“Did he call the first woman by name?”
“I didn’t hear him do that.”
“How did the shift end?”
“Professional. Brief. I clocked out and got to the lockers as soon as I could. I’ve seen him at roll call since. He smiles but he doesn’t engage me in conversation. He’s not around as much.”
“Did he say anything more about Shay Eichrodt?”
She shook her head.
“Terry Laws?”
“Said he was a good guy, learned a lot from him.”
“How about Prestige German Auto?”
“He said it was a cash cow and he didn’t even have to get his hands greasy anymore.”
“Did he talk about his family?”
“He said his father used to be a reservist down in San Diego County.”
“What about a brother and sister?”
“No mention.”
“Israel Castro?”
“No.”
“What else?”
“Recruitment,” said Seborn. “I found that odd. I don’t know a deputy alive who looks forward to handing out brochures and applications. He said he loved doing recruitment for the department-schools, job fairs, county fairs, whatever. He said he was always looking for that special person.”
“Special how?”
“He didn’t say.”
“What else? Anything else. The weather, Sherry, I don’t care.”
She looked out the window, then back at Hood. “He talked about Mexico. Said he loved fishing in Baja. Said he went down there every Friday to fish. Said he always took a load of good used clothes and electronics and canned food down to this charity in Baja. The young people love used Levi’s jeans, he said. And anything electronic. Said it made him feel good, watching people build their dreams.”
“Build a dream.”
“Something like that.”
“Every Friday?”
“Every Friday. He and Terry Laws.”
28
A few minutes later Hood had traded his Camaro to another deputy for a VW Jetta sedan and was driving it to Prestige German Auto. It was located in Venice, just a mile or so from the beach, in a mixed residential-business zone off of Venice Boulevard.
He waited in the lobby for a few minutes while a man cashed out two customers, gave them their keys and receipts, and thanked them sincerely for their business. His shirt was white and clean with an oval patch that said “Heinz.”
Hood looked at the premium wheels and tires on display, and the samples of the German strut systems for sale there, and the various aftermarket gadgets for German cars. But mostly he looked at the BMW, Daimler-Benz, Porsche, Audi and Volkswagen certificates earned by Prestige German’s expert technicians. There were six of them: Klaus Winer, Dieter Brink, Joe Medina, Eric Farrah, Richard Tossey and Heinz Meier. On the counter ahead of him he saw six small trays containing business cards for each.
When it was Hood’s turn he asked for an express oil and filter change. Heinz noted that Hood was not a regular customer but he had Hood read the estimate and sign the bottom. The estimate was for eighty-five dollars.
“Expensive,” he said.
“It is a twenty-point inspection.”
“That’s over four dollars a point. I heard you guys are good. The head gasket in this car will need to be replaced soon. If I’m happy with the oil job, I’ll make an appointment to bring it in.”
“Good, good. Thank you, Mr.-” He looked at the sheet. “Mr. Welborn.”
“I’ll be here if you have any questions.”
Hood handed him the keys and toured the store displays again, then sat in the lounge. There were four other customers watching TV and reading newspapers. There was free coffee and bottled water, and vending machines, and posters of sleek fast German cars on the walls.
When Heinz took the work order back into the repair bay, Hood went to the counter and got a card for each mechanic. Then he went outside and stood for a minute in the small parking lot. The day was cool and damp, with a layer of coastal haze. He walked around the block of mostly small stucco houses and old wooden fences. There was a day spa, a donut shop and a psychic’s parlor, open Tuesday to Friday from eleven a.m. to two p.m.
When he had almost come back around to the Prestige German lot Hood came to a six-foot textured concrete wall that nearly reached the sidewalk. There was an artsy wooden gate with an oxidized copper mail slot and an intercom. He waited for a break in the traffic on Amalfi, then stood on his toes and looked over. He looked at the small bungalow behind the garage on the Prestige German Auto lot. The shades were drawn and there was no car in the narrow driveway. Draper’s home, he thought, as on his application in 2005.
Back in the Prestige German office Hood studied the bill and asked about the brand of filter used.
“It is Volkswagen approved. And yes, the Jetta is leaking oil. It is likely from the head. It will not repair itself, hmmm?”
“I’d like to speak to the owner,” Hood said.
“Mr. Draper is not here. I am the one responsible for operations. There is a problem?”
“No problem at all. I just like to know the people I do business with.”
Heinz studied the young man before him, then reached into a tray and gave him one of his cards.
“I am Heinz Meier.”
Hood shook his hand, paid him in cash and left.
Back in the hole it took him only one hour to locate the Prestige German Auto mechanic that he was hoping to find.
Eric Farrah had skipped bail on a shoplifting charge, then vanished from his job at Valley BMW in Encino eight months ago. He was accused of stealing a box of Fuente cigars valued at two hundred dollars. His failure to appear would cost him five thousand dollars and a heart-to-heart conversation with Charles Robert Hood. He was twenty-two, and looked like a kid that Hood had gone to high school with in Bakersfield, a talented bronco rider.
At closing time, Hood tailed Farrah from Prestige German, down Amalfi, to his car. When Farrah heard him approaching he turned and Hood handed him a cigar.
“That’s a Fuente like the ones you bagged. I’m a cop. Don’t run.”
“Fuck. Shit.”
“Don’t use up all your best dialogue. Give me your car keys.”
Farrah glared at Hood, then jammed a hand into the pocket of his grease-stained pants and dropped a heavy set of keys into Hood’s palm. Hood hit UNLOCK on the key fob twice and the doors of Farrah’s BMW unlocked with a clunk. Hood opened the passenger-side door and motioned to him. Farrah thought once more about running, Hood guessed, then decided against it and got in.
Hood climbed into the driver’s side and started the engine. “No use calling attention to ourselves.”
“Man? Who are you? Where’s your badge?”
“I’m going to drive around this corner and park.”
“Oh, man. This is the genuine shits.”
Hood parked one block over under a magnolia tree. He badged Eric Farrah and told him who he was.
“You and I are going to talk, Eric. If you do well, I’m going to get out of this car and walk away and you might not see me again. If you don’t, I’m going to drive you to jail. Even if you spring for a good lawyer you’ll spend a few weeks in lockup because the judge won’t give you bail twice, and you’ve got failure to appear on top of the shoplifting. You’ll be inside even longer if you wait for a public defender, but you’ll save money. That’s how it works. Either way, you’re free to keep that cigar I gave you.”
Eric Farrah was a pink-skinned young man with fuzzy white whiskers and expressive blue eyes. His hair was curly and white. “Talk about what?”