Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

I went inside, put out fresh food for the cat, then drove down through the canyon to the little office I keep on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Mail was scattered inside the door where the postman drops it through the slot. I gathered it together, put on a pot of coffee, then turned on my message machine. The Elvis Cole Detective Agency was officially back in business. Of course, since I had ignored everything offered to me for the past six weeks I didn't exactly have something to do.

I went through the mail. A lot of it was bills and junk, but seven pieces were what I thought of as fan mail: a handwritten marriage proposal from someone named Didi, four letters congratulating me for bringing three mass murderers to justice, an anonymous nude photo of a young man holding his penis, and a letter from someone named Loyal Anselmo who described Pike and me as "dangerous vigilantes no better than the monsters you murdered." Some people are never happy.

I kept four of the letters with the intention of sending thank-you notes and dumped the others. After thinking about it, I pulled Anselmo's letter from the trash and put it into a file I kept for death threats and lunatics. If someone murdered me in my sleep I wanted the cops to have clues.

I poured a cup of coffee and felt disappointed that nothing had led back to the dead man. It was possible he had written me and I had tossed his letter, but I could never know that. He could have called when my machine was turned off, but I would never know that, either.

I was trying to figure out a new avenue of detection when the phone rang.

"Elvis Cole Detective Agency. Back on your case, and just in time."

"It's me, Diaz. You at your office, or is this call being forwarded? I already tried your house."

"I'm at the office. Did you get an ID?"

"I'm sorry, we didn't. I thought for sure this dude would be in the system, but he's not. The coroner investigator ran him through the Live Scan as soon as they got to the morgue, but nothing came up."

The Live Scan was an inkless fingerprinting process that digitized fingerprints, and instantly compared them with files at the California Department of Justice in Sacramento. If nothing came up, then he had never served time or been arrested in California.

"Okay. What happens next?"

" Sacramento will roll the prints through NLETS. We still have a shot with the Feds, but it could take a few days. You said you got a lot of mail and calls you didn't answer-"

"I came in to check, Diaz. There's nothing. He could have sent something earlier, but I don't have anything now. I just went through the mail."

"I hate to ask this but I'm going to ask anyway. I'm going over to the morgue. Would you meet me there?"

"I thought Pardy had the case."

"Pardy does, and he's back from the medical examiner. He says the deceased is totally covered with these insane tattoos. I know you didn't recognize him, but maybe something in the ink will ring a bell."

I felt a little dig of anger, but maybe it was shame.

"He's not my father. There's no way."

"Just come look, Cole. One of his tats might give you a name or a place. What can it hurt?"

I didn't say anything, and Diaz pushed on.

"You know where the coroner is, down by the USC Medical Center?"

"I know."

"They have a parking lot in front. I'll meet you there in half an hour."

I put down the phone, then went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. The dead man had a head like a praying mantis and I had a head like a rutabaga. I didn't look anything like him. Nothing like him. Nothing.

I went down to my car and made my way to the morgue.

Invisible Men

Frederick Conrad, which was the name he now used, hustled through the trailer park toward his truck when Juanita Morse lurched from her double-wide like a brown recluse spider springing a trap.

" Frederick!"

She hooked his arm with a dried-out crone's hand, trapping him even though he was frantic to leave.

" Frederick, you were so nice last week when I was down with my legs, bringing my groceries like you did. Here, this is for you, a little something."

Frederick fell into character without missing a beat, hiding his fury with the lopsided Frederick Conrad grin everyone knew so well. He pressed the dollar back into her hands.

"Please, Juanita. You know better than that."

"Now you go on, Frederick, you were so nice to see after me like that."

So Frederick took the dollar, feigning appreciation, his furious rage arcing like downed power cables while his eyes remained calm. He wanted Payne to come home. He needed to find out what happened. He was terrified that Payne had confessed.

That traitorous prick, Payne. (Payne Keller being the name he now used.)

"You really don't have to, Miz Morse, but thank you. Is your leg better?"

"It still burns, but at least I'm not down. I put the heating pad on this morning and took the Tylenol."

Frederick patted her hand as if he gave a shit about every burning pulse in her withered body.

"Well, if you need anything else, you let me know."

Pat-pat. Smile. You hideous hag.

Finally rid of her, Frederick hurried to his truck, wanting to crush her nasty throat just to grind the bones. He fired up the Dodge, then slowly drove the two-point-six miles to Keller's gas station, Payne's Gas Car Care. Frederick was well known as the slowest driver in town.

He parked behind the service bays, hung the slow-witted grin on his face again like an Open For Business sign, and sauntered into the office.

"Hey, Elroy, I called three or four times this morning, but you didn't answer. You hear from Payne?"

Elroy Lewis was Payne's other full-time employee. He was a skinny man in his late forties with a roll of flab melting over his belt and yellow fingers from chaining Newport cigarettes. Lewis's dog, Coon, was sleeping in the middle of the floor. Coon, a lazy dog with bad hips, wagged his tail when he saw Frederick, but Frederick ignored him. Lewis put his elbows on the counter, and sulked.

"No, he didn't, and I gotta talk to you 'bout that. We got stuff to talk about."

Frederick stepped over the dog and made his way to Payne's office, doing a pretty good job of pretending everything was okay.

"Well, he called me last night, and said he was gonna give you a call. I guess he got busy with his sister."

"Goddamn, how long is it gonna take that bitch to die?"

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Elroy, sayin' something like that. She's his sister."

Payne Keller had disappeared eleven days ago without a word or note to anyone. When Payne turned up missing, Frederick fed Elroy a bullshit story about Payne's sister being T-boned by a drunk driver, but, truth was, Frederick had no idea. Payne's sudden disappearance terrified him. Payne could be anywhere and might say anything; Payne and his buddy, Jesus, confessing their sins.

I hope you're dead, you bastard. I hope your heart split open like a rotten grapefruit. I hope you put a gun to your head. I hope you're dead, and I hope to hell you didn't take me with you.

Frederick had decided to cover their tracks, and prepare for the worst. Elroy followed him into Payne's office.

"Well, I'm sorry about his sister, but it's goddamned rude, you ask me, him leaving without a word. The wife and I are going to her parents' next week. Payne knew I had that time off and said I could go."

Frederick rounded Payne's desk, took the keys from the top drawer, and flashed the big easy grin.

"Then go, Elroy. That's why Payne called last night, to ask if I'd cover for you. I said sure."

Elroy looked doubtful.

"You will?"

Frederick came back around the desk as a white Maxima pulled up to the self-service pumps. A teenage girl got out, looking confused by the pump. Frederick noted how Elroy stared at the girl.