be coincidence. If Lafaye was telling the truth about buying Erin Quinn’s identity from Alex Jurika, and they had that clear link to Stoltz’s past, what if the Steven Pullman identity was also bought through Jurika?
By late afternoon he had a full record of everywhere the Pullman Visa had ever been used. He wrote up a request for a search warrant for Stoltz’s residence and vehicles. As he finished la Rosa walked back in.
‘You’re not going there without me,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t want to. Let’s see those stitches.’ He wrapped an arm around her after looking at them, then said, ‘OK, partner, let’s go see the judge.’
Los Altos police assisted and taped the road off as Raveneau drank coffee and ate a tuna sandwich. Then he and la Rosa walked down the gravel drive toward the guest house. A string of low landscape lights marked the way. He looked at the dark hills beyond and the pool and tennis courts and the lawyer waiting for them in the light of the open front door. Raveneau introduced himself and la Rosa to the lawyer. She had a direct look and seemed to have a genuine interest in protecting her client. She read the warrant carefully as Raveneau shook open a pair of latex gloves and put them on slowly.
FORTY-FIVE
Last time Raveneau was in Phoenix was to interview a witness on a July afternoon when the temperature tagged one hundred and fifteen degrees and he made the mistake of leaving a printout of a photo on the passenger seat of the rental car. The photo curled and faded in the baking heat inside. Left in there long enough it probably would have caught fire. But this was November and the morning was clear and cool. A light wind blew off the desert. He’d slept on the plane and felt rested.
The search yesterday of Stoltz’s house yielded a few papers and documents la Rosa would follow up on today from the office. But he doubted anything would come of what they had found. Stoltz was ready for a search. He’d anticipated it. That was Raveneau’s take-away.
He called la Rosa and let her know he’d landed and was pulling into the shopping mall where Julie Candiff worked as an assistant manager in a boutique clothing store. He found Candiff soon after walking in and asked her, ‘Do you have someone who can cover for you for a couple of hours?’
‘I’ll get fired if I leave the store.’
‘The police are going to let us use an interview room at a precinct near here. You can ride with me or drive yourself. That’s up to you.’
She stood up to him now. She looked little like her cousin, blonde hair to her shoulders, a small turned up nose and carefully made-up eyes.
‘You really don’t care about what happens with my job, do you?’
‘Maybe I’ll care more when I get to know you better.’
She disappeared for several minutes, and then was in a hurry to get out of the store so others didn’t find out who he was or where she was going. At the Squaw Peak Precinct she said, ‘All I ever did was rent the apartment. I never handled any money or any credit cards, or opened any of the mail that came there.’
‘The problem is we have hundreds of emails and text messages between you and Alex. In fifty of them you’re talking about the things you bought.’
‘Of course we talked about shopping. We loved to shop together.’
‘There’s a record of everything you charged. We’ve got videotape of you standing at a store counter showing a fake driver’s license as you use a credit card with someone else’s name. That’s credit fraud and it’s a done deal that it was you, so from my point of view you’re being stubborn. Or maybe you didn’t care that much about your cousin.’
‘That’s a mean thing to say. You don’t know how sad I am about Alex.’
‘You’re right, I don’t. You hide it well and I’m getting frustrated. We’re trying to find the person who killed Alex, and it feels like you’re trying to block us. You make promises you don’t keep. You dodge contact and I’m getting the strong impression you don’t care whether her killer is found or not. You keep denying the business you and your cousin had and I feel as though you’d like me to just go away.’
‘It was her business, not mine. I didn’t know what was going on. I never knew.’
‘You and Alex stole a lot of money and ruined the credit of dozens of people along the way. I have zero doubt about that, OK, just so we’re clear. I know you stole credit cards and identities.’
Raveneau paused. When she finally looked up he continued.
‘But what I’m working on is a homicide investigation. I’m not working credit fraud. I’m trying to figure out who murdered Alex Jurika, your cousin, your best friend in crime. I’m looking to you to stand up for her. I think the killing was related to the fraud, or came from it. That same killer may come for you.’
‘But I don’t know anything, Alex ran everything.’
‘Doesn’t matter. They may not know that. So you’ve got to talk to me.’
At some point he left her alone in the room and made calls and picked up messages. When he went back in she said, ‘Alex worked for some company where they cleaned old people’s houses and stuff and she would steal credit cards from them.’
‘Steal from the houses they worked in?’
‘Yes.’
‘GoodHands?’
‘I don’t remember the name, but Alex sometimes traded online the card info she stole, other times she’d use the numbers herself.’
‘What was your role?’
‘Do you promise I won’t go to jail?’
‘No, but what I said before is true. All I’m interested in is finding Alex’s killer.’
‘But this is all recorded.’
‘Yes, it’s all being taped.’
When he flew home late that afternoon Raveneau felt he had a much better idea of how it all evolved. He was pretty sure Candiff’s role was limited.
