According to neighbors, the younger Reinnike was in trouble often. Stories of vandalism, fights with other children, and bizarre behavior were common.

"Someone broke windows in every house on this block one night," said Pam Wally, 39. "Everyone knew it was David, but no one could prove it."

Neighbors believe David broke the windows, because only the Reinnikes' house was spared.

Karen Reese, 47, described a similiar incident. Her two sons had gotten into an argument with David. The following day, when Mrs. Reese was driving her sons home from school, they passed the Reinnike home where David waited at the curb.

Said Mrs. Reese, "As we passed, he threw a hammer at us. It was the strangest thing, because he didn't care if we saw him or not. The back window shattered and glass was everywhere. Thank God no one was hurt."

Mrs. Reese summoned the police, but no charges were filed. Mr. Reinnike agreed to pay for repairs.

"I'm not sure the boy even went to school," said Chester Kerr, 52, who lived across the street. "It would be midday during the school year, and you'd see him running around."

Tabitha Williams, 44, the mother of two small children, tells a slightly different story.

"David had a learning disability and was being home-schooled. I never had any problems with David or George. It was hard for both of them without David's mother."

The absence of David Reinnike's mother was a mystery, too, because George Reinnike gave differing explanations. At different times, Reinnike told neighbors his wife was deceased, had abandoned them when David was an infant, or had remarried and lived in Europe with her new family.

Now, the whereabouts of George Reinnike and his son, David, are as mysterious as that of David's mother. Though police are suspicious of the circumstances surrounding the Reinnikes' disappearance, they have no evidence of foul play, and have cleared Jordan of any involvement.

"It could be the guy just wanted to live somewhere else and didn't think enough of his neighbors to tell them," said Det. Poole. "There's no law against moving, but we'd still like to know."

If you have any information about George or David Reinnike, please contact Detective Martin Poole of the San Diego County Sheriffs Department.

After the cold facts of the crime reports, the sidebar article made the Reinnikes real.

I compared what I knew with what was reported. Neither the Sheriffs nor the neighbors mentioned George Reinnike's tattoos or any sort of religious zeal. The tattoos were of such a dramatic nature that this omission indicated Reinnike had not been tattooed when he lived in Temecula. The tattoos coming later suggested a significant change in Reinnike's emotional state. The police had suspected foul play in Reinnike's disappearance, but thirty years later I knew that Reinnike had not been murdered at that time; it took another thirty-five years for someone to kill him. A rational person might not walk away from the insurance payments, but an emotionally troubled man might, and so might a desperate man. It had been the sixties. A lot of people dropped out, and plenty of them had good reasons. Maybe Reinnike felt a radical change would help his son. Maybe he walked away from the checks because they were a monthly reminder of everything he had hated about his earlier life. Maybe he needed to escape himself to heal, and the tattoos and prayers were part of the process. And thirty-five years later, he had come to Los Angeles with the belief he had fathered a child named Elvis Cole. Maybe he was crazy.

After a while I grew tired of thinking about it. I gathered together the clippings, found Marjorie Lawrence, and asked for copies of the articles. I also asked if I could use her phone. She was happy to let me do so.

I called Starkey. I could have called Diaz and Pardy, but Starkey worked the Juvenile desk. If David showed only a Juvie file, his record would be more difficult to find. Juvenile records are often sealed or expunged.

Starkey said, "Hey, dude, where are you?"

" San Diego. I found something down here maybe you can help me with."

"Oh, I live for that. You've made my day, adding more work to my load."

I gave her the headline version of Reinnike's disappearance, and told her about David Reinnike.

She said, "The guy had another son?"

"That's not funny, Starkey."

"Oh, hey."

"Will you check it out for me or not?"

"Yes, Cole, I will check it out for you. Don't be so snippy. Listen, those newspaper articles, do they name the investigating officers?"

"Yeah. The lead was a guy named Poole. San Diego County Sheriffs Department."

"Are you coming back tonight?"

"Yeah, I'm going to leave in a few minutes."

"I'd like to see the articles. With all this happening thirty years ago, having the names might help me out."

"Okay, sure."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Seeing as how I'm going to so much trouble, maybe I should come up to your house tonight and you should feed me dinner. An invitation would be nice."

Starkey made me smile.

"How about eight o'clock. I should be back by then."

"Eight o'clock. Don't get killed driving home."

Starkey always knew what to say.

I found my way back to the freeway. It had been a long, difficult day, and I had logged a lot of miles. I had more miles ahead of me, and all of it would be grudging.

My head buzzed with a remote ache from all the thinking about George Reinnike, and what he might mean to me, or not. If Reinnike believed he had a child named Elvis Cole, why did he wait so many years to get in touch? I tried to make sense of what I knew, and nothing good came to mind. Anything was possible. Reinnike might have lost both his son and his mind, then convinced himself I was a long-lost replacement. Dial-a-Child, at your service. My picture had been in the newspapers, magazines, and on television. Maybe David Reinnike looked like me; the two of us interchangeable American males, brown, brown, medium, average. George Reinnike might have seen me in the news, convinced himself I was the long-lost "other," and swept me up in his madness. Here I was, driving in traffic, thinking about a total stranger named George Reinnike, and Reinnike had become real to me. He had flesh and weakness, and his tortured path had somehow crossed mine. Even if he was not part of my past, he had begun to feel like my past. When I remembered my mother, he was now in the memory like a transparent haunt. All through my life those memories had been a puzzle with a missing piece, but now George Reinnike filled the hole. The picture was complete. Daddy was home whether he was real or not.

Three hours later I slipped between the trees along Mulholland Drive, heading for home. It had been a long day. The sky had grown smoky, and the dimming light purpled the trees.

I turned onto my street and saw a tan car parked outside my house. The last time I came home to a car, it was Pardy. I decided that if Pardy was waiting in my house again, I would scare the hell out of him.

I pulled into my carport, took out my gun, then let myself in through the kitchen. I didn't try to be quiet. I pushed open the door.