The woman finally hung up. “May I help you?” she asked with a quizzical stare.
“I hope so, Ms.-”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Lemon. And you are…?”
“Detective Daniel Kane, LAPD.” I again flipped out my ID.
Initially flustered, the woman quickly recovered. “Yes, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“A lot, I hope,” I said. I withdrew a folded sheet of paper and opened it on her desk, displaying the sketch of a dark-haired man in his midthirties.
The woman studied the composite drawing, then read the description printed across the bottom. “Am I supposed to know this person?”
“That’s what I’m hoping to find out. We think this man may be a member of your club. He was here a couple of weeks back.”
“We have over seventy-five hundred members. Without a name…”
“Under the circumstances, this drawing is the best we can do. These seventy-five-hundred members-you take pictures of them when they join?”
“Yes. The photos are laminated onto their membership cards. We don’t keep a copy, so if a client loses a card, he or she has to purchase a new one.”
“Do you allow guests?”
“Of course. We offer trial memberships, too.”
“So somebody could work out here a few times to check out the facilities?”
“We have a few restrictions, but that’s correct. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s this about?”
“We’re investigating an assault that took place at the home of one of your patrons.”
“Was it serious?”
“It was, but not as serious as it could’ve been. Listen, Ms. Lemon, rather than place an officer in your lobby to watch for this guy, which frankly we don’t have the manpower to do, I want to leave this drawing with you to show to all your employees. I’ll swing by in a day or so, but let me know right away if someone’s seen this guy. Can you do that for me?”
“I’ll have to ask the owners,” said Ms. Lemon, adding, “But I’ll make sure there won’t be a problem.” She considered a moment. “Actually, we have a membership database, with a digital image of every member attached to his or her account. I could go through the database and see whether I can find your guy.”
“Thanks, Ms. Lemon,” I said, realizing that with what we had so far, getting a warrant to do so would have been impossible. “I appreciate your cooperation. Contact me immediately if you find a match.” I wrote my number at task force headquarters on the bottom of the sketch. “One more thing. Don’t post this drawing on a bulletin board or whatever. If the guy shows up, we don’t want to spook him.”
After leaving the manager’s office, I returned to the reception desk. Pulling another drawing from my pocket, I asked the kid behind the counter, “Have you seen this guy? I know this picture isn’t much to go on, but concentrate. He was here around two weeks ago. He’s white and about your height, maybe one hundred and eighty pounds, mid- to late thirties, dark hair, wiry build.”
The youth inspected the sheet. “I can’t say for sure. A lot of people come through.”
“I’ll leave this with you,” I said. “If you see him, or even think you see him, call the manager. And keep this drawing out of sight, okay?”
“Sure.” As the young man slipped the drawing into a drawer, a familiar voice floated across the lobby. “Detective Kane. What a surprise!”
I turned. To my amazement, I saw Lauren Van Owen crossing the lobby, her blond hair clasped in a ponytail. She had on an abbreviated, tight-fitting gym outfit that made her long legs seem even longer. A workout towel hung loose around her neck, a sheen of perspiration glistening on her face and shoulders. She smiled archly when she arrived. “Almost didn’t recognize you without your foot in your mouth, Kane. Making any progress on the candlelight killings?”
“You never quit, do you?”
“Nope,” Lauren laughed, obviously amused by my discomfort at our chance meeting. “Same as you. Always on the job. Which brings up my next question. What are you doing here?”
“Running down some routine leads.” I shot a glance toward the exit.
“What was that paper you just handed the receptionist?”
“None of your business.”
“I think it is,” said Lauren. Then, to the young man behind the desk, “What did he give you?”
“Don’t answer that, kid,” I ordered. “Anything I said to you was part of a confidential police investigation.”
“That’s crap and you know it,” said Lauren. “Last time I checked, this was still a free country.” Again turning to the receptionist, “I’m Lauren Van Owen from Channel Two News.”
The boy’s eyes widened in recognition.
“You want to be on TV?”
“Keep your mouth shut, kid,” I warned.
The youngster’s gaze swiveled indecisively between Lauren and me. “It was a drawing of some guy he’s looking for,” he said.
Lauren smiled triumphantly. “I knew it! Let’s take a look.”
Before the youth could produce the sheet, I took Lauren’s arm and began marching her toward the far side of the lobby.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Lauren snapped, her cheeks flushing with anger.
“You and I are going to have a private little conference,” I said, not slowing my pace.
Apparently deciding that resistance was futile, Lauren accompanied me as gracefully as possible to a secluded table at the club grill. “A private conference, huh? Thought you’d never ask,” she said as I deposited her in a rattan chair. “Don’t ever change, Kane. You’re perfect the way you are.”
I took a place across from her at the table. “For once we agree.”
“I was using a new form of speech. It’s called sarcasm. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“Yeah. I’ve always found it especially unattractive in a woman, by the way.”
About to respond in kind, Lauren stopped as a waitress approached. “Would either of you care for something from the grill?” the woman asked. “The specials today are-”
“Nothing,” I interrupted. “We’re fine.”
“I’ll have a peach-banana smoothie, the smoked salmon and avocado salad, and a dry English muffin,” said Lauren, glaring at me defiantly.
“Fine,” I said. “Bring me some coffee. Make sure it’s hot.”
After the waitress departed, Lauren folded her arms. “You said you wanted to talk,” she said crossly. “So talk. Or do I go back to the kid at the desk and have him Xerox me a copy of your drawing?”
“You’re not going to let this drop, are you?”
Lauren shook her head. “I told you three weeks ago that the candlelight killings were my ticket to network. I’m not letting it go, but since we last talked it’s become even harder for me to stay in the game. The only reason I’m-”
“Cue the violins,” I said.
“The only reason I’m getting any air time at all on the case,” Lauren continued stubbornly, “is that I keep coming up with things the network guys don’t have or can’t get.”
“Like the plastic ties at the crime scenes?” I asked, referring to an on-air disclosure she had made recently regarding one of the crime-scene descriptors we had withheld from the media. “How’d you get that, anyway?”
“You’d be surprised.” Refusing to elaborate, Lauren paused, then seemed to come to a decision. “Let me ask you something, Kane. Do you ever run into politics on the job?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Well, that’s exactly my situation at Channel Two. Network wants me to turn over my sources and let their anchors report my material. Until now my news director has run interference for me, but serious pressure is coming down from the top. If I cooperate, I’m cutting my own throat. The big boys say they’ll remember who helped them, but you know how that goes. On the other hand, if I don’t play their game, I’m making enemies in the very ranks I want to join.”
“That’s tough, but I don’t see where you’re going with this. How about getting to the point?”
“The point is, I need something. A bargaining chip, something to work with. If I don’t get it soon, I’m off the story. And in words even you can understand, I’d rather give birth to a burning porcupine.”