Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

From a million miles away behind the dark glasses, Joe said, “Frank. We're going to help you.”

I tried not to look embarrassed, which is hard to do when your face is red. “We'll look for your daughter, Mr. Garcia. I just want you to know that the police have their policy for a reason. Most people we think are missing aren't. Eventually they call or show up, and they're embarrassed that everyone went to so much trouble. You see?”

He didn't look happy about it.

“You know where she was going to run?”

“Somewhere around Hollywood up by the hills. Mrs. Acuna said she was going to this Jungle Juice, one of those little juice places? Mrs. Acuna said she always got one of those things, a smoothie. She offered to bring one back.”

“Jungle Juice. Okay, that gives us a place to start.” How many Jungle Juices could there be?

Frank was looking more relieved by the second. Like he could breathe again. “I appreciate this, Mr. Cole. I want you to know that I don't care how much this costs. You tell me how much you want, it's yours.”

Joe said, “Nothing.”

Garcia waved his hands. “No, Joe, c'mon.”

“Nothing, Frank.”

I stared at the pool. I would've liked some of Frank Garcia's money just fine.

Garcia took Joe's arm again. “You're a good boy, Joe. You always were.” He hung on to Joe's arm as he looked at me. “We know each other since Joe was a policeman. Joe and my Karen, they used to see each other. I was hoping maybe one day this boy might be part of the family.”

Joe said, “That was a long time ago.” He said it so softly that I could barely hear him.

I smiled. “Joe. You never told me about this.”

Joe turned my way, the flat black lenses reflecting sun. “Stop.”

I smiled wider and shook my head. That Joe. You learn something every day.

The old man looked up at the sky as the first flecks of ash swirled around us, the flecks catching on his hands and legs. “Look at this mess. The goddamned sky is melting.”

The woman with the thick waist showed us out through the cool of Frank Garcia's home. Joe's red Jeep Cherokee was parked beneath an elm tree at the curb. My car was parked behind it. Pike and I walked down the drive without speaking until we came to the street, and then Joe said, “Thanks for coming.”

“I guess there are worse ways to spend a Sunday. I could be wrestling that damned couch.”

Pike canted the glasses my way. “We finish this, I'll move the couch for you.”

Friends.

We left my car where it was, climbed into Pike's Jeep, and went to find Karen Garcia.

Frank Garcia had written his daughter's name, address, and phone number on the yellow sheet, along with a description of Karen's car (a red Mazda RX-7) and her license number (4KBL772). He'd attached a snapshot of Karen laughing about something as she sat at what was probably his dining-room table. She had a brilliant white smile, offset nicely against golden skin and rich black hair. She looked happy.

Joe stared at the photograph as if he were peering through a window at something far away.

I said, “Pretty.”

“Yes. She is.”

“You had to be seeing her, when, before you knew me?” His eyes never left the picture. “I knew you, but I was still on the job.”

I remember Joe dating back then, but the relationships seemed as they were now, none more important than any other. “I guess you were tight with this girl.”

Joe nodded.

“So what happened?”

Pike handed back the picture. “I broke her heart.”

“Oh.” Sometimes prying is a lousy idea.

“A few years later she married and moved East to New York. It didn't work out, and now she's back here.”

I nodded, still feeling small for prying.

I used Pike's cell phone to call Karen Garcia's number. She didn't answer, but I identified myself to her machine, and asked her to call her father if she got this message. Frank had provided Mrs. Acuna's phone, also, so I called her next, asking if she knew where Karen had gone to run. The dry winds were amping the air with so much static electricity that her voice sounded like bubbling fat, but I understood enough to get that the answer was no. “Is it possible, Mrs. Acuna, that Karen came home, then left again without your seeing her? You know, like maybe she came home long enough to get cleaned up, then went out with friends?”

“You mean yesterday?”

“Yes, ma'am. Yesterday after her run.”

“Oh, no. My husband and I live right here by the stairs. Karen lives right above us. When she didn't come back for the machaca , I was so worried. Her father loves my machaca . She always brings him a bowl. I just been up there again, and she still isn't back.”

I glanced at Joe. “You see Karen much, Mrs. Acuna? You two chat about things?”

“Oh, yes. She's such a sweet girl. I've known her family since before she was born.”

“She say anything to you about maybe getting back together with her ex-husband?”

Pike glanced over.

“No. Oh, no, she doesn't say anything like that. She calls him ‘the creep.’ He's still back in that place.” That place. New York.

Still looking at Pike, I shook my head. Pike turned to the window.

“What about other boyfriends?”

“She sees young men. Not a lot, you know, but she's very pretty.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mrs. Acuna. I'll probably drop around later on. If Karen happens to come home, would you ask her to phone her father?”

“I'll call him myself.”

I ended the call, then looked over at Pike. “You know she's probably with her friends. Probably went to Vegas, or maybe spent all night swing dancing and she's crashing at some guy's.”

“Could be. But Frank's worried, and he needs someone to help carry the load.”

“You really were close with these people.”

Pike went back to staring out the window. Getting him to talk is like pulling your own teeth with pliers.

The information operator told me that there were two Jungle Juice outlets, the original in West Hollywood on Melrose, the second on Barham in Universal City. West Hollywood was closer, so we went there first. Detective work defined by the process of least effort.

The first Jungle Juice was manned by a skinny kid with blue hair and Irish tattoos on his arms, a short girl with a bleach-blond buzz cut, and a guy in his early thirties who looked like he might be president of the local Young Republicans chapter. All three of them had worked yesterday when Karen would've been in, but none of them recognized her picture. The bleach blond worked every weekend and said she would know her if Karen were a regular. I believed her.

The Santa Anas continued to pick up as we drove north to the second Jungle Juice. Palm trees, tall and vulnerable like the necks of giant dinosaurs, took the worst of it. The wind stripped the dead fronds that bunched beneath the crowns and tossed them into streets and yards and onto cars.

It was a few minutes before noon when we reached the second Jungle Juice, just south of Universal Studios. It was set in a narrow strip mall that ran along Barham at the base of the mountains, and was crowded with Sunday shoppers and tourists trying to find the Universal City Walk, even with the wind.

Pike and I stood in line until we reached the counter and showed them the picture of Karen. The girl behind the register, all of eighteen with a clean bright smile and chocolate tan, recognized Karen at once. “Oh, sure, she comes in all the time. She always gets a smoothie after her run.”

Pike said, “Was she in yesterday?”

The girl didn't know, and called over a tall African-American kid named Ronnie. Ronnie was a good-looking kid a couple of inches over six feet whose claim to fame was six seconds in a Charmin commercial. “Oh, yeah, she comes in here after her run. That's Karen.”