WE KEPT our faces down as we walked to the corner, then crossed with the light to the parking lot and got into my car. When I put the key in the ignition, Starkey touched my hand.
“The murder books are missing?”
“Pretty much everything they had on Repko and Frostokovich is missing. The file on Trinh seemed light, but I don’t know enough about that case to be sure. The log says everything should still be in the files, but it isn’t.”
“Hooker told me Munson carried out a box just before we got there. He said Bastilla took something yesterday.”
“The last date in the log was the day Marx closed the case. Nothing has been signed out since.”
“So they’re just taking it.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I reached for the key again, but Starkey stopped me.
“Let’s wait.”
“I’ll take you back.”
“I don’t need to go back. If these bastards are covering for a murderer, I want their asses on a string. Let’s see where he goes.”
“He’ll probably go home.”
“Then let’s follow him home and figure out what to do later. Maybe we can break into his car.”
“Are you serious?”
“Roll down your window, Cole. I’m going to smoke.”
Munson pulled out of the building two cigarettes later in a red Mustang GT. He stayed on the surface streets in no apparent hurry, passing under the freeway and away from the skyscrapers. We had followed him less than a mile when his blinker came on.
“You see it?”
“I got it.”
The Mustang turned into the parking lot of one of the oldest steak houses in Los Angeles, Pacific Dining Car. Built in the twenties, the restaurant was housed in a railroad dining car. I pulled to the curb so we could watch.
Munson got out of his car with what appeared to be several loose files, left his car with the valet, and entered the restaurant. A crowd waiting to be seated was huddled around the door, but Munson wound through them as if he already had a place waiting. The restaurant had preserved the dining car’s ambience by maintaining the big touring windows through which dining passengers had enjoyed passing scenery, so it was easy to watch Munson make his way through the restaurant. He went the length of the car, then slipped into a booth where two people were seated. Marx and Bastilla had been waiting.
Starkey and I got out of my car for a better view. The valets glanced over at us, but probably thought we were deciding whether to try out the restaurant.
Marx glanced at the files as Munson said something, then Marx brought a briefcase from under the table. He put the files into it, then put it away and motioned a waiter over.
The head valet was openly watching us now, and growing suspicious. It wouldn’t be long before he alerted someone in the restaurant.
“Keep an eye on them. I’m going to pull around the corner for a better spot.”
I moved my car into the shadows beneath a sycamore tree, then got out with my camera. The telephoto images would be grainy in the dim light, but the identities of the three people in the restaurant would be clear. The head valet didn’t like seeing me with the camera, but couldn’t do anything about it. Maybe he thought I was a paparazzo.
Starkey and I settled into my car and watched Marx and his inner circle share red wine and steaks for one hour and ten minutes. Then Marx paid the tab. The valets brought Munson’s Mustang first, then a light-colored Toyota, then a dark Lexus sedan. When the cars were lined up nice and neat, Marx put his briefcase into the Lexus. Bastilla took a manila envelope from her car and gave it to Marx, who tossed it in with the briefcase. Munson took a cardboard file box from the Mustang’s trunk, and put it into the back of Marx’s Lexus. I photographed all of it. Everything was going with Marx.
Starkey said, “What do you think he’s going to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. We still don’t know what they have.”
Her stare was languid and thoughtful through vines of smoke.
“Change it, more likely. You don’t destroy that many records—a couple of files, maybe, sure, anyone can lose a file—but you can’t explain it if that much stuff goes missing. So you change it. Take out the parts you don’t like. Retype the pages if you have to. Then you put everything back in the system and hope nobody notices.”
I was staring at her when she finished. She saw me staring, and shrugged.
“Just saying.”
Marx didn’t say much when they finished. They slipped into their cars, and pulled into the oncoming traffic. Starkey and I followed Marx.
He climbed onto the Pasadena Freeway almost right away and never once exceeded the speed limit. The traffic was heavy, but smooth—the lanes flowing with on-their-way-home-from-work freeway professionals who made this same drive at this same hour every day of the week. We crossed the river and cruised up through Montecito Heights, where the Pasadena officially becomes part of Route 66. Marx led us into South Pasadena, where the freeway ends, then along surface streets into the soft residential slopes of Altadena. We entered a neighborhood of neat, modest homes set among pepper trees that cast jagged shadows on the lawns. When his blinker came on, I cut the lights and pulled to the side.
Starkey said, “You think this is where he lives?”
“I don’t know. Looks like it.”
“Maybe he’s just dropping off the stuff.”
“Can you drive a stick?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to see. When I get out, get behind the wheel. Be ready to go.”
The Lexus turned past the dark shoulder of a camellia bush, then lights flashed across a lawn. I got out, and ran hard to the camellia at the head of the drive. A small ARMED RESPONSE security patrol sign stood beside the bush. The garage was open, and bright with interior light. His sedan shared the garage with a silver Lexus SUV. Marx was lifting the box from his backseat when I reached the camellia. An interior door from the garage into the house was open, and a woman wearing black pants and a loose T-shirt was waiting at the door. She was a nice-looking woman about Marx’s age, and interacted with him the way a wife would interact with her husband.
Marx placed the box on the trunk of his car, sat his briefcase on the box, then put the manila envelope on top of the briefcase. When the stack of goods was manageable, he carried the box into the house. The woman stepped to the side to let him pass, then touched a button on the wall. I wondered if she knew what was in the box. I wondered if she cared.
The light in the garage went off.
The door rumbled down.
Marx was home.
His secrets were with him.
I called Joe Pike.