Racing the Light, page 18
“It looks like a mausoleum.”
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”
I ignored him and focused on Pike.
“Are these people spies?”
“They are not known operatives of the Ministry of State Security or the Military Intelligence Department. They’re criminals.”
“Criminals with top secret PRC spy gear.”
Jon Stone tapped his phone.
“Sending picture one.”
A close shot of the meatball’s face appeared.
“Meatball Man is Donghai An Bo, formerly of the People’s Armed Police Falcon Commando Unit. He probably stole the gear when they dumped him.”
Pike said, “The Falcons are their version of a Special Forces Antiterrorist Unit. Like Delta.”
Stone smirked.
“These clowns aren’t close to Delta. We’d eat them for snacks and shit their toenails for fun.”
Pike and I both looked at him.
Stone said, “It’s an expression.”
Pike said, “Tell him the rest.”
“The PAP court-martialed him for theft of the People’s property. His record shows two later arrests, one for aggravated assault and one for murder. Did time in prison and currently works for Crystal Future as what they call a foreign security advisor.”
“What about Chow?”
“The ChiCom version of an all-American corporate shit-heel success story. Multiple indictments for shady business practices. Always skates, likely due to connections within the Communist Party. No known connection to PRC Intelligence.”
“So they’re not foreign agents?”
“They are not foreign agents.”
“So it’s all about Josh and Skylar. They’re not interested in Adele.”
Stone shrugged, like he didn’t care either way.
“Who’s to say?”
I looked at Pike.
“Where is he now?”
“San Gabriel. He found your card and drove direct to the LWL Development building.”
Reporting to Tarly. I wondered if Chow had been there as well and what they were planning.
My phone buzzed with an incoming call.
“Poitras. I have to get this.”
Pike said, “Go.”
I picked up the call.
Poitras said, “The individual’s name is Jared Walker Philburn, spelled with a p-h. They set him up at the Bright Day Shelter, let him get something to eat, clean up, whatnot. No guarantee he stayed. You can’t force these people.”
“I understand. Now I have something for you.”
I sent him the full-face photo of the meatball.
“This is Donghai An Bo, also known as the meatball. He works for Chow Wan Li. He’s also a convicted criminal from the People’s Republic.”
I sent the photo of his sedan showing the license plate.
“He uses this car, which is leased to LWL Development Inc. in San Gabriel.”
Poitras said, “A light-color sedan.”
“The car may be there now.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Show Mr. Philburn. I’ll call after I talk to him.”
I killed the call and googled Bright Day Shelter. It was located in a repurposed bus terminal not far from Union Station. Like most shelters, they cooperated with police and other law enforcement agencies, which they viewed as community partners. But shelters usually weren’t so cooperative with private citizens or paid snoops. Private citizens often turned out to be drug dealers, debt collectors, or long-lost associates looking to settle old scores. I needed an introduction, so I called a social worker friend named Carole Hilegas. Carole’s practice focused on domestic abuse and sexually abused children, and she had shelter contacts all over town.
“Hey, Carole. Elvis Cole. Are you familiar with the Bright Day Shelter downtown?”
“I am. What do you need?”
“An introduction.”
Carole was great. She offered to call the director, and forty-two minutes later I parked in a pay lot three blocks away.
39
The sidewalks surrounding the old redbrick building were crowded with lingering men and women and more than a few children. I made my way to the entrance, introduced myself to a woman seated behind a flimsy desk, and asked to speak with Beth Lawrence. The woman eyed me as if I’d come to shut them down and didn’t like me any better when I told her Ms. Lawrence was expecting me.
She said, “Wait here at this desk. Don’t go wandering off.”
“Ixnay on the wandering.”
A burly man with a large gut and a pockmarked chin was leaning against the wall a few feet behind the desk. He wore a faded green vest with security stenciled on the flap and didn’t seem to like me any more than the woman.
I gave him a nod.
“Hey. How’s it going?”
If he moved I didn’t see it.
“Can’t bring in weapons. No guns or knives, no screwdrivers or ice picks, no hammers or clubs.”
“Left them in the car. Thanks.”
“No brass knucks, saps, broken glass, or sharp objects.”
“Flamethrower okay?”
