“Yes. May I help you?”
“This is Daniel Kane, LAPD. I called some time back concerning a claim made by Susan Larson.”
“Oh, yes, through USAA. The Tenaka case. Give me a sec to pull it up.”
“Tenaka?”
“Our insured. Ah, here it is. By the way, I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. This flu that’s going around is awful.”
“As I understand it, your company refused payment on the Larsons’ claim,” I said, ignoring her excuse. “Why?”
“Under the circumstances, we felt completely justified,” Ms. Blum replied defensively. “It’s terrible what happened to them, though. I heard about it on the news.”
“Yes, ma’am. What circumstances?”
“For one thing, Mrs. Larson said in her claim that a man named Ron Phillips damaged her car.”
“You said your insured’s name is Tenaka.”
“Right. According to Mrs. Larson’s claim, Mr. Phillips, who was driving a white van, told her he was covered by Twentieth Century Insurance.”
“A white van?” I said, my pulse quickening. “Did you get a make on it?”
“No.”
“How about a license number?”
“Yes, that was included on the claim. When I found we had no one named Ron Phillips as an insured, I ran a DMV trace.”
“And?”
“The owner of the plates proved to be a Mr. James Tenaka of El Monte, who is, coincidentally, covered by Twentieth. But his vehicle is a red ’99 Ford sedan, not a white van. Furthermore, Mr. Tenaka denied any involvement in an accident with Susan Larson. He said he had never heard of Ron Phillips, and that he hadn’t been in West Los Angeles during the past year. In her claim, Mrs. Larson clearly stated that the other party was driving a white van, and in the absence of a police accident report…”
“… you denied payment,” I finished. “Did you call Mrs. Larson?”
“Right after talking with Mr. Tenaka. She was upset. Said she was absolutely certain she had copied down the license number correctly. She couldn’t believe that the other driver had lied to her. Do you think this might have something to do with the murders?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. At this point we’re checking everything. Did Mrs. Larson say anything else?”
“Hold on. Let me get my notes.” A rustling of paper, then, “She said her car was dented while parked outside her health club. The other driver was waiting for her when she came out.”
“What club?”
“Hinds Health Center. Olympic and Bundy.”
“I know the place,” I said, realizing I had been less than a block away when visiting Hank Dexter’s electronic shop. “Did she give a description of the man?”
“No. Mr. Phillips, or whatever his name is, told Mrs. Larson that he had forgotten his wallet. He didn’t have his driver’s license or proof of insurance with him, but he wanted to pay for the damage. They exchanged information. You know the rest.”
“Not all, but we’re getting there. I’ll need Mr. Tenaka’s phone number and a copy of the accident claim.”
“Of course.” Ms. Blum gave me Mr. Tenaka’s phone number, also promising to fax a copy of the insurance file.
Next I telephoned James Tenaka in El Monte. An elderly-sounding man answered. “Whatever it is, I’m not buying,” he grumbled.
“I’m not selling,” I said. “This is Detective Daniel Kane, LAPD. I’m calling about an accident involving your car.”
“What’s that? You’re gonna have to speak up.”
Raising my voice, I repeated myself without success, noticing Deluca grinning at me from an adjacent desk. Almost shouting, I tried again. The third go-around proved the charm.
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” asked Mr. Tenaka. “You’re talking about that lady in West LA? Damnation, I hardly drive anyplace anymore, let alone all the way over there.”
“So how do you explain your license number being on the claim report?”
“Funny thing about that,” Mr. Tenaka answered. “At first I figured somebody made a mistake. Transposed a couple digits or whatever. Then I went out and checked my plates.”
“On your car?”
“No, the one’s I chew with. Of course the ones on my car. What kind of cop are you, anyway?”
“A detective,” I answered. Looking up, I saw that besides Deluca, now a number of other task force members were following my conversation with amusement. “Can we get back to the plates?”
“Of course. And you don’t have to shout. I’m not deaf.”
“The plates?”
“Like I said, I went out and checked. They turned out to be the wrong ones. Didn’t match the numbers on my registration. Weren’t even close.”
“Somebody switched plates with you?”
“You’re the detective.”
“Did you report the substitution?”
“Hell, no. Have you been down to DMV lately? I figured I’d get around to it someday-like when I have four or five hours to kill standing in line.”
“Do me a favor, Mr. Tenaka. I need the number of the plates presently on your vehicle. Could you look for me?”
“Is this important?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on a minute.”
As I waited for Mr. Tenaka to return, I picked up a scratch pad. In small block letters I penciled “Killer hits victims’ cars” and “Why?” After a moment I made another notation, underlining it twice. “Can’t follow them home. Security gates.”
“You ready?” Mr. Tenaka asked, coming back on the line.
“Go ahead.”
Using alpha-bravo designations for each letter and pausing between digits, Mr. Tenaka carefully read the number of the plates now on his car.
“Do you have any idea where or when the switch took place?” I asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think that because you didn’t even know your plates were gone, you have absolutely no idea.”
“Bingo.”
“Thanks, Mr. Tenaka. You’ve been helpful.”
After hanging up, I ran a DMV trace to determine the owner of the plates presently on Mr. Tenaka’s Ford. The computer spit back the name of a Mrs. Eleanor Baumgarten in Huntington Beach. Upon calling her, I learned that Mrs. Baumgarten’s plates had been stolen two months earlier while she was shopping at a local mall. In the interim she’d reported the theft and received new ones.
I next talked with one of the Newport Beach detectives detailed to the task force. Although he didn’t have the information I requested, he referred me to his partner, Greg Sugita, who had been assigned the job of going through the Welshes’ bills and correspondence.
Upon questioning, Sugita gazed at me curiously. “Now that you mention it, I did find something in the wife’s address book that might relate to the scrape on their car,” he said, his Asian features furrowing thoughtfully. He fumbled through a stack of papers. “Got it somewhere. Here we go.” He handed me a scrap of paper.
I inspected it. In fine Palmer penmanship someone had written the name “Jeff Millford,” followed by the words “Continental Insurance,” “blue Toyota,” and a license plate number, address, and telephone number.
“Is this Mrs. Welsh’s handwriting?” I asked.
