The Last Detective by Robert Crais Page A

didn't. She looked grim, her face dark like a gathering storm.
    I said, “I think we have something here, Starkey. What's the matter with you?”
    She sucked down the last of her cigarette, then crushed it with her toe.
    “He called again.”
    I knew there was more to it, but I was scared she would tell me that Ben was dead.
    Maybe she knew what I was thinking. She shrugged, as if that was an answer to the things I wasn't brave enough to ask.
    “He didn't call you. He called your girlfriend.”
    “What did he say?”
    Starkey's eyes were careful, like she was hoping I would read that part of it, too, so she wouldn't have to explain.
    “You can hear it yourself. She hit the Record button on her message machine and got most of the call. C'mon, we want you to see if it's the same man.”
    I didn't move.
    “Did he say something about Ben?”
    “Not about Ben. C'mon, everybody's down at the station now. Take your own car. I don't want to drive you back after.”
    “Starkey, did he hurt Ben? Goddamnit, tell me what he said.”
    Starkey got into her car and sat quietly for a moment.
    “He said you killed twenty-six civilians, then you murdered your buddies to get rid of the witnesses. That's what he said, Cole, you wanted to know. Follow me down. We want you to hear it.”
    Starkey drove away, and I was swallowed by darkness.
    time missing: 27 hours, 31 minutes
    T he Hollywood Division Police Station was a flat red-brick building a block south of Hollywood Boulevard, midway between Paramount Studios and the Hollywood Bowl. The evening streets were choked with traffic going nowhere at a glacial pace. Tour buses cruised the Walk of Fame and lined the curb outside the Chinese Theatre, filled with tourists who had paid thirty-five dollars to sit in traffic. It was full-on dark when I turned into the parking lot behind the station. Richard's limo was parked by a fence. Starkey was waiting by her car with a fresh cigarette.
    “Are you carrying a weapon?”
    “It's at home.”
    “You can't bring it inside.”
    “What, Starkey, you think I want to murder some witnesses?”
    Starkey flicked her cigarette hard into the side of a patrol car. A shower of sparks exploded off its fender.
    “Don't be so testy. Where's Pike?”
    “I dropped him off at Lucy's. If this asshole has her phone number, he probably knows where she lives. You worried this is going to fuck up your case, too?”
    She didn't fight me about it.
    “That was Gittamon, not me.”
    We went inside through double glass doors, then along a tile hall into a room marked DETECTIVES. Chest-high partitions cut the room into cubicles, but most of the chairs were empty; either crime was rampant or everyone had gone home. Gittamon and Myers were speaking quietly across the room, Myers with a slim leather briefcase. Gittamon excused himself and came over when he saw us.
    “Did Carol explain what happened?”
    “She told me about the call. Where's Lucy?”
    “We're set up in an interview room. I'm going to warn you that the tape is disturbing. He says some things.”
    Starkey interupted him.
    “Before we get to that, Cole should tell you what he found. They might have something, Dave.”
    I described the prints and the crushed grass that Pike and I had found, and what I thought they meant. Gittamon listened like he wasn't sure what to make of it, but Starkey explained.
    “Cole's making sense about someone having to be across the canyon. I'll check it out with Chen tomorrow as soon as we have enough light. Maybe we'll get a match on the shoes.”
    Myers walked over when he saw us talking, and watched me from under his eyebrows like an aborigine staring at the sun.
    He said, “You must be a clue magnet, Cole, finding all these things the way you do. Is that just good luck?”
    I turned away from him. It was that or hit him in the neck.
    “Gittamon, are we going to hear this tape or not?”
    They brought me to an interview room where Lucy and Richard were waiting at a clean