The Last Detective (16 page)

I left my car in the street and ran to a narrow door at the back of the van that had been propped open for the heat. Inside, two young men in white T-shirts were bent over a grill. A short round woman barked orders at them in a mix of Spanish and English as they dished up grilled chicken sandwiches and paper plates spilling over with tacos and salsa
verde
to the line at the window. The woman glanced over and nodded toward the open wall of the van.

“You got to stand in line over here.”

“A little boy has been kidnapped. We think the man who took him spent a lot of time on this street. You might have seen his car.”

She came to the door, wiping her hands on a pink terry towel.

“Wha' you mean, a little boy? You the police?”

The electrician from earlier was in line at the window.

He said, “Yeah, he's with the cops. Some guy stole a kid, can ya believe that, right around here? They're trying to find him.”

The woman stepped out of the van to join me in the street. Her name was Marisol Luna, and she owned the catering business. I described the scene on the other side of the curve, and asked if she had noticed any vehicles parked in that area during the past two weeks or anyone who didn't seem to fit.

“I don' think so.”

“What about when no one else was parked there? One vehicle by itself.”

She rubbed her hands through the towel as if it helped worry up her memories.

“I see the plumber. We finish the breakfast here and we goin' that way—”

She pointed toward the curve, and the buzzing in my head grew worse.

“—an' I see the plumber go down the hill.”

I glanced toward the work crew, searching for Cauley. Marisol Luna was the first person I found who had seen anything.

“How do you know he was the plumber? Was he working here at this house?”

“It say on the truck. Emilio's Plumbing. I remember 'cause my husband, his name is Emilio. That's why I remember the truck. I smile when I see the name, an' I tell my husband that night, but he no look like my Emilio. He black. He have things on his face like bumps.”

I called out to the construction workers.

“Where's Cauley? Can someone get Cauley?”

Then I turned back to Mrs. Luna.

“The man who went down the hill was black?”

“No. The man in the truck, he black. The man on the hill, he Anglo.”

“Two men?”

The buzzing in my head grew more frantic, like riding a caffeine rush. The electrician came around the end of the truck with Mr. Cauley.

He said, “You guys have any luck?”

“Have you had a plumber or plumbing contractor working here named Emilio or Emilio's Plumbing, anything like that?”

Cauley shook his head.

“Nope, never. I use the same sub over and over, all my jobs, a man named Donnelly.”

Mrs. Luna said, “The truck, it say Emilio's Plumbing.”

The electrician said, “Hey, I've seen that truck.”

The buzz in my head suddenly vanished and my body stopped aching. Blood tingled under my skin. I felt light and alive with a clarity that was perfect. It was the same feeling I had when we were hidden along a VC trail and I heard the VC approaching and waited for Rod to fire and knew either I would have them or they would have me, but either way the whole bloody thing was about to go down.

I said, “I need you to come with me, Mrs. Luna. I need you to talk to the police right now. They're just around the curve.”

Marisol Luna got into my car without complaint or objection. I didn't take the time to turn around. We drove to Starkey in reverse.

time missing: 43 hours, 50 minutes

T
he sun glared angrily from low in the southern sky, heating the great bowl of air in the canyon until it came to a boil. Rising air pulled a soft breeze up from the city that smelled of sulfur. Starkey held her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

“Okay, Mrs. Luna, tell me what you saw.”

Marisol Luna, Starkey, and I stood in the street at the top of the curve. Mrs. Luna pointed back toward the construction site, telling us how she remembered it.

“We come aroun' the curve there, and the plumber truck is right here.”

She indicated that the plumber's van had been pretty much where we were standing, not on the shoulder but in the street. It could not have been seen from the construction site or the surrounding houses.

“My truck is big, you know? Very wide. I say to Ramón, look at this, this guy is taking up all of the street.”

I said, “Ramon is one of the guys who works for her.”

“Let her tell it, Cole.”

Mrs. Luna continued.

“I have to stop because I cannot get around the van unless he move. Then I see the name, and it make me smile like I tell Mr. Cole. I tell my husband that night, I say, hey, I saw you today.”

