so large the unit employed almost eighty specialists around the clock to hold back the tide. With so many cases in line to be analyzed, a first-come-first-served waiting list was maintained to reserve the equipment needed for the work. This list was known as the landing pattern.
Cole said, “Days is too long. I need this.”
Chen looked over, sour but thoughtful.
“For Joe?”
Cole nodded.
“What’s up?”
“I’m hoping you can tell me. If these people are in the system, Joe needs to know why. I need to know why, too.”
Chen shifted, maybe trying to get comfortable, but maybe because he was nervous. He was so tall his knees were above the dash and his head touched the roof.
Chen peeked into the bag again, then peered at Cole with enormous owl eyes.
“You know who I am?”
The question caught him by surprise, but then Cole sensed Chen wasn’t talking to him—Chen was talking to himself. Cole shook his head.
“Sure you do, bro. All you have to do is look at me. I’m the guy defense attorneys make out to be the bumbling geek, so juries laugh. I hear cops making cracks when I’m at a scene. Every time I look in a mirror, I know why the girls laugh.”
“John, you don’t have to—”
Chen held up a finger, stopping him.
“When I first met you guys, I was freakin’ terrified of Joe. He was everything that scares me shitless. Here’s this guy, and no one would have the balls to make a crack or laugh. Here he is, a fucking street monster, but of all the people I deal with, he treats me with more respect than anyone else.”
Chen lifted the bag.
“So I will find a way to do this. Pull over. I’ll go get started.”
“I’ll take you back.”
“I’d rather walk. It’ll give me time to think.”
Cole pulled over, and Chen got out with the bag.
“John.”
“What?”
“Take the box.”
Chen took the bag containing the box.
“If you speak with Joe, don’t mention this.”
Chen stared at Cole a long time, then abruptly walked away.
25
Elvis Cole
When Cole reached his office he got down to business. The night before, he had asked a friend on the Hollywood Station homicide table for sheets on Mendoza and Gomer. These he would have used to identify known associates and relatives, but they were no longer necessary. He called her to cancel the request, but she had already printed the information and was pissed she had taken the risk for nothing. He then spread the contents of Wilson Smith’s file box over his desk. With Mendoza and Gomer out of the picture, Cole focused on Wilson and Dru.
He quickly determined that most of the files related to Smith’s business, with the individual folders containing invoices, bills, equipment warranties, and rental agreements. Smith purchased fresh seafood from a purveyor in San Pedro, sandwich rolls and breads from a bakery in Boyle Heights, and had signed a one-year lease agreement with Lodestar Properties for the storefront that now housed his kitchen. Cole checked through the bills and invoices for a prior address, but everything that had been mailed was sent to Smith’s shop. Cole made a list of names and numbers from the various letterheads in case he wanted to phone them, then pushed the business files aside.
He tackled the money files next. There were two folders, one for checking and one for savings, with both accounts drawn on the Venice branch of Golden State Bank & Trust. The statements went back eight months, showing both accounts were opened on the same day. The savings account was opened with a $9600 deposit, from which $2000 was used to open the checking account. Two weeks after opening the savings account, an additional $6500 was deposited. The first statement had been mailed to Smith at a P.O. box in Venice, but the following seven, including the most recent, were mailed to Wilson’s Takeout Foods. Cole copied the P.O. box address, then examined the statements. Deposits, withdrawals, and checking activity all seemed reasonable, with most of the drafts made out to pay for rent, utilities, and supplies. The canceled checks were in the file. Smith was obviously a man who didn’t believe in online banking. He was also a man who didn’t believe in credit cards.
The contents of Wilson Smith’s metal file box contained nothing showing a date prior to the accounts that were opened eight months ago, nothing of a personal nature, and nothing to connect Wilson Smith with Louisiana or anyplace else. It was as if the man had been