The Forgotten Man

1

They 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.

2

The 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.

"Sure, Pardy, take the swabs. I haven't killed anyone this week."

O'Loughlin checked his watch as if he suspected this was going to be a waste of time, but here we were and there was the dead man. Diaz called over a criminalist, and had me sign a waiver stating I knew my rights and was cooperating without coercion. The criminalist rubbed two cloth swabs over my left and right hands, then dropped each into its own glass tube. While the criminalist worked, I gave Pardy Joe Pike's name and number to confirm the call, then asked O'Loughlin if they made the murder for a botched robbery. He checked his watch again as if answering me was just another waste of time.

"We don't make it for anything right now. We're six blocks from Skid Row, Cole. We have more murders down here than any other part of the city. These people will kill each other over six cents or a blow job, and every goddamned murder clears the same. He sure as hell wasn't carrying government secrets."

No, he was carrying news stories about me.

"Sounds like you've got it figured out."

"If you'd seen as many killings down here as me, you'd have it figured, too."

O'Loughlin suddenly realized he was talking too much and seemed embarrassed.

"If we think of anything else to ask you, we'll follow up. Thanks for your cooperation."

"Sure."

He glanced at Diaz.

"Kelly, you good with letting Jeff have the lead on this? It'll be a good learning experience."

"Fine by me."

"You good with that, Jeff?"

"You bet. I'm on it."

Pardy turned away to call over the coroner's people, and O'Loughlin went with him. Two morgue techs broke out a gurney and began setting it up. I studied the body again. His clothes were worn but clean, and his face wasn't burned dark like the people who live on the streets. When I glanced up at Diaz, she was staring at him, too.

"He doesn't look homeless."

"He's probably fresh out of detention. That's good news for us; his prints will be in the system."

The alley was a long block between commercial storefronts and an abandoned hotel. The letters from the old neon HOTEL sign loomed over the dark street. I could read the hotel's faded name painted on the bricks-Hotel Farnham. But without the police lights, it would have been impossible to read. The darkness bothered me. The body was a good sixty feet from the near street, so he either took a shortcut he knew well or came with someone else. It would have been scary to come this way alone.

"It was you who found him?"

"I was over on Grand when I heard the shot-one cap. I ran past at first, but I heard him flopping around in here and there he was. I tried to get a handle on the bleeding, but it was too much. It was awful, man… Jesus."

She raised her hands like she was trying to get them out of the blood, and I saw they were shaking. The clothes she wore were probably spares from another cop's trunk. She had probably changed out of her bloody clothes in the ambulance and washed with the alcohol. She probably wanted to throw away her blood-soaked clothes, but she was a cop with a cop's pay so she would wash them herself when she got home, then have them dry-cleaned and hope the blood came out. Diaz turned away. The coroner techs had their gurney up, and were pulling on latex gloves.

I said, "No wallet?"

"No, they got it. All he had were the clippings, a nickel, and two pennies."

"No keys?"

She suddenly sighed, and seemed anxious and tired.

"Nothing. Look, you can take off, Cole. I want to finish up and get home to bed. It's been a long night."

I didn't move.

"He mentioned me by name?"

"That's right."

"What did he say?"

"I don't remember exactly, something about trying to find you, but I was asking what happened-I was asking about the shooter. He said he had to find his son. He said he had come all this way to find his boy, and he never met you, but he wanted to make up the lost years. I asked him who, and he told me your name. Maybe that isn't exactly what he said, but it was something like that."

She glanced at me again, then looked back at his body.

"Listen, Cole, I've arrested people who thought they were from Mars. I've busted people who thought they were on Mars. You heard O'Loughlin-we got bums, junkies, drunks, crackheads, schizophrenics, you name it, down here. You don't know what kind of mental illness this guy had."

"But you still have to clear me."

"If you were home all night, don't worry about it. He'll be in the system. I'll let you know when the CI pulls a name."

I turned away from the body and saw Pardy staring at me. His pinched face looked intent.

"It's not necessary, Diaz. Don't bother."

"You sure? I don't mind."

"I'm sure."

"Okay, well, whatever; your call."

I started back to my car, but she stopped me.

"Hey, Cole?"

"What?"

"I read the articles. That was some hairy stuff, man, what you did saving that boy. Congratulations."

I walked away without answering, but stopped again when I reached the yellow tape. Diaz had joined O'Loughlin and Pardy as the coroner's people bagged the body.

"Diaz."

She and Pardy both turned. Rigor had frozen the corpse. The techs leaned hard on the arms to fold them into the bag. A hand reached out from the dark blue plastic like it was pointing at me. They pushed it inside and pulled the zipper.

"When you get the ID, let me know."

I left them to finish their job.

