The Promise Page 18

  “It’s my way of telling you the cops are ahead. You’re losing.”

  Sometimes you had to ignore him.

  “Help lessen my shame. What did you find out about the house?”

  “Nothing. The prison didn’t know squat about his house until Stinnis told them. You know what else he told them?”

  “That he was way ahead of me, and I’m a loser?”

  “In so many words. Medillo bought the house from his cellmate, and his cellmate died up at Solano, too.”

  I knew the name from the tax records.

  “Walter Jacobi?”

  “Maybe you aren’t as far behind as I thought. Yeah, Jacobi. Three weeks after the title changed hands, Jacobi died of a drug overdose. Eleven days later, Medillo was murdered.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Don’t know. There was a gang fight, a black and brown thing. Medillo was supposedly a bystander, but someone stabbed him sixteen times.”

  “The case is still open?”

  “Yeah. You know how it works. Two dozen suspects, but the cameras were covered and nobody talked.”

  “Do they think the deaths are connected?”

  “Never had reason, but they didn’t know about the house. Both these guys were addicts, so someone might’ve blamed Medillo for the old man’s death, but that’s just talk. I asked for their sheets.”

  “Did Jacobi have any relatives?”

  “Not that they know at Solano, but Medillo had a father and two sisters.”

  I remembered them from the obituary.

  “Roberto, Nola, and Marisol.”

  “See? You’re not as stupid as people say. You want to know about the house, ask his family. They probably helped with the buy.”

  “Thanks, Eddie. Send the sheets.”

  I lowered the phone, and stared at the lake. The sale or purchase of property by a competent inmate was legal, but the presence of notaries, loan officers, attorneys, and the other people needed to witness and finalize a legal document required the prison’s permission. If the Solano prison officials didn’t know about the transaction, then Medillo and Jacobi hadn’t wanted them to know, which meant something about the transaction was rotten. I wondered if Medillo’s father or sisters were present. Stinnis was probably wondering the same, and might even be with them. I needed a different trail, and the best place to find a trail was at the beginning.

  The beginning was Thomas Lerner, and Jennifer Li was still my best and only way to reach him. Her mother hadn’t given me Jennie’s number, but she gave me enough.

  I went to find Jennie.

  33

  PRACTICING PHYSICIANS were easier to find than DUI attorneys. Professional medical associations, hospitals, and medical schools posted licensing and staff information on their websites, as did networking sites, complain-about-your-doctor sites, and scores of pay-to-see-your-doctor’s-dirt sites. Thirty seconds after I tapped my phone, I knew where to find Jennifer Li.

  Cedars-Sinai Medical Center was the largest nonprofit hospital in the western United States. With a thousand beds and a staff of twelve thousand, the hospital’s campus spanned several square blocks. I could leave a message easy enough, but this didn’t guarantee she would respond. I called an attorney named Ansel Rivera.

  Civil and criminal firms often hired investigators to check the facts of a case, and sometimes for more personal reasons. Ansel was a labor lawyer who represented non-union workers in cases involving unsafe working conditions. A few years ago, Ansel’s fifteen-year-old daughter was abducted from a parking lot after a tennis lesson. Ansel called the police and the FBI, and also called me. Three days later, Joe Pike and I found his daughter and the two men hired to kidnap her in an abandoned house in Mandeville Canyon. Since then, Ansel has offered much more work than I want or accept.

  I texted his personal phone, and didn’t use the burner. I wanted his Caller ID to recognize my number.

  911ELVIS

  Ansel called back four minutes later.

  First thing he said was “We’re paid up, right? I swear to God, if they didn’t send your check I’ll double whatever I owe you.”

  “We’re paid. I need help with something.”

  “Hang on—I can’t hear.”

  He was in a room with other people.

  “Okay, this is better. What?”

  “Cedars-Sinai.”

  “Did Margie tell you about the colonoscopy? It’s set up. I’m going.”

  “This isn’t about you. I need to see one of their surgical residents, and I need to see her fast.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. This doctor, she’s busy. She doesn’t know me, and I don’t have a direct way to reach her. I need someone up the food chain to tell her to see me.”

