The Sentry (18 page)

John Chen was corrupt.

A paranoid with low self-esteem, Chen lived for the headline, and this was normally Cole’s ace. Cole often gave Chen information that allowed him to make breakthroughs on cases he would not have made otherwise. These breakthroughs led to a media profile few other criminalists enjoyed, Chen having been quoted more than a dozen times in the
Los Angeles Times
, interviewed by various local TV news anchors, and hired as a technical consultant on motion pictures based on two of his cases. Chen, whose obsessions in life revolved around women and money, currently drove a Porsche Boxster. The women had so far eluded him.

Cole worked his way onto the I-10 Freeway for the fifteen-mile trek across the Los Angeles Basin. He was approaching the Mid-City area less than halfway across when his phone rang, and he saw it was Pike. Cole had been struggling with what to tell Pike, but now the call forced his hand. If Wilson and Dru were still alive, he would say nothing until he knew more.

“Was it them?”

“Mendoza and Gomer. They’re dead.”

Cole felt a kick of surprise. Mendoza and Gomer were the predators. They weren’t supposed to be dead. If the predators were dead, where were the victims?

“What about Wilson and Dru?”

“Nothing. Mendoza was in the canal by Washington. Gomer was in a car up at the north end. If the cops found something in Gomer’s car, they haven’t told me.”

Pike quickly described how they were killed, which left Cole even more unsettled.

“When did it happen?”

“Fill you in later. I’m being questioned.”

“You’re a suspect?”

“It won’t be a problem. They’re covering the bases.”

“There’s a third player, Joe. The person who jimmied the kitchen window.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking about it.”

Pike hung up and Cole drove on, letting the flow of traffic carry him through increasingly darker thoughts.

When the Los Angeles Police Department relocated their headquarters from a decayed and crumbling Parker Center to the new Police Administration Building two blocks away, they forgot to take the Scientific Investigation Division with them. This wasn’t factually the case, but was one of many jokes the criminalists liked to tell. The reality was that until a suitable site was found, SID would remain the last man standing in LAPD’s past.

Cole didn’t drive to the old Parker Center location. He waited for Chen outside the Criminal Courts Building six blocks away, arriving early and waiting an extra twenty minutes until John arrived.

Chen slipped into the passenger seat of Cole’s car so fast it was as if he fell from the sky. He wore oversized dark sunglasses, a Dodgers cap pulled low on his face, and a windbreaker with the collar turned up even though it would reach almost ninety degrees later that day. His grapefruit head was tucked into the collar like a turtle into its shell. Hiding.

“I don’t think anyone saw me, but we’d better drive. They might have followed.”

Chen’s paranoia.

Cole pulled into traffic, determined to make this a short drive. The news about Mendoza and Gomer had left him feeling even more concerned about Smith and Dru Rayne.

Cole reached behind the seat for his bag, and put it on Chen’s lap. There wasn’t much room. Chen was tall, skinny, and looked like a praying mantis folded into the front passenger compartment.

“It’s breakable, so be careful.”

“What’s in here?”

“Glasses. A couple of soda cans. Things like that. I also have a metal box you can have when you get out of the car.

Chen took off the sunglasses and put on his regular glasses. The lenses looked like they had been cut from the bottoms of Coke bottles.

Chen peered inside.

“Shit, this is a lot. I have a caseload, man. I have so many cases my backlog has a backlog.”

“I know it’s a lot, but don’t get ahead of yourself. The prints should belong to two individuals—a male and a female who live at the residence. The woman’s prints should be on the deodorant stick. The male’s prints are probably on the file box. Run the stick first, then the box. If you pull something clean, you won’t have to clock anything else.”

Chen didn’t look any happier.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. I just gotta figure out how. I’ll have to work this stuff into the landing pattern, and that could take days.”

The Latent Prints Unit was staffed twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The backlog of prints waiting to be analyzed was so large the unit employed almost eighty specialists around the clock to hold back the tide. With so many cases in line to be analyzed, a first-come-first-served waiting list was maintained to reserve the equipment needed for the work. This list was known as the landing pattern.

