the Forgotten Man (2005) (7 page)

The bathroom was empty, too, except for a small black toiletries case. I was hoping for a prescription bottle showing a name, but it held only the usual anonymous travel articles available at any Rite Aid. I went back to the alcove, and checked the pants hanging on the rail. The pockets were empty. The suitcase was unlocked, so I opened it. A naked woman smiled up at me. She was on the cover of one of those freebie sex newspapers filled with ads for strippers, outcall services, and massage parlors. This one was the Hard-X Times. I lifted it aside, and stared down at myself.

In a way I didn't understand, my chest hurt, as if a pressure had built within me until some part of me cracked and the pressure escaped. The picture was part of an article about me published in a local magazine. The reproduction was poor and murky, like it might have been copied off a library microfiche; my eyes were dark smudges, my mouth was a black line, and my face was mottled, but I knew it was me. I found two more articles under the first, one I remembered from the Daily News and another from the L. A. Weekly.

This was his room.

John Doe #05-1642.

I put the articles aside and searched the rest of his suitcase. I felt through his underwear and three rumpled shirts, then felt along the inside lining of the suitcase for some kind of identification, but instead I found something hard and round inside a roll of socks. I unrolled the socks and counted out $6,240 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

I counted the money twice, put it back in the socks, then finished searching the room. Nothing identified the occupant, almost as if he was purposefully trying to hide himself.

I put everything back as I had found it, let myself out, and went back to the lobby. The older couple was gone. A name tag on the clerk's blazer read James Kramer.

I gave him my best cop tone.

"My name is Cole. I'm investigating a homicide, and we believe a person or persons involved might be a guest at your motel. Do you recognize this man?"

I held out the morgue shot, and watched Kramer's mouth tighten.

"Is he dead?"

"Yes, sir, he is. Do you recognize him?"

"He looks kinda different, like that."

They always look different when they're dead. I put away the picture, and took out my notepad.

"We're trying to identify him. We believe he was staying in room one-sixteen. Can you tell me his name?"

Kramer moved to his computer and punched in the room number to bring up the invoice.

"That's Mr. Faustina - Herbert Faustina."

He spelled it for me.

"Could you give me his home address and phone?"

He read off an address on College Ridge Lane in Scottsdale, Arizona, then followed it with a phone number.

"Okay. How about his credit card number?"

"He paid cash. We do that if you put down a three-hundred-dollar cash deposit."

I tapped my pad, trying to figure out what to ask next while he stared at me. You should never give them a chance to think.

He said, "What did you say your name was?"

"Cole."

"Could I see your badge?"

"If he made calls from his room, those calls would show up on his bill, right?"

He was beginning to look nervous.

"Are you a policeman?"

"No, I'm a private investigator. It's okay, Mr. Kramer. We're all on the same side here."

Kramer stepped back from the desk to put more distance between us. He didn't look scared; he was worried he would get in trouble for answering my questions.

"I don't think I should say any more. I'm going to call the manager."

He turned to pick up his phone.

"You need to do something before you call. Someone else might have been involved, and they might be in his room. That person might be injured and need help."

He held the phone to his face, but he didn't dial. His eyebrows quivered, as if he was sorry he had ever taken a crappy job like this.

"What do you mean?"

"Check his room. Just peek inside to see if someone needs help, then you can call your manager. You don't want someone dying in that room."

He glanced back toward the hall.

"What do you mean, dying?"

"Faustina was murdered. I knocked on his door before I came to you, but no one answered. I don't know that anyone is inside, but I'm asking you to check. Make sure no one is bleeding to death, then call."

Kramer glanced toward the hall again, then opened the desk drawer for his passkey and came around the desk.

"You wait here."

"I'll wait."

When he disappeared down the hall, I went behind the desk. Herbert Faustina's account still showed on the computer. I found the button labeled CHECKOUT INVOICE, and pressed it. A speedy little laser printer pushed out Herbert Faustina's final room charges on three pages. I took them, and left before Kramer came back. I did not wait. The World's Greatest Detective had struck again.

Chapter 10

T en hours start to finish, and I had Faustina's name and address, and a list of every call made from his motel. I was thinking about calling Diaz and Pardy when I realized I was hungry, so I picked up a couple of soft tacos from Henry's Tacos in North Hollywood and ate them on the benches out front. I wolfed down the tacos like a starving dog, then bought two more, slathering them with Henry's amazing sauce. I would probably have Faustina's life story by dinner, and his killer by bedtime. LAPD would probably beg me to clear their other unsolved cases, and I thought I might go along. Largesse is everything. When I finished eating, I worked my way up Laurel Canyon to the top of the mountain, then along Woodrow Wilson Drive toward my house. I was feeling pretty good until I saw the unmarked sedan parked in front of my house, and my front door wide open.

I parked off the road beyond my house, then walked back to check out the car. It was an LAPD detective ride with a radio in the open glove box and a man's sport coat tossed casually on the back seat. My friend Lou Poitras was a homicide lieutenant at Hollywood Station, but this wasn't his car. Also, Lou wouldn't leave my front door hanging open like an invitation to bugs and looters.

I went inside. Pardy was on my couch with his arms spread along its back and his feet up on the coffee table. He didn't get up or smile when he saw me. A black Sig hung free under his arm.

"You have a nice little place here, Cole. I guess it pays off, getting your name in the papers."

"What are you doing?"

"I was up here asking your neighbors about you. They say your car was here all night, so I guess you're in the clear unless something else comes up."

