Cool Cache (13 page)

I returned to the office, where I camped out at Eugene’s desk, looking through drawers, hoping to find a note that might indicate where he’d gone. His dusting glove was there, along with a box of alcohol swabs, a list of telephone numbers in a sheet protector, and a receipt for a cell phone charger from Radio Shack dated the day before. Maybe he’d lost his and needed a replacement. I put it aside to show Charley and began calling the names on Eugene’s telephone list. Of the people who answered, no one knew where he was.

My head felt heavy, so I rested it in my hands. If I concentrated, maybe I could channel Eugene’s energy and get a feel for where he was. Nothing happened. As I looked up, my elbow brushed against the mouse next to his computer. The screen sprang to life. I wondered how long it had been on. He always shut down the operating system before he left for the day.

He was still logged on to the Internet. I clicked on the page that listed his search history and found an odd mix of words and phrases, including
quetzal, L.A. street gangs, chocolate,
the University of California-Davis, Osteen,
and the
Central Intelligence Agency
. I was surprised to learn that a secret spy organization like the CIA had a Web site, but when I opened its home page I found a wealth of information, including a page for children. The government obviously thought one could never be too young to start spying.

Getting into the CIA site was easy, but there was no way to track information Eugene had viewed within the site. I skipped around from link to link until I found a page called the World Fact Book. An option allowed me to view information by country. Eugene had searched for the word
quetzal,
which I already knew was the national bird of Guatemala, so I started there. A map of the country popped up. I scanned it quickly and noticed a city named Puerto Quetzal. That was a good omen, so I continued scrolling down the page.

According to the text, Guatemala was a constitutional democratic republic with a population of 12.3 million. Forty-one percent were below the age of fourteen. Eight percent were Mayan. A section called “Environmental Issues” outlined the country’s problems with soil erosion, water pollution, and deforestation.

I skipped to another site and found a journal article cautioning that global warming was forcing many birds to migrate away from their natural habitat in the Petén Forest, especially birds like the quetzal. I had no way of knowing if Eugene had been searching for articles on global warming, but it seemed clear that the quetzal’s habitat and maybe the birds themselves were endangered by man’s insatiable push to develop and pollute. I remembered Eugene’s theory about antisugar terrorists. That seemed farfetched but ecoterrorists were real. There was a possibility the feather I’d found near Lupe’s body represented some broader warning about the destruction of the environment.

Osteen
produced thousands of links. I waded through about ten pages of them before I stumbled on a professor named Herbert Osteen, who had written an article for an anthropology journal about the feather work of the ancient Maya. A footnote at the bottom of page one revealed that Osteen was a professor of cultural anthropology at the University of California at Davis.

Eugene had located a quetzal expert and may have tried to contact him despite my warnings. I had to find out more, so I called the university’s main number, and after being transferred from office to office, I spoke to somebody who knew Osteen. At least she knew of him. The professor was on sabbatical and wouldn’t be back for six months. The woman wouldn’t tell me where he’d gone.

I wasn’t willing to give up that easily, so I called telephone information in Davis and was surprised to find Osteen’s home number listed with directory assistance. His wife answered my call.

“Eugene called on Saturday,” she said. “We had a lovely chat. Such a nice boy. He has cats, you know. I have three myself. All pound kitties.”

“Did he say why he called?”

“He wanted to know about the quetzal. I told him he’d come to the right place. Herbert is an expert on the subject.”

“Did he speak to your husband?”

“He wasn’t here. He’s in Santa Barbara trying to finish his book. I called to let him know Eugene wanted to talk to him, but I’m not sure if they ever connected.”

“Where’s he staying?”

“The Montecito Inn.”

The note I’d found in Eugene’s bathroom wastebasket made sense now—SB/MI. Santa Barbara, Montecito Inn.

“I wonder if you’d call your husband one more time,” I said. “Ask if he’d have time to talk to me.”

“I’ll try, dear, but he gets stressed just before deadline. I’m not sure he’ll cooperate.”

