Chen peered inside.
"Shit, this is a lot. I have a caseload, man. I have so many cases my backlog has a backlog."
"I know it's a lot, but don't get ahead of yourself. The prints should belong to two individuals-a male and a female who live at the residence. The woman's prints should be on the deodorant stick. The male's prints are probably on the file box. Run the stick first, then the box. If you pull something clean, you won't have to clock anything else."
Chen didn't look any happier.
"I didn't say I couldn't do it. I just gotta figure out how. I'll have to work this stuff into the landing pattern, and that could take days."
The Latent Prints Unit was staffed twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The backlog of prints waiting to be analyzed was so large the unit employed almost eighty specialists around the clock to hold back the tide. With so many cases in line to be analyzed, a first-come-first-served waiting list was maintained to reserve the equipment needed for the work. This list was known as the landing pattern.
Cole said, "Days is too long. I need this."
Chen looked over, sour but thoughtful.
"For Joe?"
Cole nodded.
"What's up?"
"I'm hoping you can tell me. If these people are in the system, Joe needs to know why. I need to know why, too."
Chen shifted, maybe trying to get comfortable, but maybe because he was nervous. He was so tall his knees were above the dash and his head touched the roof.
Chen peeked into the bag again, then peered at Cole with enormous owl eyes.
"You know who I am?"
The question caught him by surprise, but then Cole sensed Chen wasn't talking to him-Chen was talking to himself. Cole shook his head.
"Sure you do, bro. All you have to do is look at me. I'm the guy defense attorneys make out to be the bumbling geek, so juries laugh. I hear cops making cracks when I'm at a scene. Every time I look in a mirror, I know why the girls laugh."
"John, you don't have to-"
Chen held up a finger, stopping him.
"When I first met you guys, I was freakin' terrified of Joe. He was everything that scares me shitless. Here's this guy, and no one would have the balls to make a crack or laugh. Here he is, a fucking street monster, but of all the people I deal with, he treats me with more respect than anyone else."
Chen lifted the bag.
"So I will find a way to do this. Pull over. I'll go get started."
"I'll take you back."
"I'd rather walk. It'll give me time to think."
Cole pulled over, and Chen got out with the bag.
"John."
"What?"
"Take the box."
Chen took the bag containing the box.
"If you speak with Joe, don't mention this."
Chen stared at Cole a long time, then abruptly walked away.
25
Elvis Cole When Cole reached his office he got down to business. The night before, he had asked a friend on the Hollywood Station homicide table for sheets on Mendoza and Gomer. These he would have used to identify known associates and relatives, but they were no longer necessary. He called her to cancel the request, but she had already printed the information and was pissed she had taken the risk for nothing. He then spread the contents of Wilson Smith's file box over his desk. With Mendoza and Gomer out of the picture, Cole focused on Wilson and Dru.
He quickly determined that most of the files related to Smith's business, with the individual folders containing invoices, bills, equipment warranties, and rental agreements. Smith purchased fresh seafood from a purveyor in San Pedro, sandwich rolls and breads from a bakery in Boyle Heights, and had signed a one-year lease agreement with Lodestar Properties for the storefront that now housed his kitchen. Cole checked through the bills and invoices for a prior address, but everything that had been mailed was sent to Smith's shop. Cole made a list of names and numbers from the various letterheads in case he wanted to phone them, then pushed the business files aside.
He tackled the money files next. There were two folders, one for checking and one for savings, with both accounts drawn on the Venice branch of Golden State Bank amp; Trust. The statements went back eight months, showing both accounts were opened on the same day. The savings account was opened with a $9600 deposit, from which $2000 was used to open the checking account. Two weeks after opening the savings account, an additional $6500 was deposited. The first statement had been mailed to Smith at a P.O. box in Venice, but the following seven, including the most recent, were mailed to Wilson's Takeout Foods. Cole copied the P.O. box address, then examined the statements. Deposits, withdrawals, and checking activity all seemed reasonable, with most of the drafts made out to pay for rent, utilities, and supplies. The canceled checks were in the file. Smith was obviously a man who didn't believe in online banking. He was also a man who didn't believe in credit cards.
The contents of Wilson Smith's metal file box contained nothing showing a date prior to the accounts that were opened eight months ago, nothing of a personal nature, and nothing to connect Wilson Smith with Louisiana or anyplace else. It was as if the man had been born eight months ago with a $9600 deposit.
Nothing in the file box named or was related to Dru Rayne. It was as if she didn't exist at all.
Among the utilities was a monthly phone bill. Pike had given Cole the cell phone numbers for Wilson and Dru, but this number was different. Cole dialed the number, and reached a voice message informing him Wilson's Takeout Foods was currently closed but was open during the following business hours. The voice was a woman's, and Cole thought it must be Dru. She had a nice voice.
Cole hung up, staring at nothing. He told himself they were house sitters, which was a temporary arrangement, so most of their possessions were probably in storage or packed in a friend's garage, but Cole told himself this was bogus even as he formed the thoughts.
Everything about Dru Rayne and Wilson Smith was wrong.
Cole leaned back and stared out the French doors. The French doors opened to a small balcony and, twelve miles beyond, the sea. Cole could see the ocean on a clear day, but today a wall of haze obscured his view. He felt depressed, and wondered how Pike was doing with the police. He did not like knowing this thing about Dru Rayne that Pike did not know. He did not like the expression he had seen on Pike's face when Pike was shouldering the guilt for whatever trouble the woman was in. Cole had seen that same expression in the mirror too many times.
Cole dialed the takeout shop again to hear her voice. Pleasant, friendly, medium timbre with a hint of a Southern accent. A familiar voice that inspired an ache in his chest. Cole had loved a woman from Louisiana. They had gotten in so deep Lucy moved out with her eight-year-old son. It was a gamble for all of them that didn't work out, so Lucy and her son returned to Louisiana. This had been Lucy's call, not Cole's. Cole would have gone all the way.
When Cole realized he was thinking more about Lucy Chenier than Dru Rayne, he checked the time. Louisiana was two hours ahead. Lucy would be at her office or in court. She was an attorney in private practice with a successful firm in Baton Rouge, and it occurred to Cole she might be able to help. It also occurred to him this was simply an excuse to hear her voice.
A professional voice answered when he called.
"Ms. Chenier's office."
"Guess who?"
Loretta Bean's professional voice melted into warm, Southern comfort. Loretta was Lucy's assistant.
"You dog. You don't call here often enough, and I miss your smart mouth."
"I was falling in lust with you, Loretta. I had to stop calling before I embarrassed myself."