The Forgotten Man Read online

"Then that's all you have to say. The police are going to talk to Stephen. If he tells them you drove and you say you didn't, what's that going to look like?"

  "I ain't sayin' nothin' to nobody! I can NOT be part of this!"

  Dana's eyes worked up to full-scale tears.

  "Stephen said we gotta."

  "Fuck Stephen! You leave me out of this and do NOT even mention my name! I don't want to hear my name, not ONE TIME!"

  Thomas jabbed the air to show her what one time meant, then stalked around the corner into the dining room. Suddenly, after all the shouting, their apartment was silent. Dana wiped at her eyes and cleared her throat. She spoke softly so Thomas wouldn't hear.

  "Stephen says it'll be all right. He said to cooperate."

  "This is a homicide investigation, Dana. The police won't be here to bust you—or Thomas. They just want to know about Faustina. You see?"

  She glanced to make sure Thomas wasn't listening, then lowered her voice still more.

  "Thomas took those pictures. He's a really, really good photographer. We're doing a pay site and he's taking the pictures of me. He's even building the web site for me. He knows all about that stuff."

  I nodded, and knew why she told me—all her dreams with Thomas were riding on the hope that Stephen had told her the truth—that everything would be all right.

  "Dana, I want you to look at this."

  I showed her the morgue shot of Faustina and walked her through my questions exactly as I had with the others. Faustina paid Dana to pray for his forgiveness. He told her nothing about himself and his reasons for being in Los Angeles; they did not have sex; and, when they finished praying, he walked her to the door. During their hour together, he never mentioned where he was from, why he was in Los Angeles, how long he intended to stay, or any other person or place. The only difference with what I heard from the other escorts was that Dana had asked Faustina why he needed to be forgiven. I guess Dana wasn't yet so hardened that she no longer cared.

  I said, "Did he tell you?"

  "He said for loving too much."

  "You asked him why he wanted God to forgive him, and he said for loving too much?"

  "Isn't that sad?"

  "What or who did he love too much?"

  A woman he met once and never saw again? A son he never knew?

  "I dunno. I said, how can you love too much? Loving someone is a good thing—you don't have to be forgiven for that. I wanted to make him feel better, you know, but he said love could be terrible, he said love could be the Fifth Horseman and could kill you as dead as the other four, and then he started crying and I felt so bad I started crying, and I put my arms around him because I wanted him to feel better, but he didn't want me touching him like that. He kinda unwrapped me and gave back my hands and said let's keep praying, okay?, asking me real nice, 'cause that's the only thing will make it better, so we kept praying, and I didn't even know what he meant until Thomas told me."

  Thomas's voice came quietly from the dining room.

  "The Horsemen. She didn't know about the Four Horsemen, so I had to tell her what he meant by the fifth."

  He was watching us from the mouth of the dining room. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were war, pestilence, disease, and famine—the four forces that could destroy the world. Herbert Faustina had added love to the list.

  Thomas glanced at Dana, then me.

  "We don't know nothin' about a murder. She didn't have sex with him or solicit anything, so this ain't prostitution. It ain't against the law to be paid for saying your prayers, am I right?"

  "That's right. No harm, no foul."

  "So what can they pop me for if I drove her to pray?"

  "Nothing."

  "All right, then—"

  He nodded some more, still circling his commitment, then finally went for the meat.

  "All right, he had a brown car."

  Dana looked horrified.

  "Thomas—"

  He stopped her with the finger.

  "That asshole Stephen hadda bring me into this, now I got to look out for me. All I did was drive you to pray, and now I'm gonna cooperate with the police and earn my love. You got to give to get, and I will NOT go to prison. This is me, being a good citizen. He had a brown Honda Accord. The left rear hubcap was missing and it had a big dent back there, right by the wheel."

  I stared at him, then looked at Dana, but Dana had an empty expression like she didn't have any idea what he was talking about.

  "Were you in his car? Did you go for a ride with him?"

