Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(57)

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.”