Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“And?”

“There's no mention of the shooter's vehicle in the Dersh report. I was wondering if you looked for it.”

Chen felt a flood of relief and irritation at the same time. So that was the guy's big idea; that was why he'd wanted to meet. Chen put an edge in his voice, letting this guy know he wasn't just some a-hole with a pocket caddy.

“Of course, I looked for it. Mrs. Kimmel heard the shooter's car door slam in front of her next-door neighbor's house. I checked the street and the curbs there and in front of the next house for possible tread marks, too, but there was nothing.”

“Did you look for oil drips?”

Cole said it just like that, without accusation, and Chen felt himself darken.

“What do you mean?”

“The Lake Hollywood report mentions oil drips that you found at the scene. You took samples up there and identified the oil.”

“Penzoil 10-40.”

“If the shooter's car was leaking up at the lake, it probably left drops here, too. If we found them, maybe you could prove they'd come from the same vehicle.”

Chen darkened even more, his face burning at the same time he felt a grim excitement. Cole had something here. Chen could compare brand, additives, and carbon particulate concentration to match the two samples. If he got a match, it would break open the Dersh case and guarantee headline coverage!

But when they reached the street, Chen's enthusiasm waned. The tarmac had last been refreshed in the sixties, and showed pothole plugs, the scorched weathering of L.A.'s inferno heat, and a webwork of tiny earthquake cracks. In the general area where Chen reasoned that the shooter had parked, any number of drips dotted the road, and they might've been anything: transmission fluid, power steering fluid, oil, brake fluid, antifreeze, the hawked lugey of a passing motorist, or bird shit.

Chen said, “I don't know, Cole. It's been two weeks; anything that dripped that night has been weathered, dried, driven over, maybe contaminated with other substances. We won't be able to find anything.”

“We won't know if we don't look, John.”

Chen walked along the edge of the street, kicking pebbles and frowning. The damned street was so speckled it looked like measles. Still, it was an interesting idea, and if it panned out, the benefits might be enormous. Sex with Teresa Wu.

Chen dropped down into a push-up position the way Pike had shown him and considered the light on the road's surface. He let everything blur except the light, and noticed that some drips shined more than others. Those would be fresher. Chen moved to the curb, and imagined a car parked there, an SUV like the one at Lake Hollywood. He went low again in that place, looking for drip patterns. A vehicle parked for a time would not leave a single drip, but several, the dots overlapping.

Cole said, “What do you think?”

John Chen, lost in the street, did not hear him.

“John?”

“Huh?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it's a long shot.”

“Is there any other kind?”

John Chen went back to the Boxster for his evidence kit, then spent the rest of the afternoon taking samples, and daydreaming about Teresa Wu.

Exactly twenty-four days after the City of Los Angeles district attorney's Office registered my conviction with the state, I received a letter from the California State Licensing Board revoking my investigator's license. In the same mail, the California Sheriffs Commission revoked my license to carry a firearm. So much for the Elvis Cole Detective Agency. So much for being a detective. Maybe I could become a sod farmer.

Two days later the doctors cut off my cast, and I began physical therapy. It hurt worse than any physical pain I'd ever felt, even worse than being shot. But my arm worked, and I could drive again. Also, I no longer looked like a waiter.

I drove to my office for the first time since the desert, walked up the four flights, and sat at my desk. I had been in that office for over ten years. I knew the people who worked in the insurance office across the hall, and I used to date the woman who owned the beauty supply company next door. I bought sandwiches from the little deli in the lobby, and did my banking in the lobby bank. Joe had an office there, too, though it was empty. He had never used it, and now perhaps never would.

I watched Pinocchio's eyes move from side to side, and said, “I guess I could hang you in the loft.”

When the phone rang, I said, “Elvis Cole Detective Agency. We're out of business.”

Frank Garcia said, “What do you mean, out of business?”

“Just a joke, Frank. How you doing?” I didn't want to get into it.

“How come you haven't called? How come you and that pretty lady haven't come see me?”

“Been busy. You know.”

“What's that pretty lady's name? The one works for Channel 8?”

“Lucy Chenier.”

“I want you two to come have dinner. I'm lonely, and I want my friends around. Will you?”

“You mind if it's just me, Frank?”

“Is something wrong? You don't sound so good.”

“I'm worried about Joe.”

Frank didn't say anything for a while, but then he said, “Yeah, well, some things we can control, and some we can't. You sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine.”

I spoke to Lucy every day, but over time our calls grew shorter and less frequent. I didn't enjoy them, and felt worse after we had spoken. It was probably the same for Lucy, too.

Stan Watts called, time to time, or I called him, but there was still no word about Joe. I phoned John Chen on eight separate occasions to see if he'd gotten anything from the tests he'd run, but he never returned my calls. I still don't know why. I stayed in touch with Joe's gun shop, and went through the motions of searching for the mysterious girl in the black van, but without real hope of finding anything. After a time, I felt like a stranger in my own life; all the things that had been real to me were changing.

On Wednesday of that week, I phoned my landlady and gave up my office. The Elvis Cole Detective Agency was out of business. My partner, my girlfriend, and now my business were gone, and I felt nothing. Maybe when I lost my license I had gone, too, and that was why I didn't feel anything. I wondered if they were hiring at Disneyland.

On Thursday, I parked in Frank Garcia's drive, and went to the door expecting dinner. Abbot Montoya answered, which surprised me.

He said, “Frank and I had a little business, and he invited me to stay. I hope you don't mind.”

“You know better than that.”

He led me into the living room, where Frank was sitting in his chair.

I said, “Hi, Frank.”

He didn't answer; he just sat there for a moment, smiling with a warmth that reached all the way into my heart.

He said, “How come I gotta find out from other people?”

“What?”

“You weren't kidding about being out of business. You lost your license.”

“There's nothing to be said for it, Frank. How'd you find out?”

“That pretty lady, Ms. Chenier. She called me about it.”

“Lucy called you?” That surprised me.

“She explained what happened. She said you lost it helping Joe get away.”

I shrugged, giving his own words back to him. “There's things we can control, things we can't.” I wasn't comfortable talking about it, and didn't want to.

Frank Garcia handed me an envelope.

I held it back without opening it. “I told you. You don't owe me a nickel.”

“It's not money. Open it.”

I opened it.

Inside, there was a California state investigator's license made out in my name, along with a license to carry a concealed weapon. There was also a brief, terse letter from a director of the state board, apologizing for any inconvenience I might've suffered for the temporary loss of my licenses.