Robert Crais - Chasing Darkness

Starkey waved the box of candy.

“Marzik’s birthday next week. I’m going to leave it on her desk so she’ll be surprised in the morning. Hey-I want you to meet someone. This is my boyfriend, Axel. Ax, this is Jorge Santos. Everyone calls him Hooker.”

Axel.

I smiled politely and shook Jorge’s hand. He had been eating in a small interview room where two open Tupperware containers and a cup of coffee were still on the table. A copy of the LAPD union newspaper, the Blue Line, was open beside the food. Enchiladas.

Starkey glanced at his food.

“Oh, hey, man, we didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”

“That’s all right. I heard you got onto Homicide. How do you like it?”

Starkey shrugged, and glanced back at the squad room.

“It’s okay, I guess. Anything shaking tonight?”

“Same old same old. You know how it is-weeks of boredom, seconds of terror.”

“Yeah. Listen, Ax here needs to use the head, so I’m going to show him, okay? Is Beth at the same desk?”

“Oh, sure, right next to your old desk.”

Starkey slipped her arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze.

“Now you get to see where I used to work, honey. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Exciting.”

She showed him the candy again.

“I’ll drop this on her desk and get Ax squared away. Can I bring you a fresh coffee?”

He visibly brightened.

“That would be nice, Carol. Thanks.”

“Right back. Keep eating, Hook. Really. Don’t let your enchiladas get cold.”

Starkey quickly found the desk she was looking for, put the chocolates beside the phone, then quietly opened a ceramic cookie jar with a unicorn on the lid.

She made sure Santos was back in the interview room, then lowered her voice.

“Marzik’s kept her keys in here for years.”

She fished inside, took out a ring of keys, then led me past a coffee room into an adjoining hall. The hall opened into another large room. This room was smaller than the CCS squad room, with half the number of cubicles, and was also deserted. The lights were on, which surprised me, but we were moving too fast to think about it.

“The task force guys were in here. C’mon, I’ll let you in-”

Starkey checked again to make sure Santos wasn’t watching, then trotted across the room with me behind her. Unlike the CCS cubicles, which were marked by clutter and family photographs, these cubicles were stripped and lifeless. The men and women who had sat at these desks cleaned out their possessions when the task force disbanded, and now the cubicles seemed desolate.

Starkey unlocked a door behind the cubicles, pulled it open, and stepped away.

“I’ll put the keys back and keep Hooker busy as long as I can, but don’t dawdle, okay? Look fast and get the hell out.”

I stepped inside as she hurried away.

The file room was small and cramped, with three rows of metal Ikea shelves the CCS detectives had probably put up on their own time. Cardboard file boxes were lined on the shelves, along with a vinyl log used to keep track of who had which reports. The boxes on the middle shelf were labeled with the names of the victims, and should have contained everything I wanted to check. I pulled down Frostokovich first, and knew it was bad even before I took off the top. Yellow hanging folders held a few scattered files and documents, but most of the folders were empty and the murder book was missing. I pushed the box back onto the shelf, then opened the Evansfield box to see if it had been cleaned out, too, but it was heavy with files and the murder book was wedged in behind the folders.

I checked each of the other boxes and worked my way to Repko, but, like Frostokovich, most of its files and murder book were missing. I looked through the remaining files for information about the video disk, but if the disk had ever been in the box all signs of it and Debra Repko’s employment at Leverage Associates were missing.

I was checking the log when I heard Starkey call from far away.

“Hey, Ax! Did you get lost, honey? Where are you?”

I straightened the boxes, snapped off the light, and stepped out of the closet as Starkey appeared in the hall. She waved frantically for me to join her and lowered her voice as she pulled me down the hall.

“Munson’s coming. Hooker told me he was just up here, and he’s coming back-”

“The murder books are missing.”

“Whatever. We’re out of here, Cole.”

We made sure the squad room was clear, then hurried toward the elevators. I hit the button, but Starkey moved past, pulling me with her.

“Forget it. We’re taking the stairs.”

She pushed through a stairwell door, and we hurried down the stairs, neither of us speaking. Every time we turned a corner I expected to see Munson on his way up, but we made it to the bottom without passing anyone.

Starkey stopped when we reached the lobby landing and took several deep breaths, calming herself. I touched her arm.

“We’re okay. It’s going to be fine.”

“I’m not scared, Cole. I smoke.”

She sucked a last deep breath, then took my hand and we stepped into the lobby. A man and a woman were waiting at the elevator, and Manuel was still looking bored at the security station. We held hands as we crossed the lobby as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Manuel said, “Take care, Bombs. Be seein’ you.”

“You, too, Manny. I’ll try to stop by more often.”

I didn’t realize her hand was damp until we were on the sidewalk.

WE KEPT our faces down as we walked to the corner, then crossed with the light to the parking lot and got into my car. When I put the key in the ignition, Starkey touched my hand.

“The murder books are missing?”

“Pretty much everything they had on Repko and Frostokovich is missing. The file on Trinh seemed light, but I don’t know enough about that case to be sure. The log says everything should still be in the files, but it isn’t.”

“Hooker told me Munson carried out a box just before we got there. He said Bastilla took something yesterday.”

“The last date in the log was the day Marx closed the case. Nothing has been signed out since.”

“So they’re just taking it.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I reached for the key again, but Starkey stopped me.

“Let’s wait.”

“I’ll take you back.”

“I don’t need to go back. If these bastards are covering for a murderer, I want their asses on a string. Let’s see where he goes.”

“He’ll probably go home.”

“Then let’s follow him home and figure out what to do later. Maybe we can break into his car.”

“Are you serious?”

“Roll down your window, Cole. I’m going to smoke.”

Munson pulled out of the building two cigarettes later in a red Mustang GT. He stayed on the surface streets in no apparent hurry, passing under the freeway and away from the skyscrapers. We had followed him less than a mile when his blinker came on.

“You see it?”

“I got it.”

The Mustang turned into the parking lot of one of the oldest steak houses in Los Angeles, Pacific Dining Car. Built in the twenties, the restaurant was housed in a railroad dining car. I pulled to the curb so we could watch.

Munson got out of his car with what appeared to be several loose files, left his car with the valet, and entered the restaurant. A crowd waiting to be seated was huddled around the door, but Munson wound through them as if he already had a place waiting. The restaurant had preserved the dining car’s ambience by maintaining the big touring windows through which dining passengers had enjoyed passing scenery, so it was easy to watch Munson make his way through the restaurant. He went the length of the car, then slipped into a booth where two people were seated. Marx and Bastilla had been waiting.