  "She didn't go anywhere with the man. She finished with the praying like she said, and came out and got in the car—my car— and told me about what they did, the prayin', and that's when I set her straight about the Horsemen. Then we talked about what we want to do, get something to eat or go have some drinks or come home, and she says, hey, look, that's him."

  Dana suddenly nodded, as if she only now remembered and saw it clearly.

  "That's right. He came outside."

  Thomas silenced her with the finger again and kept going. He had made the commitment, he had the floor, and nothing would stop him now.

  "So now I'm lookin' 'cause I want to see this stupid john with all his prayin', and there he is. He got into a car and drove away, the brown Honda."

  "You see his license plate?"

  "No, man, I was too busy lookin' at this goofy asshole, in there crying 'bout forgiveness."

  "Was it a California plate?"

  "Never even looked. He come backin' out and there's this big-ass dent and the car all dirty. I tol' her, look at that piece of shit he drivin'. He got two hundred to spend on pussy, he oughta wash his car."

  I suddenly felt a pulse of my own hope. Brown Honda Accords were as common as sand fleas, but a brown Accord with a missing left rear hubcap and dented wheel well was a specific vehicle. The dent meant it wasn't a rental.

  "Okay. Then what?"

  "Nothing. What you think, what? He went off, and we went over to Stephen's, drop off his cut of the money. We shared a blunt, then came home. Stephen like to spark up, he get some money. He keep a lot of dope in that house."

  Thomas made a nasty smile when he mentioned the pot, like he was paying Stephen back for putting him in this position. He would mention it to the police, too.

  I wanted to tell Diaz about the car. If Faustina's car was still near the scene, an alerted patrol officer might find it. Then we could trace his name and address through the vehicle registration. If the shooter was currently joyriding in Faustina's car, we might even catch the killer.

  I thanked them for their time, then started out when I saw the pictures again. I looked back at them. Dana had come up beside Thomas, and slipped her hand into his.

  I said, "What Faustina said about love being the Fifth Horseman? He was wrong."

  I pulled the door, then hurried back to my car, and called Diaz. If I couldn't reach her, I planned to call Starkey, but Diaz answered on the third ring.

  She said, "Cole, is that you? I've been trying to get you the past hour."

  I hate my cell phone.

  "I have a possible car description, Diaz. It's—"

  "We have his name. Beckett got the ID from those things in his legs. We know Herbert Faustina's real name."

  John Doe #05-1642, also known as Herbert Faustina, had been identified through the appliances in his legs as George Llewelyn Reinnike, originally from Anson, California. I made her spell Reinnike. She told me to come to her office, and promised a full report. It was great news; so good that I did not feel the eyes, or notice that I was being followed.

  20

  The Central Community Police Station was headquartered on Sixth Street, a few blocks south of the Harbor Freeway in downtown Los Angeles, and not far from the murder site. It was a five-story modern brick building dwarfed by surrounding skyscrapers, and constantly patrolled by bomb-sniffing dogs. LAPD's SWAT is headquartered at Central, as is the elite uniformed Metro Division. Like the other police
stations in Los Angeles, it was known as a Division until someone decided that Division made the police sound like an occupying army. Now we had Community Police Stations, which sounded user-friendly.

  I put my car in a civilian parking lot, entered through the main entrance on Sixth, and waited for Diaz to come get me. When the elevator finally opened, Pardy was the only one aboard. He was standing straight and stiff as if his suit was tight, and he did not look at me. His jaw worked as if he had bitten into a sour candy.

  He said, "Get on."

  I got on. Pardy hit the button to close the doors before anyone could join us, then turned and squared his shoulders to face me.

  "You could have filed a beef for what I did, but you didn't. For what it's worth, I appreciate that. I was out of line."

  He hesitated like he wanted to say something more, but finally turned back to the door. Sometimes these guys will surprise you.

  "That was classy, Detective. Thank you."

  He nodded, still not looking at me, but now he seemed more relaxed.

  "I spoke with Golden this morning. That was good work, you finding him so fast. I'm not going to ask why, but he's cooperating."