Starkey said, “When did this happen?”

“That would be three days. I see it three days ago.”

The day before Ben was stolen. Starkey took out her notebook.

Mrs. Luna described the van as white and dirty, but she couldn't recall anything else except that the name on its side was Emilio's Plumbing. As Starkey continued questioning her, I called Information on my cell phone and asked if they had a listing for Emilio's Plumbing. No such listing existed either in Los Angeles or in the Valley. I had them check the Santa Monica and Beverly Hills listings as well, under plumbing, plumbers, plumbing supplies, and plumbing contractors, but by then I didn't expect anything—these guys could have stolen the van in Arizona or painted the name themselves.

Mrs. Luna said, “It say Emilio's. I am sure.”

Starkey said, “So tell me about the two men. You came around the curve here and their van was blocking the road. Which way was it facing?”

“This way, facing me. I see in the windshield, you know? The black man was driving. The Anglo man was on the other side, standing there. They were talking through the window.”

Mrs. Luna stepped onto the shoulder and turned, showing us their positions.

“They look when they see us, you know? The black man, he have these things on his face. I think he sick. They look like sores.”

She touched her cheeks, and wrinkled her nose.

“He big, too. He a really big man.”

Starkey said, “Did he get out of the van?”

“No, he inside driving.”

“Then how do you know he was big?”

Mrs. Luna raised her arms high and wide over her head.

“He fill the windshield like thees. He jus' big.”

Starkey was frowning, but I got the picture and wanted to move on.

“What about the white guy? Anything you remember about him? Tattoos? Glasses?”

“I didn't look at him.”

“Was his hair long or short? You remember what color?”

“I sorry, no. I lookin' at the black man and the truck. We tryin' to get by, you see? I off the road tryin' to get aroun' him, an' I get over too much. I had to back up. The other man, he step back ‘cause his frien' have to make room for us, it so narrow here. I watchin' the truck go away 'cause I tellin' Ramón, you see that stuff on his face? Ramón lookin', too. He say they warts.”

Starkey said, “What's Ramón's last name?”

“Sanchez.”

“Is he back at your truck now?”

“Yes, Mrs.”

Starkey made note of that.

“Okay, we'll want to talk to him, too.”

I put us back on track.

“So the black man drove away and the other guy went down the hill, or the black guy waited for the other guy to come back?”

“No, no, he go. The other one make that sign when he go. You know, that nasty one.”

Mrs. Luna looked embarrassed.

Starkey showed her middle finger.

“The white guy flipped him off? Like this?”

“Yeah. Ramón, he laugh. I backin' up my truck 'cause I too close to the rocks so I got to watch out for that, but I see him make the sign an' go down the hill. I think he should go back to the house, but he go down the hill instead, an' I say, that funny, why he goin' down the hill? Then I think he must wanna go to the bathroom.”

“Did you see where he went down there or see him come back?”

“No. We left. We had another breakfast to serve before we get ready for lunch.”

Starkey took down Mrs. Luna's name, address, and phone number, then gave her a card. Starkey's pager went off again, but she ignored it.

She said, “This has been a big help, Mrs. Luna. I'll probably want to talk to you some more this evening or tomorrow. Would that be okay?”

“I happy to help.”

“If you remember anything else, don't wait to hear from me. Talking the way we have might bring up a memory. You might remember something about the truck or the men that could help us. It might seem small, but I'll tell you something—nothing's too small. Whatever you remember could help us.”

Starkey took out her phone and went to the edge of the shoulder, calling her office to start a wants-and-warrants search and BOLO on the van. The uniformed commander at Hollywood station would relay the information along to Central Dispatch at Parker Center, advising every Adam car in the city to be on the lookout for a van with Emilio's Plumbing written on its side.

I told Mrs. Luna that I would drive her back, but she didn't respond. She watched Starkey with her brow furrowed, as if she were seeing more than Starkey at the edge of the slope.

“She right about the memory. I remembering now. He have a cigar. He was standing like that—like the lady—and he take out a cigar.”

The tobacco.

