Kane (21 page)

“He’s
staring,
Mom.”

“Am not,” said Brian in a taunting singsong seemingly indigenous to all younger siblings.  “Besides, it’s a free country.”

Julie slowed to enter the Spyglass Hill community of Las Palmas, speeding up again as a security guard spotted her windshield sticker and raised the gate barrier.  “Brian, do me a favor and quit staring at your sister.”

“But Mom …”

“Please, Brian.  And Heather, don’t be so sensitive.  I have a lot on my mind right now without listening to you two squabbling in the backseat.”

“It’s not
me,
Mom.  It’s Brian.  He’s—”

“Heather, stop right now.  You, too, Brian.  Your father will be home in less than an hour, and you know how he’s been lately.  If you don’t have your chores and homework done by then …”

“If you don’t have dinner ready by then …” mimicked Brian.

“One more word out of you, young man, and you’re grounded,” said Julie harshly, fighting a surge of irritation she had felt building all afternoon.  There just didn’t seem to be enough time in a day to get things done, and she didn’t even have a steady job, as Wes so regularly pointed out.

Well, I’d like to see him get two kids off to school, clean the house, shuttle Heather to the doctor for allergy shots, take Brian and his sister to the orthodontist, and do all the other so-called little things it takes to keep a family going, Julie thought angrily.  All he does is go to work.  With a flash of guilt, she abruptly remembered that she still hadn’t taken the BMW in for a bodywork estimate.  It would undoubtedly be the first thing Wes asked when he got home.

After turning on Cambria and hanging a right on Montecito, Julie pulled into her driveway, stopping to push the garage-door remote.  As the garage door lumbered open, she checked the clock on the dashboard, deciding that if she hurried, she could get dinner going and still have time for a cocktail before Wes arrived.  And tonight, she thought, I need one.  Maybe a couple.

Fifty yards down the street, a white van marked “McMurphy Electric” idled at the curb.  Inside, Victor Carns lowered a curiously shaped antenna resembling a fish backbone, with short aluminum tubes fastened like ribs to a central connecting spine.  A cable ran from the antenna to a piece of electronic equipment sitting beside him.

After setting the antenna on the floor, Carns turned his attention to the electronic instrument.  He made several adjustments to the controls.  His brow furrowed as a train of flat-topped pulses marched across the screen.  Another adjustment, and the blocky pattern slid right, stabilized … and held.

Carns covered the apparatus with a beach towel.  Smiling, he dropped the van into gear and drove slowly down the street, glancing at the Welsh residence as he passed.  With an effort of will he forced his eyes back to the road, remembering the softness of the woman’s skin as he had taken the pen from her fingers.

Next week, he promised himself.  At the latest, the week after.

Soon.

15

T
ell me something, Kane.  Your wife ever talk dirty in bed?”

I eased into the right lane of the Santa Monica Freeway, then glanced at Deluca.  “You don’t actually expect me to answer that, do you?”

Deluca grinned.  “Why not?”

“Because it’s none of your damn business.”

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled.  I just heard that some guys get turned on by women talking dirty when they’re having sex.  Personally, I don’t see it.  My ex-wife did it a lot.  Definitely turned
me
off.”

I exited on Lincoln Boulevard, ran a yellow light at the first intersection, and took the freeway overpass south.  “What kind of things did she say?”

“Mostly stuff like ‘Get off me, you turd!’”

I chuckled.  “There’s just no pleasing some women.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”  Deluca scanned the sprawl of car lots and taco stands slipping past his window.  “What was the name of the repair shop?  Sam’s Auto Body?”

“Pete’s.  There it is.”  I swerved into the right lane.  Ignoring a digital salute from a driver behind us, I parked in front of a one-story cinderblock building with a perimeter of razor wire topping the roof and enclosing fences.  Despite the defensive coils, almost every surface of the building—like most of the walls, billboards, and freeway signs in the area—displayed an indecipherable spray-can chaos of gang names and ghetto scrawl.

As I stepped from the car, I checked the lot adjoining the repair shop.  Several German imports, a Volvo, and a number of American vehicles sat behind the fence—some still dented, some repaired.  A moment later I spotted a rust-colored Infiniti.  “That look like persimmon to you?” I asked, pointing out the vehicle to Deluca.

Deluca rubbed his chin.  “I’d say closer to magenta.  Maybe a fuchsia.

“Thanks, Paul,” I said, starting for the entrance.  “When you retire, I predict a great future for you as an interior decorator.”

Inside, after passing several repair bays and a paint station enclosed in plastic drapes, Deluca and I arrived at a dingy office in the rear.  As we entered, a balding man glanced up from a well thumbed
Penthouse
magazine.  “Is this about the Larson murder?” he asked as I flipped out my shield.

I nodded, noting the name sewn on the man’s coveralls.  “You the owner here, Al?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s Pete?” asked Deluca.

“Sold out a long time back.  Moved someplace in Idaho.”

I glanced around the fly-bespeckled office.  “Can’t say as I blame him.  Is that the Larsons’ Infiniti out by the fence?”

“The red one?  Yeah.  It’s been finished since last week.  We didn’t release it because of some insurance mixup.  Mrs. Larson was supposed to come down Monday and straighten things out.”

“Straighten out, as in pay?”

Al shrugged.  “We don’t release cars till the bill’s settled.”

“What about the insurance money?”

“The other driver’s company refused to pay.”

“Why?”

Again, Al shrugged.

I sighed impatiently.  “Okay.  Let’s take a look at the car.”

Al rummaged through an assortment of keys hanging on a pegboard, finding a small ring with a tag displaying a license number and the name “Larson.”  I plucked the ring from his fingers.  Two keys.  Both bore the Infiniti logo.  No house key.