‘Well?’ la Rosa asked as she picked him up at SFO.
‘It was worth it. She wasn’t going to fly out. She needed the shock of us coming to her and interrupting her life.’
He downloaded what he’d learned.
‘She claims not to know Deborah Lafaye or recognize the name Erin Quinn. She was out of the loop. Alex gave her the job of the apartment because she knew she could keep her happy by buying clothes and jewelry.’
‘Then what was her role?’
‘Jurika gave some of the new credit identities Phoenix addresses. She put a few in Scottsdale and other places in the greater Phoenix area. Four of the names had the same address, a Phoenix apartment where Candiff picked up the mail.’
Raveneau opened his notebook and went through it point by point with la Rosa before asking about Stoltz.
‘He walks tomorrow,’ she said, and that’s what happened. Mid morning the next day Stoltz got cut loose without a bond, because as Stoltz’s lawyer put it, ‘It’s still legal in America to work long hours and take b
usiness trips.’
Stoltz also made a public statement wishing the police luck, saying, ‘I am very sorry for the families of the officers and as much as anyone I want this killer caught. I’ve been treated very unfairly by the police in the past, but I apologize for not coming forward sooner.’
Raveneau watched it live and then again on late night news. He couldn’t quite get his head around how easily the identity theft was brushed off. Stoltz had admitted through his lawyer to purchasing online the identity of a Steven Pullman who had died with his parents in an auto accident in 1983. Asked about it by a reporter, he was close to indignant, saying he always paid the bills, and dismissed using the identity of a dead child as inconsequential, saying, ‘It’s just a name.’ And maybe that’s where things were headed, to a world where identity was just another commodity. If so, what would that say about us?
FORTY-SIX
Before leaving the house Stoltz spent an hour on his laptop reworking the TV and room lights schedule. He went out the back of the house a few minutes before the computer turned on the TV and lights in the kitchen. He had no illusions; the police had the whole house covered.
Still, he’d run a lot of his own tests on what you could see from the ridge and the back of the orchard, and left through a window in the basement laundry room that opened into a bush at the end of an old hedge, where the plants were big enough that he could belly crawl under them until he reached the trees. At the trees he crouched and waited fifteen minutes until a stairway light and an upstairs bathroom light came on. Faint strains of music leaked from the house. No doubt they thought he was inside gloating that he was out and the media was focusing on Bates.
He worked from tree to tree to reach the storm drainage easement where the manhole was. He waited before prying the heavy iron manhole cover off, and then slid it back into place after climbing part-way down the ladder. He didn’t turn on his flashlight until he got to the bottom of the ladder.
It was much cooler in here, cold, really, a dank cold, but somehow comforting because they couldn’t watch him. They didn’t know about this. The concrete pipe was large though not big enough to stand in and he hunched down, turned the flashlight beam on the backpack and the fresh rat droppings on it. He saw a hole had been chewed through it and brushed the droppings off, but didn’t yet unclip the pack from the wire and carabiner it dangled from.
How were the rats getting to the pack? Was it possible they crawled down the wire or did they jump from the manhole ladder? He unzipped the pack and was relieved not to find a rat inside, though it looked like one had made a nest of his coat. But the laptop was OK. The pack was suspended from a wire attached to an eye hook he’d drilled into the center of the top of the culvert pipe and however they were doing it, they were doing it. It didn’t matter. He’d kill them. He spread rat poison just above the moss and trickle of water at his feet. He put some of it on top of the pack and then pulled on a headlamp and started down the pipe.
The bigger pipe ended where the other feeder pipes coming off the hills fed in, and from there he had to squat and walk forward like a crab, headlight bobbing, rats moving, scraping and scratching as they ran up ahead. He smelled rat shit and the long uphill grade was a slow tiring climb. He’d slept too little and burned too much adrenaline. He knew he was becoming manic, the way he did sometimes, and taking risks he shouldn’t. Yet he couldn’t stop right now. He had to get control back.
After forty minutes he reached the second ladder, but instead of climbing out the usual way, continued on and had to belly crawl through the slime in a smaller pipe, and then struggled getting the grate off the storm drain, finally jerking his way free. In the trees he stripped down to his running shorts and sweats, and left the filthy coveralls in a black plastic bag that he hid in the brush. He put the keys in the pouch around his waist, walked back out to the road and started the two mile jog up and over the grade, then down a long-falling road to where he called for a cab to take him to San Jose. He had the cab drop him half a mile from the warehouse and once inside showered and changed before loading up a car and driving to San Francisco.
He entered China Basin on Third Street and then found a place to park and wait. The light was off in the apartment where Inspector Raveneau lived. Raveneau’s car wasn’t in the fenced lot. If Raveneau came home and if the opportunity showed itself, he’d do it, but for now he reclined his seat, plugged in his iPod, and waited.
