“Sir? Is there any chance we could speak with Adam? If he’s in a class, we could wait—”
“I’m sorry, but that will be quite impossible.”
“We really won’t take long. If you like, we can arrange to meet him after classes—”
“You misunderstand. He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
Sanju picked a pewter seal off his desk and stared down at the delicate embossing. “He...left the school at the end of September.”
David dropped his indolence and sat up. “He quit?”
Sanju’s gaze darted left, his mouth puckered up like he had just bit into a lemon. He nodded.
Liar. Martinez must have seen it too. “He quit? Or was he asked to leave?”
160 P.A. Brown
“You have to understand,” Sanju said. “We accept a lot of idiosyncrasies in our students. Brilliants minds are often...
different than the rest of us. But even the most brilliant mind must have some discipline...”
“What did he do, Mr. Narayan?”
“He broke into the Jet Propulsion Laboratory.”
Thursday, 10:50 am, Caltech, California Boulevard, Pasadena
“What do you mean, he broke into JPL?”
“He hacked one of the JPL servers and vandalized a researcher’s web page.”
“Was he protesting the site?” David couldn’t imagine going to all that trouble unless the guy had some kind of political agenda.
Sanju shook his white head. “I didn’t actually see the result, but as I understood it, it was a simple defacement. Some sort of childish cartoon. Nothing that could be construed as controversial or political. At least, not then.”
David’s hand froze over his notebook. “Not then? He did something controversial later?”
Sanju rubbed the knuckles of his fi st over his bearded chin.
“I suppose it could be construed as such. At the very least it was in bad taste. I’m sure it played a major factor in his being asked to leave.”
“What was it, Professor?”
“When Adam was called before the Student Conduct Committee he showed up wearing a T-shirt that was highly objectionable.”
“In what way?” David asked.
When Sanju hesitated Martinez snapped, “Come on, Professor.
We can handle it. What did the shirt say?”
“Jew Fascists,” Sanju said. His face reddened. “The words were written over the image of a pig being sexually, ah...mounted by a man...”
It was David’s turn to frown. “Odd behavior for a Jewish man.”
162 P.A. Brown
“Jewish? Where did you get the idea Adam was Jewish?”
“From a bad source, I guess,” Martinez muttered. “If he wasn’t Jewish—”
“His father was Iranian. An expatriate.”
“He’s Islamic?” David said.
“Statistically it’s likely he was Islamic, but there are a number of Christian Iranians.”
“Was any of this reported?” David asked.
“Adam seemed sincerely puzzled as to the uproar. He thought it was a lark.”
“You didn’t agree?”
“I was more concerned with his lack of remorse. He simply didn’t comprehend that what he had done was wrong.” Sanju seemed to be warming to his topic. “But was he amoral or just another youth railing against intellectual property rights? I don’t know. But the decision was made higher up that he be asked to leave.”
“What was his demeanor when he was asked to leave?”
Sometimes traumas triggered outbursts of rage that could lead to other, more violent attacks.
“He was upset. He didn’t understand it. I guess he thought an apology was all he needed.”
David nodded. They were going to have to have another talk with Adam Baruch, nee Scott. “Do you have an address on him?”
David wasn’t surprised to fi nd it was Nancy Scott’s Carillon Street address.
David stood. “Thank you, Professor Narayan. If you should think of anything else...” He handed Sanju his business card.
“Please, don’t hesitate to call.”
Sanju followed them to the door and as soon as they were through it, he locked it behind them. David looked back.
L.A. BYTES
163
“Guess they don’t subscribe to the open door policy here,”
Martinez said. “I think you got to him there,
mijo
.”
“Think so?” David sighed and rubbed his aching ribs. “It doesn’t get us any closer to fi nding him, does it? You think it’s worth going after that warrant?”
“Can’t hurt. It may produce something.”
“The address Adam gave was North Hollywood. Why don’t we go and talk with some of the tenants? Maybe somebody saw something we can use.”
“Sounds good. Let’s grab lunch, then head out. If we get there early enough we may catch folks coming home for the day.”
