Kane (52 page)

“It wasn’t.  You were trying to push the killer into making a mistake, and he did.  He should have been caught at the Bakers’ house.  And no one could have predicted he would lash out at Van Owen like that afterward.  Besides, if it hadn’t been for you, right now the entire Baker family would be dead.  Welcome to the real world, amigo.  It’s one where you don’t control everything that happens.  Now, let go of this thing with Van Owen and move on.  Maybe I’m stepping out of line here, but you need to hear this.  Kate’s the best thing that ever happened to you.  Life doesn’t give you a lot of chances at happiness, and you’re blowin’ the best one you ever had.”

An uncomfortable silence descended.  Arnie drained his beer, then refilled his mug from a pitcher on the table.  “Have you phoned Kate since last night?”

I lowered my eyes.  “Yeah, I called her.  After what happened at Van Owen’s, I insisted that she and the kids go someplace safe.  They’re all staying with Catheryn’s mother in Santa Barbara.  I’d feel better if they were even farther away, but Kate’s not listening to me much these days.”  I started to add something, then stopped.

“What?”

“I don’t know, Arnie.  On top of everything else, I’m afraid Kate blames me for putting our kids in jeopardy.”

“She said that?”

“No, but—”

“I didn’t think so.  That’s bullshit, Dan.  I know Kate.  She would never lay that kind of guilt on you, because it isn’t true.  She knows you were just doing your job.”

At that moment, a youngster at the counter called out a number over the loudspeaker.  Arnie checked our order ticket.  “That’s us,” he said, sliding from the booth.  “You want a refill on your Coke?”

I shook my head.

“Suit yourself.”  Arnie rose and crossed the sawdust strewn floor, returning with a steaming, sixteen-inch pizza.  Setting the platter on a wire stand, he squeezed back into the booth and for the next ten minutes we ate in silence.  After polishing off his fourth slice of pizza and third mug of beer, Arnie leaned back and wiped his fingers with a napkin.  “Can I say one more thing?” he asked.  “After that I promise to shut up.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“As a matter of fact, no.  I’m gonna give you a little more advice, whether you like it or not.  Drop the task force investigation and get things straightened out with Kate.  That’s what’s important.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” I replied miserably.  “I want to make things right with her more than anything.  But according to Lauren, this guy’s got me on his radar.  And as long as he’s out there, Kate isn’t safe, and neither are my kids.  And I can’t forget what he did to Lauren, either.  Like I said, it’s personal now.  Will you help me?”

“Somehow I knew that was coming.”  Arnie frowned, contemplating his half-empty beer mug.  “I’m off tomorrow,” he said at last.  “I have some vacation days accumulated at my new job, too.  I don’t like it much, but yeah.  I’ll give you a hand.”

“Thanks.  If there’s any fallout, I’ll take the heat.”

“How comforting.  Listen, I’m gonna say one more thing.”

“I thought you were done giving advice.”

“This is something you already know.  Maybe you forgot, but it’s one of the first things you learned when you started doing police work.”

“What’s that?”

“When a case gets personal … things go wrong.”

47

I
had been working in the squad room for over an hour the next morning when Lieutenant Long strode in.  Arnie was sitting nearby at Deluca’s empty workstation, talking on the telephone.  At Long’s raised eyebrow, Arnie nodded, then continued his phone conversation.

Long paused at my desk, glancing at his watch.  “Morning, Dan.  You’re here early.”

I looked up.  “Lieutenant.”

“Didn’t your ex-partner over there retire several years back?”

“I believe he did, sir.”

“So what’s he doing here?”

“Arnie’s, uh, helping me chase down a few leads.  Don’t worry, he’ll be gone before you know it.”

“Leads on what?” Long asked, then quickly raised a hand.  “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Nope.”

“I thought not.  If someone asks, I probably didn’t see Arnie here, either.”

“No, sir.  You didn’t.”

“Don’t screw up, Kane.  If Snead gets wind of—

“He won’t.”