“No fires.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
He went back to staring and I went back to waiting.
Beth Lawrence introduced herself two minutes later. She was a round, sturdy woman with a firm grip and cheery eyes. She led me through an empty dining room the size of an airplane hangar, along a short hall, and into her office. Her office was half the size of Josh’s studio, but painted a pale blue as cheery as her eyes.
“Carole says you’d like to speak with one of our residents?”
“Yes, ma’am. Jared Walker Philburn. Officers from Northeast Station brought him here the day before yesterday. He’d witnessed a crime.”
She nodded before I finished.
“Griffith Park.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s him.”
“He was quite the celebrity for a day.”
She unlocked a desk drawer, took out a small tablet computer, and tapped at the screen. A few seconds later, an inexpensive printer on a small metal shelf behind her spit out a page.
“I’m sorry, but he declined to stay.”
She placed the page in front of me as she continued.
“It’s a shame, but we can’t force people to accept services. So many of these folks, like Mr. Philburn, could truly benefit by using services, but if they refuse, they refuse.”
The page was an intake form for registering persons who received services, assistance, or medical care. They had photographed him, and entered whatever personal information he provided, which wasn’t much, or they observed. Jared Walker Philburn was described as being an Anglo male, five feet eight, one hundred forty pounds, with no visible scars, tattoos, or missing limbs. He had given his age as fifty-nine, but the man in the photo appeared twenty years older. His face was dark from years of unending sun, his cheeks were hollow crevices, and the skin beneath his eyes and jaw sagged like furled sails.
“I understand he has a certain degree of impairment.”
She leaned back until the little chair squeaked.
“Schizophrenia. Paranoid ideation with an aversion to closed spaces. It’s classic, in its way. He doesn’t trust doctors and refuses medication. He had agreed to see one of our medical partners, but they all agree until their anxiety builds. Then it becomes untenable.”
“So he left.”
“Early the following morning, I believe. One of our security staff saw him.”
I stared at the intake form. No entries had been made for a spouse, siblings, or children. No current or former addresses were listed. He’d given his place of birth as Sunbeam, Oklahoma, which may have been true but probably wasn’t.
“Did he have any sort of identification? An old driver’s license, maybe? A V.A. or Medicaid card?”
She shook her head.
“No, but this isn’t unusual. People in Mr. Philburn’s situation typically hide their things because they’re robbed so often. He had very little with him. The clothes he was wearing, a faded purple cap, but no personal photographs or keepsakes. It’s likely he hid his belongings before he went to the police.”
“You spoke with him?”
“Oh, yes. I handled the intake. He was very pleasant. He was looking forward to a shower and a meal. He wanted to know if we were having Italian food. Italian food is his favorite.”
Maybe I should look for him in Italy.
“Did he say anything to suggest where he might have gone?”
She thought for a moment.
“Not that I recall.”
She thought a moment longer.
“The officers told me he’d been living in Griffith Park. You might find him there.”
Returning to the park made no sense.
“You understand he found a murder victim in the park. He claimed he saw people hide the body.”
“I understand. But if his belongings were there, he’d return. He might not stay, but people like Mr. Philburn are comfortable with what’s familiar.”
The park.
I didn’t like it. Sooner or later the people who killed Rachel Bohlen would learn a homeless man who lived at the park had seen them. Then they would return to kill him.
I said, “He’d go home.”
She smiled.
“Like anyone else.”
“You mentioned a purple cap. Like a ball cap or a beanie?”
She gestured up by her head, as if she were wearing it.
“A ball cap with something embroidered above the bill. It was faded, almost white in places, like he’d been wearing it for years. He didn’t want to take it off.”
I touched the intake form.
“May I take this?”
“Of course, Mr. Cole. I printed it for you.”
Beth Lawrence walked me out. Forty-three hundred acres of steep slopes, canyons, and tourist attractions was a lot to search, but I had a good idea where to find him.
The coroner investigator’s notes contained a hand-drawn map of the park. A tiny “x” marked the exact location where Rachel Belle Bohlen’s body was found. The killers knew where to look, but I needed the map.
I hoped he didn’t go back.
I hoped he was still alive.
I called Joe as I drove.