Cole said, “Days is too long. I need this.”

Chen looked over, sour but thoughtful.

“For Joe?”

Cole nodded.

“What’s up?”

“I’m hoping you can tell me. If these people are in the system, Joe needs to know why. I need to know why, too.”

Chen shifted, maybe trying to get comfortable, but maybe because he was nervous. He was so tall his knees were above the dash and his head touched the roof.

Chen peeked into the bag again, then peered at Cole with enormous owl eyes.

“You know who I am?”

The question caught him by surprise, but then Cole sensed Chen wasn’t talking to him—Chen was talking to himself. Cole shook his head.

“Sure you do, bro. All you have to do is look at me. I’m the guy defense attorneys make out to be the bumbling geek, so juries laugh. I hear cops making cracks when I’m at a scene. Every time I look in a mirror, I know why the girls laugh.”

“John, you don’t have to—”

Chen held up a finger, stopping him.

“When I first met you guys, I was freakin’ terrified of Joe. He was everything that scares me shitless. Here’s this guy, and no one would have the balls to make a crack or laugh. Here he is, a fucking street monster, but of all the people I deal with, he treats me with more respect than anyone else.”

Chen lifted the bag.

“So I will find a way to do this. Pull over. I’ll go get started.”

“I’ll take you back.”

“I’d rather walk. It’ll give me time to think.”

Cole pulled over, and Chen got out with the bag.

“John.”

“What?”

“Take the box.”

Chen took the bag containing the box.

“If you speak with Joe, don’t mention this.”

Chen stared at Cole a long time, then abruptly walked away.

When Cole reached his office he got down to business. The night before, he had asked a friend on the Hollywood Station homicide table for sheets on Mendoza and Gomer. These he would have used to identify known associates and relatives, but they were no longer necessary. He called her to cancel the request, but she had already printed the information and was pissed she had taken the risk for nothing. He then spread the contents of Wilson Smith’s file box over his desk. With Mendoza and Gomer out of the picture, Cole focused on Wilson and Dru.

He quickly determined that most of the files related to Smith’s business, with the individual folders containing invoices, bills, equipment warranties, and rental agreements. Smith purchased fresh seafood from a purveyor in San Pedro, sandwich rolls and breads from a bakery in Boyle Heights, and had signed a one-year lease agreement with Lodestar Properties for the storefront that now housed his kitchen. Cole checked through the bills and invoices for a prior address, but everything that had been mailed was sent to Smith’s shop. Cole made a list of names and numbers from the various letterheads in case he wanted to phone them, then pushed the business files aside.

He tackled the money files next. There were two folders, one for checking and one for savings, with both accounts drawn on the Venice branch of Golden State Bank & Trust. The statements went back eight months, showing both accounts were opened on the same day. The savings account was opened with a $9600 deposit, from which $2000 was used to open the checking account. Two weeks after opening the savings account, an additional $6500 was deposited. The first statement had been mailed to Smith at a P.O. box in Venice, but the following seven, including the most recent, were mailed to Wilson’s Takeout Foods. Cole copied the P.O. box address, then examined the statements. Deposits, withdrawals, and checking activity all seemed reasonable, with most of the drafts made out to pay for rent, utilities, and supplies. The canceled checks were in the file. Smith was obviously a man who didn’t believe in online banking. He was also a man who didn’t believe in credit cards.

The contents of Wilson Smith’s metal file box contained nothing showing a date prior to the accounts that were opened eight months ago, nothing of a personal nature, and nothing to connect Wilson Smith with Louisiana or anyplace else. It was as if the man had been born eight months ago with a $9600 deposit.

Nothing in the file box named or was related to Dru Rayne. It was as if she didn’t exist at all.

Among the utilities was a monthly phone bill. Pike had given Cole the cell phone numbers for Wilson and Dru, but this number was different. Cole dialed the number, and reached a voice message informing him Wilson’s Takeout Foods was currently closed but was open during the following business hours. The voice was a woman’s, and Cole thought it must be Dru. She had a nice voice.

