Robert Crais - Chasing Darkness

“When did Carrie give you the picture?”

“Must have been a year or so after what happened. She found it one day and thought we’d like it.”

“Did Marx and Munson see it?”

“They were long gone by then.”

I studied the picture in the little forest of pictures on the credenza, and knew by the smudged dust lines it had been moved more than once.

“Did Detective Bastilla see it when she was here?”

Her smile grew even brighter.

“She thought it was so pretty of Sondie. She asked if she could have it, but I told her no.”

I took Ida’s hand and gave her an encouraging squeeze.

“I’m glad you told her no, Ida. It’s a good picture. Let’s keep it safe.”

THE DAY shift ended at three. Uniformed officers punched on and off duty pretty much with the clock, but homicide detectives required more flexible hours. Interviews were arranged when citizens could make the time to be interviewed; file or evidence transfers often meant sitting in traffic for hours; and reports, records, and case notes still had to be typed and logged by the end of the day.

I arranged to meet Starkey a block from Hollywood Station when her shift ended and phoned Alan Levy while I waited. I wanted to see if he had learned anything about Marx from his inside sources, and I also wanted to know how Bastilla had handled Ivy Casik.

Levy’s assistant answered.

He said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cole. Alan’s out of the office today.”

“I know. We saw each other this morning. Do you know if he’s spoken with Ivy Casik?”

“No, sir, I don’t. Would you like to leave a message? I expect he’ll call in later.”

“Yeah. Ask him to call me. Tell him I’ve learned some things about the task force.”

I gave him my cell number, then put away my phone.

Starkey left Hollywood Station at ten minutes after four and walked south, looking for my car. She was wearing a navy pantsuit, tortoise-shell sunglasses, and twining ribbons of cigarette smoke. A black bag hung on her right shoulder. When she saw me, I raised a hand. She flicked her cigarette to the street, then opened the door and dropped into the car.

“Is this a date?”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

I pulled a U-turn away from the curb, driving away from the station.

“I’m going to call it a date so I’ll feel better about myself. Here you are, picking me up, and now we’re going someplace nice. You see?”

I didn’t say anything. I was trying to work up how to ask what I needed to ask. It would put her in a bad place, but I didn’t know what else to do.

Starkey sighed dramatically at the silence.

“Not the most charming date conversation I’ve had, but I guess it will have to do.”

“Lindo told me the task force still has a locked evidence room down on Spring Street. You know that layout pretty well.”

“So?”

“You know which room he’s talking about?”

She looked at me with something like a scowl.

“They cleared out the offices they were using. They probably already shipped their files to storage.”

“They haven’t. Bastilla and Munson are still using the room. Lindo told me he’s seen them.”

She studied me some more, and now she looked uncomfortable and suspicious.

“What exactly are you asking me, Cole?”

“I’m asking if you know where they’re keeping their files.”

“Every task force they house down there uses the same room-and it’s not a room, Cole, it’s a fucking closet. Of course I know where it is. I spent three years down there.”

“Will you tell me how to find it?”

“The closet?”

“Yeah. I want to look at their files.”

“Are you stupid?”

“I need to see what they’re hiding.”

She held up her hands.

“You’re serious? You’re telling me you want to illegally enter an LAPD facility and break into official police files? You are actually asking me to help you do that?”

“I don’t know who else to ask.”

“That’s a police building, you moron. It’s filled with police officers.”

“I still have to do it.”

“You’re beyond stupid, Cole. They don’t have a word for what you are. Forget it. I am so pissed off right now-”

I drove another block, then pulled into a parking lot where a group of teenagers crowded a falafel stand. I parked behind the stand, but left the engine running. The smells of cumin and hot oil were strong.

“I know what I’m asking, but I have to keep Lou out of this for now and I don’t want Lindo to know. I believe Marx, Bastilla, and Munson aren’t trying to find the person who killed those seven women. I believe they know who that person is, or suspect they know, and they’re trying to protect him.”

Starkey’s face softened. The hard vertical line between her eyebrows relaxed as the weight of what I was saying settled, but then she shook her head.

“Marx might be an asshole, Elvis, but he’s a deputy chief of police. Munson and Bastilla-they’re top cops.”

“They appear to be protecting Nobel Wilts.”

The tip of her tongue flicked over her lips.

“The city councilman. Councilman Nobel Wilts.”

“Yes.”

“You’re telling me you believe a city councilman killed these women. That’s what you’re saying. Am I confused?”

“I don’t know. I’m not telling you Wilts is the killer because I don’t know. I’ve been digging into Marx, not Wilts, but you can’t rule out Wilts just because he looks normal. A lot of these guys look normal.”

“Thank you, Cole, I know that. I studied fucked-up people when I worked on the bombs. High-functioning people are just as fucked up as everyone else-they just hide it better. What do you have?”

I described Marx’s history as a fixer for Wilts, and how at least two of the fixes were for assaults against women. I went through everything Ida Frostokovich told me about Wilts meeting her daughter on the day Sondra was murdered, and described how Marx and Munson had been the original investigators. I told her how Marx had run interference for Leverage Associates when Darcy and Maddux were investigating Debra Repko’s murder, and that Wilts was a Leverage client and had arranged for Leverage to manage Marx’s run for the council. Starkey grew pale as the overlaps added up, and made only a single comment when I finished.

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. That’s what I said, too.”

Starkey rubbed hard at the sides of her face, then studied the kids around the falafel stand as if she thought she might have to pull them out of a lineup.

“I guess it’s possible. You don’t have any proof?”

“Nothing.”

“You think Marx and these guys are hiding the proof.”

“They’re lying. Things that might be proof are disappearing. People who should be involved are being cut out. You tell me.”

“If they’re protecting Wilts, you’re not going to find anything in their files. They would destroy incriminating evidence or doctor it.”

“Maybe I’m hoping something incriminating will be there. If Marx showed Wilts as a person of interest in the Frostokovich murder, maybe I’m wrong about the cover-up. Maybe it’s something else.”

Starkey laughed, but it was sickly and weak.

“Right. And you want to be wrong.”

“Like you said, the man’s a deputy chief of police. It’s okay if he’s a political asshole, but it’s not okay if he’s protecting a murderer. The only way I can know what they’re doing is to see what they’re doing with the information.”

Starkey nodded, but she was still thinking it through.

“So you just want to see.”

“The murder book Marx started on Frostokovich should contain statements by the girls she had dinner with on the night she died. They would have mentioned bumping into Wilts, and Marx should have followed up by asking Wilts if he saw anything that night. I also want to see what these blind tests they’re running through SID are about, and what happened to the DVD from the Repko case.”