40
Jared Walker Philburn
Jared was walking up Hillhurst Avenue on his usual route, collecting plastic bottles and aluminum cans from refuse bins, when a man called out behind him.
“Sir! Wait up!”
Jared turned and was horrified to see a young gentleman running toward him. Jared lurched sideways and prepared for the blow, but the young man stopped and offered a large white paper bag.
“For you. Enjoy it.”
Jared took the bag suspecting a ploy, a snake inside or poop, but the young gentleman seemed pleasant enough. He smiled and walked away.
Jared carefully opened the bag and peeked at the contents.
“Holy moly rockin’ rolly!”
The bag was filled with food. Six tacos, two burritos, and six plastic containers of salsa. Too much to eat in a single sitting and far too delicate to brave the day’s heat, Jared opted for home. He could store the young man’s generosity in the cool confines of the shade and feast at his leisure.
Jared cashed his recyclables at the nearest purveyor and hurried up Hillhurst and into the park. He passed the golf course and the Theatre and didn’t notice the dusty red pickup parked beside the filthy white SUV facing the road. He did not see the driver with the ponytail or the driver with the wraparound sunglasses, but the drivers saw Jared.
They started their vehicles.
41
Elvis Cole
Rachel’s body had been found below one of the two streets leading to the observatory. The observatory’s parking lots were crowded when I arrived. Drivers had parked along the road, forcing walkers and joggers to dodge tourists who’d come for the views. I parked a quarter-mile away and walked back. Rachel Bohlen’s final resting place was easy to find. Removing her body had left an obvious path of broken chaparral, flattened sage, and disturbed soil from the chaparral below to the top of the slope.
The light-colored vehicle would have been parked nearby. The killers had lifted her body over a guardrail, carried her to the edge of the slope, and heaved her over. One of the park’s old streetlights was only a few feet away, so either the lamp didn’t work or the people who dumped her believed the park was deserted. They had fallen for the illusion. Venture into a canyon and you could forget you were surrounded by millions of people.
Her body had been dumped on a short stretch of street bracketed by sharp curves at either end. Jared couldn’t have seen them if he’d been in the canyon below or beyond the curves. He needed to be in a line-of-sight view and he needed to be close. This left a small stand of trees near a turnoff to the observatory and a steep upslope shoulder directly across the street. The shoulder was too steep to climb, but appeared to flatten about twenty feet above the road.
I walked east searching for a path up, but the slope only grew steeper. When I reached the far curve I turned back and found a weathered erosion cut. The cut climbed a dip in the slope and wound behind the shoulder.
The path was a slippery mix of crumbling soil and dislodged rocks between hulking balls of coastal sage. I passed between gnarly oaks, pushed through some sage, and reached a flat area crowning the shoulder. I went to the edge. Rachel Belle Bohlen had been found in the brush directly below me.
Scattered footprints dotted the clearing, but no fires had been built and the area was free of litter and trash. It might be a place where hikers admired the view, but it didn’t look like a campsite.
I called out.
“Mr. Philburn? Are you here?”
Maybe he’d never been here. Or maybe he returned for his things as Beth Lawrence believed and would never return.
I called louder.
“I come in peace.”
I didn’t expect an answer. I just wanted to say it.
I circled the clearing and spotted the faded remains of a rusted water tank beyond the ridge above me. A narrow path led up to the tank, so I followed it, circled the tank, and peered inside. The rusted metal was layered with faded graffiti, but I saw no evidence of habitation, recent or otherwise.
I spotted a pop of blue between the branches of a gnarled scrub oak on my way down. The change of angle was revealing. A tightly rolled sleeping bag and faded blue duffel were hidden beneath the oak. I did not want to search his belongings, but I did. A thin billfold beneath his clothes held three worn photographs, his teenage driver’s license, seven library cards from seven cities, and forty-two dollars. The driver’s license had been issued to Jared W. Philburn. The billfold was folded around a page torn from a small spiral notebook. The page bore a note written in square block letters.
I AM JARED WALKER PHILBURN
IN THE EVENT OF MY DETH
PLESE DONATE MY BELONGINGS
TO THEM WHO NEED HELP
An uneven signature was scrawled across the bottom.
I stood and looked around.
