bottom right corner of the page. It was an eight-one-eight number, a business somewhere in the steaming streets of the Valley. A woman answered.
“A-1 Moving and Storage.”
“Um, hello. I’ve got a question that may seem a little strange, but I’m looking for a record of a move that was done quite a while ago.”
“How long ago?”
“About twelve years.”
The woman laughed a little. “I seriously doubt we’d have any record of anything like that. We’ve probably changed computers systems twice since then.”
“Well, I’ve got a confirmation number here.”
“What’s this for anyway?”
“Oh, well,” I spoke slow and thought fast, “I’m actually an attorney trying to wrap up an estate and we’ve come across some records in the decedent’s papers showing that he may have had some property moved to a storage facility. So we’re trying to ascertain if there are any assets out there that we’re unaware of.”
“Well, like I said, I doubt we’ve got anything, but I can check that confirmation number if you’d like.”
I gave it to her. I could hear her typing.
“No, that doesn’t come back with anything. But it does look like one of our confirmation numbers. The L-M at the beginning would mean it was a local move. So if they did use us to move something, it didn’t leave LA County.”
“Okay, well, it was worth a try. Thanks.”
“No problem. Good luck.”
I stared at the deed again. I imagined a furnished house somewhere, filled with Sharon Steele’s most personal things collecting dust for a dozen years. I punched the address on the deed into Google maps. The screen refreshed with a street map of Los Angeles County and a bright red dot just west of the village of Topanga Canyon. “Gotcha.” I whispered as I hit the print button.
An hour later, after organizing and reorganizing my papers and my thoughts, the phone rang.
“This is Ollie.”
“Ollie. Ed Snyder returning your call.”
“Great, thanks for calling me back.”
Ed’s voice was low and serious. He sounded like a guy who was all business. “You said we should talk.”
25
We met in a carnicera east of Broadway on Fifth. Though it was less than five blocks from the office, the streets were strewn with trash and crowded with sweaty, unclean bodies that stood on the corners, sat on the curbs, lingered at bus stops, and leaned against walls. Idle and hapless human beings who had drifted or were dumped there by society, circumstance, or steady and consistent bad luck. This was the stretch of Fifth known historically as “the nickel” — skid row — the literal and figurative end of the line.
But the air inside the carnicera belied the blight outside with its smells of peppers, molé sauces, slow cooked pork and refried beans. Despite the desperate starvation on the surrounding streets, the food in this tiny lunch spot was good and plentiful.
A skinny white guy in his late twenties approached me the instant I arrived. “Mr. Olson?”
“Yeah.”
“Ed Snyder,” the man said, offering his hand and a glowing smile. “Man, it’s good to meet you.” He went on, shaking his hand and nodding his head, sending his overgrown curly hair into a bobbing wave. He wore vintage clothes and stood with a relaxed posture, suggesting he was never concerned about much. A hipster journalist with a cultivated go-with-the-flow air, but always on the lookout for his big break.
“Good to meet you,” I replied, glancing at the long counter where they took the orders.
“You ever eat here before?” Ed asked.
“No.”
“Oh man, this place is the best. I mean it’s great.” Ed immediately began rattling off his order in Spanish and joking with the cooks. Ed was a regular. When it was my turn, I ordered with as few words as possible to hide the fact that I knew no Spanish whatsoever. The food was served on plastic plates on orange plastic trays, cafeteria style. Ed chose a table in the back where no one would hear us.
“So,” Ed began, “I was wondering if I was ever going to hear from you.”
“Yeah, well, the only reason I’m even talking to you instead of going straight to the police is because I’m not sure I’m safe. I need to make sure someone else knows what’s happened.” I handed Ed the copies I’d made of the documents and photographs. “I’m giving you this because I’m worried about my safety. I’m being followed and someone’s already been through my apartment looking for this information.”
Ed took the file and slid it under his tray. He never took his eyes