Cole hung up, staring at nothing. He told himself they were house sitters, which was a temporary arrangement, so most of their possessions were probably in storage or packed in a friend’s garage, but Cole told himself this was bogus even as he formed the thoughts.

Everything about Dru Rayne and Wilson Smith was wrong.

Cole leaned back and stared out the French doors. The French doors opened to a small balcony and, twelve miles beyond, the sea. Cole could see the ocean on a clear day, but today a wall of haze obscured his view. He felt depressed, and wondered how Pike was doing with the police. He did not like knowing this thing about Dru Rayne that Pike did not know. He did not like the expression he had seen on Pike’s face when Pike was shouldering the guilt for whatever trouble the woman was in. Cole had seen that same expression in the mirror too many times.

Cole dialed the takeout shop again to hear her voice. Pleasant, friendly, medium timbre with a hint of a Southern accent. A familiar voice that inspired an ache in his chest. Cole had loved a woman from Louisiana. They had gotten in so deep Lucy moved out with her eight-year-old son. It was a gamble for all of them that didn’t work out, so Lucy and her son returned to Louisiana. This had been Lucy’s call, not Cole’s. Cole would have gone all the way.

When Cole realized he was thinking more about Lucy Chenier than Dru Rayne, he checked the time. Louisiana was two hours ahead. Lucy would be at her office or in court. She was an attorney in private practice with a successful firm in Baton Rouge, and it occurred to Cole she might be able to help. It also occurred to him this was simply an excuse to hear her voice.

A professional voice answered when he called.

“Ms. Chenier’s office.”

“Guess who?”

Loretta Bean’s professional voice melted into warm, Southern comfort. Loretta was Lucy’s assistant.

“You dog. You don’t call here often enough, and I miss your smart mouth.”

“I was falling in lust with you, Loretta. I had to stop calling before I embarrassed myself.”

“The terrible things you say, you
should
be embarrassed, but I love every minute of it. Would you like Ms. Chenier?”

“In more ways than you know.”

“You awful dog. Hold on and I’ll get her.”

Cole was placed on hold and found himself listening to canned music. Harry Connick, Jr., on the piano. He was on hold so long Harry transitioned to Branford Marsalis before she came on the line.

“Hey, you. Sorry I took so long. I was on with a client.”

Hearing her voice, warmth spread through him despite the twinge of discomfort he felt these days when he called. He tried not to phone her as often as he once did, but that was more for her than him. He didn’t want to push. He didn’t want her to cringe when he called.

“No worries. I bill by the hour.”

She laughed.

“Then I’m happy to help. We here at Rotolo, Fourrier, Day, and Chenier want you to make lots of money.”

“Got a few minutes? I could call back later if now isn’t good.”

The joking in her voice was replaced by a warm contralto that always made him feel they were the only two people in a remote mountain cabin.

“Sure, hon. Hang on—”

She told Loretta not to put anyone through, then returned to their conversation.

“Everything good?”

“I’m looking for background on a woman named Dru Rayne and a man named Wilson Smith, both of whom claim to be from New Orleans.”

“Uh-huh. And why does the word ‘claim’ draw my attention?”

“Joe knows the woman, and I’m not convinced she’s been honest with him about their circumstances or even about who they are.”

“When you say involved, you mean like boyfriend-girlfriend?”

Cole described how Pike saved Wilson Smith from the beating, and subsequently met Dru Rayne. He left out the parts about Latin gangs, abductions, and bodies cut so badly their heads were almost severed. The violence he encountered as part of his job was what drove Lucy away.

When he finished, Lucy shifted into lawyer mode.

“All right, first, are we talking about a potential crime here? Is Joe giving them money?”

Cole hesitated, realizing he would have to describe parts of the situation he had hoped to avoid.

“No, it isn’t like that. They’ve disappeared. They might be in trouble, so we’re trying to find them.”