the Forgotten Man (2005) (2 page)

Alvarez seemed both pissed off and spent after that, so Padilla let it ride. The social workers got themselves buckled in, and started their car.

"Why you think they didn't kill the little girl?"

"I don't know. Maybe they figured she couldn't finger them, her being so little, but my guess right now is they didn't see her. The way her footprints lead back to her room, she was probably in there sleeping or playing when it happened and they left before she came out. We'll let the psychologists talk to her about that. You never know. We get lucky, maybe she saw everything and can tell us exactly what happened and who did the deed. If she can't, then maybe we'll never know. That's the way it is with murder. Sometimes you never know. I gotta get back to work."

Alvarez joined another detective and the two of them walked around the side of the house. Padilla didn't want to go back to work; he wanted to go home, take a shower, then drink a cold beer in his backyard with his wife while his children watched television inside, but, instead, he stood and watched.

The social workers were slowly working their car around the civilians and cops crowding the street. Padilla couldn't see the little girl. She was too small to see, as if the car had swallowed her. Padilla had been a cop long enough to know that the murders that had occurred tonight would haunt everyone involved for the rest of their lives. The neighbors who lined the tape would worry that the killers might return. Some would feel survivor's guilt, and others would grow fearful. Insecurities would flare, marriages would fail, and more than one family would sell their house to get out of Dodge before it happened to them. That's the way it was with murder. It would haunt the people who lived here and the cops who investigated the case and the friends and relatives of the victims and the little girl most of all. The murder would change her. She would become someone other than who she would have been. She would grow into someone else.

Padilla watched the car turn onto the highway, then crossed himself.

Padilla whispered, "I'll pray for you."

He turned and went back into the house.

PART ONE

Next of Kin Chapter 1

T hey called me to view the body on a wet spring morning when darkness webbed my house. Some nights are like that; more now than before. Picture the World's Greatest Detective, reluctant subject of sidebar articles in the Los Angeles Times and Los Angeles magazine, stretched on his couch in a redwood A-frame overlooking the city, not really sleeping at 3:58 A. M. when the phone rang. I thought it was a reporter, but answered anyway."Hello."

"This is Detective Kelly Diaz with LAPD. I apologize about the time, but I'm trying to reach Elvis Cole."

Her voice was coarse, reflecting the early hour. I pushed into a sitting position and cleared my throat. Police who call before sunrise have nothing to offer but bad news.

"How'd you get my number?"

I had changed my home number when the news stories broke, but reporters and cranks still called.

"One of the criminalists had it or got it, I'm not sure. Either way, I'm sorry for calling like this, but we have a homicide. We have reason to believe you know the deceased."

Something sharp stabbed behind my eyes, and I swung my feet to the floor.

"Who is it?"

"We'd like you to come down here, see for yourself. We're downtown near Twelfth and Hill Street. I can send a radio car if that would help."

The house was dark. Sliding glass doors opened to a deck that jutted like a diving platform over the canyon behind my house. The lights on the opposite ridge were murky with the low clouds and mist. I cleared my throat again.

"Is it Joe Pike?"

"Pike's your partner, right? The ex-cop with the sunglasses?"

"Yes. He has arrows tattooed on the outside of his delts. They're red."

She covered the phone, but I heard muffled voices. She was asking. My chest filled with a growing pressure, and I didn't like that she had to ask because asking meant maybe it was.

"Is it Pike?"

"No, this isn't Pike. This man has tattoos, but not like that. I'm sorry if I scared you that way. Listen, we can send a car."

I closed my eyes, letting the pressure fade.

"I don't know anything about it. What makes you think I know?"

"The victim said some things before he died. Come down and take a look. I'll send a car."

"Am I a suspect?"

"Nothing like that. We just want to see if you can help with the ID."

"What was your name?"

"Diaz-"

"Okay, Diaz-it's four in the morning, I haven't slept in two months, and I'm not in the mood. If you think I know this guy, then you think I'm a suspect. Everyone who knows a homicide victim is a suspect until they're cleared, so just tell me who you got and ask whatever it is you want to ask."

