Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(58)

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.