“Mr. Philburn? If you’re here, I would very much like to speak with you.”
Philburn didn’t answer and neither did the brush.
I put forty dollars into the billfold and the billfold into the duffel. I put everything back as I’d found it, walked to the lip of the shoulder, and studied the people below. I studied everybody I saw for as far as I could see, but I did not see Jared Philburn or anyone wearing a faded purple cap.
I took out my phone and called Joe.
“I found it. His things are here, so he’ll be back.”
“Say location.”
“The top of the shoulder across from the dump. He was right on top of them. He saw it.”
“On my way.”
Pike was cruising the western side of the park.
“He’s probably down in Los Feliz making his rounds. I’ll call Lou. Lou can have the area cops look for him.”
I was saying it when I saw the red truck. It was far away and small and moving very slow, coming up the eastside road with a line of cars bunched behind it. I could not see the driver, but it was the gardener’s truck. A tiny figure darted across the truck’s path and the truck swung hard past oncoming cars.
“Joe! This side! They’re here!”
I scrambled and slid and ran as hard as I could.
42
Jared Walker Philburn
Jared yearned to smile at the walkers and joggers and dogs he passed. The world held too little joy and comfort to turn one’s back on a smile, but Jared’s smiles were rarely welcomed and almost never returned. This left him sad. He did not wish to impose on others, so he kept his eyes down and shared a smile with himself.
Almost home and his mouth was watering.
Jared was imagining the joys to come when horns startled him so badly he stumbled.
A red pickup truck crept behind him a mere twenty feet away. The cars behind it passed when they could, but were otherwise trapped by oncoming vehicles.
Jared was well out of the street at the far side of the shoulder. He posed no obstruction. The truck could have easily passed, but idled along behind him.
Jared moved farther to the side and glanced back again. The truck didn’t pass. Horns blew. Cars roared past when able. Drivers cursed.
The red truck seemed familiar.
Jared tucked the white bag under his arm like a football and increased his pace. He glanced back again.
The driver’s face was a threatening mask. His mouth was a slash with down-turned corners and angular sunglasses masked his eyes. When Jared looked at the man, a sharp-eyed demon looked back.
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”
I ignored him and focused on Pike.
“Are these people spies?”
“They are not known operatives of the Ministry of State Security or the Military Intelligence Department. They’re criminals.”
“Criminals with top secret PRC spy gear.”
Jon Stone tapped his phone.
“Sending picture one.”
A close shot of the meatball’s face appeared.
“Meatball Man is Donghai An Bo, formerly of the People’s Armed Police Falcon Commando Unit. He probably stole the gear when they dumped him.”
Pike said, “The Falcons are their version of a Special Forces Antiterrorist Unit. Like Delta.”
Stone smirked.
“These clowns aren’t close to Delta. We’d eat them for snacks and shit their toenails for fun.”
Pike and I both looked at him.
Stone said, “It’s an expression.”
Pike said, “Tell him the rest.”
“The PAP court-martialed him for theft of the People’s property. His record shows two later arrests, one for aggravated assault and one for murder. Did time in prison and currently works for Crystal Future as what they call a foreign security advisor.”
“What about Chow?”
“The ChiCom version of an all-American corporate shit-heel success story. Multiple indictments for shady business practices. Always skates, likely due to connections within the Communist Party. No known connection to PRC Intelligence.”
“So they’re not foreign agents?”
“They are not foreign agents.”
“So it’s all about Josh and Skylar. They’re not interested in Adele.”
Stone shrugged, like he didn’t care either way.
“Who’s to say?”
I looked at Pike.
“Where is he now?”
“San Gabriel. He found your card and drove direct to the LWL Development building.”
Reporting to Tarly. I wondered if Chow had been there as well and what they were planning.
My phone buzzed with an incoming call.
“Poitras. I have to get this.”
Pike said, “Go.”
I picked up the call.
Poitras said, “The individual’s name is Jared Walker Philburn, spelled with a p-h. They set him up at the Bright Day Shelter, let him get something to eat, clean up, whatnot. No guarantee he stayed. You can’t force these people.”
“I understand. Now I have something for you.”
I sent him the full-face photo of the meatball.