3

Early in the fall, three men stole my girlfriend's only son, Ben Chenier. An ex-LAPD officer named Joe Pike and I saved the boy, but many people died, including the three kidnappers. Bad enough, but those three men had been hired by Ben's own father and were not your garden-variety criminals-they were professional mercenaries wanted under the International War Crimes Act. What with all the bodies, Joe and I faced felony charges, but the governments of Sierra Leone and Colombia interceded along with-get this-the United Nations. The lurid nature of a father contracting the abduction of his own child fed a wildfire of sensationalist journalism, but even before the worst of it, Lucy Chenier concluded that life with yours truly was not worth the risk, so she took her son and went home. She was right to leave. Being with me wasn't worth a four A.M. phone call saying a murdered stranger claimed to be the father I never knew.

I drove back to my house through a light rain, pretending my life was normal. When I reached home, I made scrambled-egg burritos, then turned on the early news. The lead story reported that the Red Light Assassin had struck again. The RLA had been killing traffic cameras for several weeks, and the camera death toll was now up to twelve, each camera snipered dead-center through the lens with a.22-caliber pellet gun. Web sites devoted to the Red Light Assassin had been set up; T-shirts bearing slogans like FREE THE RED LIGHT ASSASSIN sold on every freeway off-ramp; and all of it had come about because the city had installed traffic cameras to ticket rush-hour motorists who slid through the red. Which, in L.A. 's killer traffic, meant everyone. The news anchor tried to keep a straight face, but her co-anchor and the weather guy goofed on the rising "body count," and had themselves in spasms. No mention was made of the nameless man found murdered in a downtown alley. Murdered people were common; murdered cameras were news.

I turned off the television, then went out onto my deck, feeling listless and unfocused. The rain had shriveled to a heavy mist and the sky was beginning to lighten. Later, homicide detectives would be asking my neighbors if they had seen me entering or leaving my house last night. Pardy would probably flash a picture of the dead man, and ask if anyone had seen him in the area, and my neighbors would be left wondering what I had done. I thought I should call to warn them, but calling would look bad so I let it go. Mostly, I wanted to call Lucy, but I had wanted to call her every day since she left, so that wasn't new. I let that one go, too, and watched as the canyon slowly filled with light.

People who lived on the hillsides would soon emerge from their homes to inspect the slopes, searching for cracks and bulges. The world grew unstable when rain fell in Los Angeles. Soil held firm only moments before it could flow without warning like lava, sweeping away cars and houses like toys. The earth lost its certainty, and anchors failed.

A black cat hopped onto the deck by the corner of my house. He froze when he saw someone on the deck, all angry yellow eyes, but his fury passed when he recognized me.

I said, "Yes, I am standing in the rain."

He said, "Omp."

He walked along the side of the house keeping as far from the mist as he could, slipped into the dry warmth of the house, then licked his penis. Cats will do that. He probably thought I was stupid.

When my mother was twenty-two years old she disappeared for three weeks. She disappeared often, walking away without telling anyone where she was going, but always came back, and that time she came back pregnant with me. My mother never described my father in any meaningful way, and may not have known his name. I did not reveal these things to the reporters who mobbed me for interviews after the events with Ben Chenier, but somehow the information found its way into their stories. I regretted not having read the clippings Diaz found in the alley. One might have mentioned the situation with my father, which could have inspired the old man to fabricate his fantasy. That was probably it and I should probably forget it, but I wondered if he had tried to contact me. When I stopped going to my office, I turned off my answering machine and tossed the mail, but that was weeks ago. If the dead man had written to me since then, his letter might be waiting in my office.

I went inside, put out fresh food for the cat, then drove down through the canyon to the little office I keep on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Mail was scattered inside the door where the postman drops it through the slot. I gathered it together, put on a pot of coffee, then turned on my message machine. The Elvis Cole Detective Agency was officially back in business. Of course, since I had ignored everything offered to me for the past six weeks I didn't exactly have something to do.

I went through the mail. A lot of it was bills and junk, but seven pieces were what I thought of as fan mail: a handwritten marriage proposal from someone named Didi, four letters congratulating me for bringing three mass murderers to justice, an anonymous nude photo of a young man holding his penis, and a letter from someone named Loyal Anselmo who described Pike and me as "dangerous vigilantes no better than the monsters you murdered." Some people are never happy.

I kept four of the letters with the intention of sending thank-you notes and dumped the others. After thinking about it, I pulled Anselmo's letter from the trash and put it into a file I kept for death threats and lunatics. If someone murdered me in my sleep I wanted the cops to have clues.

I poured a cup of coffee and felt disappointed that nothing had led back to the dead man. It was possible he had written me and I had tossed his letter, but I could never know that. He could have called when my machine was turned off, but I would never know that, either.

I was trying to figure out a new avenue of detection when the phone rang.

"Elvis Cole Detective Agency. Back on your case, and just in time."

