Robert Crais - Chasing Darkness

We put the file box and murder books on the dining table, then drank bottles of water. We ate muffins slathered with strawberry jam, standing over the murder books as if we were stealing time to eat like we had stolen the files.

We split the material between us. I skimmed the Frostokovich murder book first, and immediately saw that pages had been removed. Every murder book begins with an initial report by the original detectives who caught the case, identifying the victim and describing the crime scene. Marx and Munson had signed off on the opening crime scene report. Reports relating interviews with the workmen who discovered her body came next, followed by their initial interview with Sondra’s parents, Ron L. and Ida Frostokovich. If Marx and Munson interviewed Sondra’s girlfriends about the dinner they shared, the report of that interview was now missing. A twelve-page gap in the page-numbering sequence followed the interview with Sondra’s parents. The medical examiner’s six-page autopsy protocol was intact, but another three pages after it were missing. I didn’t bother to flip through the rest of the book.

“They gutted this thing. We’ve got missing pages all through here.”

Pike was fingering through the files in the box. He grunted, then lifted a ziplock bag containing a silver DVD. The name REPKO was written directly onto the DVD and clearly visible through the transparent plastic bag.

Pike said, “Your missing disk.”

A folded letter was stapled to the bag. Pike read it, then passed it to me.

“They sent it to the FBI. SID had it right. The Feds couldn’t get anything off the disk, either.”

The letter was from the FBI’s lab in San Francisco and was addressed to Deputy Chief Thomas Marx. It confirmed what Pike had just told me.

“But why send it at all? If Marx thought it would clear Byrd or implicate Wilts, why not just destroy it?”

Pike grunted again, and we went on with the files.

The Trinh murder book was also missing material, though not as much as Frostokovich, but the Repko book had been looted. Most of the documents and large sections of each report were missing.

I put the murder books aside and picked out a thin file marked REPKO-PDA/PHONE LOG. The first page was a letter from the president of a cellular service provider addressed to Marx regarding Debra Repko’s missing PDA.

Dear Chief Marx,

Per your personal request today and with the understanding that this communication is off the record until such time as our attomeys receive the proper court instruction, please find the call record covering the prior sixty-day period for the above referenced cell number, which is held in contract by Leverage Associates. As discussed, I am trusting in your good word and discretion that our cooperation will remain undisclosed.

If I can be of further assistance in this matter, please do not hesitate to call my personal line.

Sincerely.

Paulette Brennert, President

The date indicated that Marx had requested the call log almost a week before Byrd’s body was found.

I said, “Get this-Marx knew about Debra Repko’s PDA. Darcy and Maddux didn’t even know about it, but Marx knew and requested the call history.”

“Didn’t you ask Bastilla about it?”

“This is from before that. Bastilla must have been pretending.”

Pike moved closer and turned the page.

The next five sheets were the call logs listing the numbers to and from Debra’s PDA during the period prior to her death. Handwritten notes in blue or black ink were by each call and most of the calls were identified as being to or from Leverage employees. A few of the calls were simply marked as family, but six of the calls were highlighted in yellow marker. The six highlighted calls had all been made in the ten days prior to her death, and all were to or from the same number. The highlighted number had not been identified. I kept reading.

The next page was a spec sheet showing a picture of a simple basic cell phone manufactured by Kyoto Electronics. It was an inexpensive model that did not fold or take pictures, and likely offered very few features. An accompanying letter was attached to the spec sheet.

Detective C. Bastilla,

The cellular number in question is a prepaid number assigned to a cell phone (Model AKL-1500) manufactured by Kyoto Electronics. (See enclosed picture.) Our records indicate that the phone unit, cell-service activation, and additional talk-time minutes were purchased by cash. For this reason, we are unable to provide information about the purchaser.

Due to legal and liability requirements, we are unable to provide call-log records for the above-referenced number until in receipt of an appropriate court order. Once in receipt of such order, we will be happy to comply.

Sincerely,

Michael Toman

Operations Manager

Pike said, “She had two conversations with the highlighted number on the day she was murdered.”

“Joe. Bastilla was trying to identify the caller.”

“Looks that way. Looks like they were trying to identify someone else, too.”

Pike drew out a folder that was thick with documents about Wilts, but none of the reports and files were anything I expected. This file was labeled FBI, and contained a letter from Marx to the FBI director in Washington, D.C. It was marked PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL. A short list of phone numbers was attached, including the number that had been highlighted in yellow.

This letter will serve as my official request that your agency obtain the proper court instruction for, and initiate and maintain, recorded phone monitors on the attached Los Angeles area code phone numbers, and do so independent of and without the knowledge of my own agency, the Los Angeles Police Department, or any other local personnel, officials, or local judicial members. As Councilman Nobel Wilts is believed to have knowledge of or possibly have committed multiple homicides over a seven-year period, I cannot stress enough the need for utmost security in this matter.

I stared at the page, but the words had lost focus. I pushed past a growing sense of frustration and checked the date. Marx had faxed his request to the head of the FBI only eight days ago-two days before he told the world that Lionel Byrd had committed the murders.

I said, “Joe.”

I gave him the page.

“They aren’t protecting Wilts. They’re investigating him. It’s an active investigation.”

We were reading through the rest of the files when the first car arrived. They didn’t scream up Code Three with the lights and sirens, and SWAT didn’t rappel from hovering choppers. Gravel crunched outside my door, followed by the soft squeak of brakes.

Pike went to the window.

“It’s Marx.”

The Inner Circle had arrived.

MARX AND Munson unfolded from his Lexus. Bastilla eased up from the opposite direction with a black-and-white Metro car behind her. They saw me at the same time, but no one shouted or tried to knock me down.

Marx was calm, but somehow larger, as if swollen with tension.

I said, “You heartless sonofabitch. You told those people it was over.”

Munson flicked his fingers, telling me to move out of the door.

“Let’s go in, Cole. We need to have a little talk.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

Bastilla said, “You’re in no position. Act like an adult.”

The uniforms stayed in their car, but the rest of them came inside. Marx glanced at Pike, then frowned at the files and murder books spread over the table. He told Bastilla to gather their stuff, then frowned at me.

“Have you read these things?”

“Enough to know what you’re doing. I pushed this thing because I thought you were protecting him.”

“Now you know you were wrong. You should have just let it go, but no, you couldn’t mind your business.”