the screen. “Let’s see what CLETS can turn up.” I printed a copy of the DMV file, then booted up a California police database whose acronym stood for California Law Enforcement Telecommunications System. My inquiries on Victor Carns showed no warrants outstanding, no supervised-release file, no criminal history. FBI records, however, did reveal one interesting bit of information: Nineteen years back Carns had served as an electronics technician in the United States Navy.
Just then the fax machine cranked out a high resolution blowup of Victor Carns’s driver’s license picture. Arnie and I studied the photocopy, staring at the face of a nondescript man in his midthirties.
“Looks like an accountant,” said Arnie.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “We had the Baker woman work with a composite artist. This doesn’t much resemble the drawing they came up with, which could explain why nobody at the health clubs picked him out. Height, age, weight, and hair color are close, though,” I added, referring to the DMV printout.
“A lot of people don’t work well with an artist,” noted Arnie. “The Baker lady might recognize this picture, though. If she tags him, we could revisit the health clubs. We can run his DMV thumbprint against the crime-scene unknowns, too.”
“We’ll do those things for certain, but right now there may be a quicker way.” After referring to my notes, I again picked up the phone.
“Who’re you calling?”
“An attorney’s office in Santa Ana.” I dialed a 714-area code number, then covered the receiver with my palm. “Somebody used their office codes to get a DMV trace on Mrs. Baker.”
Hearing someone pick up at the other end, I removed my hand from the mouthpiece. “Hello? Yes, I’m calling about the status of my bill. Would you please connect me with someone in accounting?” Turning toward Arnie, I once more covered the phone. “We don’t have enough to get a warrant for their client list, and we haven’t been able to come up with anything on-Hello? Yes, good morning. This is Victor Carns. That’s C-A-R-N-S. I’m leaving on an extended trip and I want to make sure my account is fully paid.” A pause. “It is? Good. Thank you. You have a nice day, too.”
I set the receiver back in the cradle. Both Arnie and I stared at Carns’s DMV photo for several seconds. Finally Arnie spoke. “Damn,” he said softly. “You nailed him.”
I nodded. “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough for an arrest, or even a search warrant. But now we know who he is.”
“What’s next? Turn it over to the task force?”
“Not quite yet. There’s one more thing I want to check.”
48
Later that Saturday afternoon Barrello and I pulled through the Orange County subdivision of Coto de Caza’s north gate, Barrello at the wheel. Winding through a maze of country roads, we passed an equestrian center, a rustic-looking general store, and what seemed an endless parade of white fenced, multiacre estates. A mile farther on we pulled to a stop on Via Pajaro, parking in the shade of a large sycamore. I referred to a brochure we’d picked up earlier at the realtor’s office. According to the enclosed map, we were at the south end of the “Los Ranchos Estates” section of the community, the oldest and most prestigious area in Coto.
Leaving the engine running, Barrello reached into a paper sack beside him, pulling out a cheeseburger and a carton of fries. “Sucker’s as big as a hotel,” he said, gazing up at an English Tudor-style mansion set high on a hillside across the street.
Nodding in agreement, I opened the glove compartment and withdrew a pair of binoculars. Sweeping them across the sprawling structure, I inspected Victor Carns’s estate. The main house stood partially concealed behind several large outbuildings and an orchard of fruit trees. Gables and several brick chimneys pierced the structure’s gray slate roof. Two additional wings fanned out on either side, both of these secondary projections easily as large as an average home. No movement on the grounds or inside the house, at least that I could see.
“You gonna tell me why you think this is our guy?” Barrello inquired around a mouthful of burger.
I lowered the binoculars and rubbed my eyes, continuing to inspect the huge mansion. “After I’m sure.”
“You realize Fuentes and I are goin’ out on a limb for you on this, not to mention workin’ on our only day off?”
“I do, and I appreciate it, Lou. If this pans out, I’ll turn everything over to the task force and step aside. You, Fuentes, and Deluca are going to be heroes.”
“I’m not risking my pension for that. I want this dirtbag as much as you do.”
“I know.” I pulled out my cell phone and called Fuentes. “Where is he now?” I asked.
“Crossing the parking lot,” Fuentes’ voice came back from Plaza Antonio, a shopping mall four miles east. “He’s heading into the market. Just got a basket. Now he’s going through the doors. Want me to follow him in?”
“No. Stay with his car. Let us know when he comes out.”
I hung up, then dialed another number. “One last check,” I said as Carns’s home number began ringing. No one answered. Next I tried Carns’s business line, reaching an answering machine. Satisfied, I repocketed my phone. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Barrello downed a final fistful of fries and dropped the car into gear. A few blocks south he turned up a side street, stopping at a weed choked lot past Carns’s estate. From our new vantage Carns’s enormous compound appeared even larger, with a putting green, tennis courts, and a kidney-shaped pool now visible behind the fencing and hedges surrounding the grounds.
“Holy shit,” said Barrello, his voice tinged with awe. “The guy’s definitely got some bucks.”
“Seems that way.” I reached across the seat and grabbed Barrello’s partially eaten burger. “Dog,” I said in response to Barrello’s puzzled look. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it back if there isn’t one.”
“How long will you be?”
I shoved the paper-wrapped burger into my pocket. “Fifteen, twenty minutes tops. Keep in touch with Fuentes and call me if Carns comes out of the market.”
“Got it,” said Barrello. “You’re just gonna reconnoiter the grounds, look through a few windows, right? For anything more we get a warrant.”
“Right,” I lied, stepping from the car. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Barrello, but if what I was about to do were ever discovered, I wanted to protect him and Fuentes from the inevitable repercussions-at least as much as possible.
I crossed the street and climbed a six-foot gate, then followed a winding, pressed-concrete driveway to the front door. Out of sight of Barrello, I used my knuckle to ring the bell. No one answered. With a handkerchief covering my palm, I tried the knob. The door was locked. I groaned inwardly, noticing a Medeco dead bolt above the latch.
Shortly after graduating from the Police Academy, I had spent time learning the art of picking locks. Over months of practice at home, working on various lock cylinders while watching television, I’d developed considerable expertise. Nonetheless, I had managed to open a “pick-proof” Medeco only once. It had taken a week.
Giving up on the Medeco, I made my way around the side of the house, discovering a pair of French doors bordering the pool. The lock there was a Baldwin. With a smile, I pulled a small tension wrench and a pick from my pocket. Working quickly, I inserted the wrench into the Baldwin’s brass keyway and twisted, maintaining pressure with my left hand. Using the pick in my right, I raked the pins. One by one, all five clicked into place. Twenty seconds from starting, I rotated the cylinder. Burger in hand, I cracked the door and whistled into the interior. “Here, boy,” I called. Nothing. Rewrapping Barrello’s lunch and shoving it back into my pocket, I entered the house, wiping the knob with my handkerchief as I stepped inside.
Beside the door, I noticed a security panel. As I’d expected, Carns’s house had an alarm system. Prepared to leave immediately if necessary, I checked a small screen on the panel face. Also as expected, the system was unarmed. Like most people, Carns didn’t set the alarm when only going out for a short while.
After relocking the door I glanced around, finding myself in a well equipped gymnasium complete with
