John Lescroart - Damage

“She quit her job?” Sadie asked.

“She’s taking vacation days, but it’s going to amount to the same thing.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Abe said. “Not to complain, but the job’s just one frustration after another, I don’t have enough manpower to do it, if I go down to LA with Treya, somebody else will just step in and muddle through or, more likely, muck it all up, which is what it feels like I’m doing anyway. But I feel like I’ve got to stay, there’s no other way to explain it. I took it on. I can’t hand it off to somebody else. It sounds stupid and outdated, but I feel like it’s kind of my duty.”

Nat took a moment, then said, “I don’t hear any question there.”

“No, I know,” Abe said. “There really isn’t one.”

Tristan Denardi’s first meeting this morning was with his private investigator Mike Moylan, who got himself settled into one of Denardi’s wing chairs and said, “I can’t find her.”

Denardi, signing papers at his desk, stopped and looked up in surprise. “What do you mean? You always find everybody. And usually within five minutes.”

“I know. But not this time. She just dropped off the radar.”

“But you’ve told me that was impossible.”

“Very hard, but not impossible. First, you’ve got to use cash only, no credit cards ever. Second, you get a false set of identity papers, and third, you cut all ties with your previous life. You do all that, and remember that most people can’t, and you’re disappeared.”

Denardi sat back. “Gloria Gonzalvez was that sophisticated?”

“Evidently, although it doesn’t take so much sophistication as it does pure will. Anybody wants, they can go cash only. And fifty bucks, maybe a hundred, buys you all the ID you’ll ever need. But most people, somebody dies in the family or gets married or has a kid, either somebody contacts you or you hear about it and need to get back in touch. And Gloria hasn’t done that, not that I could find anyway.”

Pensive, Denardi put his pen down and sat back in his chair. “Could she still be in witness protection?”

“I don’t think so. They usually only keep them until they testify. Then they’re on their own.”

“So what did she do after she testified? You get any kind of a trail at all?”

“No. She just vanished. Somebody must have coached her.”

“This will not please my client.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can keep working on it if you want, but if she hasn’t turned up on any of my databases, I don’t know where I’d start.”

“Did you try that-what do you call it?-the pizza list?” Moylan had fascinated Denardi with the so-called pizza list soon after he’d found out about it himself. As everyone who’s ever ordered a pizza by phone knows, the first thing they ask for is your phone number. Second is your name. This database-most if not all of the pizza stores in the nation-is then sold to various marketing organizations or otherwise interested persons, such as private investigators. It is a very potent tool for locating people.

But Moylan was shaking his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Expense, mostly. You gave me four hours, besides which I don’t think she’s Gloria Gonzalvez anymore.”

“How about just Gloria?”

“How about it? Probably.”

“So. You look for Glorias.”

“Tris, there’s probably forty, fifty pages of Glorias. Single spaced. Once I can even find them. You want me to call each one individually?”

“Maybe if you just start with California?”

Moylan chuckled. “Yeah, that’ll narrow it right down to maybe two thousand names. If I call ’em all, we’re talking maybe a full week, maybe two, eighty hours, and then maybe no results at all. Which, don’t get me wrong, I’d be delighted to do, but you’d want to know what you’re signing off on.”

Denardi sucked at his teeth for a moment. “My clients really want to talk to her, Mike. She’s the last witness standing and they think they can persuade her that she doesn’t want to testify again.”

“And I wish them luck. But you know,” Moylan went on, “if she’s this invisible, I doubt if the DA’s going to be able to find her, either.”

“That’s a good point. But if they do find her first, they’ll slap her back into protection and then we’re screwed. I’d rather we get there before they do.”

“So you want me to keep on?”

Denardi nodded. “Give it a week, see what you come up with.”

Sheila Marrenas walked into the front door of Michael Durbin’s store and stood in line, to all appearances patiently waiting her turn. When she got to the counter, she took off her dark glasses, smiled at Michael, flashed her press card, and asked if she could have a few minutes of his time.

His face went pale at the sight of her. “I don’t think so, no.”

“You don’t want to get your side of the story out there?”

“My side of what story?”

“Your wife’s death. I understand you’ve been talking to Inspector Glitsky…”

“How did you know that?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter how I know, Michael. I talk to people. They talk to me. I’m giving you an opportunity here that you’re going to need, and I really do think it’s in your own best interest at least to address some of the issues I’m hearing about.”

“Why? So you can treat me as fairly as you did last time?”

“I gave you every chance back then to defend yourself and you made the same mistake then that you’re trying to make again now.”

“And what’s that? Defending myself against accusations that have not one grain of truth in them?”

“You’re telling me you never stole anything from that job? Paper, supplies, anything like that? You never filed a false timesheet?”

“I’m still not going to talk about that. God knows that whatever I did, and it wasn’t much, was part of the culture of the firm. Everybody there was doing what they accused me of.”

“And everybody would include you, wouldn’t it?”

“Whether or not it does, I’ve already paid enough for it, whatever it was. You know, everything you ask is of the when-did-you-stop-beating-your-wife variety. Every answer’s the wrong one.”

“All right, then,” she said, “getting down to it. When did you?”

Durbin lowered his voice and leaned in toward her. “You get the hell out of here right now.”

From somewhere down the counter, suddenly Liza Sato appeared at Durbin’s sleeve. “Is there a problem?” she asked. “Michael, is everything all right?”

“Not even close,” he said. “As of this minute, we’re refusing to give service to this woman. I want her out of here.”

But Sheila Marrenas, spotting the name tag on Liza’s chest, wasn’t going without a fight. Now she shifted her attention to the assistant manager. “Ms. Sato,” she said, “is it true that Mr. Durbin arrived late to work last Friday morning?”

“Don’t answer that, Liza! Whatever you say, she’ll twist it.”

Sato shook her head at Marrenas. “I’ve got no comment,” she said. “Except that my boss wants you out of here.” She turned to Michael. “Should I call nine-one-one?”

The four other customers and five other clerks had been trying to ignore the ongoing exchange, but suddenly the place had gone quiet. Durbin looked back and forth along the counter, then nodded to his assistant. “Give her ten seconds,” he said.

“All right,” Marrenas said, backing away. “But don’t blame me if your side of things doesn’t get in my column. I’m trying here.”