Steve Gannon - Kane

I crossed to the window and stared out at the street, noting a home for sale several houses down. “Let me ask you something, Mrs. Baker. Do you belong to a health club?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A health club, some sort of fitness center? It’s important.”

“Actually, yes. At least I used to. The Sports Club in West LA.”

“On Sepulveda?” asked Deluca. “The one that takes up a whole city block?”

“That’s it.”

“You used to belong?” I asked, turning from the window.

“I canceled my membership a few weeks back.”

“Why?”

“It was too far to go. I thought the trip wouldn’t be that bad, but the freeway’s always jammed and driving over Beverly Glen three times a week turned out to be too much. It made more sense to join a club here in the valley.”

“Have you?”

“Not yet.”

“You could probably go a couple more months without a problem,” Deluca noted appreciatively.

Ignoring Deluca’s comment, I asked, “Did anything unusual happen to you at the Sports Club?”

“Like what?”

“Like an accident in the parking lot, or maybe some guy showing a little too much interest in you?”

“There was somebody,” said Mrs. Baker, her eyes widening.

“What did he do?”

“He introduced himself at the desk. I only gave my first name, but I caught him trying to get a look at my membership card. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Hours later I saw him again outside the post office, and then again at the market. He was driving a white van. It was too much of a coincidence. I started checking my rearview mirror after that. Sure enough, the guy was following me.”

“When was this?”

“Sunday. Two weeks ago.”

“Remember his name?”

“No. Sorry.”

“How about a license number?”

“I didn’t think to get it.”

“Type of Van? Ford? Chevy?”

Mrs. Baker shrugged.

“Damn,” I said. “Okay, go ahead. What happened next?”

“Nothing. I drove around Beverly Hills and lost him in traffic. After that, I came home. I haven’t been back to the club since. Do you think the man who broke in was the same guy?”

“Possibly. What did he look like?”

“I don’t remember much about him. He was kind of, uh, plain.”

“White?”

“Yes.”

“How tall? Five-ten? Six feet? Six-two?”

“Sorry, I can’t say.”

“You’d be surprised what you can bring back.” I crossed to the love seat and took her hand. “Stand up.”

Hesitantly, Mrs. Baker rose to her feet.

“The guy introduced himself to you at the desk,” I said, releasing her hand and moving closer. “How near was he? Closer than this?”

Mrs. Baker shifted uncomfortably. “I… about like that.”

“Close enough to smell. Did he have on cologne? Maybe he had bad breath, body odor?”

“Uh, he was wearing cologne, I think. Old Spice. My husband uses it.”

“I’m a bit over six-three and weigh around two-fifteen. Was the guy bigger or smaller than me?”

“Smaller. I had to look up at him, but not much. And I wasn’t wearing heels.”

“That would make him around five-eleven, maybe six feet,” I said, gauging Mrs. Baker’s height. “How about his build? Fat, skinny, muscular?”

“Not as muscular as you. But strong. You know, wiry.”

“So let’s put him in the one seventy-five to one ninety range. You said he introduced himself. Did he shake your hand?”

“Yes. He did.”

“Like this?” I took her hand again, swallowing it in mine. “Think back. Anything you can recall might help. How did his hand feel? Hard? Soft?”

“He… he had on workout gloves. I remember thinking it was rude of him not to take them off.”

“Keep going.”

“His hand was smaller than yours. He had a limp, creepy grip, as if he were afraid of hurting me if he squeezed too hard. Not like you,” she added pointedly.

“What about his voice? Loud, soft? Any accent?”

“He talked softly, which I thought was unusual for someone his size. No accent.”

“Scars, marks, distinguishing features?”

“I didn’t see any.”

“Age?”

“About like you. Maybe a few years younger.”

Releasing her hand, I stepped even closer. “Look at me and pretend I’m the guy. Did you see his eyes?”

“Briefly,” said Mrs. Baker, thinking back. “They were dark. Like his hair.”

“Could his hair have been dyed?”

“Now that you mention it, I did notice something about it that didn’t seem quite right.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that there was an intensity about him that made me feel uncomfortable. Like now.”

“Sorry.” I took a step back and shoved my hands into my pockets. “Sometimes it helps to remember if you go through it again. You did well.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“I’d like you to come downtown and work with a police artist, see whether we can come up with a sketch of the man who followed you. Would you do that for us?”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

Distractedly, Mrs. Baker ran her fingers through her hair. “Someone’s supposed to come out this afternoon to change the locks. I guess I could call and reschedule. I’ll have to make arrangements for somebody to be here when Kyle gets home, too.”

“Make your calls,” I said. “We’ll wait outside. You can ride in with us. I’ll have someone drive you back when you’re done.”

“Okay. I’ll be out in a minute.” Mrs. Baker hesitated, clearly disturbed by the interview. “Detective Kane?”

“What?”

“If this is the same man who followed me, do you think he’ll come back?”

“I don’t want to alarm you,” I said. “But if it is the same guy, I think he might. In fact, I’m counting on it.”

“I don’t believe this!” Lieutenant Snead fumed at Wednesday’s briefing. He had listened to my description of the interview with Maureen Baker, and it hadn’t set well. “Last time around, the killer never went near the Welshes’ garage,” he sputtered. “Plus, your Mrs. Baker said she could’ve left her garage open herself. Another thing-and I’m surprised I have to keep pointing this out-we have absolutely no proof the killer is reconnoitering scenes before the murders, so the whole B-and-E angle is probably a waste of time. What we do know about our guy is that he bumps victims’ cars to find out where they live. The man who followed Mrs. Baker didn’t do that.”

“It’s possible he only goes the accident route if following them home doesn’t pan out,” I countered. “Remember, all three murdered families so far lived behind security gates.”

“That may be, but you said Mrs. Baker ditched her persistent admirer in Beverly Hills,” Snead argued. “If he didn’t scrape her car and he didn’t follow her home, how’d he find her?”

“Deluca has something that bears on that.”

Snead turned to Deluca. “Is that so? Go ahead, Detective.”

“I checked with DMV,” said Deluca. “Two weeks back somebody ran a license plate trace on Mrs. Baker’s car.”

“A cop?”

“No. The request came from an attorney’s office in Santa Ana.” Deluca referred to his notes. “Donovan, Simon, and Kerr. Big firm, does personal injury stuff. They have a second office in LA and a third in San Diego. They say they don’t know anything about the trace.”

A detective in the back spoke up. “I thought private citizens couldn’t run DMV traces.”

“Ordinary citizens still can, but they’ve gotta show reason and fill out a rash of paperwork,” explained Deluca. “It takes weeks and the registered owner of the car gets notified first. But lawyers, private investigators, and a handful of other groups-account holders, they call them-have immediate access.”