“This is Donghai An Bo, also known as the meatball. He works for Chow Wan Li. He’s also a convicted criminal from the People’s Republic.”
I sent the photo of his sedan showing the license plate.
“He uses this car, which is leased to LWL Development Inc. in San Gabriel.”
Poitras said, “A light-color sedan.”
“The car may be there now.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Show Mr. Philburn. I’ll call after I talk to him.”
I killed the call and googled Bright Day Shelter. It was located in a repurposed bus terminal not far from Union Station. Like most shelters, they cooperated with police and other law enforcement agencies, which they viewed as community partners. But shelters usually weren’t so cooperative with private citizens or paid snoops. Private citizens often turned out to be drug dealers, debt collectors, or long-lost associates looking to settle old scores. I needed an introduction, so I called a social worker friend named Carole Hilegas. Carole’s practice focused on domestic abuse and sexually abused children, and she had shelter contacts all over town.
“Hey, Carole. Elvis Cole. Are you familiar with the Bright Day Shelter downtown?”
“I am. What do you need?”
“An introduction.”
Carole was great. She offered to call the director, and forty-two minutes later I parked in a pay lot three blocks away.
39
The sidewalks surrounding the old redbrick building were crowded with lingering men and women and more than a few children. I made my way to the entrance, introduced myself to a woman seated behind a flimsy desk, and asked to speak with Beth Lawrence. The woman eyed me as if I’d come to shut them down and didn’t like me any better when I told her Ms. Lawrence was expecting me.
She said, “Wait here at this desk. Don’t go wandering off.”
“Ixnay on the wandering.”
A burly man with a large gut and a pockmarked chin was leaning against the wall a few feet behind the desk. He wore a faded green vest with security stenciled on the flap and didn’t seem to like me any more than the woman.
I gave him a nod.
“Hey. How’s it going?”
If he moved I didn’t see it.
“Can’t bring in weapons. No guns or knives, no screwdrivers or ice picks, no hammers or clubs.”
“Left them in the car. Thanks.”
“No brass knucks, saps, broken glass, or sharp objects.”
“Flamethrower okay?”
“No fires.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
He went back to staring and I went back to waiting.
Beth Lawrence introduced herself two minutes later. She was a round, sturdy woman with a firm grip and cheery eyes. She led me through an empty dining room the size of an airplane hangar, along a short hall, and into her office. Her office was half the size of Josh’s studio, but painted a pale blue as cheery as her eyes.
“Carole says you’d like to speak with one of our residents?”
“Yes, ma’am. Jared Walker Philburn. Officers from Northeast Station brought him here the day before yesterday. He’d witnessed a crime.”
She nodded before I finished.
“Griffith Park.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s him.”
“He was quite the celebrity for a day.”
She unlocked a desk drawer, took out a small tablet computer, and tapped at the screen. A few seconds later, an inexpensive printer on a small metal shelf behind her spit out a page.
“I’m sorry, but he declined to stay.”
She placed the page in front of me as she continued.
“It’s a shame, but we can’t force people to accept services. So many of these folks, like Mr. Philburn, could truly benefit by using services, but if they refuse, they refuse.”
The page was an intake form for registering persons who received services, assistance, or medical care. They had photographed him, and entered whatever personal information he provided, which wasn’t much, or they observed. Jared Walker Philburn was described as being an Anglo male, five feet eight, one hundred forty pounds, with no visible scars, tattoos, or missing limbs. He had given his age as fifty-nine, but the man in the photo appeared twenty years older. His face was dark from years of unending sun, his cheeks were hollow crevices, and the skin beneath his eyes and jaw sagged like furled sails.
“I understand he has a certain degree of impairment.”
She leaned back until the little chair squeaked.
“Schizophrenia. Paranoid ideation with an aversion to closed spaces. It’s classic, in its way. He doesn’t trust doctors and refuses medication. He had agreed to see one of our medical partners, but they all agree until their anxiety builds. Then it becomes untenable.”
“So he left.”
“Early the following morning, I believe. One of our security staff saw him.”
I stared at the intake form. No entries had been made for a spouse, siblings, or children. No current or former addresses were listed. He’d given his place of birth as Sunbeam, Oklahoma, which may have been true but probably wasn’t.
