“No, statewide. Within the past five years. And-”
“Detective?” a voice interrupted.
Walsh glanced behind him and saw a uniformed cop standing there. “Yeah?”
“Watch commander at Wilshire says there’s a guy waiting for you at the station.”
“Name?” For a crazy moment Walsh imagined the patrol cop saying, William Bowden-he’s waiting to make a full confession.
But he answered, “Adam Nolan. I think he’s the victim’s ex-husband.”
“Hell.” Walsh had forgotten all about the man. “All right, I’ll head on over.”
He sketched a wave to Cellini, who was on the phone and barely acknowledged him.
The drive to Wilshire Station was short, but it gave Walsh sufficient time to consider his plan of attack. When interrogating a suspect, there must always be a plan of attack.
He decided to do his Peter Falk impression. That usually got results.
Most cops didn’t watch police shows, but Walsh liked them, and his favorite of all time was Columbo. Oh, sure, the show was totally unrealistic, but Walsh didn’t care about technical accuracy. He loved the show because Columbo was middle-aged and rumpled and eccentric, not unlike Walsh himself. Neither of them would ever be mistaken for Clint Eastwood. They both owned clunky old cars, although Columbo drove his when on-duty in contravention of LAPD policy, which required the use of a department-issue Caprice or Crown Victoria. They both came across as relics of an earlier, pretechnological age. They both loved their work and had little else in their lives.
At night Columbo went home to his invisible and presumably dowdy wife, and Walsh went home to a house that had been empty since his wife left him, to a phone that never rang because his three grown kids were always too busy to call, to bowls of microwaved chili and reruns of Columbo on cable TV.
He parked behind the Wilshire divisional station on Venice Boulevard and entered through the rear door, then quickly made his way through to the reception area in front, where he asked the desk officer for Adam Nolan. He was directed to an unused office on a side corridor. Good thing the watch commander had been smart enough not to put Nolan in an interrogation room. He didn’t want the man thinking of himself as a suspect.
He pushed open the office door and saw a man of about thirty seated in a metal chair, wearing dark chinos and a tan, zippered windbreaker.
“Mr. Nolan? I’m Detective Walsh, Robbery-Homicide.”
Walsh regretted the introduction as soon as he saw the look of cold dread pass over Nolan’s face at the mention of the word homicide . He held up a reassuring hand. “Your wife isn’t dead. That is, we believe she isn’t.”
“Ex-wife,” Nolan mumbled, rising from his chair.
“Sorry.”
“C.J.’s alive?”
“We think so, yes.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“She’s missing, Mr. Nolan.” Walsh closed the door, then took his time moving around the desk and seating himself behind it. “She’s been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” Nolan echoed. He sat down, facing the desk. “Who the hell would kidnap her? She hasn’t got any money. She’s not involved in anything political.” He blinked. “Is it-could it be somebody she arrested? A revenge thing?”
“Anything’s possible at this stage. The person responsible could be anyone.” Including you, Walsh added silently.
He didn’t think Adam Nolan was implicated in this crime, but until he had more facts, he wasn’t making any assumptions.
“When did this happen?” Nolan asked.
“We’re not sure.” Walsh leaned forward, asserting himself. “Mr. Nolan, I’m afraid you’ll have to let me ask the questions.”
“Right,” Nolan said. “Of course.” He ran a hand over his blond hair, mussing it distractedly. He was a good- looking guy, Walsh noted, with crisp, regular features, a light suntan, and smoky eyes tinged with blue. Women would go for him.
“When did you and C.J. get divorced?” Walsh asked.
“A year ago, approximately. Why is that relevant?”
“I’m just getting some background information,” Walsh answered vaguely. “Have you kept in touch with her?”
“As I said over the phone, I saw her just a few hours ago.”
“It wasn’t me you talked to on the phone. It was Detective Boyle.” Walsh spread his hands apologetically and cocked his head in ingenuous humility. “Sorry if I’m covering some of the same ground.”
Nolan seemed disarmed by these overtures. “It’s all right. Ask whatever you want.”
Walsh nodded. Thank you, Lieutenant Columbo. “You saw your ex-wife today?”
Nolan said yes. “At Newton Station. She was coming off duty. We went for coffee down the street.”
“Where?”
“I don’t remember the name of the place. It was run by a Filipino couple-she told me that.”
“Why did you see her?”
“To invite her out.”
“Tonight?”
“No, she does volunteer work tonight. I mean, normally she does. I mean-”
“I understand. Go on.”
“It was for Friday. I thought we might go to a club, hear some music.”
“You do that often? Get together with her?” He was fully absorbed in his Columbo persona now-polite, apologetic, gently probing.
“No, not really. We try to keep in touch. But it’s a strain, you know. The divorce wasn’t entirely amicable.”
“I guess they never are,” Walsh said, thinking of his own divorce ten years ago. “Can I ask why you split up?”
“We were just going in different directions. She became a cop. I became a lawyer.”
“Criminal law?”
“Corporate.”
“Good money in that.”
“So they tell me.” A brief, forced laugh.
“Did C.J. express any concerns about her safety?”
“Today?”
“Ever.”
Nolan thought about it. “No, I’m sure I’d remember if she had.”
“Did she mention an e-mail she’d received?”
“E-mail?”
Walsh waved off the issue. “Never mind.”
“Did someone send her-”
“I can’t go into it.” Another Columbo moment. “I’m sorry. Really.” He let his sympathy mollify Nolan, then continued. “Did you leave the coffee shop together?”
“We parted outside. She walked back to the station for her car.”
“What did you do?”
“Drove to the office. It’s Brigham and Garner in Century City.”
“What time did you leave her?”
“Four-fifteen, four-thirty.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Home, I assumed. She’d worked a full shift, or watch-whatever you call it. She’d nearly gotten herself killed. I think she was ready to chill out.”