  “What’s she do?”

  “Pediatric surgery. What I’m asking is, do you or someone at your firm have juice at Cedars?”

  Ansel Rivera wasn’t only a labor lawyer. He was a founding partner in a firm employing over one hundred attorneys covering a dozen practice areas. Ansel was rich and connected.

  “Hang on, lemme see. I’ll have Barry check—”

  Ansel was with me again two minutes later.

  “We handled a divorce last year, a big-shot surgeon at Cedars. A vice chair, whatever that means. In surgery, right? Barry, in surgery? Yeah, okay, the guy loves us, Barry says. We saved him a fortune.”

  “I don’t want to get her in trouble.”

  “What trouble? Is she doing something illegal?”

  “It’s nothing like that. I need to see her about someone she knew in high school. Five minutes is all I need.”

  “Don’t sweat it. She’ll be doing a personal favor for her boss, who’ll be doing a personal favor for me. When do you want to see her?”

  “Now.”

  “Give me her name. Go. We’ll take care of it.”

  Barry called me with instructions before I reached the hospital. He gave me a phone number, told me to go to the admissions lobby of the South Tower, and text the number when I arrived. That’s what I did. Forty minutes later, Jennifer Li Tillman stepped off the elevator. She was small, slender, and prettier than she had been in high school. She wore dull blue surgical scrubs, and carried a cup of coffee. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled into a ponytail.

  I introduced myself.

  “Dr. Li? Elvis Cole. Thanks for seeing me.”

  She looked harried and tired.

  “I don’t know you and I don’t appreciate you involving the vice chair. This is my career.”

  “The vice chair is doing a favor for a very close friend. You’re helping him help his friend. There’s no downside.”

  She sipped the coffee. A wisp of steam touched her nose, but she didn’t seem any less upset.

  “Did you speak with my mother?”

  “Yes. I’m working with Jacob’s mom, Amy Breslyn.”

  The stern tension melted. Dr. Tillman vanished, but Jennie remained.

  2 Js today

  2 Js tomorrow

  2 Js forever

  “I haven’t seen her since the memorial. I should’ve called. Is she doing okay? I should’ve called.”

  I sidestepped her question.

  “She still has the prom picture of you and Jacob.”

  She smiled. It was sweet and fond, and sad.

  “We went together for almost three years. He was such a great guy, and Ms. B couldn’t have been any sweeter. It’s so awful, what happened. Crazy. Is there anything I can do for her?”

  “Amy’s trying to find Thomas Lerner. Do you know how to reach him?”

  She shook her head, and sipped the coffee.

  “Sorry. I don’t know him.”

  Her answer caught me off guard.

  “Jac
ob’s best friend. Thomas Lerner.”

  Jennie shrugged, her eyes oblivious.

  “Maybe from college. Dave and Jake were besties in high school. Jacob was the Best Man at our wedding.”

  “This was before college. Maybe Lerner went to a different school. Amy loves him like a second son.”

  Jennie seemed more awkward than confused.

  “I’m not saying he wasn’t. It’s just kinda weird, not remembering. Maybe Dave knew him.”

  She fished a cell phone from her scrubs, and called her husband.

  “Hey, babe. I’m here with a friend of Amy Breslyn’s. Yeah, Jake’s mom. Do you know Thomas Lerner? He was a friend of Jake’s.”

  She looked at me while she listened.

  “Jake’s mom says they were best friends.”

  She listened some more, then offered the phone.

  “Here. This is Dave.”

  Dave Tillman sounded like a nice guy. I identified myself, and told him I was trying to find Thomas Lerner for Jacob’s mother, who described Lerner as Jacob’s best friend.

  “Ms. B must be talking about someone Jake met at college.”

  “This was before college. Jacob went away to school, but Lerner stayed here. Amy stayed in touch with him. A writer.”

  “I’m drawing a blank. Jake was my boy since junior high, but I don’t remember a Lerner. I’ll call Ms. B.”