"What it is, we have a deceased Anglo male we believe to be the victim of a robbery. They got his wallet, so I can't give you a name. We're hoping you can help with that part. Here, listen -"

"Why do you think I know him?"

She plowed on with the description as if I hadn't spoken.

"Anglo male, dyed black hair thin on top, brown eyes, approximately seventy years but he could be older, I guess, and he has crucifix tattoos on both palms."

"Why do you think I know him?"

"He has more tats of a religious nature on his arms-Jesus, the Virgin, things like that. None of this sounds familiar?"

"I don't have any idea who you're talking about."

"What we have is a deceased male as I've described, one gunshot to the chest. By his appearance and location, he appears indigent, but we're working on that. I'm the officer who found him. He was still conscious at that time and said things that suggested you would recognize his description."

"I don't."

"Look, Cole, I'm not trying to be difficult. It would be better if -"

"What did he say?"

Diaz didn't answer right away.

"He told me he was your father."

I sat without moving in my dark house. I had started that night in bed, but ended on the couch, hoping the steady patter of rain would quiet my heart, but sleep had not come.

"Just like that, he told you he was my father."

"I tried to get a statement, but all he said was something about you being his son, and then he passed. You're the same Elvis Cole they wrote the stories about, aren't you? In the Times?"

"Yes."

"He had the clippings. I figured you would recognize the tats if you knew him, me thinking he was your father, but it sounds like you don't."

My voice came out hoarse, and the catch embarrassed me.

"I never met my father. I don't know anything about him, and as far as I know he doesn't know me."

"We want you to come take a look, Mr. Cole. We have a few questions."

"I thought I wasn't a suspect."

"At this time, you aren't, but we still have the questions. We sent a radio car. It should be pulling up just about now."

Approaching headlights brightened my kitchen as she said it. I heard the car roll to a slow stop outside my house, and more light filled my front entry. They had radioed their status, and someone with Diaz had signaled their arrival.

"Okay, Diaz, tell them to shut their lights. No point in waking the neighbors."

"The car is a courtesy, Mr. Cole. In case you were unable to drive after you saw him."

"Sure. That's why you kept offering the car like it was my choice even though it was already coming."

"It's still your choice. If you want to take your own car you can follow them. We just have a few questions."

The glow outside vanished, and once more my home was in darkness.

"Okay, Diaz, I'm coming. Tell them to take it easy out there. I have to get dressed.

"Not a problem. We'll see you in a few minutes."

I put down the phone but still did not move. I had not moved in hours. Outside, a light rain fell as quietly as a whisper. I must have been waiting for Diaz to call. Why else would I have been awake that night and all the other nights except to wait like a lost child in the woods, a forgotten child waiting to be found?

After a while I dressed, then followed the radio car to see the dead.

Chapter 2

T he police were set up at both ends of an alley across from a flower shop that had opened to receive its morning deliveries. Yellow tape was stretched across the alley to keep people out even though the streets were deserted; the only people I saw were four workers from the flower mart and the cops. I followed the radio car past an SID van, more radio cars, and a couple of Crown Victorias to park across the street. No rain was falling there in the heart of the city, but the clouds hung low, and threatened. The uniforms climbed out of their radio car and told me to wait at the tape. The senior officer went into the alley for the detectives, but his younger partner stayed with me. We hadn't spoken at my house, but now he studied me with his thumbs hooked onto his gun belt.

"You the one was on TV?"

"No, he was the other one."

"I wasn't trying to be rude. I remember seeing you on the news."

I didn't say anything. He watched me a moment longer, then turned to the alley.

"Guess you've seen a homicide scene before."

"More than one."

The body was crumpled beside a Dumpster midway down the alley, but my view was blocked by a woman in a T-shirt and shorts, and two men in dark sport coats. The woman's T-shirt was fresh and white, and made her stand out in the dingy alley as if she were on fire. The older suit was a thick man with shabby hair, and the younger detective was a tall, spike-straight guy with a pinched face. When the uniform reached them, they traded a few words, then the woman came back with him. She smelled of medicinal alcohol.

"I'm Diaz. Thanks for coming out."