“Did he have any sort of identification? An old driver’s license, maybe? A V.A. or Medicaid card?”
She shook her head.
“No, but this isn’t unusual. People in Mr. Philburn’s situation typically hide their things because they’re robbed so often. He had very little with him. The clothes he was wearing, a faded purple cap, but no personal photographs or keepsakes. It’s likely he hid his belongings before he went to the police.”
“You spoke with him?”
“Oh, yes. I handled the intake. He was very pleasant. He was looking forward to a shower and a meal. He wanted to know if we were having Italian food. Italian food is his favorite.”
Maybe I should look for him in Italy.
“Did he say anything to suggest where he might have gone?”
She thought for a moment.
“Not that I recall.”
She thought a moment longer.
“The officers told me he’d been living in Griffith Park. You might find him there.”
Returning to the park made no sense.
“You understand he found a murder victim in the park. He claimed he saw people hide the body.”
“I understand. But if his belongings were there, he’d return. He might not stay, but people like Mr. Philburn are comfortable with what’s familiar.”
The park.
I didn’t like it. Sooner or later the people who killed Rachel Bohlen would learn a homeless man who lived at the park had seen them. Then they would return to kill him.
I said, “He’d go home.”
She smiled.
“Like anyone else.”
“You mentioned a purple cap. Like a ball cap or a beanie?”
She gestured up by her head, as if she were wearing it.
“A ball cap with something embroidered above the bill. It was faded, almost white in places, like he’d been wearing it for years. He didn’t want to take it off.”
I touched the intake form.
“May I take this?”
“Of course, Mr. Cole. I printed it for you.”
Beth Lawrence walked me out. Forty-three hundred acres of steep slopes, canyons, and tourist attractions was a lot to search, but I had a good idea where to find him.
The coroner investigator’s notes contained a hand-drawn map of the park. A tiny “x” marked the exact location where Rachel Belle Bohlen’s body was found. The killers knew where to look, but I needed the map.
I hoped he didn’t go back.
I hoped he was still alive.
I called Joe as I drove.
40
Jared Walker Philburn
Jared was walking up Hillhurst Avenue on his usual route, collecting plastic bottles and aluminum cans from refuse bins, when a man called out behind him.
“Sir! Wait up!”
Jared turned and was horrified to see a young gentleman running toward him. Jared lurched sideways and prepared for the blow, but the young man stopped and offered a large white paper bag.
“For you. Enjoy it.”
Jared took the bag suspecting a ploy, a snake inside or poop, but the young gentleman seemed pleasant enough. He smiled and walked away.
Jared carefully opened the bag and peeked at the contents.
“Holy moly rockin’ rolly!”
The bag was filled with food. Six tacos, two burritos, and six plastic containers of salsa. Too much to eat in a single sitting and far too delicate to brave the day’s heat, Jared opted for home. He could store the young man’s generosity in the cool confines of the shade and feast at his leisure.
Jared cashed his recyclables at the nearest purveyor and hurried up Hillhurst and into the park. He passed the golf course and the Theatre and didn’t notice the dusty red pickup parked beside the filthy white SUV facing the road. He did not see the driver with the ponytail or the driver with the wraparound sunglasses, but the drivers saw Jared.
They started their vehicles.
41
Elvis Cole
Rachel’s body had been found below one of the two streets leading to the observatory. The observatory’s parking lots were crowded when I arrived. Drivers had parked along the road, forcing walkers and joggers to dodge tourists who’d come for the views. I parked a quarter-mile away and walked back. Rachel Bohlen’s final resting place was easy to find. Removing her body had left an obvious path of broken chaparral, flattened sage, and disturbed soil from the chaparral below to the top of the slope.
The light-colored vehicle would have been parked nearby. The killers had lifted her body over a guardrail, carried her to the edge of the slope, and heaved her over. One of the park’s old streetlights was only a few feet away, so either the lamp didn’t work or the people who dumped her believed the park was deserted. They had fallen for the illusion. Venture into a canyon and you could forget you were surrounded by millions of people.
