“Do you have any idea where or when the switch took place?” I asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think that because you didn’t even know your plates were gone, you have absolutely no idea.”
“Bingo.”
“Thanks, Mr. Tenaka. You’ve been helpful.”
After hanging up, I ran a DMV trace to determine the owner of the plates presently on Mr. Tenaka’s Ford. The computer spit back the name of a Mrs. Eleanor Baumgarten in Huntington Beach. Upon calling her, I learned that Mrs. Baumgarten’s plates had been stolen two months earlier while she was shopping at a local mall. In the interim she’d reported the theft and received new ones.
I next talked with one of the Newport Beach detectives detailed to the task force. Although he didn’t have the information I requested, he referred me to his partner, Greg Sugita, who had been assigned the job of going through the Welshes’ bills and correspondence.
Upon questioning, Sugita gazed at me curiously. “Now that you mention it, I did find something in the wife’s address book that might relate to the scrape on their car,” he said, his Asian features furrowing thoughtfully. He fumbled through a stack of papers. “Got it somewhere. Here we go.” He handed me a scrap of paper.
I inspected it. In fine Palmer penmanship someone had written the name “Jeff Millford,” followed by the words “Continental Insurance,” “blue Toyota,” and a license plate number, address, and telephone number.
“Is this Mrs. Welsh’s handwriting?” I asked.
Sugita nodded. “I’m no expert, but it looks like the other entries in her phone book to me. Think it’s important?” As had others in the room, he’d heard most of my half-shouted conversation with Mr. Tenaka.
“Maybe. Did Mrs. Welsh belong to a health club?”
Sugita referred to his notes. “Family Fitness,” he replied after a quick search. “Over in the Fashion Island area.”
Two quick phone calls confirmed my suspicions. Neither the address nor the phone number on the slip of paper belonged to anyone named Jeff Millford, and the automobile license number turned out to be registered to a schoolteacher in Tarzana, who owned a Volkswagen, not a Toyota. Another call established that the teacher was unaware someone had taken her plates, for whoever had done so had gone to the trouble of replacing them with another set. I smiled grimly as the woman returned from her garage and read me the number.
Mr. Tenaka’s stolen plates had finally resurfaced.
“You have something, don’t you?” asked Deluca, who had stood beside my desk to listen to my last few telephone conversations.
“Yeah. Let’s go talk to Snead.”
“He’s in a meeting with the chief up on the tenth floor.”
I grinned. “What a shame. Guess we’ll have to talk to Huff.”
We found Lieutenant Huff at his desk reviewing the Welsh lab report, which had come in earlier that day. He glanced up. “Kane, Deluca,” he said.
“Anything of interest?” asked Deluca.
“Not much,” sighed Huff, flipping through the pages. “No sperm, the saliva swabs tested negative for blood typing, and none of the print unknowns matches those from the other scenes. Tissue from the fingernail clippings are all from the victims. Same with blood and urine. On the positive side, a found hair was a ninety-percent match with one taken from the Pratt house-including the black dye. The rope and candles are identical too, as are the bites.
“That’s it?”
Huff nodded. “The coroner’s report isn’t back yet, but I don’t expect it to add much.”
“Kane thinks he may have a lead.”
Huff looked at me hopefully. “You come up with something, Detective?”
“Yes, sir.” Succinctly, I related what I had learned in my phone conversation with Yolanda Blum, also describing the trail of switched license plates that began with Eleanor Baumgarten and ended with the schoolteacher in Tarzana.
“So the common thread isn’t the auto repair shops,” mused Huff. “It’s that the victims’ cars are damaged in the first place.”
“Right. Looks like our guy sees an attractive woman at a health club or wherever, then bumps her car to find out were she lives. He uses stolen plates to keep from getting traced, changing to a fresh set for each victim.”
“Why bother hitting the cars?” asked Deluca. “Why not just follow them home?”
“I wondered that, too,” I said. “Then I recalled that all three murdered families lived in security complexes. Maybe on the first attempt the guy got stopped at a gate, so he went to plan B. Or maybe he just enjoys a little contact before the main event.”
“You say Mr. Tenaka’s plates turned up in Tarzana?” asked Huff.
“Right. It appears the killer is leaving the last stolen set whenever he takes new ones, probably to give himself time before the switch is noticed.”
“Cute,” said Deluca. “But if he’s as smart as we think, he must’ve known his game of musical plates would eventually be discovered.”
“He knows,” I said.
“Still think he’s screwing with us?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then let’s use it,” suggested Huff. “Put out an APB on the last set we know he stole, the teacher’s from Tarzana.”
“It’s a shot,” I said. “Unfortunately, if we’re lucky enough to find her plates, by then they’ll probably be on somebody else’s car.”
“Then we search for the most recent set. It’s better that nothing.”
“How about notifying insurance companies to be on the lookout for accident claims in which an incorrect license number is reported?” offered Deluca.
“Good idea,” said Huff.
“Along those lines, the guy’s been seen driving a white van and a blue Toyota,” I added. “He might have rented them. We could canvass auto rental agencies and cross-check accident dates reported by the victims. We should check to see whether we can get a paint scraping from the Welshes’ damaged fender, too. Could come in handy if we find the Toyota. We might be able to get a year and model from the paint analysis, too.”
“Worth a try. What about checking vehicle ownerships with DMV?”
“At this point, with what little we have on the Toyota, and without a year or even a make on the van-no way.”
“Right. Anything else?”
I thought a moment. “Mrs. Larson and Mrs. Welsh both belonged to health clubs. I’ll bet we’ll find that the first woman did, too.”
“So we search for a member or employee who’s connected to all three clubs,” said Deluca, picking up the thread.
“Plus, we check for anyone who might have witnessed the accidents. Maybe we can get a description of the guy,” I said. “Putting female vice officers in the involved clubs might be worthwhile, too.”
Huff made several entries in his notebook. “I’ll run it by Snead when he gets back.”
“One more thing,” I said. “We’re still looking into unexplained break-ins, correct?”
Huff nodded. “To date, Collins and Shanelec have investigated twenty-seven occurrences. Without result, I might add.”
“To the other search parameters, we can now add the health club angle.”
“That could narrow it down. I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.”
“You’re working on Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah. How about you?”
“Nope.” It had been decided that one member of each detective pair would work on Thanksgiving. Deluca had lost the toss. “My pesto-sweating partner will be here, though. I’ll save some leftovers for him.”
“Save some for me, too,” said Huff.
“I’ll do that. Happy Thanksgiving, Lieutenant.”
“Same to you. And Kane?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work.”
28
Thanksgiving morning, following a brief workout on the deck and quick swim to the raft, I showered at an outside nozzle, toweled off, and remounted the stairs to the kitchen. Still shivering from my ocean swim, I made a pot of coffee, savoring the dark, earthy smell as it brewed on the counter.
Steaming mug in hand, I returned to my bedroom and changed into dry clothes. Next I searched the top drawer of Catheryn’s dresser, finally finding her list of hotels. Although she and I had attempted to call each other several times over the previous week, neither of us had succeeded-each of us leaving hollow promises to call back later. Running my finger down the paper, I found the number of the Hotel Luna in Venice. According to Catheryn’s written schedule, she would be leaving for Geneva the next day.