"Crais, Robert - Elvis Cole 08 - L.A. Requiem 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Crais Robert)

Lucy laughed, then looked into my eyes again.

"I'd mind if you didn't go. Take a shower and go save the world."

Hancock Park is an older area south of the Wilshire Country Club, lesser known to outsiders than Beverly Hills or Bel Air, but every bit as rich. Frank Garcia lived in an adobe-walled Spanish villa set behind a wrought-iron fence just west of the country club. It was a big place, hidden by lush green tree ferns and bird-of-paradise plants as big as dinosaurs and leafy calla lilies that were wilting from the heat.

Forty minutes after Pike gave me Garcia's address, I followed an older Latina with a thick waist and nervous hands through Garcia's rambling home and out to where Frank Garcia and Joe Pike waited beside a tile-lined pool.

As I approached, Pike said, "Frank, this is Elvis Cole. We own the agency together."

"Mr. Garcia."





CHAPTER 2

Frank Garcia wasn't the smiling man with the bushy mustache you see on his tortillas. This Frank Garcia looked small and worried, and it had nothing to do with him being in a wheelchair. "You don't look like a private investigator."

I was wearing one of those terrific Jam's World print shirts over the shorts. Orange, yellow, pink, and green. "Gee, did I wear this on a Sunday?"

Garcia looked embarrassed, then raised his hands in apology. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cole. I'm so worked up about this thing with Karen, I'm not thinking. I don't care how you dress. I just want to find my daughter." He touched Joe's arm. It was a loving gesture, and surprised me. "That's why I called Joe. Joe says if anyone can find Karen, it's you. He says you're the best there is at finding people."

Here's the scene: The three of us are by the Olympic-sized pool. The Latina with the thick waist is hovering in the shade of the veranda up by the house, her eyes on Frank in case he might want something, but so far he doesn't and he hasn't offered anything to me. If he did, I would ask for sunblock because standing here next to his pool is like standing on the sun side of Mercury. Gotta be ninety-six and climbing. Behind us is a pool house larger than my home, and through the sliding glass doors I can see a pool table, wet bar, and paintings of vaqueros in the Mexican highlands. It is air-conditioned in there, but apparently Frank would rather sit out here in the nuclear heat. Statues of lions dot the landscape, as motionless as Joe Pike, who has not moved once in the three minutes that I have been there. Pike is wearing a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, faded Levi's, and flat black pilot's glasses, which is the way he dresses every day of his life. His dark brown hair is cut short, and bright red arrows were tattooed on the outside of his deltoids long before tattoos were au courant. Watching Joe stand there, he reminds me of the world's largest two-legged pit bull.

I said, "We'll do what we can, Mr. Garcia. How long has Karen been missing?"

"Since yesterday. Yesterday morning at ten o'clock. I called the police, but those bastards wouldn't do anything, so I called Joe. I knew he'd help." He parted Joe's arm again.

"The police refused to help?"

"Yeah. Those pricks."

"How old is Karen, Mr. Garcia?"

"Thirty-two."

I glanced, at Pike. Together, we had worked hundreds of missing persons cases, and we both knew why the police had brushed off Frank Garcia.

I said, "A thirty-two-year-old woman has only been missing since yesterday?"

"Yes." Pike's voice was soft.

Frank Garcia twisted in his chair, knowing what I was saying and angry about it.

"What's your point, asking that? You think just because she's a grown woman she'd meet some man and run off without letting anyone know?"

"Adult people do that, Mr. Garcia."