Deluca and I followed the owner out to the lot, exiting behind one of the repair bays.  When we arrived at the Larsons’ car, I noted a layer of grime covering its surface.  I drew my finger through the dust, then bent to inspect the asphalt beneath the engine.  No drips.  “How long has it been sitting here?” I asked.

“Like I said, since last week,” Al answered.  “What are you guys lookin’ for, anyway?”

I ignored the question.  “Who worked on it?”

“I think Alonzo did the body work.  Smitty … Charlie Smith did the paint.”

I unlocked the driver’s-side door and tossed the keys to Deluca.  “Check the trunk.”

Leaning into the vehicle, I noticed a door-opener remote affixed to the visor.  The fastening clip lined up perfectly with grooves that time had pressed in the simulated-leather surface.  If someone had removed the remote, they’d taken pains to replace it exactly.  Using my pen, I teased the device from the visor and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag.

“Not much in the trunk,” Deluca called from the back.  “Just the spare and a jack.”

I flipped open the glove compartment, noting maps, a pack of matches, napkins, and a flashlight.  A quick search revealed nothing under the seats or in the ashtrays.  “Nothing much here, either,” I said, backing from the car.  “Let’s go talk to Alonzo and Smitty.”

“Smitty’s workin’ today, but you’ll have to wait to see Alonzo,” said the owner.  “He drove down to Mexico to visit family.  Left yesterday and won’t be back till next week.  Hey, you don’t think one of my guys had something to do with the murders?”

“When next week?”

“Friday, I think.  I could check the schedule.”

“Do that,” I said.  “While you’re at it, I would appreciate a list of every employee you’ve had working here for the past two years.”

Al’s expression turned surly.  “That’s gonna be tough.  I don’t see why I gotta—”

Another citizen eager to help.  “This isn’t a request, Al,” I said.  “In case you missed it the first time around, we’re investigating a multiple homicide.  If you force us to get a warrant, I guarantee you’ll regret it.  For instance, I have friends down at Immigration, and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if they dropped by here and found that half the guys you have working are missing their green cards.  You follow me?”

Al’s face darkened.  “I follow.”

“Good.  Now, there’re two things I want you to bear in mind when you’re making out that list for us.  First, we need the names of
all
your workers, not just the ones you’re carrying on the books.”

“You won’t bring in INS?”

“Not as long as you cooperate.”

“What’s the other thing?”

“Don’t talk to Alonzo before he gets back.  For that matter, don’t mention our visit to anybody.”

When Deluca and I returned to task force headquarters, I noticed a pink message slip lying on my desk.  A name was scrawled across the top:  Graysha Hunt.

“You want me to run with this?” asked Deluca, riffling through the employee list we had received from the repair-shop owner.

I sat at my desk and picked up the phone.  “Yeah.  Check the local database first, then run everybody through the DOJ computer.  Be sure to add Al’s name, too.  And make a copy for Barrello.”

“Right.”

I dialed the number on the slip.  As the phone started ringing on the other end, I rocked back in my chair, gazing at Lieutenant Huff’s wall chart.  The list had grown considerably since morning, apparently swollen by names supplied by solicitous citizens via the hotline.  I sighed gloomily.

“Palisades Properties.  Graysha speaking.”

“Hello, Graysha.  Dan Kane returning your call.  You have something for me?”

“Oh, hi,” said Graysha, suddenly sounding out of breath.  “I … I put together the list you wanted.  Agents who’ve shown the property on Michael Lane.  Their client registries, too.”

“Any of them give you a hard time?”

“No, but I didn’t mention what was involved.  Will you be calling them?”

“Maybe not me, but someone here will.”

“When they do, I’d appreciate it if they didn’t, uh—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your name stays out of it.  You want to fax me the list?”

“Okay,” said Graysha, her tone anything but certain.

I rattled off the task force fax number.  “You’re doing the right thing,” I added.

“I hope so.  And I hope you catch this guy.  If there’s anything else …”

“If there is, you’ll hear from me.  And thanks.”

After hanging up, I thought a minute, then looked around the room, spotting a Hollywood detective named Terry Liman at a desk near the windows.  Head down and making notes on a yellow legal pad, Liman was laboriously going through a mountain of the Larsons’ bills and records.

I walked over.  “Terry, you seem so busy I hate to interrupt,” I said.

Liman grinned, clearly welcoming the diversion.  “Not a problem.”

“How’s it going?”

“Slow.  Fuentes is examining the Pratt records and we’re looking for correlations between the two families as we go, but nothing’s turned up so far.  Hard to believe a family can generate so much paperwork.”

“Have you gone through the Larson’s financial stuff yet?”

“Not yet.  I started on their address book.  Right now I’m up to the T’s.  Phone records are next.”

“Let me borrow the bank receipts for a while, okay?”

“Sure.”  Liman rummaged through a cardboard box, pulling out a leather-bound checkbook and a wad of bank statements and canceled checks.  “Here you go.”

“Thanks.  I’ll have them back as soon as I’m done.”

I returned to my desk and began a review of the Larsons’ expenditures for the past year, beginning with October and then working my way back.  Twenty minutes later I found a check written to the USAA Insurance Company, a policy number neatly penned across the top.  After consulting the telephone directory, I dialed USAA’s district office in Van Nuys.

Following a long wait on hold, I wound up speaking to an irritable claims adjuster named Bertina Johnson.  She stated that USAA, acting on behalf of their insured, Susan Larson, had indeed submitted a claim to Twentieth Century Insurance requesting payment for a recent accident.  Following another delay while she further searched her records, Ms. Johnson went on to say that Twentieth had denied the claim, maintaining that their insured was not at fault.  When I asked why, she informed me that additional information would have to come directly from Twentieth.