5
ELVIS COLE
THE IMAGE HAD BEEN ENHANCED and enlarged, yielding a close-up indictment. His pupils glowed like the eyes of a coyote, trapped by oncoming headlights. Devon had to be told quickly, but I didn’t know the charges Tyson would face, or how close the police were to making an arrest.
Dave was still talking, so I interrupted.
“Is LAPD close to making an arrest?”
“Why, you getting interested?”
“You said it yourself. If there’s a feeding frenzy, I might be late for the banquet, but I still want something to eat.”
Dave laughed.
“Tell you what, c’mon down, and talk to my guy. He’ll help you catch up.”
I thanked him, and went to catch up.
First Tier Security was located in Culver City at the edge of Marina del Rey. Metal siding, sharp angles, and pastel paint gave their building a look more suited to an Internet start-up, but Dave’s company monitored more than six thousand subscribers across Los Angeles County.
Deitman greeted me with a firm handshake, and steered me toward a conference room.
A thin, wiry man stood when we entered. Tim Benson was the head of the First Tier technical staff. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt with a narrow black tie and khaki cargo pants. His arms were striped with tribal tattoos, and his eyes were angry black dots.
Dave said, “Timmy cut the vid, and worked on the face with SID. He’s our Slauson expert.”
The strength of his grip surprised me.
I said, “Eighteen is a serious run. Dave says they’re kids.”
Benson shrugged like eighteen was nothing.
“We’re talking cold-house entries, not banks.”
This was good news. A cold entry meant the burglars only entered unoccupied homes.
Dave told me to sit, and took a seat beside me. We sat at a table facing a flat-screen TV. Benson sat with a wireless keyboard and a can of Mountain Dew.
Dave leaned back, and crossed his arms.
“Give’m an overview.”
Benson’s gaze flicked my way.
“As of now, we’ve got eighteen rez-burgs scattered through Brentwood, Bel Air, Holmby, and Beverly Hills, all occurring north of Sunset Boulevard. The Slausons were—”
I interrupted.
“As of now?”
“The perps are active, and the task force is checking prints against older cases. The number’s probably gonna go up.”
I nodded along, but was thinking ahead.
“Did the same three subjects pull all eighteen?”
“Doubtful. Cassett says a duo took some of the earlier scores.”
“Who’s Cassett?”
Dave said, “Dani Cassett and Mike Rivera. Robbery Special. Cassett runs the task force.”
Benson pulled the keyboard closer, and continued.
“We’ve got one female and two males, so far unknown. They entered the Slauson residence through an unlocked glass door. How they did it at the Slausons is pretty much what they do every time. Their pattern doesn’t change.”
If Tyson was Unknown Male Subject Number One, I wondered if Alec was Unknown Male Number Two, and the female was Amber.
I glanced at Dave.
“A neighbor told me they beat the alarm?”
Benson spoke quickly, eyes even darker.
“Uh-uh. The Slausons didn’t arm the system. Plus, the slider wasn’t locked. Dr. Slauson thought he locked it, but the latch is fussy. I checked. You have to wiggle it.”
Dave gave a sorrowful nod.
“People spend all this money on security, but get in a rush.”
Benson glanced at Dave.
“You ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
Benson tapped a key. The flat-screen split into six frozen views of the Slausons’ house. A time code was visible in the lower right corner of each image.
“The Slausons have six cameras, so we have six views. I added a time code for the police.”
The camera locations were obvious, but he ticked them off anyway.
“Top left, the call box. Camera two, we see from the front door down the drive to the street. Then we have side-of-the-house three, and opposite side four. Five and six cover the back.”
He pointed out the time code.
“The time is now eleven twenty-two P.M. Approach to exit, the crime takes forty-six minutes.”
Surveillance cameras recorded continuously, which meant six cameras recorded six hours of video during a single one-hour period. Benson had cherry-picked shots from each camera, and cut together a narrative.
He tapped a key, and the entry cam’s view filled the screen. The driveway gate was in the background, with a murky glimpse of the street beyond the gate. I wondered if Tyson’s Volvo would pass.
Benson said, “The light sucks, but watch the street. They enter from the right.”
He tapped again, and the time counter spun. Two grainy figures appeared beyond the gate, and stopped when they reached the drive.
“The female is on our left, Unknown Male One on the right.”
The lack of light and the distance made them look like smudges.
“How can you tell which is which?”
“The female and Male One are about the same size. Unknown Male Two is taller. And I’ve seen this damned thing a hundred times.”
Dave laughed.
I said, “They arrived on foot?”
“Assumption is, they parked a house or two away, but the police haven’t confirmed it. They could’ve been dropped, and picked up after, but nobody knows.”
A taller smudge joined the first two, and they drifted toward the gate. The angle cut to the call box camera, showing its view of the street. The frame was otherwise empty until a hand reached past the camera.
Benson froze the image.
