fence?”
“The red one? Yeah. It’s been finished since last week. We didn’t release it because of some insurance mixup. Mrs. Larson was supposed to come down Monday and straighten things out.”
“Straighten out, as in pay?”
Al shrugged. “We don’t release cars till the bill’s settled.”
“What about the insurance money?”
“The other driver’s company refused to pay.”
“Why?”
Again, Al shrugged.
I sighed impatiently. “Okay. Let’s take a look at the car.”
Al rummaged through an assortment of keys hanging on a pegboard, finding a small ring with a tag displaying a license number and the name “Larson.” I plucked the ring from his fingers. Two keys. Both bore the Infiniti logo. No house key.
Deluca and I followed the owner out to the lot, exiting behind one of the repair bays. When we arrived at the Larsons’ car, I noted a layer of grime covering its surface. I drew my finger through the dust, then bent to inspect the asphalt beneath the engine. No drips. “How long has it been sitting here?” I asked.
“Like I said, since last week,” Al answered. “What are you guys lookin’ for, anyway?”
I ignored the question. “Who worked on it?”
“I think Alonzo did the body work. Smitty… Charlie Smith did the paint.”
I unlocked the driver’s-side door and tossed the keys to Deluca. “Check the trunk.”
Leaning into the vehicle, I noticed a door-opener remote affixed to the visor. The fastening clip lined up perfectly with grooves that time had pressed in the simulated-leather surface. If someone had removed the remote, they’d taken pains to replace it exactly. Using my pen, I teased the device from the visor and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag.
“Not much in the trunk,” Deluca called from the back. “Just the spare and a jack.”
I flipped open the glove compartment, noting maps, a pack of matches, napkins, and a flashlight. A quick search revealed nothing under the seats or in the ashtrays. “Nothing much here, either,” I said, backing from the car. “Let’s go talk to Alonzo and Smitty.”
“Smitty’s workin’ today, but you’ll have to wait to see Alonzo,” said the owner. “He drove down to Mexico to visit family. Left yesterday and won’t be back till next week. Hey, you don’t think one of my guys had something to do with the murders?”
“When next week?”
“Friday, I think. I could check the schedule.”
“Do that,” I said. “While you’re at it, I would appreciate a list of every employee you’ve had working here for the past two years.”
Al’s expression turned surly. “That’s gonna be tough. I don’t see why I gotta-”
Another citizen eager to help. “This isn’t a request, Al,” I said. “In case you missed it the first time around, we’re investigating a multiple homicide. If you force us to get a warrant, I guarantee you’ll regret it. For instance, I have friends down at Immigration, and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if they dropped by here and found that half the guys you have working are missing their green cards. You follow me?”
Al’s face darkened. “I follow.”
“Good. Now, there’re two things I want you to bear in mind when you’re making out that list for us. First, we need the names of all your workers, not just the ones you’re carrying on the books.”
“You won’t bring in INS?”
“Not as long as you cooperate.”
“What’s the other thing?”
“Don’t talk to Alonzo before he gets back. For that matter, don’t mention our visit to anybody.”
When Deluca and I returned to task force headquarters, I noticed a pink message slip lying on my desk. A name was scrawled across the top: Graysha Hunt.
“You want me to run with this?” asked Deluca, riffling through the employee list we had received from the repair-shop owner.
I sat at my desk and picked up the phone. “Yeah. Check the local database first, then run everybody through the DOJ computer. Be sure to add Al’s name, too. And make a copy for Barrello.”
“Right.”
I dialed the number on the slip. As the phone started ringing on the other end, I rocked back in my chair, gazing at Lieutenant Huff’s wall chart. The list had grown considerably since morning, apparently swollen by names supplied by solicitous citizens via the hotline. I sighed gloomily.
“Palisades Properties. Graysha speaking.”
“Hello, Graysha. Dan Kane returning your call. You have something for me?”
“Oh, hi,” said Graysha, suddenly sounding out of breath. “I… I put together the list you wanted. Agents who’ve shown the property on Michael Lane. Their client registries, too.”
“Any of them give you a hard time?”
“No, but I didn’t mention what was involved. Will you be calling them?”
“Maybe not me, but someone here will.”
“When they do, I’d appreciate it if they didn’t, uh-”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your name stays out of it. You want to fax me the list?”
“Okay,” said Graysha, her tone anything but certain.
I rattled off the task force fax number. “You’re doing the right thing,” I added.
“I hope so. And I hope you catch this guy. If there’s anything else…”
“If there is, you’ll hear from me. And thanks.”
After hanging up, I thought a minute, then looked around the room, spotting a Hollywood detective named Terry Liman at a desk near the windows. Head down and making notes on a yellow legal pad, Liman was laboriously going through a mountain of the Larsons’ bills and records.
I walked over. “Terry, you seem so busy I hate to interrupt,” I said.
Liman grinned, clearly welcoming the diversion. “Not a problem.”
“How’s it going?”
“Slow. Fuentes is examining the Pratt records and we’re looking for correlations between the two families as we go, but nothing’s turned up so far. Hard to believe a family can generate so much paperwork.”
“Have you gone through the Larson’s financial stuff yet?”
“Not yet. I started on their address book. Right now I’m up to the T’s. Phone records are next.”
“Let me borrow the bank receipts for a while, okay?”
“Sure.” Liman rummaged through a cardboard box, pulling out a leather-bound checkbook and a wad of bank statements and canceled checks. “Here you go.”
“Thanks. I’ll have them back as soon as I’m done.”
I returned to my desk and began a review of the Larsons’ expenditures for the past year, beginning with October and then working my way back. Twenty minutes later I found a check written to the USAA Insurance Company, a policy number neatly penned across the top. After consulting the telephone directory, I dialed USAA’s district office in Van Nuys.
Following a long wait on hold, I wound up speaking to an irritable claims adjuster named Bertina Johnson. She stated that USAA, acting on behalf of their insured, Susan Larson, had indeed submitted a claim to Twentieth Century Insurance requesting payment for a recent accident. Following another delay while she further searched her records, Ms. Johnson went on to say that Twentieth had denied the claim, maintaining that their insured was not at fault. When I asked why, she informed me that additional information would have to come directly from Twentieth.
Upon telephoning Twentieth Century, I ran into another dead end. Yolanda Blum, the adjuster on the case, had called in sick that morning. Although Twentieth had a record of the Larson claim, Ms. Blum had filed it under the name of their insured, not Larson, and she had failed to cross-reference it. I ultimately had to settle for a promise that Ms. Blum would call back when she returned.
As I hung up, I noticed Deluca angling across the room, a satisfied grin on his face. “What’re you so pleased
