Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

When it was my turn, the clerk said, "How are you today?"

"I'm investigating the murder of a man who was staying across the street. I have a couple questions for you."

"Wow. That's not something I hear every day."

I asked if their exterior security cameras showed the Home Away's parking lot.

"Sorry, dude, the cameras don't point that way. If you lean over here you can see what I mean."

He realized I wouldn't be able to see much by leaning, so he told me to come around behind the counter. A security monitor was set up on a shelf beneath the cash register. It showed grainy black-and-white views of us, the aisles, and the outside area between the gas pumps and the front door. The clerk pointed at the monitor.

"You see? The outside camera doesn't show the street. You can't see the motel."

We couldn't see the motel, but we clearly saw the cars at the pumps. Reinnike might have bought gas here, and his tag number might show on their tape.

"How long do you hold the recordings?"

"Twenty-four hours. It's not tape anymore-it's digital. The pictures stream to a hard drive, but the memory buffers out at twenty-four hours unless we put in a save."

"And you only put in a save if something happens?"

"Yeah, like if the store is robbed or an alarm goes off or whatever."

Reinnike had been murdered more than seventy-two hours ago. Twenty-four hours wasn't enough.

He folded his arms and looked at me curiously.

"I saw police cars over there last night. Was that what it was about?"

"One of their guests was murdered three nights ago."

"Right in the motel?"

"He was murdered downtown, but he was staying there."

I showed him the morgue shot. He studied the picture, then shook his head.

"They all kinda blend together. I couldn't tell you what my last three customers looked like."

"He was driving a brown Honda Accord with a bad dent at the left rear wheel. Maybe he bought gas."

"Sorry, dude. If their credit card clears, I don't even bother to look."

"He would have paid cash."

"A lot of people pay cash. I don't remember."

A construction worker grimed with white dust came in. He ordered two hot dogs, plain with nothing on them, and a large coffee with four sugars. I stood out of the way while the clerk took two hot dogs off the rotisserie and filled a large Styrofoam cup with coffee and sugar. The wall behind the counter was lined with a soft-drink dispenser, a coffee machine, a frozen-yogurt dispenser, and the rotisserie, but I didn't see an espresso machine. Nothing said "mocha."

When the construction guy left, I said, "Is there a coffee shop in walking distance?"

"Starbucks, up Riverside. It's ten or twelve blocks, though. We got coffee. What do you need?"

"It's not for me. A witness at the motel told me he crossed the street for a mocha. I was wondering where he got it."

"I get you. He could have come here. We got mocha, vanilla, and hazelnut-they're bullshit instant mixes, but we sell it. You know that stuff is mostly sand? You mix it with hot water."

The clerk's eyebrows suddenly arched with interest.

"Hey, was that the black dude?"

Just like that. You interview people, you never know what they're going to say, or why; sometimes, you kick over a stone like the thousand other stones you've kicked, and something glitters in the soil.

I said, "I don't know. Describe him."

"It was-"

His lips moved soundlessly as he counted on his fingers.

"-five nights ago. Big guy, buffed out and kinda fierce, with his hair high and tight?"

Five nights ago was the night Dana had prayed with Herbert Faustina.

"You remember every mocha you sell?"

He made a self-conscious smile.

"Not hardly. I remember this guy because of his chick. Dude, she was hot -"

He cupped his fingers to indicate the size of her breasts. Thomas hadn't said anything about Dana having a mocha.

"Did she have a mocha, too?"

"He came in alone. The Lakers were playing, and he's killing time, but he keeps looking outside. I'm thinking, what's this dude looking for, is he going to rob me? But then he says, shit, there's my chick, and turned so fast his drink splashed all over his hand. Ouch."

"Ouch."

"Right. This thick was smoking. I would've spilled my coffee, too."

"Un-huh."

"Anyway, he beat it back across the street. I just stared at the chick. She had a serious case of the floppies when she ran. It made my night."

He cupped his hands over his chest again, and bounced them up and down.

"Why was she running?"

"They got into his car, but then she got out again. She ran over to see some guy-"

Thomas hadn't said anything about Dana getting out of the car. No flopping had been described.

The door chimed as an Armenian couple with a small baby came in. The woman was sultry, and beautiful. The clerk stared at her and lost his train of thought. I touched his arm.

"Describe the man she ran to see."

"I wasn't looking at the dude, bro-I was watching her bags; they were hopping."

"An older man? Thin, with badly dyed hair?"

"You mean the guy in the picture?"

"You tell me."

The clerk glanced at the woman again, watching her walk, then sighed when he turned back to me. Fantasy interruptus.

"I didn't see the dude's face. I guess he was kinda old, but I couldn't swear to any of this. She almost knocked him over when she hugged him."

It had to be Reinnike. Reinnike had come outside, and Dana had gone to see him. Thomas hadn't mentioned that part, and now I wondered why.

"What about the black guy? Did he go see the guy, too?"

"He kinda ducked down like he was hiding. I thought that was weird. I think he took a picture."

"Why do you think he took a picture?"

"I saw his camera-"

He lifted his hands to either side of his face as if he was aiming a camera. As he demonstrated, the Armenian man asked if they had concentrated milk. The clerk told him to check the last aisle.

I said, "You sure it was a camera? Maybe it was a cell phone."

"Dude, I know a camera. Not one of those dinky little things,. either; a real camera with a long lens."

He pointed out a white car on the street-side row of cars in the Home Away parking lot.

"See the white sedan… four, five, six spots from the entrance, right here by the street? They were parked where that white sedan is. I saw the camera."

"How long was she with the other man?"

"Coupla minutes. Maybe not that long."

"Then what happened?"

"They left."

"Did they follow the other man?"

The clerk was beginning to look annoyed.

"Dude, I don't know if they followed him. They just left."

The Armenian family brought two cans of condensed milk and a jar of applesauce to the counter.

The clerk said, "I gotta get back to work."

"Me, too."

I thanked him for his help, then ducked under the counter and went out to my car. The air was cold, but I didn't feel it. It was ten fifty-three when I called Joe Pike.

I said, "I need you to meet me."

Pike didn't ask why; he only asked where. I gave him Dana's address.

Ken Wilson was right. Dead ends don't exist. Lucy had gone, but she would return.

People lie. Half the people in jail were arrested because they lied even though they hadn't done anything wrong. A cop asked where they were Tuesday night, and they didn't say they were having a beer at the Starlite Lounge; they said they were in Bakersfield. Next thing they knew, they were popped for a Bakersfield stickup because they matched a description. They suddenly remembered they were at the Starlite, but then it was too late. They had lied, been arrested and booked, and by the time the detectives figured out they were telling the truth about the Starlite, the detectives had also found an outstanding warrant for failure to pay child support or skipping a court appearance. All because they lied about having a beer. Many people are like that. Lying is their automatic reaction.