  "I inspire good citizenship."

  "Sure."

  "The girls who saw Reinnike will cooperate, too. They expect you to give them a pass."

  "They don't have anything to do with the shooting, they don't have to worry. All I'm about is the murder."

  "Make that clear to them, and you'll be okay."

  "After I saw Golden, I went by the Home Away Suites. I'm also not going to ask how you got Reinnike's bill, but don't do anything like that again. You understand what I'm saying?"

  "I get you."

  "Diaz wants me to let it go, and I owe you one, so this is the one."

  "Did you go over the calls Reinnike made?"

  Pardy took a moment to answer.

  "He called damned near every police station in the city. I've been thinking about it."

  "Yeah, me, too."

  When the doors opened again, Pardy led me along a light beige hall that was lined with file cabinets, and into the Homicide Bureau. The homicide detectives were housed in a narrow room with too much furniture and not enough storage. Like the hall, the homicide room bristled with file cabinets.

  Diaz was at the far end with two detectives who looked like middle-aged carpet salesmen. Pardy gestured toward her.

  "Detective Diaz will show you where. I gotta get the file."

  Diaz met me in the center of the room, then led me to her desk. It was wedged against the wall, and faced another desk. A black female detective as small and brittle as a hummingbird was at the adjoining desk, quietly asking someone on the phone to tell her what happened next. She scribbled notes as she spoke, ignoring us.

  "Siddown here, Cole. So does the name Reinnike or Anson, California, mean anything to you?"

  Like she expected a lightbulb to flash over my head and me to shout, DADDY!

  "No. Do you have anything on him?"

  "Beckett ran the name through NCIC and DMV. No one by this name shows on their rolls, either; which means he resided out of state or held a license under another name."

  Like his alias, Herbert Faustina, George Llewelyn Reinnike was also a cipher.

  Pardy returned with a black three-ring binder. It was his murder book. As the lead homicide detective, Pardy would file all the reports, witness statements, and relevant evidence he accumulated in this one binder. Since this was his first case as the lead, it was probably the first time he had been responsible for the book. He draped a leg over the edge of Diaz's desk, and carefully snapped open the rings. There weren't many pages yet in the book, but more would be added as the case developed. He handed me a thin stack of reports.

  "Okay, Cole, this is the medical examiner's prelim, and the records from the company that manufactured the appliances. You can read it here in front of us, and make notes, but you can't make copies. That's the way it is."

  I was anxious to read, but Diaz touched the reports before I could begin.

  "Hang on. You said you had a vehicle description. Let's get started with that."

  Pardy made notes on a yellow pad as I repeated Thomas's description.

  "They get the plate?"

  Diaz cut off his question as if he was stupid.

  "He would have told you if he had the plate. Keep going, Cole—did you get anything else?"

  "They prayed."

  Diaz and Pardy waited the way I waited when Margaret Keyes first told me.

  "Reinnike didn't have sex with them. He paid them to pray for him."

  Partly laughed.

  "That's bullshit. Are you making that up?"

  "All three women told me the same thing. They prayed for his forgiveness."

  Diaz's dark eyes colored like smoke on the horizon.

  "Why did he need forgiveness?"

  "He didn't tell them."

  Pardy frowned at Diaz.

  "I'm telling you, this sounds like bullshit. Golden probably tells all these whores to say that to beat the sex bust."

  Diaz continued to stare at me with the cloudy eyes, then frowned at Pardy like he was spastic.

  "You saw the crosses he had all over himself? It's not a stretch to imagine he's some kind of religious freak, is it?"

  Pardy grunted, but still looked unconvinced.

  "When we're done here, have Cole go over everything each girl told him. When you talk to them, see if you get the same answers. Maybe you'll catch one of them in a lie. Right now, you should put out a BOLO on the car. That's a good description. Some traffic cop might pick it up while we're here dicking around."

  Pardy left to file the BOLO, and Diaz watched him go.