"It's me, Diaz. You at your office, or is this call being forwarded? I already tried your house."

"I'm at the office. Did you get an ID?"

"I'm sorry, we didn't. I thought for sure this dude would be in the system, but he's not. The coroner investigator ran him through the Live Scan as soon as they got to the morgue, but nothing came up."

The Live Scan was an inkless fingerprinting process that digitized fingerprints, and instantly compared them with files at the California Department of Justice in Sacramento. If nothing came up, then he had never served time or been arrested in California.

"Okay. What happens next?"

" Sacramento will roll the prints through NLETS. We still have a shot with the Feds, but it could take a few days. You said you got a lot of mail and calls you didn't answer-"

"I came in to check, Diaz. There's nothing. He could have sent something earlier, but I don't have anything now. I just went through the mail."

"I hate to ask this but I'm going to ask anyway. I'm going over to the morgue. Would you meet me there?"

"I thought Pardy had the case."

"Pardy does, and he's back from the medical examiner. He says the deceased is totally covered with these insane tattoos. I know you didn't recognize him, but maybe something in the ink will ring a bell."

I felt a little dig of anger, but maybe it was shame.

"He's not my father. There's no way."

"Just come look, Cole. One of his tats might give you a name or a place. What can it hurt?"

I didn't say anything, and Diaz pushed on.

"You know where the coroner is, down by the USC Medical Center?"

"I know."

"They have a parking lot in front. I'll meet you there in half an hour."

I put down the phone, then went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. The dead man had a head like a praying mantis and I had a head like a rutabaga. I didn't look anything like him. Nothing like him. Nothing.

I went down to my car and made my way to the morgue.

4

Invisible Men

Frederick Conrad, which was the name he now used, hustled through the trailer park toward his truck when Juanita Morse lurched from her double-wide like a brown recluse spider springing a trap.

" Frederick!"

She hooked his arm with a dried-out crone's hand, trapping him even though he was frantic to leave.

" Frederick, you were so nice last week when I was down with my legs, bringing my groceries like you did. Here, this is for you, a little something."

Frederick fell into character without missing a beat, hiding his fury with the lopsided Frederick Conrad grin everyone knew so well. He pressed the dollar back into her hands.

"Please, Juanita. You know better than that."

"Now you go on, Frederick, you were so nice to see after me like that."

So Frederick took the dollar, feigning appreciation, his furious rage arcing like downed power cables while his eyes remained calm. He wanted Payne to come home. He needed to find out what happened. He was terrified that Payne had confessed.

That traitorous prick, Payne. (Payne Keller being the name he now used.)

"You really don't have to, Miz Morse, but thank you. Is your leg better?"

"It still burns, but at least I'm not down. I put the heating pad on this morning and took the Tylenol."

Frederick patted her hand as if he gave a shit about every burning pulse in her withered body.

"Well, if you need anything else, you let me know."

Pat-pat. Smile. You hideous hag.

Finally rid of her, Frederick hurried to his truck, wanting to crush her nasty throat just to grind the bones. He fired up the Dodge, then slowly drove the two-point-six miles to Keller's gas station, Payne's Gas Car Care. Frederick was well known as the slowest driver in town.

He parked behind the service bays, hung the slow-witted grin on his face again like an Open For Business sign, and sauntered into the office.

"Hey, Elroy, I called three or four times this morning, but you didn't answer. You hear from Payne?"

Elroy Lewis was Payne's other full-time employee. He was a skinny man in his late forties with a roll of flab melting over his belt and yellow fingers from chaining Newport cigarettes. Lewis's dog, Coon, was sleeping in the middle of the floor. Coon, a lazy dog with bad hips, wagged his tail when he saw Frederick, but Frederick ignored him. Lewis put his elbows on the counter, and sulked.

"No, he didn't, and I gotta talk to you 'bout that. We got stuff to talk about."

Frederick stepped over the dog and made his way to Payne's office, doing a pretty good job of pretending everything was okay.

"Well, he called me last night, and said he was gonna give you a call. I guess he got busy with his sister."

"Goddamn, how long is it gonna take that bitch to die?"

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Elroy, sayin' something like that. She's his sister."

Payne Keller had disappeared eleven days ago without a word or note to anyone. When Payne turned up missing, Frederick fed Elroy a bullshit story about Payne's sister being T-boned by a drunk driver, but, truth was, Frederick had no idea. Payne's sudden disappearance terrified him. Payne could be anywhere and might say anything; Payne and his buddy, Jesus, confessing their sins.

I hope you're dead, you bastard. I hope your heart split open like a rotten grapefruit. I hope you put a gun to your head. I hope you're dead, and I hope to hell you didn't take me with you.

Frederick had decided to cover their tracks, and prepare for the worst. Elroy followed him into Payne's office.

