Fire Point (11 page)

35

La Puente was a nice enough neighborhood in east Los Angeles that was made up of mostly middle-class Hispanic families. It was a long way from the wealth of the west side, but Lock guessed it was tagged as respectable, whatever the hell that meant, these days. He rolled into a neat cul-de-sac of five single-story ranch homes, and parked.

He got out and quickly located the house he was looking for. There was a red Chevy pick-up truck parked in the driveway but no sign of a BMW. It looked more like a Toyota kind of place than a BMW but maybe Charles Kim was out cruising.

Lock walked to the front door, rang the bell and waited. He saw someone peel back a curtain in the living room, then retreat. Lock stepped to the side of the door. A few seconds later it opened to reveal a young Asian mother in her twenties with a toddler on one hip and a slightly older child clinging to her leg.

‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,’ said Lock. ‘I’m looking for Mr Charles Kim.’

She was clearly taken aback. He had a feeling that, if he lived there, he was not the Charles Kim he was looking for.

‘That’s my husband,’ she said. ‘He’s at work.’

‘This may sound like a strange question, but does he drive a dark-colored BMW sedan?’ Lock pulled out a piece of paper. ‘I’m trying to track down a Charles Kim with a BMW and I have a couple of possible people. It’s nothing to worry about if it is him.’

The toddler on her hip began to fret. ‘No, you have the wrong house. I’m sorry.’

Before Lock could ask her anything else, she had closed the door on him. He didn’t blame her. She’d been more polite than he would have if someone he didn’t know had turned up at his home asking questions.

Glancing around, he saw an older man busy in his front yard, trimming back a rose bush. Lock headed over to him and asked him the same question. The man put down his shears and, in heavily accented English, told Lock, with a wry smile, that no one there drove a BMW.

Unless this Charles Kim had a secret life, he wasn’t the person Lock was looking for. Lock headed back to his car, got in and headed west, back to the apartment address he had in Santa Monica for the other Charles Kim, the one he was guessing did have a BMW and a nickname.

36

Tarian Griffiths was upstairs when she heard Rosa shouting up to her, sounding panicked. She rushed from the master bedroom and down the stairs. She could hear Teddy talking to her. He was doing the thing that drove Tarian crazy – speaking loudly in English when he knew that Rosa only spoke Spanish, apart from a few phrases.

Tarian bustled through the kitchen and into the laundry room. Rosa was holding a grey T-shirt over the sink, her fingers pinching the sleeves. It looked like one of Marcus’s. Even from the doorway Tarian could see what looked like a bloodstain in the center.

Teddy was trying to persuade Rosa to give him the shirt. ‘It’s the design,’ Teddy said. ‘It’s not blood. It just looks like it. Or maybe it’s ketchup.’

‘Teddy, let me handle this, would you?’ said Tarian.

‘With pleasure,’ he said. He pushed past her, stopping long enough to whisper, ‘She found it hidden in the back of his closet when she was collecting laundry. She thinks we should call the cops.’

‘
Uno momento
,’ Tarian said, to the flustered housekeeper. She followed Teddy back out into the kitchen. ‘What’s going on, Teddy? He hid a bloodstained T-shirt in his closet?’

Teddy wouldn’t make eye contact. He looked everywhere but at her. ‘We don’t know it’s blood. It looks like blood, but who knows?’

‘Wait right there,’ Tarian told him.

She walked back into the laundry room, and reached out to take the T-shirt. ‘May I, please?’

Reluctantly, Rosa handed it to her. Tarian held the edges and looked at the stain. It was a reddish-brown that had soaked into the fabric. It did look like blood. Maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe it was, but there was a rational explanation. But, then, why would Marcus have hidden it at the back of the closet rather than placing it in the laundry basket?

She held up her hand toward Rosa in a let-me-deal-with-this gesture. She was sure that Rosa wouldn’t call the police off her own bat. But should they?

