Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

Sincerely,

Edith Stone, M.D.

V.P. Sales

I copied Reinnike's address, as well as the names of the doctor and hospital. A second page gave a brief explanation of Legg-Calve-Perthes Disease that read like a company brochure. LCP was a degenerative ball-joint disease that caused the femur to weaken in young children. Appliances were screwed into the femur to support the bone and maintain the integrity of the joint.

Diaz let me read the M.E.'s report while we waited for Pardy. The cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the left chest that resulted in two broken ribs, a cracked vertebra, and two ruptured arteries. George Llewelyn Reinnike had drowned in his own blood. The bullet was a copper-jacket.380, and had fragmented upon impact with the vertebra. The M.E. had found no traces of semen in the urethra, colon, or stomach, and no semen or vaginal residue present on the penis, indicating the victim had not had a recent sexual encounter. Blood-screen results were to follow, but the M.E. noted no overt evidence of drug use other than a moderate cirrhosis of the liver, indicating the victim had been a drinker. Reinnike hadn't gone into the alley to buy drugs or sex. He had gotten a phone call, cut short his prayers, and almost certainly gone downtown to meet someone. I felt certain whatever happened in the alley was not a chance encounter.

Pardy returned as I finished reading, and perched on the edge of the desk.

I said, "One other thing. The girl who was with Reinnike on the night he was murdered said he got a call when she was with him, and he cut short her visit. He got the call on a cell phone. Did you guys find a cell with the body?"

Pardy and Diaz looked at each other, and Diaz shook her head. Pardy shrugged.

"Maybe he left it in his car. We'll see when we find it."

Diaz leaned forward, then stood.

"Okay, I don't need to be here for the rest of this. I got my own cases to work. Pardy, you know what you have to do?"

"Sure. I'm going to bust a killer."

I said, "Just so everyone understands, what we now have is a two-way flow of information, right? No one has a problem?"

Pardy's jaw rippled again as it had in the elevator.

"Cole, I'm here for the murder. So long as you don't do anything that interferes with my case, help yourself. If you turn something that helps me out, so much the better."

Diaz arched her eyebrows at me.

"You happy?"

"Thrilled. And I appreciate it."

"I'm gone. Just remember, if you kick up anything, you keep us in the loop."

She left us sitting at her desk. Pardy slid off the edge, then stepped around me and sat in her chair.

"Okay, Cole, tell me what the whores said."

I gave him a detailed report. While we were talking, I thought about Diaz. I had wanted to ask if she found the witness she had been searching for, but I knew she probably hadn't. Sometimes you never find them. Sometimes, after you search long enough, you realize the person you've been chasing was nothing more than a dream.

Nightmare

Frederick fought down the shiver of rage that crept up on him. Payne betrayed us, and now he will have to deal with me. He picked up the pay phone outside a 24/7 minimart across the street from the Home Away Suites. A man answered with an irritated voice as if he resented answering the phone.

"Home Away, Toluca Lake."

It was difficult to hear with the passing traffic.

"Uh, I'd like to speak with, uh, a Mr. Payne Keller, please. He's staying with you, uh, but I don't know the room number."

"I'll see."

"I don't know which room-"

"We have no guest by that name."

"Uh, well-"

"Can I help with something else?"

Frederick read the man's impatience, but didn't know what to say.

"Uh, Payne-"

"Sorry, we have no guest by that name."

Frederick put down the phone, then bought a supersize Diet Rite and returned to his truck. Earlier, he had cruised the Home Away parking lot, but had not seen Payne's car. Frederick guessed that Payne had registered under another name, but he didn't know whom to ask for.

The Home Away Suites sat across from a Mobil station. Frederick pulled up to the pumps. He went into the service bay, and considered the service technician who was changing the oil filter on a Sentra.

"Hey, you got an old box? I need a little cardboard box about this big."

Frederick held his hands eight or ten inches apart.

The technician gave Frederick a discarded air-filter box, and didn't even charge him. Frederick dug around under his seat, fishing out a broken water pump and a work shirt he used to wear before he tore the pocket. The shirt didn't say Mobil or Payne's Car Care, but it was dark blue, grease-stained, and had a nice professional pinstripe. His name was stitched on the right breast: Frederick .

Frederick put the water pump in the box, changed shirts, then drove back to the motel. He carried the box into the lobby, and smiled at the desk clerk, a young guy with an inflamed rash of pimples on his chin. His name tag read James Kramer.

Frederick set the box onto the counter with a clump.

"I'm Frederick from over at the Mobil. I got a rebuilt pump here for the guy with the crosses, I don't remember his name. He said I should let him know."

Frederick made his eyes vague as he waited to find out whether or not Kramer would recognize the man with the crosses.

Kramer said, "Did he pay you?"

"Uh-uh. Not yet."

"You're screwed. That guy was killed. The cops been all over us."

Frederick stood motionless, smiling, giving the good ol' Frederick face with the simple, open eyes.

"What did you say?"

Kramer made his hand into a gun and clicked his thumb.

"That was Faustina with the crosses, but that wasn't his real name. He got dropped. It's a big deal, man; we've had cops, CSI, even private detectives."

A rush of overlapping voices filled Frederick 's head. They sounded like the sea at night. Kramer was saying something, but Frederick didn't hear. He didn't know how long Kramer had been talking before he focused again.

"-here all day yesterday and said they'd be back, but it didn't look anything like that TV show, CSI."

Frederick said, "Payne is dead?"

"Who's Payne?"

"What was the name you called him?"

"Herbert Faustina, with the crosses. Someone murdered him. The cops asked us to put together a list of everyone who spoke with Faustina or came to see him, so you should talk to them."

Frederick had trouble controlling his thoughts. He saw himself walking through the lobby with his shotgun. He pictured himself shooting Kramer in the head, then pointing the muzzle up under his chin and blowing his own face off; all of it seen from outside himself, watching it happen until something Kramer was saying brought him back.

"-the one guy, he was pretending to be a cop, but I recognized him right away. Remember that mercenary thing last fall with all the shootings in Santa Monica? It was him. He comes in here pretending to be a cop like no one would know."

"He was looking for Payne?"

"Faustina. He got here even before the cops, and they didn't like it. The one cop, I could tell he was pissed off. He asked as many questions about Cole as he asked about Faustina."

"What was his name?"

"Pardy, something like that."

"Not the policeman-the one he was asking about."

"That was Cole, as in Elvis. I bet he changed his name from something else. Remember the shootings? He hammered some guys before Halloween last year. Remember?"

Frederick left the box, and went out to his truck. A low sigh hissed between his teeth. It started deep inside him and made a noise like a soft whistle, but the pressure that drove it didn't lessen. It seemed to build-like he had swallowed the air hose at the station, the one he used to put air in tires, and he was being filled with cold gas. His eyes filled and his chin quivered, and he bawled, sobbing until he hiccuped. He felt alone and frightened, and he wanted Payne here RIGHT NOW so badly his stomach clenched like a fist. He slapped at the steering wheel and the seats, and blubbered and spit, blowing snot and tears; he kicked at the floorboards, and swung hard at the dash, and wrapped his arms over his head, and wailed. After a while, he felt better. He looked down at himself. His shirt was in shreds, and his chest and belly were bleeding. He realized he had torn at himself, but had no memory of it.