Her body had been dumped on a short stretch of street bracketed by sharp curves at either end. Jared couldn’t have seen them if he’d been in the canyon below or beyond the curves. He needed to be in a line-of-sight view and he needed to be close. This left a small stand of trees near a turnoff to the observatory and a steep upslope shoulder directly across the street. The shoulder was too steep to climb, but appeared to flatten about twenty feet above the road.
I walked east searching for a path up, but the slope only grew steeper. When I reached the far curve I turned back and found a weathered erosion cut. The cut climbed a dip in the slope and wound behind the shoulder.
The path was a slippery mix of crumbling soil and dislodged rocks between hulking balls of coastal sage. I passed between gnarly oaks, pushed through some sage, and reached a flat area crowning the shoulder. I went to the edge. Rachel Belle Bohlen had been found in the brush directly below me.
Scattered footprints dotted the clearing, but no fires had been built and the area was free of litter and trash. It might be a place where hikers admired the view, but it didn’t look like a campsite.
I called out.
“Mr. Philburn? Are you here?”
Maybe he’d never been here. Or maybe he returned for his things as Beth Lawrence believed and would never return.
I called louder.
“I come in peace.”
I didn’t expect an answer. I just wanted to say it.
I circled the clearing and spotted the faded remains of a rusted water tank beyond the ridge above me. A narrow path led up to the tank, so I followed it, circled the tank, and peered inside. The rusted metal was layered with faded graffiti, but I saw no evidence of habitation, recent or otherwise.
I spotted a pop of blue between the branches of a gnarled scrub oak on my way down. The change of angle was revealing. A tightly rolled sleeping bag and faded blue duffel were hidden beneath the oak. I did not want to search his belongings, but I did. A thin billfold beneath his clothes held three worn photographs, his teenage driver’s license, seven library cards from seven cities, and forty-two dollars. The driver’s license had been issued to Jared W. Philburn. The billfold was folded around a page torn from a small spiral notebook. The page bore a note written in square block letters.
I AM JARED WALKER PHILBURN
IN THE EVENT OF MY DETH
PLESE DONATE MY BELONGINGS
TO THEM WHO NEED HELP
An uneven signature was scrawled across the bottom.
I stood and looked around.
“Mr. Philburn? If you’re here, I would very much like to speak with you.”
Philburn didn’t answer and neither did the brush.
I put forty dollars into the billfold and the billfold into the duffel. I put everything back as I’d found it, walked to the lip of the shoulder, and studied the people below. I studied everybody I saw for as far as I could see, but I did not see Jared Philburn or anyone wearing a faded purple cap.
I took out my phone and called Joe.
“I found it. His things are here, so he’ll be back.”
“Say location.”
“The top of the shoulder across from the dump. He was right on top of them. He saw it.”
“On my way.”
Pike was cruising the western side of the park.
“He’s probably down in Los Feliz making his rounds. I’ll call Lou. Lou can have the area cops look for him.”
I was saying it when I saw the red truck. It was far away and small and moving very slow, coming up the eastside road with a line of cars bunched behind it. I could not see the driver, but it was the gardener’s truck. A tiny figure darted across the truck’s path and the truck swung hard past oncoming cars.
“Joe! This side! They’re here!”
I scrambled and slid and ran as hard as I could.
42
Jared Walker Philburn
Jared yearned to smile at the walkers and joggers and dogs he passed. The world held too little joy and comfort to turn one’s back on a smile, but Jared’s smiles were rarely welcomed and almost never returned. This left him sad. He did not wish to impose on others, so he kept his eyes down and shared a smile with himself.
Almost home and his mouth was watering.
Jared was imagining the joys to come when horns startled him so badly he stumbled.
A red pickup truck crept behind him a mere twenty feet away. The cars behind it passed when they could, but were otherwise trapped by oncoming vehicles.
Jared was well out of the street at the far side of the shoulder. He posed no obstruction. The truck could have easily passed, but idled along behind him.
Jared moved farther to the side and glanced back again. The truck didn’t pass. Horns blew. Cars roared past when able. Drivers cursed.
The red truck seemed familiar.
Jared tucked the white bag under his arm like a football and increased his pace. He glanced back again.
The driver’s face was a threatening mask. His mouth was a slash with down-turned corners and angular sunglasses masked his eyes. When Jared looked at the man, a sharp-eyed demon looked back.