“He’d better not.”  Long hesitated.  “About yesterday.  Although I sincerely question some of your recent actions, I did everything I could.”

“I know.  And thanks.  I appreciate it.”

“If you get jammed up on the candlelight case again, I won’t be able to help.”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant.  If things turn out like I hope, there won’t be a problem.”

“And if they don’t?”

I spotted Deluca entering the squad room.  “I’ll worry about it later.  Right now I have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me …”

Long gave me another questioning look.  “Okay, Dan.  But watch your step.”  With that he turned and headed for his office, glaring crankily at Deluca as he passed.

After stopping to talk briefly with Arnie, Deluca ambled over to my desk.  “What’s with the el-tee?” he asked, setting down a cardboard box he’d been carrying.

Ignoring his query about Lt. Long, I opened the box and began pawing through its contents.  “You bring the stuff I wanted?”

“There wasn’t much.  A picture of Kate and the kids, some pens and pencils, a coffee mug—”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, this.  Remember, you didn’t get it from me.”  Deluca pulled a computer disc from his pocket and set it on the corner of my desk.  “I copied each data category as a separate file.  Health club members, hotline callers, employees at that lawyer’s office—”

“Is there one of remote control purchasers?”

“The garage door stuff?  It’s there.  Why do you want all this, anyway?  Come up with a new angle?”

“Maybe.  It’s nothing Snead would go for, though, even if I
were
still working for him.”

“Minor point,” said Deluca.  “At least for you.  Listen, I’ve gotta hustle to make the task force briefing.  You’ll let me know if you come up with anything?”

“You’ll be the first.”

Hank Dexter called around eight AM with a fairly short list of spectrum analyzers that possessed the minimum capability to snag a garage door opener code—limiting the number of devices for which I’d have to search.  Procuring a roster of recent analyzer purchasers from various distributors and sources like eBay proved tricky without a warrant, but I called in a few favors and for the most part got what I needed.

Working through the morning and most of the afternoon, Arnie and I compiled three new suspect lists containing the names of local subscribers to various electronic, ham radio, and hacker magazines; employees of Southern California aerospace and engineering firms—especially anyone with access to electronic test equipment—and individuals who, over the past two years, had purchased, leased, or rented a spectrum analyzer.  Although the two-year cutoff was an arbitrary limit, our inventories quickly showed signs of becoming unmanageably large, and we had to draw the line somewhere.

“What now?” asked Arnie at a little after six that evening, eyeing the piles of notes and faxes spread across our desks.

“It’s too late for any more calling,” I answered.  “Let’s start cross-checking this stuff against the task force database.”

“Now?  Hell, Dan, it can wait till tomorrow.  It’s time for dinner.”

“You go ahead.  I’m going to keep at it awhile longer.”

“Suit yourself.  See you back at the ranch.”

After Arnie left I rose from my desk, stretched, stumbled to the coffee station, and poured my seventh cup of the day.  After returning to my workstation, I used the disc Deluca had brought me to access the task force database.  Next, I began a comparison of our new data with old—name by name, category by category.

Later that evening I glanced at the time, surprised to see that three hours had already passed.  By then, starting with the most promising comparisons—people owning or with access to a spectrum analyzer versus members and employees of the victims’ health clubs—I had barely made a dent.  It was going to be a long night.

I was still working at the computer the next morning when Arnie arrived.  Upon entering the nearly deserted squad room, he shook his head in disbelief.  “Damn, amigo.  You’ve been at it since I left?”

Wearily, I nodded.

“Anything?”

“I just now came up with another possible.  Fifth one so far.  This one is a guy who purchased a Hewlett-Packard 8590-series spectrum analyzer last February.  He also subscribes to a publication called
Hardware Hacker
.”

“Any other correlation?”

“He lives in Orange County and made a credit card purchase of pair of Genie garage-door remotes last April from a local distributor.  No connection with the victims, no repair shop tie-ins.”

“What about the attorneys’ office?”