"Well, I'm sorry about his sister, but it's goddamned rude, you ask me, him leaving without a word. The wife and I are going to her parents' next week. Payne knew I had that time off and said I could go."

Frederick rounded Payne's desk, took the keys from the top drawer, and flashed the big easy grin.

"Then go, Elroy. That's why Payne called last night, to ask if I'd cover for you. I said sure."

Elroy looked doubtful.

"You will?"

Frederick came back around the desk as a white Maxima pulled up to the self-service pumps. A teenage girl got out, looking confused by the pump. Frederick noted how Elroy stared at the girl.

"Heck, Elroy, I don't mind. You'd do it for me and we'd both do it for Payne. No problem."

Now Elroy looked guilty for being pissed off.

"Listen, when you talk to Payne again, tell him I wish the best for his sister."

"I'll tell him. You bet."

"I never knew Payne had a sister."

"You better see if that girl outside needs help. I gotta swing up by Payne's to feed his cats."

Elroy glanced at the girl again, and Frederick knew what he was thinking; the tight low-cut jeans, the cropped shirt showing a fine flat belly, the dangly thing in her navel.

Sure enough, Elroy said, "Yeah. I'd better get out there. C'mon, Coon."

Elroy nudged Coon to his feet as Frederick went back through the service bay to the storage shed in back of the station. He used Payne's keys to unlock the three padlocks and the steel security bar that kept the shed safe. He found the shovel and a two-gallon can Payne used to bring gas to stranded motorists, then searched behind the boxes of air filters, brake fluid, and Valvoline for the old Tri-Call vending machine Payne used to have out front for peanuts and Snickers. Payne and Frederick had better hiding places for their secret things, but Payne kept the shed to stash their goods.

Frederick checked to see that Elroy was busy with the girl. As if on command, Coon planted his face square into the girl's kibble. Elroy made a big deal of scolding the dog as the girl laughed, then grabbed Coon's face so he could sneak a cheap rub on the girl's privates. Frederick had seen Elroy run that trick a hundred times. Elroy trained his mutt to head straight for the cush bush, and Coon never let him down.

Frederick unlocked the vending machine, and fished out a leather case about three feet long. It was heavy, but the weight was comforting. He tucked the case under his arm, relocked the shed, then brought everything to his truck. Elroy was still pretending that he was trying to keep Coon off the girl's goodies, and here was the girl, red-faced and laughing, but not getting into her car. Frederick pumped two gallons of premium into the can (figuring the premium would burn hotter), loaded two cans of propane into his truck, then tooled away. Elroy never even glanced over to see.

A couple of miles along the road, Frederick pulled over and opened the case. A cut-down Remington 12-gauge pump gun was inside, already stoked with six rounds of number-four buck. Jammed in with the shotgun was a plain white envelope holding a thousand dollars in twenties and matching Illinois driver's licenses-both now out of date-but showing Frederick Conrad and Payne Keller with different names. Frederick jacked a shell into the chamber, tucked the shotgun under the front seat, then pulled back onto the road.

It crossed Frederick 's mind to stomp on the accelerator and rip out of town, but that would be like waving a red neon flag. If Payne hadn't ratted him out, running would be a major mistake-their mutual disappearances would be obvious to even the dumbest cops. Frederick had to find out what happened to Payne, and he had to get rid of the evidence.

Payne's place was only another mile ahead, all by itself and hidden by trees so no one could see what they did.

5

The Department of Coroner was split between two modern cement buildings at the edge of the County-USC Medical Center, across the river from the main jail. The north building housed administrative offices for thirty-five or so coroner investigators, and the south building housed the labs. The medical examiners parked their vehicles at the front of the buildings, but the bodies were delivered at the rear. Probably so the patients at the Women's and Children's Hospital wouldn't see the stiffs.

I parked across the street and met Diaz outside the main entrance. She had changed into jeans and a blazer, and was holding what looked like a gas mask with two purple cylinders jutting from its face.

I said, "What's that?"

"It's a particle filter. We have to wear them when we go down to the service floor with the bodies."

"Why do we have to wear something like that?"

"TB, SARS, Ebola-you wouldn't believe what these stiffs are carrying. This one's mine. We'll get something for you downstairs."

"Ebola?"

Ebola was the African virus that dissolved your cells so you molted into a puddle of goo.

Diaz shrugged as she turned away.

"They say wear it, I wear it. Let's get this done so I can get some sleep."

The receptionist gave us visitor passes, then we took the elevator down to the service floor. The smells of disinfectant and cavity blood hit me when the doors opened, and we stepped out into a lavender hall. An ultraviolet light burned high on one wall, and a bug zapper hissed as it cooked a fly. Germ control.

Diaz led me around the corner into another long hall where two steel gurneys were parked, each bearing a body wrapped in heavy translucent plastic. Red liquid pooled within the plastic.

