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“Michael and I are going to track down Will Lattimer,” Kara said. “He might know what’s going on, and at a minimum, I want to know why Craig Dyson’s last words were about him—and Violet.”
17
Kara convinced Michael to let her drive. After all, she knew the city better than he did, and GPS wasn’t always the best guide in traffic, especially on side streets. She ignored his commentary about her driving as she headed from the hotel to the small office that housed First Contact, the nonprofit Will Lattimer ran that focused on park cleanup and individualized assistance to the homeless. He’d started it primarily to help veterans when he learned one of his Marine buddies was living on the street, but expanded it to assist anyone who said they wanted help.
Kara didn’t know Will well—they’d only met a few times at Colton’s place—but she knew he and Colton both served in the Marines, though not in the same unit. Will hadn’t called her back, but even the FBI couldn’t force someone to answer their phone, so it was time to track Will Lattimer down.
The First Contact office was a long, narrow space in a row of warehouses in Atwater Village off San Fernando Road. Most of the businesses weren’t retail storefronts but destination businesses—computer repair, a nonchain auto-parts store, a mechanic, a paper supply company, and several roll-up doors with no signs. Half the places were for lease.
Because of the central location near four different freeways, volunteers met here to gather supplies for park cleanups, which was their primary activity. Will believed the key to getting people off the street was to talk to them one-on-one and connect them with services like drug rehab, transitional housing and job training. But the first step was to find out why they were on the street.
Will had a lot more patience than Kara.
Kara pulled up next to an unmarked cop car. “Damn. I assumed the detectives talked to Will yesterday.”
“Tread lightly,” Michael warned. “We’re not here officially.”
She smiled broadly. “Trust me.”
Michael sighed, got out of the car, looked around. He was still acting the bodyguard. She walked next to him toward the door. “You look like a fed,” she said. Michael dressed impeccably in a suit, shirt and tie. His shoes were always polished, and she wondered how he kept his clothes in such great shape when they traveled. She wore black tactical pants because they were comfortable, a white polo shirt and a lightweight black blazer to hide her weapon.
As Michael reached to open the door, it swung toward him and a detective walked out. He looked the part—slacks, button-down shirt, no jacket, badge and gun on his belt. He gave them a second glance and Kara said, “Detective.”
He nodded, then walked quickly to his car and left.
“I know him,” Kara muttered. “Damn, I don’t know his name. I may never have known his name, there are a lot of cops in LA, but I’ve seen him before.”
It would come to her, or she’d ask Lex. Caucasian, forties, five foot ten, about one-eighty.
“I got his plates,” Michael said. He pulled out his small notepad and scribbled the numbers.
“You’re awesome, partner,” she said.
They walked inside and almost ran into a man who was coming to the door. He had a key in hand and appeared to be about to lock it.
“We’re closing,” he said, nervous and edgy.
Kara glanced around the space. Two small offices in the back of the long, narrow warehouse. The rolling door had been blocked off by a temporary wall that didn’t reach the ceiling. A scarred conference table took up the middle of the floor where it appeared a mailing project was partly complete—stacks of letters, some folded, some stuffed. A woman in one of the offices was on the phone. She put it down when she saw Kara and Michael.
“Who just left?” Kara asked.
The man didn’t answer. He was mixed race, short curly dark hair, a roughly trimmed beard, hazel eyes. The woman was Caucasian with light brown hair and blue eyes. They both were thin and neatly dressed, but Kara suspected they were recovering addicts. They were skittish, wary, looked ready to bolt.
Honesty would work best.
“I’m Detective Kara Quinn with LAPD, and this is my partner, FBI Agent Michael Harris. Who was the man who just left? I know he was a detective.”
“He didn’t give us his name,” the man said. “Um, we have to go.”
“You can give me a minute,” Kara said. He didn’t give a name? They were either lying or the detective wasn’t following protocol. Or maybe he didn’t identify himself as a detective, though he’d come in a city vehicle and wore a badge. “Do you work here?”
“I do,” the woman said. “Gina Rocha. I work here mornings.”
It was only nine. “You always quit so early?”
“I have errands to do for my boss.”
“Is your boss Will Lattimer?”
