had not been returned.
Cole took out his phone, dialed, and put the call on speaker.
Carly said, “What are you doing?”
Cole said, “Being a detective. Shh.”
A man’s voice mail answered.
“Ya got me. Leave a message.”
At the sound of the beep, Cole hung up.
“Sound familiar?”
“I don’t think so.”
Cole googled the 661 area code, and saw it was the area code for Palmdale.
“Uncle Ted. Ted lives in Palmdale. It has to be him.”
Friend of the family. Ted hadn’t returned her calls, but this didn’t mean he ignored her. They could have been texting. Text messages didn’t show as a call charge.
Carly said, “I didn’t think they were close anymore. Why would she call him?”
“Want to see me be a detective again?”
“Yeah. It’s kinda exciting.”
Cole dialed the 661 number again.
“Mr. Kemp, my name is Elvis Cole. I’m calling about Isabel Roland. Please call as soon as you can. It’s important.”
Cole left his number, hung up, and arched his eyebrows.
“Impressed?”
“Maybe awed. I think I am awed.”
Cole smiled, and gathered his notes and the pictures.
“I’d better go see.”
Carly looked surprised.
“You’re going to Palmdale?”
Like it was on the far side of the world.
“Yeah. Isabel called the guy three times, and he didn’t call back. He might know something.”
Palmdale was a desert community sixty miles north of Los Angeles, up in the Antelope Valley. The drive would take about fifty-five minutes.
Cole stood, and Carly stood with him.
“But what if he can’t help? You’ll go all the way up there for nothing, and it’ll take forever. We could be looking for her.”
Fear.
Cole saw it in her eyes and heard it in her voice. Carly was afraid for her friend.
Cole made his voice gentle.
“This is what looking for someone looks like. Not so impressive, huh?”
“I’m scared.”
“I know. But I want you to remember something.”
Cole tried to look encouraging.
“You helped. We have this lead because of you. We’re going to find her.”
They walked out together. Carly locked the door, and Cole watched her drive away. Carly didn’t look particularly encouraged, and Cole didn’t feel as encouraged as he tried to sound. Uncle Ted wasn’t much of a clue.
Cole drove north for the desert.
17.
Traffic was light up through the Cahuenga Pass into the San Fernando Valley. Cole avoided the Ventura split, and rode the freeway north through Studio City and Valley Village and onto the Golden State Freeway. Clouds in the west promised cooler temperatures, but the heat increased as he followed the 5 into Newhall Pass, and climbed even higher as he spilled out of the San Gabriel Mountains into the great, flat expanse of the Antelope Valley. His moving map led to an exit just south of Lancaster. He pulled into a gas station, bought gas, and raised the Corvette’s top. An older couple in a battered Land Cruiser at the next pump watched him. The woman’s skin was dark as old leather, and wrinkled like parchment. Cole grinned at the woman. Friendly.
“This sun is something.”
The woman said, “Fry your eyes right out of your head. Best you drink water.”
“Good tip. Thanks.”
Cole finished filling his tank, bought two bottles of water, and pulled away from the station.
Ted Kemp lived in a residential development six blocks west of the highway. The homes were small, set close, and identical, as if the developer’s plan had been to cap the land with beige stucco, clay tile, and anonymity. The sun was so bright Cole squinted behind his sunglasses, but he didn’t need house numbers to find Ted Kemp’s home. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the door. A Sheriffs placard identified the premises as an active crime scene.
Cole eased to a stop across the drive. The house appeared deserted, and no police vehicles were present.
Cole climbed from his car. The middle-class, midday neighborhood wasn’t bustling with activity. Nobody was walking a dog, or gardening, or jogging. Everyone was probably indoors, trying to survive the triple-digit heat.
Cole walked up the drive, rang the doorbell, and knocked. He knocked again, then moved to a window, but the drapes were drawn and shades were down. He walked next door, and rang the neighbor’s bell. A small dog snarled and snapped in the window, but didn’t open the door. Cole walked back across Kemp’s yard to the opposite neighbor, and tried again. One ring, and the door jerked open.
A withered old man with arms thin as sticks glowered.
“Are you another damned cop?”
Cole held out a card.
“Nope. Another damned private eye. I’m here on a personal matter.”
The old man inspected the card.
“No shit? Like Magnum?”
“More like Rockford.”
The old