Chasing Darkness

8

THE WIND died during the night, leaving the canyon behind my house still and bright the next morning. I brought in the paper, then went into the kitchen, where the cat who shared the house was waiting. He’s large and black, with delicate fur and more scars than an Ultimate Fighter after a bad run. He loves me, he worships Joe Pike, and he pretty much hates everyone else. All the fighting has had an effect.

I said, “How’s life in Cat Land?”

When your girlfriend lives two thousand miles away, you talk to your cat.

He was sitting by his dish where he waits for breakfast, only this time he brought his own. The hindquarters of a tree rat were on the floor by his feet.

The cat blinked at me. Proud. Like I should fall to and dig in.

He said, “Mmrh.”

“Good job, m’man. Yum.”

I cleaned it up with paper towels, then gave him a can of tuna. He growled when I threw away the legs, but the tuna helped him get over it.

I made a cup of instant coffee, then put on a pot of real coffee to brew while I read the newspaper’s coverage of Lionel Byrd: Killer Leaves Bloody Album of Death.

The Times had done a good job with so little time. The story was tight and direct, describing how uniformed officers had discovered Byrd dead by his own hand while evacuating Laurel Canyon during the recent fires. The “death album” and the pictures within it were described in tasteful detail. A photograph of Marx and Councilman Wilts appeared on page six, along with a sidebar article identifying the seven victims and showing the locations of their murders. Yvonne Bennett’s description left me feeling sad. She had draped herself in lies like summer scarves to convince people she was other than she was, but now a cold five-word phrase summed up her life: twenty-eight-year-old prostitute.

Only a single paragraph mentioned that Byrd had been charged with her murder, focusing more on his history of violence toward prostitutes than why the charges had been dropped. As with the newscast the night before, neither Levy nor I was mentioned. After the way Marx carried on when we met, I had expected him to publicly condemn us, but he had not.

I finished the story, but hadn’t learned much more than I already knew. Marx had spoken much about the album and Byrd’s criminal history, but presented no additional evidence linking Byrd to the victims or the crime scenes. No comment was made about DNA, witnesses before or after the fact, how Byrd selected and stalked his victims, or how he avoided detection.

I clipped out the article and map, then used the names and dates to search online for articles published at the times of the original murders. There wasn’t much to find. Only four of the seven murders had made the local papers, producing a total of nine published pieces spread over the seven years. I made notes as I read.

Sondra Frostokovich, the first victim, had been given six column inches in a single article. Described as an office manager in the city administration, her body was found in a downtown office building empty for renovation. She had been strangled only four blocks from the city administration building where she worked. The story ended with a pro forma plea that anyone with knowledge of the crime contact a Central Bureau Homicide detective named Thomas Marx. I wondered if it was the same Marx. Had to be. I wondered if he even remembered.

Janice M’Kele Evansfield was the second victim, whose arcing blood showed that she was still alive when the picture in Lindo’s book was taken. Her body had been discovered at the edge of the Brentwood Country Club in one of the richest parts of L.A., eleven months and sixteen days after the Frostokovich killing. A follow-up article two weeks later reported there were no suspects in the case and requested the public’s help.

Unlike Frostokovich and Evansfield, the third, fourth, and fifth victims were prostitutes. Chelsea Ann Morrow, Marsha Trinh, and Yvonne Bennett had not been covered by the local papers, but the sixth victim, a homeless woman named Lupe Escondido, made the front page because of the horrific nature of her murder. On a cooling night in October, she had been doused with gasoline while sleeping behind the Studio City Park and burned to death. In the picture Lindo showed me, she had been engulfed by yellow flames. I hadn’t even been able to tell she was human.

I read about Escondido, then went to the kitchen because I needed a break from the deaths. The cat purred when I looked at him. He was by the garbage bin where I dumped his rat. I opened the bin, fished out the legs, and put them in his dish.

I said, “You earned them.”

The final two articles were about the most recent victim, Debra Repko.

Like the first victim, Repko was white, educated, and professional. She had recently earned an MA in political science from USC, after which she was hired by a downtown political consulting firm called Leverage Associates. Sometime between eleven P.M. and two A.M. thirty-six days before Lionel Byrd’s body was discovered, she was struck from behind and suffocated by having a plastic garbage bag held over her head. This event occurred behind a strip mall two blocks from her apartment on the outskirts of Hancock Park, just south of Melrose Avenue. She was survived by her parents and three brothers, all of whom were heartbroken by the news of her death.

I pushed the articles aside, got a bottle of water, and went out onto my deck. The wind had died sometime during the night, and now two red-tailed hawks floated overhead. They had been down with the wind, but now they were up. They appeared to be hunting, but maybe they just enjoyed being in the sky. Maybe, for them, there was no difference.

Thirty yards away, my neighbors were out on their own deck, reading the morning paper. They waved when they saw me and I waved back. I wondered if they were reading about Byrd.

I drank some of the water, then stretched through the traditional twelve sun salutes from the hatha yoga. My neighbor Grace shouted across the hillside.

“Do it naked!”

Her husband laughed.

The yoga flowed into a tae kwon do kata. I kicked and punched with focus from one side of the deck to the other, running one kata into the next, not the classic Korean forms, but combinations I had created: a little wing chun, a little krav maga, a little shen chuan. I moved through all three planes of space, working with greater intensity until sweat splattered the boards like rain and the pictures of dead people had faded. When I finished, Grace jumped to her feet and applauded.

I shouted, “Your turn. Naked.”

She lifted her T-shirt, flashing her breasts. Her husband laughed again.

These neighbors are something.

I drank the rest of the water, then went back inside as the phone rang. It was Alan Levy’s assistant.

“Mr. Cole?”

“Did Alan see the news about Lionel Byrd?”

“Yes, sir. He’d like you to bring by your file at ten if that time works for you.”

I told him the time worked fine, then returned to my notes. I combined the information I learned from Lindo and the Times with the facts I found online, then organized it into a chart:

1-Frostokovich-wht-10/2-strngld-dwntn-(Marx!)

2-Evansfield-blk-9/28-stab-Brtwd-jog-(?)

3-Morrow-blk-10/7-blntfc-Hywd-pros-(?)

4-Trinh-asn-9/23-stab-Slvrlk-pros-(?)

5-Bennett-wht-10/3-blntfc-Slvrlk-pros-(Crimmens)

6- Escondido -lat-10/9-fire-StCty-hmls-(?)

7-Repko-wht-7/26-suff-HanPk-conslt.-(?)

When you study these things you look for patterns, but patterns were in short supply.

The victims were of diverse ethnic and economic backgrounds, and none had been raped, bitten, chewed, or sexually abused. Two of the murders occurred in Silver Lake, but the others were scattered throughout the city. The only common elements seemed to be that all of the victims were women and six of the seven murders had occurred in the fall.

The most recent murder was different. Where the first six victims had all been murdered in the fall, Debra Repko had died in the early summer, almost three months ahead of the others.

I was wondering why when I had a notion about the dates and went back to my computer. You hear about killers being triggered by astrological events or the zodiac, so I googled an astronomy almanac and entered the dates.

I didn’t learn anything about astrology, but the first six murders had all taken place within two days either way of the new moon-the darkest nights of the month. Repko had been murdered when the moon was nearing its three-quarter phase. After six consecutive murders in darkness, Debra Repko had been killed when the night sky was brilliantly lit.

I checked the time. It was after nine, but I dug out Bastilla’s card and called. She was clipped and abrupt when she answered.

“Bastilla.”

“It’s Elvis Cole. You have a minute?”

“Can I pick up the files?”

“I’m seeing Levy at ten. Christ, Bastilla, can’t you ride a different horse?”

“I have a lot to do, Cole. What do you want?”

“How did you guys explain the differences in the Repko murder?”

Bastilla didn’t speak for a moment. I heard noises in her background, but couldn’t tell if she was at her office or in her car.

“What are you talking about?”

“Debra Repko was murdered three months out of sync with the others.”

“Thank you. We know.”

“She was killed on a night with a three-quarter moon. The first six were killed under a new moon. That’s a major change in method.”

“Believe it or not, we know our business here. If you expect me to review our investigation with you, you’re out of your mind.”

“Your asshole partner Crimmens telling me I got two women killed makes it my business, too.”

“Good-bye, Cole. We’re done.”

The line went dead in my ear, but I grinned hard at the phone.

“Bastilla, I’m just getting started.”

I showered, dressed, then packed up the copy of my files and went to see Alan Levy.

Finding my own evidence.

9

PICTURE THE detective swinging into action. I picked up the freeway at the bottom of the Cahuenga Pass and called John Chen as I headed downtown. Chen was a senior criminalist with LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division, and one of the greediest people I knew. He was also a total paranoid.

Chen answered so softly I could barely hear him.

“I can’t talk. They’re watching me.”

You see?

“I’m calling about Lionel Byrd. You have a minute?”

Lindo mentioned Chen had worked on the case.

“What’s in this for me?”

The greed.