Teddy was still in the kitchen. She was amazed that even though it was midday this latest discovery hadn’t made him hit the Scotch. She grasped the T-shirt in her hand, her eyes pulled toward the stain. ‘It looks like blood to me,’ she said.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Yeah. I know. I just didn’t want to let Rosa get any more excited.’ The words fell away. It was a moment before he spoke again. ‘Maybe we should call the cops. Let them deal with it.’

Tarian had a hard time imagining the phone call. Not just because the idea of calling the cops on her son went against her every instinct as a mother, but because she was scared of where it might lead. It had been hard enough to contact Lock, and she had only done that because she had figured that if she were paying him she would have some degree of control.

‘And say what? That I’m scared of my own son and the people he’s hanging around with? That we found blood on his clothes and we think he might have hurt someone?’

Teddy walked to one of the cupboards, opened it and reached for a crystal tumbler. Tarian stepped in front of him, took the tumbler and put it back in the cupboard. ‘Whisky’s not going to help us.’

‘Might not help
you
,’ said Teddy, sounding as sullen as a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

‘I just think,’ said Tarian, ‘that we don’t want to get the police involved unless we actually know what’s going on with him. We were planning on speaking to him anyway. We can ask him what this is about.’ She held up the T-shirt.

Teddy gave her a sour look. ‘Might be a better idea if I took it out into the yard and burned it before Rosa decides she should speak to the cops anyway. I mean what if it belongs to that girl at USC? What if he’s . . . ?’ He trailed off.

‘We would have heard if something had happened to her. The police would have been here. They already have his name.’

‘So if it’s not that, then what?’ Teddy asked.

‘We’ll speak to him,’ Tarian said. ‘Just like we planned. It’s only fair that we give him a chance to explain before we go jumping to wild conclusions.’

She looked back down at the bloodstained T-shirt. Whether she could admit it out loud or not, she knew there was no rational explanation for what Rosa had found. She knew it in the same way she had known that her son had become a stranger to her, not just someone she didn’t know any more but someone she feared. She needed to give herself a final chance to get through to him. If she couldn’t, then calling the cops might not be the worst idea. At least that way he’d be safe, and so would they.

37

The Pacific Ocean shimmered in the near distance as Lock parked the Audi on 5
^th
Street in Santa Monica. The apartment block was five minutes’ walk, tucked away on California Avenue just past 3
^rd
Street. It was a handsome red-brick building with an ornate black metal entryway. Lock hit the button for the apartment and waited for someone to answer. No one did. He stepped back from the entrance as he saw a young woman with short blonde hair walk through the lobby toward the door. She was dressed in yoga pants and a crop top. A French bulldog puppy trotted behind her on the end of what looked like a diamond-encrusted lead.

As she pushed through the door, Lock stepped forward and held it open for her. ‘Cute dog. How old is he?’

‘It’s a she.’

Lock knelt down to pat it. ‘Sorry, she. I had a dog just like this,’ he lied. ‘Wife got it in the divorce. Broke my heart.’

‘That’s too bad.’

‘Hey, you wouldn’t know Charles Kim, would you? I’m sure he lives in this building. Only I lost his number, and he doesn’t seem to be in.’

Her expression changed as soon as he said the name from one of polite interest to one that suggested he’d just farted. ‘You’re a friend of his?’

With the sense that this was going to be a short conversation, Lock asked, ‘Drives a BMW?’

‘I really have to go.’ She started to move past him.

He took a half-step in front of her, letting his jacket ride up enough at the waist that she could see his SIG Sauer 226 sitting neatly in its holster.
‘I’m not a friend of his, no. I get the impression you aren’t either. But I do need to find him.’

‘Are you a cop?’ she said.

He sensed the uncertainty in her voice. She was on the verge of making a scene. ‘I’m trying to trace him for someone. I can’t say too much more than that.’

‘So you’re not a cop?’

He had to hand it to her: once she got on a track she stuck with it. Then again, so did he. He held his position. ‘Does a Charles Kim who drives a dark-colored BMW live here? Yes or no?’ Lock stayed focused on her face. ‘He sometimes goes by the nickname Krank.’

She pursed her lips. ‘I haven’t seen him here for weeks but, yeah, he’s here sometimes.’

