Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“Hey, Stan. How's it going?”

Watts ignored me.

“Look, no reason for us to get off on the wrong foot.”

He pushed the button for the fifth floor.

When we got up there, he led me to a large, brightly lit room, centered on a long rectangle of cubicles occupied by men with at least fifteen years behind a gold shield. Most were on phones, some were typing, and damned near everyone looked at home in the job. Krantz was talking with an overweight guy by the Mr. Coffee. Williams was leaning against a desk, laughing about something. You'd never think that twelve hours ago they were swatting blowflies off a dead girl.

Krantz frowned when he saw me, and yelled, “Dolan! Your boy is here.”

The only woman at the table was sitting by herself at the corner desk, scribbling on a yellow legal pad. She slid the pad into her desk when Krantz called, locked the drawer, and stood. She was tall, and looked strong, the way a woman who rowed crew or worked with horses might be strong. Other women worked the room, but you could tell from how they carried themselves that they weren't detectives. She was it. Guess if I were her, I'd lock my desk, too.

Dolan glared at Krantz as if he were a walking Pap smear, and glared at me even harder.

When she came over, Krantz said, “Dolan, this is Cole. Cole, this is Samantha Dolan. You're with her.”

Samantha Dolan was wearing a stylish gray pants suit with a cameo brooch and dark blond hair that was cut short without being mannish. I made her for her early forties, but she might've been younger. When Krantz said the name, I recognized her at once from the stories and interviews and dozens of times that I'd seen her on TV.

I said, “Pleased to meet you, Dolan. I enjoyed your series.”

Six years ago, CBS had made a television series about her based on a case in which she'd almost been killed apprehending a serial rapist. The series had lasted half a season and wasn't very good, but for a short period of time it had made her the most famous Los Angeles police officer since Joe Wambaugh. An article about her in the Times had focused on her case clearance rate, which was the highest ever by a woman, and the third highest in department history. I remembered being impressed. But then it dawned on me that I hadn't heard of her since.

Samantha Dolan's frown turned into a scowl. “You liked that TV series they made about me?”

I gave her the friendly smile. “Yeah.”

“It sucked.”

I can always tell when they like me.

Krantz checked his watch. “We'll brief you in the conference room so this doesn't waste anybody else's time. Think about that, Cole. Right now the murderer could be getting away because one of our detectives is thinking about you instead of following up a lead.”

“You're a pip, Krantz.”

“Yeah. Get him down there, Dolan. I'll be along in a minute.”

Dolan led me to a small conference room where Watts and Williams were waiting, along with a tall thin detective named Bruly and a Hispanic detective named Salerno. Bruly whispered something to Salerno when we walked in, and Salerno smiled. Dolan took a seat without introducing me, or saying anything to the others. Maybe she didn't like them, either.

Williams said, “This is Elvis Cole. He represents the family. He gets to keep an eye on us in case we fuck up.”

“I've already told'm about you, Williams.” I thought I might win them over with clever repartee.

Salerno grinned. “You catch a lot of grief with that name?”

“What, Cole?”

Salerno laughed. You see about the repartee?

Krantz steamed in with a mug of coffee and a clipboard. “You people want to keep wasting time, or you want to knock off the bullshit?”

Salerno stopped smiling.

Krantz had some of the coffee as he read over the clipboard, then said, “Here's what we have: Karen Garcia was murdered at approximately ten A.M. Saturday morning by an unknown assailant or assailants at the Lake Hollywood Reservoir. We have recovered and impounded her car, which was located in a parking lot on Barham Boulevard. We believe the perpetrator fired one shot from a small-bore pistol at close range. Her body was discovered by two hikers the following day. We have their initial interviews in hand. We are also questioning other people known to have been at the lake on Saturday, or who live nearby, as well as people associated with the victim. Detectives from Rampart, Hollywood, West L.A., and Wilshire divisions are assisting in this effort. We have no suspects at this time.” Krantz sounded like Jack Webb.

“Is that it?”

Krantz flexed his jaw, pissed. “The investigation's only twenty hours old. How much do you want?”

“I wasn't criticizing.”

I took out two sheets that I had typed, and slid them across the table. Krantz didn't touch them.

“This is everything that Frank Garcia told me about his daughter's activities on that Saturday, as well as everything I learned when I was trying to find her. I thought it might help. Pike and I spoke to some kids at a Jungle Juice stand who knew Karen's pattern. Their names are here, too.”

“We've already talked to them, Cole. We're mobilized. Tell that to the vic's father.” Like he couldn't be any more annoyed.

“We found a homeless man named Edward Deege below the lake. Deege claims he saw a female runner approached by a red or brown SUV. He's flaky, but you might want to question him.”

Krantz glanced irritably at his watch, like we were wasting more time than he'd allowed. Three minutes. “Pike told us about this stuff last night, Cole. We're on it. Now, is there anything else?”

“Yeah. I need to attend the autopsy.”

Krantz and Watts traded raised eyebrows, then Krantz smiled at me. “You're kidding me, right? Does her father want pictures?”

“It's like me going up to the lake. He just wants someone there.”

“My God.”

Watts had never stopped looking at Krantz. He cleared his throat. “County's got a backlog down there. They got bodies stacked up, waiting two, three weeks. We're trying to get a rush, but I don't know.”

Krantz and Watts stared at each other some more, and then Krantz shrugged. “I don't know when the autopsy's going to happen. I don't know if you can be there. I have to find out.”

“Okay. I want to see copies of any witness statements and the criminalist's report.”

“The criminalist's report isn't in yet. He's still working the scene. So far there aren't any witness statements except for the two guys who found the body.”

“If you have transcripts, I'd like to have copies.”

Krantz crossed his arms, and tipped back in the chair. “You want to read the stuff, you can read it, but you're not making copies and you're not taking anything out of this building.”

“I'm supposed to be copied. If you've got a problem with that, we're going to have to call the A-chief, and ask him.”

Krantz sighed. “Then we'll have to ask him. I hear you want the reports, Cole, but we don't have any reports to show you yet. As for getting copies, I'm going to have to talk that over with Bishop. If he says fine, then okay.”

I could live with that. “Who's keeping the book, you or Watts?”

Watts said, “Me. Why?”

“I'd like to see it.”

“No way.”

“What's the big deal? It'll save everybody time.” The murder book was a chronological record of all the facts of the investigation. It would include notes from participating officers, witness lists, forensic evidence, everything. It would also be the easiest way for me to stay up to date with their casework.

Watts said, “Forget it. We get to trial, we'll have to explain to a defense attorney why a civilian was screwing around with our notes. We can't find something, he'll argue that you screwed with our evidence and we're so incompetent that we didn't know any better.”