Starkey stopped at the door, looked at me as if she was going to say something, but glanced back at Lucy.
"He misses you."
Lucy's jaw tightened, but she made no other response as Starkey went out. I stood in the door until Starkey was in her car, then returned to the kitchen. Lucy was searching through my cupboards. She saw I was back, and smiled brightly.
"Okay, boss, let's get this going. I'm starving to death."
"I'm sorry she said that about me missing you. It's none of her business."
Lucy put two large cans of chopped tomatoes on the counter, and set about opening them as if nothing was wrong. Her eyebrows arched.
"She likes you, Mr. Cole."
"Not the way you mean."
Lucy considered me, then shook her head, and went back to opening the cans.
"You can tell me what she's helping you with while we cook."
I watched her for a moment, wondering what to say and how to say it. Lucy softened me. Maybe it was the warmth of her hair (the best color money can buy) or the curve of her cheek or the determined intelligence in her eyes; maybe it was her scent or the way one front tooth overlapped the other or the faint lines gathered at the corners of her eyes. The whole of her gave me a peace I had not known without her. The knots in my neck and upper back loosened; the strained buzzing in my chest calmed. I did not tell her about Reinnike. I told her I was working a missing-persons case, and let it go at that. A man and his son had disappeared, and I was trying to find them. I didn't lie to her; I just didn't tell her everything. I didn't tell her the important things. Maybe I was tired of the drama, or maybe I didn't want to spoil our evening.
We cooked together as if she had never been away, and I only remembered we were no longer a couple when I wanted to touch her, but couldn't. I wanted everything to be as it had once been, but I respected her choices, and knew her choices weren't easy for her, either. She was doing what she felt she had to do. She was doing what she thought was right for her child. Maybe I could appreciate those choices more than other people, or maybe I was just drunk. In my fantasies, my own mother loved me as much; my own father cared. That Lucy gave up so much for her child left me loving her more and wanting her more and willing to sacrifice anything to nurture her love. What she gave Ben was everything I had wanted for myself; what she was to him was everything I had been denied by my own parents.
We cooked, and ate, and after a while we sat together in the silence of my house, the two of us on the couch, sitting close, her hand in mine. My home felt warm and alive; not just wood and glass and tile, but something more. I knew she would leave soon. She knew it, too. Maybe that's why we were silent.
After a time, Lucy whispered, softly.
"I have to go."
I whispered back.
"I know."
Neither of us moved. I believed she still loved me, else she would not have come to my house. I had asked her once to stay, and thought that if I pressed her again, she might. I could have brushed her ear with my lips, and whispered the gentle words. Maybe some part of her wanted me to convince her, but I knew if I did the difficult choices she had made would be even more difficult to bear. I didn't want to force her. I didn't want to make it harder for her.
She whispered, "I'm going."
She still did not move.
It was up to me.
I kissed the back of her hand, then smiled, trying to tell her I begrudged her nothing.
"I'll walk you out."
If something I hoped was disappointment flickered in her eyes, I ignored it.
She found her wallet, then walked with me out to her car. The sharp night chill hooked at the skin around my eyes and made me blink. That's right—the chill. She kissed my cheek, then slipped behind the wheel.
She said, "I'm glad you came home."
I wanted to say the same, but couldn't.
Her taillights disappeared around the curve. They flickered in the trees, then disappeared again. I stood in the street, watching, hoping for one more glimpse, but after a while I knew she was gone. Ken Wilson told me there was no such thing as a dead end, but I feared he was wrong.
33
Archangel Love
When the female police officer drove away, Frederick decided to kill Cole and the other woman. It was full-on dark by then, and no neighbor would be able to see Frederick approach the house. Cole might have a gun, but Frederick was even more concerned by the presence of the police. The policewoman—obviously Cole's minion—might have helped murder Payne, and she might even be helping Cole identify Frederick. So ten minutes after she drove away, Frederick slipped the shotgun from its case and readied himself for the killing.
Lights swung around the curve, and a car appeared. It slowed, and Frederick recognized the female police officer. She slowed, but she did not stop, and continued past Cole's house. Frederick didn't like it that she had returned, but didn't know what to make of it.
Frederick decided to wait. Maybe Cole would come outside to put out his trash and Frederick could shoot him from the trees. Maybe Cole and the first woman would go for a walk.
Twenty minutes later, the same female police officer cruised past again. She was patrolling Cole's house!
Frederick grew worried she might become suspicious of his truck. He pictured her calling in his license plate and alerting Cole he was in the area. She might be calling for more of Cole's minions at that very moment!
Do it, Frederick! Do it RIGHT NOW!
Frederick felt trapped between his need to avenge Payne and his fear of the police—
Do it, Frederick!
All he had to do was run to the door, kick it in, and crash into Cole's house. If he took them by surprise, he could shoot down Cole and his wife where they stood.
The police officer drove past again, and in that moment everything changed. Frederick grew convinced she knew he was in the area. That's why she was patrolling Cole's neighborhood—they knew he was here! They were looking for him. Even as he had been stupidly hiding in the trees, Cole's masked minions were probably closing in, surrounding him as silently as smoke; they would surround him, trap him, then hold him down so Cole could use a long thin knife to slit his throat just as he had killed Payne.