Lock had the primary information he needed. He stepped to one side allowing her a route past him. ‘I’m not a cop, but if there’s anything else you can tell me that would help me find him I’d really appreciate it.’ He put out his hand. ‘Ryan.’

The puppy barked, keen to walk. She reached out and shook Lock’s hand. ‘Kimberley.’

She started down the steps and Lock fell in beside her.

‘The guy you’re looking for, Krank, or whatever he likes to call himself, is a total asshole. And you can tell him I said that.’

Now all Lock had to do was listen. They walked down California Avenue toward the ocean and Kimberley spilled her guts to him about Charles Kim.

She had run into Charles, a.k.a. Krank, shortly after she’d moved into the building. She lived in apartment 4C. Her shower was blocked and had overflowed into the apartment beneath. That was his apartment, 3C. Rather than losing his temper, he had been cool about it. Although she didn’t say so in as many words, he had got her into bed but, when she’d mentioned the relationship word, had cooled off. That might have been okay but she told Lock he had then made a point of bringing home a string of young women. Because her bedroom was directly above his, she could hear everything.

After that he’d smirk at her every time their paths crossed. Again, as far as Lock was concerned, it didn’t seem that abnormal. Then he moved from being a regular asshole to making veiled threats that suggested she might want to find somewhere else to live. Things quickly escalated and late one evening in the building’s parking lot he had told her that if she didn’t move something bad might happen to her.

She’d called the Santa Monica PD. They’d done their best, but it had been a case of her word against his. She had thought about moving but then he’d begun to drop off the radar, spending less and less time at his apartment. In fact, she hadn’t seen him in over a week.

‘You have any idea where he’s living at the moment?’ Lock asked, as they passed a group of people doing yoga on a grassy area.

‘Don’t know. Don’t care. I think he may have said something about moving back to San Diego.’

‘He mention where in San Diego?’ Lock pressed.

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask. I’m sorry. I’ve kind of tried to forget about him. It’s bad enough that he still has the apartment below me. Wherever he is, I just hope he stays there.’

Lock didn’t blame her. He thought over what she’d told him. Certain pieces were starting to fall into place. He was getting an idea of who Charles Kim, or Krank, was. He was charming. He had the ability to disarm others. He could get young women into bed. He obviously had money. He drove a nice car, and an apartment in this part of Santa Monica wasn’t cheap. So, with all of that, what did he want with someone like Marcus Griffiths?

He had been ready to thank her for her time and walk back to the car. Instead, he turned around. ‘Can I ask you one last favor?’

38

Lock stepped into Krank’s apartment and closed the door behind him. He walked down a stub of narrow hallway passing a bathroom. He pushed open the door with his right foot. It was empty, the shower curtain pulled back along the rail to reveal a deep bathtub. A sink. A toilet. Both clean and dry.

He moved back into the corridor. He noted that there were no pictures on the walls. The absence made the place feel transient somehow, like the occupant was merely passing through rather than making a home for himself. He kept going, emerging into an open-plan kitchen and living room. Bookshelves lined two walls. That he hadn’t expected. Off to one side was a desk with an Apple computer. A small filing cabinet was tucked beneath the desk.

Apart from a couch, the main feature of the room was a weights bench. Lock had already noticed a pull-up bar clipped above the frame of the door that led into the apartment’s solitary bedroom. Krank liked to work out. That was good to know.

There were two windows each on the west and south sides of the apartment. One looked down into a small open courtyard; the other faced out onto California Avenue. All four windows had been cracked about six inches to allow in a fresh ocean breeze.

Leaving the computer for later, Lock walked into the kitchen area. The surfaces were clean. The dishes had been put away. He pulled open the dishwasher. The top rack was empty.

There was something in the bottom rack. It wasn’t dirty dishes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pair of gloves. If it was what he thought it was, he didn’t want his prints anywhere near it. Gently, he lifted out the heavy cardboard box of ammunition and placed it on the counter.

Magtech. Solid copper .223 caliber. Hollow point. Designed to circumvent legislation that prohibited armor-piercing bullets. Capable of making a very nasty entrance wound and a devastating exit wound. Plenty able to punch through most body armor. There were twenty in the box.