“I’m not convinced Byrd killed Yvonne Bennett. I have questions about the most recent victim, too. She doesn’t match up with the others.”

“You’re talking about Repko?”

“That’s right.”

Chen lowered his voice even more.

“It’s weird you’re asking about her.”

“Why weird? Is she different from the others?”

“Not so much, but the way they’re handling her is different. Shit-Harriet’s coming. I gotta go.”

Harriet was his boss.

“Call me, John. Repko and Byrd. I need your work, the CI, the medical examiner-whatever you can get. I’m heading downtown now.”

“This is going to cost you.”

Twenty minutes later I pulled into the parking garage beneath Barshop, Barshop & Alter, and brought the copy of my file upstairs to a lobby rich with travertine, cobalt glass, and African teak. Low-life criminals like Lionel Byrd could never hope to hire them, much less afford their fee, but Levy saw Byrd’s trumped-up confession as a ticket to argue before the California Supreme Court. After twenty years of practicing criminal law, Levy boasted a ninety-eight-percent acquittal rate and seven arguments before the California Supreme Court. Six of the seven were decided in Levy’s favor and resulted in precedent-setting case law. It was for this opportunity that Levy agreed to represent Lionel Byrd pro bono-for free. Levy’s firm even threw in my fee.

Levy’s assistant was waiting when the elevator opened.

“Mr. Cole? I’m Jacob. If you’ll come with me, please.”

Alan was on the phone when we reached his office, seated behind a desk that probably cost a hundred thousand dollars. He raised a finger, indicating he would be with me in a minute, then made a brushing gesture, the brush telling Jacob to leave.

Levy was a large man in his late forties with a wide head, bulging eyes, and poorly fitting clothes. He carried himself as if he was embarrassed by his appearance, but juries probably related to the sloppy clothes and awkward manner. I figured he was faking it. The first thing you noticed when you stepped into his office were the pictures of his family. Framed photographs of his wife and two little girls smiled down from the walls.

When Levy finished the call, he offered his hand as he gestured at the files.

“Is that everything?”

“Yeah. I kept a copy for myself.”

“That’s fine. I just want to be sure we’re on firm legal ground before we hand them over. Here, let’s sit.”

He took the files and motioned me to a soft leather club chair on the other side of his office. He dropped onto the opposite chair, leaning forward like he was about to fly off a diving board.

I said, “You see the news?”

“I did. I also met with a representative of the DA’s office and Chief Marx this morning. Would you like coffee? Jacob could get you a coffee.”

“I’m fine. What are we going to do about this, Alan?”

The bulging eyes blinked.

“About what? I’m going to let them examine the files. I don’t see any reason not to cooperate.”

“Not the files. Byrd. He didn’t kill Yvonne Bennett.”

A line appeared between his eyebrows and he shook his head.

“There’s nothing to do, Elvis. Pinckert and Marx explained their investigation to me this morning. If I had this information three years ago, I would not have taken his case.”

I expected Levy to be angry, but he wasn’t. Alan Levy was never reversed. Levy was the guy who got the other guy reversed. Instead, he looked sad.

“Alan, we proved he could not have killed Yvonne Bennett. We proved it.”

Levy studied me for a moment, then spread his hands.

“I make up stories. That’s my job, Elvis. Making up stories within the defined parameters of an established structure. That’s what I do.”

Talking to a genius is hard work.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The law. I start with a list-names, dates, events, whatever-information on a page, facts without a narrative structure. My job is to frame those facts with a narrative, you see? A story. The opposing counsel, they have exactly the same facts, and they have to make up a story, too. The facts are the same, but the stories are always different. Same facts, two different stories, and whoever tells the best story convinces the jury. I am very good with my stories, Elvis. I can take a list of facts, any facts at all, and create the most wonderful stories. I do that better than almost anyone.”

I was growing impatient. He was giving a lecture in narrative theory, and I was the retard who couldn’t keep up.

“What does this have to do with Lionel Byrd?”

“I’m not saying I couldn’t prove it again. I’m telling you I wouldn’t take the case. Chief Marx and Ms. Pinckert were very open with me this morning. I wasn’t always polite, but they were patient. They convinced me.”

“They convinced you Byrd was good for the killings.”

“Yes.”

“Because he had these pictures.”

“They were thorough in their presentation. Tell you the truth, I was impressed.”

“I’ve seen scans of the album. I know how they broke it down and what they found with the camera and the film packs. Having this album doesn’t mean he killed them.”

Levy raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not the only one who’s had a meeting.”

“All the album means is Byrd and the person who took the pictures were somehow connected.”

“I made the same point. These people aren’t stupid, Elvis. They investigated the possibility of a second killer or some sort of an association, but found nothing to support that idea-no likely suspects were identified through his call register, nothing was found in his residence or vehicle, and no forensics belonging to anyone else was found on the album or pictures.”

“They couldn’t find Angel Tomaso, either. They’re right about this only if they ignore what Tomaso said in a sworn statement, and that’s what they’re doing. They’re assuming he made a mistake.”

“Maybe he did.”

“You thought he was right at the time.”

“If Tomaso was telling me the same thing today, I would still believe him, but I would discount his statement. A person can tell the truth as he knows it, but be mistaken in what he knows. That happens all the time.”

I expected Levy to come out swinging for having been cast in a role that potentially made him look like the villain in Marx’s Circus of Justice, but, instead, we were arguing.

“So what you’re saying is, three years ago when we proved this guy couldn’t have killed Yvonne Bennett, we were wrong.”

An embarrassed smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as if he couldn’t bring himself to admit it.

“No, we were right. We were right with the information we had at that time. There’s a difference.”

“Did they go over the other six victims with you?”

He nodded.

“Okay. Do you remember Lionel Byrd?”

Now he frowned, wondering where I was going.

“Of course I remember him.”

“I’ve only spent a few hours with this, Alan, but here’s what I found: None of these women were raped, bitten, or sexually abused. No contact means no DNA. The kill-zones were spread all over the city and the murder weapon changed with each killing. Six of the seven were murdered at the new moon-when there’s no moon at all.”

“I know what it means.”

“All of this makes it more difficult for the police to connect the crimes, which implies forethought and planning. Think about it, Alan-anyone can be a short-term spree killer, but it took an organized mind to hunt humans for seven years and get away with it. We’re talking about a top-of-the-food-chain predator. Byrd wasn’t up to it. He doesn’t fit the profile.”

Levy smiled as if he was proud of me.

“I like it. Same facts, different story. You’ve created a story you can live with.”

“This isn’t a story.”

“It’s too complex. See, that’s the problem. He had the pictures and the camera. He didn’t take hair or jewelry-he took the pictures. A simple story is always best. The truth lies in simplicity.”

“You think they’re right or they just have the best story?”

“The right story is always the best story.”

Levy frowned at the pictures of his wife and children. They wore white in almost all of the pictures. I hadn’t noticed their clothes before. Behind him, downtown Los Angeles spread to the east, swept clean by the hot desert winds.

“I understand you’re upset, Elvis. I am, too. I fought for Mr. Byrd three years ago, and won, but this time it’s not my game.”

“You fought because you thought you would get another State Supreme Court argument out of it.”

“Well, yes, but nevertheless. Last time we were right, but this time they’re right. The facts change, the story changes. It has to.”

I stood, and went to the door.

“Tell you what, Alan, after I talk to Tomaso, maybe the story will change again.”

He gave me the same frown he had been giving the pictures.

“Well, do what you want, but you’re only going to end up embarrassing yourself. You’ll look like a sore loser.”

Alan Levy, with his ninety-eight percent acquittal rate and seven appearances before the California Supreme Court, worried about being a sore loser.

“Alan, did you make a deal with Marx to keep your mouth shut?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Marx and Wilts were screaming the charges against Byrd should never have been dropped, but they never brought up your name.”

Levy’s face darkened.

“Don’t forget to have your parking validated on the way out.”

John Chen called as I was leaving the building. He was even more paranoid than before.

10

CHEN TOLD me to meet him under the Fourth Street Bridge. It was a desolate, industrial part of Los Angeles, where the river was framed by concrete and warehouses, and was mostly known for the cardboard encampments under the bridge. Twenty minutes later I was watching the homeless people when Chen pulled up in an SID wagon. Chen was tall and skinny, and watching him get out of the wagon was like watching a question mark unfold. He studied the surrounding buildings as if he were checking for spies, then hurried to my car.

I said, “There are maybe ten thousand places easier to meet than here.”

“And ten thousand places we could be seen. I’m on my way out to a hatchet murder in El Monte.”

He shoved a manila envelope into my lap, but suddenly pulled it back, his oversize glasses making him look like a suspicious parrot.

“Did you tell anyone you were calling me?”

“Of course not. Did someone say something?”

“Ten minutes after we talked, Harriet pulled me into the hall. She warned me not to talk to you.”

“She used my name? Me, specifically?”

“Not you specifically, but who else would she be talking about? It’s been like that all week. Everything top secret and way off the weird meter.”

