43
                  

The Sheriffs kept their records in a five-floor gray building south of the train yards at Union Station. A long train rumbled past the parking lot as I parked. The ground trembled with the strain of steel crushing into steel like a slow-motion earthquake. I waited for the caboose, but cars kept coming in a steady line. A low mist of dust was kicked up in the parking lot by the tremor. I trembled, too. I waited, but more cars came, and the line didn't end. I finally went inside.

A middle-aged woman was seated behind a narrow counter like the service counter at an auto-parts store. They don't let people walk in off the street to search their files; a sworn officer had to provide a badge and case number, then wait while the clerk found the file. I had convinced Braun that time was crucial. He had been kind enough to call ahead.

I said, “Long train.”

“You get used to it.”

“My name is Cole. Sergeant Braun called to request a file.”

She peered at me, then went to a wire shopping cart that was parked beside her desk. She took out a dingy black file box and brought it to the counter. The file number was handwritten on the box's spine.

“That's right. I brought it up, but that file is not available. Someone checked it out, and didn't return it. That happens sometimes.”

I could tell the box was empty by the way she placed it on the counter and spun it toward me. She flipped open the lid to show me. Empty. The Diaz file was missing.

I said, “Is there a sign-out log?”

“Oh, sure, there should be.”

She took a yellowed card from a sleeve attached to the outside of the file box. Everyone who requested the files had to sign for them, like an old-fashioned library card. She glanced at it, then placed it on the counter.

“These people must think they're all doctors, the way they write.”

Three people had requested the file since it turned cold. The first two names were Alvarez and Tolbert, both of whom had revisited the file on separate occasions more than twenty years ago. A third entry was scrawled and difficult to read, but I could make out enough of the letters. Det. K. Diaz. Diaz had taken the file almost eight years ago, and never returned it.

I thanked the clerk, then went back to my car. The train was gone. The earth no longer shook with its enormous rolling weight, but somehow the parking lot and train yard seemed smaller without it. I called Diaz on her cell, but her message picked up. I asked her to call, then phoned her office. A duty detective named Pierson answered.

“She isn't here.”

“When do you expect her?”

“Got no idea, man. You want to leave word?”

“How about Pardy?”

“Pardy isn't here, either.”

I left word they should call, then hung up. Police officers never list themselves in the phone book. They stay unlisted so the criminal sociopaths they arrest can't shoot out their windows. But Diaz had given me her cell number, and cell accounts have billing addresses. I called a friend of mine at the phone company. She used the number to identify Diaz's cell provider, from whom she obtained the billing address. A cop would need a court order for something like this, but Dodgers tickets work even better.

I looked up the address on my Thomas Brothers, then went to see what I would find.

Diaz lived south of Sunset Boulevard in Silver Lake, on a winding street that had once been crowded with Central American refugees. The bottom half of her duplex had recently been painted a bright turquoise blue, but the tiny front lawn was nappy from poor care. I parked on the upslope, then went to her door. I knocked. The building was so small the pounding must have filled the little apartment.

“Diaz, it's Cole.”

I tried the door, then stepped back and studied the upstairs apartment to see if anyone was home. I couldn't tell. I knocked again.

“Diaz?”

A horn honked behind me. I turned, and saw Pardy idling in the street. I wondered if he had been watching the house or following me. He tapped his horn again, and waved me over.

“What are you doing here, Cole?”

I hesitated. I wanted to tell him about the murder book, but I also wanted to see what was inside her house.

“I dropped by to see her. How about you?”

Pardy glanced toward the apartment like he knew I was lying, and ignored my question.

“Is she home?”

“She didn't answer.”

“Didn't answer her phone, either. C'mon, get in.”

“I'm okay.”

“It's too hot to stand out there. C'mon, sit where it's cool.”

I went around the tail of his car, and got in. He studied me, and I wondered what he was thinking.

He said, “Diaz never told me you were friends. How do you know where she lives?”

“She gave me her address.”

“Was she expecting you?”

“I just dropped around. I wanted to talk about Reinnike.”

Pardy nodded, but didn't comment, and I wondered again why he was here.

“How about you, Pardy? Are you close to making an arrest?”

“I'm working on it.”

“So you came over to talk about it with Diaz.”

“That's right.”

“Why not just talk at the office?”

Pardy checked his rearview mirror, then studied her apartment as if he expected to see something new. He made no move to move the car.

“Let me ask you something, Cole. Did you find anything that explains why Reinnike had those clippings?”

“No.”

“Nothing that connects you to him?”

“Nothing.”

Pardy stared at me, and I stared back. He glanced at her apartment again, and I was sure we suspected the same things. He just couldn't bring himself to say it.

“Now I have a question for you, Pardy. What if I said a cop killed him? What would you say to that?”

“I'd say you'd better have your facts together and your ass covered. I'd say you better have a slam-dunk case with every i dotted and t crossed. If you don't, you'd damned well better keep your mouth shut until you do.”

“Did you talk to Chen?”

“Yeah, about the registration. I spoke to the sheriff up in Canyon Camino a couple of hours ago. Keller owns a gas station up there. So far as the sheriff knew, Keller never said anything about a son. He said Keller lived alone.”

“Do they know why he came to L.A.?”

“Didn't even know he was missing. They're going to try to locate a next of kin.”

“Did you tell them about the arrest you're thinking about?”

Pardy put the dark eyes on me again.

“Why would I talk out my ass like that?”

“You not being able to dot the i's and cross the t's.”

“That's right. I'm going to work on it right now. I'm going to take off, and I won't be back, but I'll be nearby. Maybe you and I will talk later.”

He stared at me steadily when he said it, and I knew he was giving me the green light to go into her house. We were both thinking that Kelly Diaz had something to do with Reinnike's death.

I got out of his car.

“Okay, Pardy. I'll see you.”

He leaned across the seat and held out his card.

“Take my cell. You might need to call me.”