Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

Having opened the crime scene, the police had taken down their yellow tape and withdrawn the guards. I left my car by the chain-link gate, and followed the trail down through the brush to the place where Karen Garcia's body had been found. The ripped footprints where the coroner's people had carried her out were still there, cut into the soil. Blood marks the color of dead roses flagged her resting place.

I stared at that spot for a moment, then went north along the shore, counting paces. Twice the bank dropped away so quickly, and was so overgrown with brush, that I had to take off my shoes and step in the water, but most of the shoreline was flat and bare enough to make good time.

Fifty-two paces from the blood marks, I found a six-inch piece of orange tape tied to a tree where Dersh and Riley reached the water. The slope was steep; their long, skidding footprints still visible, winding down through a clutter of small trees. I backtracked their footprints up, and pretty soon I was pushing my way through a dense overgrowth before popping out onto the trail. Another piece of the orange tape was tied here, too, marking where Dersh had told the investigator they had left the trail.

I walked up the trail a hundred yards, then turned back past the tape for about the same distance. I could see the lake from farther up the trail, but not from the orange tape, and I wondered why they had picked this spot to find their way down. The brush was thick, the tree canopy dense, and the light poor. Any kid with a couple of years in the Scouts would know better, and so would just about anyone else. Of course, maybe neither Dersh nor Ward had been a Scout, or maybe they just had to take a leak. Maybe they just figured what the hell, here was as good a place as any, even though it wasn't.

I went back to my car, drove down the hill to the Jungle Juice, and used their phone book to look up Riley Ward amp; Associates. I copied the phone number and address, then drove to West Hollywood.

Ward had his offices in a converted Craftsman house on what was once a residential street south of Sunset Boulevard. The Craftsman house had a lovely front porch, and elaborate woodwork that had been painted in bright shades of peach and turquoise, neither of which went with the two television news vans that were parked out front.

I parked in a little lot belonging to a dentist's office, and waited. Two people went into Ward's building, one of them being an on-air reporter I recognized because he looked like a surfer dude. They were inside maybe three minutes, then came out and stood by their van, disappointed. Ward was still refusing interviews. Or maybe he wasn't there.

A third van arrived. Two young guys got out, one Asian-American with black horned-rim glasses and the other blond with very short hair. The Asian-American guy had white streaks in his hair, going for that Eurotrash look. The new guys joined the surfer and his friend, the four of them laughing about something as a young woman got out of the other van and went over. She was wearing a bright yellow spring dress and thick-soled shoes that had to be damned near impossible to walk in, and cat's-eye glasses. Fashion slaves.

I went over, grinning like we were all just journalists together. “You guys here to get Ward?”

The surfer shook his head. “He's not having it. We'll wait him out, though.”

“Maybe he's not in there.”

The young woman in the canary dress said, “Oh, he's in there. I saw him go in this morning.”

“Ah.”

I headed across the street.

The girl said, “Forget it, amigo. He won't talk to you.”

“We'll see.”

The little porch opened to what had once been the living room but was now a reception area. The smell of fresh coffee was strong in the little house, hanging over a sweeter smell, as if someone had brought Danish. A young woman in a black body suit and vest watched me suspiciously from behind a glass desk with a little name plate that read Holly Mira. “May I help you?”

“Hi, Holly. Elvis Cole to see Mr. Ward.” I gave her the card, and then I lowered my voice. “About Karen Garcia.”

She put the card down without looking at it. “I'm sorry. Mr. Ward isn't giving interviews.”

“I'm not a reporter, Holly. I'm working for the dead girl's family. You can understand how they'd have questions.”

Her face softened, but she still didn't touch the card. “You're working for the family.”

“The Garcia family. His attorney is a man named Abbot Montoya. You can call them if you like.” I took out the card Montoya had given me and put it next to mine. “Please tell Mr. Ward that the family would appreciate it. I promise that I won't take much of his time.”

Holly read both cards, then gave me a shy smile. “Are you really a private investigator?”

I tried to look modest. “Well, I'm what you might call the premier example.”

Holly smiled wider. “I know he's got a conference call soon, but I'm sure he'll speak with you.”

“Thanks, Holly.”

Two minutes later Riley Ward followed Holly out to the reception room, and now Ward was holding the cards. He was wearing a burgundy shirt buttoned to the neck, gray triple-pleated slacks, and soft gray Italian loafers, but even the nice clothes couldn't cover his strain. “Mr. Cole?”

“That's right. I appreciate your seeing me, considering what's happened.”

He bent the cards back and forth, looking nervous and uneasy. “You wouldn't believe. It's been a nightmare.”

“I'll bet.”

“I mean, all we did was find her, and now, well, Gene isn't a killer. He just isn't. Please tell her family that. I know they won't believe me, but he isn't.”

“Yes, sir. I'll tell them. I'm not here about Mr. Dersh, though. I'm trying to put some of the family's concerns to rest, if you know what I mean. About the body.” I glanced at Holly and let it drop, implying that the family's concerns were better discussed privately.

Ward nodded. “Well, okay. Ah, why don't you come into my office.”

His office was spacious, with a large plank desk, an overstuffed couch, and matching chairs. Pictures of Ward with an attractive woman and two bucktoothed children lined a narrow table behind the desk. Ward gestured to the couch. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

Riley peeked out the window at the news vans, then took the chair facing the pictures. “They're driving me crazy. They came to my home. They were here when I arrived this morning. It's insane.”

“I'm sure.”

“Now I have to waste my day hiring an attorney, and it's so much worse for poor Gene.”

“Yes, sir. It is.” I took out a pad as if I were going to take notes, then leaned toward him, glancing at the windows like they might have ears. “Mr. Ward, what I'm going to say here, well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't repeat it, okay? The family would appreciate it. You let this out, and it might hurt the investigation.”

Ward peered at me, his eyes nervous and apprehensive. You could almost hear him think, now what?

I waited.

He realized I was waiting for him, and nodded. “All right. Yes. Of course.”

“The family thinks that the police are off base about Mr. Dersh. We're not confident that they have the right man.”

Hope flashed over his face, making me feel like a turd.

“Of course they don't. Gene couldn't do this.”

“I agree. So the family, well, we're conducting our own investigation, if you know what I mean.”

He nodded, seeing a way out for his friend Gene.

“So I have a few questions, you see?”

“You bet. I'll help any way I can.”

Anxious now. Raring to go.

“Okay. Great. It has to do with why you left the trail.”

He frowned, and didn't look so anxious anymore. “We wanted to see the lake.”