"I thought we needed masks when we were with the bodies."

"You're not going to catch anything. Don't be a sissy."

I tried not to breathe.

The coroner investigator was a tall man with framed glasses and bushy hair named Dino Beckett. I had seen him at the crime scene, but didn't meet him until he emerged at the end of the hall and Diaz introduced us. He was wearing a cloth mask like doctors wear in an operating room, and handed a similar mask to me.

"Here, pull the elastic band over your ears and squeeze the metal strip across your nose."

I did like he said while Diaz pulled on her larger mask.

"How come her mask is bigger?"

"Her mask filters one hundred percent of the air, which is what you're required to wear if you go in the autopsy room like the homicide detectives. The mask we're wearing only filters ninety-five percent of the air."

"What about the other five percent?"

Diaz said, "Jesus Christ, Cole, don't think about it. Where is he, Dino?"

We followed him into a long narrow room where the air was cold. A rash of goose bumps sprouted over me, but not from the chill. Racks on the walls were stacked from the floor to the ceiling like bunks in a submarine, with each rack holding two bodies. The bodies were wrapped with murky plastic, but not so murky that you couldn't see nude bodies within. Feet poked through gaps in the plastic, some with tags wired to the big toe. I tried not to look, but bodies filled the wall.

Beckett said, "This is nothing. We have three rooms like this."

"Are all these people waiting to be autopsied?"

"Oh, no. Most of the bodies you see here are waiting to be claimed by their next of kin, or identified."

"You get many you can't identify?"

"We bag around three hundred John Does a year, but we put a name to most of them. Doesn't matter where they come from, either. We've had illegals from Mexico, Central America, even China, and we've run'm down. We'll name your guy, too."

Several pairs of feet were so translucent I could see a dim smudge of bones within the flesh. Beckett explained that some of the bodies had been on the racks so long the fluids had drained from the tissue; they had been waiting for years.

Beckett brought us past the racks to a gurney at the far end of the room.

"Okay, here we go. You'll need gloves if you want to touch something."

We gloved up, then Beckett peeled open the plastic. John Doe #05-1642 was naked, with a brown paper bag between his knees and a case file clipped to the gurney. The bag contained his bloodied clothes, which would be placed in a drying room before they were examined. Beckett removed the bag, then stood back.

Diaz said, "Jesus, Pardy was right. This guy thought he was the Illustrated Man."

Beckett grunted at the body like it was a lab specimen.

"Weird, huh? I've never seen one like this, the way he did it. All the tats are upside down."

Crucifixes of differing sizes and designs dotted his forearms and thighs and belly, all of them upside down. The tattoos were upside down because they were self-inflicted. They would have been right-side up as he looked at them when he pushed ink into his skin. Some of the crosses were brittle thin lines, but others were blocky structures with shading and shadows. Weeping Jesuses and upside-down words were spread between the crosses: PAIN, MERCY, GOD, FORGIVE ME. They looked like they had been drawn by a child. I felt queasy. These marks were not religious; he had desecrated himself.

When I glanced at Diaz, she was watching me again. I felt a bubble of irritation.

"What is it? You think I look like him?"

"You don't look anything like him. Do the tattoos ring a bell?"

"Of course not. It's nothing but crosses."

Diaz glanced at Beckett.

"Does he have more on his back?"

"Uh-uh. It's all in front where he could reach. None of his ink is identifying-like the name of a ship, or a gang sign, or something like that-it's just what you see."

Diaz frowned at the body, then shook her head.

"Okay, I want you to check him for sex. If you get a smear, log it for DNA."

"Pardy already told me."

"Fine. Dope, too. He was in that alley for something."

Beckett shifted the bag to make a note, and the bag gave me an idea.

"Did you see if his name was in his clothes?"

Beckett grinned.

"Always, and inside his shoes, too. I got burned like that on my first case-here's this dude, flattened with no ID and no prints in the file, turns out his mama wrote his name inside his belt, and that's how we made the ID."

I nodded, and looked back at Diaz.

"And you didn't find any rings, watches, a wallet-"

"He was stripped, Cole. Just the clippings and seven cents."

I studied the body again, feeling remote and detached. His chest was smooth and thin beneath the tattoos, with a farmer's tan showing pale flesh against dark arms. Other than a thin scrape at the base of his neck, no other marks were apparent. The lower half of his body showed a mottled lividity where his blood settled; the bloodless tissue above had taken on a waxy sheen that seemed to highlight the tattoos. The pucker of the entry hole was purple and blue with a pepper of gunpowder particulate surrounding it. He had been shot close, the muzzle not more than two feet away. His fingers showed no evidence of rings, but his left wrist carried the pale outline of a missing watch. A faint dimple crossed the outside of his hip below his left pelvis, so slight it might have been a fold or a crease.

I said, "What's that?"