He laid it on the kitchen counter and looked at it, confused. Nothing about the apartment suggested that Krank had left in a hurry. The exact opposite. Everything had been left clean and tidy. There wasn’t even a stray dirty sock on the floor. Yet there was a box of armor-piercing bullets hidden in the lower rack of the dishwasher.

He left the ammo where it was for now and walked toward the bedroom door. It was ajar. He pushed it open. Unlike the rest of the apartment, which was wooden flooring, the bedroom was carpeted. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the bed. Perfectly made. A California king-size. The bed for a single man who had a lot of company. From what the ex-girlfriend had told him, Krank wasn’t averse to having more than one guest for a sleepover. The room looked hotel-occupant ready. Everything had been squared away. Just like the rest of the place. No family pictures. Nothing personal. Apart, of course, from the books.

Those turned out to be the most revealing part of the entire apartment. Helpfully, they were arranged neatly by subject matter, then by author.

The bookcase consisted of six shelves. The top two shelves were devoted to history, economics and politics. From a quick scan of the titles, it was clear that Krank’s economics and politics interests skewed toward the libertarian end of the spectrum. The
history
was mostly accounts of America from the 1960s onwards.

The third shelf was principally fiction. Ayn Rand featured heavily, with two copies of her defining book,
The Fountainhead
. The fourth shelf held more obscure titles. With some of them, the subject matter was obvious:
Women Who Make the World Worse
,
Weak Link: The Feminization of the American Military
,
The Politically Incorrect Guide to Women
,
Sex and Feminism
,
Feminist Fantasies
,
Spreading Misandry: The Teaching of Contempt for Men in Popular Culture
, and
Taken into Custody: The War Against Fathers, Marriage and the Family
. Other titles were more obscure, but a quick leaf through the pages confirmed the same subject matter.

The fifth shelf focused on self-defense, weapons, guerrilla warfare. Everything from owners’ manuals for a range of handguns to
The Anarchist Cookbook
and volumes on Krav Maga and close-quarters combat.

Lock hunkered down to take a look at the bottom shelf. He could immediately see why these titles had been placed where they would be difficult for a casual visitor to browse. They focused on American mass shootings from before Columbine all the way up to the Sandy Hook Massacre and beyond. He pulled a couple of titles out and flicked through them. Someone had underlined sections and scribbled notes in the margins.

Standing up, Lock felt a sudden chill. You could rarely infer too much from a person’s choice of reading. People read for escape. Little old ladies who wouldn’t hurt a fly could be big fans of gruesome horror without it signifying anything. This seemed different, though. Put all the titles together, throw in what he already knew about Krank, along with the case of shells hidden in the dishwasher, and he was more concerned about Marcus and his family than he had been before.

He had remembered something else too. A detail the girl upstairs had told him.

He walked into the bathroom, switched on the light and looked up at the ceiling. He put down the toilet lid, put his foot on it, and tested his weight as he stood on it. He reached his hand up to the ceiling. There was no sign of any water damage. No sign of any leak. And no sign of any repair. The plaster was slightly faded and matched that of the walls on either side.

He got down, and walked out of the apartment, pulling the door closed behind him. The corridor was empty. He walked to the end, pushed through into the stairwell, and took a flight of stairs to the next floor.

Pushing open the door, he walked down to apartment 4C, and knocked. The girl he’d met outside lived there. She had told him she was going to run errands and had let him into the building. She hadn’t mentioned a room mate.

He knocked again. He could hear someone walking to the door. ‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’

The door opened to reveal an elderly man in jeans and a baggy T-shirt. He stared at Lock. ‘What is this? Who let you in?’

‘I take it you don’t share this place with a young woman called Kimberley?’ Lock held his right hand at chest height. ‘About so high. Spiky blonde hair. Has
a French bulldog.’

The look on the man’s face g
ave Lock his answer. A minute later he was back in Krank’s apartment, picking up the box of cartridges from the dishwasher. A minute after that he was standing in the bright sunshine on California Avenue. ‘Kimberley’ and her dog were nowhere to be seen.