“It has her cell phone number, but I called and it wasn’t her. I got somebody named Rami.”
Pike said, “She gave you a false number. Like everything else.”
Langer held out the rental agreement, as if we would understand just by seeing the number.
The contract was a form document you could buy in any stationery store, obligating the tenant to pay a certain amount every month and to be responsible for any damages. Spaces were provided for background information, prior residences, and references.
“Is this your handwriting, or hers?”
“Hers. It’s so much easier if you let them fill it in themselves. We sat at the table, talking.”
Her handwriting was slanted to the right and had been made with a blue ballpoint pen. An address in Silver Lake was the only former residence listed, and was probably false. Spaces for her driver’s license and Social Security numbers were filled in, but they, like the cell phone number, were probably false. I copied the numbers anyway. I planned to call Bastilla, and then Mr. Langer would have more people knocking on doors and filling his courtyard with noise.
The spaces for banking and credit information were blank.
“You didn’t require any of this?”
“She was paying with cash. She seemed so nice.”
The dog waddled in through the open door and wandered between us. Pike petted the little round head. The dog licked his hand.
Everything was written in blue ink, except for the make and model of her car. The information about her car was written in a cramped hand using black ink.
“Did you write this?”
“Uh-huh, that’s me. People never remember their license. I saw her getting into her car one day, so I went out later and copied it.”
Her car was a white Ford Neon with a California plate, and was likely the only true information we had unless she had stolen the car. I remembered seeing the Neon on the day we met.
“Are the police coming back?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”
“You were lied to like everyone else.”
We thanked him for the help, then went to our cars to phone Bastilla. She didn’t seem particularly impressed.
“We talk to you about this a half hour ago, and you’re back on the case?”
“I told you I wouldn’t sit it out, Bastilla. Are you interested in this or not?”
“So she’s a liar, Cole. People lie all the time.”
“She’s the only person we’ve found with a confirmed relationship to Byrd, and she’s been lying to everyone, which means maybe she lied about Byrd, too. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Yes, it bothers me, but right now it doesn’t mean much one way or another. This guy you spoke with, the manager, is he still on the premises?”
“Yeah. In his apartment.”
“Okay. Tell him to stay put. I’ll see what the DMV has on her before we roll out.”
I closed my phone, then looked at Pike.
“They’re coming out to see Langer.”
“Cool. Let’s kick back and wait.”
I laughed, then opened the phone again and called a friend at the DMV. I read off the Neon’s plate, asked for the registration information, and had it in less than a minute. The Neon was registered to a Sara K. Hill with an address in a small community called Sylmar at the top of the San Fernando Valley.
“Does the vehicle show stolen?”
“Nope. No wants, warrants, or unpaid citations. Registration is in order and up-to-date.”
I put down the phone and told Pike.
He said, “Maybe that’s her real name.”
Sara K. Hill was listed with Sylmar Information. I copied her number, then dialed. A woman answered on the sixth ring, her voice sounding older and coarse.
I said, “May I speak with Ivy, please.”
“You have the wrong number.”
She hung up.
I called her again, and this time she answered after only two rings.
“Me, again. Is this Sara Hill?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find Ivy Casik.”
“Well, good luck to you. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
She sounded more irritated than anything else.
“I think maybe you might. She’s driving your car.”
Sara Hill’s voice grew careful.
“Are you from the credit card?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not from the credit card.”
Her voice was still careful.
“Who did you want?”
“A tall girl, straight hair, in her mid-twenties-”
Sara Hill cut me off.
“I don’t know anyone like that! Don’t call here again!”
The line went dead again, but this time we didn’t call back. Pike went to his Jeep, I climbed into my car, and we drove north through the Cahuenga Pass toward Sylmar.
38
SYLMAR WAS a small rural community at the foot of the Newhall Pass, where the San Fernando Valley died against the mountains. The main streets were lined with outdated strip malls and fast-food outlets, but remnants of truck farms and plant nurseries were scattered across a landscape gone largely undeveloped thanks to the ugly convergence of freeways, railroad tracks, and power stations. It was the kind of area where signs offered FEED and TACK.
Pike followed me to a small house in a ragged neighborhood between the Golden State Freeway and the railroad. The yards were large the way they tend to be in rural areas, and burned dead by the heat. More than one house sported rusted-out cars and chain-link fences so old they sagged from the weight of the air. Even in that shabby neighborhood, Sara Hill’s house looked tired and sad.
The white Neon was not in her drive, so we cruised the area to see if it was parked nearby or hidden in someone’s yard. When we returned to the house, we parked on either side of the street, then Pike trotted down the drive to cover the rear. I found three letters and some throwaway flyers in the mailbox. The letters were addressed to Sara Hill. We had the right place.
I brought the mail to the door, rang the bell once, then knocked. A few seconds later, Mrs. Sara K. Hill called from behind the door.
“Who is it?”
“I phoned about Ivy Casik.”
“Go away. I don’t know anything about the credit, and I ain’t got nothin’ to say about it.”
“I have your mail.”
Her voice rose.
“Put it down. Stealin’ mail is a federal crime. I’ll call the police.”
“I’m the police. Open the door and I’ll show you my badge.”
Lying is often the best policy.
Sara Hill threw open the door. She was a large woman with angry eyes and swollen joints, and she filled the frame with her bulk. She wore a thin housedress frayed at the hem, and rested her weight on a cane. I tried to see past her, but couldn’t.
“You’re not from the credit?”
“I don’t know anything about the credit. See?”
I held up my license. It didn’t look anything like a badge, but she probably didn’t understand what she was seeing.
“You gimme that mail. I don’t like the look of you one bit. You look like your voice.”
I held up the mail but didn’t give it to her.
“The Neon.”
“You’re not from the credit?”
“No, I am not from the credit. I’m trying to find the woman who is driving your car. She may have knowledge of a crime and she might be in danger.”
The angry eyes softened into something fearful, as if she was used to bad news and figured she was about to get more.
“She didn’t have an accident, did she? I don’t think I could take that right now.”
“Do you know a young woman named Ivy Casik?”
“I don’t know any Ivy Casik. My daughter is Jonna Hill. She has the car, but I guess she could’ve loaned it out. What happened?”
I tried to see past her again, and held up my hand to indicate Ivy’s height.
“This tall. A big girl, athletic, with straight hair. A heart tattooed here on her arm.”