was just what he needed to take the sting out of David’s
rejection. He tried for some purr of his own. “How about you leave in the
morning? I’ll serve breakfast in bed.”
“No can do, babe. Got business to attend to,” he
said, sounding distracted. “But you and me, we got some unfinished business of
our own to take care of, don’t we?”
“When will you be back?”
“That’s what I like to hear. Enthusiasm. I’ll only
be gone a few days. Keep next weekend open for me, okay?”
“Consider it yours.”
Tuesday,
5:25 pm, Piedmont Avenue, Glendale
David unlocked his car. His cell
chirped.
“Davey,” Martinez said. “Got something you might
want to see. How soon can you get back here?”
It was nearly five-thirty. “Why don’t you grab
something from the deli?” David said. “I’ll meet you in twenty.”
Thirty minutes later David found a pastrami on rye
on his cluttered desk. Martinez was nowhere to be seen. Half a dozen folders
lay beside the sandwich, plus one manila envelope with his name on a
computer-addressed label. There was no postmark. He picked up the envelope
after unwrapping his pastrami. Martinez had remembered to get extra mustard.
Martinez appeared at his elbow, nearly knocking
the other half of the sandwich off the desk as he planted his butt.
David rescued his dinner and waved the envelope at
him. “When did this come in?”
“Front desk called just after four.”
David slit it open with a fingernail and peered
uneasily inside. What he saw made him glance up at Martinez. “Got a pair of
gloves handy?”
Martinez handed him a pair. David slipped them on,
and Martinez leaned forward as David reached in and pulled out a California
driver’s license and a photograph.
Daniel Anstrom. Nineteen-year-old sophomore at the
University of Southern California. North Hollywood address. Both of them stared
at the young face. David felt despair tighten the muscles of his stomach as he
studied the photo, which had been printed out on flimsy paper from a digital
file. It showed a dumpster, this one with a backdrop of mountains. Somewhere
north of Los Angeles proper. He flipped to the next image, recognizing it
easily: Angeles Crest Highway.
“Think anyone filed on him?” Martinez asked, but
even his voice sounded strained.
It took less than ten minutes to find the report,
taken three weeks earlier. Anstrom’s parents had called it in, waiting the
requisite forty-eight hours after their son disappeared, though they insisted
he wasn’t the type to just vanish.
David called the California Highway Patrol and
told them what to look for. Then he sent the envelope and all its contents down
to the lab for analysis.
The rest of the day was spent trying to locate
Anstrom’s parents, who weren’t answering their phone. David spent the next day
catching up on paperwork, which was never in short supply.
Thursday night he ate a hastily prepared supper of
frozen stir-fry tossed with soy sauce on some left-over rice while catching the
tail end of a Dodgers home game. When they lost seven to two he knew it was
time to call it a night.
He almost made it to sleep before the bedside
phone shrilled.
“Better get down here,” Martinez said.
David sat up. “Highway Patrol found something?”
“No. Looks like our boy delivered a fresh one to
our doorstep.”
Thursday,
7:45 pm, County Coroner’s Office,
North
Mission Road, East Los Angeles
The morgue assistant brought out
the sealed body bag, and David signed off on it.
No confirmation yet it was their killer’s work,
but David’s gut told him it was. The fact the body’s temperature was still 95.2
degrees when discovered proved to be the only definite piece of evidence. A
patrolling officer had spotted something suspicious on her rounds and left her
car to investigate. Rigor hadn’t even set in.
“Our boy’s got brass balls.” Martinez casually
appraised the body on the table. “Getting bigger every day, too. Brazen,
dumping a
rejection. He tried for some purr of his own. “How about you leave in the
morning? I’ll serve breakfast in bed.”
“No can do, babe. Got business to attend to,” he
said, sounding distracted. “But you and me, we got some unfinished business of
our own to take care of, don’t we?”
“When will you be back?”
“That’s what I like to hear. Enthusiasm. I’ll only
be gone a few days. Keep next weekend open for me, okay?”
“Consider it yours.”
Tuesday,
5:25 pm, Piedmont Avenue, Glendale
David unlocked his car. His cell
chirped.
“Davey,” Martinez said. “Got something you might
want to see. How soon can you get back here?”
It was nearly five-thirty. “Why don’t you grab
something from the deli?” David said. “I’ll meet you in twenty.”
Thirty minutes later David found a pastrami on rye
on his cluttered desk. Martinez was nowhere to be seen. Half a dozen folders
lay beside the sandwich, plus one manila envelope with his name on a
computer-addressed label. There was no postmark. He picked up the envelope
after unwrapping his pastrami. Martinez had remembered to get extra mustard.
Martinez appeared at his elbow, nearly knocking
the other half of the sandwich off the desk as he planted his butt.
David rescued his dinner and waved the envelope at
him. “When did this come in?”
“Front desk called just after four.”
David slit it open with a fingernail and peered
uneasily inside. What he saw made him glance up at Martinez. “Got a pair of
gloves handy?”
Martinez handed him a pair. David slipped them on,
and Martinez leaned forward as David reached in and pulled out a California
driver’s license and a photograph.
Daniel Anstrom. Nineteen-year-old sophomore at the
University of Southern California. North Hollywood address. Both of them stared
at the young face. David felt despair tighten the muscles of his stomach as he
studied the photo, which had been printed out on flimsy paper from a digital
file. It showed a dumpster, this one with a backdrop of mountains. Somewhere
north of Los Angeles proper. He flipped to the next image, recognizing it
easily: Angeles Crest Highway.
“Think anyone filed on him?” Martinez asked, but
even his voice sounded strained.
It took less than ten minutes to find the report,
taken three weeks earlier. Anstrom’s parents had called it in, waiting the
requisite forty-eight hours after their son disappeared, though they insisted
he wasn’t the type to just vanish.
David called the California Highway Patrol and
told them what to look for. Then he sent the envelope and all its contents down
to the lab for analysis.
The rest of the day was spent trying to locate
Anstrom’s parents, who weren’t answering their phone. David spent the next day
catching up on paperwork, which was never in short supply.
Thursday night he ate a hastily prepared supper of
frozen stir-fry tossed with soy sauce on some left-over rice while catching the
tail end of a Dodgers home game. When they lost seven to two he knew it was
time to call it a night.
He almost made it to sleep before the bedside
phone shrilled.
“Better get down here,” Martinez said.
David sat up. “Highway Patrol found something?”
“No. Looks like our boy delivered a fresh one to
our doorstep.”
Thursday,
7:45 pm, County Coroner’s Office,
North
Mission Road, East Los Angeles
The morgue assistant brought out
the sealed body bag, and David signed off on it.
No confirmation yet it was their killer’s work,
but David’s gut told him it was. The fact the body’s temperature was still 95.2
degrees when discovered proved to be the only definite piece of evidence. A
patrolling officer had spotted something suspicious on her rounds and left her
car to investigate. Rigor hadn’t even set in.
“Our boy’s got brass balls.” Martinez casually
appraised the body on the table. “Getting bigger every day, too. Brazen,
dumping a
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