Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

"Sorry, partner, I just turned off the pumps. We're closed."

"Are you Lewis or Conrad? I just left the Sheriffs Substation. The deputy said I would find Lewis or Conrad here. I'm from Los Angeles, about Payne Keller."

"I'm Lewis. This is the goddamnedest thing, isn't it? The god-damnedest thing. I'm supposed to take the wife up to Cambria tomorrow, and now this. I gotta get this place closed."

Lewis was looking around the station, with his lips silently moving as if he was making a list of everything he needed to do. I pointed up the road.

"Mr. Lewis, is this the right way to Payne's house?"

"Yeah, right up there. It's not much farther. The sheriff's up there."

"Okay, good."

I felt a little better thinking the sheriff was at Keller's house. Diaz would probably avoid him.

"Have any other officers come by?"

He stared at me like he was having a hard time concentrating.

"Yeah, another one from Los Angeles. She might be up there with the sheriff. She asked about it."

"Was that before or after the sheriff?"

"After. Listen, I gotta get this place closed. We got a gas truck coming up here, and I gotta get that gas canceled. Payne's dead, and we got a whole damn truck of gas on its way."

His eyes suddenly filled, and he hurried past me into the service bays. I helped him pull down the overhead doors, and talked to him as he shut the power to the hydraulic lifts.

"I know this is a bad time, Mr. Lewis. I'm sorry."

"I know. I understand. They said Payne was using a fake name. What in hell is that all about? I never knew Payne had another name."

"George Reinnike."

"I didn't know. I been here for eight years; all I knew was Payne."

"Payne had a son. Did you know about his son?"

"Jesus Christ, no. That's what the sheriff said. I didn't know anything about a son."

"His name was David."

"Jesus, next you're gonna tell me Payne was Elvis-fucking-Presley."

We moved into the office. If Lewis had worked with Reinnike for eight years, he could probably name Reinnike's closest friends. I asked him. Lewis hesitated, and I could see he was bothered by how little he knew about the man with whom he had worked so closely.

"Payne didn't have friends. He kinda stayed to himself."

"Everybody has someone."

"Maybe up at the church. Payne was big on the Bible. He was up at the church a lot."

"Anyone else?"

"Just me and Frederick, that's all I know. We helped him here at the station, then up at the house when he needed it. Frederick 's been here longer than me."

"How long has Frederick been here?"

"I don't know-ten, twelve years, something like that. You want his number?"

"What does Frederick look like?"

"Little younger than you, maybe. About your height, but heavy. I dunno. Why you asking about Frederick? What does that have to do with Payne?"

"Did Payne tell you why he was going to Los Angeles?"

"I thought he was in Sacramento."

"He told you he was going to Sacramento?"

"He called Frederick. His sister got T-boned in a bad wreck, he said. I thought he was in Sacramento taking care of her, not down in L.A. getting himself shot."

"He called Frederick."

"Yeah. Frederick talked to him."

"Payne didn't have a sister."

Elroy Lewis muttered under his breath, and we were both wondering why Frederick had gotten all the calls and not Elroy Lewis. Lewis turned off the last lights, then locked the door behind us.

He said, "If you see the sheriff up there, you tell him I went home. He said he was gonna call."

"I'll tell him you went home."

"You going up to Payne's right now?"

"That's right."

"Look for the big dead sycamore right by the drive, otherwise you'll miss it."

"All right. Thanks, Mr. Lewis."

The dog lifted its head when he saw us approaching, and struggled to its feet. It wobbled sideways before it steadied itself. Lewis stared at the dog as if it were homeless.

"I don't know what in hell we're gonna do now."

He stared at me, then started blinking again.

"Payne read the Bible all the time. He would read it sitting here in the station. He had these statues of Jesus. He went to Mass, I dunno, three times a week, and now he gets shot to death down in L.A. I'm not a religious man, but it doesn't seem right."

Lewis walked away, and the dog gimped along after him. I climbed back into my car, but I didn't leave right away. I thought about Frederick Conrad. Payne Keller's house was close, and the sheriff was supposed to be there. I had Conrad's address, and could have gone to his home, but I decided to see the sheriff first. Like failing to return to my office, it was exactly the wrong decision.

Lewis warned me to look for a dying sycamore, and that's where I found it-an overgrown private lane little more than a break between the trees without even a mailbox to draw passing attention. It looked more like a trail than a road, with nasty potholes and cuts that would discourage the idly curious with a broken axle. It was a good place to be an invisible man and live an invisible life.

I worked my way over the potholes and through the trees. Reinnike's house was a rustic cabin built of clapboard and river stones, with a covered porch in front. I had expected to see the sheriff's vehicle, but Kelly Diaz's Passat was parked alongside the porch. No other vehicles were present. I pulled up behind her, and shut off my car. The front door was open.

Diaz would have heard me drive up, but she did not come to the door. I got out, and went to the porch.

"Diaz?"

I crossed the porch, and stepped inside.

"Diaz, it's Cole."

Furniture was upended, magazines were scattered over the floor, and books had been swept clean from a bookcase that was twisted away from the wall. Statues and portraits of Jesus were everywhere; watching from the walls and the television and the tables. More little statues were strewn over the floor.

"Diaz, you in here?"

Reinnike's house had been searched, but not by Diaz. Cops know you can't find something by throwing things in the air. Someone with a disordered mind had searched this house. An image of a collie with a garden stake through its chest flickered in my head. I was frightened of what I would find.

"David?"

I moved to the kitchen. Drawers had been emptied; the cupboards were open, and Tupperware raked to the floor. I didn't want to go into the back of the house. I wondered if Diaz had been here when David Reinnike came to call.

I backed out of the kitchen, and turned toward the living room. Kelly Diaz was waiting in the mouth of the hall, holding her pistol loose down along her leg. She could have killed me; she could have shot me down from behind, but she didn't. Her face was strained as if she had caught up in time with her mother, and carried her mother's lost years, but she gave me a wicked bright smile.

"Damn, Cole, you really are the World's Greatest Detective. You found the sonofabitch-Payne-fucking-Keller."

"I found a suspect in his murder, too."

Her shirt was taut over the swell of a bullet-resistant vest. Detectives never wore vests, but Diaz had come up here to do business. She waggled her gun at the room.

"He's here, Cole. The sick freak is shitting his pants. We can get him."

"Pardy knows. He's talking it over with O'Loughlin right now. They're going to issue a warrant."

"Pardy doesn't know his ass."

"He found the gun and put it with one of your cases. You had access. He has a witness who saw a woman matching your description with Reinnike the night of the murder. I found the murder book in your house-"

She waggled the gun again, but a sheen of sweat slicked her face and her eyes were bright.

"We'll see with the jury."