LA Requiem

As I approached, Pike said, 'Frank, this is Elvis Cole. We own the agency together.'

'Mr. Garcia.'

Frank Garcia wasn't the smiling man with the bushy mustache you see on his tortillas. This Frank Garcia looked small and worried, and it had nothing to do with him being in a wheelchair. 'You don't look like a private investigator.'

I was wearing one of those terrific Jam's World print shirts over the shorts. Orange, yellow, pink, and green. 'Gee, did I wear this on a Sunday?'

Garcia looked embarrassed, then raised his hands in apology. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Cole. I'm so worked up about this thing with Karen, I'm not thinking. I don't care how you dress. I just want to find my daughter.' He touched Joe's arm. It was a loving gesture, and surprised me. 'That's why I called Joe. Joe says if anyone can find Karen, it's you. He says you're the best there is at finding people.'

Here's the scene: The three of us are by the Olympic-sized pool. The Latina with the thick waist is hovering in the shade of the veranda up by the house, her eyes on Frank in case he might want something, but so far he doesn't and he hasn't offered anything to me. If he did, I would ask for sunblock because standing here next to his pool is like standing on the sun side of Mercury. Gotta be ninety-six and climbing. Behind us is a pool house larger than my home, and through the sliding

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glass doors I can see a pool table, wet bar, and paintings of va-queros in the Mexican highlands. It is air-conditioned in there, but apparently Frank would rather sit out here in the nuclear heat. Statues of lions dot the landscape, as motionless as Joe Pike, who has not moved once in the three minutes that I have been there. Pike is wearing a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, faded Levi's, and flat black pilot's glasses, which is the way he dresses every day of his life. His dark brown hair is cut short, and bright red arrows were tattooed on the outside of his deltoids long before tattoos were au courant. Watching Joe stand there, he reminds me of the world's largest two-legged pit bull.

I said, 'We'll do what we can, Mr. Garcia. How long has Karen been missing?'

'Since yesterday. Yesterday morning at ten o'clock. I called the police, but those bastards wouldn't do anything, so I called Joe. I knew he'd help.' He parted Joe's arm again.

'The police refused to help?'

'Yeah. Those pricks.'

'How old is Karen, Mr. Garcia?'

'Thirty-two.'

I glanced, at Pike. Together, we had worked hundreds of missing persons cases, and we both knew why the police had brushed off Frank Garcia.

I said, 'A thirty-two-year-old woman has only been missing since yesterday?'

'Yes.' Pike's voice was soft.

Frank Garcia twisted in his chair, knowing what I was saying and angry about it.

'What's your point, asking that? You think just because she's a grown woman she'd meet some man and run off without letting anyone know?'

'Adult people do that, Mr. Garcia.'

He shoved a piece of yellow legal paper into my hands, and now the nervous eyes were rimmed with frustration, like I was his last best hope and I wasn't going for it, either. 'Karen would've called. She would've told me if she had to change her plans. She was gonna go run, then bring me a

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bowl of machaca, but she never came back. You ask Mrs. Acuna in her building. Mrs. Acuna knows.' He said it as though if he could only get it out fast enough, it would become as important to me as it was to him. But then Frank wheeled toward Joe, and now his voice held anger as well as fear. 'He's like the goddamned police. He don't want to do anything.' He spun back at me, and now you could see the man he had been before he was in the chair, a teenaged gang-banger out of East L.A. with the White Fence gang who had turned his life around and made a fortune. 'Sorry I pulled you away from your donuts.'

From a million miles away behind the dark glasses, Joe said, 'Frank. We're going to help you.'

I tried not to look embarrassed, which is hard to do when your face is red. 'We'll look for your daughter, Mr. Garcia. I just want you to know that the police have their policy for a reason. Most people we think are missing aren't. Eventually they call or show up, and they're embarrassed that everyone went to so much trouble. You see?'

He didn't look happy about it.

'You know where she was going to run?'

'Somewhere around Hollywood up by the hills. Mrs. Acuna said she was going to this Jungle Juice, one of those little juice places? Mrs. Acuna said she always got one of those things, a smoothie. She offered to bring one back.'

'Jungle Juice. Okay, that gives us a place to start.' How many Jungle Juices could there be?

Frank was looking more relieved by the second. Like he could breathe again. 'I appreciate this, Mr. Cole. I want you to know that I don't care how much this costs. You tell me how much you want, it's yours.'

Joe said, 'Nothing.'

Garcia waved his hands. 'No, Joe, c'mon.'

'Nothing, Frank.'

I stared at the pool. I would've liked some of Frank Garcia's money just fine.

Garcia took Joe's arm again. 'You're a good boy, Joe. You

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always were.' He hung on to Joe's arm as he looked at me. 'We know each other since Joe was a policeman. Joe and my Karen, they used to see each other. I was hoping maybe one day this boy might be part of the family.'

Joe said, 'That was a long time ago.' He said it so softly that I could barely hear him.

I smiled. 'Joe. You never told me about this.'

Joe turned my way, the flat black lenses reflecting sun. 'Stop.'

I smiled wider and shook my head. That Joe. You learn something every day.

The old man looked up at the sky as the first flecks of ash swirled around us, the flecks catching on his hands and legs. 'Look at this mess. The goddamned sky is melting.'

The woman with the thick waist showed us out through the cool of Frank Garcia's home. Joe's red Jeep Cherokee was parked beneath an elm tree at the curb. My car was parked behind it. Pike and I walked down the drive without speaking until we came to the street, and then Joe said, 'Thanks for coming.'

'I guess there are worse ways to spend a Sunday. I could be wrestling that damned couch.'

Pike canted the glasses my way. 'We finish this, I'll move the couch for you.'

Friends.

We left my car where it was, climbed into Pike's Jeep, and went to find Karen Garcia.

Frank Garcia had written his daughter's name, address, and phone number on the yellow sheet, along with a description of Karen's car (a red Mazda RX-7) and her license number (4KBL772). He'd attached a snapshot of Karen laughing about something as she sat at what was probably his dining-room table. She had a brilliant white smile, offset nicely against golden skin and rich black hair. She looked happy.

Joe stared at the photograph as if he were peering through a window at something far away.

I said, 'Pretty.'

'Yes. She is.'

'You had to be seeing her, when, before you knew me?'