Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(7)

I called Largo first and got the inevitable voice mail. I left a message with the case number and asked her to call back as soon as possible. Sometimes, they do. Most of the time, they don’t.

I phoned Tanner and Kleimann next. Traci Tanner explained she wasn’t as close to Josh as she once was, and the two hadn’t spoken in more than a year. Davis Kleimann sounded wary. When I told him Adele Schumacher had given me his number, his voice turned hostile.

“I don’t know you. You could be after anything.”

“I’m after Josh. Didn’t his mother speak to you?”

“These people mean nothing to me. Don’t call again. I mean it.”

Kleimann hung up. I glanced at the heading on the page and shook my head. Friends.

I pushed the pages aside, got up, and wandered out onto the balcony. A woman named Cindy runs a beauty supply business in the office next door. Some days, she would sit on her balcony, reading. Other days, she would lay out in a bikini so small it appeared to be made of dental floss. She wasn’t outside. I peeked across the divider separating our balconies and found her at her desk. She saw me and raised a hand. I motioned her to come out. She shook her head and mouthed, “Too hot.” Then she pointed at me, touched her temple, and made you’re-out-of-your-mind circles. I laughed and returned to my desk.

It was six minutes after eleven. I began thinking more about the deli downstairs, and less about the Schumachers. The deli served a very nice turkey baguette with Chinese hot mustard. The Schumachers probably didn’t. On the other hand, Adele had given me one thousand Schumacher dollars. I girded myself and called Ryan Seborg.

“Hullo.”

“Ryan? Elvis Cole. Has Adele Schumacher spoken to you about me?”

After Tanner and Kleimann, I expected the worst.

“Uh-huh. You’re going to find Josh.”

Progress. At least Seborg was in the loop.

“I’m going to try. Are you at his residence now?”

“Yeah. It’s our studio. We do a podcast together.”

“In Your Face.”

His voice perked up.

“Yeah. You’ve heard the show?”

“Adele told me.”

“Oh.”

“She also gave me permission to look through Josh’s things. Are you willing to answer a few questions?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Clues.”

“Okay.”

Seborg didn’t laugh.

I said, “That was levity.”

“Okay. When will you be here?”

“Noon sound good?”

“Okay.”

“Ryan?”

“Yeah?”

“Adele believes Josh was kidnapped. Why would she think someone kidnapped him?”

“His mom—”

Ryan hesitated, as if deciding how to answer.

“His mom’s kinda weird. I love her, but—”

“She’s weird.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you don’t think the Men in Black grabbed him?”

“Nope. Not this time.”

“Okay, Ryan. I’ll see you soon.”

Nope. Not this time.

I was wondering what he meant when my cell phone rang. The caller ID read city lapd.

“Elvis Cole Detective Agency. Brand-name detection at cut-rate prices. Discounts available.”

A woman said, “You always answer like a cheap ad?”

“Sometimes I do impressions. Want to hear my Tom Cruise?”

“This is Detective Largo returning your call. What do you want?”

“Adele Schumacher filed an MPR regarding her son—”

She interrupted. Impatient and rushed.

“Yeah, yeah, you left the case number. What’s the word? Her boy turn up?”

Largo wasn’t out of line for asking. Eighty percent of adults reported as missing returned voluntarily within three days, and most returned in two.

“He hasn’t, which is why I called.”

“Okay. What do you want?”

“Leads. Got anything?”

“Sure. Fourteen missing women and eleven missing men. Six of these women were likely taken south against their will, two are pregnant, and one of the pregnant girls has the mental capacity of a four-year-old. The other has a history of suicide attempts, so she’ll probably try again if I don’t find her fast enough. Three of the remaining six have dementia, and, oh, by the way, half the dicks in my unit were pulled to work hate crimes. Want to hear about the men?”

Largo didn’t sound smug. She sounded fried.

“I get it, Detective. You’re swamped. I just want to know if you have anything I can use.”

She cleared her throat.

“As of this morning, Schumacher hasn’t been arrested in the past two weeks, he isn’t in jail, he hasn’t been admitted to a hospital in L.A. County, and he’s not in the morgue. I issued a BOLO on him and his vehicle, which, by the way, this case does not warrant, but we haven’t gotten a hit. Anything else?”

These were standard due diligence checks she could do at her office.

“Yeah. Have you interviewed anyone besides his mother?”

“Cole. If she gets a ransom demand, our priorities will shift, but this report should not have been taken. The guy’s a voluntary. Trust me. He isn’t impaired and there’s no evidence of foul play. An adult is free to disappear without telling anyone, no matter how much pain it causes. They’re a shit if they do, but it isn’t illegal. So, excuse me, but finding three old ladies with Alzheimer’s and a pregnant suicide seems more urgent than chasing a guy who split to get away from his mother.”