Kelly Diaz had short black hair, blunt fingers, and the chunky build of an aging athlete. A delicate silver heart swayed on a chain around her neck. It didn't go with the rest of her.

I said, "I'm not going to know this man."

"I'd still like you to take a look and answer a few questions. You okay with that?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

"I'm just making sure you understand you don't have to talk to us. You have any doubts about it you should call a lawyer."

"I'm good, Diaz. If I wasn't good, I would have shot it out with these guys up in the hills."

The younger cop laughed, but his partner didn't. Diaz lifted the tape, and I stooped under and walked with her to the Dumpster. When we reached the others, Diaz introduced us. The senior detective was a Central Station homicide supervisor named Terry O'Loughlin; the other guy was a D-l named Jeff Pardy. O'Loughlin shook my hand and thanked me for coming, but Pardy didn't offer to shake. He stood between me and the body like I was an invading army and he was determined not to give ground.

O'Loughlin said, "Okay, let him see."

The cops parted like a dividing sea so I could view the body. The alley was bright with lights they had set up to work the scene. The dead man was on his right side with his right arm stretched from his chest and his left down along his side; his shirt was wet with blood and had been scissored open. His head was shaped like an upside-down pyramid with a broad forehead and pointy chin. His hair showed the stark black of a bad dye job and a thin widow's peak. He didn't look particularly old, just weathered and sad. The crucifix inked into his left palm made it look like he was holding the cross, and more tattoos showed on his stomach under the blood. A single gunshot wound was visible two inches to the left of his sternum.

Diaz said, "You know him?"

I cocked my head to see him as if we were looking at each other. His eyes were open and would remain that way until a mortician closed them. They were brown, like mine, but dulled by the loss of their tears. That's the first thing you learn when you work with the dead: We're gone when we no longer cry.

"What do you think? You know this guy?"

"Uh-uh."

"Ever seen him before?"

"No, I can't help you."

When I looked up, all three of them were watching me.

O'Loughlin flicked his hand at Pardy.

"Show him the stories."

Pardy took a manila envelope from his coat. The envelope contained three articles about me and a little boy who had been kidnapped earlier in the fall. The articles hadn't been clipped from the original newspaper; they had been copied, and the articles clipped from the copies. All three articles made me out to be more than I was or ever had been; Elvis Cole, the World's Greatest Detective, hero of the week. I had seen them before, and seeing them again depressed me. I handed them back without reading them.

"Okay, he had some news clips about me. Looks like he copied them at the library."

Diaz continued staring at me.

"He told me he was trying to find you."

"When this stuff hit the news I got calls from total strangers saying I owed them money and asking for loans. I got death threats, fan letters, and time-share offers, also from total strangers. After the first fifty letters I threw away my mail without opening it and turned off my answering machine. I don't know what else to tell you. I've never seen him before."

O'Loughlin said, "Maybe he hung around outside your office. You could have seen him there."

"I stopped going to my office."

"You have any idea why he would think he's your father?"

"Why would total strangers think I'd loan them money?"

Pardy said, "Were you down here or anywhere near here tonight?"

There it was. The coroner's office was responsible for identifying John Doe victims and notifying their next of kin. Whenever the police took action to identify a victim, they were acting to further their investigation. Diaz had phoned me at four A. M. to see if I was home; she had sent a car to confirm I was home, and asked me down so they could gauge my reaction. They might even have a witness squirreled nearby, giving me the eye.

I said, "I was home all night, me and my cat."

Pardy edged closer.

"Can the cat confirm it?"

"Ask him."

Diaz said, "Take it soft, Pardy. Jesus."

O'Loughlin warned off Pardy with a look.

"I don't want this to become adversarial. Cole knows we have to cover the base. He's going out of his way."

I said, "I was home all night. I spoke to a friend about nine-thirty. I can give you his name and number, but that's the only time I can cover."

Pardy glanced at O'Loughlin, but didn't seem particularly impressed.

"That's great, Cole; we'll check it out. Would you be willing to give us a GSR? In the interest of helping us. Not to be adversarial."

O'Loughlin frowned at him, but didn't object. A gunshot residue test would show them whether or not I had recently fired a gun - if I hadn't washed my hands or worn gloves.