After I hung up, I waited for half an hour before calling the hotel, but there was no answer in Osteen’s room. Sunday morning, Eugene had packed a bag and told Nerine he was going out of town. If he’d failed to reach Osteen by phone, he may have driven to Montecito to see the professor in person. I was still considering the likelihood of that when I heard a knock on the office door.

Chapter 15

The hallway door opened and a moment later Joe Deegan stepped into my room. I was once again taken with how handsome he was. Unlike other beautiful people I’d met, Deegan had never displayed an iota of narcissism. It was almost as if he wasn’t aware of his good looks. That modesty was just one of the things I liked about him.

Neither of us spoke. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him glance at the framed Frisbee hanging on the wall, the one he’d given Muldoon the previous June. A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he read the caption,
Don’t Forget to Play
.

“I was on my way back to the station,” he said. “I saw your car in the parking lot. I wanted to talk to you about the other day. The thing with Riley. I’m sorry that happened.”

“No harm, no foul.”

“And thanks for not giving me shit about Carly.”

“It’s okay, Deegan. Really. I’m seeing somebody, too.”

He gave me the cop stare—narrowed eyes, wrinkled brow. “Oh yeah? Who is he?”

“A doctor. A thoracic surgeon. He’s also a pilot . . . with his own plane. He’s involved in humanitarian work with an organization called Air Health. They do free medical work in third world countries. You know, they fly places and save lives.”

Deegan broke eye contact and stared at the floor while I babbled on about my make-believe boyfriend the doctor. I don’t know why I felt the need to make up a phony relationship to save face in front of him. It was so high school. I hadn’t even met Jordan Rich and I was already talking as if we were planning our honeymoon. When I paused to catch my breath, Deegan looked up.

He hesitated as if he didn’t want to leave. “So I guess that’s it.”

Maybe I didn’t want him to leave, either, because I blurted out words guaranteed to make him stay. “I can’t find Eugene.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He didn’t show up for work. He told his mother some bogus story about going away on a business trip. He was supposed to be back today, but he isn’t. He didn’t even call. He wouldn’t do that unless something was wrong.”

Deegan pulled one of the guest chairs up to my desk. We sat knee to knee, facing each other, so close I could smell the Flitz he used to polish his badge.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

In the past I would have told Deegan everything, because he and I were in a relationship. This time I told him because he was a cop. I told him about Lupe Ortiz’s death, the quetzal feather, her son’s arrest, the break-in at Helen’s condo, and the words Eugene had looked up on the Internet. Maybe I hoped he would offer some information that put my mind at ease.

“Eugene was upset about Lupe’s death,” I said. “He thinks her son is innocent. He came up with a couple of loopy theories about antisugar terrorists and chocolate conspiracies. I’m afraid he went off to find the real killer.”

Deegan’s gaze was probing and full of concern. “What makes you think that?”

“He tried to contact an anthropology professor he found on the Internet. Somebody named Herbert Osteen. He’s a quetzal expert. Eugene was also researching street gangs. Ever heard of the MayaBoyz?”

Deegan leaned back in the chair and nodded. His detective’s instinct for spotting trouble was in high gear. I hoped he didn’t give me one of his macho lectures about meddling in police work, because he’d lost that right when he walked out on me.

“They operate out of a neighborhood in East L.A. near the county morgue. Most of the members are from Central America, new immigrants. When they came here they didn’t fit into any established Latino gang, so they formed one of their own. Right now they’re killing each other over drug profits. Just yesterday a seventeen-year-old kid was killed in a drive-by while he was at a service station pumping gas. As usual, nobody saw anything, but we’re pretty sure it was one of his own homeboys.”

“What can you tell me about quetzal feathers?”

He leaned toward me. “How do you know about that?”

“Lupe’s son is a member of the MayaBoyz. Like I told you, I found his mother dead in my client’s store, lying next to a feather. I’d like to find out if the gang is behind any of the other problems Helen is having.”