He looked around again, and I caught myself looking, too.

I said, “How is Repko being handled differently?”

“I worked her case six weeks ago when she was first murdered-before this stuff with Byrd came up.”

“Okay.”

“Then we get the book, right? There isn’t going to be anything new-I did the full workup and analysis when she was murdered. But last week Harriet tells me they want me to pull more samples from her clothes.”

“You had to exhume her?”

Chen looked annoyed.

“No, man, her old clothes. Her furniture. They found this girl dead in an alley, and now they wanted me to go to her house. I’m, like, why would something from Lionel Byrd turn up where she lived? Harriet says, just go vac the goddamned clothes.”

“So?”

“This girl was murdered almost two months ago. New people are living in her apartment. Her parents cleaned out the place and brought her effects home with them. It’s a forensic nightmare, dude, but there I am with these poor people, the mother crying, her fucking brothers looking like they want to kick my ass, vaccing her clothes.”

“You find anything to connect her to Byrd?”

“I don’t know. You know what a blind test is?”

“No.”

“They gave us samples to compare with the samples I vacced from her clothes, but the comparison samples didn’t come with a name-only a number. Blind. We asked why we were running blind tests, Harriet told us don’t ask. She said if we told anyone we were cooking blinds, she would have our asses in the can. I don’t know if we got any hits or not. Everything went to Harriet, and Harriet made the comparisons.”

Like Marx ordering Poitras to seal Byrd’s home.

“What were you testing?”

“Hair, fiber, the usual stuff.”

“What did the homicide cops say?”

Chen made a derisive snort.

“They wouldn’t discuss the case with us, either. We gave our reports to Harriet, and Harriet did whatever she did with them. I guess she passed them up to the task force. Those task force guys wouldn’t even talk about what they were doing with the divisional dicks, and those guys are pissed.”

Chen was describing a major departure from protocol. Detectives worked closely with criminalists as their cases evolved, and task force detectives almost always worked with divisional detectives because the divisional dicks had relationships with witnesses and the victims.

I thought about what he was saying and what it might mean.

“Did Byrd kill these people?”

Chen looked surprised.

“Well, yeah. Nothing we found suggests or supports anything else. Here, check it out-”

He finally handed me the envelope. Chen had copied the SID work product on Repko and Byrd along with the CI’s crime scene descriptions and the medical examiner’s autopsy protocols.

I skimmed the reports about Debra Repko first. Her condition as described was in keeping with everything I had been told or read on the Internet, and only served to underline how little I knew about the victim. Blood tests showed a.02 alcohol level, which indicated she had consumed at least one but not more than two drinks in the hours preceding her death. This suggested a social drink or glass of wine with dinner, but I had no way of knowing. Unlike the police, I knew absolutely nothing about Debra Repko and her life, which made my guesses meaningless.

I moved on to the reports about Lionel Byrd. Everything confirmed what I had already been told by Starkey and Lindo until I read the list of items documented when Byrd’s body was recovered. A single tablet identified as oxycodone was found beneath his chair.

“Was he taking oxys?”

“He had three in his system along with the booze. He wasn’t incapacitated, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was just numb.”

“He have a scrip?”

“Street buy. The tab we found was a Mexican import. The M.E. figures he used because of the foot. That foot was a mess.”

“So he was in a lot of pain with the foot?”

“Yeah.”

“Bad enough to keep him from driving?”

He would have to leave his house for street drugs or someone would have to deliver them.

“I’m just telling you what the M.E. said. I didn’t examine his foot.”

I got lost in the pages. Most of them were just numbers and charts, so I stopped looking at them.

“Did you find anything that directly connects Byrd to Repko?”

“No.”

“Any of the other victims?”

“Uh-uh, but I don’t know what the blind samples were. I don’t know if they got any hits on those or not.”

The two of us stared at each other until Chen’s pager buzzed. He frowned when he glanced at it.

“Crap. I gotta get going. They’re looking for me.”

Chen opened the door but hesitated before he got out.

“You know what I think? They closed the case, but the case isn’t really closed.”

“You think?”

“What else, bro? You think this girl had Lionel Byrd over for dinner?”

Chen hurried back to his car, and I watched him drive away.

11

I WANTED to read Chen’s reports more carefully, and opted to read them at Philippe, a cafeteria-style sandwich shop nearby in Chinatown. I could have read them under the bridge or anywhere else, but even world-class detectives get hungry. Philippe claims they invented the French dip sandwich in 1908, and maybe they did, but either way they have been serving the same killer sandwiches ever since. The double-dip turkey is my fare of choice.

I never got to the reports. I had just mounted a stool at one of the long family-style tables when Jack Eisley returned my call about Angel Tomaso. Eisley remembered me, though we had only met the one time I interviewed Tomaso at Eisley’s apartment.

He said, “I saw the thing on the news and thought, hey, that’s Angel’s dude. Talk about blast from the past. And then you call.”

Philippe was so noisy with the lunch-hour crush, I took the phone and the sandwich outside. The double-dip jus ran down my arm.

“I need to speak with him. It’s pretty important.”

“About this?”

“Yeah.”

“Angel moved back to Texas. He got really down on the whole acting thing and went back to Austin. Had to crash with his aunt. I’m, like, dude, are you sure?”

Eisley wanted to chat.

“Great. You have a number in Austin?”

“I called last night after the news, but his aunt said he came back to L.A. a few months ago. It’s the actor thing, man. If you’re an actor, you’re an actor, you know? It was only a matter of time.”

“Even better. So what’s his number here in L.A.?”

“She wouldn’t give it to me. She said she’d pass on my message, but she doesn’t give out numbers without permission. This was only last night. I’ll probably hear from him today.”

If she passed on the request.

If Angel called.

If Eisley phoned back with the number.

“Jack, have the police contacted you about Angel?”

“No, uh-uh. Why would they do that?”

“Listen, I know his aunt is supposed to give him your message, but you mind letting me have her number? I’d like to talk to her.”

Unlike Angel’s aunt, Eisley didn’t mind giving out information. I scratched out her number while turkey jus stained my pad, then drove to my office to make the call. With any luck, I would find Angel Tomaso before the end of the day and crack the case by sundown.

When I reached my building, I left my car in the parking garage and walked up the four flights to my floor.

I liked the building and my office, and had been there for many years. The office next to mine was occupied by an attractive woman who sold wholesale beauty supplies and sunned herself on the adjoining balcony. Across the hall was an insurance agent I rarely saw, though the two women who worked for him showed up every day like clockwork.

Everything about the building was normal until I reached my office and saw the doorjamb was split near the knob. Jambs do not split by themselves.

I leaned close to the door, but heard nothing.

I stepped across the hall and looked at my door from a different angle. A woman’s voice came from the insurance office, but it sounded normal. No one was screaming for help. No one was talking about the terrible noise she had heard from the private eye’s office across the hall.

I went back to my door, listened again, then pushed the door open.

Papers, files, and office supplies were scattered over the floor like trash blown by the wind. The couch was slashed along its length. My desk chair and the director’s chairs were upended, and the glass in both French doors had been kicked out, leaving jagged teeth in the frame. My computer, answering machine, and Mickey Mouse phone were part of the debris. Mickey’s left ear was broken. Everything that was on my desk the night before had been swept to the floor.

I started at the mess until I heard tocking. The Pinocchio clock was still on the wall, smiling its oblivious smile. His eyes tocked side to side, sightless, but reassuring.

“I wish you could talk.”

I went behind my desk to right my chair, but the chair was wet and smelled of urine. I left it in place. The file I had on Lionel Byrd was scattered on the floor with everything else. I gathered it together, then went down to the car for my camera and took pictures for the insurance. After the pictures, I called Lou Poitras, who told me he would send a radio car. I had to use my cell, what with Mickey being broken.

While I waited for the police, I called Joe Pike.

He said, “You think it ties in with the calls you were getting yesterday?”

“The timing’s too perfect for anything else.”

“Something with Byrd?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not sure that was the point. The file is still here, and the way it was dumped with everything else it’s likely they didn’t read it. They slashed the couch and kicked out the glass in the French doors. It looks more like vandalism. Somebody pissed on my chair.”

“Maybe they want the vandalism to cover the search.”

“Maybe. I’ll go through everything, see if anything’s missing.”

“You want me to come over?”

“There’s nothing to do. The police are on the way.”

“Maybe I should sit on your house. Make sure nobody pisses on your couch.”

“That might be a good idea.”

I called my insurance agent, then the building manager to let him know about the break-in and arrange for the doors to be fixed. We ended up shouting at each other. After the shouting, I went across the hall to ask my neighbors if they had seen or heard anything. None of them had, but everyone wanted to see the damage, so I let them. Two patrol officers arrived while they were looking, questioned me, then set about writing up the complaint. While the officers surveyed the damage, one of the women from the insurance office told us she had worked until almost eight-thirty the night before, so whoever did this had come after she had gone.

The senior officer, a sergeant-supervisor named Bristo, said, “You work late like that, ma’am, make sure you lock your door.”