FORTY-SEVEN
Heilbron watched the same weird late night press conference with Stoltz. He squatted in front of the TV looking for the inspectors, but the clip was short and it was only the Stoltz guy. What was with this? Trippy fucking dude and definitely up to something. Definitely in-your-face-type angry, but sounding like he was all rational and reasonable about what had gone on. The newscaster came and Heilbron waited for him to talk about the investigation and Inspector la Rosa. Instead, they skipped to weather and he reached for the remote and went through the other local news, but there was nothing.
Time to check out the night. He left the TV on low and killed the other lights in the house. He watched from a window for a while, then went out the back and to the van. He had a bike in the van, chained so that it stood up. For three days he’d been home and not seen the inspectors, though their cards were in the door. He only kept la Rosa’s card. He had four of hers now and cleaned out an Altoids tin to store them in. Four of her in the little tin box. Four was his lucky number. Of course, if it was really her she would need a bigger box and he’d have to take the bike out of the van for the box to have room. Then he’d be chillin’ with Inspector Elizabeth la Rosa. Driving around or maybe he would drive somewhere special with her that wouldn’t get figured out for a very long time. He drove sort of dreaming of what that would feel like.
He liked the way it felt to think of it, but it was still crazy what he’d done going to the Hall of Justice that morning instead of going to work. He couldn’t believe he did it. But this dude, Stoltz, he knows in his head what he’s doing while he’s doing it, talking to the press, getting filmed, knowing he’s going to be on TV and be famous. He’s got a plan, Heilbron thought. I read the man. Definitely has plans. That’s what I have to do, plan every detail, every small thing just like working on the cars. It’s in the really small details. You have to get everything just right. Plan it, dude. Plan it carefully. Get it right.
Heilbron turned at the next corner. If Stoltz was able to pull something off, then he’d have to also. He thought about that as he drove downtown.
FORTY-EIGHT
‘Hey,’ Celeste said, ‘where are you?’
‘Just getting home.’
‘Want to go back out instead? I just finished this wine thing at the Four Seasons and I’ve got a room here tonight and an expense account for dinner.’
Tonight the elevator seemed louder than usual and he could barely hear her as he rode up. Even if he went back out he needed to feed the cat first. He got out of the elevator and climbed the stairs to the cool air of the roof. Horsetails of cirrus clouds fanned into moonlight.
‘Let me feed the cat and then I’ll meet you there. I’ll probably be half an hour. Is that OK?’
‘I’ll be in the bar.’
He called for Visa and heard a meow, but it took a while to figure out where it was coming from. When he did, he wasn’t sure how to get Visa out.
Soon after he’d moved here, the owner, Mr Han, had hired a contractor to install iron braces that connected the roof framing to the brick parapet, a city earthquake bracing requirement. In March it had rained almost every day and there were leaks in and around where the contractor had worked, so Han was up on the roof innumerable times arguing with the contractor, and finally the contractor built a temporary plywood contraption over one of the seismic braces that leaked the worst.
Somehow Visa had gotten inside that plywood box and Raveneau felt around in the darkness for the opening the cat crawled through. When he found it, Visa still wouldn’t come out. But a ca
n of food did the trick and he left Visa eating.
By the time he got downstairs again to his car he was running late to meet Celeste. To head toward the Four Seasons he needed to make a U-turn, but ahead of him a car a few blocks down pulled away in a manner that made him curious. He followed it intending to turn around soon, but closed in a little when it became obvious the driver didn’t want him catching up.
So now the cop in him kicked in and he stayed with it, an old Ford Taurus, one of the SHO cars, the faster model. It swung left, the driver tapping his brakes as he rolled through a stop sign, and then picked up speed. He went right with his tires squealing. As Raveneau neared, he swung hard on to the 101 ramp and gunned it on to the southbound freeway, Raveneau following but not gaining. When the Taurus broke right at the 280 split Raveneau picked up his cell and called the SID team leader.
‘How certain are you Stoltz is home?’
‘We just watched a light go off upstairs.’
‘I’m following a car that was parked down the street from where I live. The driver is on 280 and moving at ninety. He doesn’t want me to catch him. The car is a Ford Taurus maybe ten years old and dark-colored. I’ve fallen way back from him now and he’s slowed but is still moving fast. I’m not going to get close enough for plates.’
‘We can call the CHP right now.’
So could Raveneau but he didn’t want that. ‘I want to know where he’s going,’ he said.
He felt the minutes go by, felt Celeste waiting for him as he chased the car down 280. When the car exited near Palo Alto, Raveneau lost him in the hills, but was able to give SID a partial plate before turning back to San Francisco.
‘Plates start with the letters A and L and contain the number four.’
‘We’ll keep our eyes peeled but we think he’s inside.’
‘Call me when you find the car.’
The officer chuckled, said, ‘You got it.’