“She’s pressing the call button. Every caper they pull, they check to see if someone’s home. If nobody answers, they jump the fence or whatever, and look for an unlocked entrance. They never break windows, or force an entry. If an alarm goes off, they split. A dog, they split. The same way every time.”
“How do you know it’s the girl?”
“You’ll see.”
Dave said, “She rings the damn bell four or five times. Let’s skip the ringing.”
Benson advanced the video.
“Okay. Now watch.”
Lights flashed in the background as a car approached. The screen went dark as someone blocked the camera, and remained dark for almost ten seconds. Then someone walked directly away from the camera, letting us see their back.
Benson spoke over the action.
“See her legs? She’s wearing leggings, not pants.”
A second figure hurried after the first, also showing his back. Benson froze the screen.
“Unknown Male Number One. He’s wearing pants. They always wear dark clothes. Hoodies and caps. Always the same.”
Benson started the video. Tyson caught up to the girl, and bumped her from behind. The girl spun around, but the hoodie still hid her face. She launched a playful kick to ward Tyson off, and Benson froze the image with her foot in the air.
“Check out her sneaker. The midsole. See how it shines?”
The midsole shimmered like a strip of reflective tape.
“SID identified the brand. Japanese. They make’m for teenage girls, hence she’s a girl. Keep watching.”
Benson touched the key. Tyson jumped away from the kick, and the taller male raced forward. He lifted Tyson off his feet.
Benson arched his eyebrows.
“This is how we know they’re kids. These morons are playing.”
The female disappeared in the background. The taller kid lowered Tyson, and they raced after the girl.
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The picture cut to a high-angle view of a side yard service walk, showing the length of the walk from the back of the house to a service gate in the distance. A figure hovered at the top of the gate.
“The girl comes over first. This chick is running the show.”
The figure dropped, and came toward us. She reached a door, and tried the knob. The door didn’t open, so she continued along the walk, coming toward the camera. The hoodie masked her face, but she kept her head down. Smart. She appeared calm, experienced, and unafraid.
Benson nudged me.
“Check her hands. No gloves. They hide their faces, but they leave fingerprints everywhere.”
Maybe not so smart.
Tyson climbed over the gate next, and Alec came over last. Tyson wore a cap under his hoodie, and Alec’s hoodie was drawn so tight he looked like an aardvark.
Benson leaned forward.
“Here it comes. Wait for it.”
The girl passed beneath the camera, and out of frame. Tyson reached the camera next, and glanced up before he moved out of the frame. He only looked at the camera for a second, but a second was more than enough.
Benson slapped the table.
“Money shot! We got him.”
I paid little attention after the money shot.
The view cut to the back of the Slausons’ home. The female subject reached a sliding glass door, gripped the handle, and pulled. The door slid open easily.
Benson nudged me.
“Wasn’t locked.”
Tyson and Alec followed her into the house. The glass doors and glass walls framed an interior stage. We watched them open drawers, go into closets, and bounce on a bed. I felt bad for the Slausons, and sad for Devon.
I left when the video ended. Devon wanted to know how Tyson was getting money, and now I knew what to tell her.
The evidence against Tyson was overwhelming. He would be identified, arrested, and convicted, and Devon needed to know.
It was time to share the news.
6
DEVON WORKED at a small law firm in a three-story building on the far side of Encino. I didn’t warn her I was coming. I called when I reached the building, and told her I was outside.
She said, “Wait. You’re outside right now?”
“In a red zone. You’ll see me.”
“What’s he doing? How much trouble is he in?”
“Come out.”
“Is it drugs? Is he a drug dealer?”
“Come out. I’m in the red zone.”
“I’ll kill him. I swear to God I’m going to kill him.”
She came out a few minutes later, and hurried into my car.
“Okay, what? What’s he doing?”
I showed her the picture of the sunglass case.
“I found this in Tyson’s car. Familiar?”
“Amber? Is Amber the girl?”
“I’m guessing yes, but I don’t know. I won’t be able to answer a lot of your questions, but there isn’t much time.”
“Time for what?”
I showed her the screen grab of Tyson. She frowned, and took my phone to look closely.
“He’s green. What kind of picture is this?”
“A screen capture from a home surveillance video. He looks weird because the police enhanced and enlarged the image.”
She settled against the door like a deflating balloon.
“This isn’t starting well.”
“A couple named Slauson owns the home. The Rolex belongs to them. On the night this picture was taken, they were in Palm Springs. Tyson and two friends entered their home, and stole sixty-eight thousand dollars in property and cash.”
Devon’s eyes widened, and she shriveled even more.
“Oh. My. God.”
“The people with him were a taller male and a female.”
“Alec and Amber?”
“I’m guessing yes. As of now, Tyson and his friends haven’t been identified. The police have his picture and fingerprints, but not his name. That’s the good news.”
She closed her eyes.
“How could he be so stupid?”
“It gets worse. The police have linked these kids to seventeen other burglaries. Eighteen burglaries in total.”
