He said that in a command voice that annoyed me. I unfolded the sketch and slid it across the bar.
“He’s in his midthirties. He’ll be friendly but will mind his own business and won’t want anything from anybody. Maybe he’ll have a beer here occasionally, but he won’t talk about himself, and if he does, he won’t brag in any way. If he rented a place here, it’s a quiet spot on the outskirts where no one will bother him. He will have paid cash up front. He’d want air conditioning. He’s not American, but you wouldn’t necessarily know that.” I gave it a beat and added, “You might pick up a little accent.”
Marks flipped the sketch back like he was tossing down a bar napkin.
“I heard about him, a serial killer we’re all supposed to be afraid of. One of the Diego cops was pushing the story yesterday. A bartender friend told me about it, but fuck, everyone knows it’s drugs.”
“That’s the cover story we’re using in town,” I said. “This guy is actually a lot worse than that. You don’t want him here. I mean that. You really don’t, and it’s not about drugs.”
I let Marks think about that before adding, “He could be a poet or a painter this time. You won’t have seen him much and he’s not selling you anything and doesn’t want anything from you. If he bought a beer, he probably left a good tip and didn’t sit at the bar. He doesn’t bother anyone’s girlfriend. He’s not really here. He’s a ghost moving among you.”
“How tall would he be?”
“About my height, maybe a little taller but with a little bit of a stoop.”
“He’s got a beard?”
“Look at the fucking drawing, okay?”
Marks smoothed the edges of the sketch and surprised me. “That artist who lives here drew this,” he said. “I know her. I like her.”
“Nora?”
“Yeah.”
“She did draw it.”
I glanced at the tats that wrapped his biceps, then looked at his face.
“I know your boss Coffina doesn’t like to lose tenants and you don’t want to fuck up with him by leading us to his doorstep, but this time the alternative is far worse. We’re not leaving here without searching everywhere here. I really wouldn’t fuck with me too much longer.”
“You’ve got warrants?”
“Everything we need.”
“If I help you and he’s a major with a Baja cartel, they might cross for me.”
“Last time I say this—we’re not here about drugs.”
“So what are you going to do if you find drugs?”
“If we’re forced to search every unit and drugs are found, people will get arrested. People in jail can’t pay rent. Coffina will want to keep the rent coming. He’ll cooperate. Call him. Quit stalling, we’re running out of time.”
The San Diego officer, Pentane, came around the corner and rode up. He smiled at Marks and showed me a text: Ready to go.
I nodded then showed the text to Marks.
“They need an answer from us, Ace.”
“One man, this guy in the picture, that’s all?”
“Just him.”
“Who is he?”
“If we get him, I’ll tell you.”
Marks held my gaze.
“He was here. I don’t know if he is still, and I don’t know where he lives. He comes from that direction and drives a ’98 Honda Civic.”
“Ever see a white Mercedes in here?”
“No.”
“Tell Coffina he gets thirty seconds.”
“Why are you always so fired up? Chill. I’ll call him right now.”
44
Marks knocked hard on a steel door and the sound reverberated. Nothing happened for thirty seconds, then footsteps thudded toward us and the door swung open. The red-bearded, thick-shouldered Coffina looked like he’d walked off the set of Game of Thrones. He said, “Shit, not you again.”
“Good to see you too. Look at this and tell me where this guy lives.”
Coffina stared at the sketch as he debated how to avoid dealing with us. He squinted at the helicopter shadowing the mountains to the west, so Marks must have brought him up to speed.
“I rent to him but he’s not here right now, and I don’t know where he is. He left yesterday or the day before.”
“What does he drive?”
“An old beat-to-shit gray Honda Civic.”
“Okay, so knowing you, you’ve got the plates and his driver’s license number.”
“I’ve got the plates. They’re California. His license I don’t have. He said it got stolen. He was getting a new one. I never followed up because he paid for everything ahead.”
“How far ahead?”
“Three months and in cash.”
“Show us where he lives.”