That monster, Cole.
Frederick lurched up from behind the trees and hurried back to his truck, desperate to get away before the officer reappeared, and before her assassins trapped him.
34
I turned on the television to put noise in the house, then returned to the deck, wondering why I hadn't been able to tell Lucy about George Reinnike. The hillsides were sprinkled with their inevitable lights, following the canyon like a twinkling river to the city. High over the lights, a flashing red crucifix climbed toward the east; a jet out of LAX with red strobes on its wingtips and tail. They take off toward the sea, but turn across the city for a final good-bye. Lucy would fly that route tomorrow.
I went inside, made a cup of instant coffee, and stood in the living room. The television showed a news promo during a commercial. The Red Light Assassin had added another victim to the traffic signal body count. As part of the promo they showed a traffic camera's view of cars blowing through an intersection. I wondered if the Home Away Suites had a security camera in the parking lot. Gas stations, convenience stores, and supermarkets had cameras watching their parking lots, so maybe the Home Away Suites did, too, and Reinnike's car had been captured on tape. If their tape showed Reinnike's car, it might show his license plate.
I brushed my tooth to cover the gin, locked the house, and drove back to the Home Away Suites. It was better than brooding about Lucy.
Traffic was light, and Toluca Lake was quiet when I reached the motel. The parking lot was well lit, but not so bright that it would disturb the residents in the surrounding apartments. I got out of my car, but didn't go inside right away. I walked between the cars, looking for surveillance cameras on light poles and outside the motel, but I didn't find anything. Maybe they wer
e hidden.
I went inside to the front desk and identified myself. The night clerk was a middle-aged woman who grew irritated when she learned what I wanted, and why.
She said, "I don't know anything about that business. They brought me down from Bakersfield because of all this."
The regular night manager had been relieved when the corporate office learned that prostitutes had visited the motel. She resented coming down from Bakersfield, and didn't think it fair that the regular manager had been fired.
"I want to ask about the parking lot. Do security cameras cover the parking?"
She pointed to the corner of the ceiling where a small camera hung from a metal bracket.
"We only have the camera inside. The police already asked for the tape, but it wasn't working. Now the home office is flying in and more people are going to lose their jobs. All for nothing, if you ask me. They buy these cheap things, then blame the managers when nothing works."
"The police were here about the cameras? Do you remember which officer?"
"I wasn't here. That was the day manager."
"All right. I'm going to walk around the building and the parking lot for a few minutes. I just wanted you to know what I'm doing."
"We'll have to put armed guards in our motels now, everyone's making such a big deal. You would think that poor man was murdered right here in the lobby. It's absurd."
I left before she could go on.
The Home Away Suites did not have outside security cameras, but the surrounding apartment houses and businesses might. Thomas said Reinnike had been parked in a spot directly across from the motel entrance, which was on the north side of the motel. I walked to the street, then looked back at the parking lot. A Mobil station was directly across the street to the south on the southeast corner, and a strip mall featuring a liquor store sat kitty-cornered across the intersection on the southwest corner. Both the Mobil station and the liquor store would have security cameras, but the angles wouldn't show the Home Away parking lot.
A 24/7 convenience store sat directly across Cahuenga Boulevard from the motel. The 24/7 would have cameras, too, and the angle might be better.
I trotted across Cahuenga. Two cars were tanking up at the pump island out front, with a heavy bass line booming from a little Toyota.
Inside, I joined three people in line at the counter. The clerk was a young guy with a neatly trimmed beard wearing a faded Mall Rats T-shirt. He checked out each customer mechanically and without interest. How are you today? ... That will be six dollars and forty-two cents.... Have a good evening. He had an unobstructed view of the Home Away parking lot. A security camera hung from the ceiling behind the counter, with a second camera at the back of the store. They almost certainly had cameras outside the store.
When it was my turn, the clerk said, "How are you today?"
"I'm investigating the murder of a man who was staying across the street. I have a couple questions for you."
"Wow. That's not something I hear every day."
I asked if their exterior security cameras showed the Home Away's parking lot.
"Sorry, dude, the cameras don't point that way. If you lean over here you can see what I mean."
He realized I wouldn't be able to see much by leaning, so he told me to come around behind the counter. A security monitor was set up on a shelf beneath the cash register. It showed grainy black-and-white views of us, the aisles, and the outside area between the gas pumps and the front door. The clerk pointed at the monitor.
"You see? The outside camera doesn't show the street. You can't see the motel."
We couldn't see the motel, but we clearly saw the cars at the pumps. Reinnike might have bought gas here, and his tag number might show on their tape.
"How long do you hold the recordings?"
"Twenty-four hours. It's not tape anymore—it's digital. The pictures stream to a hard drive, but the memory buffers out at twenty-four hours unless we put in a save."
"And you only put in a save if something happens?"
"Yeah, like if the store is robbed or an alarm goes off or whatever."