  "You gotta tell him every goddamned thing, one slow-motion step at a time. And they say Mexicans work slow."

  "That what they say about you, Diaz?"

  Diaz laughed, then took the medical examiner's reports from me and flipped through the pages.

  "You don't have to read all this, Cole. Here's what you need—"

  The pages she handed back were the faxed correspondence from the Penzler Surgical Orthopaedics Company of East Lansing, Michigan, to Beckett.

  Dear Mr. Beckett,

  Per our conversation regarding #s HSO-5227/HSO-5228.

  Units are matched (bilateral reversed) femoral support appliances manufct on 16 Oct 46 by this company. (See attch descript.) Our records indicate the following assignments:

  Units assgnd: Andrew Watts Children's Hospital

  1800 Mission Boulevard

  San Diego, California

  Surg assgnmt: Dr. Randy Sherman

  Andrew Watts Children's Hospital

  1 800 Mission Boulevard

  San Diego, California

  Pat assgnmt: George Llewelyn Reinnike

  15612 L Street, NW

  Anson, California

  Pat cond: Legg-Calve-Perthes

  minor m, func. +, adv.

  surg. 6/20/47/AWCH/Sher

  (see attch)

  This is the extent of company records. Please do not hesitate to call if I can be of further assistance.

  Sincerely,

  Edith Stone, M.D.

  V.P. Sales

  I copied Reinnike's address, as well as the names of the doctor and hospital. A second page gave a brief explanation of Legg-Calve-Perthes Disease that read like a company brochure. LCP was a degenerative ball-joint disease that caused the femur to weaken in young children. Appliances were screwed into the femur to support the bone and maintain the integrity of the joint.

  Diaz let me read the M.E.'s report while we waited for Pardy. The cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the left chest that resulted in two broken ribs, a cracked vertebra, and two ruptured arteries. George Llewelyn Reinnike had drowned in his own blood. The bullet was a copper-jacket .380, and had fragmented upon impact with the vertebra. The M.E. had found no traces of semen in the urethra, colon, or stomach, and no semen or vaginal
residue present on the penis, indicating the victim had not had a recent sexual encounter. Blood-screen results were to follow, but the M.E. noted no overt evidence of drug use other than a moderate cirrhosis of the liver, indicating the victim had been a drinker. Reinnike hadn't gone into the alley to buy drugs or sex. He had gotten a phone call, cut short his prayers, and almost certainly gone downtown to meet someone. I felt certain whatever happened in the alley was not a chance encounter.

  Pardy returned as I finished reading, and perched on the edge of the desk.

  I said, "One other thing. The girl who was with Reinnike on the night he was murdered said he got a call when she was with him, and he cut short her visit. He got the call on a cell phone. Did you guys find a cell with the body?"

  Pardy and Diaz looked at each other, and Diaz shook her head. Pardy shrugged.

  "Maybe he left it in his car. We'll see when we find it."

  Diaz leaned forward, then stood.

  "Okay, I don't need to be here for the rest of this. I got my own cases to work. Pardy, you know what you have to do?"

  "Sure. I'm going to bust a killer."

  I said, "Just so everyone understands, what we now have is a two-way flow of information, right? No one has a problem?"

  Pardy's jaw rippled again as it had in the elevator.

  "Cole, I'm here for the murder. So long as you don't do anything that interferes with my case, help yourself. If you turn something that helps me out, so much the better."

  Diaz arched her eyebrows at me.

  "You happy?"

  "Thrilled. And I appreciate it."

  "I'm gone. Just remember, if you kick up anything, you keep us in the loop."

  She left us sitting at her desk. Pardy slid off the edge, then stepped around me and sat in her chair.

  "Okay, Cole, tell me what the whores said."

  I gave him a detailed report. While we were talking, I thought about Diaz. I had wanted to ask if she found the witness she had been searching for, but I knew she probably hadn't. Sometimes you never find them. Sometimes, after you search long enough, you realize the person you've been chasing was nothing more than a dream.