  I began to feel uncertain, as if the rules were changing.

  “Is there someone else I could call? Another friend from those days?”

  David Tillman gave me two names and numbers, but I returned to my car with little faith they would help. I got in behind the wheel and dutifully made the calls. One friend had known Jake since preschool, and the other since fourth grade, but, like Jennie and Dave, neither one knew Thomas Lerner, or had heard of him.

  I sat in my car like an astronaut trapped in a capsule, directed by forces I could not see and did not control.

  Everything I knew about Meryl Lawrence and Amy Breslyn, and why Meryl Lawrence wanted to find Amy Breslyn, came from Meryl Lawrence. Here’s some money, please find my friend. Here’s the story, but don’t ask, don’t tell. No one must know. Promise you won’t tell. Promise.

  Woodson Energy Solutions was listed with Information. A young woman’s voice answered when I called.

  “Meryl Lawrence, please.”

  “I’ll connect you to her office.”

  A young male voice answered the ring.

  “Meryl Lawrence’s office.”

  “Hey, Ed Sikes for Meryl. She back yet?”

  “She isn’t available. May I take a message?”

  “Tell you what, when would be a good time for me to call back?”

  “She’s unavailable, Mr. Sikes. Would you like to leave a message?”

  I hung up, and called a friend at the DMV named Ruth Jordan. Ruth found four Meryl Lawrences in California, but only one showed an address near Los Angeles. Meryl Denise Lawrence lived on Bellefontaine Street in Pasadena. Two vehicles were registered in her name, a Cadillac Sport Wagon and a Porsche Carrera.

  “Does the same address show on the vehicles?”

  “Same. Bellefontaine.”

  I copied the tag numbers and drove to Pasadena. I took my time. I stopped for a kalbi burger in K-Town. It was delicious. Traffic was terrible, but the urgency I felt earlier was gone.

  The night was cool when I found her address. I timed it that way. I wanted the darkness.

  Her street was quiet and lovely. The houses were set back on deep lots with generous driveways, secure in their permanence amid long-standing oaks and elms and magnolias. Towering palms stood peaceful sentry along the sidewalks, and porch lights glowed with warmth, not to defend but to welcome. I parked at the curb, shut the engine, and rolled down the window. The scent of jasmine was strong.

  Meryl Lawrence lived in a very nice brick home with latticed windows and redwood trim. Her drapes were closed, but the rooms behind them were lit. The Cadillac wagon was parked in the drive. Its tag matched the number Ruth gave me.

  I walked up the drive, and circled the Caddie. A sticker on the driver’s side of the windshield showed a reserved parking space at Woodson Energy Solutions.

  I photographed the parking sticker and the license plate, and walked down the drive to her backyard.

  The drapes in back were open. A woman and a man who was probably her husband were in a family room, watching college football on a large flat-screen TV. The man was balding, thin, and enjoying a glass of wine from the comfort of a recliner. The woman sat in the crook of an L-shaped couch with her legs crossed, and a small, raggedy dog in her lap. She shook her fist at the TV as if the game upset her.

  This Meryl Lawrence was not my Meryl Lawrence.

  This Meryl Lawrence was older, had upswept gray hair, and was thirty pounds heavier than my Meryl Lawrence. This Meryl Lawrence was the real Meryl Lawrence, and my Meryl Lawrence wasn’t.

  I took a picture of the people inside the house, and walked back to my car.

  The woman I knew as Meryl Lawrence answered my call, exactly as I expected she would.

  “Did you find her? Tell me you found her.”

  “I can’t talk now, but I need to see you. Can we meet in the morning?”

  The woman who wasn’t Meryl Lawrence agreed.

  34

  Jon Stone

  JON SET THE MOTION DETECTOR to ping through his phone and laptop. He checked the audio/video link, confirmed the system was golden, and went to his Rover. He could now keep an eye on the house from anywhere on the planet.

  Overkill.