She patted a little handbag.

“Don’t think I sit up here alone.”

Bristo said nothing. Everyone packs.

When the police and the women from across the hall were gone, I took a soap dispenser and paper towels from the bathroom at the end of the hall. I cleaned the urine off my chair, piled the debris on the couch so I could move without stepping on things, then went back to work. You let something like a vandalized office screw your day, pretty soon you’re calling in sick for a pimple.

Three minutes later I was speaking with Angel Tomaso’s aunt, Mrs. Candy Lopez. I explained my relationship with her nephew, and told her it was urgent I speak with him.

She said, “Give me your name and number. I will tell him you called.”

“It would be faster if I call him directly.”

“It might be faster, but I’m not going to give you his number. I don’t know you. For all I know you’re a nut.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

She said, “And please note the idiot who called last night has given my number to you without my permission, and here you are-a person completely unknown to me-invading my privacy. He gives my number to strangers, he might as well write it on a bathroom wall.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lopez. I wouldn’t interrupt your day if it wasn’t important. Angel was a witness in a criminal investigation three years ago, and now some conflicting evidence has surfaced.”

“I understand. I will tell him all this when we speak.”

“Did you tell him that Jack Eisley called?”

“I left a message on his machine. You call him, that machine is all you get. I am sure he is busy rehearsing.”

She pronounced “rehearsing” with a snooty theatrical accent.

“So Angel is back here in Los Angeles?”

“He is. And, by the way, Angel is no longer Angel. He is now Andy.”

She pronounced Andy without a trace of her Spanish accent, as if it were the most boring name in the world.

“Excuse me?”

“Angel Tomaso was too ethnic, he says. He is now Andy Thom. As if Hollywood has been waiting for the one and only Andy Thom!”

Angel probably hadn’t gotten much artistic support back home.

I said, “Please call him right away. He’ll remember my name. Tell him I need to speak with him as soon as possible.”

“I’ll tell him you’re Steven Spielberg. You’ll hear from him more quickly that way.”

I put down the phone, thinking about Angel’s new name and the likelihood of hearing back from him in the foreseeable future. I decided it wasn’t likely.

I checked the L.A. area codes for an Andy Thom, found nothing, then called a casting agent I knew named Patricia Kyle. Pat Kyle had worked for every major studio and network in town, along with most of the commercial and video producers. She was currently successful, prosperous, and happy, which was much different from the day she hired me to help with an abusive ex-husband who thought it within his rights to shatter her windshield and terrorize her at work. I convinced him otherwise, and Pat Kyle has thought well of me ever since. If Angel Tomaso aka Andy Thom was serious about being an actor, three months was plenty of time to enroll in acting classes, pound the pavement for auditions, and send headshots to casting agents.

Pat Kyle said, “Never heard of him.”

“His real name is Angel Tomaso. Out of Austin.”

“Latin?”

“Yeah. Does it matter?”

“Only in how you search. Actors are faces and a face is what you look like. Some of the smaller agencies specialize in ethnic actors. Do you know if he’s SAG or AFTRA?”

“Don’t know.”

“Ever had a paid acting job?”

“The way his aunt was talking, I doubt it. First time he was out here didn’t work out. That’s why he went back to Austin. He’s only been back for three months.”

Pat told me she would ask around, then we hung up and I settled back in my broken office to read over Chen’s reports. I thought about the Mexican oxycodones. If Byrd was in so much pain he couldn’t walk or drive, he probably needed a steady supply. If he couldn’t walk or drive, someone might have delivered, and maybe that same someone might know how he came by the pictures. I decided to ask his neighbors.

At one-fourteen that afternoon I packed up the file on Byrd, locked the office as best I could, and went down to my car. When I pulled out of my building, a black Toyota truck with tinted glass fell in behind and followed me.

12

THE BLACK Toyota turned toward Laurel Canyon with me, but so did half a dozen other cars. No one shot at me or behaved in an overly aggressive manner, so I told myself I was being paranoid. Your office gets trashed, it’s easy to imagine you’re being followed.

But two blocks later I slid through a yellow. The driver of the Toyota busted the red to keep up, then jammed on his brakes as soon as he was clear of the light. So much for my imagination. Two men appeared to be in the cab, but I couldn’t be sure with the heavily tinted glass.

I took an abrupt right turn without using my blinker, and the Toyota turned with me. When he came around the corner, I saw a sticker on his front bumper. It was a promotional sticker for a chick band called Tattooed Beach Sluts.

I turned again and pulled to the curb, but the Toyota didn’t follow. When it still hadn’t appeared five minutes later, I continued on into Laurel Canyon. If I didn’t watch myself, I would become the new Chen.

Broken branches and leaves littered the streets in the canyon and were piled against parked cars and curbs like drifting snow. The big cedars and eucalyptuses hung motionless for the first time in days, drooping now as if resting from their fight with the wind. The smell of their sap was strong.

When I reached Byrd’s house, the police and the crime scene tape were gone, but a news crew and a short-bed moving van were at the bottom of the steps. The news crew was up on the porch, interviewing an older man with dyed-black hair and liverish skin. A white Eldorado was parked behind the van. The Eldo probably belonged to the interviewee, who likely owned the house and had been Byrd’s landlord. While they talked, two Latin guys lugged pieces of furniture down to the truck.

I was waiting for the reporter to finish when I saw the woman in the vine-covered house across the street. She was back at her window, watching the interview, so I decided to start with her.

I climbed her steps, but before I reached the top, she opened the window.

“Go away. I’ve had enough of this.”

“I’m with Easter Seals. Don’t you want to help dying children?”

She slammed the window.

I continued to her door, then leaned on the bell until she answered. She had seemed older from across the street, with her grey hair up and frizzy.

“I’m not really from Easter Seals. I just said that.”

“I know you’re not, and I know you know I know. You’re with the police. I saw you here yesterday, and you saw me.”

Her name was Tina Isbecki. I introduced myself, letting her think what she thought. Operators like me are trained to go with the flow. This is called “lying.”

I glanced across at the interview.

“Who’s that?”

“Sharla Lee. She’s on the news.”

“Not the reporter. The man she’s interviewing.”

“That’s Mr. Gladstone. He owns the house.”

The police had released the house, and now Mr. Gladstone was dumping the furniture. He would have to clean the house, paint it, and hope he could find a tenant who wouldn’t mind living where a multiple-murderer blew out his own brains.

I turned back to Tina Isbecki.

“Saw you on TV last night, saying now you could sleep easy. You looked very natural.”

The Detective, buttering up the hostile subject.

She scowled.

“That isn’t at all what I said. I told’m now I could sleep because all the goddamned cops were out of the neighborhood. They made it look like I meant Mr. Byrd.”

“Did you know him very well?”

“I tried to avoid him. He was crude and offensive. The first time we met, he asked if I enjoyed anal sex. Just like that. Who would say something like that?”

Welcome to Lionel Byrd.

“Was he close to anyone here in the neighborhood?”

“I doubt it. A lot of these people are renters and boarders, and most are just kids. They come and they go.”

Which was pretty much what Starkey had told me.

“You must have been asked these things a hundred times.”

“A thousand. Let me answer your other questions to save us both time-”

She ticked off her answers, bending each finger back so far I thought it might snap.

“No, I never saw anything suspicious. No, he never threatened me. No, I did not know he had been arrested, and I did not hear the gunshot. And yes, I am surprised he killed all those women, but this is Laurel Canyon.”

She crossed her arms with a smugness indicating she had answered every question I could possibly ask.

I said, “Did he have many visitors?”

“I never saw anyone.”

“Do you know how he got his drugs?”

The smugness vanished.

“A quantity of nonprescribed oxycodone was found in his home. Do you know what that is?”

“Well, of course I know, but I barely knew the man. There’s no reason I would know he was a drug addict.”

“I understand. But we’re wondering where he got the pills.”

“He didn’t get them from me.”

Defensive.

“On the day of the evacuation, it was you who told the officers he was housebound?”

“That’s right. I was concerned. He hadn’t been driving, what with his foot. He couldn’t press the brake.”

“When was the last time you saw him driving?”

“Believe it or not, I have more to do than watch my neighbors.”

“This isn’t a test. I’m trying to get an idea how difficult it was for him to get around.”

“Well, I don’t know. A few weeks, I guess. I know his foot had been getting worse. Some days he couldn’t even come for the mail, and it would pile up.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so I thanked her and went down to the street. Gladstone was still being interviewed, so I knocked on the neighboring doors. No one was home at most of the houses, and the few people who were either had never met Byrd or had seen him only in passing. Only one person I interviewed had exchanged words with him, and she described him as crude, vulgar, and offensive, just like Tina Isbecki. Nobody had witnessed anyone visiting his house.

By the time I finished knocking on doors, the news crew was leaving. I squeezed around the movers’ truck and climbed the steps just as Gladstone emerged from the house.

Gladstone was locking the front door, and scowled when he saw me approaching.

