Snead frowned. “We already have surveillance units covering previous crime scenes, and now you want me to request another? Why don’t we just stakeout everybody in the whole goddamned city?”
“Because everybody in the city hasn’t had their house broken into and their maid attacked,” I reasoned.
“Give ’em time,” quipped Deluca.
“How about two weeks?” suggested Huff, glancing at Snead. “We can’t ignore this, Bill. If Kane’s hunch turns out to be right and we didn’t act on it… Listen, along with putting a team on the Baker house, we’ll work the attorney angle. Two weeks from now we’ll be past the killer’s next projected murder date, at least according to Dr. Berns’s timetable. If nothing else, we’ll have covered ourselves.”
Sensing himself outnumbered, Snead relented. “Fine,” he said tersely. “I think we’re blowing our resources, but I’ll talk to Metro. They’ll want us to put some of our own men on it too, which will cripple our efforts in other areas, but I’ll do it. Two weeks. No more.”
30
Never has sweat been so chic,” read the brochure I picked up as I entered The Sports Club/LA on Sepulveda. Similar hyperbole followed, touting the facility as “… the largest and most exclusive health facility on the West Coast, combining the glitz, power, and fantasy of Los Angeles under one roof.”
Gazing around the lobby of the expansive structure, I had to admit it was impressive. Valet parking, a semicircular reception desk with granite counters and computer workstations worthy of a four-star hotel, and a gigantic lounge greeted first time visitors, along with a grill, juice bar, cafe, and a restaurant set among a forest of ferns and philodendra on the first floor. Although no workout facilities were visible from the lobby, the brochure boasted an Olympic-sized swimming pool and a 10,000-square-foot coed weight room, spas, racquetball and paddle tennis courts, aerobic studios, conference rooms and banquet facilities, a hair salon, dry-cleaning and shoeshine shops-even a car detailing service.
I smiled to myself as I crossed the lobby, trying to picture a detail crew working on my beach-rusted Suburban while I pumped chrome-plated iron with LA’s elite. I decided doing pushups on my deck at home was more my style. When I arrived at the reception desk, a young man behind the counter looked up. “Yes, sir?” he said, brightening as he noticed the brochure in my hand. “Interested in joining?”
“Actually, I was just thinking about that,” I answered, flipping out my shield. “Is the manager around?”
“She is.” The self-assured youngster chin-pointed across the room. “Her office is over there.”
“Thanks,” I said, spotting a door marked “Operations” behind the fronds of a potted palm. Ignoring the receptionist’s questioning look, I crossed the lobby and knocked on the manager’s door. Receiving no answer, I opened it and looked inside. A stern-looking woman with tightly coifed hair sat behind a desk talking on the telephone. With a perfunctory nod, she directed me to a chair across from her desk and resumed her conversation.
Instead of sitting, I inspected a collection of photographs festooning her walls. Most shots depicted movie stars, sports celebrities, and political figures standing beside a man I assumed to be one of the health club owners. Not surprisingly, both the mayor and the chief were among the personalities grinning at me from identical eight-by-ten frames.
The woman finally hung up. “May I help you?” she asked with a quizzical stare.
“I hope so, Ms.-”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Lemon. And you are…?”
“Detective Daniel Kane, LAPD.” I again flipped out my ID.
Initially flustered, the woman quickly recovered. “Yes, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“A lot, I hope,” I said. I withdrew a folded sheet of paper and opened it on her desk, displaying the sketch of a dark-haired man in his midthirties.
The woman studied the composite drawing, then read the description printed across the bottom. “Am I supposed to know this person?”
“That’s what I’m hoping to find out. We think this man may be a member of your club. He was here a couple of weeks back.”
“We have over seventy-five hundred members. Without a name…”
“Under the circumstances, this drawing is the best we can do. These seventy-five-hundred members-you take pictures of them when they join?”
“Yes. The photos are laminated onto their membership cards. We don’t keep a copy, so if a client loses a card, he or she has to purchase a new one.”
“Do you allow guests?”
“Of course. We offer trial memberships, too.”
“So somebody could work out here a few times to check out the facilities?”
“We have a few restrictions, but that’s correct. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s this about?”
“We’re investigating an assault that took place at the home of one of your patrons.”
“Was it serious?”
“It was, but not as serious as it could’ve been. Listen, Ms. Lemon, rather than place an officer in your lobby to watch for this guy, which frankly we don’t have the manpower to do, I want to leave this drawing with you to show to all your employees. I’ll swing by in a day or so, but let me know right away if someone’s seen this guy. Can you do that for me?”
“I’ll have to ask the owners,” said Ms. Lemon, adding, “But I’ll make sure there won’t be a problem.” She considered a moment. “Actually, we have a membership database, with a digital image of every member attached to his or her account. I could go through the database and see whether I can find your guy.”
“Thanks, Ms. Lemon,” I said, realizing that with what we had so far, getting a warrant to do so would have been impossible. “I appreciate your cooperation. Contact me immediately if you find a match.” I wrote my number at task force headquarters on the bottom of the sketch. “One more thing. Don’t post this drawing on a bulletin board or whatever. If the guy shows up, we don’t want to spook him.”
After leaving the manager’s office, I returned to the reception desk. Pulling another drawing from my pocket, I asked the kid behind the counter, “Have you seen this guy? I know this picture isn’t much to go on, but concentrate. He was here around two weeks ago. He’s white and about your height, maybe one hundred and eighty pounds, mid- to late thirties, dark hair, wiry build.”
The youth inspected the sheet. “I can’t say for sure. A lot of people come through.”
“I’ll leave this with you,” I said. “If you see him, or even think you see him, call the manager. And keep this drawing out of sight, okay?”
“Sure.” As the young man slipped the drawing into a drawer, a familiar voice floated across the lobby. “Detective Kane. What a surprise!”
I turned. To my amazement, I saw Lauren Van Owen crossing the lobby, her blond hair clasped in a ponytail. She had on an abbreviated, tight-fitting gym outfit that made her long legs seem even longer. A workout towel hung loose around her neck, a sheen of perspiration glistening on her face and shoulders. She smiled archly when she arrived. “Almost didn’t recognize you without your foot in your mouth, Kane. Making any progress on the candlelight killings?”
“You never quit, do you?”
“Nope,” Lauren laughed, obviously amused by my discomfort at our chance meeting. “Same as you. Always on the job. Which brings up my next question. What are you doing here?”
“Running down some routine leads.” I shot a glance toward the exit.
“What was that paper you just handed the receptionist?”
“None of your business.”
“I think it is,” said Lauren. Then, to the young man behind the desk, “What did he give you?”
“Don’t answer that, kid,” I ordered. “Anything I said to you was part of a confidential police investigation.”
“That’s crap and you know it,” said Lauren. “Last time I checked, this was still a free country.” Again turning to the receptionist, “I’m Lauren Van Owen from Channel Two News.”