"I meant what are you doing here in my house."

"I saw your door open, but got no answer. I thought you might be dead or injured, you being a party to a homicide investigation, so I came in to render assistance."

I went back to my front door and examined the jamb. Neither it nor the lock showed signs of having been jimmied. I left the door open and went back to the living room. Two cabinets beneath my television were ajar and the stack of phone books on the pass- through between my dining room and the kitchen wasn't in its usual place. Pardy had searched my house.

"I can't believe you came into my house like this."

"I can't believe you went back to my crime scene this morning. I find it suspicious."

"Diaz knows I'm working the case. She gave me her blessing."

"Did she?"

"Ask her."

"O'Loughlin gave me the lead, and I don't need any help. Consider this a courtesy call."

Pardy suddenly stood. He was taller than me, with angular shoulders and large bony hands, and he stood close to intimidate me.

"Don't come around my case anymore. I don't want you talking to my witnesses, I don't want you at my crime scene, and I don't want you contaminating my evidence."

"I'll bet you don't want me finding evidence you missed, either."

He was here because of the key card. When I arrived at the alley that morning, Pardy had been shining a flashlight under the Dumpsters . It had been his evidence to find, only he hadn't found it. When Chen notified Central Homicide about the card, O'Loughlin must have asked about it, and now Pardy felt shown up.

"I'm sorry you got burned, but what was I supposed to do, pretend I didn't find it?"

"Funny how you found a card that wasn't there. I'm thinking maybe you planted it, looking to show us up."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you're a publicity slut, Cole. You might have murdered that bum just for the ink - the dumb cops can't close the deal, so the superstar asshole rides to the rescue, page one above the fold?"

I was pissed off and tired, and the wonderful spicy soft tacos had grown sour and old.

I said, "Have you been to the Home Away Suites yet?"

Pardy's face tightened and his red skin looked like parchment pulled over a skull. I shook my head because I knew he hadn't.

"No, Pardy, you haven't. While you were dicking around up here, I went to the motel. The vic was listed on their register as Herbert Faustina. When the reporters interview you, you can tell them the superstar asshole had to give you his name because you were up here going through my house without a search warrant while I was working the case. They'll probably make me out to be Sherlock Holmes after that."

Pardy's face pinched even tighter.

"What did you do at the motel?"

"I talked to a clerk named Kramer. He's probably gone off duty by now, but you can catch him tomorrow. Tell O'Loughlin I covered that one for you, too."

I didn't tell him I had entered the room, and I wasn't going to give him Faustina's bill. I decided I would still call Diaz, but Pardy could swing it himself.

He said, "You think you know, but you don't, Cole. You don't have any idea. Stay out of my case. You're nowhere around this or I'll have your ass."

I should have let it go. I should have just nodded, and he would have walked out, but I didn't like that he had come into my house, and I liked it still less that he thought he knew me when he didn't know me at all.

"Wrong, Pardy, which is something you'd know if you had paid attention at the Academy. I can pursue any matter I choose so long as I don't interfere with or obstruct you in doing your job. You might not like it, but if you arrest me on those grounds, you'll have to make a case not only to the district attorney but also to Internal Affairs. You'll get to tell them how you entered my home without paper, and how you missed the key card and showed up late at the motel. You'll even get to tell them how you tried to front me off even though everything I've done today has been done with the full knowledge and permission of LAPD. You'll look sweet with all that, Pardy. O'Loughlin might even help you pack."

Pardy watched me with the hard eyes as if his body had gone rigid, and he didn't know what to do because nothing was playing out like he imagined. Then he made it worse.

"I don't think you understand, Cole. Where's your gun? Let me see the gun you killed all those people with."

Pardy raised his right hand and rested it on the Sig's grip. A film of sweat made his forehead shine.

"I want to make sure you understand."

The hammer cocking on the Colt .357 Python at my front door sounded like cracking knuckles. Pardy turned to the sound, and shouted his warning like when he was in uniform.

"LAPD!"

Joe Pike said, "So?"

Pike stood framed in the shadows of the open front door with his .357 down along his right thigh. Pike was six feet one, with short brown hair and ropy muscles that left him looking slender even though he weighed two hundred pounds. He was wearing a sleeveless gray sweatshirt, jeans, and the Marine Corps sunglasses he pretty much wore 24/7, inside and out, daytime or night. Light from the setting sun caught the glasses, and made his eyes glow.

Pardy kept shouting, but had the sense not to pull out his gun.

I said, "This is my partner, Joe Pike. You read about him in the newspaper, too."

"I'm a police officer, goddamnit. Police officer! Put down that weapon! Tell him to put down the goddamn gun."

I looked at Pike.

"He wants you to put down your gun."

"No."

"What do you want to do, Pardy? You want to have a shootout? You were finished. If you want to arrest me, I'll go with you and we can sort this out with O'Loughlin down at the station. Did you want to place me under arrest?"

Pardy glanced back at me, and the moment was done. He could press it, but his shit was weak and he knew it. He was so tight his voice squeaked like a bad hinge.

"Sit this one out."

Pardy lurched around like a sailing ship tacking into the wind. Pike stepped down out of the entry to let him pass. When Pardy reached the door, he looked back at me. He didn't seem scared; he seemed certain.

"Sit this one out."

"Good night, Pardy."

Pardy left, and after a minute his car pulled away. When it was gone, Pike holstered his .357.