“Cut me some slack, all right? I didn’t know the sonofabitch was a maniac.”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m investigating the case.”

I showed him the ID, but he had been looking at IDs all week. He waved me off.

“I got nothing to say. The man paid his rent and never made trouble. Now I got a house with brains on the ceiling and people like you wasting my time. I gotta get this place cleaned out by the end of the day.”

He ducked past me and hurried after his movers.

I returned to my car, but didn’t leave. The moving crew locked their truck, then rumbled away with Gladstone behind them. When they were gone, I got out of my car and pushed past low-hanging cedar boughs onto the walkway alongside the garage. A black plastic garbage can blocked the walk, but a flight of stairs led up to a door.

The can was filled with towels, bedding, old clothes, and plastic grocery bags bulging with discarded food and kitchen supplies. Gladstone had tossed things that would spoil-apples and oranges, a cantaloupe, hamburger patties and chicken, and all the usual things that accumulate in a refrigerator. I was probably the fifth or sixth person to go through these things, so I didn’t expect to find anything useful.

I squeezed past the garbage can, climbed to the door, let myself in, and walked through the house. Not much was left.

A few small pieces of furniture remained in the living room, but the couch, the television, and the suicide chair were missing. The bathroom was even worse. Nothing remained on or around the vanity, in the medicine cabinet, on in the cabinet under the sink. So much for checking prescriptions. The bedroom and bedroom closet had been emptied. The bed, Byrd’s clothes, and everything else was gone. All that remained was a single cardboard box filled with shoes, belts, and personal possessions like old cigarette lighters, pens, and a broken watch. I went through it, but found nothing. A note would have been nice: For free home delivery, call Friendly Neighborhood Dope Dealer.

I walked through the house again, searching for a telephone. I found three phone jacks, but the phones were gone. The police would have taken them to check their memory chips.

I ended up back in the kitchen, finding a jack above the counter beside a small corkboard. Business cards and take-out menus were pinned to the board. Alan Levy’s card was pinned at the top for easy reference. It looked greasy and dark, as if it had been there a while. The rest of the board was cluttered with discount coupons and flyers.

Even with everything Gladstone had discarded, the kitchen counters were crowded with cartons and cans and other food waiting to be tossed. It was a lot of food for someone who hadn’t been able to leave his house, and much of it looked pretty fresh.

I went back downstairs to the garbage, and dumped the fruit and other things out of the grocery bags. They were the thin plastic bags that people keep to line their wastebaskets. Most people get home from the market, they take out their groceries but leave the receipt in the bag.

Byrd had kept plenty of the bags, and Gladstone had used them when he cleaned out the house. I dumped fourteen bags and found five receipts. The receipts were all from the Laurel Market at the bottom of the canyon, and all showed the date of purchase. Lionel Byrd’s body was discovered eight days ago, and the M.E. determined his death had occurred five days earlier. I did the math. The date of the most recent receipt was two days before Lionel Byrd died. If he was in too much pain to drive, I wondered how he had gone shopping.

I put the bags and the trash back into the can, then headed down to find out. Tina Isbecki watched me go. I waved. She waved back. We were getting to be friends.

13

THE RURAL vibe of Laurel Canyon set the sixties stage for crossover folk-rockers like David Crosby, Graham Nash, and Joni Mitchell to write about peaceful easy feelings, cocaine cowboys, and very nice houses with two cats in the yard. The high, tight trails wrapped through the ridges were only a few blocks from Sunset Boulevard, but, separated from the city by steep canyon walls, felt as if they were miles in the country. That rural sensibility was preserved and sustained by a small encampment of shops, markets, and restaurants at the base of the canyon.

I pulled into the tiny parking lot, then ambled into the market. You get a peaceful easy feeling, amblin’ is how you walk.

The market was larger than it looked from the outside, with a high ceiling and narrow aisles jammed with goods, supplies, and candy. A pretty young woman was seated behind the register. An older man wearing a Lakers cap was behind a nearby deli counter, mixing a large bowl of tuna salad.

I took out a picture of Lionel Byrd I had clipped from the paper and showed it to the woman.

“Could you tell me if you recognize this man? His name was Lionel Byrd. He was a regular customer here.”

She blinked at the picture with wide, curious eyes.

“Are you a policeman?”

“Nope. Elvis Cole. I’m a private investigator.”

She smiled, the smile making her even prettier.

“Is that really your name?”

“What, Cole?”

“No, silly, Elvis. I’m Cass, like Mama Cass Elliot. She used to live right up the hill. A dude comes here, his name is Jagger, and a dude named Morris who says he was named after Jim Morrison, but that’s kinda sketchy.”

The sixties live.

Cass called over her shoulder.

“Phil, can you come see this, please?”

Phil put down the bowl of tuna and came up behind her, wiping his hands on a towel. Cass showed him the picture.

“Was this guy a customer?”

Phil considered the image.

“He’s the one they found in the fire. You didn’t see the news?”

Cass didn’t know what we were talking about.

Phil said, “Yeah, he used to get the curry chicken. It was always the same. The curry chicken on a sesame roll. He had a bad foot.”

Phil was a score. They might have shot the bull while Phil made Byrd’s sandwich, and Phil might remember something useful.

“That’s right. He was here about two weeks ago, just before he died. Do you remember what you talked about?”

Phil handed back the picture, shaking his head.

“Sorry, bro. He hasn’t been in for a couple of months, something like that. It’s been a while.”

“He was here exactly fifteen days ago, and two days before that. I found these at his house.”

I showed him the two most recent receipts. Phil squinted at them as if they were an incomprehensible mystery, then shook his head.

“I don’t know what to tell you. We get busy, I wouldn’t have seen him if he didn’t buy a sandwich.”

The tingle faded, but Cass brightened and spoke up.

“We might have delivered. Let’s see if Charles remembers.”

Phil was still squinting at the receipts.

“There’s no delivery charge, see? We didn’t deliver. There would be a charge if we delivered.”

Cass said, “Oh, don’t be a gob.”

She went to the end of the counter and shouted for someone named Charles. A stock clerk in a green apron ambled out from between the aisles. It wasn’t just me.

Phil took the picture, and showed him.

“You deliver for this guy? The name was Byrd.”

Phil glanced at me again.

“Where’d he live?”

“ Anson Lane. Off Lookout, up past the school.”

Charles took his turn with the picture, then shook his finger as if the finger was helping him fish up the thought.

“The dude with the foot.”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, man, I saw it in the paper. That stuff was crazy.”

“You delivered groceries to him two weeks ago?”

“Nope, I never delivered to him. I know him from the register, but he hasn’t been down in a while. Ivy came for his things.”

Cass laughed.

“Oh, that chick!”

I said, “A girl named Ivy picked up his groceries?”

“He’d phone the order, and she’d pick it up. He had to stop driving.”

Cass was making a big loopy grin.

“Charles was so totally into that chick.”

Charles flushed.

“Stop it, dude. Discretion.”

“Who’s Ivy?”

Cass touched the midpoint of her left forearm.

“She had a broken heart here on her arm. The wreckage of Charles’s love.”

“Dude!”

Cass was pleased with Charles’s mortification and crossed her arms smugly.

“She lived up there in the big redwood house. A total hippie throwback to the commune age.”

Charles shot a sulky glance at Cass.

“It’s not a commune. Dude rents out his rooms, is all. Ivy crashed there for a few weeks.”

Cass mouthed her words with exaggerated volume.

“Not long enough to drop her shorts.”

Phil laughed and went back to his tuna.

The big redwood house was next door to Tina Isbecki. I had been there less than an hour ago and spoken with a bald man named Lloyd and a woman named Jan who identified herself as a screenwriter. Neither had known anything about Lionel Byrd, and no one named Ivy was present.

“I was just up there talking to Lloyd. Ivy doesn’t live with them anymore?”

“Uh-uh. She went home.”

Great. The only person I’d found who had any contact with Byrd had ridden the tornado back to Oz.

“Because of what happened?”

“She left before the fires. She only had the room while her real place was being repaired. They found mold in her bathroom.”

Charles suddenly looked alarmed.

“Hey, he didn’t kill her, did he? Is she dead?”

“No, it’s nothing like that, but I’d like to speak with her. You know how to reach her?”

Cass made swoony eyes.

“Ooohhh, yeeaaahhh.”

Then she mouthed, “Stalker.”

Charles couldn’t give me Ivy Casik’s phone or address, but he knew how to find her apartment. Ivy’s car had died in the parking lot, and Charles had given her a lift to pick up cash for the repair. He had brought her to an apartment in Hollywood.

I copied the directions, thanked them for the help, then went out to my car.

When I reached the parking lot, a stocky kid in a Foo Fighters T-shirt and black wraparounds was peering at the interior. You drive a ’66 Corvette, you get that. He saw me coming, and stepped away.

“Nice ride. Want to sell it?”

“No, thanks.”

“Too bad. I could rock a car like this.”

He lit a cigarette, then drifted away to a blue Mustang. He stared at my car as he smoked. Vehicle envy.