By mutual agreement they decided to leave the vicinity of the campus before they looked for a place to eat. Somehow the prospect of being surrounded by a bunch of boisterous students seemed too exhausting. They grabbed a sandwich at the fi rst greasy spoon they spotted after exiting the Hollywood Freeway in North Hollywood.
The apartment on Vantage was a two story walk-up with pink stucco siding and tattered blue awnings that swayed in the afternoon breeze. A couple of half-dead palms and some languishing geraniums fl anked the entrance.
David pulled the unmarked car into a visitor’s space. They strode up the path toward the main entrance and buzzed the manager. Huddled in the wilting fronds of the dying palm, a fl ock of starlings complained.
The apartment manager was a spider-limbed African-American man. He immediately recognized Martinez.
“You back? Thought you were all fi nished here.”
“Got some follow-up questions the boss wants answers to,”
Martinez said. “You know how it goes when the man upstairs gets involved.”
“What kinda questions?”
“Adam Scott, the tenant from 1A,” David said. “What can you tell us about him, Mr....?”
164 P.A. Brown
“Wayne Briscoe.”
Briscoe led them back into his apartment, which smelled of cigarette smoke and the slight sulfurous odor of boiled eggs.
All the drapes were pulled shut and the room was encased in shadows. A twenty-one inch TV on a hand-made stand was showing a laugh track fi lled sitcom. Beside the TV, a two-drawer fi ling cabinet was half open, stuffed to overfl owing with fi les and folders.
Briscoe jerked open the top drawer and began rifl ing through the contents. After a couple of minutes he pulled out a thin purple folder.
“This is what Adam fi lled out.” Briscoe reached one long arm across the fi ling cabinet and snagged a pack of Marlboros. He extracted one and lit it with a gold-plated lighter. “Well, that and his deposit.” He grinned, revealing a gap between his yellowed front teeth.
David took the folder and fl ipped it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper. Adam had fi lled out the various fi elds in stiff block letters: name, again Adam Scott; previous address his mother’s. David noticed a space for type of car and license plate number. Both were blank.
“Adam didn’t have a car?”
Briscoe slipped on a pair of reading glasses and looked where David pointed. “Hmm, didn’t notice that. He should have fi lled it out...” He blew a stream of smoke past David’s ear. “Ah, I remember now. He got the car later. He was supposed to register it, guess neither one of us remembered.”
“Can you remember what kind of car it was?” David asked.
“It was a green Honda,” Briscoe said. “An Accord, a ninety-six.
I know that ‘cause my ex-wife had one, only she got hers brand new, out of our divorce settlement. Did I get a new car? Hell, no, I’m still driving that piece of shit she stuck me with.” He sucked on his cigarette. “Man, I hate Fords worse than anything.”
David made a moue of sympathy, like he really cared about the guy’s car problems. “Get a license plate?”
L.A. BYTES
165
Briscoe looked at him as though to say “yeah, right.” He lit another cigarette off the fi rst one.
“He a good tenant?” Martinez asked.
“Never late with the rent. Didn’t party as far as I could tell.
Quiet. Never said boo to anybody.” He grinned, showing the gap in his teeth. “Hey, he a serial killer? Isn’t that what they always say—quiet, shy, barely knew he was there? Imagine living next door to a serial killer.”
Some people watched way too much crime TV. “No sir, we just want to talk to him,” David said. He could tell the guy didn’t believe him. “He ever mention his family? Mother, father?”
“No.” Briscoe tipped his head toward the folder David still held. “Except for what he put in there he never told me nothing.”
David studied the form more closely. “Do you have a copy of this?”
“You want it? It’s yours. One less thing I gotta fi nd space for.”
David glanced at Martinez and nodded. He drew out a business card and passed it over to Briscoe. “If you think of anything else, please call.”
“Sure. Anything in particular you looking for?”
“Just tell us anything that comes to you,” Martinez said as they rose to leave. “We’ll sort it out.”
David slipped the folder over to Martinez as he got in the car.
“Anything interesting?”
“Social Security number. Let’s see what that gets us.”
§ § § §
The SSN got them a single employer and a bank. “Citibank,”
David said, peering at his computer screen. They’d have to get a fi nancial warrant to see what was in it. He smoothed his fi ngers
166 P.A. Brown
over his mustache. “Six weeks at Burger House. Big step down from Caltech.”
