Michael Connelly - Lost Light

“Yes, I know. That was the last time you saw it-when you signed it?”

“No, after the robbery I saw it. When I was questioned by the detectives. They asked if that was the report.”

“And you said it was?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, going back to when you and Linus made this report, how did that go?”

She shrugged.

“Linus and I just took turns typing the numbers into his laptop.”

“Isn’t there some sort of computer scanner or copier that could have recorded the serial numbers much more easily?”

“There is but it wouldn’t work for what we had to do. We had to randomly select and record bills from every pack but keep each recorded bill in its original pack. That way if the money was stolen and split up, there would be a chance of tracing every pack.”

I nodded.

“Who told you to do it that way?”

“Well, I guess it came down from Mr. Skaggs or maybe Mr. Vaughn. Mr. Vaughn was the one who dealt with security and the instructions from the insurance company.”

“Okay, so you are in the vault with Linus. How exactly did you record the money?”

“Oh, Linus thought it would take forever if we wrote down the numbers and then had to type them into a computer. So he brought his laptop in and we entered them directly. One of us would read off the number while the other typed.”

“Which one of you did which?”

“We both did. We switched. You might think sitting at a table with two million dollars in cash on it is a real thrill but it actually was boring. So we switched around. Sometimes I read and he typed, and then I’d type while he read out the numbers.”

I thought about this, trying to see how it could have worked. It might appear that having two employees put the list together would provide a double-checking system, but it didn’t. Whether Simonson was reading off numbers or entering them on the laptop computer, he was controlling the data. He could have made up numbers in either position and Jones would not have known it unless she looked at either the bill or the computer screen.

“Okay,” I said. “Then when you were finished you printed out the computer file and signed the report, right?”

“Right. I mean, I think so. It was a while back.”

“Is that your signature on there?”

She flipped to the last page of the document and checked. She nodded.

“That’s it.”

I held out my hand and she gave me the document back.

“Who took the report to Mr. Scaggs?”

“Probably Linus. He printed it out. Why are all of these details so important?”

Her first suspicion of where I was going. I didn’t answer. I flipped the report she had been studying to the back page and looked at the signatures myself. Her signature was below Simonson’s and above Scaggs’s scrawl. It had been the order of signing. Simonson, then her, then it was taken to Scaggs for final sign-off.

As I held the report up to the light from the porthole, I thought I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. It was only a photocopy of the original or maybe even a copy of a copy, but even still, there were gradations in the ink in Jocelyn Jones’s signature. It was something I had seen before on another case.

“What is it?” Jones asked.

I looked at her while putting the document back into the murder book.

“Excuse me?”

“You looked like you saw something important.”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just looking at everything. I have just a few more questions.”

“Good. I should get downstairs. We’re closing soon.”

“I’ll get out of your hair, then. Mr. Vaughn, was he part of this process in which the money was prepared and the serial numbers documented?”

She shook her head once.

“Not really. He sort of supervised us and came in a lot, especially when the money came in from the branches or the Federal Reserve. He was in charge of that, I guess.”

“Did he come in when you guys were dictating the numbers and typing them into the computer?”

“I don’t remember. I think he did. Like I said, he came in a lot. I think he liked Linus so he came in a lot.”

“What do you mean, he ‘liked’ Linus?”

“Well, you know.”

“You mean Mr. Vaughn was gay?”

She shrugged.

“I think he was, but not in an open way. It was a secret, I guess. It was no big deal.”

“What about Linus?”

“No, he’s not gay. That’s why I don’t think he liked Mr. Vaughn coming in so much.”

“Did he say that to you or was that just your take on it?”

“No, he sort of said something about it one day. Like he joked, saying he was going to have a sexual harassment suit if this keeps up. Something like that.”

I nodded. I didn’t know if this meant anything to the case or not.

“You didn’t answer my question before.”

“What was that?”

“About why you are focusing so much on all of this. The currency numbers, I mean. And Linus and Mr. Vaughn.”

“I’m not really. It just seems that way to you because that is the part of this you are familiar with. But I’m trying to be thorough about all aspects of this. Do you ever hear from Linus anymore?”

She seemed surprised by the question.

“Me? No. I visited him in the hospital once, right after the shooting. He never came back to work, so I never saw him again. We worked together but we weren’t really friends. Different sides of the tracks, I guess. I always thought that was why Mr. Scaggs picked us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we weren’t really friends and Linus was, you know, Linus. I think Mr. Scaggs picked two people that were different and weren’t friends so we wouldn’t get any ideas. About the money.”

I nodded and didn’t say anything. She seemed to go off into a thought and then she shook her head in a self-deprecating way.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I was thinking about going to see him at one of the clubs but thought they probably wouldn’t even let me in. And if I said I knew him, it might be embarrassing, you know, if they called him and he acted like he didn’t remember or something.”

“Clubs? There is more than one?”

She closed her eyes to suspicious slits.

“You told me you were being thorough. But you really don’t even know who he is now, do you?”

I shrugged.

“Who is he now?”

“He’s Linus. Like he only uses his first name now. He’s famous. He and his partners own the top clubs in Hollywood now. It’s like where all the celebrities go to see and be seen. Lines out the door and velvet ropes.”

“How many clubs?”

“I think at least four or five now. I don’t really keep track. They started with the one and then they kept adding.”

“How many partners are there?”

“I don’t know. There was a magazine story-wait a second, I think I saved it.”

She bent down and opened a drawer at the bottom of her desk. I heard her shuffling its contents around and then she came out with a copy of Los Angeles Magazine, the coffee-table monthly. She started turning its pages. It was a glossy magazine that listed restaurants in the back and usually ran two or three long feature articles on living and dying in L.A. Behind the gloss was a bite, though. Twice over the years writers from the magazine had done stories on my cases. I always thought they had come closest of any media reports to the truth of a crime in terms of its effects on a family or neighborhood. The ripple effect.

“I don’t know why I was holding on to this,” Jones said, a bit embarrassed after just saying she didn’t keep track of her former coworker. “I guess because I knew him. Yeah, here.”

She turned the magazine around. There was a two-page opening spread on the story under a headline that said, “The Night Kings.” There was an accompanying photo of four young men posed side by side behind a dark mahogany bar. Behind them were shelves of colored bottles lit from beneath.