  Jon found a good place to park uphill from the woman’s house, and across from the construction site. Nice little eyes-forward view, couple of upscale cars nearby so the Rover wasn’t out of place. Jon booted his rig, locked on a satellite, and re-checked the links. Bedroom. Living room. Empty.

  He considered running downhill to grab some chow, but decided against it. Going home didn’t occur to him.

  Staying close felt right, even though the house was empty.

  The sky over the lake deepened. Twilight glowed with orange flame, and slowly purpled to black. Stars appeared one by one, then by twos and threes. Jon cracked the windows. Otherwise, he rarely moved.

  One hour and forty-two minutes after sunset, lights coming uphill flashed across Ms. Breslyn’s house. They grew brighter, and the garage door began to rise.

  A Volvo sedan appeared, and stopped with its turn signal blinking. When the garage was open, the Volvo maneuvered inside. The lights went off. A few seconds later Amy Breslyn came out, and waited as the door rattled down. She wore a fringed leather jacket and carried a white paper bag. Jon couldn’t tell if the jacket was black or dark brown. When the garage was secure, she climbed the steps to the house. Jon’s laptop and phone simultaneously chimed when she opened the door.

  The cam’s high angle and fish-eye lens made her shorter and rounder, but the woman was Amy Breslyn. She locked the door, and crossed the frame to the kitchen with the white paper bag. The inside lighting was better. The fringed leather jacket was brown.

  Jon called Elvis Cole.

  “Mom’s home. What do you want to do?”

  Jon felt better, being so close.

  35

  Elvis Cole

  MY A-FRAME WAS QUIET. I locked myself in, and walked through the house, turning on lights. Amy and Jacob Breslyn were real. I had searched Amy’s home, touched their belongings, and read news reports about Jacob’s death. This was called evidence. Since the faux Meryl had lied about herself and Thomas Lerner, everything else was suspect.

  An email from Eddie Ditko was waiting, along with rap sheets for Juan Medillo and Walter Jacobi. I read them, printed them, and tucked them into the file. Jacobi had been in his sixties, with a lifelong history of drug an
d fraud convictions. Medillo was half his age, with a similar history of drug busts, capped by auto theft, residential burglary, and other nonviolent crimes. The Solano officials were probably right—he wasn’t a banger, and wasn’t the type for a gang fight.

  I showered, put on fresh clothes, and returned to the kitchen. The cat was by his bowl.

  “We’re having lamb. Sound good?”

  He licked his lips. Lamb was one of his favorites.

  A seven-rib rack of lamb was waiting in the fridge. I turned on the oven to heat, and rubbed the lamb with olive oil, salt, pepper, Iranian sumac, and a spice I liked called za’atar. It was possible the fake Meryl worked for Amy’s company. She had pressed me to find Amy before her company found out, but maybe her company knew. Security would be an issue for their contracts with the government, so they might be trying to hide Amy’s embezzlement and attempts to contact anti-American extremists. This would explain why the fake Meryl hadn’t gone to the police, but not why she was pretending to be someone else.

  I seared the rack in a skillet until it had a nice crust, and put the skillet into the oven.

  I said, “Twelve minutes, tops.”

  The cat sat, and stared at his bowl. Hinting.

  The hard sell about Thomas Lerner was telling, especially since Lerner didn’t exist. The make-believe Meryl had created a make-believe clue, and used it to send me to Echo Park. She couldn’t have known I would go to the house on that particular night, but she had known or suspected something, and sent me. I wondered what she knew, and how she had known it. I thought I might ask her, eventually.

  I mixed two chopped tomatoes, some cilantro, and half a jalapeño with a box of couscous, and tossed the mix with lemon juice and a little olive oil. I threw caution to the wind, and added a handful of raisins. Daring. I checked the lamb, decided it was perfect, and took it out of the oven.

  “Five minutes. It has to rest.”

  Jon Stone called while we were waiting.

  “Mom’s home. What do you want to do?”

  “Amy?”

  “She’s here. What do you want me to do?”

  I didn’t know what to do. Learning Meryl Lawrence wasn’t Meryl Lawrence left me short on trust, and uncertain.