Starkey

Starkey put down the phone after Cole hung up, and kicked back in her chair with a wide nasty grin. She was pleased with herself for jamming Cole into dinner. It would have been nicer if the idiot had thought up the idea himself, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"That must've been your boyfriend Cole on the phone."

Starkey's grin floundered. Ronnie Metcalf was watching her from his adjoining desk. Metcalf was a D-2 with Hollywood Robbery, which had to share office space with the Juvenile Division. Metcalf tapped his mouth.

"I can tell by the grin."

He pursed his lips and made puckered kissing sounds.

Starkey didn't flinch, flush, or turn away.

"You're an asshole."

Metcalf laughed, then got up and sauntered over to the coffee machine. Starkey turned back to her desk, but now her mood was soured. She didn't like Metcalf eavesdropping on her calls. She could get in trouble for using LAPD resources for an outside party, and a dickhead like Metcalf might use it against her. Starkey considered the repercussions, then realized her irritation had nothing to do with getting in trouble. She resented that her feelings were obvious. What she felt about Cole-or anything else-wasn't anyone else's business. She would have to remember not to smile so much when she thought about Cole.

Starkey swiveled around to her computer and entered David Reinnike's name into the State of California Criminal Information Center's search engine. If David Reinnike had been arrested as an adult, his listing would appear. A case number was required, so Starkey used a number from one of the sixteen cases she currently worked, and punched in her badge. Fuck Metcalf.

Starkey watched the little wheel spin for a few seconds, then the search was complete. David Reinnike had no adult criminal record.

Like it should be easy.

Starkey considered what Cole had told her. San Diego P.D. had responded at least once to a complaint about the boy, but that didn't mean he would have an accessible juvenile record. Cops and courts were usually lenient with minor offenders, and their records were often expunged or sealed. But juveniles with chronic behavior problems were sometimes assessed by officers with special training, especially if the child manifested bizarre or unusual behaviors, and those records were usually maintained in the files of the local police.

Starkey went to the large map of California that hung on the wall. She searched for Temecula, and found it on I-15, just north of Fallbrook.

"Hey, Starkey."

Metcalf was still by the coffee. He opened his mouth in an O, and pushed out his cheek with his tongue.

Starkey turned back to the map.

Temecula patrol officers had probably responded to the call, but Temecula would have been too small for its own Juvenile Division. They had probably laid off the case on the San Diego County Sheriffs, so the Sheriffs station would have the records, if they existed. Starkey had been on Juvie for only a few months, and had no clue in hell how she could get someone down there to look for thirty-year-old juvenile records. But Gittamon probably knew.

Starkey walked over to Gittamon's cubicle and rapped on his wall. Dave Gittamon, who was Starkey's sergeant-supervisor, had been on the Hollywood Station Juvenile desk for thirty-two years and had solid relationships with pretty much every senior juvenile officer throughout the southwest.

Gittamon glanced up at her over his reading glasses. He was a kindly man with a preacher's smile.

She said, "Dave? Do you have juice with anyone down in San Diego County?"

Gittamon answered in his calm, reassuring voice. He was the most understated man Starkey had ever met.

"Oh. I know a few folks."

Starkey described the situation with David Reinnike and told Gittamon she wanted to find out if a record existed. She did not mention Cole.

Gittamon cleared his throat.

"Well, you're talking about a minor child, Carol. You might need a court order. What are you going to do with this?"

Starkey noted his choice of the word: Might.

"If this kid was arrested, his file could show a person or persons who can give me a line on finding him. That's all I'm looking for here. They disappeared, Dave. They changed their names and vanished."

"But you don't know that he was arrested?"

"No."

"So you don't know that a file exists."

"No."

"In Temecula."

"That's right."

Gittamon grunted, thinking about it, so Starkey pressed on.

"I guess what I'm looking for here is a personal favor, Dave. Like if I had a file, and someone with a legitimate reason wanted to see it, I'd let them take a look, no harm, no foul, no paperwork. Cop to cop. You see? No court orders, nothing like that."

"How do you spell his name?"

Starkey knew she was in.

"The sooner the better, Dave."

Gittamon picked up his phone like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Oh, I know a few people down there. Give Mr. Cole my best." Starkey felt herself flush as she walked away.

The kitchen was dim and silent, but a single lamp burned in the living room. The glass doors to the deck were open. I crept forward, feeling the muscles in my shoulders tighten, but then I smelled her scent, and knew who was waiting. The long day and hard miles were gone.

She must have heard me. She stepped in from the deck, and I felt my heart swell.

"I let myself in. I hope it's all right."

"Of course it is, Lucy."

George Reinnike vanished, and the world was at peace.

Lucy Chenier saw the gun, and looked away. When we were first together, she would have made a joke, but now the gun represented the violence that drove her away. I hadn't spoken to Lucy in weeks. I hadn't seen her in almost two months.

I unclipped the holster from beneath my shirt, seated the gun, then put it out of sight above the refrigerator.

"I've had a problem with mice."

Her lip curled in a forgiving smile. She wore a fall-orange turtle-neck sweater over jeans, the sweater perfect for her golden skin and auburn hair. The best color money could buy, she liked to joke.

She said, "Here, I brought you a Care package."

Two bricks of Community Coffee Dark Roast, two bags of Camellia red beans, and a six-pack of Abita beer were on the dining table. Baton Rouge staples. It couldn't have been easy, bringing all that from Louisiana. I took her effort as a good sign.

"CC Dark-this is great, Lucy. Thanks."

"I hope you don't mind my being here like this. Joe said you were on your way home, so I let myself in."

"C'mon, you know better than that. This is a great surprise. What are you doing in L.A.? How's Ben?"

Nothing in her body language warned me away, so I gave her a polite kiss, then stepped back to let her know I respected the boundaries she had imposed. Her lips smelled of raspberries.

"Ben's doing really really well. You're the class hero, you know-everyone at school has to hear about Elvis Cole."

I laughed, but only because she expected me to be pleased. Picturing Ben Chenier telling his ten-year-old buddies about me caused an ache in my chest. I wanted to tell her how much I missed them, but I didn't want to make either of us feel guilty. I changed the subject instead.

"Hey, would you like a drink? You want something to eat?"

"Yes to both, but let me see your hand. How is it healing?"

She turned my right hand palm up to inspect the puckered scar that sliced across three fingers and part of the palm. I had been cut when it went down with Ben. Forty-two stitches and two surgeries, but they said I would be ninety-five percent, no problem. So long as I didn't mind chronic pain.