“There’s a law enforcement database called CAL/ GANG. It lists admitted gang members or anyone who has been identified as a gang member by a reliable informant.” Deegan paused. “I hope you’re not asking me to look him up for you.”

“No,” I said. “I’ll find out on my own.”

Deegan narrowed his eyes as if he wasn’t pleased by my response. I ignored his disapproval.

“What about the other words he looked up?” I said. “Do any of them mean anything to you? I mean, would the CIA have any connection to L.A. street gangs?”

“About eight hundred tons of cocaine a year are shipped from Colombia to the U.S. straight though Central America. A lot of it ends up on the streets of L.A. The CIA might be interested in that.”

Deegan leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. He gazed at the floor between his feet for a moment. Then he looked up at me with a tender expression in his eyes. “If you’re concerned about Eugene, you should report him missing.”

“Charley says the police may not want to take the report.”

“They’ll take it.”

“But will they do anything?”

“There’s only so much they can do.” His tone was soft. “They’ll check the NCIC database, the morgue, local hospitals, psych wards. If that doesn’t turn up anything, they’ll probably wait a few days.”

“Can they trace his cell phone calls?”

“They can, but they probably won’t. Not without a warrant. And they won’t get one unless the case turns into a homicide investigation. It’s a privacy issue. Here’s the deal. Eugene’s an adult. Disappearing isn’t a crime. People do it all the time. Most of them come back on their own.”

“You don’t make it sound very hopeful.”

He reached out as if he was going to comfort me with his touch, but pulled his hand back at the last minute. “I didn’t mean it like that. Look, I can get you a telephone number and a person to call if you want.”

“Thanks. I can do that myself.”

“Yeah. I remember that about you.” He stood but didn’t leave right away. “It doesn’t matter where Eugene was when he disappeared. You have to report him missing in the jurisdiction where he lives. And just so you know, there are four hundred sixty-three known gangs in Los Angeles, with over thirty-eight thousand members. If you think you can cruise over to the barrio and start asking questions about your friend, you’re wrong. Report him missing, and let the department handle it from there.”

“You should know by now I’m a better friend than that. I’ve already been to the barrio once, and I’d go back a hundred times more if it means finding Eugene.”

“You can’t save the world by yourself.”

That’s when I remembered why things hadn’t worked out between Deegan and me. He didn’t understand how I was wired. He would probably never understand. I stood to give greater emphasis to what I was about to say.

“Haven’t you ever been scared shitless, worrying about somebody you loved?”

Deegan’s gaze traveled over my body from the top of my head to the curve of my shoulders and downward, stopping only when forced to by the desk.

“Let me know if you need help finding that number.”

He turned and walked out of the room, taking all of the energy with him. The office felt cold and empty. I sat down, resting my head on the back of the chair. I stared at the ceiling for what seemed like a long time, until I finally forced myself to the computer to look up the Web site for the Los Angeles Police Department. Silver Lake was listed under the Northeast Division. I jotted down the number for the front desk. If I hadn’t heard from Eugene by the next morning, I was going to tell Nerine to report him missing. The information would carry more weight coming from his mother.

By the time I left work, it was after seven p.m. As I opened the door leading to the parking lot, I saw a blur of movement near my car. My hands trembled as I reached into my purse for my flashlight and fumbled with the switch. As I turned the beam toward the car, I saw a man standing near the rear trunk. The light wasn’t strong enough to see his features, but it was strong enough to startle him. A moment later, he loped over a low shrub at the edge of the lot and ran down the street.

It seemed too coincidental to find somebody prowling around my car so close after Lupe’s murder and the break-in at Helen’s condo. The office had never had any problems with break-ins in the parking lot. Why had someone been snooping around my car? Why now? It was almost as if the guy suspected there was something valuable inside. Like Helen’s recipes? It sounded crazy, but if true, it meant only one thing. He had been watching Helen and me the night Lupe Ortiz was murdered. It also meant he had followed me to the office.