“Lots of students work slog jobs until they move on to bigger and better,” Martinez said. He perched on David’s desk, studying the screen over his shoulders.
“Except Adam seems to be moving down, not up.”
“We don’t have enough to get any of those records subpoenaed.
We need more.”
“Let’s go talk to his ex-boss.” David stood up. “Find out why he’s not slinging burgers anymore.”
“Maybe he insulted a customer this time, instead of a bunch of college liberals. Hold on, let me make a call.” Martinez strolled to his desk and scooped his phone up. Minutes later he rejoined David. “We know he had a car. DMV’s got to have some kind of record on him. Since we don’t know what name he’s going under, we’ll look for all ninety-six Honda Accords under the name Adam. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
David had visions of sorting through that particular list. “And maybe we’ll just go blind.”
“Hey, bed time reading material. Guaranteed to put an end to insomnia.”
“Put you in a coma is more like it,” David said.
The Burger House in question was in the general direction of the hospital. He wanted to get in to see Chris before visiting hours were over.
“Let’s take our own cars, that way we can split up later.”
“Maybe we can grab a burger while we’re there.” Martinez rubbed his paunch. “
Muero de hambre
.”
David shook his head. Like there was ever a time Martinez wasn’t starving. How he put it away without piling on the weight was a mystery David never could solve. Martinez had an easy answer.
“Good genes.” He’d always pat his gut. “And a clean conscience.”
L.A. BYTES
167
There was a line at the Burger House counter. The air was heavy with the smell of hot oil, onions and cooking meat. David felt as though a thick coating of grease settled over him, coating his skin.
Martinez studied the overhead menu like he was discovering the true meaning of manna. He ordered two double cheeseburgers and onion rings. David was glad they weren’t traveling together.
When his turn came, David picked up a Caesar salad. Martinez rolled his eyes. He wove his way through the waiting crowd to fi nd them a seat.
As David handed his cash to the green-haired teen behind the counter, he glanced at her name tag. “Your manager here, Tiffany?”
“Sure, I guess,” Tiffany said. “You want fries with that?”
“With a salad?”
She shrugged. “You wanna talk to her?”
“Thanks.” When she made no move he added, “Yes, I’d like to talk to her.”
Tiffany fl ipped her lawn-colored hair and went over to talk to a ferret-faced woman who looked like she was sucking stones.
Ferret Face fi nally broke away from the deep fryer she was watching. “Can I help you?”
David gestured toward Martinez, who was halfway through his fi rst burger. “We’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“And you are?”
David fi shed out his badge and watched the stones turn into a pair of boulders. At the same time her eyes narrowed.
“How long have you worked here, Mrs....?”
“Smythe,” she said. “Barbara Smythe. I’ve been the manager here for eight months. Now, what is this about?”
“An ex-employee.”
“Ex?”
168 P.A. Brown
“Adam Scott,” he said. “Or he might have gone by Baruch.”
“Adam.” She nodded. “Yes, I remember him.”
“Remember anything in particular?” Martinez started in on his second burger. David tried not to watch.
“Not really. He wasn’t a terribly memorable person.”
“Good at his job?” David asked.
“Adequate.”
“Adequate?”
“He did his job.”
“But only for six weeks,” David said.
“That, I’m afraid, was Adam’s choice.”
“He quit?”
“I suppose that’s what you could call it.” She frowned and stared at the dirty table next to them that had just been vacated.
“The fact is Adam did not show up for his shift one night.”
“He call in?”
“He did not. Nor did he quit. He just stopped showing up.”
“He come in for his last pay?” Martinez asked.
“He came in when I wasn’t here.”
“So you have no idea why he left?”
“None.”
Didn’t want to either. David guessed the fast food industry was pretty transitory. But their records search hadn’t shown Adam getting another job. There was a lot of underground work in L.A. Could he have gone that route?
“What was he like to work with?” David asked. “Aside from adequate.”
“He came in on time, did his shift. He didn’t break any speed records, but no one had any complaints.”