“That's right. He have a cigar. He didn't smoke it, but he chewed it. He bite off little pieces, then spit them out.”

I tried to encourage her. I wanted the memories to come and the picture to build. We walked out to join Starkey at the edge. I touched Starkey's arm, the touch saying
listen
.

Mrs. Luna stared out at the canyon, then turned back toward the street as if she could see her catering truck pinched against the hill and the plumber's van driving away.

“I got the truck away from the rocks an' I put it in gear. I look back at him, you know? He was looking down. He was doing something with his hands, and make me think, what? I wanted to get going 'cause we late, but I watch him to see. He unwrap the cigar and put it in his mouth and then he went down there.”

She pointed downhill.

“That's when I think he must be going to the bathroom. He have dark hair. It was short. He wear a green T-shirt. I remember that now. It dark green and look dirty.”

Starkey glanced at me.

“He unwrapped the cigar?”

Mrs. Luna put her fingers together below her belly.

“He do something with it, something down here, then he put it in his mouth. I don't know what he was doing, but what else?”

I realized what Starkey was asking.

I said, “The wrapper. If he tossed the wrapper, we might get a print.”

I started searching the edge of the shoulder, but Starkey shouted at me.

“
Stop it
, Cole! Get back! Do not disturb this scene!”

“We might be able to find it.”

“You're gonna step on it or kick dirt over it or push it under a leaf, so get the hell back! I know what I'm doing! Stand in the street.”

Starkey took Mrs. Luna's arm. She was so focused now that I might not have been with them.

“Don't think too hard, Mrs. Luna. Just let it come. Show me where he was when he did that. Where was he standing?”

Mrs. Luna crossed the street to where her truck had been, then looked back at us. She moved one way and then the other, trying hard to remember. She pointed.

“Go right a little bit. A little more. He was there.”

Starkey looked down at the surrounding ground, then squatted to look more closely.

Mrs. Luna said, “I sure he right there.”

Starkey touched the ground for balance, and eyeballed a widening area.

I spoke quietly to Mrs. Luna.

“What time were you here, eight, nine?”

“After nine. I think nine-thirty, maybe. We got to get the truck ready for lunch.”

By nine-thirty the heat would have been climbing, and, with it, the air. A breeze would have been coming up the canyon just as it was now.

“Starkey, look to your left. The breeze would have been blowing uphill to your left.”

Starkey looked to her left. She crept forward a step, and then to her left. She touched aside rosemary sprigs and weeds, and then she crept again. Her movements were so slow that she might have been wading through honey. She dribbled a handful of dirt through her fingers and watched the dust float on the breeze. She followed its trail, more to the left and farther out on the shoulder, and then she slowly stood.

I said, “What?”

Mrs. Luna and I both hurried over. A clear plastic cigar wrapper was hooked in dead weeds. It was dusty and yellow with a red and gold band inside. It could have blown here from anywhere. It might have been here before him or come after, but maybe he left it behind.

We didn't touch it or even go close. We stood over the wrapper as if even the weight of light might make it vanish, and then we shouted for John Chen.

time missing: 43 hours, 56 minutes

John Chen's Advice to the Lovelorn

F
irst thing Chen did was flag the shoe prints, the crushed bed of grass behind the oak tree, and the heavier concentrations of spitwad tobacco balls. Chen didn't think twice about some guy working up tobacco balls; two years before, Chen worked a series of burglaries by a jewel thief dubbed the Fred Astaire Burglar: Fred hot-prowled mansions in Hancock Park while wearing a top hat, spats, and tails. Hidden surveillance cameras in two of the houses showed Fred literally cutting the rug with the ol' soft shoe as he flitted from room to room. Fred was so colorful that the
Times
made him out to be a dashing cat burglar in the Cary Grant/
It Takes a Thief
tradition, but, in truth, Fred left calling cards that the
Times
neglected to report: In every house, Fred dropped trou and crapped on the floor. Hardly dashing. Hardly debonair. Chen had dutifully bagged, tagged, graphed, and analyzed Fred's fecal material at fourteen different crime scenes, so what were a few spitballs compared with cat-burglar shit?