Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“Did she come in yesterday?”

Now Ronnie squinted at me. “Is she okay?”

“I just want to know if she came in yesterday.”

The squint turned into a frown, went to Pike, then grew suspicious. “What is this?”

I showed him the license. He squinted at that, too.

“Your name really Elvis?”

Pike stepped past me until his hips pressed against the counter. Ronnie was maybe an inch taller than Joe, but Ronnie took a fast step back. Joe said, “Did she come in here or not?” Voice so soft you could barely hear him.

Ronnie shook his head, eyes bugging. “Not yesterday. I worked from opening to six, and she didn't come in. I would've known because we always talk about her run. I jog, too.”

“You know where she runs?”

“Sure. She parks down here and runs up the hill there to the reservoir.” He gestured across Barham to the hill. Lake Hollywood Drive meandered up through a residential area to the reservoir.

The girl said, “I'm pretty sure I saw her drive past yesterday. Well, it was a little red car. I didn't see her or anything. Just the car.”

Ronnie said, “No way. Karen always comes in after the run, and she didn't come in.” Like he was disappointed that maybe she had come for the run and not stopped in to see him. “No way.”

We thanked them, then went out to the parking lot.

I said, “Well, that's something. She shows up for the run, but she doesn't go in for the smoothie, which is her habit.”

Pike walked to the street, then looked back at the parking lot. It was small, and empty of red Mazdas.

He said, “She runs, but maybe she remembers something and doesn't have time to get the smoothie, or she meets someone and they decide to do something else.”

“Yeah. Like go to his place for a different kind of smoothie.”

Pike looked at me.

“Sorry.”

He stared up the hill. “You're probably right. If she runs to the reservoir, she probably follows Lake Hollywood up. Let's drive it.”

We followed Lake Hollywood Drive past upscale houses that were built in the thirties and forties, then remodeled heavily in the seventies and eighties into everything from homey ranch-styles to contemporary aeries to postmodern nightmares. Like most older Los Angeles neighborhoods (until the land boom went bust), the homes held the energy of change, as if what was here today might evolve into something else tomorrow. Often, that something else was worse, but just as often it was better. There is great audacity in the willingness to change, more than a little optimism, and a serious dose of courage. It was the courage that I admired most, even though the results often made me cringe. After all, the people who come to Los Angeles are looking for change. Everyone else just stays home.

The road switchbacked up the hillside, meandering past houses and mature oaks that shuddered and swayed with the wind. The streets were littered with leaves and branches and old Gelson's Market bags. We crested the ridge, then drove down to the reservoir. It was choppy and muddy from the wind. We saw no red Mazdas, and no one who looked like Karen Garcia, but we didn't expect to. The hill was there, so you climbed it, and so far I wasn't too worried about things. Karen was probably just waking up at wherever she'd spent the night, and pretty soon she'd go home or collect her messages, and call her father to calm down the old man. The burden of being an only child.

We were halfway down the mountain and thinking about what to do next when a homeless guy with a backpack and bedroll strolled out of a side street and started down the mountain. He was in his mid-thirties, and burned dark by the sun.

I said, “Pull over.”

When Pike slowed, the man stopped and considered us. His eyes were red, and you could smell the body odor even with the wind. He said, “I am a master carpenter looking for work, but no job is too small. I will work for cash, or books.” He managed a little pride when he said it, but he probably wasn't a master carpenter and he probably wasn't looking for work.

Pike held out Karen's photograph. “Have you seen this woman?”

“No. I am sorry.” Every word like that. Without contractions.

“She jogged through the neighborhood yesterday morning. Blue top. Gray shorts.”

He leaned forward and examined the picture more closely. “Black ponytail.”

Pike said, “Could be.”

“She was running uphill, struggling mightily against the forces that would drag her down. A truck slowed beside her, then sped away. I was listening to Mr. Dave Matthews at the time.” He had a Sony Discman suspended from his belt, the earphones hanging loose at his neck.

I said, “What kind of truck?”

He stepped back and looked over Pike's Cherokee.

“This truck.”

“A red Jeep like this?”

He shrugged. “I think it was this one, but it might've been another.”

The corner of Pike's mouth twitched. In all the years I had known him, I have never seen Pike smile, but sometimes you'll get the twitch. For Pike, that's him busting a gut.

I said, “You see the driver?”

He pointed at Pike. “Him.”

Pike looked away, and sighed.

The homeless man peered at us hopefully. “Would you have a small job that needs a careful craftsman? I am available, don't you know?”

I gave him ten bucks. “What's your name?”

“Edward Deege, Master Carpenter.”

“Okay, Edward. Thanks.”

“No job too small.”

“Hey, Edward. We want to talk to you again, you around?”

“I am but a Dixie cup on the stream of life, but, yes, I enjoy the reservoir. I can often be found there.”

“Okay, Edward. Thanks.”

Edward Deege peered at Pike some more, then stepped back, as if troubled. “Release your rage, my friend. Rage kills.”

Pike pulled away.

I said, “You think he saw anything, or he was just scamming us?”

“He was right about the ponytail. Maybe he saw a four-wheel-drive.”

We followed Lake Hollywood Drive down to Barham, and when we turned left toward the freeway, Pike said, “Elvis.”

Karen Garcia's red Mazda RX-7 was parked behind a flower shop on this side of Barham, opposite the Jungle Juice. We hadn't seen it when we were at the Jungle Juice because it was behind a building across the street. We couldn't see it until we were coming down, and I wished then that it wasn't there to see.

Pike turned into the parking lot, and we got out. The Mazda's engine was cool, as if it had been parked here a very long time.

“Been here all night.”

Pike nodded.

“If she went up to run, that means she never came down.” I looked back up the hill.

Pike said, “Or she didn't leave by herself.”

“She's running, she meets some guy, and they use his car. She's probably on her way back to pick up the Mazda now.” I said it, but neither of us believed it.

We asked the people at the flower shop if they had seen anything, but they hadn't. We asked every shopkeeper in the strip mall and most of the employees, but they all said no. I hoped they had seen something to indicate that Karen was safe, but deep down, where your blood runs cold, I knew they hadn't.

With her father's money, Karen Garcia could've lived anywhere, yet she chose a modest apartment in a Latin-hip part of Silver Lake favored by families. The Gipsy Kings played on someone's stereo; the smells of chili and cilantro were fresh and strong. Children played on the lawns, and couples laughed about the heat storm. Around us, great palms and jacarandas slashed like the tails of nervous cats, but the area wasn't littered with fronds and limbs. I guess if you cared about your neighborhood you cleaned up the mess without waiting for the city to do it for you.