put away his phone, but stayed in the chair, and raised his hands. The deputies saw him, and an older dep with gray hair and a hard face approached the gate.
“You Joe Pike?”
“I am. I was just about to call you.”
“Sure, you were. That’s what they all say.”
The deputy drew his gun, and then the other deps fanned out along the fence, and they drew down on him, too.
The dep said, “You’re under arrest. You do anything with those hands other than keep them up, I’ll shoot you out of that chair.”
The pit bull went into a frenzy, trying to break free. Pike didn’t move. He studied the two plainclothes cops who got out of the unmarked car. Middle-aged Latin guys. They looked familiar, and then he realized where he had seen them before. The last time he saw them, they were driving a Sentra.
20
Elvis Cole
ANA MARKOVIC GRADUATED FROM the East Valley Arts and Sciences High School in Glendale two years earlier. Cole knew this from the yearbook Pike took from her room. First thing Cole did, he found her picture among the senior class-a thin girl with bright features, a large nose, and two monster zits on her chin. She had tried to cover them with makeup, but they were so inflamed they had burst through. Ana had probably been mortified.
Cole thought she kinda looked like Rina, but many people kinda looked like someone else.
The yearbook stated that Ana’s class consisted of 1,284 graduating seniors, most of whom, Cole thought, had written an inscription in Ana’s book. The yearbook’s inside covers were dense with notes and signatures, mostly from girls, telling Ana to remember what great times they had or teasing her about boys she had liked, everyone promising everyone else they would be best friends forever.
Pike had tucked three snapshots in the yearbook. One showed Ana with Frank Meyer’s two little boys, so Cole put it aside. The second showed Ana with two girlfriends, the three of them on a soccer field, arms around each other with huge, happy smiles. In this picture, one of the girls had short black hair with purple highlights, and the other was a tall girl with long, sandy brown hair, milky skin, and freckles. The third photo showed Ana and the brown-haired girl at what appeared to be a Halloween party. They wore identical flapper costumes, and had struck a funny pose with their splayed hands framing their faces like a couple of jazz-era dancers.
The background in the soccer field picture suggested a school campus, so Cole went back to the yearbook. He started at the beginning of the 1,284 senior class pictures and scanned the rows of portraits, hoping to get lucky. He did. The brown-haired girl was named Sarah Manning.
Cole phoned Information, and asked if they had a listing for that name in Glendale. He was hoping to get lucky again, but this time he wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, sir. We have no listing by that name.”
“What about Burbank and North Hollywood?”
Burbank and North Hollywood were next to Glendale.
“Sorry, sir. I already checked.”
Cole put the yearbook aside and examined Ana’s computer. It was an inexpensive PC that took forever to boot up, but the desktop finally appeared, revealing several neatly arranged rows of icons. Cole studied the icons for an address book, and found something called Speed Dial. He typed in Sarah Manning, clicked Search, and there she was.
Cole said, “The World’s Greatest Detective strikes again.”
The entry for Sarah Manning showed an address in Glendale, an 818 phone number, and a gmail Internet address. Cole almost never called in advance. People tended to hang up on him, and never returned his calls, but driving to Glendale to find out Sarah Manning had moved didn’t appeal to him. For all he knew, she was pulling a tour in Afghanistan.
He called the number, and was surprised when she answered.
“Hello?”
“Sarah Manning?”
“Yes, who is this, please?”
She sounded breathy, as if she was in a hurry. It occurred to him she might not know that Ana Markovic had been murdered, but she did, and didn’t seem particularly upset.
Cole said, “I’d like to sit down with you for a few minutes, Sarah. I have some questions about Ana.”
“I don’t know. I’m at school.”
“East Valley High?”
“Cal State Northridge. High school was two years ago.”
“Sorry. This won’t take long, but it’s important. I understand you were close with her.”
“Did they catch the people who did it?”
“Not yet. That’s why I need your help.”
She was slow to answer, as if she