I headed back to Sunset, then followed Charles’s directions east into Hollywood. Things were looking up. I had a real, live lead who might even be able to provide something useful. Of course, the odds she knew anything useful were probably along the lines of getting brained by a meteor, but you take your hope where you find it.

I was feeling so good, I almost didn’t see the black Toyota pickup pull into traffic behind me. It was the same Toyota with the Tattooed Beach Sluts sticker. A few seconds later, the Foo Fighters’ blue Mustang appeared a few cars behind.

Ivy Casik’s address would have led me into the low foothills near the Hollywood Bowl, but I drove south through West Hollywood in a loose circle around the Farmers Market, watching my rearview mirror.

The Mustang tightened up on the truck, then the truck turned off. A few blocks later, the truck was waiting at a cross street ahead of me. As I drove past, the truck turned in behind, and the Mustang disappeared. We went on like that, leapfrogging through the city, with one or the other of them always behind me but never for very long. They were using radios or cell phones to coordinate their moves.

When I was certain they were following me, I took my pistol from under the seat, put it beside my leg, then called Pike. He was still watching my house.

Pike said, “You get a tag?”

“Mud on their plates. Nice trick, seeing as how we haven’t had rain in five months.”

“You think they’re police?”

The Foo Fighter seemed pretty young for an officer, but a lot of guys in their early twenties looked younger.

“Could be. Bastilla was pissed off when I told her I was looking for Tomaso. Maybe they’re the same guys who searched my office.”

Pike grunted.

“An officer wouldn’t piss on your chair.”

“Crimmens phonied a confession in a capital crime. He would piss on a chair if he thought he could cover the search by making it look like vandalism.”

“Okay.”

“I’m on my way to see a woman named Ivy Casik up by the Bowl. When you’re on them, I’ll lose them, then you can follow them home.”

“I’m all over it.”

“Thought you might be.”

I turned north toward the hills and maintained an easy, meandering pace, watching them drift in and out of the mirror. Sometimes I didn’t see them for blocks at a time, then one or the other would reappear.

I slipped into a shoulder harness, then covered it with a light cotton jacket. The day was too hot for the jacket, but the jacket covered the gun.

Sixteen minutes later, Pike called.

“I’m on the Mustang.”

“Good hunting.”

I closed the phone and picked up speed.

14

I TURNED up Hillcrest into an older residential area with winding streets, high curbs, and plenty of sturdy palms. When I climbed into the curves, the truck and the Mustang were easy to lose. They would probably circle for a while, blaming each other for losing me, but then they would head for home, unaware Pike was with them. After I finished with Ivy Casik, I would join him, but they wouldn’t know that, either. Then we would talk.

I parked beneath a jacaranda tree across from Ivy’s building, then headed for her apartment. Ivy lived in Apartment 4, which was the bottom unit at the back of the courtyard. I rang the bell twice and knocked, but she wasn’t home. Perfect.

Ivy wasn’t much of a lead, but she was the only lead I had, so I returned to my car. Twenty-two minutes later, a dusty Ford Neon appeared and parked on the opposite curb. A tall young woman with serious eyes and straight hair climbed out. She had the broad shoulders and defined legs of an athlete and was wearing running shorts, a thin T, and blue Saucony running shoes, as if she had been for a run. The little heart on her forearm stood out like a strawberry.

I followed her into the courtyard, hurrying to catch up.

“Ivy Casik!”

She jumped sideways as if I had shouted “Boo,” and seemed about to run.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She glanced at the other apartments as if she might start calling for help.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry.”

I held out a card.

“Elvis Cole. I’d like to ask you about Lionel Byrd, the man you knew as Lonnie Jones.”

She backed away, still searching the apartments for help.

“Who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator. Just look at my card.”

“Anyone can get a card.”

I spread my arms.

“I could show you my gun.”

She hesitated, but seemed to grow calmer. I put away the card and held out my license.

“Licensed by the State of California, see? I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You’re a policeman?”

“Private, but the police will want to talk to you. I would have called before I came, but I didn’t have your number.”

She studied the license as if it was difficult to read.

“You are Ivy Casik, aren’t you?”

She glanced up, but seemed to be getting used to me.

“Why are you here?”

“About Lionel Byrd, the man you knew as Lonnie Jones.”

“Yes?”

I couldn’t tell from her answer if she recognized his name or not. “The people at Laurel Market told me you knew him. A clerk named Charles. Did you read the newspaper this morning?”

“Charles.”

“Yes. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about? You knew the man as Lonnie Jones?”

She seemed to think about it, then hooked her hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry. This is all so weird. That guy in the paper, he was really Lonnie?”

“I understand. Kinda creeps you out, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. You want to come in? It’s easier than standing out here.”

Her apartment was small and clean, with only a single couch and coffee table in the living room, and a small circular table near the kitchenette. The furniture was new, and had the efficient lines of furnishings that had probably come with the apartment. The kitchenette was immaculate. So were the floors and the table. The only thing out of place was a newspaper, open to the story about Byrd.

Ivy offered me a bottle of water, took one for herself, then perched on the edge of the couch. I pulled one of the dining chairs closer to sit with her.

I said, “Has anyone talked to you about this?”

“You mean the police?”

“They questioned your former neighbors last week. They pretty much spent all this past week up on Anson, interviewing people.”

“I had no idea. I saw the paper, and I thought, ohmigod, that’s Lonnie, but the picture was so bad. I was like, is this a joke?”

“It isn’t a joke.”

“This is surreal.”

“How well did you know him?”

“I picked up groceries for him a couple of times. It’s not like we hung out.”

Her voice took on a defensive whine, as if I had accused her of being a serial-killer sympathizer.

“It’s okay, Ivy. You didn’t know.”

“Here he was with the cane, and he asked for some help. He didn’t say anything obnoxious. I was going to the market anyway. What was I supposed to say, no? He was just an old man.”

She flipped her head. When she moved, her hair swayed like a curtain in the breeze.

I said, “Did he ask you to pick up drugs?”

“Uh-uh. I just stopped at the market a few times. They don’t have a pharmacy.”

“Not prescription drugs. He was using oxycodone manufactured in Mexico. He would have gotten them illegally.”

She sat taller, and her lips tightened into a bud. It was a rough way to ask, but I wanted to see her reaction.

“I didn’t buy drugs for him.”

“Okay. I had to ask.”

“Do you think I’m a dealer?”

“You might not have known what you were buying. He might have asked you to pick up a package, and you didn’t know what was in the package.”

“Only the market.”

“If he couldn’t drive, someone had to get them for him. I’m not saying it was you.”

“Well, it sounds like you are. I was just trying to be a nice person, and now you’re accusing me of being a dope connection. I really resent this.”

“I’m not accusing you. I know it sounded like that, but I’m not.”

“Whatever. Am I going to have to do this again with the police?”

“Probably, but they’re not nearly as much fun as me.”

Her mouth tightened again, which is almost always a sign I’m wearing out my welcome.

My cell phone vibrated, so I excused myself and checked the call. It was Pike. I told her I had to take it, and opened the phone.

Pike said, “You with the girl?”

“That’s right. Where’d they go?”

“Nowhere. The Pony parked as soon as you lost them. We’re on Franklin at the bottom of Hillcrest.”

“What about his helper?”

“The truck left. Four or five streets feed down from these hills, so the truck probably set up at a different location.”

“Okay.”

“If the Pony leaves, you want me to follow?”

“Absolutely.”

I closed the phone.

“Sorry. We’re almost finished.”

“Whatever.”

“Did he ever do or say anything that made you fearful?”

“I wouldn’t have gone to the market for him if I was scared of him.”

“Okay. Did he ever ask if he could take your picture?”

She gave an exaggerated shiver. She knew I was talking about the album.

“Yuck. No. I would’ve told him to fuck off.”

“All right. One last thing. Did he say or do anything that made you think-or makes you think now, in retrospect-that he was suicidal?”

She grew distant for a moment, then went to the newspaper. She touched it, but did not pick it up.

“Not like, I’m going to blow my brains out, but he was depressed. He was really scared of the police. He thought they were out to get him.”

“He did?”

“The police framed him for murder. He talked about it a lot.”

I took a slow breath.

“He told you about Yvonne Bennett?”

“How the police tried to frame him. He hated the police. He said they were always trying to get him. I mean, here’s this gimpy little man going on with a major persecution complex, and it sounded so made up.”

“He didn’t make it up.”

“Are they really writing a book about him?”

I shook my head, not understanding, and Ivy Casik went on.

“Someone came to see him about how the police framed him. The guy told him it could be a book and a movie, and all this stuff, and Lonnie was bragging how he was going to be rich, and it all sounded so absurd.”

My mouth felt dry, but wetting my lips didn’t help.

“Who was this person?”

“I don’t know. A reporter, he said. This reporter was doing a story about how the police fucked him over.”

Ivy Casik was an attractive young woman. It was easy to imagine Byrd making up stories about books and movies to impress her.

“Did you see this person?”

