Steve Gannon - Kane

“No. Mr. Phillips, or whatever his name is, told Mrs. Larson that he had forgotten his wallet. He didn’t have his driver’s license or proof of insurance with him, but he wanted to pay for the damage. They exchanged information. You know the rest.”

“Not all, but we’re getting there. I’ll need Mr. Tenaka’s phone number and a copy of the accident claim.”

“Of course.” Ms. Blum gave me Mr. Tenaka’s phone number, also promising to fax a copy of the insurance file.

Next I telephoned James Tenaka in El Monte. An elderly-sounding man answered. “Whatever it is, I’m not buying,” he grumbled.

“I’m not selling,” I said. “This is Detective Daniel Kane, LAPD. I’m calling about an accident involving your car.”

“What’s that? You’re gonna have to speak up.”

Raising my voice, I repeated myself without success, noticing Deluca grinning at me from an adjacent desk. Almost shouting, I tried again. The third go-around proved the charm.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” asked Mr. Tenaka. “You’re talking about that lady in West LA? Damnation, I hardly drive anyplace anymore, let alone all the way over there.”

“So how do you explain your license number being on the claim report?”

“Funny thing about that,” Mr. Tenaka answered. “At first I figured somebody made a mistake. Transposed a couple digits or whatever. Then I went out and checked my plates.”

“On your car?”

“No, the one’s I chew with. Of course the ones on my car. What kind of cop are you, anyway?”

“A detective,” I answered. Looking up, I saw that besides Deluca, now a number of other task force members were following my conversation with amusement. “Can we get back to the plates?”

“Of course. And you don’t have to shout. I’m not deaf.”

“The plates?”

“Like I said, I went out and checked. They turned out to be the wrong ones. Didn’t match the numbers on my registration. Weren’t even close.”

“Somebody switched plates with you?”

“You’re the detective.”

“Did you report the substitution?”

“Hell, no. Have you been down to DMV lately? I figured I’d get around to it someday-like when I have four or five hours to kill standing in line.”

“Do me a favor, Mr. Tenaka. I need the number of the plates presently on your vehicle. Could you look for me?”

“Is this important?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on a minute.”

As I waited for Mr. Tenaka to return, I picked up a scratch pad. In small block letters I penciled “Killer hits victims’ cars” and “Why?” After a moment I made another notation, underlining it twice. “Can’t follow them home. Security gates.”

“You ready?” Mr. Tenaka asked, coming back on the line.

“Go ahead.”

Using alpha-bravo designations for each letter and pausing between digits, Mr. Tenaka carefully read the number of the plates now on his car.

“Do you have any idea where or when the switch took place?” I asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think that because you didn’t even know your plates were gone, you have absolutely no idea.”

“Bingo.”

“Thanks, Mr. Tenaka. You’ve been helpful.”

After hanging up, I ran a DMV trace to determine the owner of the plates presently on Mr. Tenaka’s Ford. The computer spit back the name of a Mrs. Eleanor Baumgarten in Huntington Beach. Upon calling her, I learned that Mrs. Baumgarten’s plates had been stolen two months earlier while she was shopping at a local mall. In the interim she’d reported the theft and received new ones.

I next talked with one of the Newport Beach detectives detailed to the task force. Although he didn’t have the information I requested, he referred me to his partner, Greg Sugita, who had been assigned the job of going through the Welshes’ bills and correspondence.

Upon questioning, Sugita gazed at me curiously. “Now that you mention it, I did find something in the wife’s address book that might relate to the scrape on their car,” he said, his Asian features furrowing thoughtfully. He fumbled through a stack of papers. “Got it somewhere. Here we go.” He handed me a scrap of paper.

I inspected it. In fine Palmer penmanship someone had written the name “Jeff Millford,” followed by the words “Continental Insurance,” “blue Toyota,” and a license plate number, address, and telephone number.

“Is this Mrs. Welsh’s handwriting?” I asked.

Sugita nodded. “I’m no expert, but it looks like the other entries in her phone book to me. Think it’s important?” As had others in the room, he’d heard most of my half-shouted conversation with Mr. Tenaka.

“Maybe. Did Mrs. Welsh belong to a health club?”

Sugita referred to his notes. “Family Fitness,” he replied after a quick search. “Over in the Fashion Island area.”

Two quick phone calls confirmed my suspicions. Neither the address nor the phone number on the slip of paper belonged to anyone named Jeff Millford, and the automobile license number turned out to be registered to a schoolteacher in Tarzana, who owned a Volkswagen, not a Toyota. Another call established that the teacher was unaware someone had taken her plates, for whoever had done so had gone to the trouble of replacing them with another set. I smiled grimly as the woman returned from her garage and read me the number.

Mr. Tenaka’s stolen plates had finally resurfaced.

“You have something, don’t you?” asked Deluca, who had stood beside my desk to listen to my last few telephone conversations.

“Yeah. Let’s go talk to Snead.”

“He’s in a meeting with the chief up on the tenth floor.”

I grinned. “What a shame. Guess we’ll have to talk to Huff.”

We found Lieutenant Huff at his desk reviewing the Welsh lab report, which had come in earlier that day. He glanced up. “Kane, Deluca,” he said.

“Anything of interest?” asked Deluca.

“Not much,” sighed Huff, flipping through the pages. “No sperm, the saliva swabs tested negative for blood typing, and none of the print unknowns matches those from the other scenes. Tissue from the fingernail clippings are all from the victims. Same with blood and urine. On the positive side, a found hair was a ninety-percent match with one taken from the Pratt house-including the black dye. The rope and candles are identical too, as are the bites.

“That’s it?”

Huff nodded. “The coroner’s report isn’t back yet, but I don’t expect it to add much.”

“Kane thinks he may have a lead.”

Huff looked at me hopefully. “You come up with something, Detective?”

“Yes, sir.” Succinctly, I related what I had learned in my phone conversation with Yolanda Blum, also describing the trail of switched license plates that began with Eleanor Baumgarten and ended with the schoolteacher in Tarzana.

“So the common thread isn’t the auto repair shops,” mused Huff. “It’s that the victims’ cars are damaged in the first place.”

“Right. Looks like our guy sees an attractive woman at a health club or wherever, then bumps her car to find out were she lives. He uses stolen plates to keep from getting traced, changing to a fresh set for each victim.”

“Why bother hitting the cars?” asked Deluca. “Why not just follow them home?”

“I wondered that, too,” I said. “Then I recalled that all three murdered families lived in security complexes. Maybe on the first attempt the guy got stopped at a gate, so he went to plan B. Or maybe he just enjoys a little contact before the main event.”

“You say Mr. Tenaka’s plates turned up in Tarzana?” asked Huff.

“Right. It appears the killer is leaving the last stolen set whenever he takes new ones, probably to give himself time before the switch is noticed.”