Beckett reached under the gurney for the case file, and tipped out a large X-ray.

"A surgical scar. There's another on his opposite leg just like it. Here, we already got the plates."

He held the X-ray up to the overhead light. The shadows and smudges of the pelvic ball joint were offset by perfect white bars that ran along the outside of each femur. Beckett pointed them out.

"It looks corrective, so he probably had the surgery when he was a kid. These white bands are some kind of appliance. Appliances like this will sometimes have a manufacturer and serial number. If these do, we should be able to trace the manufacturer to the hospital, and pick up his ID."

Diaz said, "When will he hit the table?"

Beckett checked his clipboard.

"Tomorrow afternoon, looks like. Might wash over to the day after, but I think we'll cut him tomorrow."

I stared at the body again. Its face had hardened with rigor into a distorted mask. One eye was closed, but the other drooped open. The skin was stretched tight over bony cheeks and the hollows of his eyes were pronounced. His mouth hung open as if he were sleeping and might wake. I wanted to close it.

Something touched me. I lurched. Diaz was watching me.

"Cole? You okay?"

"Sure. What happens next?"

Diaz stared at me another moment, then glanced at Beckett.

"Okay, Dino, we're done. I need close-ups of the body tats and his face. Something that doesn't make him look like Night of the Living Dead, okay?"

"No prob. I'll meet you at the elevator."

Beckett pushed the body away as Diaz and I peeled off our gloves, and I followed her back to the hall. When we were away from the bodies, she considered me again.

"Here is what happens: I'm going to drop the pictures back with Pardy so he can make copies, then I'm going to bed. Pardy will hand out the pictures to the patrol commander so we can try to find someone who knew this guy."

"Has Pardy ever worked a case before?"

"This is a big chance for him, Cole. Pardy came up from Metro. He's hungry, and he wants to make a name for himself. He'll be fine."

I looked back at the swinging door with the walls of bodies behind it, some that had been there for years.

"You mind if I work it?"

"Meaning what? Pardy isn't good enough, so the World's Greatest has to pitch in?"

"I want to know why he thought he was my father. Wouldn't you want to know why someone said that about you?"

"We haven't even cleared you yet."

"You'll clear me. C'mon, Diaz, think about it. I might even find the shooter."

Her eyes hardened with something I could not read deep in their dark pools. She smiled at me, but her smile held no humor, and was also unreadable. She shook her head.

"I hope you're being straight with me."

"About what?"

"I hope you're not keeping something from me, Cole."

"Like what?"

"You don't recognize him?"

"All I know is a man who told you he was my father is lying on ice."

She stared with the hard eyes, then she turned away down the hall.

"Sure, Cole. You want to look, look. You're the World's Greatest Detective. It says so in the papers."

Beckett met us at the elevator a few minutes later, and gave Diaz the pictures. She pulled off her mask, considered the picture of the dead man's face, then gave me one of the prints.

"Here. You might need this."

"Thanks."

"You can take off the mask."

I left it on. I didn't take off the mask until the elevator opened and we stepped into cool fresh air. We walked out together, then parted to go to our cars. When I reached my car I looked back at her. She was standing beside a dark blue Passat, studying his picture. She glanced up to look at me, and saw I was watching. She tried to pretend she wasn't comparing us, but I sensed that she was. She got into her car, and drove quickly away.

6

Hidden

Payne Keller owned sixteen acres of elm thicket, brush, and pine trees, bought for squat in a probate because the cabin was falling apart. He had dug a new septic tank, a new well, replumbed the place, put in new gas lines, had a natural-gas tank set, put on a new roof, and paid to run new phone and power lines from the main road. Frederick had encouraged Payne to get a trailer like him, but Payne wanted his privacy. Frederick had to admit that Payne's privacy had come in handy, time to time.

Frederick bumped along the long private drive over potholes and erosion cuts until he reached Payne's cabin. The dusty white house was still. Frederick slipped the shotgun from under the seat, then climbed out of his truck. Payne used to have a real nice place, but now the eaves were heavy with cobwebs, and the house was streaked with dirt like mascara when a woman cried. "Payne! Hey, buddy, you home?"

Frederick stood absolutely still, listening. He sensed the house was deserted, but stepped up onto the covered porch, keeping an eye on the windows. He unlocked the dead bolt, and pushed open the door. Inside, twelve Christs stared down at him from twelve crucifixes nailed to the walls. More Christs stood on the TV. Christ bore witness from the entertainment center, the bookcase, and the end tables. Frederick knew that even more Christs waited in the bathroom and kitchen and bedroom.

"PAYNE??"

Calling, just for show. If Payne had betrayed him, a policeman or reporter might be anywhere.

Frederick felt the Jesuses watching him, and closed his eyes. A buzzing started in his head, and if he didn't make it go away the buzzing would grow into voices.

