“I’ll be home around noon.”
“Good. Don’t be late.” Reluctantly, I turned and started down the hall.
“Dad?”
“What?”
“Ask Ali and Nate what actually happened the night of the break-in.”
I turned. “There’s something they haven’t told about that night?”
“Ask them, Dad.”
“They held back something about the break-in from Catheryn and me, but they told you?” I said incredulously.
“No. I… I found out on my own, kind of by accident. By then weeks had gone by, and I didn’t know what to-”
“Found out what?”
“Ask them, Dad,” Travis repeated. “They should tell you themselves.”
“Damn it, Travis-”
“Please, Dad.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll ask them.”
“I should have said something sooner. I could see things were getting worse, but I didn’t know what to do.”
“At least you’re doing the right thing now.”
“Dad?”
“What?”
“Are you disappointed in me?”
I saw the self-accusation in Travis’s eyes, and the response I had been about to utter died on my lips. “We all screw up, kid,” I said instead.
Travis lowered his gaze. “Not like this.”
I returned and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Look at me, Trav,” I said.
Slowly, Travis raised his eyes to mine. “Listen, kid,” I said gently. “When it comes to making decisions, I told you life doesn’t come with a universal yardstick, but there are some universal truths. One is that every father wants to see his son become a better man than he is. That’s true of every father, and I’m no exception. You’re asking whether I’m disappointed in you?”
“Yes, Dad, I am. Are you?”
I shook my head. “Not for a minute, Trav,” I said. “No way.”
27
Following my court appearance in West Los Angles, I returned to headquarters, still mulling over my discussion with Travis. More than anything, I missed Catheryn and for about the hundredth time since she’d left, I wished she were home.
Upon arriving at my desk, I found a message slip. Someone named Yolanda Blum had called. Thinking back, I recalled that she was the claims adjuster I had attempted to contact regarding the Larsons’ damaged Infiniti. For the moment postponing thoughts on how to deal with my children, I removed my jacket, hung it on the back of my chair, and dialed the number on the slip. A woman with a pronounced southern drawl answered. “Twentieth Century. Claims.”
“Yolanda Blum?”
“Yes. May I help you?”
“This is Daniel Kane, LAPD. I called some time back concerning a claim made by Susan Larson.”
“Oh, yes, through USAA. The Tenaka case. Give me a sec to pull it up.”
“Tenaka?”
“Our insured. Ah, here it is. By the way, I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. This flu that’s going around is awful.”
“As I understand it, your company refused payment on the Larsons’ claim,” I said, ignoring her excuse. “Why?”
“Under the circumstances, we felt completely justified,” Ms. Blum replied defensively. “It’s terrible what happened to them, though. I heard about it on the news.”
“Yes, ma’am. What circumstances?”
“For one thing, Mrs. Larson said in her claim that a man named Ron Phillips damaged her car.”
“You said your insured’s name is Tenaka.”
“Right. According to Mrs. Larson’s claim, Mr. Phillips, who was driving a white van, told her he was covered by Twentieth Century Insurance.”
“A white van?” I said, my pulse quickening. “Did you get a make on it?”
“No.”
“How about a license number?”
“Yes, that was included on the claim. When I found we had no one named Ron Phillips as an insured, I ran a DMV trace.”
“And?”
“The owner of the plates proved to be a Mr. James Tenaka of El Monte, who is, coincidentally, covered by Twentieth. But his vehicle is a red ’99 Ford sedan, not a white van. Furthermore, Mr. Tenaka denied any involvement in an accident with Susan Larson. He said he had never heard of Ron Phillips, and that he hadn’t been in West Los Angeles during the past year. In her claim, Mrs. Larson clearly stated that the other party was driving a white van, and in the absence of a police accident report…”
“… you denied payment,” I finished. “Did you call Mrs. Larson?”
“Right after talking with Mr. Tenaka. She was upset. Said she was absolutely certain she had copied down the license number correctly. She couldn’t believe that the other driver had lied to her. Do you think this might have something to do with the murders?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. At this point we’re checking everything. Did Mrs. Larson say anything else?”
“Hold on. Let me get my notes.” A rustling of paper, then, “She said her car was dented while parked outside her health club. The other driver was waiting for her when she came out.”
“What club?”
“Hinds Health Center. Olympic and Bundy.”
“I know the place,” I said, realizing I had been less than a block away when visiting Hank Dexter’s electronic shop. “Did she give a description of the man?”
“No. Mr. Phillips, or whatever his name is, told Mrs. Larson that he had forgotten his wallet. He didn’t have his driver’s license or proof of insurance with him, but he wanted to pay for the damage. They exchanged information. You know the rest.”
“Not all, but we’re getting there. I’ll need Mr. Tenaka’s phone number and a copy of the accident claim.”
“Of course.” Ms. Blum gave me Mr. Tenaka’s phone number, also promising to fax a copy of the insurance file.
Next I telephoned James Tenaka in El Monte. An elderly-sounding man answered. “Whatever it is, I’m not buying,” he grumbled.
“I’m not selling,” I said. “This is Detective Daniel Kane, LAPD. I’m calling about an accident involving your car.”
“What’s that? You’re gonna have to speak up.”
Raising my voice, I repeated myself without success, noticing Deluca grinning at me from an adjacent desk. Almost shouting, I tried again. The third go-around proved the charm.
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” asked Mr. Tenaka. “You’re talking about that lady in West LA? Damnation, I hardly drive anyplace anymore, let alone all the way over there.”
“So how do you explain your license number being on the claim report?”
“Funny thing about that,” Mr. Tenaka answered. “At first I figured somebody made a mistake. Transposed a couple digits or whatever. Then I went out and checked my plates.”
“On your car?”
“No, the one’s I chew with. Of course the ones on my car. What kind of cop are you, anyway?”
“A detective,” I answered. Looking up, I saw that besides Deluca, now a number of other task force members were following my conversation with amusement. “Can we get back to the plates?”
“Of course. And you don’t have to shout. I’m not deaf.”
“The plates?”
“Like I said, I went out and checked. They turned out to be the wrong ones. Didn’t match the numbers on my registration. Weren’t even close.”
“Somebody switched plates with you?”
“You’re the detective.”
“Did you report the substitution?”
“Hell, no. Have you been down to DMV lately? I figured I’d get around to it someday-like when I have four or five hours to kill standing in line.”
“Do me a favor, Mr. Tenaka. I need the number of the plates presently on your vehicle. Could you look for me?”
“Is this important?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on a minute.”
As I waited for Mr. Tenaka to return, I picked up a scratch pad. In small block letters I penciled “Killer hits victims’ cars” and “Why?” After a moment I made another notation, underlining it twice. “Can’t follow them home. Security gates.”
“You ready?” Mr. Tenaka asked, coming back on the line.
“Go ahead.”
Using alpha-bravo designations for each letter and pausing between digits, Mr. Tenaka carefully read the number of the plates now on his car.