“It was just something Lonnie told me, like the dude brought this little tape recorder and asked lots of questions.”

“A dude who came to the house?”

“Yeah. Do you think he was lying?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought he made it up until I saw the paper. They really did charge him with murder. They really did drop the charges. Those things were true.”

“Yes,” I said. “Those things were true.”

A new player had entered the crime scene. An unnamed person who might have approached Lionel Byrd to discuss the subject of murder, and who might or might not even exist. If someone had been looking for Lionel Byrd, I wondered how they had found him. Everyone on Anson Lane thought Lionel Byrd was Lonnie Jones.

I wondered how I could find out if Lionel Byrd’s story about the reporter was true. The police should have gone through Byrd’s phone records and back-checked the numbers, so Bastilla probably already knew, but she probably wouldn’t tell me. Maybe the guy in the Mustang would know.

After Ivy Casik let me out, I called Pike, filled him in, and asked about the Mustang.

“What’s our boy doing?”

“Still hasn’t moved.”

“Any sign of the truck?”

“Nope.”

“I’m on the way.”

I had only gone three blocks when the black Toyota pulled out of a side street in front of me. I wasn’t sure it was the same truck, but the Toyota bucked high on its springs and powered away. He had probably been searching the area while the Mustang waited below, and was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

Cops with a busted surveillance would have stopped to badge me, but the Toyota ran. I thought he would run for the flats and the freeways and his buddy in the Mustang, but he skidded onto a cross street instead, climbing higher in the hills. He probably felt he had a better chance of losing me the higher we went, but I pushed after hard, closing the gap.

The curves grew tighter the higher we climbed, looping and crossing like snakes. I wanted to call Pike, but the driving was fast, and my hands were filled with the shifter and wheel. I didn’t think he knew where he was going or where the streets went; he just drove it, trying to leave me behind. We busted through stop signs, circled the same streets, turned downhill hard and then it was over. He had turned into a cul-de-sac. He was trapped.

The driver’s window was down, and the driver was watching me. His eyes were large and bright from the chase, but waiting to see what I would do. He was big, with beefy forearms and heavy shoulders, but a wispy mustache and zits on his chin made him look even younger than the Foo Fighter. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. He was a kid.

I had once seen three grown men shot to death by an eleven-year-old with an AK-47. I took out my pistol, but did not raise it. He was no more than ten yards away.

“Get out of the truck. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

His door opened. He raised his hands, then slid out. He looked even younger once he was out, like a baby-faced high-school lineman. I thought he might run because kids always run, but he didn’t.

I said, “Close it.”

He pushed the door closed.

I got out of my car, holding the gun down along my leg because I still didn’t know what he might try or what I might have to do when he tried it.

“On your knees. Fingers laced on your head.”

He did what I told him. Here we were in a small cul-de-sac in a residential neighborhood where someone might step out for the mail or come home from school. I holstered the gun, snapped the safety strap, then stepped away from my car.

“What in hell are you doing?”

A voice behind me said, “This.”

Something hard slammed into the back of my neck and dropped me into the street. That’s when I realized the kid had not been trying to get away. I had not trapped the black Toyota in the cul-de-sac. He had trapped me.

15

THE NEW man was a muscular young guy with high and tight hair, bleached-grey eyes, and the brutal tan of a man who lived in the sun. He had the back of my shirt, dragging and spinning me to keep me off-balance, and punching down hard as I tried to roll away.

The man who hit me knew what he was doing. He moved fast to stay behind me, controlling me from behind as he punched me in the head. I didn’t reach for my gun, and I didn’t try to get up. You have a gun in a situation like this, you have to protect it; if the other guy gets it he will shoot you to death. And if you try to get up, you can’t defend yourself, so I fought from the ground. Picture the detective as a crab on its back.

The kid from the truck shouted something I couldn’t understand, then he was kicking me, but he wasn’t as good as his friend. He stood over me like a light pole without bothering to move. I hooked a round kick through his ankles, and swept his feet from under him. The kid landed on top of us as the blue Mustang flashed into view.

When the kid fell, I dragged him closer, trying to roll him onto the first guy. The first guy clawed me backwards, but the kid bucked up and broke us apart. I turned to get the first guy in front of me, but he drove into me with his head down like a linebacker. The Foo Fighter was running toward us to join in the fight.

I went over backwards again, but this time I tied up the first guy and pulled him in close. He should have kept driving through me, but he jerked backwards, trying to get away. He was pulling back so hard that when I let go he popped up like a target. I hit him in the throat and the mouth, then hooked the kid high on the cheek with an elbow. The first guy was getting up when the Foo Fighter slammed into his back like a battering ram. The first guy went down face-first, but the Foo kept going. Pike powered him through the first guy and along a graceful arc into the side of my car. His collarbone snapped.

Then Pike had his.357 and I had my gun, and all of it stopped.

Pike said, “Guess these guys aren’t cops.”

I sucked air, trying to catch my breath. My head throbbed. So did my shoulder, my back, and my right knee. The Foo Fighter held his shoulder, gritting his teeth like it burned. The kid was on his knees, his eye bloody and swelling. The first guy rose to a knee, watching Pike as if he wanted to go for more. The first guy was the oldest.

Pike said, “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look winded.”

“Uh.”

“I got it.”

Pike moved on them the way he’d done a hundred times when he was a police officer, pushing them down as he gave the commands.

“Belly. Fingers laced behind your heads.”

They assumed the position. We patted down the Foo Fighter and the kid, but when I touched the oldest guy he shoved my hand.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me, piece of shit.”

“You trash my office?”

“Fuck you.”

I planted a knee on the back of his neck and touched him anyway. None of them had weapons. I took their wallets, and matched the pictures on their DLs to their faces. The kid was Gordon Repko. He was eighteen years old. The Foo Fighter was Dennis Repko, who was twenty. The oldest was Michael Repko, age twenty-four. All three showed the same home address in Pasadena, California. Michael Repko was also carrying a military ID card, identifying him as a sergeant in the United States Army Reserve. That explained the high and tight cut and fierce desert eyes. They had frightened John Chen when he went to their house, and now they had frightened me.

I gimped to my car and leaned on the fender. I felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with fighting for my life in a cul-de-sac in the Hollywood Hills.

“Debra Repko was their sister.”

Pike lowered his gun, but didn’t put it away.

Dennis Repko said, “You got her killed, you fuck. It’s your fuckin’ fault.”

Pike said, “Mm.”

I looked from brother to brother and felt even more drained by the hate and fear in their faces. The Pasadena address was a nice one. These three kids had probably never wanted for anything, had a solid family, and attended good schools. Three angry white boys, wanting to dump their grief on the person they blamed.

“You trashed my office and followed me to get some payback. That what it is?”

Michael Repko said, “So what are you going to do, shoot us? Fuck you. I’ll fight you right here. Man to man.”

Pike said, “You just did. You’re on your ass.”

I went back to Michael, and squatted to look at him.

“I might have shot you. I might have shot your brothers, and I could still have you arrested. This was stupid.”

Gordon said, “She was our sister.”

Gordon, the youngest, was crying.

I took a breath and went back to my car. The first death threat had come even before Bastilla and Crimmens came to my office and hours before Marx went on the news. Since my involvement with Lionel Byrd hadn’t been mentioned in the news or by the press, I had a pretty good idea how these guys learned my name.

“The police told you I worked for Byrd?”

Dennis said, “They could’ve put him in prison, but you and some ass-licking shyster got him off.”

“Who told you that, Crimmens?”

Michael said, “Was that you or wasn’t it? I’d like to kick that lawyer’s ass, too.”

Levy.

Pike tucked the gun under his sweatshirt.

“What do you want to do?”

I went to Gordon, then Dennis. Gordon’s eye was swelling. Dennis had trouble moving his arm.

Dennis said, “Get away from me, bitch.”

I looked back at Michael.

“Gordon won’t need stitches, but he should get some ice. Dennis needs a doctor.”

Michael said, “Fuck you. No one gives a shit what you say.”

I tossed back their wallets.

“I’m sorry you lost her. I’m sorry she’s dead, and for what you and your parents are going through, but I don’t believe Lionel Byrd killed your sister.”

They came to their feet, Dennis bent to the side because of the collarbone. Gordon touched his eye, and seemed confused by the blood on his fingers. Dennis and Gordon watched their older brother, taking their cues from him.

Michael said, “That’s bullshit. The police said he did it.”

“Marx rushed the investigation so he could make a splash on TV. A lot of things got lost in the rush.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?”

I told them how Debra’s murder was off the time line, how the others had all been murdered on moonless nights. I told them how Byrd was so gimped up in recent weeks with his bad foot he could barely walk, and had been flying on oxycodone the night he died. I told them how Marx shut down the case even before all the forensics were run, and that no one had yet spoken with the most important witness in Yvonne Bennett’s murder-Angel Tomaso. I told them about everything except the blind tests. They would talk about the things I was saying, and they might even tell the police. I didn’t want the wrong people to know I knew about the blinds.