"Make them stop, Payne. Make them go away."

The buzzing gradually faded, and Frederick pulled himself together. He hurried into the kitchen to check the message machine, and found two new messages, but one was from Elroy and he had left the other. Frederick had checked the house twice a day every day since Payne disappeared, hoping to find a message that would give some clue about Payne's fate, but all he ever found were the messages he left expressing concern for Payne's well-being (also for show), and the messages from Elroy.

Frederick deleted the messages, then scrounged a box of trash bags from the cupboard, relocked the house, and returned to his truck for the shovel. He hurried around the side of the house into the woods, then followed a dry creek bed until he was at the base of a large rock. Frederick considered the trees both ways along the gulley, but wasn't sure if he was in the right spot or not. He felt confused and fuzzy, but also excited.

Frederick moved with increasing strength.

He climbed uphill behind the rock, then suddenly recognized his surroundings with a precision that made every leaf as familiar as old friends. He felt a rush of confidence.

"Yes, it is," he said, smiling. "Yes, it is."

He put his weight into the shovel, and levered up the earth. Frederick Conrad, which was the name he now used, worked with great purpose. The shovel struck something hard. He clawed away the dirt, and uncovered the first skull.

7

Six hours earlier, the streets had been empty, but now pedestrians churned the sidewalks, bike messengers whipped between cars like tweaked-out hummingbirds, and the shops along Grand and Hill had become an open bazaar. The police were gone. The yellow tape, area lamps, criminalists, and patrol cars had vanished, erasing all evidence that a murder had occurred. To the untrained eye, it was another flawless day in the City of Angels.

I drove back to the crime scene, pulled to the curb outside the flower mart, and studied the mouth of the alley. I couldn't do any more than the police, and wasn't sure why I wanted to try. I never once-not then at the beginning-believed that John Doe #05-1642 was or could be the father I had never known. He was more like a client who had hired me, and the person I had been hired to find. Maybe I was bored after so many weeks not working; maybe I didn't want to go back to a house that felt pointless without Lucy and Ben. It was easier to lose myself in murder; it was merciful to focus my anger at someone else.

The Big Empty was a moldering area east of the convention center and south of the business district, unclaimed by the homeless, who tended to gather several blocks north at the parks and missions of Skid Row. The streets were lined with wholesale outlets, cut-rate office space, garment resellers, and businesses that closed at dusk; the bars, hotels, apartments, and missions were ten blocks or more to the north, and not an easy walk from the alley. John Doe #05-1642 either lived in the area or had been seeking a destination, though there wasn't much in the area to seek. I studied my Thomas Brothers map. I wanted to talk to the people who worked at the flower mart, then search the area for businesses that might have been open.

I turned across traffic into the alley, and parked. When I got out of my car, a thin man in a form-fit pink shirt came out a service door. His arms were filled with cardboard boxes that had been flattened, and his face pinched into a pruned knot when he saw me.

"You can't park there. They'll tow it."

"Police business. A murder occurred here at two forty-five this morning. The police will be around to talk to you."

"Someone was already here. A tall man. He was brusque and rude, and that doesn't look like a police car."

I drive a 1966 Sting Ray convertible, which would probably look more like a police car if I washed it. It's yellow.

"It's not, and I'm not, but I'm looking into the case. Were you here at your shop around three this morning?"

He looked irritated at having been asked. I guess the rudeness had put him off.

"I've already talked to the police. Of course I wasn't here. I don't sleep here. I wasn't here when it happened, and I don't know anything about it."

I gave him what I hoped was a friendly smile, trying to ease his irritation.

"All right. Maybe you can help me out with something. I'm trying to figure out why the victim was in this area at that hour. I was going to look around for businesses that might have been open at that hour. You know of anything?"

His faced tightened and he seemed even more irritated.

"No, I don't, and you can't leave your car. Delivery trucks can't get through with your car."

Thirty feet away, a man had bled to death from a bullet to the chest, but here was this guy, pissy. I studied the space between my car and the far side of the alley. There was plenty of room.

"There's no place else to park, and I won't be long."

"See the sign on the wall, 'No Parking? If you don't move your car, I'll call the police."

I stopped trying to be friendly, and told him to call. People like him give me hives.

I took longer than I needed just to spite him. I spent two hours walking the surrounding twelve square blocks, but counted only six restaurants and two Starbucks, none of which would have been open at two forty-five in the morning. There was no reason for the John Doe to have been in the area unless he was on his way to somewhere else.

After a while I went back to the alley. My car had not been towed, but a mountain of garbage bags was piled behind it. I guess the man in the pink shirt figured if he couldn't have me towed, he would block me in. Pissy.

I went to the Dumpster. The alley had been washed clean after the police released the scene. The blood was gone, and disinfectant had been sprayed. No chalk marked the body's outline and no evidence buttons marked a telltale trail of forensics, but veins in the tarmac remained damp with the disinfectant.

