Starkey said, “You think this is where he lives?”
“I don’t know. Looks like it.”
“Maybe he’s just dropping off the stuff.”
“Can you drive a stick?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to see. When I get out, get behind the wheel. Be ready to go.”
The Lexus turned past the dark shoulder of a camellia bush, then lights flashed across a lawn. I got out, and ran hard to the camellia at the head of the drive. A small ARMED RESPONSE security patrol sign stood beside the bush. The garage was open, and bright with interior light. His sedan shared the garage with a silver Lexus SUV. Marx was lifting the box from his backseat when I reached the camellia. An interior door from the garage into the house was open, and a woman wearing black pants and a loose T-shirt was waiting at the door. She was a nice-looking woman about Marx’s age, and interacted with him the way a wife would interact with her husband.
Marx placed the box on the trunk of his car, sat his briefcase on the box, then put the manila envelope on top of the briefcase. When the stack of goods was manageable, he carried the box into the house. The woman stepped to the side to let him pass, then touched a button on the wall. I wondered if she knew what was in the box. I wondered if she cared.
The light in the garage went off.
The door rumbled down.
Marx was home.
His secrets were with him.
I called Joe Pike.
32
I SLIPPED into the shadows beneath a pepper tree, then made my way alongside Marx’s house into his backyard. I took it slow, thinking there might be a dog or lights rigged to a motion sensor, but there was neither.
The backyard was lush and comfortable even at night, with a giant avocado tree spread over a patio. Fallen fruit littered the ground and filled the air with a pungent scent. The kitchen and what appeared to be a family room were on the garage side at the back of the house, and opened onto the patio. Marx had a very nice outdoor kitchen, with an enormous gas grill and a Big Green Egg smoker. The woman I took to be Marx’s wife was in the kitchen. Marx entered the family room from the opposite side of the house, then disappeared through a door. He wasn’t carrying the box or files or his briefcase, and no one else was visible inside the home.
Windows glowed with dim light on the far side of the house, so I moved past the patio. The first set of windows revealed a small bedroom that looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. A bathroom came next, then the corner room. Marx was using the corner room as an office. The light was on. I moved closer to see if the box and files were in his office, but Marx came in before I reached the window. He went to his desk, looked down at something, then abruptly stepped into a closet. I couldn’t see what was inside or what he did, but then he backed out, closed the door, and left his office. He turned out the light as he left.
I drifted back to the patio, saw that Marx was now in the kitchen with his wife, then returned to his office. I took out my penlight, cupped the lens with my hand, then turned it on, letting a sliver of light between my fingers. I examined the windows on both sides of his office, looking for alarm contacts. Most of the houses in the area had the ARMED RESPONSE sign like Marx, but most of them didn’t have wired alarms. Neither did Marx. Like most other people in upper-middle-class neighborhoods, Marx had subscribed to the patrol, but hadn’t popped for the hardware.
I shut the light, then continued around the house and made my way back to the street. When I reached the car, Starkey climbed over the console into the passenger seat.
“Jesus, what took you so long?”
“Marx brought the files inside. I wanted to look around.”
I started the engine, then one-eightied toward the freeway.
Starkey said, “Damn. I’d love to see what he took.”
I nodded, but didn’t respond.
She said, “What are we going to do?”
“Go home. I’m taking you back to your car.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you expect me to do, kick down the door and beat him until he confesses? I need to figure out what to do next.”
I made small talk as we drove back to Hollywood, and almost everything I said was a lie. I knew exactly what I was going to do, but I didn’t want Starkey to know and I didn’t want her to be part of it. She had already risked enough. And as with Pat Kyle, you have to protect your friends.
I dropped Starkey outside the Hollywood Station, let her believe I was heading home, then drove back to Altadena. Joe Pike had made good time. He was waiting at a mini-mart not far from Marx’s home, his spotless red Jeep glittering in the fluorescent light beside the gas pumps like a jewel.
I pulled up next to him. Headlights coming down from the hills approached, flickered on our faces in a momentary illumination, then passed.
“You know what I’m going to do?”
“Sure. You’re going to break into his house. Anyone inside with him?”
“His wife. We’ll wait until tomorrow when the house is clear, then I’ll go in. You okay with it?”
Pike didn’t hesitate.
“Sure. Does Starkey know?”
“No. Better if she doesn’t.”
“Okay. Let’s scout the area, then figure out how we’re going to do this.”
We planned our action at three that morning, huddled together over all-night mini-mart coffee and white-bread sandwiches of processed cheese. Then we crept into position and waited.
33
MARX BACKED out of his garage at ten minutes after eight the next morning. I was across the street, sitting behind a stunted fig tree at the corner of his neighbor’s house. I had moved into position when the first grey fingers of morning pushed off the night. Pike was parked two blocks away beside a house that was being remodeled. Marx would drive past him if he headed for the freeway.
I hit the speed-dial for Joe.
“He’s getting into his Lexus. He’s wearing his uniform and he’s alone. His wife is still home.”
I shut my phone and waited. Pike called back two minutes later.
“I’m three cars behind him, southbound. Looks like he’s heading for the freeway.”
“Okay.”
Pike would follow him to the freeway before turning back. Marx might have loaded the files back into his car, but I couldn’t know that until I entered his house, so I sat in the fig tree and waited. I figured Marx would be gone for most of the day, but I was concerned about his wife. I wouldn’t enter the house as long as she was present, and she might be one of those women who never left home. A housekeeper or guest might arrive, which would be even worse.
I waited.
My cell phone vibrated a few minutes later, making a soft buzz against my thigh. I thought it would be Pike, but it was Levy. He sounded excited and filled with interest.
“I think you’re right about Deputy Chief Marx, Elvis. He’s been virtually absent from his office this week. He’s turned his regular duties over to his assistants.”
“He’s been busy. Bastilla and Munson have been removing task force files and giving them to Marx. Marx has been bringing them home.”
Levy was quiet, then cleared his throat.
“Which files?”
“I’ll know when I see them. I’m outside his house.”
“Outside his home?”
“In a fig tree. I can’t speak any louder.”