Reinnike had been murdered more than seventy-two hours ago. Twenty-four hours wasn't enough.
He folded his arms and looked at me curiously.
"I saw police cars over there last night. Was that what it was about?"
"One of their guests was murdered three nights ago."
"Right in the motel?"
"He was murdered downtown, but he was staying there."
I showed him the morgue shot. He studied the picture, then shook his head.
"They all kinda blend together. I couldn't tell you what my last three customers looked like."
"He was driving a brown Honda Accord with a bad dent at the left rear wheel. Maybe he bought gas."
"Sorry, dude. If their credit card clears, I don't even bother to look."
"He would have paid cash."
"A lot of people pay cash. I don't remember."
A construction worker grimed with white dust came in. He ordered two hot dogs, plain with nothing on them, and a large coffee with four sugars. I stood out of the way while the clerk took two hot dogs off the rotisserie and filled a large Styrofoam cup with coffee and sugar. The wall behind the counter was lined with a soft-drink dispenser, a coffee machine, a frozen-yogurt dispenser, and the rotisserie, but I didn't see an espresso machine. Nothing said "mocha."
When the construction guy left, I said, "Is there a coffee shop in walking distance?"
"Starbucks, up Riverside. It's ten or twelve blocks, though. We got coffee. What do you need?"
"It's not for me. A witness at the motel told me he crossed the street for a mocha. I was wondering where he got it."
"I get you. He could have come here. We got mocha, vanilla, and hazelnut—they're bullshit instant mixes, but we sell it. You know that stuff is mostly sand? You mix it with hot water."
The clerk's eyebrows suddenly arched with interest.
"Hey, was that the black dude?"
Just like that. You interview people, you never know what they're going to say, or why; sometimes, you kick over a stone like the thousand other stones you've kicked, and something glitters in the soil.
I said, "I don't know. Describe him."
"It was—"
His lips moved soundlessly as he counted on his fingers.
"—five nights ago. Big guy, buffed out and kinda fierce, with his hair high and tight?"
Five nights ago was the night Dana had prayed with Herbert Faustina.
"You remember every mocha you sell?"
He made a self-conscious smile.
"Not hardly. I remember this guy because of his chick. Dude, she was hot—"
He cupped his fingers to indicate the size of her breasts. Thomas hadn't said anything about Dana having a mocha.
"Did she have a mocha, too?"
"He came in alone. The Lakers were playing, and he's killing time, but he keeps looking outside. I'm thinking, what's this dude looking for, is he going to rob me? But then he says, shit, there's my chick, and turned so fast his drink splashed all over his hand. Ouch."
"Ouch."
"Right. This thick was smoking. I would've spilled my coffee, too."
"Un-huh."
"Anyway, he beat it back across the street. I just stared at the chick. She had a serious case of the floppies when she ran. It made my night."
He cupped his hands over his chest again, and bounced them up and down.
"Why was she running?"
"They got into his car, but then she got out again. She ran over to see some guy—"
Thomas hadn't said anything about Dana getting out of the car. No flopping had been described.
The door chimed as an Armenian couple with a small baby came in. The woman was sultry, and beautiful. The clerk stared at her and lost his train of thought. I touched his arm.
"Describe the man she ran to see."
"I wasn't looking at the dude, bro—I was w
atching her bags; they were hopping."
"An older man? Thin, with badly dyed hair?"
"You mean the guy in the picture?"
"You tell me."
The clerk glanced at the woman again, watching her walk, then sighed when he turned back to me. Fantasy interruptus.
"I didn't see the dude's face. I guess he was kinda old, but I couldn't swear to any of this. She almost knocked him over when she hugged him."
It had to be Reinnike. Reinnike had come outside, and Dana had gone to see him. Thomas hadn't mentioned that part, and now I wondered why.
"What about the black guy? Did he go see the guy, too?"
"He kinda ducked down like he was hiding. I thought that was weird. I think he took a picture."
"Why do you think he took a picture?"
"I saw his camera—"
He lifted his hands to either side of his face as if he was aiming a camera. As he demonstrated, the Armenian man asked if they had concentrated milk. The clerk told him to check the last aisle.
I said, "You sure it was a camera? Maybe it was a cell phone."
"Dude, I know a camera. Not one of those dinky little things, . either; a real camera with a long lens."
He pointed out a white car on the street-side row of cars in the Home Away parking lot.
"See the white sedan ... four, five, six spots from the entrance, right here by the street? They were parked where that white sedan is. I saw the camera."
"How long was she with the other man?"
"Coupla minutes. Maybe not that long."
"Then what happened?"
"They left."
"Did they follow the other man?"
The clerk was beginning to look annoyed.
"Dude, I don't know if they followed him. They just left."
The Armenian family brought two cans of condensed milk and a jar of applesauce to the counter.
The clerk said, "I gotta get back to work."
"Me, too."
I thanked him for his help, then ducked under the counter and went out to my car. The air was cold, but I didn't feel it. It was ten fifty-three when I called Joe Pike.
I said, "I need you to meet me."