I looked up and down the alley, trying to imagine it at two forty-five that morning. It would not have been an inviting place to walk, but fear is relative. The cross streets were well lit, but John Doe #05-1642 chose darkness. Maybe the darkness meant safe harbor, or maybe he had been chased. The shooter might have already been in the alley when the victim entered, resulting in a crime of opportunity, but most homicides are committed by family, friends, or acquaintances; the odds promised that the victim and the shooter knew each other. If they entered together, the alley would not have seemed so foreboding. The victim and his killer might have sought out the darkness together, but to what end? I thought over what Diaz described: She heard the shot, found him no more than three minutes later, and asked what had happened. Instead of telling her who shot him or how it happened, he told her he was trying to find me. Identifying me as his son, and saying he wanted to make up for the lost years were his dying words. I didn't like knowing that. Had he entered this particular alley to find me? Did he believe he was going to someplace where I would be? Had the shooter claimed to know me and promised an introduction?

I stared down at the place where his body had been and imagined them facing each other against the Dumpsters. The gun came out, the victim resisted-

– bang-

I closed my eyes and saw it, the withered dead man suddenly alive and on his feet, facing an assailant hidden by shadows-

– bang-

– one shot pounded home low to the right of his sternum, missing his heart but ripping his arteries and lungs. The kinetic energy dumped into his body staggered him. A hydrostatic shock wave pulsed through his tissues along the wound channel, rupturing the cells nearest the wound and surfing the blood in his arteries straight to his brain. The spike of pressure blew out capillaries and shorted his senses; he went blind, deaf, and unconscious in a heartbeat, and he dropped in his tracks like a boxer stepping into a powerhouse hook. A larger gun-a.45 or.44-would have killed him instantly by rupturing the vessels in his brain with a hundred simultaneous strokes, but with the smaller gun, his consciousness slowly returned as Diaz found the alley. Pain and fear would have boiled up with his returning senses, and he had screamed and thrashed as she described. His vision and hearing returned. He was able to think again, and speak, even though he was dying. Someone had shot him, and then he was dying, but he hadn't told her who, or why-the most important thing in the world to him was to tell her he was my father and that he was trying to find me. To make up the lost years.

I bent to touch the ground.

Why me?

I searched the ground around the Dumpsters. The cops had been over it, but I looked again, searching a few feet in one direction, then the other, then along the far wall, trying to remember if the police had recovered a shell casing. I searched the sills of the delivery doors opposite the Dumpsters, found nothing, then worked my way back across the alley, looking into the cracks and pocks in the tarmac. The detectives and the criminalist had searched these same areas, but I looked anyway. Chipped tarmac, jagged brown glass that had once been a beer bottle, and weathered paper were spread evenly where the criminalist had left them. I let myself down into a push-up position to look under the first Dumpster, and saw a bright rectangle partially wedged between the Dumpster's left rear wheel and the wall. It seemed too obvious a thing for the police to have missed, but maybe the cleaning crews had dislodged it from a less obvious place when they sprayed down the area.

I pushed the Dumpster aside, then picked up the card at its edges. It was a plain blue plastic card with a white triangle pointing off one end beneath the words INSERT HERE. A magnetic strip ran the length of the card on the opposite side. I was pretty sure it was a key card like they use in hotels. The name of the hotel and the room number weren't printed on the card because you don't want a stranger knowing which room the key opens, but I thought the information might be readable on the magnetic strip. There might even be fingerprints.

I could have brought the card to Central Station and left it for Pardy and Diaz, but I didn't want to wait three days for results. I phoned an LAPD criminalist named John Chen. John and I had worked together in the past, but when I reached his office at the Scientific Investigations Division, they told me he had the day off. Perfect. I hung up, then phoned a detective I knew on the Hollywood Station Juvenile Section named Carol Starkey. Starkey had been a bomb technician with LAPD's Bomb Squad until some bad breaks made her change jobs, so she knew almost as much technical stuff as Chen.

When Starkey answered, she said, "You finally calling to ask me out?"

"No, I'm calling to see if you can recover information off a key card for me."

I explained about the card, the body, and what I was doing.

She said, "No shit? You think this guy is your father?"

"No, I don't think he's my father. I just want to find out what's on the card."

"Call Chen. Chen knows how to do that."

"Chen has the day off."

"Hang on."

She put me on hold. While I waited, I stacked the garbage bags the man in the pink shirt had piled around my car into a huge mound against his door. Pissy.

Starkey came back on the line.

"Chen will meet us at SID in an hour."

"I thought he had the day off."

"Not anymore."

I hung up, then checked my watch. It had been almost nine hours since John Doe #05-1642 had been murdered. The key card was about to open a door to his identity, and to far more than I wanted to know.