Kane (36 page)

“Damn,” I said.  “Okay, go ahead.  What happened next?”

“Nothing.  I drove around Beverly Hills and lost him in traffic.  After that, I came home.  I haven’t been back to the club since.  Do you think the man who broke in was the same guy?”

“Possibly.  What did he look like?”

“I don’t remember much about him.  He was kind of, uh, plain.”

“White?”

“Yes.”

“How tall?  Five-ten?  Six feet?  Six-two?”

“Sorry, I can’t say.”

“You’d be surprised what you can bring back.”  I crossed to the love seat and took her hand.  “Stand up.”

Hesitantly, Mrs. Baker rose to her feet.

“The guy introduced himself to you at the desk,” I said, releasing her hand and moving closer.  “How near was he?  Closer than this?”

Mrs. Baker shifted uncomfortably.  “I … about like that.”

“Close enough to smell.  Did he have on cologne?  Maybe he had bad breath, body odor?”

“Uh, he was wearing cologne, I think.  Old Spice.  My husband uses it.”

“I’m a bit over six-three and weigh around two-fifteen.  Was the guy bigger or smaller than me?”

“Smaller.  I had to look up at him, but not much.  And I wasn’t wearing heels.”

“That would make him around five-eleven, maybe six feet,” I said, gauging Mrs. Baker’s height.  “How about his build?  Fat, skinny, muscular?”

“Not as muscular as you.  But strong.  You know, wiry.”

“So let’s put him in the one seventy-five to one ninety range.  You said he introduced himself.  Did he shake your hand?”

“Yes.  He did.”

“Like this?”  I took her hand again, swallowing it in mine.  “Think back.  Anything you can recall might help.  How did his hand feel?  Hard?  Soft?”

“He … he had on workout gloves.  I remember thinking it was rude of him not to take them off.”

“Keep going.”

“His hand was smaller than yours.  He had a limp, creepy grip, as if he were afraid of hurting me if he squeezed too hard.  Not like you,” she added pointedly.

“What about his voice?  Loud, soft?  Any accent?”

“He talked softly, which I thought was unusual for someone his size.  No accent.”

“Scars, marks, distinguishing features?”

“I didn’t see any.”

“Age?”

“About like you.  Maybe a few years younger.”

Releasing her hand, I stepped even closer.  “Look at me and pretend I’m the guy.  Did you see his eyes?”

“Briefly,” said Mrs. Baker, thinking back.  “They were dark.  Like his hair.”

“Could his hair have been dyed?”

“Now that you mention it, I
did
notice something about it that didn’t seem quite right.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that there was an intensity about him that made me feel uncomfortable.  Like now.”

“Sorry.”  I took a step back and shoved my hands into my pockets.  “Sometimes it helps to remember if you go through it again.  You did well.”

“Thanks.  I think.”

“I’d like you to come downtown and work with a police artist, see whether we can come up with a sketch of the man who followed you.  Would you do that for us?”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

Distractedly, Mrs. Baker ran her fingers through her hair.  “Someone’s supposed to come out this afternoon to change the locks.  I guess I could call and reschedule.  I’ll have to make arrangements for somebody to be here when Kyle gets home, too.”

“Make your calls,” I said.  “We’ll wait outside.  You can ride in with us.  I’ll have someone drive you back when you’re done.”

“Okay.  I’ll be out in a minute.”  Mrs. Baker hesitated, clearly disturbed by the interview.  “Detective Kane?”

“What?”

“If this
is
the same man who followed me, do you think he’ll come back?”

“I don’t want to alarm you,” I said.  “But if it is the same guy, I think he might.  In fact, I’m counting on it.”

*       *       *

“I don’t believe this!” Lieutenant Snead fumed at Wednesday’s briefing.  He had listened to my description of the interview with Maureen Baker, and it hadn’t set well.  “Last time around, the killer never went near the Welshes’ garage,” he sputtered.  “Plus, your Mrs. Baker said she could’ve left her garage open herself.  Another thing—and I’m surprised I have to keep pointing this out—we have absolutely no proof the killer is reconnoitering scenes before the murders, so the whole B-and-E angle is probably a waste of time.  What we
do
know about our guy is that he bumps victims’ cars to find out where they live.  The man who followed Mrs. Baker didn’t do that.”

“It’s possible he only goes the accident route if following them home doesn’t pan out,” I countered.  “Remember, all three murdered families so far lived behind security gates.”

“That may be, but you said Mrs. Baker ditched her persistent admirer in Beverly Hills,” Snead argued.  “If he didn’t scrape her car and he didn’t follow her home, how’d he find her?”

“Deluca has something that bears on that.”

Snead turned to Deluca.  “Is that so?  Go ahead, Detective.”

“I checked with DMV,” said Deluca.  “Two weeks back somebody ran a license plate trace on Mrs. Baker’s car.”

“A cop?”

“No.  The request came from an attorney’s office in Santa Ana.”  Deluca referred to his notes.  “Donovan, Simon, and Kerr.  Big firm, does personal injury stuff.  They have a second office in LA and a third in San Diego.  They say they don’t know anything about the trace.”

A detective in the back spoke up.  “I thought private citizens couldn’t run DMV traces.”

“Ordinary citizens still can, but they’ve gotta show reason and fill out a rash of paperwork,” explained Deluca.  “It takes weeks and the registered owner of the car gets notified first.  But lawyers, private investigators, and a handful of other groups—account holders, they call them—have immediate access.”

“And the law firm says nobody in their offices authorized the request?”

“They admit somebody used their code and account number, but they say it wasn’t them.  The attorney who supposedly made the request is on vacation in Hawaii.  All three of their office locations are computer-linked over the phone lines.  A technician I talked with over there thinks somebody hacked into their network.  Right now they’re changing their passwords and access codes.”

“So failing plans A and B to locate victims, our killer is now employing plan C?” snorted Snead.

“
Somebody
made that request,” I pointed out.

“Any chance of finding out who?” asked Lieutenant Huff.

“The computer nerd said anybody with computer skills could have broken into the system, especially if they already knew some of the codes,” Deluca answered.

“Like someone who worked there?  Or maybe a client?”

“Right.”

“I suppose there’s no chance of getting a list of everybody associated with the law firm,” I said.

Snead shook his head.  “No way.  We don’t have enough for a warrant.
Besides, there’s no evidence whatsoever tying the Baker break-in with the murders.  We’re out in left field here.”

“I have a feeling about this, Lieutenant,” I said.

“We’re not running this investigation based on your
feelings
, Kane,” said Sneed.  “Among other things, a pile of hotline leads has accumulated since the Welsh murders.  We also have three community meetings scheduled, and we’ll need all our manpower to run down the results of those.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  This case will be closed through methodical investigative procedure, not leaps of faith.”

“Nonetheless, it wouldn’t hurt to put a surveillance team on the Baker residence,” offered Huff.

“I think so, too,” I agreed.  “There’s a vacant house for sale right down the street.  We could probably get permission to put a unit in there, and maybe post a mobile team down the block, another out back.”

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

N
ever 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.”