“He’s not on their employee list.  I was just about to check DMV records.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.  I’m gonna grab some coffee.  Want a refill?”

I nodded.  “Black.”  I handed Arnie my mug and refocused my attention on the computer screen.

When Arnie returned, I was no longer fatigued.  I sat erect, eyes riveted on the monitor.  Sensing something was up, Arnie peered at the screen.  “What’ve you got?” he asked, checking the name on top of the readout:  Victor Carns.

“DMV shows three vehicles registered to this guy,” I answered.  “A Lamborghini, a Ford van, and a Toyota.”

“So?”

“We think the killer was driving a white van when he followed Maureen Baker from her health club in West LA.  Later he switched to a dark-colored Toyota when he broke into her house.  Plus, some guy driving a blue Toyota bumped Julie Welsh’s car, probably to get her home address.  Somebody in a van did the same to Susan Larson.”

“Damn!  This could be the guy.”

“Maybe.”  I picked up the phone.  After placing a call to DMV headquarters in Sacramento, I turned back to the screen.  “Let’s see what CLETS can turn up.”  I printed a copy of the DMV file, then booted up a California police database whose acronym stood for California Law Enforcement Telecommunications System.  My inquiries on Victor Carns showed no warrants outstanding, no supervised-release file, no criminal history.  FBI records, however, did reveal one interesting bit of information:  Nineteen years back Carns had served as an electronics technician in the United States Navy.

Just then the fax machine cranked out a high resolution blowup of Victor Carns’s driver’s license picture.  Arnie and I studied the photocopy, staring at the face of a nondescript man in his midthirties.

“Looks like an accountant,” said Arnie.

“Yeah,” I agreed.  “We had the Baker woman work with a composite artist.  This doesn’t much resemble the drawing they came up with, which could explain why nobody at the health clubs picked him out.  Height, age, weight, and hair color are close, though,” I added, referring to the DMV printout.

“A lot of people don’t work well with an artist,” noted Arnie.  “The Baker lady might recognize this picture, though.  If she tags him, we could revisit the health clubs.  We can run his DMV thumbprint against the crime-scene unknowns, too.”

“We’ll do those things for certain, but right now there may be a quicker way.”  After referring to my notes, I again picked up the phone.

“Who’re you calling?”

“An attorney’s office in Santa Ana.”  I dialed a 714-area code number, then covered the receiver with my palm.  “Somebody used their office codes to get a DMV trace on Mrs. Baker.”

Hearing someone pick up at the other end, I removed my hand from the mouthpiece.  “Hello?  Yes, I’m calling about the status of my bill.  Would you please connect me with someone in accounting?”  Turning toward Arnie, I once more covered the phone.  “We don’t have enough to get a warrant for their client list, and we haven’t been able to come up with anything on—Hello?  Yes, good morning.  This is Victor Carns.  That’s C-A-R-N-S.  I’m leaving on an extended trip and I want to make sure my account is fully paid.”  A pause.  “It is?  Good.  Thank you.  You have a nice day, too.”

I set the receiver back in the cradle.  Both Arnie and I stared at Carns’s DMV photo for several seconds.  Finally Arnie spoke.  “Damn,” he said softly.  “You nailed him.”

I nodded.  “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough for an arrest, or even a search warrant.  But now we know who he is.”

“What’s next?  Turn it over to the task force?”

“Not quite yet.  There’s one more thing I want to check.”

48

L
ater that Saturday afternoon Barrello and I pulled through the Orange County subdivision of Coto de Caza’s north gate, Barrello at the wheel.  Winding through a maze of country roads, we passed an equestrian center, a rustic-looking general store, and what seemed an endless parade of white fenced, multiacre estates.  A mile farther on we pulled to a stop on Via Pajaro, parking in the shade of a large sycamore.  I referred to a brochure we’d picked up earlier at the realtor’s office.  According to the enclosed map, we were at the south end of the “Los Ranchos Estates” section of the community, the oldest and most prestigious area in Coto.