Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

After a while I grew tired of thinking about it. I gathered together the clippings, found Marjorie Lawrence, and asked for copies of the articles. I also asked if I could use her phone. She was happy to let me do so.

I called Starkey. I could have called Diaz and Pardy, but Starkey worked the Juvenile desk. If David showed only a Juvie file, his record would be more difficult to find. Juvenile records are often sealed or expunged.

Starkey said, "Hey, dude, where are you?"

" San Diego. I found something down here maybe you can help me with."

"Oh, I live for that. You've made my day, adding more work to my load."

I gave her the headline version of Reinnike's disappearance, and told her about David Reinnike.

She said, "The guy had another son?"

"That's not funny, Starkey."

"Oh, hey."

"Will you check it out for me or not?"

"Yes, Cole, I will check it out for you. Don't be so snippy. Listen, those newspaper articles, do they name the investigating officers?"

"Yeah. The lead was a guy named Poole. San Diego County Sheriffs Department."

"Are you coming back tonight?"

"Yeah, I'm going to leave in a few minutes."

"I'd like to see the articles. With all this happening thirty years ago, having the names might help me out."

"Okay, sure."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Seeing as how I'm going to so much trouble, maybe I should come up to your house tonight and you should feed me dinner. An invitation would be nice."

Starkey made me smile.

"How about eight o'clock. I should be back by then."

"Eight o'clock. Don't get killed driving home."

Starkey always knew what to say.

I found my way back to the freeway. It had been a long, difficult day, and I had logged a lot of miles. I had more miles ahead of me, and all of it would be grudging.

My head buzzed with a remote ache from all the thinking about George Reinnike, and what he might mean to me, or not. If Reinnike believed he had a child named Elvis Cole, why did he wait so many years to get in touch? I tried to make sense of what I knew, and nothing good came to mind. Anything was possible. Reinnike might have lost both his son and his mind, then convinced himself I was a long-lost replacement. Dial-a-Child, at your service. My picture had been in the newspapers, magazines, and on television. Maybe David Reinnike looked like me; the two of us interchangeable American males, brown, brown, medium, average. George Reinnike might have seen me in the news, convinced himself I was the long-lost "other," and swept me up in his madness. Here I was, driving in traffic, thinking about a total stranger named George Reinnike, and Reinnike had become real to me. He had flesh and weakness, and his tortured path had somehow crossed mine. Even if he was not part of my past, he had begun to feel like my past. When I remembered my mother, he was now in the memory like a transparent haunt. All through my life those memories had been a puzzle with a missing piece, but now George Reinnike filled the hole. The picture was complete. Daddy was home whether he was real or not.

Three hours later I slipped between the trees along Mulholland Drive, heading for home. It had been a long day. The sky had grown smoky, and the dimming light purpled the trees.

I turned onto my street and saw a tan car parked outside my house. The last time I came home to a car, it was Pardy. I decided that if Pardy was waiting in my house again, I would scare the hell out of him.

I pulled into my carport, took out my gun, then let myself in through the kitchen. I didn't try to be quiet. I pushed open the door.

Starkey

Starkey put down the phone after Cole hung up, and kicked back in her chair with a wide nasty grin. She was pleased with herself for jamming Cole into dinner. It would have been nicer if the idiot had thought up the idea himself, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"That must've been your boyfriend Cole on the phone."

Starkey's grin floundered. Ronnie Metcalf was watching her from his adjoining desk. Metcalf was a D-2 with Hollywood Robbery, which had to share office space with the Juvenile Division. Metcalf tapped his mouth.

"I can tell by the grin."

He pursed his lips and made puckered kissing sounds.

Starkey didn't flinch, flush, or turn away.

"You're an asshole."

Metcalf laughed, then got up and sauntered over to the coffee machine. Starkey turned back to her desk, but now her mood was soured. She didn't like Metcalf eavesdropping on her calls. She could get in trouble for using LAPD resources for an outside party, and a dickhead like Metcalf might use it against her. Starkey considered the repercussions, then realized her irritation had nothing to do with getting in trouble. She resented that her feelings were obvious. What she felt about Cole-or anything else-wasn't anyone else's business. She would have to remember not to smile so much when she thought about Cole.

Starkey swiveled around to her computer and entered David Reinnike's name into the State of California Criminal Information Center's search engine. If David Reinnike had been arrested as an adult, his listing would appear. A case number was required, so Starkey used a number from one of the sixteen cases she currently worked, and punched in her badge. Fuck Metcalf.

Starkey watched the little wheel spin for a few seconds, then the search was complete. David Reinnike had no adult criminal record.

Like it should be easy.

Starkey considered what Cole had told her. San Diego P.D. had responded at least once to a complaint about the boy, but that didn't mean he would have an accessible juvenile record. Cops and courts were usually lenient with minor offenders, and their records were often expunged or sealed. But juveniles with chronic behavior problems were sometimes assessed by officers with special training, especially if the child manifested bizarre or unusual behaviors, and those records were usually maintained in the files of the local police.

Starkey went to the large map of California that hung on the wall. She searched for Temecula, and found it on I-15, just north of Fallbrook.

"Hey, Starkey."

Metcalf was still by the coffee. He opened his mouth in an O, and pushed out his cheek with his tongue.

Starkey turned back to the map.

Temecula patrol officers had probably responded to the call, but Temecula would have been too small for its own Juvenile Division. They had probably laid off the case on the San Diego County Sheriffs, so the Sheriffs station would have the records, if they existed. Starkey had been on Juvie for only a few months, and had no clue in hell how she could get someone down there to look for thirty-year-old juvenile records. But Gittamon probably knew.

Starkey walked over to Gittamon's cubicle and rapped on his wall. Dave Gittamon, who was Starkey's sergeant-supervisor, had been on the Hollywood Station Juvenile desk for thirty-two years and had solid relationships with pretty much every senior juvenile officer throughout the southwest.

Gittamon glanced up at her over his reading glasses. He was a kindly man with a preacher's smile.

She said, "Dave? Do you have juice with anyone down in San Diego County?"

Gittamon answered in his calm, reassuring voice. He was the most understated man Starkey had ever met.

"Oh. I know a few folks."

Starkey described the situation with David Reinnike and told Gittamon she wanted to find out if a record existed. She did not mention Cole.

Gittamon cleared his throat.

"Well, you're talking about a minor child, Carol. You might need a court order. What are you going to do with this?"

Starkey noted his choice of the word: Might.

"If this kid was arrested, his file could show a person or persons who can give me a line on finding him. That's all I'm looking for here. They disappeared, Dave. They changed their names and vanished."