When I finished, Gordon, the youngest, sneered.

“What makes you so much smarter than the police?”

“Maybe I’m just lucky.”

Dennis said, “The cops didn’t tell us any of this.”

“Okay, maybe I’m smarter.”

Michael frowned.

“Maybe you’re just trying to duck the blame.”

“Byrd didn’t die after the first murder or the fourth or the sixth. He died after Debra’s murder, so maybe something about her or her murder triggered everything else.”

Michael glanced at his brothers, then wet his lips.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but I’m the only one looking, and I need your help.”

Dennis shook his head.

“You want us to help you?”

“The only way I can figure this out is to start with your sister. If I knew more about Debra, I might be able to figure out why her murder was different.”

Gordon said, “Like what?”

“The autopsy report shows she had a drink on the night she was murdered. Did she meet a friend after work?”

The three of them stared at me.

“If so, where did they meet? Was the friend a man or a woman, or was Debra alone?”

Dennis glanced at Michael, then shook his head again, but now he was thinking.

“We don’t know.”

“I don’t know either, and I need your help to find out these things.”

Now Dennis and Gordon were both staring at Michael.

“Mikie, I think we should.”

I shrugged, saying the next move was his.

“Here we are, Michael. You can accept what the police say, case closed, done deal, or you can follow it through to find out whether or not I’m trying to duck the blame.”

Michael glanced at his brothers. Dennis nodded, trying to encourage him. Gordon’s good eye was hopeful.

“Our folks have been through a lot.”

“Do they think I’m responsible, too?”

Michael nodded.

“Then it will be hard.”

“We gotta talk.”

I gave him the card with my home and cell numbers. He stared at it.

“You’d give me your home number?”

“I believe what I told you. Decide if you want to help and let me know, but either way I’m going to do it.”

Michael hesitated, maybe thinking of offering his hand to close the deal, but didn’t. We were finished.

Michael went to the Mustang with Dennis and got in behind the wheel. Gordon climbed back into the truck. They drove away, leaving us in the quiet cul-de-sac.

Pike sighed deeply.

“Her brothers.”

I said, “Yes.”

16

MY PANTS were torn at both knees, my shirt was ripped and missing two buttons, and my hands and right forearm were scraped, dirty, and seeping. I should have gone home or picked up some ice or maybe even gone to the Emergency Room, but I drove to the Best Buy in Hollywood. I bought a computer and a cordless phone for my office to replace the broken things. I would have bought a new chair, but a chair wouldn’t fit in my car. The skin in front of my right ear and above my right eyebrow was tender and swelling, and the back of my head was worse. The register clerk stared as she rang me up.

She said, “You’re bleeding.”

“Tripped in the parking lot.”

“I gotta call the manager if you wanna file a claim.”

“That’s all right. I’m tough.”

I pressed my handkerchief on my forearm to cover the blood.

After the Best Buy, I stopped at a True Value hardware store for two gallons of latex interior paint, a roller, and a package of disposable plastic drop cloths. The color was named Eggshell. The total for everything including the Best Buy came to $1,868.52. Anyone else would get jumped by criminals, rogue cops, or lunatics, but I got pounded by three angry brothers mourning the death of their sister.

When I got home, I filled two plastic bags with ice, stretched out on the couch, then called an old-school newsman named Eddie Ditko. Eddie had worked for every newspaper in Southern California, and most of them more than once. He knew the newspaper business inside and out.

I said, “If a reporter was working on a particular story, and I knew the subject but not the name of the reporter, could I find out who the reporter is?”

“What paper?”

“Don’t know. All I know is the story.”

“Jesus Christ, what story?”

Patience wasn’t one of Eddie’s strengths.

“Lionel Byrd.”

“You got no shot. Every paper in town is working on Byrd.”

Eddie broke into a deep, shuddering cough. Eddie has smoked three packs a day for almost sixty years. I think he was born smoking. He made a gakking sound, then spit.

“You okay?”

“It’s these allergies.”

Smoker’s denial.

“The reporter in question was working on Byrd before everyone else. He was supposedly doing a story on how Byrd had been prosecuted on the Yvonne Bennett murder with a bad confession. He told Byrd there might be a book or a movie in it.”

“You don’t know where the guy works?”

“No.”

“The L.A. Times has something like eight hundred fifty writers, and that’s just the Times. Toss in the Daily News, the L.A. Weekly, La Opinión, and all these little papers, you see what we’re talking about?”

“Don’t writers get assigned these things? Wouldn’t his editor know?”

“Just because the guy was working the story doesn’t mean it was assigned. That’s called sniffing out the news. You do your research, then pitch your piece to your editor if you think it has heat. Some of these feature writers and columnists, they don’t even pitch.”

“So you’re saying there’s no way to ask around. Even though this could lead to a blowout story.”

Eddie was silent. I heard his lighter flick. I heard him inhale. Sniffing out the news.

“What kind of blowout story?”

“Maybe the reporter was a reporter, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this individual had a play with what happened to Lionel Byrd or with the murders.”

“I’m listening.”

“What if I told you even though this case has been publicly closed, the police are continuing to run DNA comparisons against a certain blind sample?”

“These tests are ongoing?”

“These tests are ongoing.”

Eddie inhaled again.

“Lemme see what I can find out.”

I threw away the ice, then searched for Bastilla’s card. Her task force would have identified all the calls going into or out of Byrd’s number, especially on the days leading up to his death. A legitimate writer or reporter would have identified himself, and Bastilla would know the full story. I didn’t trust she would give me the truth, but I wanted to see her reaction.

“Bastilla, it’s Cole-”

“Hey, man, thanks for getting those files to us. Levy messengered them over.”

“No problem. Now how about one for me-were any journalists, reporters, or news agencies on the calls to or from Byrd’s house?”

Bastilla hesitated.

“Why would you ask something like that?”

“A woman named Ivy Casik used to pick up groceries for him. Byrd told her a reporter was writing a book about how he was railroaded for the Bennett murder. She told me this person visited him on at least two occasions prior to his death.”

Bastilla hesitated even longer.

“Who’s Ivy Casik?”

“She used to rent a room up on Anson across the street. She helped him out when he couldn’t drive. You might want to talk to her.”

“How do you spell her name?”

I spelled it and gave her Ivy Casik’s address.

“One more, Bastilla-”

“It’s late and I want to get out of here. The case is closed, man. We’re finished. That’s it.”

“Is it? Were any of Byrd’s calls to a drug connection or someone who might have supplied him with the oxys?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Were there?”

“Good night, Cole. Really.”

“Guess your task force disbanded too soon.”

“Fuck off.”

I took a shower, then cleaned the scrapes with hydrogen peroxide. I felt a little better after I put on fresh clothes but was still at loose ends, wondering why blind samples were being compared to the forensics Chen had been ordered to collect weeks after Debra’s murder. The results would have been in the news if their tests put Lionel Byrd with Debra, so Byrd still wasn’t a match.

Michael Repko called at twenty minutes after eight. He sounded subdued, and spoke in a low voice as if he didn’t want to be overheard.

“You want to talk about Debra, I guess it’s okay.”

“Is it okay or not, Michael? Guesses don’t help.”

“It’s not so easy over here. Everyone blames you.”

“I understand that, Michael. So where are we going with this?”

He gave me their address and told me to come over at ten the next morning.

“All right. I’ll see you at ten.”

“Something better come of this or we’re gonna take up where we left off.”

Then he hung up.

Tough to the end.

I sat on the couch feeling angry and bad. I grew so angry I called Bastilla again, but this time she didn’t answer.

When her message beeped, I said, “It’s Cole again. Tell your pal Crimmens the next time I see him I’m going to kick his ass.”

I hung up, but felt even worse.

I took two Tylenol and two Aleve, then drove down to my office. I carried the paint and the new things upstairs. It was after hours and late, and I was the only person on my floor. The building manager had moved quickly. A new door had been installed, which was good, but they had set a new deadbolt and lock. Picking the lock took almost fifteen minutes, but I worked steadily and carefully, and soon the lock opened.

I set up the new phone and the computer and put the old stuff into a cardboard box, then put the box in the hall. I pulled the couch and the file cabinets and the little fridge away from the walls, covered them with the plastic drop cloths, then put Pinocchio where he would be safe. I had the walls painted in less than an hour, opening both French doors to help the paint dry. The walls would need a second coat, but I could wait for the weekend.

I took up the drop cloths, pushed the furniture back into place, then swept and vacuumed. I made my office as neat as I could, then sat at my desk with the Mickey Mouse phone. The base was broken and split. Mickey’s left ear had been knocked off and his arm was cracked. Buying a new phone would have been easier, but Mickey and I had been together a long time.

Fixing the Mouse took longer than painting the office. I super-glued the base together, then reattached Mickey to the base. Several small pieces were missing, but he didn’t look so bad. The ear came last. I spread the glue, then set the ear and held it until the bond was tight. Mickey looked pretty good when I finished, but the cracks were now part of him. I would always see them.