Starkey unlocked a door behind the cubicles, pulled it open, and stepped away.
“I’ll put the keys back and keep Hooker busy as long as I can, but don’t dawdle, okay? Look fast and get the hell out.”
I stepped inside as she hurried away.
The file room was small and cramped, with three rows of metal Ikea shelves the CCS detectives had probably put up on their own time. Cardboard file boxes were lined on the shelves, along with a vinyl log used to keep track of who had which reports. The boxes on the middle shelf were labeled with the names of the victims, and should have contained everything I wanted to check. I pulled down Frostokovich first, and knew it was bad even before I took off the top. Yellow hanging folders held a few scattered files and documents, but most of the folders were empty and the murder book was missing. I pushed the box back onto the shelf, then opened the Evansfield box to see if it had been cleaned out, too, but it was heavy with files and the murder book was wedged in behind the folders.
I checked each of the other boxes and worked my way to Repko, but, like Frostokovich, most of its files and murder book were missing. I looked through the remaining files for information about the video disk, but if the disk had ever been in the box all signs of it and Debra Repko’s employment at Leverage Associates were missing.
I was checking the log when I heard Starkey call from far away.
“Hey, Ax! Did you get lost, honey? Where are you?”
I straightened the boxes, snapped off the light, and stepped out of the closet as Starkey appeared in the hall. She waved frantically for me to join her and lowered her voice as she pulled me down the hall.
“Munson’s coming. Hooker told me he was just up here, and he’s coming back-”
“The murder books are missing.”
“Whatever. We’re out of here, Cole.”
We made sure the squad room was clear, then hurried toward the elevators. I hit the button, but Starkey moved past, pulling me with her.
“Forget it. We’re taking the stairs.”
She pushed through a stairwell door, and we hurried down the stairs, neither of us speaking. Every time we turned a corner I expected to see Munson on his way up, but we made it to the bottom without passing anyone.
Starkey stopped when we reached the lobby landing and took several deep breaths, calming herself. I touched her arm.
“We’re okay. It’s going to be fine.”
“I’m not scared, Cole. I smoke.”
She sucked a last deep breath, then took my hand and we stepped into the lobby. A man and a woman were waiting at the elevator, and Manuel was still looking bored at the security station. We held hands as we crossed the lobby as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Manuel said, “Take care, Bombs. Be seein’ you.”
“You, too, Manny. I’ll try to stop by more often.”
I didn’t realize her hand was damp until we were on the sidewalk.
31
WE KEPT our faces down as we walked to the corner, then crossed with the light to the parking lot and got into my car. When I put the key in the ignition, Starkey touched my hand.
“The murder books are missing?”
“Pretty much everything they had on Repko and Frostokovich is missing. The file on Trinh seemed light, but I don’t know enough about that case to be sure. The log says everything should still be in the files, but it isn’t.”
“Hooker told me Munson carried out a box just before we got there. He said Bastilla took something yesterday.”
“The last date in the log was the day Marx closed the case. Nothing has been signed out since.”
“So they’re just taking it.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I reached for the key again, but Starkey stopped me.
“Let’s wait.”
“I’ll take you back.”
“I don’t need to go back. If these bastards are covering for a murderer, I want their asses on a string. Let’s see where he goes.”
“He’ll probably go home.”
“Then let’s follow him home and figure out what to do later. Maybe we can break into his car.”
“Are you serious?”
“Roll down your window, Cole. I’m going to smoke.”
Munson pulled out of the building two cigarettes later in a red Mustang GT. He stayed on the surface streets in no apparent hurry, passing under the freeway and away from the skyscrapers. We had followed him less than a mile when his blinker came on.
“You see it?”
“I got it.”
The Mustang turned into the parking lot of one of the oldest steak houses in Los Angeles, Pacific Dining Car. Built in the twenties, the restaurant was housed in a railroad dining car. I pulled to the curb so we could watch.
Munson got out of his car with what appeared to be several loose files, left his car with the valet, and entered the restaurant. A crowd waiting to be seated was huddled around the door, but Munson wound through them as if he already had a place waiting. The restaurant had preserved the dining car’s ambience by maintaining the big touring windows through which dining passengers had enjoyed passing scenery, so it was easy to watch Munson make his way through the restaurant. He went the length of the car, then slipped into a booth where two people were seated. Marx and Bastilla had been waiting.
Starkey and I got out of my car for a better view. The valets glanced over at us, but probably thought we were deciding whether to try out the restaurant.
Marx glanced at the files as Munson said something, then Marx brought a briefcase from under the table. He put the files into it, then put it away and motioned a waiter over.
The head valet was openly watching us now, and growing suspicious. It wouldn’t be long before he alerted someone in the restaurant.
“Keep an eye on them. I’m going to pull around the corner for a better spot.”
I moved my car into the shadows beneath a sycamore tree, then got out with my camera. The telephoto images would be grainy in the dim light, but the identities of the three people in the restaurant would be clear. The head valet didn’t like seeing me with the camera, but couldn’t do anything about it. Maybe he thought I was a paparazzo.
Starkey and I settled into my car and watched Marx and his inner circle share red wine and steaks for one hour and ten minutes. Then Marx paid the tab. The valets brought Munson’s Mustang first, then a light-colored Toyota, then a dark Lexus sedan. When the cars were lined up nice and neat, Marx put his briefcase into the Lexus. Bastilla took a manila envelope from her car and gave it to Marx, who tossed it in with the briefcase. Munson took a cardboard file box from the Mustang’s trunk, and put it into the back of Marx’s Lexus. I photographed all of it. Everything was going with Marx.
Starkey said, “What do you think he’s going to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. We still don’t know what they have.”
Her stare was languid and thoughtful through vines of smoke.
“Change it, more likely. You don’t destroy that many records-a couple of files, maybe, sure, anyone can lose a file-but you can’t explain it if that much stuff goes missing. So you change it. Take out the parts you don’t like. Retype the pages if you have to. Then you put everything back in the system and hope nobody notices.”
I was staring at her when she finished. She saw me staring, and shrugged.
“Just saying.”
Marx didn’t say much when they finished. They slipped into their cars, and pulled into the oncoming traffic. Starkey and I followed Marx.
He climbed onto the Pasadena Freeway almost right away and never once exceeded the speed limit. The traffic was heavy, but smooth-the lanes flowing with on-their-way-home-from-work freeway professionals who made this same drive at this same hour every day of the week. We crossed the river and cruised up through Montecito Heights, where the Pasadena officially becomes part of Route 66. Marx led us into South Pasadena, where the freeway ends, then along surface streets into the soft residential slopes of Altadena. We entered a neighborhood of neat, modest homes set among pepper trees that cast jagged shadows on the lawns. When his blinker came on, I cut the lights and pulled to the side.