She opened her eyes, and stared.
“Tyson robbed eighteen homes?”
“It’s possible he didn’t participate in all eighteen, but this is how he’s getting the money.”
She glanced away. Her mouth hardened and dimples cratered the corners.
“A thief. He breaks into homes, and steals.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a lot to get your head around.”
Her eyes suddenly softened.
“Have they hurt anyone?”
I liked her for asking.
“So far as I know, they haven’t.”
“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
I turned the vents toward her face.
“Deep breaths.”
“I’m going to throw up. I mean it.”
“Breathe.”
She took my phone. Her hands quivered as she stared at his picture. Green. She gave back the phone, and stared out the window. His name exploded out of her without warning.
“TYSON!”
She slapped her thighs three times, and shouted again.
“TYSON!”
I waited. Sometimes, all you can do is wait. She finally took a breath, and came back to me.
“I have to ask. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She straightened, and gathered herself.
“All right. Thank you. I knew he was in trouble, but I never thought it was something like this. I appreciate what you’ve done.”
“I’m not finished.”
She looked at me.
“Once they put a name to his face, he’ll be arrested. If you want to help him, you have a window, but the window is closing.”
“Help him how? Buy him a ticket to China?”
“He needs to turn himself in. It’s called a voluntary surrender. If Tyson cooperates, he might even get a pretty good deal.”
She chewed at her lips, thinking, then glanced at her watch. Tyson was still at school, but the school day was ending.
“I’d need a lawyer.”
“Yes. A criminal attorney. I can recommend several.”
She nodded to herself, and glanced at her building.
“My boss can refer me. I have to tell him about Tyson, anyway. The burglar.”
“You understand what I mean about the window closing?”
She glanced again, and now her eyes were sharp.
“I’m only an office manager, Mr. Cole, but I pay attention. Once the police know who he is, they won’t need us to surrender. They’ll simply arrest him, and we won’t have any leverage.”
“So you have to move quickly.”
“I understand. I’ll get a lawyer as fast as I can.”
“And Tyson has to cooperate.”
The sharp eyes flashed.
“He’ll cooperate or I’ll kill him.”
“This will blindside him. He’ll be upset, and scared. I can be with you when you talk to him.”
“Thank you, but it’ll go better without a stranger present. I’ll call Dr. Rossi. Rossi will want to help. We’ll talk to Tyson tonight.”
I remembered Rossi’s name from Tyson’s prescription bottles.
“Okay. One last thing. Your lawyer will want to speak with me. Give them my number. If you’d like me on calls when you interview people, I’ll be on the calls. Whatever you want.”
She studied me for a moment, and made a nice smile.
“You’re really something.”
“So I’ve been told.”
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Her smile deepened, and she opened the door to go.
“I’ll let you know what happens. I’d better get started.”
I said, “What about you? How are you?”
She hesitated, and glanced back for a last time.
“I’m sad.”
Devon slid out, and returned to her office. I pulled away from the curb, and pointed my car toward home. Tyson Connor’s arrest was inevitable. He, or the tall boy, or the girl, would flaunt their cash or brag to a friend, and a ripple of gossip would spread. A waitress would overhear, and share what she’d heard with a parolee boyfriend, who would pass along her gossip to curry a parole officer’s favor. Fences got popped and gave up thieves, criminals bragged about crimes on Facebook, and backstabbing friends dropped revealing hints on Twitter. Always the same, and always inevitable.
The window was closing, but not closed.
7
DEVON WORKED QUICKLY. I was pulling into a market in Studio City when she called and introduced me to an attorney named Leslie Sanger. Sanger sounded smart, experienced, and had spent nine years as a Deputy District Attorney. I parked, and spent twenty minutes describing what I knew of the Slauson burglary, and how I knew it. I did not name Dave Deitman and Sherri Toyoda as sources. Sanger assured me their names and mine would not be necessary. Tyson would have to supply a detailed statement as proof of his involvement, but even Tyson would remain nameless until an agreement was reached. Then, Devon and Sanger would deliver Tyson to the agreed-upon agency, and complete his voluntary surrender. Weighing his age, lack of a prior criminal history, and willingness to cooperate, Sanger felt confident the District Attorney’s office and the court would be receptive and lenient. My part was finished, over and out.
When the call ended, I felt relieved. I also felt hungry, and wanted to celebrate. I picked up extra thick veal chops and a bottle of Roca Patrón tequila. Hess liked both, but the Roca was her favorite. Par-tay.
Shopping complete, I left the Valley behind.
Home was a redwood A-frame perched on a narrow road off Woodrow Wilson Drive near the top of Laurel Canyon. The house came with two bedrooms, a deck with a fine view of the canyon, and a cat. The cat was black, surly, and scarred from too many fights. He liked me okay, but he didn’t care much for Hess. She didn’t take it personally. He didn’t like anyone except me and my partner, Joe Pike. Everyone else, he wanted to gut.